Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission

  Dedicated to the Pediatric R.E.A.D. (Reading Early Accelerates Development) Program Committee

  Kaysandra Curtis

  Lynn Guest

  Kristi Stearns

  Elaine Astles

  Mike Wilcox

  Nancy Nosanchuk

  Lois Smedick

  Jean Foster

  Virginia Allibon Kampe

  The Grade 5 students of Hetherington Elementary School

  Lily and Emma Collins

  Asante Sana to Daniel M. Mungai for his help with the Swahili

  Chance of Snow: 100%!

  or

  John Henry Was a Steel-Drivin' Man!

  STEVEN DAEMON CHARTER THOUGHT there was about a. 75% chance that it was his name that was being called. But he'd learned before that that wasn't quite high enough. It wasn't worth going through all the trouble of waking yourself up and answering unless you were somewhere around 88 to 90% sure that some annoying parent was trying to ruin another good night's sleep.

  A few seconds later he was about 85.2% sure that his father was calling him. Close, but no cigar. But 85.2% was the level when Steven would start grumbling about having a good dream interrupted and would begin pulling sheets and pillows and covers over his ears.

  “STEVEN DAEMON CARTER!”

  Now, that was 100%!

  All sleep and all grumbling and all dreams and pretty much all sheet and pillow pulling came to a dead stop.

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “Are you up?”

  “Really,” Steven thought, “what kind of a question is that? Does he think Zoopy has learned how to talk? Does he think …”

  “STE-E-VEN!”

  “Yes, Dad! I'm up!”

  “No! Get up now!”

  Steven and his father had different definitions of the word up. In Dad's eyes up meant Steven had cleaned his room … okay, okay, had cleaned his room by shoving things under his bed, had brushed his teeth … all right, all right, had thought about brushing his teeth, had washed his face … I know, I know, had wet at least one of his fingers to wipe the gray, lumpy gunk out of the corners of his eyes, was dressed and was anxiously standing in his doorway waiting to do whatever Dad wanted him to do.

  In Steven's eyes up was being awake enough to know he needed another two or three hours' sleep.

  But as Dad loved saying to his son, “When you start paying the rent around here, you can start saying what definitions are.”

  Steven squinched his left eye shut, pulled the pillow from his face and got ready to let the morning's brightness come into his right eye. Only problem was when he opened his right eye, it saw nothing but darkness.

  “I can't believe it! It's still dark outside! How early is he getting me up this time?”

  His right eye looked at the alarm clock. What it saw was so shocking that he had to unsquinch his left eye to make sure this was real.

  It was. The red numbers glared 4:21 a.m.!

  Now Steven was really up!

  “D-a-a-a-d! Do you know what time it is?” he yelled from under his pillow.

  “Ste-e-e-ven! Have you looked outside?”

  Dad was doing it again! He would never allow his son to answer a question with a question, but he sure liked doing it himself.

  Steven clomped to his window and pulled the curtain aside. It was unbelievable! This was the eighth time in two weeks that exactly two feet of snow had covered everything outside. Everything, that is, in the Carters' yard and their two next-door neighbors' yards. The odd thing was, once again, it looked like these were the only houses in the neighborhood that had more than just a coating of snow on them.

  An even odder thing was that that same confused Canada goose was flying circles around the house again. Every time they got one of these weird snowstorms, this weird goose would show up too.

  “Hmmm,” he said, watching the goose, “aren't geese supposed to fly in a V, not an O? Oh, well.”

  Now, two feet of snow on only three houses and a gooseflying the wrong letter might seem like the kinds of mysteries that Steven, the president of the Flint Future Detectives, might want to investigate. But he couldn't be bothered, he had much more important things on his mind. Things like how could he get even with Dad for getting him up so early. Things like exactly how much longer he was going to be able to stay as president of the Flint Future Detectives. Things like how unfair it was that he was the one who was going to have to go out and shovel. It was bad enough that he had to do his family's sidewalk and porch and driveway, what was worse was that Dad made him go shovel out both neighbors too.

  Steven flopped back onto his bed. “Dad, it's too early. I'll do it later.”

  “Okay, mister! That's it!”

  These were never good words to hear from Dad, especially when Steven's room looked like it did now. He jumped up and had half of last week's clothes stuffed under his bed before his bedroom door exploded open.

  Dad said, “As of …”—he looked at his watch—“four-twenty-two a.m., Friday, November the tenth, you are banned from ever saying ‘I'll do it later.’ From this day until the time you introduce me to my first grandchild, when you want to say ‘I'll do it later,’ you will instead sing the first nine words of ‘Home on the Range,’ after which you will give a good old cowboy ‘Yee-haw!’, slap the ground twice and scream out, ‘Bra-zohs!’ ”

  Dad made him do these weird, embarrassing things to discourage him from being so repetitious.

  “Man,” Steven thought, “these word-substitute thingies are getting way too complicated. Maybe I should make a list of what I say too much and work on not saying the same things over and over.”

  He was just about to start the list but then thought, “Naah, I'll do it late … oops!”

  Before he could start singing “Home on the Range,” Dad said, “It's time you started showing a little more conscientiousness around here, young man, do you understand?”

  Steven thought, “Are you kidding? I bet not even Richelle Cyrus-Herndon knows what that word means, and she's the smartest kid at Clark Elementary School.”

  He knew better than to tell his father that he had no idea what conscientiousness meant. That would cause another trip to look up the word in Great-great-grampa Carter's bad-dispositioned dictionary, something he really wasn't trying to do at any time, especially not at four-something in the morning. Oh yeah, the dictionary would give definitions, but only after it had insulted and disrespected Steven on its copyright page.

  “Yes, Dad, I understand.”

  “Good, put on some mittens, your boots and a hat and get out there and shovel the Millers' driveway and sidewalk, Dr. Taylor's, and finally ours. I've told you a million times that shoveling snow is dangerous for seniors. And I want those sidewalks clean too. None of these little paths through the snow, I want to see the edge of the grass on both sides of the sidewalk when you're done. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Steven thought, “I understand that that patch of brown skin on the top of your head looks like someone shoveled your hair all the way to the edges, I understand that I wish I had a couple of brothers and sisters so I could say you loved them more than you love me, I understand that if shoveling snow is dangerous for the Millers and Dr. Taylor, then it must be dangerous for—”

  “STE-E-E-VEN!”

  Steven went to wash up. He ran the warm water and stuck his finger under the tap. He dug the eye crud out of the corners of his eyes. He looked in the mirror to see if there were any drool marks to wipe off and if anything had migrated out of his nose overnight; clean on both accounts. That took care of face washing, next step teeth brushing.

  AN IMPORTANT WORD FROM WALPOLE ISLAND'S BEST DENTIST, DR. JULIE F
RANCES JONES!

  Ninety-nine point seven percent of the dentists in the United States, Canada, Mexico, the continents of Africa, South America, Asia, and Europe, the Caribbean, Micronesia, the north side of Flint and two counties in England have declared that Steven Daemon Carter's dental-care techniques are hideous and should not be imitated. Dr. Julie Frances Jones of Walpole Island, Ontario, states, “This kid is so nasty and unhygienic that folks will soon be calling himGummy, because if he keeps this up, he won't have a tooth left in his head by the time he's fifteen years old.”

  Here's what Steven did, which is exactly what you shouldn't do:

  He cupped his left hand and put it over his mouth and nose, then blew so that he could get a good whiff of his breath. His eyes didn't water and the room didn't start spinning around, so he said, “Ahhh, fresh as morning dew!”

  He rewet his finger and ran it over each of his teeth … well, the front two anyway.

  “I know it's a lot of work,” he said, looking into the mirror and giving a movie-star smile, “but taking care of your teeth is very important!”

  He washed and dried his hands and headed back to the bedroom.

  AN OPPOSING WORD FROM GREAT-GREAT-GRAMPA CARTER'S DICTIONARY

  Please don't listen to Dr. Jones. Following Steven's dental-care plan leads to many exciting words being included in my pages. Look up the following: gingivitis, toothlessness, loneliness, ostracism, root canal, plaque, halitosis and my favorite, that delightfully pungent aroma that is two steps worse than halitosis: funkatosis!

  Steven rummaged under his bed for his mittens and hat, then pulled on his boots. Sighing heavily, he grabbed the shovel and headed outside.

  “Man,” he thought as he stood on his porch and looked at the twenty-four inches of snow in his yard, “it just isn't fair. Why is it that for the eighth time this month there's hardly any snow across the street or down the block? The weather forecaster said there were only going to be light flurries, but these three yards have been buried! It just isn't fair.”

  Steven paused to figure which of his neighbors he should do first. There were problems with starting on either one.

  The neighbors on the left, the Millers, were the nicest people in the world, but if they heard Steven shoveling, they'd come out and force him back in their house to eat cookies and drink hot chocolate. Not that he had anything against cookies and hot chocolate, but the price he had to pay for these treats just wasn't worth it; he'd have to listen to their long, make-you-want-to-snooze old-timers' stories.

  Those dull Tuskegee Airmen tales, and stories about struggling through the Depression, were enough to make him want to voluntarily take one of Dad's punishments.

  The neighbor on the right, Dr. Taylor, was worse. She was a retired professor from the University of Michigan—Flint and was about a hundred years old and 101% mean! Mom and Dad said she was “spry.” Steven figured that must mean “evil and crabby.” He was shockedwhen Great-great-grampa Carter's dictionary told him it meant “full of life, active, nimble, especially an elderly person.”

  Mom also called her a “feisty, independent spirit.” No matter what the dictionary said, Steven knew that was nothing but a polite way of saying she was a hardheaded grouch.

  She hated, hated, hated when Steven shoveled her walk! She told him she wasn't so old that she couldn't take care of it herself, and Steven agreed and thought that was great. But if Mom and Dad saw her shoveling her own snow, they'd lose their minds.

  If Dr. Taylor caught Steven working on her snow, she'd rush out and start shoveling too, trying to prove she was faster, stronger and in better shape than he was. It was bad enough to be beaten by someone so doggone old, but it was even worse because Dr. T. liked to talk a lot of smack while they raced.

  “Hmmm,” he said, using his mittened hand to stroke his chin, “if I do Dr. T.'s yard first, I'll be fresh as a daisy and will probably be able to finally beat—”

  A loud, long, piercing whistle interrupted his train of thought.

  Dr. T. was on to him. She had set her alarm for 4:30, just in case another one of these crazy snowstorms hit.

  She'd looked out of her window and seen Steven standing on his porch stroking his chin.

  She'd quickly thrown on a light jacket and cap and scarfand done fifteen warm-up squats and twenty limbering lunges, then grabbed her shovel.

  Dr. T. whistled again, then hollered, “Look at what just crawled out of his crib and decided to show himself! I hear the Kearsley Dam is flowing very nicely now, maybe you'd like to take another jump, flyboy.”

  Steven was very sensitive about remarks involving dams, since he and his dog, Zoopy, had fallen over a 250-foot one last summer.

  Steven pouted. “Man! Isn't anyone going to ever let me forget that?”

  Dr. Taylor said, “Oh, is snookums going to cry, or are you going to come off that porch? Because if you do, I need to warn you, I'm passing out booty whippings and mouthwash … and I'm clean out of mouthwash!”

  Steven felt himself get very warm.

  Who did she think she was?

  He whipped off his heavy coat. It would only slow him down, and he was going to show Dr. T. that just because she was a university professor and close to a thousand years old didn't mean she could keep insulting him. No way was she anywhere near as strong as he was.

  She stood at one end of the driveway, next to her garage, and Steven stood at the end nearest the street. The driveway was nearly a hundred feet long and the halfway point was a post where Dr. Taylor had put a sign, PARKING RESERVED FOR 1953 SKYLARKS ONLY! Which was the old car she drove.

  Their eyes blazed across the snow, sizing each other up like a couple of gunslingers from the Old West.

  Dr. Taylor finally gave a big fake yawn, twirled her shovel so fast it made a sound like a propeller, and said, “Anytime, whippersnapper, go for what you know.”

  Steven dug in, flipped a load of snow over his shoulder, then screamed, “Go!”

  Dr. T said, “Ha! You'll have to come up with a better way than that to cheat me, you juvenile delinquent!”

  Snow began flying.

  Steven had been so close to beating Dr. Taylor the last time they raced. It was only last week she'd beaten him out by pretending she was having some kind of attack. When he dropped his shovel and ran over to see what was wrong, she jumped up, finished shoveling and beat him by a second.

  She was such a poor sport, she'd even taken the last shovelful of snow and thrown it in his face.

  But today he wasn't falling for any sort of okeydoke.

  Today he was going to stay focused.

  Today he was going to keep the eye of the tiger!

  Today the two-thousand-year-old professor was going down!

  And Steven didn't care how spry or feisty she was!

  He fell into a rhythm: bend, dig, lift, toss, bend, dig, lift, toss. The snow seemed to jump off his shovel.

  It was important to concentrate, to try not to think about anything but the moving of snow. He especially knewthat he couldn't think about the meeting of the Flint Future Detectives that was going to happen tomorrow morning, that that was the main thing he shouldn't be thinking about.

  “Think about moving snow,” he told himself.

  Bend, dig, lift, toss, bend, dig, lift, toss.

  “Keep the snow moving!

  “Because,” he thought, “if I start to worry about tomorrow's meeting, where I know that doggone Richelle Cyrus-Herndon is going to try to take over being president of my club, I'll lose my rhythm. If I try to figure out a way to stop Richelle, I might not keep moving snow as fast as I need to.

  “Wait a minute!” Steven thought. “That's it! Moving! Maybe I can think of a way to trick Richelle and her parents into moving out of Flint! Or maybe if I come up with a moving sob story, she'll feel sorry for me and won't try to be president. Or maybe …”

  Dr. Taylor started her trash-talking. She was shoveling a million miles an hour and talking at the same time.


  He couldn't help himself, he looked up to see how far along she was.

  It was unbelievable!

  He'd taken a teeny head start, had stayed focused and worked so hard that sweat was pouring down his face, but she had shoveled just as much snow as he had!

  “So, snookums,” she yelled, “have you ever heard the song ‘John Henry’?”

  Steven told himself, “Ignore her, keep shoveling! Keep shoveling!”

  “It's an old song about a strong, good-looking brother from back in the day who could lay down more railroad track than six other men at the same time.”

  Steven knew the song.

  Dr. T. said, “So one day the boss brought in this steam drilling machine that could lay down as much track as eight men!”

  Steven remembered that the machine and John Henry had raced to see who could lay a mile of track the fastest.

  “John Henry smoked that machine just like I'm about to smoke you!”

  “But,” Steven thought, “didn't he die right afterward?”

  “That's right, snookums, I'm 'bout to go John Henry on you!”

  She began singing “John Henry” but changed the words of the song:

  “Doc-tor Taylor …” Huwah!

  “Told her neighbors …” Huwah!

  “That their son ain't really all that bright …” Huwah!

  “And when she is …” Huwah!

  “Done whip-ping him …” Huwah!

  “He will si-it …” Huwah!

  “Crying in the night!”

  “Oh, man, was that ever weak!” Steven thought. “If she thinks she can get at me with that sorry mess from the Stone Age, she's wrong, I'm gonna lay down some twenty-first-century, modern-day music on her, I'm gonna beat her down with some hot rap licks!”

  Steven thought for a second and came back at Dr. Taylor:

  “I listened to your song 'bout John H. and the

  machine.

  I can see you've been around and your mind is

  still quite keen.

  But please don't you forget, while John Henry

  was the best,

  When the race was done and over … they laidhis soul to rest!”

  They were pacing themselves with the music. It was easy to keep a good strong rhythm when you had a beat like this.