Cold Cereal (The Cold Cereal Saga) (6 page)

Scott huffed. “Some things … some things you probably can’t even get a volcano to swallow, you know?”

Erno smiled a little. “Yeah. She probably tastes like a prune.”

They fell into an uneasy silence, discomfited by the mystery of what, if anything, Carla Owens tasted like.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said in class,” Erno finally spoke. “It would be just like Mr. Wilson to hide the answer to one of his games in a claw machine.”

“Mr. Wilson?”

“Our foster dad.”

“He thinks up these puzzles for you?”

“Yeah, and Emily was right: we’re supposed to do them ourselves. They’re our tests, you know? So it sort of ruins the test if we get help.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “So … your dad pits you and Emily against each other, to see who’s
smarter?
”

Erno frowned as if he’d never really considered the implications before. Scott was sorry he’d asked.

“Well,” he added, “it’s funny you mentioned the science museum, because that’s why I thought of claw machines. We just moved here, you know, and the move was kind of … hard, and my mom wanted to do something nice for my sister and me. She’s a scientist—my mom, I mean—so
she took us to the science museum last weekend. And they have a claw machine in the lobby.”

Erno raised his eyebrows. “A claw machine in the science museum … man, that’s
gotta
be it. Hey, are you … are you expected at home right away?”

“Not really. My mom’s at work, and Polly’s staying after school.” Scott frowned and scanned the horizon. “To be honest, I’m not sure I remember where my house is.”

The boys hustled to the science museum, a squat little building by the high school with an entrance that was roped by a thick double helix of plaster DNA.
SCIENCE IS FUN!
read a banner of Albert Einstein on a bike. Because nothing says fun like a picture of an old person riding a bicycle.

They burst through the doors, and there it was: a claw machine behind the admissions kiosk. And inside the Plexiglas case, perched atop a pile of plush owls and dolphins and dolls of Einstein riding a bicycle, was
another yellow scroll
.

Erno turned to the woman inside the kiosk. “Do we have to pay admission to play the claw machine?”

“Well,” she said, “no. But we have a wonderful exhibit on the life cycle of rain clouds! Or, ooh! A photosynthesis workshop at four o’clock! Yeah?”

“Um,” said Erno, and he looked at Scott.

“Just the claw machine today, I think,” said Scott. “Can you make change?”

The woman sighed and reached for their five.

“Jeez. Fifty cents a game,” said Erno as they pressed close to the machine to examine the scroll—another yellow page tied in pink ribbon, just like the first one.

“It’ll be easy,” said Scott. “It’s right on top.”

Erno slid a dollar into the slot, watched it get spit back out again, tried once more, smoothed the bill against the corner of the machine, tried a third time. The game’s little claw of Archimedes shuddered to life. Erno jerked it in place over the scroll and pressed a button labeled
DROP
. The talons closed, and traced the edge of the paper tube as if testing its quality, and then rose and retreated to the chute in the corner, empty-handed. This claw was not so certain it
wanted
a yellow scroll. This claw was merely browsing.

“You try,” said Erno.

Scott tried. The claw pinched the scroll, raised it up by its end, and dropped it again—too early. It rolled off an owl’s mortarboard and came to a stop against the glass.

“We still have four dollars,” he said.

Four dollars later they had accidentally won two owls
and a dolphin, but the scroll remained in the case, lodged between Einsteins.

“I don’t have any more money.”

“Neither do I.”

“Are you guys done finally?” asked someone behind them. It was a younger boy with a juice-stained face and two shiny quarters in his chubby little claw.

“Um. Okay,” said Scott, backing off. “But … can you do us a favor?”

The boy frowned. “A
favor?
” he asked, over-enunciating the word like he’d never used it in a sentence before.

“Yeah. Could you not try to get that yellow scroll? We’re trying to get that.”

“Yellow … you mean that roll of paper? I don’t want paper. I want an old man riding a bicycle.”

“Of course,” Erno muttered. “The one thing we can’t trade him for his quarters.”

“That’s great,” Scott told the boy. “Never mind, forget I said anything.”

The boy squinted at the scroll. “You guys want
that?
”

“Yeah, but you don’t, so—”

“Why? Is it good?”

“No,” said Erno. “It’s totally boring. You don’t want it, seriously.”

The boy looked at the scroll, then back at Scott and
Erno, and then he stepped up to the controls. A second later it was clear to everyone present that the boy only had eyes for the scroll, and when the claw dropped, it hooked through a loop of pink ribbon.

“Oh man,” said Scott. “Are you kidding me?”

“Little jerk,” Erno muttered under his breath.

The scroll dropped down the chute, and they could hear it thap lightly against the door of the slot below.

“We’ll give you two owls and a dolphin for it,” said Scott.

The boy had the scroll in his hands. “Stuffed animals are for girls. You two are girls,” he said with a sticky pink grin. Then he pulled at the ribbon and unrolled the page and stared at its inky center.

“What does it say?” asked Erno. He sounded desperate.

“Why should I tell you? It’s mine. It’s really awesome, though.”

“We’ll give you two owls and a dolphin and…”—Scott searched his backpack—“an eraser shaped like Agent SuperCar and most of a pack of gum.”

“Strawbubble?” the boy asked, looking at the pack.

“Very Cherry.”

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “Deal.”

“Thanks,” Erno said to Scott as they exchanged their gum and toy eraser and stuffed animals for the secret message as if they were the sissiest spies alive. The boy ran off with his haul.

“Suckers!”

Erno unrolled the page, and together he and Scott read the single, typewritten line:

THIS ISN’T A CLUE, EITHER.

Erno sighed. “This is child abuse, right?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Erno was beginning to consider inviting Scott to the house some afternoon, so now he couldn’t help seeing it as if for the first time, the way Scott would. It was old and cramped—full of hiding places but so creaky as to make for really noisy hiding. Deep down Erno knew they were all a little old for hide-and-seek anyway, but he’d have to have
something
to suggest after breaking the news that the Utz kids had no video games or television.

The only board games they owned were Monopoly and Risk. Either one on its own might be considered by most sixth graders to be boring and overlong, so most sixth graders would not be able to appreciate what Erno and Emily had made when they combined the two into a bewildering supergame called Ronopolisk that was now in its fourth year and didn’t really encourage a third player. And wouldn’t it be a shame to stop now? Just when
the Scottie Dog was poised to invade Poland.

So no TV and no games. No games but
the
games, and Erno wasn’t supposed to share those, either.

The discarded pink bow still lay like a scribble on the dining-room table. Was that significant? Was it a clue? Erno tried to tease some meaning out of its shape. It sort of looked like an ampersand.

There were sounds coming from the library, the dry swish of a broom against the floor. It was Wednesday, and on Wednesdays their housekeeper, Biggs, came to clean and cook, and mend anything that needed mending.

“Biggs!” Erno called into the next room. “Did Mr. Wilson say anything to you about this ribbon?” He looked down at the table, then back at the doorway, and was startled to find Biggs standing next to him.

“You all right?” Biggs asked in his dull way.

“Yeah. You sneaked up on me.” Even as Erno said this he could scarcely believe it, looking up at the man. What would Scott think of Biggs? He was, as always,
enormous
. More than eight feet tall, he stooped to get through every doorway. Even when he sat down, as he did now on a dining-room chair, he seemed too tall, and his knees pointed up at the ceiling like churches.

“Good day at school?” asked Biggs, scratching a huge hand over his cheek. As impressive as Biggs was, his hands still seemed two sizes too large, and were as thick and pink as hams. They were outmatched only by his feet. Which admittedly Erno had never seen, sure, but they had to be gigantic because why else would he wear such shoes? So long and tapered and to all appearances seaworthy. Like kayaks.

“School was fine,” Erno answered. “Did Mr. Wilson mention anything to you about this ribbon? Like, did he tell you not to touch it?”

“No,” said Biggs, scratching the back of his neck. “Just never disturb stuff like that.”

Erno nodded. Of course Biggs knew all about the games. As housekeeper he would sometimes uncover hidden clues meant for Erno and Emily, and he’d been asked in these cases to leave them as he’d found them.

“I think Emily’s figured it out already.” Erno sighed. “The new game, I mean. Or she’s figured out how to figure it out, which might as well be the same thing.”

Look at me
, thought Erno.
Talking about it
. It felt
good
to talk about it. You could tell Biggs anything.

The only answer that came from Biggs was a sort of whuffling sound. He was sniffing the air, the great nostrils of his broad pug nose yawning wide. Erno had to stifle a yawn just looking at them.

“What is it?”

“Washing machine’s done,” said Biggs.

Erno smelled nothing but didn’t argue as Biggs rose and
walked soundlessly away. He’d never noticed it before—everyone else in the Utz house made the old wood creak and whine when they moved. Everyone but Biggs.

Nothing was said about the scroll at dinner that night. Of course. They mostly sat in silence.

Mr. Wilson said, “Erno, could you pass me the square root of one hundred and forty-four peas?” So Erno began to portion them out onto his foster father’s plate using chopsticks that had been laid out for just that purpose.

“Emily,” he continued, “would you please spear your father another piece of moribund domestic avian muscle?” And so Emily served him some chicken. This was ordinary dining-room conversation in the Utz house, but Erno still strained to catch every word, worried that it might contain some clue. It made dinner exhausting.

It was days later when it hit him, and he called Scott right away.

“Archimedes is an
owl
,” he told him.

“He is?” said Scott. “I thought he was a Greek guy.”

“He’s that too. But … have you ever read
The Sword in the Stone?
”

“No. I’ve seen the movie.”

“There was a movie?”

“Sure. They show it sometimes on the Disney Channel.”

“Oh. Well, we don’t have a TV.”

“You don’t … what?”

“Have a TV. We’ve never had one.”

There was a longish pause, during which Erno occupied himself by imagining Scott’s horrified face. He was used to this kind of reaction. He may as well tell people that they didn’t have a toilet.

“Well, I haven’t seen the movie in a while,” said Scott. “I don’t remember the owl.”

“He can talk, and his name is Archimedes. He belongs to Merlin. That story we read the other day made me think of it.”

“Sooo … the claw of Archimedes rests…”

“On Merlin? On Merlin’s shoulder? I’m sure I’m onto something here. I … there was a new scroll sitting on my nightstand today when I got home.”

“What did it say?”

“I
N YELLOW PAGES FIND THE NAME

AND PAY A CALL TO END THE GAME.
”

“It was a hint.” Erno sighed. “I bet you a hundred dollars Emily didn’t need a hint.”