To Catch a Mermaid (8 page)

Galactic Kickers.

Developed with
space-age
technology, these impact-absorbing wonders are equipped with
double arch -support, steel-padded toes,
and
superior traction.

The preferred shoe of
Kick the Ball Against the Wall
champions worldwide. $125.

Boom wiped a dribble of drool from his lip. “Do you think someone would pay one hundred and twenty-five dollars to see the merbaby?” he asked Winger, who had also pressed his face against the glass.

“Totally.”

“Because the problem is that I promised Mertyle not to tell anyone about the baby. She thinks that scientists will take it away and experiment on it.”

Winger nodded. “She’s probably right. I hadn’t thought of that. They might even stick it in quarantine, like when my dog ate a bat that had rabies.”

There had to be some way to make this work. “But if we sold just a few tickets to people who promised to keep it a secret, then I could get a pair of Galactic Kickers.” And even help pay the bills around the house and pay the mortgage so they wouldn’t have to move. And buy some decent food.

“You boys gonna buy something?” Mr. Nord, the shopkeeper, asked.

“No, thank you,” Boom said, taking a step back.

“How’s your father doing?” Mr. Nord asked Boom. “I haven’t seen him at the coffee shop since . . .” An uncomfortable silence followed as Mr. Nord noticed the hole in Boom’s sneaker. His gaze traveled across Boom, and an undeniable look of pity settled on his face as he took in the fact that Boom’s clothes were too small, and that his hair hadn’t been washed. “Everything okay at home, Boom?”

“Fine,” Boom answered loudly. “Dad’s busy painting.” Boom knew what could happen if anyone in town began to suspect neglect. The family could be broken up — Mertyle sent off to some foster home in Timbuktu, and Boom could end up in a town where no one even knew how to play Kick the Ball Against the Wall. That would appeal to the universe — part of its grand plan. He’d have to start taking better care of himself. And buy some new clothes with the merbaby money.

Mr. Nord nodded. “It always helps to keep busy. Give him my best.” He went back inside.

Boom sighed with relief. “Come on. We’ve got to get to that pet store.”

The pet store sat between the Fairweather Public Library and Bula’s Beauty Salon. The window blinds were drawn and a sign on the door read:
CLOSED TODAY DUE TO A HEAD COLD.

“What?” Boom cried. “They can’t be closed.”

“Ms. Kibble lives in back,” Winger said, pointing down the alley. She owned the pet store. “We could go knock on her door.”

Empty pet food crates lined the alley. Boom had to step over three sleeping cats and a family of rabbits to get to Ms. Kibble’s back door. He knocked as loudly and as rapidly as he could because he figured the faster he knocked, the faster someone would respond.

It worked. The door opened right away and Ms. Kibble stuck her pale face out. “Yes?” she asked, dabbing her nose with a tissue. She wore a flannel bathrobe with cat hair on every square inch. A little blob of bird poop perched on her right shoulder, and a gerbil peeked out of her breast pocket.

“Please, Ms. Kibble. I need some goldfish right away.”

“My store is closed. I’m sick.” She dabbed again.

“It’s really important,” Boom pleaded.

“And why is that? What are you boys up to?” She peered over the top of her thick fish-shaped glasses.

“We’re not up to anything,” Boom lied, trying to smile sweetly.

“We’re
not
going to feed them to anyone,” Winger blurted. He looked down at his feet, shuffling in place like he had to pee. Lying had always been difficult for Winger.

Boom stepped in front of his friend. “Don’t listen to him. We just need some goldfish.”

“I know what boys do to helpless little creatures,” Ms. Kibble snarled. She blew her nose, real hard. The blow shook the gerbil like an earthquake, and it disappeared back inside the pocket. “Why, just the other day I caught that horrid Hurley Mump throwing rocks at a squirrel. Squirrels have feelings, and goldfish have feelings too. Oh yes, they do. They have feelings just like everyone else.”

Fish do not have feelings,
Boom thought.
Half fish don’t have them either.

“That poor little squirrel,” Ms. Kibble whispered.

“I love squirrels,” Boom said, which wasn’t really a lie. He actually didn’t have any feelings about squirrels one way or the other, but he didn’t go around throwing rocks at them. “I need goldfish and I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“I love squirrels too,” Winger added from behind Boom’s back.

“You can come tomorrow.” Ms. Kibble started to close the door but Boom stuck his kicking foot in the way — risking a bruise or even a broken toe, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

“Please, Ms. Kibble.” What could he tell her? Certainly not that he needed to feed the goldfish to a mutant sea creature.

Think, think.

“I agree with what you said, with that thing about goldfish having feelings too.” The lies were stacking up. Ms. Kibble tilted her head with interest. “Goldfish are direct descendants of . . . of the same primordial ooze that we all came from. That’s why they have feelings just like everyone else. Feelings like being scared or . . . or lonely. My sister’s goldfish is lonely. He needs some friends.” Boom waited, shuffling his feet with Winger. That was one of the best lies Boom had ever concocted on such short notice.

Ms. Kibble closed her bloodshot eyes for a moment. When she opened them her lips curled into a little smile. “Dear boy,” she said, a tear pooling at the corner of her eye. “I underestimated you. Not everyone understands the needs of the world’s smallest creatures. Come in, come in.”

Chapter Twelve:

Jay the Miracle Fish

M
s. Kibble’s house smelled like cat litter. And guinea pig litter and ferret litter. All sorts of sounds greeted the boys as they stepped into what seemed to be the living room, but so much of it was taken up by critters, it was hard to tell. “Wow,” Winger said when he came eye to eye with a blue and yellow parrot.

“Bad kitty, bad kitty,” the parrot chanted.

“Polly want a cracker?” Winger asked. The parrot stretched its neck and delicately picked a doughnut sprinkle off Winger’s cheek.

“Sit down, boys,” Ms. Kibble said, motioning to the couch, where a fat white cat lay curled. Tufts of white hair covered each of the couch cushions. The cat opened one lazy eye and hissed as the boys sat. Winger moved closer to Boom.

Ms. Kibble pointed to the coffee table, where two fish swam in a fishbowl. “That’s Jay the Miracle Fish,” she told them. “And his little friend, Walter.”

Jay was a big goldfish, about three inches long. He’d make a great meal for the merbaby. “How much?” Boom asked.

“Bad kitty, bad kitty,” the parrot chanted.

“Oh, Jay the Miracle Fish is not for sale,” Ms. Kibble explained. She sneezed again, then sat down on a stool. “He’s my special fish.”

“Why’s he called the Miracle Fish?” Winger asked.

Rats! Why did he have to ask that? Now they’d be stuck there listening to some long story when Boom had to get back to the house and feed the merbaby so it wouldn’t shriek and so Mr. Mump wouldn’t complain to the police.

“Jay used to be all alone in this bowl, swimming around his castle day after day after day,” Ms. Kibble told them. “Then one day, he leapt out and landed on the coffee table.”

“Out of the bowl?” Winger asked, leaning forward. “On purpose?”

“Yes,” Ms. Kibble declared, unwrapping some sort of throat lozenge. “On purpose. He started leaping out every morning at exactly the same time — right when Kitty finished her breakfast and came to curl up on the couch for her morning nap, just like she’s doing now. So every morning I’d put Jay back into his bowl, but he’d leap out again the next morning.” She paused for a moment to pop the lozenge into her mouth. Boom took a breath, intending to interrupt, but he wasn’t quick enough. “It never occurred to me that Jay was trying to tell me something.”

How in the world could a fish be trying to tell a person something? That was completely nuts. That was something Mertyle would believe.
Someone should check the drinking water on this island,
Boom thought.

The phone rang and Ms. Kibble disappeared into another room. The fat white cat jumped onto the coffee table and began to bat mischievously at the side of the fishbowl with its claws. Jay and his companion started to swim frantically. Bat bat bat. Swim swim swim. As the cat continued to tease, the fish beat their tails in a furious rhythm. Then the cat stuck its paw into the water.

“Bad kitty, bad kitty,” Ms. Kibble scolded, returning to shoo the fat cat off the table.

“Ms. Kibble,” Boom said, wanting to get back to the issue at hand. “I just want to buy some —”

“I’m not finished.” She tightened her fur-covered robe and settled back onto the stool. Boom curled his toes in frustration. “One morning, I came into the parlor and Jay was lying on the carpet, covered in carpet fuzz — all dried out and stiff as a potato chip. ‘Don’t be dead,’ I cried. ‘Not my poor little fish.’ I put him back into the bowl but he just floated at the water’s surface.” She took a dramatic pause. “He was dead. No doubt about it. I left him in the bowl, planning on burying him that evening after the shop closed. But when I came back at five thirty, there he was, swimming again. It was a miracle.”

Some miracle. Jay swam sideways, moving only one of his little fins. Probably had brain damage from lying on the carpet all night. It would be an act of mercy to feed him to the merbaby.

“Great story,” Winger said.

“Where are the goldfish that are for sale?” Boom anxiously asked. Ms. Kibble’s story was stalling his mission. His kicking foot began to twitch.

Ms. Kibble cleared her throat and peered at Boom over her glasses. “There is a moral to this story, dear boy. Patience is a virtue, don’t you know?”

Patience would be all well and good if this were an ordinary trip to the pet store. But, of course, it wasn’t, and Boom thought his head might explode at that very minute. How far down Prosperity Street might the baby’s shriek be heard? Would it carry on the morning wind?

Ms. Kibble cleared her throat. “I realized that Jay was throwing himself from the bowl because he was trying to tell me that he was lonely. As you so poetically stated earlier, fish are no different from any other creature. They have feelings. They have needs. My opinion, exactly. So yesterday I added Walter to the bowl.” She indicated the smaller goldfish. “And here it is, the time of day when Jay usually throws himself out. Look how happy he is. All he needed was a friend.” She tilted her head and sighed. “And that is why I let you boys into my parlor today, even though I am suffering from a most horrid head cold. I am delighted by your noble purpose. Come, let’s go find a friend for your sister’s fish.”

Finally! “How much does a friend cost?” Boom asked, pulling out the three dollars.

“In this situation, a friend is free.”

Ms. Kibble walked down the hallway that led to her shop. As soon as she left the room, the fat white cat jumped back onto the coffee table. It stuck its paw into the bowl and gave Jay a flick, sending the goldfish soaring through the air and onto the table. Winger and Boom looked at each other.

“Bad kitty, bad kitty,” Winger said, putting Jay back into the bowl.

Boom followed Ms. Kibble. “If friends are free, can I get about a dozen?”

Chapter Thirteen:

Daisy Mump

T
o the Brooms’ house they made their way, taking the shortcut that ran behind the Fairweather deli. Boom carefully held a bag of one dozen free goldfish. He tried to run, but the motion churned up the fish like a hurricane, so he somewhat scurried and somewhat walked.

Mr. Mump had parked his truck at the end of Prosperity Street, where Hurley, Daisy, and Mr. Mump were eagerly picking corn and piling the ears into the truck’s bed. When Hurley spotted Boom and Winger, he ran from the field and blocked their progress with his meaty frame. “We got the corn first,” he told them, clenching his fists.