“Hi there,” she said, her gaze focused on Tick.
She also had an accent, but very subtle. “Hi,” he answered. “Uh, thanks for saving us—to you and your . . . dad.”
The girl laughed. “Oh, he’s not my dad. He’s my butler.”
The man jerked his head stiffly in another bow. “It is a pleasure. My name is Fruppenschneiger, but you may call me Frupey.”
It took every ounce of willpower for Tick not to laugh. Frupey?
His dad lumbered forward, his legs obviously sore from the car ordeal, and vigorously shook the hands of Frupey and the girl. “Thank you, thank you so much. I still can’t believe how all this happened. Thank you for saving us.”
Frupey answered in his formal voice. “It was our pleasure, so that Miss Pacini may receive the sixth clue.”
Tick felt his stomach lift off from its normal position and lodge itself in his throat. “What?” he croaked. “Did you just say . . .” He looked at the dark-haired girl, who was smiling like she’d just been crowned Miss Universe.
“Hello, Americanese Boy,” she said, holding her hand out. “It’s about time we finally met face to face, huh?”
Tick couldn’t believe it.
Sofia.
Chapter
26
~
Time Constraints
It took only a few seconds for Tick and Sofia to break past the thin wall of awkwardness; they did, after all, know each other very well from their e-mail exchanges. They sat in the back of the car and talked nonstop during the drive back to Norbert’s home. Tick’s dad squeezed in the backseat next to them, butting in every now and then to ask a question or two.
Sofia had never given Tick a hint in her e-mails that she was from a wealthy family, and nothing about her screamed it out, either. She said she’d planned all along to surprise Tick in Alaska, figuring she might as well go along, too. The cost of the trip was no problem for her family, and as long as Frupey the Butler went with her, Sofia’s parents pretty much let her do whatever she wanted.
“So how in the world did you get so rich?” Tick asked when they reached the town.
“My ancestors invented spaghetti.”
Tick laughed, but cut it short when Sofia looked at him with a stone-dead face. “Wait . . . you’re serious?”
Sofia finally let out a chuckle and slapped Tick on the shoulder. Hard. “No, but I got you good, didn’t I? Actually, my grandfather would say his father did invent it, or at least made it perfect. Ever heard of Pacini Spaghetti?”
“Uh . . . no. Sorry.”
Sofia huffed. “Americans. All you eat are hamburgers and French fries.” She pinched all five fingers of her right hand together in a single point, shaking it with each word; it was just like something Tick had seen once in a mafia movie about an Italian mob boss. Sofia even made a small “uh” sound after her words sometimes, like “and-uh” and “French-uh.”
“Hey, I eat spaghetti all the time,” Tick argued. “With authentic Ragu Sauce.”
“Authentic . . .” Sofia pursed her lips. “Then I guess you’ve also never heard of Pacini Sauce. What is this . . .
Rag-oo? It sounds like some kind of disease.”
“It tastes pretty good, but, I tell you what,” Tick said, “you send me some of your stuff and I’ll try it.”
“Frupey!” she barked at her butler, driving the car.
“Yes, Miss Pacini?” he said, looking into the rearview mirror.
“Please send three cases of our noodles and sauce to these poor Americans.”
“I’ll do it the second we return, Miss.”
“Thank you.” She looked back at Tick. “He’s such a good butler. You really should get one.”
“Yeah, right,” Tick said, sharing a laugh with his dad. “The only thing my family’s invented is Edgar Stew, and trust me,”—he lowered his voice into a pretend whisper—“it wouldn’t sell.”
“At least your mom’s a good cook,” his dad chimed in, ignoring Tick’s insult. “I bet we could get rich off her if we knew how.”
“What,” Sofia teased, “does she make a good hamburger and French fry?”
“Do you really think that’s all we eat?” Tick asked.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot. She makes a good hot dog, too?”
Even as they laughed, Tick couldn’t get over the craziness of it all. Here he was, joking around with a girl from Italy in the back of a butler-driven car, in the state of Alaska, having just escaped from a runaway Oldsmobile.
His life had certainly changed forever.
~
Once they got back to Norbert’s, Tick’s dad called Aunt Mabel and told her they wouldn’t be back until the next day, then he called the police and began the long process of dealing with the car accident. Frupey and Norbert scrounged around in the kitchen, trying to find food for everyone. Car chases evidently make people hungry, Tick thought as his own stomach rumbled.
Tick and Sofia sat together on the pitiful couch in the front room, discussing the latest clue they’d received. They had to use Sofia’s copy because Tick’s bit the bullet along with the rental car—he’d failed to slip it back into his journal during the frantic rush of excitement. The only light in the room came from a junky old lamp without a shade, its bare light bulb blinding if you looked at it directly.
“Well, it’s obviously just like the first clue,” Tick said as Sofia scanned the words again. “Except this one tells us the time instead of the day.”
“You Americans are so smart,” she replied. “How did you ever figure that out?”
“Man, you sure are smart-alecky for a rich Italian girl.”
“Girl?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Do I look like a little baby doll to you?”
Tick laughed. “I never would’ve guessed you’d actually be scarier in real life than in the e-mail.”
Sofia elbowed him hard in the stomach. “Just remember what I told you—I beat up seventeen boys last summer. No one messes with a Pacini.”
“It’s okay, I don’t usually go around picking fights with gi—, I mean . . . young women . . . who own spaghetti companies.”
“That’s better, Americanese Boy. Now let’s figure this out, huh?”
“Sounds good, Italian . . . ese . . . Woman.” Tick didn’t understand why she could call him boy, but he couldn’t call her girl. He wanted to laugh again—for some odd reason, he felt really comfortable around her—but he didn’t particularly want another jab to the stomach. He took the sixth clue from her instead and read through it again while she stared into space for a minute, thinking.
Recite the magic words at exactly seventeen minutes past the quarter hour following the six-hour mark before midnight plus one hundred and sixty-six minutes minus seven quarter-hours plus a minute times seven, rounded to the nearest half-hour plus three. Neither a second before nor three seconds after.
(Yes, I’m fully aware it will take you a second or two to say the magic words, but I’m talking about the precise time you begin to say it. Quit being so snooty.)
Once again, M.G.’s sense of humor leaked through the message, and Tick found himself eager to meet the man Norbert had already met. At least now they knew his real name.
Master George. Sounds like something from Star Wars.
“How long did it take you to figure out the first clue?” Tick asked.
“How long it take you?” Sofia responded. Every once in a while, she messed up her English, but for the most part, she knew it perfectly.
“Once I sat down to do it, maybe an hour.”
“Then it took me half an hour.”
“Yeah, right.”
Sofia gave him an evil grin and raised her eyebrows. “Should we race on this one? Like a . . . Master George Olympics.”
Tick had assumed they’d work together to solve it, but her idea suddenly sounded very fun. If I was a nerd before, I’ve hit rock-bottom geek stature by now, he thought.
“You’re on,” he said, ready for the ch
allenge.
“I’m on what?” she asked. “Speak English, please.”
Tick rolled his eyes. “Here, we’ll put the clue on this little coffee table, where we can both see it, okay? Neither one of us are allowed to touch it. I’ll run and get some paper and a pencil from Norbert so you can have something to write on.” He stood up.
“What about you?” she asked.
Tick held his journal out. “I’ll write in this—why didn’t you bring yours?”
Sofia shrugged. “I got tired of carrying it around. Who needs it?” She tapped her head with a finger. “It’s all stored up here anyway. So, what about a prize? What does the winner get?”
“Hmm, good question.” Tick scratched his neck, faltering when he realized he wasn’t wearing his scarf—he must’ve lost it in the wind after they busted the windshield.
“What’s wrong?” Sofia asked.
“Huh? Oh, nothing.” He paused. His scarf was gone, and Sofia hadn’t said a thing about his birthmark—maybe he could actually survive without . . . no. He had an extra one at home, and deep down, Tick knew it would be around his neck when he returned to school.
“Tick,” Sofia said, staring up at him, “did your brain freeze?”
“No, no . . . it’s just . . . never mind.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it—the winner gets to visit the house of the loser next summer. But, uh, you have to pay for it either way because you’re rich.”
“Wow, what a deal.”
“I’ll be back in a sec with the stuff.”
A couple of minutes later, pencils in hand, the race began.
~
Just as he’d done with the first clue, Tick jotted down the phrases from the sixth clue that seemed to go together logically. Once he’d done that, he assigned letters to them to indicate the order they should be calculated. It seemed easy now that he’d gone through the process before.
The biggest problem was determining which midnight the clue referred to—the one that began the day of May sixth or the one at the end of it? Then he realized whatever time he ended up with probably wouldn’t be midnight, so it really didn’t matter.
He nervously glanced over at Sofia, who was doing a lot more thinking than writing, tapping her pencil against her forehead, staring at the clue.
I’m way ahead of her, he thought, then continued his scribbles.
A couple of minutes later, the page in his journal looked like this:
Beginning Time: Midnight.
A. six-hour mark before midnight = 6:00 p.m.
B. quarter hour following A = 6:15 p.m.
C. seventeen minutes past B = 6:32 p.m.
D. C plus 166 minutes = 9:18 p.m.
E. D minus 7 quarter hours = 7:33 p.m.
F. E plus a minute times 7 = 7:40 p.m.
G. F rounded to nearest half-hour = 7:30 p.m.
H. –G plus three half-hours = 9:00 p.m. on May 6
“Bingo!” he yelled, turning to say his time out loud. His words died somewhere in his throat when he saw Sofia looking at him with a smirk, holding up her paper with the answer scrawled across it:
9:00 p.m.
“Dang,” Tick muttered. “But you didn’t even take notes or anything!”
“I’ve got brains—I don’t need notes.”
Tick folded his arms. “I take it back—you’re not a woman. You’re a girl. And I hate spaghetti.”
“I believe Americans call this a . . . sore loser, right?”
“Something like that.”
Sofia put her hands behind her head and looked up at the ceiling, letting out a big sigh, relishing her win. “I can’t wait to visit your little house in Washington. Will your mother make me a hot dog?”
Tick snapped up the sixth clue from the table and stood up. “If you’re lucky. And what makes you think our house is little, rich girl?”
Sofia lowered her arms to her lap and eyed Tick up and down. “I looked at your clothes and I said to myself, he must live in a little house.” She winked, then punched Tick in the leg, hard.
“Ow!” he yelled, rubbing the spot. “What’s that for?”
“To let you know I’m kidding.”
Tick shook his head. “You are one weird kid.”
“Ah, yes. That’s the kettle calling the papa black.”
Tick burst out laughing, falling back on the couch holding his stomach.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, for one thing, you said it backwards. And it’s pot, not papa.”
“Whatever. When I come to visit you, I will teach you Italian so we can talk like intelligent people.”
“I think spaghetti is just about the only Italian word I need to know, thank you very much. That, and pizza.”
Sofia tried to punch him again, but this time Tick was too fast; he jumped up and ran out of the room, the sounds of pursuit close behind. Luckily, dinner was ready in the kitchen—ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches.
~
The next day, Tick’s heart hurt when he had to say good-bye to Norbert, then Frupey and Sofia after they dropped him and his dad off at a car rental agency—the rich girl and her butler had a flight to catch. In just one day, they’d become like close family, and he hated to think he may never see them again. At least he knew he could expect an e-mail from Sofia, and he hoped she really would come visit him next summer.
Of course, by then, the magic day would have come and gone, and who knew what might change after that.
After another couple of fun-filled days being pampered by Aunt Mabel and having his life mapped out for him in detail, Tick and his dad headed back to Washington.
Once there, Tick began the longest three months of his life.
Part
3
~
The Magic Words
Chapter
27
~
April Fool
Tick stared at his own reflection in the dark puddle of grimy water only inches away from his face, dismayed at how pitiful he looked. Like a scaredy-cat kid, eyes full of fear. Both ends of his scarf hung down, the flattened tips floating on the nasty sludge like dead fish. He winced when Billy “The Goat” Cooper yanked his arm behind him again, ratcheting it another notch higher along his back until the pain was almost unbearable.
Tick refused to say a word.
“Come on, Barf Scarf Man,” the Goat growled, digging his knee into Tick’s spine, wedging it below his twisted arm. “All you have to say is, ‘Happy April Fool’s Day. Please get me wet.’ You can do it, you’re a big boy.”
Tick remained silent, despite the pain, despite the mounting humiliation as more school kids gathered around the scene. A few months ago, he would’ve given in and said the words, done as the Goat commanded. He would’ve let it end quickly and moved on. But not now. Never again.
Billy pushed Tick’s face into the water, holding it there for several seconds. Tick remained calm, knowing he could hold his breath much longer than the Goat would dare keep him down. When he finally removed his hand from the back of Tick’s head, Tick slowly raised himself out of the water, spit, then took a deep breath.
“Say it, boy!” Billy yelled, unable to hide the frustration in his voice. If he couldn’t get Tick to obey, the tables would turn and he’d be the one suffering a humiliating defeat. “Say it or I’ll wrap your sorry scarf around your head and dunk you ’til you quit breathing.”
Tick felt a sudden surge of confidence and he spoke before he could stop himself. “Go ahead, Billy Boy. At least then I’d never have to look at your Frankenstein goat face again.”
His spirits soared when the crowd around them laughed. A few kids clapped and whistled.
“Frankenstein goat face!” one kid called out. “Billy the Frankenstein Goat Face!”
This created more laughs, followed by murmurs of conversation and shuffling of feet as people moved away, evidently having had enough.
“Leave him alone, Goat Face,” a girl yelled over her shoulder. r />
Tick closed his eyes and took a gulp of air, knowing Billy would push him down at least one more time, would hold him under longer than ever before. But to his shock, he felt his arm released; the pressure of Billy’s knee against his spine disappeared. As Tick’s entire right side lit up with tingles and pressure from the blood rushing back to where it belonged, he scooted away from the pool of water and turned to sit on his rear end, staring up at Billy.
The Goat looked down on him with an odd expression. It wasn’t anger or hate. He seemed . . . surprised.
“You’re weird, man,” Billy said. “I’m sick of you anyway. Go home and cuddle with your Barf Scarf.” He kicked Tick’s leg, then turned to walk away with his hoodlum friends.
Tick didn’t totally understand the storm of emotions that swelled within him at that moment, but he surprised himself when he laughed out loud right before the tears came.
~
As Tick walked home, he put Billy out of his mind and thought of the long three months he’d just endured. After the thrill and excitement, the life-threatening danger and escapades of Alaska, he’d expected to come home and barely rest, clue after clue and stranger after stranger showing up at his doorstep, delivering one adventure after another.
But nothing had happened. Nothing.
He and Sofia e-mailed back and forth, never failing to ask the other if they’d seen something or met someone. The answer was always a frustrated NO!
Where were the clues? What had happened to Mothball and Rutger? Did something get lost in the mail? Had they somehow proven themselves unworthy? Had the man
in charge moved on to other, more deserving, kids? The questions poured out of their minds and into their e-mails, but no answer ever came back.
Tick was sick with discouragement.