postcards instead of the information I need. This is a cruel thing to do to a kid—especially an impatient one like me!
It’s time to call him. Who knows whether a recipe from an ancient book written in Spanish is going to work or not? STUFFS SWEET might be a
poción fantástico,
or it might be a crock! Tonight’s the night I need Uncle Arnie’s magic. For good or bad, I know his magic works.
I push the button to start my computer. I told myself I wouldn’t, but I really need to know.
“Thirty seconds and the car is leaving!” Dad yells. “I mean it.”
My computer screen comes on. But thirty seconds isn’t enough time. No matter how much I want to, I can’t use Uncle Arnie’s potion tonight.
I put the tops on both bottles, leaving Uncle Arnie’s behind and putting the extra-special potion-filled eyedropper in the pocket of my jacket.
I did it. It was tough, but I showed willpower and focus and patience. I wish there were someone here to praise me. Unfortunately, it’s just Millie the Millipede, and he’s staying quiet.
I join Dad in the car—with almost five seconds to spare. “This is an exciting night, huh?” he asks as we’re driving to school. I don’t really care to make conversation, because I’m focused on everything that could happen tonight. So I reply with a simple “Yeah.”
“You’re awfully quiet. What’s up?”
Of course, Dad doesn’t know anything unusual might be happening at the art show; I’m sure he doesn’t, but I immediately pull my hand out of my jacket pocket anyway, like the STUFFS SWEET has turned into lava. “Nothing!” I say. Luckily, he doesn’t ask again.
The school parking lot is busy, full of kids and parents walking toward the gym, which is not just a big empty room anymore. The Immersive Interactive Art Gallery is hopping! It was a project for the seventh graders to create the décor for the event, and they did a great job. It looks like a cross between a hip Hollywood club and an art gallery. There are “walls” made of curtains, creating separate “rooms” for different types of art. Some areas have bright lighting, others are dim; one has a red light, and one little space even has a disco ball making patterns all around. Electronica music fills the whole space.
I walk ahead of Dad to the DJ booth (really a folding table), where Larry is sitting with big headphones over his ears. He’s spinning old-fashioned records on an old-fashioned record player as he fiddles with music on his phone. His little carved monkey sits nearby, watching the action. Not wanting to disturb Larry’s concentration, I just wave, but he slides off one of the headphones. “Hey, Cleo!” he says. “Like my art?”
“Playing music is your art project?” I ask. He nods with a smile.
“Very cool!” says Dad. I cringe. The word
cool
coming from an adult has the exact opposite effect. Dad introduces himself to Larry (even less cool!) and says he remembers him from our
Healthyland
play.
“Yeah, I can’t believe a talent scout hasn’t snapped me up yet, after my brilliant portrayal of Old King Kale,” Larry says. Dad laughs way too loud, and I’m glad Larry has to change a record so I can drag Dad away to look for my storyboard.
I’m also looking for Ryder Landry’s head, or Madison’s—whichever comes first. But before I find either, I see a puff of yellow hair at the top of a stick-figure lady in high heels. It’s Mrs. Paddington, with a not-super-real smile plastered on her face, standing next to Madison’s father, who’s texting on his phone.
“Look around, Dad,” I say, running off toward Madison’s parents without saying goodbye. “I need to find Madison!” Normally, I don’t like to have conversations with the Paddingtons because they’re not very nice, but tonight I dive right in. “Hi! How are you doing?” I ask, not waiting for an answer. “Where’s Madison?”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but Henry Paddington is looking at me like
It’s time to call him. Who knows whether a recipe from an ancient book written in Spanish is going to work or not? STUFFS SWEET might be a
poción fantástico,
or it might be a crock! Tonight’s the night I need Uncle Arnie’s magic. For good or bad, I know his magic works.
I push the button to start my computer. I told myself I wouldn’t, but I really need to know.
“Thirty seconds and the car is leaving!” Dad yells. “I mean it.”
My computer screen comes on. But thirty seconds isn’t enough time. No matter how much I want to, I can’t use Uncle Arnie’s potion tonight.
I put the tops on both bottles, leaving Uncle Arnie’s behind and putting the extra-special potion-filled eyedropper in the pocket of my jacket.
I did it. It was tough, but I showed willpower and focus and patience. I wish there were someone here to praise me. Unfortunately, it’s just Millie the Millipede, and he’s staying quiet.
I join Dad in the car—with almost five seconds to spare. “This is an exciting night, huh?” he asks as we’re driving to school. I don’t really care to make conversation, because I’m focused on everything that could happen tonight. So I reply with a simple “Yeah.”
“You’re awfully quiet. What’s up?”
Of course, Dad doesn’t know anything unusual might be happening at the art show; I’m sure he doesn’t, but I immediately pull my hand out of my jacket pocket anyway, like the STUFFS SWEET has turned into lava. “Nothing!” I say. Luckily, he doesn’t ask again.
The school parking lot is busy, full of kids and parents walking toward the gym, which is not just a big empty room anymore. The Immersive Interactive Art Gallery is hopping! It was a project for the seventh graders to create the décor for the event, and they did a great job. It looks like a cross between a hip Hollywood club and an art gallery. There are “walls” made of curtains, creating separate “rooms” for different types of art. Some areas have bright lighting, others are dim; one has a red light, and one little space even has a disco ball making patterns all around. Electronica music fills the whole space.
I walk ahead of Dad to the DJ booth (really a folding table), where Larry is sitting with big headphones over his ears. He’s spinning old-fashioned records on an old-fashioned record player as he fiddles with music on his phone. His little carved monkey sits nearby, watching the action. Not wanting to disturb Larry’s concentration, I just wave, but he slides off one of the headphones. “Hey, Cleo!” he says. “Like my art?”
“Playing music is your art project?” I ask. He nods with a smile.
“Very cool!” says Dad. I cringe. The word
cool
coming from an adult has the exact opposite effect. Dad introduces himself to Larry (even less cool!) and says he remembers him from our
Healthyland
play.
“Yeah, I can’t believe a talent scout hasn’t snapped me up yet, after my brilliant portrayal of Old King Kale,” Larry says. Dad laughs way too loud, and I’m glad Larry has to change a record so I can drag Dad away to look for my storyboard.
I’m also looking for Ryder Landry’s head, or Madison’s—whichever comes first. But before I find either, I see a puff of yellow hair at the top of a stick-figure lady in high heels. It’s Mrs. Paddington, with a not-super-real smile plastered on her face, standing next to Madison’s father, who’s texting on his phone.
“Look around, Dad,” I say, running off toward Madison’s parents without saying goodbye. “I need to find Madison!” Normally, I don’t like to have conversations with the Paddingtons because they’re not very nice, but tonight I dive right in. “Hi! How are you doing?” I ask, not waiting for an answer. “Where’s Madison?”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but Henry Paddington is looking at me like
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