The Graham Cracker Plot (8 page)

Graham grunted. “Wigs do not weigh one hundred pounds. What's in here?”

Ashley sighed. “Just hurry, please.”

He dragged the suitcase to her feet. She unzipped it and tossed back the flap. I couldn't believe it. There were wigs and hats and scarves and some clothes, but not many. Mostly the suitcase was packed with
records
. On top of the pile: The Beatles'
Sgt. Pepper
. The Chemist's favorite.

She twirled again, but it was a clumsy and drippy twirl. “This
was
my escape wardrobe. Now I need to improvise.”

“We're cold, too. Can we wear something of yours?”

She shook her head. “I'm tall and thin. I'm grown up. My things wouldn't fit either of you.”

*   *   *

So, Judge Henry, what would
you
do if you were drenched and freezing and next to a laundry room? You'd poke through the dry old-people clothes and find something to wear. To borrow. You have to believe me: I would never, ever steal clothes from a grandmother, not even a fashionista grandma like mine.

We
borrowed
. I found a floppy pink nightgown with little baby roses. It smelled like grandma powder. My feet warmed quickly in thick gray socks that went to my knees. Graham put on a John Deere T-shirt and jeans that still had a belt in the loops. Good thing, too, because even when he tightened the belt, those pants dangled on his hips. He rolled up the pant legs so they didn't drag on the floor. We put our clothes in the dryer with little white sheets from a box called “Powder Fresh.”

Ashley made us wait on the dusty couch while she sorted through their clothes. I don't know why since she had her own. Graham and I stared at the wall and listened to the storm. Even Graham sat frozen, and that is a miracle.

“I feel like Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” I said.

Ashley called out, “A fashion statement unlike any other!” and stepped from the laundry room. She had a new wig—long and blond with pink highlights. And bangs. Always bangs. She thrust out her hip, showing off a man's T-shirt tucked into a blue skirt with white flowers. She'd twisted and tied the elastic waist into a knot so it wouldn't drop from her skinny hips. “All the way from Paris. Made from the finest silk. Designed by the world's best designer. You like?”

I asked, “If you have other clothes, why are you wearing their stinky stuff?”

“I feel bad being the only comfortable person. It seems more fair, don't you think?”

“Now what?” Graham asked.

Ashley said, “There's a phone in the kitchen.”

“No!” I bolted from sitting to standing. “No phones! We're not calling anybody. I know this isn't going according to plan, but we'll fix it. We're going to wait for dry clothes and wait for the storm to be over. Then we'll leave. Don't even try to talk to me about it.”

“I thought we could order pizza,” Ashley said.

My stomach growled. Nobody delivered pizza to people on gravel roads. The peanut butter sandwiches were in the car, but the storm scared us, and we should save our food if we could. “Maybe … maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Graham's voice demanded action.

“Maybe we should go upstairs and make something to eat.”

Graham shook his head. “They might come home.”

“If they come home, they'll either find us in the basement or the kitchen. What's the difference? We'll tell them the truth. We got lost in a storm. We're hungry, and you have ear cancer.”

Nobody argued.

*   *   *

We ate canned pineapple, baked beans, and pickles, and then we shared a box of cinnamon-flavored cereal without milk.

“Tastes like cinnamon toast.” Graham was happy again. He pointed at the picture on the wall by the table. It was Jesus and the Last Supper. “Check it out! They probably would have given us all this food because they're church people.”

Ashley tossed her blond-and-pink locks over her shoulder and blew a kiss at the picture. “Thank you Jesus and friends!”

The thunder rumbled from a distance now, and the rain only pitter-pattered.

Graham looked at me. “We could probably go.”

“No!” Ashley slapped her hands on the table. “No driving in the rain. No driving! In the rain!”

“We can't stay here,” he said. “So what now, Daisy?”

“I don't know. This isn't in the notebook.”

“Well, you better figure it out!”

“Why don't you figure it out?” I yelled.

“Because the Chemist is
your
dad!”

“Who's the Chemist?” Ashley asked.

The worries were back in my head, but bigger than before. What a nightmare. Getting lost. The storm. The time. We'd missed the smoke break at Club Fed. We'd already stayed too long at the farmhouse. When were the church people coming home? Where would we sleep?

Kari had probably noticed we were gone by now—really gone, not just goofing around. And she probably was looking for us already, probably wondering if Frank the Creeper had us locked away. And that was good. If we'd left a note, she'd have clues instead of suspecting Frank the Creeper. The longer the cops talked to Kari—and maybe to Frank the Creeper—the more time we had.

Graham slapped his hand on the table. When he lifted his palm, the Idea Coin gleamed under the kitchen light.

“The Idea Coin. Use it.”

“I don't know. What if I burn up the energy? We might need it later.” Still, I put my finger on it. My whole hand tingled.

Ashley looked at me, then Graham. “What's an Idea Coin?”

“I don't think we have a choice,” Graham said. “I did it last time. You go.”

“Who's the Chemist and what's an Idea Coin?”

“Daisy's dad is the Chemist,” Graham told Ashley, “and the coin is our way outta this crap-crusted mess.”

“Don't chemists pollute the world with chemicals?” Ashley said. “You sure he doesn't belong in prison?”

“The Chemist is the other kind of chemist. He makes experiments.”

“So he's cool?”

“He's the best chemist in the world.” I meant Dad, but he was the Chemist forever and ever.

“Then he shouldn't be locked up,” Ashley said. “Why do people have to be in prison for things that aren't their fault?”

“Right on, Sister Ashley!” Graham high-fived her.

I was done talking about the Chemist. The Idea Coin. It called to me.

The coin shimmered pretty well for being created in 1919. I used my finger to drag it to the edge of the table. I clutched it in my right hand and pressed it against my heart. Then I licked it and stuck it to my forehead and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the first thing I saw was the refrigerator. It was white and covered with magnets and pictures and pieces of paper. And a calendar.

The refrigerator tugged at me, I swear. It seemed to call me, to ask for me, to promise me a secret. I stood and shuffled across the kitchen. My eyes went right to the calendar. A long line was drawn in red ink between Wednesday's
8:30 Marv, Dr. Owen
and the next Monday's
Noon, meet Nancy, Golden Spoon Buffet
. Above it was one word:
Orlando!
Yes, with an exclamation point.

“They're not here!” I shouted. “They're in Orlando until Sunday.”

I whirled around and looked at the section of wall between the refrigerator and the door. There was a rack with keys and a long blue sign above it with white letters: “God bless this happy house.” Below the key rack was a long white sign with blue letters: “Saints are sinners who kept on going.”

“They
are
church people! ‘Saints are sinners who kept on going.' Happy church people who want to be saints!”

Then, on the counter, right in front of the toaster, I saw two twenty-dollar bills and a piece of scrap paper that read
Thanks!
in the same red ink. “You're welcome,” I whispered and picked up the money. I didn't have any pockets, so I took the cash to Graham who was still at the table, stuffing dry cereal into his mouth. He smiled and tucked the money in his pocket.

“Where's Ashley?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Bathroom?”

Didn't matter. I felt light and loose. Back in the kitchen, my brain popped with ideas. We could stay overnight and get the Chemist tomorrow. If we needed to, we could hide out here with the Chemist. At least until Sunday. We could take a bunch of food and clothes and sheets and towels for the cabin. Maybe we'd find more money. I poked around the kitchen drawers. They were church people. They'd understand. We would borrow from them. The Chemist could send them a check and a thank-you note after we got to Canada.

The coin was still stuck to my forehead. I pressed it hard to help the ideas keep coming, and it worked. My brain was working at full speed. Maybe we could get jobs on the Internet and buy groceries instead of fishing. Maybe Graham's ear-cancer story would get us free gas all the way to Canada. Maybe Grandma would send us money.

I heard a clink and saw a metallic blur rush toward the refrigerator. I patted my head and, sure enough, it was gone. The Idea Coin had fallen off my forehead and disappeared under the refrigerator.

“Graham, it fell off my head! Help!”

 

DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

Refrigerators are heavy. Real heavy. We did not want to move that beast, but we had no choice. We needed that coin to save the Chemist. We grunted and groaned but only managed to pull it about one foot from the wall. Then I crawled over the countertop and squished behind it. Graham pulled from the front. I pushed from the back. We had to unplug it to move it a couple of feet, right in the middle of the kitchen. Underneath where it once stood were hairballs and dust and dead bugs and crumbs and a dried bread crust. But no Idea Coin.

Graham
said we had to lift the refrigerator.
Graham
said we had to inspect the bottom because it's probably built with a magnet, and the coin had stuck to it.
Graham
went into the garage and got a car jack.
Graham
put the jack under the refrigerator's bottom and pumped it until the refrigerator started to lift, and then tip. These ideas came from Graham's mini-brain.

At first, the refrigerator tipped forward, toward Graham, with its bottom resting on the jack. Balanced. Almost perfectly balanced. I was afraid to slide my hand under it, though—afraid it might slip off the jack and flatten my hand.

I told him, “Maybe you should come back here and feel around for it.”

“No way. I'm not putting my hand down there. I'm not crunching my bones.”

“Nice. So I should crunch mine?”

“I need my hands to hunt and fish.” He poked me. “You dropped it, Queen of Dropping Coins. So you look for it.”

I called from behind the beast, “Fine. But try to hold it steady. Don't let it drop back on me. I'm serious. Do
not
let it fall.”

“I won't. I'll balance the weight more toward me. I know my arms look skinny,” he grunted, “but they're strong. Don't worry.”

That's when I should have worried. Because as soon as Graham pulled on the refrigerator, the whole thing started tilting away from me and toward him. It was slow motion, I swear. The refrigerator fell to the floor like a leaf drops to the ground. The air seemed to prop it up for a few seconds, and if there had been a wind, it might have swirled. Then there was a massive non-leaf-like crash.

“Damn!” Graham shouted.

“Are you under there?” I covered my eyes because I was afraid he'd been pancaked.

“Duh. I'm right here.”

Now I could be mad. “I said to balance it, not let it drop!”

His eyes were huge. “I pulled just a little, so it wouldn't fall on your hand. That's all.”

“Well, now what, King of Dropping Refrigerators?”

“What happened?” Ashley, who'd disappeared during the coin search, came in from the dining room. She wasn't alone. Mud formed a trail behind her and a
dog
.

And, man, he stunk! The smell was like the part of the zoo where elephant poop steams in the sun, like a dare to put your face in the litter box, like when Alex leaves the bathroom after eating chili.

“Where've you been?” Graham asked.

“Woof.” This dog was huge and scruffy, mostly brown with some black splotches. His ears were pointy and lopsided. Not the kind of dog from a cute birthday card. Ashley got on her knees. He put his paws on her shoulders and licked her face. “This is exactly the kind of dog I was looking for. Isn't he a sweet-licious baby?”

“I thought you wanted a Saint Bernard.” I plugged my nose. “Where did you find that disgusting thing?”

“Are you out of your mind? Saint Bernards are huge! Do you know how much they eat?” She scratched the dog's ears. “I saw this sweetheart from the window. I went outside, and he gave me a tour. He'd been hiding. He showed me a barn and some big trees and the pretty hedge. He showed me how many branches came down during the storm. And he showed me his Beefy Bits and—oh boy, you'd do anything for those, wouldn't ya?” Ashley kissed the tip of his nose and pulled a nugget from a Beefy Bit bag. The dog's tail went wild. He jumped at Ashley and snarfed the treat right out of her hand. “Good boy! Were ya scared, muffin? Huh? Were ya? You're safe now.”

Graham plugged his nose. I said, “Stinkbomb!”

Ashley's mouth opened. I figured she couldn't stand breathing through her nose. Turns out, she was mad. “That's sooooo mean! Dog hater!”

“It's not mean. It's true!” I said. “Why do we have to call things something they're not? Because it's nice? I'm sick of nice. I'd rather have
true
. Play dump, not playground, right Graham?”

He didn't answer.

“Nobody calls their dog Stinkbomb, Daisy,” Ashley said. “He has a tag, but there's no name or number. Anything that was printed on it wore off.”