I’ve never been so serious in my life. Please look,” I
pleaded. “Please. Please. Please!” And then I added, “I’ll never ask you for
anything else again.”
I guess that’s what convinced him.
“Okay,” he said, sighing wearily. “But if this is another joke…”
My father stepped over to the living room window and peered out into the
swirling fog.
“Please let the gnomes still be gone!” I prayed silently. “Please let
Dad see that I’m telling the truth. Please…”
17
“Joe, you’re right!” my father declared. “The gnomes aren’t out
there.”
He believed me! Finally! I jumped up and shot a fist into the air. “Yes!” I
cheered.
Dad wiped at the moist glass pane with his pajama sleeve and squinted out
the window again.
“See, Dad! See!” I cried happily. “I was telling the truth. I wasn’t joking.”
“Hmmm. Deer-lilah’s not there, either,” he said softly.
“What?” I gasped, feeling my stomach churn. “No. The deer is there! I saw
it!”
“Hold on a minute,” Dad murmured. “Ahhh. There she is. She was hidden in the
fog. And the gnomes! There they are! They’re right there, too. They were hidden
in the fog. See?”
I stared out the window. Two pointy hats broke through the mist. The two
gnomes stood dark and still, in their places beside the deer.
“Noooooo!” I moaned. “I know they weren’t there. I’m not playing tricks, Dad.
I’m not!”
“Fog can do funny things,” Dad said. “One time I was driving through a real
pea soup of a fog. I spotted something strange through the windshield. It was
shiny and round and it sort of hovered in the air. Oh, boy, I thought. A UFO! A flying saucer! I couldn’t believe it!”
Dad patted me on the back. “Well, my UFO turned out to be a silver balloon
tied to a parking meter. Now, Joe. Back to this gnome problem.” Dad’s face
turned stern. “I don’t want to hear any more crazy stories. They’re only lawn
ornaments. Nothing more. Okay? Not another word. Promise?”
What choice did I have? “Promise,” I muttered.
Then I dragged myself up the stairs to bed.
What a horrible day—and night. My father thinks I’m a liar. Our tomatoes
are ruined. And Moose isn’t allowed to hang out with me anymore.
What else could possibly go wrong?
I woke up the following morning with a heavy feeling in my stomach. As if I
had swallowed a bowl of cement.
All I could think about were the gnomes.
Those horrible gnomes. They were destroying my summer. They were destroying
my life!
Forget about them, Joe, I told myself. Just forget about them.
Anyway, today had to be better than yesterday. It sure couldn’t be worse.
I peered out my bedroom window. All traces of the fog had been burned away by
a bright yellow sun. Buster slept peacefully in the grass, his long white rope
snaking through the garden.
I glanced over at the McCalls’ house. Maybe Moose is outside helping his dad
in the garden, I thought.
I leaned farther out the window to get a better look.
“Oh, noooo!” I moaned. “No!”
18
Globs of white paint splattered over Mr. McCall’s red Jeep!
The roof. The hood. The windows. The whole Jeep covered in paint.
This meant major trouble, I knew.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and yesterday’s T-shirt and hurried outside. I
found Moose in his driveway, his jaw clenched, shaking his head as he circled
the Jeep.
“Unbelievable, huh?” he said, turning to me. “When my dad saw this, he had a
cow!”
“Why didn’t he park in the garage?” I asked. Mr. McCall always parks the Jeep
in their two-car garage.
Moose shrugged. “Mom’s been cleaning out the basement and attic for a yard
sale. She stuck about a million boxes of junk in the garage. So Dad had to park
in the driveway last night.”
Moose patted the roof of the Jeep. “The paint is still sticky. Touch it.”
I touched it. Sticky.
“My dad is steaming!” Moose declared. “At first he thought
pleaded. “Please. Please. Please!” And then I added, “I’ll never ask you for
anything else again.”
I guess that’s what convinced him.
“Okay,” he said, sighing wearily. “But if this is another joke…”
My father stepped over to the living room window and peered out into the
swirling fog.
“Please let the gnomes still be gone!” I prayed silently. “Please let
Dad see that I’m telling the truth. Please…”
17
“Joe, you’re right!” my father declared. “The gnomes aren’t out
there.”
He believed me! Finally! I jumped up and shot a fist into the air. “Yes!” I
cheered.
Dad wiped at the moist glass pane with his pajama sleeve and squinted out
the window again.
“See, Dad! See!” I cried happily. “I was telling the truth. I wasn’t joking.”
“Hmmm. Deer-lilah’s not there, either,” he said softly.
“What?” I gasped, feeling my stomach churn. “No. The deer is there! I saw
it!”
“Hold on a minute,” Dad murmured. “Ahhh. There she is. She was hidden in the
fog. And the gnomes! There they are! They’re right there, too. They were hidden
in the fog. See?”
I stared out the window. Two pointy hats broke through the mist. The two
gnomes stood dark and still, in their places beside the deer.
“Noooooo!” I moaned. “I know they weren’t there. I’m not playing tricks, Dad.
I’m not!”
“Fog can do funny things,” Dad said. “One time I was driving through a real
pea soup of a fog. I spotted something strange through the windshield. It was
shiny and round and it sort of hovered in the air. Oh, boy, I thought. A UFO! A flying saucer! I couldn’t believe it!”
Dad patted me on the back. “Well, my UFO turned out to be a silver balloon
tied to a parking meter. Now, Joe. Back to this gnome problem.” Dad’s face
turned stern. “I don’t want to hear any more crazy stories. They’re only lawn
ornaments. Nothing more. Okay? Not another word. Promise?”
What choice did I have? “Promise,” I muttered.
Then I dragged myself up the stairs to bed.
What a horrible day—and night. My father thinks I’m a liar. Our tomatoes
are ruined. And Moose isn’t allowed to hang out with me anymore.
What else could possibly go wrong?
I woke up the following morning with a heavy feeling in my stomach. As if I
had swallowed a bowl of cement.
All I could think about were the gnomes.
Those horrible gnomes. They were destroying my summer. They were destroying
my life!
Forget about them, Joe, I told myself. Just forget about them.
Anyway, today had to be better than yesterday. It sure couldn’t be worse.
I peered out my bedroom window. All traces of the fog had been burned away by
a bright yellow sun. Buster slept peacefully in the grass, his long white rope
snaking through the garden.
I glanced over at the McCalls’ house. Maybe Moose is outside helping his dad
in the garden, I thought.
I leaned farther out the window to get a better look.
“Oh, noooo!” I moaned. “No!”
18
Globs of white paint splattered over Mr. McCall’s red Jeep!
The roof. The hood. The windows. The whole Jeep covered in paint.
This meant major trouble, I knew.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and yesterday’s T-shirt and hurried outside. I
found Moose in his driveway, his jaw clenched, shaking his head as he circled
the Jeep.
“Unbelievable, huh?” he said, turning to me. “When my dad saw this, he had a
cow!”
“Why didn’t he park in the garage?” I asked. Mr. McCall always parks the Jeep
in their two-car garage.
Moose shrugged. “Mom’s been cleaning out the basement and attic for a yard
sale. She stuck about a million boxes of junk in the garage. So Dad had to park
in the driveway last night.”
Moose patted the roof of the Jeep. “The paint is still sticky. Touch it.”
I touched it. Sticky.
“My dad is steaming!” Moose declared. “At first he thought
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