The Fantastic Family Whipple (5 page)

Arthur nodded.

“You really shouldn’t have, mate. I’ve caused me own troubles, and it’s me who’s got to fix them.”

“But Sammy, what will you do?”

“Don’t worry ’bout old Sammy, mate. I’ll find some way to make everyfing work out.” The chef gave a warm smile. “Right then,” he said, mussing the boy’s hair. “Get back to your breakfast before it’s completely cold…. See you at two for knife-block stocking practice?”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur smiled over his shoulder as he hopped back to the table, coins clinking with every bounce. “See you then, Sammy.”

“Very good,” the chef grinned. “Got some new knife-grip techniques to show you. We’ll get you a trophy yet, we will.”

With a cheerful wink, Sammy then turned and headed back to the house to begin work on his next colossal culinary masterpiece, otherwise known as “lunch,” leaving Arthur, Simon, and Beatrice alone at the table.

It was then, of course, that the horrible thing happened.

Now into the final stretch of her competitive-eating training session, Beatrice had begun “sprinting” to shovel as much food into her mouth as she could before exceeding her half-hour time limit. She was standing at the right-angled corner of the now triangular piece of French toast—which hung well over the edge of the circular table—while the two boys were positioned about fifteen feet to her left at another of the corners.

As Arthur cut off his next bite, he felt the table wobble slightly and noticed the entire piece of French toast shift to one side.

That’s odd, he thought. I’d better mention this to Beatrice so she doesn’t…

But it was too late.

As Beatrice took one last lunge at her breakfast, the nearby table legs buckled beneath its weight, tipping the table toward her and setting the unstable piece of battered bread in motion.

Arthur and Simon watched in horror as the massive breakfast food slid toward their sister on a river of syrup and butter. As its corner hit the ground, the perilous piece of French toast flipped over and began to fall face down—directly on top of Beatrice.

For a split second, it loomed over her like a tidal wave—and then, she was gone. The little girl with the huge appetite vanished beneath a hulking mass of bread and egg and butter and syrup.

Arthur could not believe what he had just seen. He
turned to his older brother for guidance, but found Simon with his mouth wide open and a look of terror on his face.

Being two years younger than Simon, Arthur had expected his brother to lead any sort of rescue effort they might have launched, but he now saw a tragic conflict in Simon’s eyes. Simon glanced down at his accordion—then back up at Arthur with a desperate gaze.

Arthur knew instantly what he had to do.

His brother had been playing that accordion for six days straight, which was no easy task. If Simon were to stop playing it now, all of his hard work would have been for nothing.

It was up to Arthur to save their sister.

Sure, he was in the middle of his own record attempt—for the Longest Time Hopping on One Foot—but who was he kidding? He was never going to actually break it—and everyone knew it. He had never broken any of the records he had attempted. Indeed, with such a history of incompetence, he didn’t see how he could possibly help his sister, but there was no time to find someone better suited to the task.

Arthur planted both feet on the ground and ran to the place where his little sister had once stood, his brother following just behind him.

While Simon played a suspenseful piece of music on his accordion, Arthur dug his fingers into the edge of the bread and lifted with all his might. When he had raised the French toast to waist-level, he rested it on his thigh and grabbed a
nearby chair. Tipping the chair onto its front side, he forced it underneath the slab of dough, creating a small crevice between the bread and the ground. He then dropped to his stomach and thrust his way head-first inside.

With every inch forward, he drove the chair nearer to the French toast’s center, deepening his crawl space as it advanced.

The doughy mass pressed down about him on all sides. But just when it seemed he could go no further, Arthur felt a set of tiny fingers—and grasped hold of them.

If Beatrice had been unconscious, she quickly snapped to when she felt her brother’s touch—and was soon wriggling toward him as he pulled her out through the makeshift tunnel.

As Simon’s tense accordion tune reached an unbearable peak, Arthur emerged from underneath the rogue piece of French toast, still clutching his sister’s arms. He gave one last tug, and Beatrice’s head finally appeared, dripping with maple syrup and butter.

Her first gasp of syrup-free air was shortly followed by coughing and spluttering, as she cleared her throat of the sticky sludge that had nearly claimed her life.

By this time, the other Whipples had noticed the commotion and come running to Arthur’s aid.

Dashing onto the scene, Mr. Whipple scooped up his daughter and wiped the goo from her nose and mouth. Slowly, Beatrice opened her eyes, and everybody breathed a sigh of relief.

“It was Arthur!” Simon exclaimed. “Not only did he save Beatrice’s life—he saved my world record as well!”

Mrs. Whipple hugged Arthur and kissed him on the forehead, drenching her clothes with syrup in the process.

Simon played a hero’s theme on his accordion, while other family members showed Arthur their gratitude with hugs and handshakes and pats on the head.

“Nicely done, Brother!” cried Henry. “A few seconds quicker and you might’ve set a breakfast rescue record!”

“Yeah, Arthur,” Cordelia nodded. “Though your form may have left a little to be desired, your use of available structures was completely exceptional!”

Their father, however, looked rather disconcerted. “How did this happen?” he said.

“The table legs just collapsed,” said Simon. “One moment they were fine—and the next,
bang
! Beatrice never had a chance.”

“Goodness,” their mother sighed. “The safety advocates will have a field day with this once the report is published. I’ve had to cancel our last two table-leg inspections due to our hectic schedule. But at least everybody is all right.”

Standing between Arthur and his mother, Mr. Whipple clutched his brow and shook his head.

“What a morning this has been,” Arthur heard him mutter. “First, I discover
he’s
returning—on the twentieth Rueing Day, no less—and now, this. It’s almost as if…Oh, God,” Mr. Whipple gasped. “It’s happening all over again, isn’t it? The Lyon’s Curse—it’s, it’s finally come for us….”

“Please, dear,” Arthur’s mother whispered to her husband, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Really, I don’t know why you should be so upset by news of some second-rate record-breaker, and this breakfast business, well—nothing more than a minor mishap in the end, was it? We’re all still alive, aren’t we? So, clearly, it’s not anything like the
curse….
Now, try to pull yourself together, dear—and go commend your son.”

Mr. Whipple slowly exhaled, then straightened his shirt. “Yes,” he nodded. “Of course, dear. You are no doubt right. Do forgive me. I’m afraid—I’m afraid I’m simply not myself this morning.”

He stepped forward and offered his hand to his recordless son, then cleared his throat.

“Well done, Arthur,” he smiled, the usual confidence returning to his voice. “By saving your sister’s life, you have allowed her the opportunity to continue training for the competitive eating season and the chance to add more trophies to the Whipple Hall of Records. And
that
, my boy, is the greatest gift of all.

“Now,” he added. “About your own record attempts: I see you are no longer hopping on one foot. I believe that makes two records in one day you have failed to break. Surely you’ll never help us close our critical record gap like this. But don’t worry, Son. In honor of your bravery, I shall schedule an extended one-on-one training session for the two of us to discuss your mistakes and analyze the choices which ultimately led to your downfall!”

Mr. Whipple ended in a tone that made it seem he had just offered his son a shopping spree to a sweet shop, when he had really only offered him a lecture on his inadequacies.

With syrup dripping off his nose, Arthur simply smiled.

Little did he know, the darkest era in the history of his family had just begun—with one oversized piece of French toast.

Arthur sat in
a chair made entirely of wooden matchsticks. Mounted on the wall behind him, the head of the World’s Smallest Moose peered over his left shoulder, while the World’s Largest
Mouse
gazed over his right. The two heads were roughly the same size, which would have been rather disconcerting had they been hanging anywhere else but in the Whipple household.

Mr. Whipple stood at an easel, studying an elaborately detailed line graph that charted his son’s “failure quotient” for the current calendar year.

This figure was determined by dividing the number of target units in a given world record attempt by the number of actual units achieved. For example, if Arthur needed to crush forty-four raw eggs with his elbow to break the
record for Most Raw Eggs Crushed with Elbow in Fifteen Seconds, but he only managed to crush eleven raw eggs, he would be given a failure quotient of four (because of course, forty-four divided by eleven equals four). For timed events, the formula was reversed, and Arthur’s failure quotient was determined by dividing his actual time by the target time. For example, if Arthur needed to complete a five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle in 136 minutes to break the record for Fastest Time to Complete a Five-Hundred-Piece Jigsaw Puzzle While Blindfolded, but it ended up taking him 408 minutes, he would be given a failure quotient of three (408 ÷ 136 = 3). The higher the number, the bigger the failure.

Lately, Arthur’s failure quotients were at an all-time high. Holding a pointer up to the graph, Mr. Whipple looked befuddled. “Now, Son. I’m not entirely sure how you’ve managed to raise your figures past the already startling levels at which they typically reside, but now you’ll have to try even harder if you ever want to get a plaque on that wall.”

Arthur’s father motioned to the massive glistening wall of plaques behind him. It was truly an awe-inspiring sight. Several symmetrically placed ledges held a vast assortment of trophies, while the rest of the wall was almost completely covered in shimmering plaques, so that the wall itself was barely visible.

In Arthur’s dreams, the multitude of plaques graciously spread out to make room for a shiny new comrade—a polished brass plate inscribed with Arthur’s name. In his
nightmares, the legion of plaques swooped off the wall and attacked him like a swarm of vampire bats. But whatever scenario was playing out in Arthur’s head, he could not imagine anything greater than to see his own name on that wall, surrounded by his brothers and sisters and father and mother.

“Our family’s under more pressure than ever,” Mr. Whipple explained, “what with our current record shortage and the unfortunate press from the ‘French Toast Fiasco,’ as they’re calling it. We’ve got a reputation to mend—and we can use all the help we can get. Understand?”

Arthur nodded.

“All right, Arthur,” said Mr. Whipple. “Just remember what we talked about. There is nothing in this world more rewarding than being the absolute best at one’s endeavors. Excellence is in your blood, Son—and I am fairly certain that somewhere deep down inside of you, there is a successful boy trying desperately to escape. Now, let’s get out there and break some records—or at least not fail so miserably at them, shall we?”

“Yes, Father,” replied Arthur. “I’ll do my best.”

“It’s nice to do your best, Son. But it’s infinitely better, of course, to
be
the best.”

“Yes, sir,” said Arthur.

“Very well then,” Mr. Whipple concluded, turning back to the easel to pack up his son’s charts. “You may—”

A sudden, impulsive thought struck Arthur. “Father?” he said.

“Yes?” Mr. Whipple replied, still fussing with the easel.

The boy bit his lip. “What,” he ventured, “is the
Lyon’s Curse
?”