Funny Kid [2] Page 3

  We ignore Dr. Duncanbray as he calls out after us. If you ask me, Dr. Duncanbray is cranky that Grandpa threw a walking stick at his head, so he’s not trying very hard to find him.

  It’s time to get to the bottom of this ourselves. Hugo and I will take it from here.

  The first person we talk to is a lady with cake in her mouth. I put on my polite voice.

  “What?”

  “Cyril, is that you?” she asks again. Cake crumbs fly toward my face.

  Hugo whispers in my ear, “I think she’s asking if you like cereal.”

  “Yes, I do like cereal, but I’m looking for my grandpa.” I speak slowly and loudly.

  “And I’m looking for Cyril!” she yells suddenly, and I get a face full of sucked icing.

  Yuck! We leap back and turn around.

  Ahh! There’s an old man folded in half and leaning on a walking frame right behind us.

  “Are you Cyril?” Hugo asks him.

  Wonderful. Someone who’s happy to help us.

  “My grandpa lives in that room and he’s gone for a walk. We’re trying to find out if anyone knows where he went.”

  Sir Phillip Bartholomew the Third looks down at Grandpa’s room and then back at us. He scratches his chin. “He’s your grandpa, is he?”

  “Yes!” I reply. This is great! He knows Grandpa!

  “And he’s gone off for a walk?”

  Hugo and I nod.

  “Fantastic,” Sir Phillip Bartholomew the Third replies, and then a smile floods his face. “Hopefully he’s been run over by a large horse!”

  What?

  The old man turns away from us and faces the rest of the big room.

  I don’t believe it. An old lady starts cheering! A dude on the couch, who I honestly thought was dead, opens his eyes, stands up, and does a little dance!

  “Who’s Cranky-Pants?” I ask.

  Suddenly another old lady (or is it an old man? I can’t really tell with this one) has come out of nowhere.

  Hugo and I look at each other.

  “Are they having a party?” Hugo asks me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen old people this happy.”

  They certainly seem to be celebrating. Someone’s turned on music and a lady with purple hair is attempting to climb up onto a table.

  I turn around and see Mom, Dad, and Rosie enter the big room with Dr. Duncanbray. The doctor quickly yells for one of the nurses to help him stop the old lady from table dancing.

  It seems I’m not the only person who doesn’t really like Grandpa.

  Mom and Dad take the three of us outside, because the nurses suddenly have their hands full being party poopers. Plus, it feels a little embarrassing being the family of the guy nobody likes!

  It seems Grandpa has not been any friendlier to the people at his nursing home than he was to us.

  I once asked Dad why Grandpa was always grumpy, and he said something about having a boring job his whole life, Grandma dying, and blah-blah-blah something about politics.

  That seemed to make sense to Dad, but frankly none of it sounded like a good-enough reason for telling your grandson that milk might come from a cow’s udder, but cheese comes from its butt. Or for the time Grandpa dressed up as Santa and told me the only present I was getting that year was something called the Plague.

  I glance up and down the street. The sun is setting now and it’s starting to get dark. And cold. And boring.

  “That’s not what families do, Max,” Dad says.

  “Sure it is. He’d do the same for us,” I say. “Or should I say he wouldn’t do the same for us.”

  “You know, sometimes you really remind me of your grandpa, Max,” Mom says.

  “He could be anywhere by now,” Hugo says as the streetlights click on.

  “I’m going to call Debbie.” Mom pulls out her phone. “She might be able to give us a hand. We want to find him before it gets too dark.”

  Mom steps away and starts talking into her phone, so I ask Dad, “Who’s Debbie?”

  “Mom’s friend, the police officer,” Dad explains, holding Rosie. “You know, Sergeant Purcell.”

  Hang on a minute. Purcell. Purcell . . . Why does that sound familiar?

  It’s official. This is the most terrible day the universe ever invented.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Sergeant Purcell is Abby Purcell’s mom and it must be bring-your-kid-to-work day, because when Mom’s friend arrives (not in her uniform, mind you . . . how do we even know she’s a real cop?) my archnemesis gets out of the car too.

  No one thinks he’s been kidnapped.

  “Yes, but just because she’s a cop, that doesn’t make you a cop.”

  “It pretty much does.”

  “Why is it called KIDnapped? Shouldn’t it be OLDnapped?” Hugo asks.

  “He might be having a nap,” says Abby. “That’s a good idea, Hugo. I’ll pass it on to my sergeant.”

  “Max is a little stressed right now, Abby,” says Hugo. “It’s not the time to be calling each other names. We need to help Max.”

  Abby smirks. “Fair enough. What would you like me to do, Hugo?”

  I’ve got an idea! Move to Pluto!

  “Probably the best thing you could do,” Hugo says, “is use your amazing magic skills to make Max’s grandpa reappear.”

  What?

  “She doesn’t have any magic skills, Hugo!”

  Abby’s nodding. “It was pretty good, huh?”

  “It was AMAZING!” Hugo says, his eyes wide. “You’re totally going to win the talent quest.”

  Abby grins. I glare at him.

  Before I can strap both of them to a rocket launcher and shoot them into outer space, Abby’s mom claps her hands to get our attention and take charge of the situation. Maybe she’s been on a grandpa hunt before. I guess it’s like an Easter egg hunt, except there’s only one egg and it’s not made of chocolate.

  Steve? Who’s Steve?

  Abby disappears around the back of her car and returns with a giant dog on a leash. He’s enormous! His nose is glistening wet, there’s drool swinging from his mouth, and his tail is wagging so vigorously I’m sure it could send me flying down the street.

  Did I mention that I hate dogs? For some reason, they’re always obsessed with me. Maybe my natural odor is similar to dog biscuits?

  Abby and the dog come bounding over. I hide behind Hugo.

  “Keep that thing away from me!”

  “Who? Steve?” Abby asks. “Steve’s harmless. Unless you’re a bad guy, then he’s like a T. rex and he’ll rip your head off. Are you a bad guy, Max?”

  Gulp.

  “He’s so cuuuute!” Hugo says, tickling Steve under the chin.

  “Yeah, cute like Godzilla,” I say.

  Steve stops smiling. He’s staring at me. Apparently he didn’t find that very funny.

  Join the club, Steve! Join the club!

  “Easy, Steve,” Abby says, holding the leash. “Let’s walk.”

  Once, when I was little, I was at the park with Mom and Dad, eating ice cream. We bumped into our next-door neighbor and his dog. The grown-ups talked to each other and I guess I was supposed to talk to the dog. His name was Princess.

  So, like a good kid, I politely asked Princess how he felt about the weather. Princess looked at me like I was crazy to be trying to talk to a dog and, instead of replying, ate my whole ice cream out of my hand in one giant gulp!

  “Naughty dog, Princess!” I said.

  But apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because our neighbor did that squat-to-talk-to-the-child thing and explained that we don’t talk to Princess like that, as it makes him feel bad about himself.

  Princess was feeling pretty pleased with himself, if you asked me. He had ice-cream drool all over his face. And sprinkles up his nose.

  When I told everyone what happened, no one believed that the dog had stolen my ice cream, because, get this, our neighbor said that Princess doesn’t eat dairy.

 
; So I got in trouble and I lost my ice cream. As a result, I hate dogs. In my defense though, Princess started it.

  Steve’s still looking at me as we walk. I can see his shiny nose twitching.

  “Abby? Get him to stop looking at me.”

  I dodge to the other side of Hugo, but Steve’s gaze follows me. I scoot back the other way, but he follows me again.

  “Steve, sit,” Abby says confidently, but the dog completely ignores her. “He does seem interested in you, doesn’t he? He must be able to smell fear.”

  “I’m not scared!” I say. Then Steve leaps around Hugo, straight at me. “Aaarrrggghhh!”

  I bolt the other way and suddenly Steve is chasing me and we’re running in circles around Hugo. Abby, of course, is connected to Steve by the leash, so now there are three of us running and screaming and barking, with Hugo getting spun around in the middle!

  I turn and run back up the street toward Sergeant Purcell’s car and, somewhere, Mom and Dad. This is the only time running ever makes sense, when something is trying to eat you! I’m in such a panic I think I see Tumbles in a bush as I sprint past. All my nightmares at once!

  Steve is hot on my tail, saliva flying and warm canine breath blowing down the back of my neck like a super-stinky hair dryer.

  Bump! Bump! Abby is being dragged along behind Steve, tumbling and tripping and yelling at full blast, “Stop, Max! Just let him eat you!”

  “The car, Max!” Hugo calls.

  Sure enough, Sergeant Purcell has left the back door of her car unlocked. I wrench it open and leap in. I don’t have enough time to pull the door closed behind me. I crash and flip across the seat and smack my head into the opposite door.

  Ugh.

  To my surprise, Steve does not jump in behind me. Apparently he knows he’s not allowed in the back seat of the car. Instead he sits calmly next to the door as though his job is done. Abby rolls to a stop beside him.

  “Good dog, Steve. Good dog,” she pants.

  Good dog? What is it with dog people?

  So it turns out Grandpa is quite the hiker. Either that or he has actually been kidnapped. After two hours of searching, no one can find him. Mom and Dad send Hugo and me home, because it’s getting pretty late. Turns out the you-can’t-stay-home-by-yourself rule doesn’t apply now that things are a little more serious.

  Hugo wants to stay up and watch puppies with Mohawks on YouTube, but I head straight to bed. It’s the only way to make the worst day in the history of the universe end.

  “Wake up! Max! Wake up!”

  “Ugh. Hugo! Get off me! I only just fell asleep!” I try to thump him, but I haven’t opened my eyes yet, so I end up punching myself in the ear.

  “If I’m going to be your life coach, you’ve got to listen to me,” Hugo says. “You’ve been sleeping all night, Max.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve only been asleep for about three minutes,” I reply, my eyes still shut. “And you’re not my life coach! I had just started this dream about getting in a fart-powered rocket with Captain Kickbutt. It was going to be really awesome, but you ruined it!”

  “Max, there are a whole lot of people with cameras on your front lawn!”

  I open my eyes. What?

  Hugo is over by the window, looking out through the curtains. He was right. It is morning. How did that happen? I climb out of bed and go see what he’s looking at.

  Sure enough, out in the street are some vans from Channel 11 and the local radio station, plus a whole bunch of other cars. Standing around them, including on our grass, are people with telephones and cameras.

  “They look like reporters,” I say.

  “What are they doing here?”

  “How would I know, Hugo? I’ve only just come back from piloting a farting rocket.”

  “We should probably go and wake up your parents,” Hugo says.

  “Waking Mom and Dad is always a bad idea. And they’ve been out all night looking for Grandpa. Have you seen how grumpy my dad gets first thing on a normal morning? He’s like a toad with a toothache.”

  “But there are reporters on your front lawn.”

  “So? What’s so scary about reporters?” I reply, heading toward the door. “Let’s go talk to them.”

  Hugo grumbles something about no one ever listening to him or something. I’m too busy heading downstairs to catch it.

  I open the front door and there is a flurry of activity outside. It’s like the reporters are pigeons and I’m a leftover hamburger with no meat patty, sauce all licked off.

  The problem is, I think these pigeons wanted a whole hamburger, not the leftovers, because as soon as they see it’s me who opened the door, they stop.

  “It’s just a kid,” a woman says.

  “Hey, son, can you go get your parents for us?” a guy with a beard asks.

  “What’s with the duck?” says a dude in a hoodie who’s leaning against our house, eating a hot dog. Is that your breakfast, man? That’s weird.

  I look down. Duck has hopped up next to me on the front step like he’s my bodyguard. He’s glaring at the pesky journalists and looking just as annoyed as me that no one said “good morning.” He also seems a little bit interested in that guy’s hot dog.

  Hugo has appeared over my shoulder. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” he whispers.

  Shhh!

  “Sorry, kid, but we can’t interview you without your parents,” says the guy with the beard.

  “Why not? I’m eleven! I can tell you everything you need to know.”

  The woman looks very disappointed. I know how she feels. This is an opportunity to become famous for . . . something. Doesn’t really matter what, but it would be a shame to waste it.

  Then I have an idea.

  “I can ask questions though, right?” I ask.

  The reporters look at each other and shrug. I don’t think they’d thought of that.

  “I’m pretty sure there aren’t any rules about you asking us questions,” beard guy says.

  “Okay, good. I can work with that. You’re here because you want to know about the talent quest, right?” I ask.

  “The . . . talent . . . quest,” the woman replies very slowly, moving her head around in a weird swirl as if she can’t work out whether I’m speaking in code or not. I hear people complain about the state of journalism. This must be what they’re talking about.

  “You were going to release a . . . statement.” I think she’s decided that repeating what I say really slowly might work just as well as a question.

  “You’re interviewing him. You should stop,” calls hot-dog guy.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Duck’s head snap around as if to say, “Shut it!” That’s it, Duck. You deal with Mr. McWeird Breakfast over there.

  “I’m not interviewing him,” she replies. “He’s just talking!”

  I continue. “I was going to release a statement saying that I am quitting the talent quest.”

  “I can’t . . . stop him talking,” the woman says to hot-dog guy.

  Come on, people, back to me. Focus.

  “Yes, I have quit the talent quest,” I say, louder. “Would you like to know why?”

  The woman nods slowly. “Uh-huh, sure.”

  “I am quitting the talent quest to focus on finding my missing grandpa.”

  As soon as I say the word “grandpa,” every head on the lawn snaps in my direction. Suddenly the leftover hamburger appears to have gotten more interesting to these pigeons.

  The woman in front of me pulls a photo out of a folder she’s holding. “This is a photo of Walter Walburt . . .” she says, and then raises her eyebrows as though she wants me to finish the sentence.

  “Yes, that’s my grandpa. Walter Walburt. Shocking choice of name, right? I mean, what were his parents thinking?”

  She looks at me quizzically, as though she doesn’t care at all about that.

  “Yes, well, he’s gone missing. At least I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad didn’t fin
d him last night,” I continue. “Wait. Why do you have a photo of Grandpa?”

  She looks across at the other reporters, not sure whether she should tell me.

  Beard guy shrugs. “He asked you.” She doesn’t seem convinced though.

  “You should probably go get your mom or dad,” she says to me.

  “I’m his dad,” comes a deep voice from behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “You shouldn’t be talking to my son. What do you want?”

  Dad’s got his serious voice on. Told you he doesn’t like to be woken up.

  To these pigeons, Dad is one huge, juicy, untouched hamburger combo deal. They actually run at him, microphones outstretched.

  “What are you talking about?” Dad asks. “What ransom?”

  “Someone dropped a ransom note into the Channel Eleven office this morning,” beard guy says, pulling a piece of paper out of his folder. Dad snatches it.

  “Are you telling us you don’t know about this?”

  What’s going on? Grandpa has been kidnapped? A ransom?

  Dad reads the note quickly and then turns a little pale. He looks back at the reporters. “We don’t have any comments at this stage.”

  He pulls Hugo and me back inside, leaving the reporters with only Duck to talk to. I’m sure he’ll keep them occupied.

  Mom is standing in the kitchen wrapped in her dressing gown and holding Rosie.

  Without saying a word, Dad puts the piece of paper on the table.

  I can’t believe Mom and Dad send Hugo and me to school. I think they do it just to get us out of their hair. They seem to think that two eleven-year-olds aren’t going to be helpful or something.

  Hmpf. I’ll show them.

  Forget the stupid talent quest. Now we have something much more important to focus on. My grandpa has been kidnapped and I’m probably going to be on the news!