Ho-Ho-NOOO! (12 page)

Ten minutes later they were in a cab pulling up to the fancy French restaurant, Costz-way Tu’much.

“That’ll be $25,” the cab driver said.

TJ was stunned. “You drove less than a mile.”

“Welcome to Malibu, toots.”

She dug into her pocket, pulled out the money, and handed it to the cab driver. Now she was down to $500.

“What, no tip?” the driver asked.

Make that $490.

“Will you wait here until I get the food?” TJ asked him.

“For another $20.”

(That’s $470 for you math geniuses.)

TJ and the kids climbed out of the cab and entered the back of the restaurant, where they were greeted by Chef Hugo Ego.

“It is about time,” he growled. “My assistants have had the caviar puffs prepared for over an hour.”

“Sorry,” TJ said as she dragged Number Thuree past a giant and very inviting cauldron of French onion soup.

“I will not allow my masterpieces to be served if they are not at the peak of freshness.”

“I understand,” TJ said as they rounded the corner and she saw the entire wall stacked with small plastic boxes. “Are those them?”

“But of course.”

“How many are there?”

“There are 1,350 works of art,” he replied.

“I can’t get them all into the taxi!” TJ exclaimed.

“I am an artist, not a delivery service.”

TJ’s mind raced, searching for a solution. “Wait!

I’ve got it. Let’s bring all the people over here.”

“People?” Chef Ego frowned. “I thought they were the homeless.”

“Right,” TJ said. “People, homeless. They’re the same thing.”

Chef Ego’s frown deepened a moment before he broke into laughter. “I see. You are making a joke. Yes, very funny. Very funny indeed.” Before TJ could argue with him (or give him a good punch in the gut for being a jerk), he changed subjects. “Now, as far as transportation, you will note each delicacy is packed in its own container. This not only adds to the overall dining experience but protects their delicate shape during transport.”

TJ’s mind resumed racing. Transportation. She had to find a way to transport them. Finally, with no other solution in sight, she reached for her cell phone.

“What are you doing?” Number Too asked.

“I’m calling for more taxis. It’s going to cost a bundle, but we need more taxis.”

Chef Ego cleared his throat. “Speaking of cost . . . there will be an extra charge for the boxes.”

TJ looked up from her phone in alarm. “Didn’t Hesper Breakahart pay for them?”

“She paid for the caviar puffs, not the boxes—which I might point out were specially designed for this occasion by a friend in Beverly Hills.”

TJ swallowed hard. She knew she had to ask the question she didn’t want to ask but had to ask because it was the question to be asked.

TRANSLATION:
Uh-oh.

“How much will they cost?”

“Because it is for a good cause, and since it is Christmas, I shall give you a discount.”

“Really?” TJ’s face brightened.

“I shall charge you a mere $345 for the entire lot.”

TJ’s face clouded. If you math geniuses are still there, that left her with a grand total of . . . $125.

And the night was still young.

TIME TRAVEL LOG:

Malibu, California, December 24—supplemental of supplemental

Begin Transmission

Have encountered slight glitch with force field. Unable to assist subject at this time. With luck, she will survive without our brilliant assistance. Then again, we all know about her luck (and our brilliance).

End Transmission

TJ’s fleet of taxis (all four of them) raced through the streets. It was eight o’clock. She’d already missed Christmas Eve dinner with her family. Now she had to unload the food and rush home before she missed everything.
“We’ll be able to focus on more important things, like spending time with one another.”
Wasn’t that what Dad had said? If she didn’t hurry, she couldn’t even do that!

The taxis screeched to a stop in front of the tables that had been set up. TJ threw open her door, and just in time. Hesper Breakahart was being lowered on a cable from the helicopter—flapping her angel wings and waving her magic wand. (Apparently no one had bothered explaining the difference between angels and fairy godmothers.)

In any case, everything was there—the news cameras, the orchestra, and the snow machine, which was attached to a fire hydrant and pumping out its wet, snowy flakes all over the crowd.

Things couldn’t be more perfect.

Except for the crowd. They hated it. Actually, they didn’t hate the cameras, orchestra, or snow . . . they just hated Hesper. And the more she talked, the more they hated.

“You poor wretches!” she shouted from the air. “I have come to deliver you from your pathetic existence!” She waved her wand toward TJ and the taxis.

“Behold, because of my great, giving nature, I have provided you my manna from heaven.”

(Apparently no one bothered explaining humility to her, either.)

To make her point, the orchestra broke into a rousing rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus . . . as the crowd broke into a grumbling rendition of “Who does this chick think she is?”

But TJ barely noticed. She was racing around, unloading the taxis and setting out the caviar puffs. It would have been nice to have help, but Number One was too busy staring out the taxi window in terror, Number Too was too busy playing level 5,034 on his PlayStation, and Number Thuree? She’d found a nearby gutter where the melting snow was running off and she was splashing happily.

All this as Hesper continued her airborne greeting. “And so, thanks to my incredible generosity, I hereby
OOOFF!
I hereby
UGH!”

The
OOOFF
s and
UGH
s came as the helicopter’s cable kept sticking. It would lower her a foot and then jerk to a stop, then lower her another foot and stop. The more it jerked, the more she squirmed. And the more she squirmed, the more she began to swing back and forth.

But no one paid attention. They had all turned to the food TJ was setting out. Some had even started eating it . . . or trying to.

“Blah!” An older woman spat out her first bite. “What is this garbage?”

One of the news cameramen moved in for a close-up as another man gagged on his bite.

“They’re caviar cream puffs,” TJ explained.

“Caviar what?!” The woman sniffed at what was left in her hand . . . as the cameraman moved in closer and Hesper swung farther.

“I hereby
OUCH!”

“Get that camera out of my face!” the old woman shouted.

“I hereby
AGHH!”

“What does she think we are?” a man yelled as he threw his caviar puff to the ground. “This stuff isn’t fit for animals.”

“That’s how she’s treating us,” another growled.

“Like animals,” another agreed.

“We’re her little pet project,” another sneered.

“Get your camera out of my face!” the first woman repeated.

Things were definitely not going well in a very unwell kind of way. Not only were the people angry, but Hesper kept swinging closer and closer to the nozzle of the snow machine.

“You want a bite?” the woman yelled at the cameraman who still wouldn’t leave her alone. “Then have a bite!” With that she

the caviar puff directly onto his lens.

Some of the crowd laughed . . . until the cameraman grabbed a puff off the table and

it into the woman’s face.

Now everyone was laughing as another man grabbed a puff and shoved it into his neighbor’s face. And then another one threw it into another face. And then another. Before you knew it, Chef Ego’s delicacies were

through the air as a good, old-fashioned

food fight began. (At least they discovered his food was good for something.)

Now everybody was
fling
-ing and
SPLAT!
-ing and having the time of their lives. Well, everybody but Hesper. The fairy godangel just kept swinging back and forth until she finally

into the snow machine nozzle, completely snapping it off.

No problem . . . except for the water that began
gush
-ing from the broken nozzle. And we’re not talking a little
gush
-ing. We’re talking a major

Within seconds the place had more water than . . . well, than a Bags Fifth Avenue department store on Christmas Eve.

But no one cared as the caviar puffs continued to

Yes, sir, it was a great time . . . until a little voice began screaming, “Help me! Help me!”

TJ spun around to see Number Thuree. The water had roared down the gutter and was washing her away. She was heading directly for a drain opening under the sidewalk . . . an opening big enough for her tiny body to slip through and be swept away forever!

Before TJ could react, Number One was out of the taxi. Forget the crowd; forget the germs—that was her little sister and she wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.

But she was too slow.

Number Thuree screamed as the water swept her the last few feet and washed her down into the drain.

Washed her down . . . but not away.

At the last second, a skin-and-bones homeless kid had appeared. With lightning speed, he had leaped into the drain and caught the little girl.

Caught her . . . but not saved her.

Because now, like Number Thuree, he was also inside the drain. He had managed to grab the edge and cling to it with one hand, while holding the girl with the other. But as the water beat down on top of them, his grip was slipping. Still, he would not let go of her. Even if it meant being washed into the storm sewer with her, he would not let go.

“Climb on top of me!” he shouted over the roaring water. “Climb onto my shoulders!”

But Number Thuree was too terrified to move as she kept screaming, “Help me! Help me!”

Finally Number One arrived. For the briefest moment, the big sister hesitated. The water was black with filth and sludge. There was no telling how many billion germs were in it. But she saw no other way. Trembling with fear and summoning all of her courage, Number One slowly knelt in the rushing water. It flooded and splashed all around her.

Stretching her arm down into the raging torrent, she yelled, “Grab my hand!”

Number Thuree looked up, her eyes wide in fear.