Fish Finelli Book 1: Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles (14 page)

“On the count of three,” I said. “One . . . two . . .”

“Two and a half,” said Roger, grinning so his brown eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Two and three-quarters,” said T. J.

“Three!” We picked up the Seagull motor and slid it into the drum of water.

SWOOSH!

Water spilled all over us and all over the driveway.

“Guys, that is way too much water,” I said.

“It wasn’t too much water
before
the motor went in,” said T. J.

“I know,” I said. “It’s the Archimedes Principle. The volume of the motor will displace an amount of water equal to the—”

“Sheesh, Fish,” said Roger. “We’ve done the bucket test six times already this afternoon. We could have been shooting hoops with Two O or paddleboarding, but no, we’re in your driveway—”

“One more time. It’s going to work. I just know it,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back so Roger couldn’t see.

After we emptied out some water, we lowered the Seagull motor into the drum until the propeller was submerged.

The Seagull is an awesome motorboat engine. Roger, T. J., and I bought it with the money we got for finding Captain Kidd’s treasure. That’s right—we found Captain Kidd’s treasure. It’s a long story, but no, it wasn’t gold and jewels. It was a bunch of old papers, a busted-up silver teapot, and some long underwear. Weird, right? Who would have thought pirates wore long underwear?

I pulled a basin wrench out of my tool belt and bolted the motor to the side of the drum.

“How are you boys doing?” called Uncle Norman, sticking his head out the window. He was fixing the kitchen sink and keeping an eye on us while my mom and dad went grocery shopping.

“Good!” I called back.

“Good and wet!” Roger grinned.

“Wet’s okay,” said Uncle Norman. “Just be careful.”

“All set.” I handed Roger the manual as Uncle Norman disappeared back inside. Uncle Norman is the best uncle ever. He taught me most of what I know about motors, because he has a boat. He also gave me my nickname, Fish. My real name is Norman, after him. One day I was on his boat when a bluefish took a chomp out of his finger. I laughed and said, “Fish.” It was my first word, and it’s been my name ever since.

Roger cleared his throat. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, or should I say, gentleman and gentleman, for the—”

“Will you just read the instructions?” I said.

“Chillax, Fish. Ah, where was I?” Roger stared blankly at the instructions.

“Fuel tap?” said T. J. helpfully.

“Open,” I said, pulling the fuel tap.

“Choke?” said T. J., chewing on a mouthful of candy corn.

“Closed,” I said.

“Press the tickler on the carburetor,” T. J. said.

I opened the carb until a little fuel spilled out.

“Open the throttle to full,” added T. J. “Oh, and make sure the motor is in neutral.”

“Wow!” Roger looked up from the manual. “How did you know that, T. J.?”

T. J. shrugged. “Simple. It’s like making the Super Sundae Special at Toot Sweets. First goes the hot fudge, then the gummy worms, then the ice cream. Next is the strawberry syrup and marshmallows. Then whipped cream, Sno-Caps, and sprinkles go on top.”

I shook my head. T. J. is like a piñata. You never know what’s going to come out of his mouth, the same way you never know what’s going to come out of a piñata.

I wrapped the pull cord clockwise three times around the rope pull. “Ready, guys?” I said, steadying the tank with my left hand.

“Wait!” Roger ran into the garage.

RAT-TAT-TAT! RAT-TAT-TAT!

“What Operation Fireball needs is a drumroll.” Roger banged a hammer against an old cookie tin with a reindeer on it.

The
Fireball
is the name of our boat. It’s a whaler from the 1970s that the three of us have been fixing up. We’re
going to enter it in the Captain Kidd Classic, the biggest boat race of the summer. We’re also planning to beat snooty Bryce Billings in the race, so Operation Fireball is our secret code name.

Roger and T. J.’s eyes were on me as I turned the flywheel clockwise. I had done every little thing the manual said. This time I was positive I did it right. I took a deep breath and gave a sharp pull on the rope.

Nothing.

I pulled a little harder.

Nothing.

I wrapped the cord again. Then I pulled on the rope.

Still nothing.

“Tartar sauce!” I kicked a rock in frustration. It ricocheted off the oil drum and hit me. “Ow!” I rubbed my knee.

“Another failure,” said Roger, beating a slow RAT-TAT-TAT.

Roger was right. I had failed—again. All of a sudden, I remembered something Thomas Edison said before he invented the phonograph (the very first machine that could record sound and play it back).

“I have not failed,” I said. “I’ve just found ten thousand ways that won’t work.”

Roger and T. J. both looked at me. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Fish!” Roger said. “You are not really thinking we are going to do the bucket test nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-three more times.”

He and T. J. groaned.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I have a plan.” I didn’t quite yet, but I was sure I would think of something any minute.

Suddenly, there was a piercing scream. AAAAHHHHH!!!

E.S. FARBER
is the mother of a boy who likes facts along with his fiction, which inspired her to write Fish Finelli. She spent many days at the East Hampton Library researching Long Island history, including pirates, and where she actually saw Captain Kidd's cloth of gold (you can, too!). Besides writing at the library, she also works with librarians to create spelling bees and other programs for kids. She has authored numerous chapter books, early reader books, manga, and educational books. She lives in Amagansett, NY.

JASON BEENE
communicates best with a pencil and paper in front of him, which has helped him in his grown-up career of making games, teaching at MIT and RISD, and being a father to two girls. Jason's latest adventure is being Art Director of Callaway Digital Arts. He lives in Providence, RI.