Fish Finelli Book 1: Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles (11 page)

"Read my lips: N-O!” Roger turned on the hose to spray the dead-looking holly bushes in front of his house.

“Come on,” I said. “Your dad never uses those K-A-Y-A-K-S.”

It was the next morning, and I had come up with the perfect way for us to get to Lyons Island to return the treasure map. I just needed Roger to say yes.

“B-I-N-G-O!” said Roger. “My dad never uses them because they’re O-L-D.”

His dad also didn’t use them because he doesn’t live here anymore. He moved to California right after Roger’s parents got divorced.

Roger started singing that annoying song about the Redwood Forest and the Gulf Stream waaa-aaaa-ters.

“Will you quit singing?!” I said.

“I can’t,” said Roger. “My mom thinks my beautiful voice will make the hollies so happy, they’ll start to grow.”

Mrs. Huckleton sure has some crazy ideas. “Doesn’t your mom know it’s the principles of photosynthesis that make plants grow, as in sunlight + water + carbon dioxide = photosynthesis = plants grow.”

“Nah. She thinks it’s that little four-letter word—L-O-V-E.”

“Roger, come on,” I said. “We have to get to Lyons Island pronto to return the treasure map. And K-A-Y-A-K-S are the way to go. I’ll water the hollies and do your chores for a whole week.”

Roger shook his head, but he stopped singing. I could tell he was listening.

“All right, I’ll do your chores for two weeks.”

“Okay, so long as you sing to the hollies, too,” Roger said.

“Deal,” I said. “Now, we better get going if we want to launch those kayaks before the tide rises.”

We rode our bikes over to pick up T. J. and then stopped at the Captain’s to get some PFDs. After that, we headed to the Point. We walked along the beach to the dock. The place was almost deserted, except for some kids poking in the sand for crabs. Mr. Huckleton’s kayaks were tied at the end. Roger wasn’t kidding when he said they were old.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked T. J. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth. “These kayaks look kinda beat.”

“I don’t want to say I told you so,” said Roger. “But I told you so.”

“It’s not like we’re planning a cruise around the world,” I said, although I had to admit they didn’t look too good. “We’re just going across the bay. And it’s slack tide, so the water will be calm.”

I stared at the line of scrub pines visible across the water. It was the closest Lyons Island came to Whooping Hollow. I knew from studying Uncle Norman’s topographic maps (detailed maps that show the man-made and natural features of an area) that it was exactly 1.15 nautical miles away. I pulled my backpack up higher on my shoulder. Inside was the treasure map, triple-sealed in plastic baggies.

“Time to move out!”

“Double dibs on the one-man!” Roger called. He pointed to the smaller kayak, which also happened to be in way better condition.

“Okay,” I said. They were Roger’s dad’s, so it was only fair.

T. J. and I pushed Roger off first. Then T. J. got in to steer while I pushed him off. WHOOSH! The kayak shot away.

“T. J., stop paddling!” I splashed over to the kayak and pulled myself in. The kayak tipped dangerously. “Paddle, T. J.!”

“But you just said to stop pad—”

“Just paddle!” I grabbed the other oar.

That’s when I noticed the water in the bottom. That could only mean one thing. I spotted the leak right away. It was a wide crack in the wood on the starboard side, below the waterline. We would have to plug it up quickly if we didn’t want to sink. But plug it up with what?

“How come you’re not paddling?” asked T. J. He blew a big purple bubble with his gum.

“Gum—that’s it!” I said. “T. J., you’re a genius. Give me your gum!”

“Huh?” T. J. stared at me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twelve-pack of Banana Berry Blast bubblegum.

There were seven pieces left. I unwrapped one and popped it in my mouth, and then another and another and another.

“Hey! I didn’t say you could have all of it!”

“Grumph me fyoors,” I chewed, as I shoved the last three pieces in my mouth.

“I’m not giving you my gum,” said T. J. “It’s ABC gum. Remember what ABC means? Already Been Chewed!”

“I know!” I pulled the wad of gum from my mouth so I could talk. “Give me your gum. We have a leak, and if we don’t want to sink, we have to plug it up with something. And gum, which happens to be made from rubber, is the perfect sealant.”

“Oh,” said T. J. He handed me his wad of purple gum. “You know, you’re right about gum being like rubber, because sometimes when I chew gum, I feel like I’m chewing on my eraser.”

I raised my eyebrows and kept chewing. Roger and I sometimes wondered if there was anything T. J. wouldn’t eat.

“Hey, I want some gum!” shouted Roger, paddling toward us.

GUM

People have been chewing gum for thousands of years. It used to be made from tree sap. Now it’s made from rubber (yep, rubber like an eraser).

“Can’t,” I said, spitting out my gum. “The kayak’s got first dibs.” I mashed my gum together with T. J.’s and shoved it into the crack.

“Whatever floats your boat!” Roger started to laugh.

And it did. Float our boat, that is, since the water stopped gushing in. Of course, I knew it wouldn’t hold forever. Paddling was hard work, and my arms started aching. T. J. did his share of paddling, too, when he wasn’t taking breaks to eat.

“Incoming!” Roger called to us.

T. J. and I both looked up. Coming our way was a whaler with a bright green stripe.

“Think it’s Bryce?” I asked.

“Yep. Looks like they’re heading our way. Get ready for contact. In ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

Roger didn’t even make it to four before Bryce was close enough for us to hear him shouting, “Yo! Yo-ho-hos! Where do you losers think you’re going in those sorry excuses for boats? Hope you have my money ready, Finelli, ’cause the two weeks is just about up.”

“Get lost!” I yelled.

“I can’t hear you!” Bryce turned the whaler so the bow was pointing in our direction. Then he pulled out the throttle. The engine revved and the boat zoomed right toward us.

“Oh, jeepo! He’s going to run us over!” exclaimed T. J., his mouth full of chocolate-chip cookie.

“Mayday!” Roger waved his arms. “Mayday!”

He turned his kayak so the point, not the broadside, was facing the whaler. If you get hit broadside with a surge of wake when you’re in a kayak, that means you’re going for a swim.

“Paddle, T. J.!” We had to turn our kayak, too.

“Which way?” He gulped down another bite of cookie.

“Left! Quit eating and paddle!”

“Left?”

“Right! Hurry!”

T. J. paddled right. The boat spun in a circle.

“Not right, left!” I shouted.

“But you said right.”

“I said left was right.”

The whaler was getting closer and closer. Our kayak rocked from the waves. I could see Bryce’s mirrored sunglasses glinting as he laughed at us. We had to turn the point into the wake right now, or we would tip for sure.

“Have a nice swim, losers!” said Bryce.

“Yeah, losers!” echoed Trippy.

“Turn your boat, guys!” said Roger.

But it was too late. A huge wave from the whaler’s wake hit us hard broadside just as Bryce swerved the boat away.

“Aaahhhh!”

T. J. and I fell into the water. I came up spluttering but floating on account of the PFD.

Oh, no!!
The backpack! I looked around frantically. It was bobbing just yards away. Luckily, the kayak had tipped 90 degrees and not 180 degrees, so it had already righted itself. T. J. was doggie-paddling beside it.

“Get the oars!” said Roger.

I lunged for mine just as the current was about to sweep it away. “Got it!”

“Got it!” T. J. said.

We climbed back into the boat. T. J. was eating a soggy-looking piece of cookie.

“Hey, T. J., where’s your oar?”

“Dunno,” said T. J. through a mouthful of cookie.

“But you said you got it.”

“I meant my cookie. It was about to sink, but I got it just in time. Mint-chocolate-chip actually tastes kind of good with a little salt.”

“Thar she blows!” pointed Roger.

T. J.’s oar was floating away in the general direction of the whaler, which was a small blur in the distance. At least we didn’t have much farther to go. I pushed the gum more tightly into the crack.

We had gone less than a quarter of a mile when the gum stopped sticking altogether. Banana Berry Blast may be good gum, but it’s no kind of long-term sealant.

“I was thinking,” began T. J., shoving a fireball into his mouth, which was fiery red from the five fireballs he had already eaten. “We better be careful because we don’t know for sure there isn’t a lion on the island, so—”

“T. J., there is no lion, believe me,” I cut in. “Now, quit talking and start bailing. The bottom’s filling up again.”

With a sigh, T. J. picked up his already sopping-wet baseball cap and started bailing out the water. It didn’t do much good, but it was better than nothing.

“Land ho!” Roger called a little while later. “Let’s beach these K-A-Y-A-K-S!”

The Monster Bird

The three of us stood at the bottom of the front steps. The Lioness’s big white house looked different than before. Maybe it was because the sun had gone behind a cloud and the place was in shadow. Or maybe it was just my guilt about the map. The black shutters almost felt like eyes watching us. And it was really quiet.

“Want us to go with you, dude?” asked Roger.

I shook my head. “Thanks, but it’s a solo mission. I took the map, so I should be the one to return it.”

T. J. handed me a bunch of fireballs. “These will give you courage.” He popped a few more into his own mouth. He had eaten so many, I was surprised he didn’t have smoke coming out of his ears.

I headed up the steps to the door and knocked with the big brass knocker. It was the shape of guess what? An osprey.

No answer.

I knocked again. Nothing. I peered through the glass pane beside the door. No one seemed to be around.

“Now what?” Roger asked.

“Wait and see, I guess.”

So we sat on the steps and waited. The air was real heavy, the way it gets before it rains. We were sweating just sitting there.