For the Love of Gelo! (25 page)

LOOKING FOR ANOTHER OUT OF THIS WORLD ADVENTURE?

More secrets await behind the second-to-last door at the end of the hall in Robert Paul Weston's fantastic series:

CHAPTER 1

I
n which Elliot doesn't want to go to Foodie School, and Leslie would rather be in Paris

Elliot von Doppler, you come down here right now or I swear, I'll boil you in soup and serve you to your father!”

Elliot pulled the covers over his head. This soup ultimatum was the third such threat in the last five minutes (his mother had also promised to flash-fry one of his kidneys and pickle his fingers in vinegar).

Of course, it is important to stress that Elliot von Doppler's parents had never eaten anyone, nor did they intend to. They weren't cannibals. They were food critics.

Peter and Marjorie von Doppler edited the Food section of the
Bickleburgh Bugle
. Together, they wrote a daily column called “Chew on This,” offering reviews of local restaurants. Occasionally, they even went on tasting trips across the country and around the world. In short, they had haute cuisine on the brain (even when they were trying to get their son out of bed in the morning).

“I'm not kidding, Elliot. You know how much your father likes a good borscht!”

Elliot groaned.

“I'm going to count to three, young man. After that, I'm coming up there to drown you in hollandaise sauce.”

(Don't worry, Elliot's mother would never do this. In fact, she doesn't know how to make hollandaise sauce. In spite of their jobs, both Elliot's parents are terrible chefs.)

“One!”

Elliot rolled out of bed and dressed himself. He put on shorts and a T-shirt, topping them off (as always) with a bright green fishing vest.

“Two!”

Elliot reached for his most prized possession: an original DENKi-3000 Electric Pencil with Retractable Telescopic Lens. It had been a gift from his uncle Archie, and it was an antique. The electric pencil was the first product DENKi-3000 ever produced.

“
THREE!
That's it, young man. I'm sending your father up there with a garlic press.”

“I'm coming!” Elliot called back. He slunk down the stairs to the kitchen and saw breakfast was on the table. Soggy boiled tomatoes and burnt toast.

“We spent a lot of time on this breakfast,” his father informed him. He sat at the head of the table, the morning's
Bickleburgh Bugle
in his hands. “So I don't want to hear any complaints.”

“Have a seat,” said Elliot's mother, eyeing him carefully. “Tell us what you think.”

Elliot did his best to moisten the blackened, rock-hard toast with the juice of the tomatoes. It didn't help.

He was halfway through eating (more like forcing down) his breakfast when he noticed an envelope sitting in the middle of the table.

It had his name on it.

“What's that?”

“Your uncle stopped by on the way to work this morning,” his mother told him.

“
What?
He was here?” Elliot was astonished.

His mother nodded ruefully. “He vanishes for weeks on end,
as usual
, and then—POOF!—he shows up looking for you.”

“Me?”
Now Elliot was
even more
astonished. Uncle Archie practically lived at DENKi-3000 headquarters. The company's unusual buildings were just on the other side of Bickleburgh Park, but Uncle Archie never “stopped by,” not for anything. He was famous for missing birthdays, Christmases, soccer game
s . . . a
ll the usual stuff. “Why didn't you wake me up?”

“I have enough trouble getting you up at the
regular
time. Anyway, he left you that note.”

Elliot (happily) gave up on his breakfast and tore open the envelope. Inside was a brief, hastily jotted letter.

Dear Elliot,

For years, you've been asking me for a tour of the company, but I've always been too busy. With the way things are going, though, I've decided that now is the time. Why don't you stop by today and I'll show you around.

Yours truly,

Uncle Archie

PS: You'd better bring your friend, Leslie, too.

Elliot squinted at the letter, his mouth hanging open.

“What does it say?” asked his father.

“Uncle Archie wants to give me a tour—
today
.”

Perhaps noting his bewildered expression, his mother asked, “Shouldn't you be happy about that?”

“I am, bu
t . . .”

“But what?”

“But
who's Leslie
?”

“I'm not sure I follow,” said his mother.

“Look,” said Elliot, pointing to the bottom of the letter. “It says, ‘
PS: You'd better bring your friend, Leslie, too.'
”

“Nice of him to invite her as well,” said his father from behind his newspaper.

“But
I don't have
a friend named Leslie.” Elliot didn't want to admit it, but he didn't have many friends at all (or any).

“Wait,” said his mother. “Isn't that the name of the girl from the science fair?”

“Leslie Fang?”

“Of course,” said his mother. “That must be who he means.”

“It can't be,” said Elliot. He hardly knew Leslie Fang. She had arrived only a couple months before school let out for the summer, so there wasn't time for
anyone
to make friends with her. “Why would he want me to bring her along? We're not even in the same class.”

It was true. The only reason Elliot knew Leslie was because they had tied for third place in the Bickleburgh City Science Fair. (They had both designed nearly identical model rocket ships, which was kind of embarrassing, even if you ended up tying for third place.)

His mother thought about the question for a moment. “I often see that girl on my way to work, just sitting all by herself in the park. She's been there nearly every day since school let out for summer, and to be honest, she looks quite lonely. Maybe Uncle Archie noticed the same thing.”

Elliot slumped in his chair. He didn't much like the idea of sharing his uncle with someone else, but what could he do? Leslie Fang was the only Leslie he knew, and there was
no way
he was going to pass up a once-in-a-lifetime tour of DENKi-3000.

“Fine,” he mumbled. “I'll ask her.
If
I see her. Can I go now?”

“Not until you finish your breakfast,” said his father.

“
And
give us your review,” added his mother.

Elliot looked glumly down at his plate. He pushed some black crumbs across a puddle of tomato juice. Struggling to gulp down the rest of the meal, his eyes wandered to the front page of the newspaper in his father's hands.

There was a large photograph of the DENKi-3000 headquarters. Spanning across it was a headline:

Technology Giant to Close Its Doors?

Elliot choked on a mouthful of breakfast (which wasn't hard to do at all).
“Close its doors?”
he spluttered. “As in shut down?”

His father nodded. “That's probably why Uncle Archie is finally giving you a tour. It's now or never.”

“What does that mean?”

“There's another company,” his father explained. “Some big investment firm. They're gonna buy the whole thing. People expect them to move the headquarters overseas.”

“Bu
t . . .”
Elliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. “What will happen to Uncle Archie?”

“Hard to say,” said Elliot's mother. “Nobody really knows.”

Elliot stared at the newspaper. In the bottom corner of the majestic image of DENKi-3000 was an inset photo of a very old man. He had shaggy gray hair and a thick gray beard and he was dressed in a brown cardigan and circular, gold-rimmed spectacles. The caption below the old man said:
Sir William Sniffledon, DENKi-3000's longtime CEO, admits serious financial difficulty
.

It was odd to think this old man, who looked more like a doddering librarian, was the high-powered CEO of a company as big as DENKi-3000. Elliot's eyes moved to the first few lines of the article:

The head office of DENKi-3000, the fifth-largest technology producer in the world and one of Bickleburgh's largest employers, could be set to close its doors in a matter of months.

Following a year of less-than-stellar profits, the company seems ripe for acquisition by Quazicom Holdings, a private capital investment firm. DENKi-3000 CEO Sir William Sniffledon said, “It would be a sad day for Bickleburgh if . . .

Elliot returned his eyes to the photograph. The DENKi-3000 buildings were the most interesting things in the city: four glass towers climbing up from a vast oval of land. In spite of having an uncle who was head of the company's Research and Development Department, Elliot had never set foot inside the heavily secured gates.

He pushed his plate away, finally finished. “If Uncle Archie invited me, I'd better not keep him waiting.”

“Not so fast, mister.” His father pointed to the red-and-black mash drizzling across his plate. “Not until we get our review.”

“Do I have to?”

All his parents cared about was
describing
food. Was it really so crazy to just want to eat it?

“How are you going to get into Foodie School if you don't start practicing?” asked his father.

“What if I don't want to go to Foodie School?”

“Don't you want to grow up to be a famous food critic, like your parents?”

“Maybe I'd rather be more like Uncle Archie.”

“I'm not sure he's someone you want to emulate.” His mother glanced at the newspaper.

Elliot, of course, had no intention of becoming a famous food critic. However, he knew if he wanted to see his uncle, he would first have to appease his parents.

“So?” asked his mother.

“Be as descriptive as possible,” said his father.

Both of them leaned anxiously across the table.

“Well . . . it was . . .” Elliot struggled to find the words. “Crunchy. And wet.”

His father frowned. “That'll
never
get you into Foodie School.”

“Can I go now?”

“I suppose,” said his mother, a little reluctantly. “Say hi to your uncle for us.”