Ho-Ho-NOOO! (13 page)

“Grab her hand!” the boy yelled. “Climb onto my shoulders and grab her hand!”

The water grew deeper and swifter by the second. Any moment the current would become too powerful for the kid to hang on. Any second, he and Number Thuree would be swept away, down and under the street.

“Do it!” Number One shouted as water flooded around her, splashing into her face, even into her mouth. “Hurry!”

Finally, very carefully so she would not slip, Number Thuree began climbing up the boy’s chest.

“That’s it!” Number One shouted. “Keep climbing!”

“You can do it!” the boy yelled over the roaring water. But even as he shouted, his grip was weakening.

“You’re almost here!” Number One yelled.

As Number Thuree climbed, the boy adjusted his weight, trying to brace himself. But it was a losing battle. His fingers started to slip. And then, just before they gave way, Number One took a deep breath and stuck her face into the muddy torrent. It took forever, but at last she came up gasping and choking. And in her arms was her baby sister.

Everyone broke into cheers and clapped as they moved in to help. Everyone but the boy.

He was nowhere to be found.

“Where is he?” the old woman shouted as she approached the drain.

More people arrived. Some knelt. Others dropped onto their hands and knees, peering into the opening. But gradually, one by one, they raised their heads and slowly shook them.

The boy was gone.

A heavy silence fell over the crowd. Everyone became very, very quiet . . . except for Hesper Breakahart. She was too busy fixing her hair and checking for broken nails to have noticed what happened.

“Come on, everybody,” she called as she approached the tables. “Dig in.”

TJ couldn’t believe her ears.

Neither could anyone else as they slowly turned and stared at the TV star.

But Hesper was completely oblivious. “They’re really, really yummy,” she said as she cranked up her smile to ultrafake.

No one smiled back.

Then, from somewhere in the back of the group, TJ heard a shout.

“There he is! There’s the boy!”

The crowd craned their necks. And there, climbing out of a drain a block away, was the skin-and-bones kid. He’d been washed underground for the entire block but somehow managed to grab the edge of the next drain and pull himself up.

Once again, cheers rose from the group and several raced down the street to greet him. He was jostled a bit as they raised him onto their shoulders, his hair dripping, his body covered in mud and goop.

Unfortunately, Hesper Breakahart was still too focused on . . . well, on Hesper Breakahart. “No need to thank me,” she shouted over the cheers. “These yummy caviar puffs were the least I could do . . . and the most expensive. So just enjoy them and—”

“Mmwickk!” Hesper screamed as she reached up to wipe the gooey mess from her face . . . and to spit out a mouthful of fish eggs. “Look what you’ve done to my (
spit-spit
) makeup and to my expensively styled—”

“MMWICKK!” she screamed louder as she rewiped and respit. But the food fight had resumed.

And this time there was no stopping it. Because this time, everyone had found a common

enemy. Within seconds Hesper looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy, covered from head to foot in gooey dough . . . with the beauty bonus of a billion smelly fish eggs.

TJ tried not to laugh (though not very hard) as she hustled the three children toward the taxi. She had to hurry and get home.

As they were climbing inside, her cell phone rang her favorite love theme. She pulled the phone from her pocket and answered, “Hello?”

“How’s it going?” Chad asked.

“Not bad,” she said, ducking a few

stray caviar puffs.

“Great,” Chad said. “Listen, we’ve got way more food here at the church than we know what to do with. Any chance of sending some of your people our way?”

TJ looked over the crowd. “Sure, I think we can send a few—

mweople.”

(Sometimes love slows down your ducking reflexes.)

“Terrific,” Chad said. “Thanks!”

After hanging up and wiping her face, TJ turned to the group and gave them the news. From the clapping and excitement, she guessed they were in the mood for some real food. And despite Hesper’s protests, they started for the church. As they left, TJ began to join the kids in the taxi. There was no time to waste. She had to get home. She had to give Dad the $125. It wasn’t much, but $125 was better than—

“Hey, you! Girlie!”

All four of the taxi drivers she’d hired were standing in a line beside the cab.

“Where’s our money?” the first demanded.

“Oh,” TJ sighed. “Right. Sorry.” She dug into her pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

“Let’s see; the four of us at 25 bucks apiece—that comes to $100.”

TJ’s heart sank. Amazing. Unbelievable. After working herself to death all week, all she had left was a measly $25.

“And 20 bucks for tips.”

Make that a measly $5. Not even enough for a taxi ride home.

By the time TJ and the three children had trudged to her house on foot, nearly another hour had passed. But for some strange reason, nobody was home.

Well, nobody from
her
century.

She’d barely stepped through the front door before she saw the boys. They sat working in front of a giant pile of broken electronics at the foot of the stairs. Broken electronics that were mixed in with what was left of one very destroyed Christmas tree.

“Tuna? Herby?” she cried. “What happened?”

Tuna looked up. He was covered with tape from head to toe. Come to think of it, so was Herby. Glancing across the pile of electronic gizmos and tree branches, he said, “Apparently, one of us forgot to disengage the force field at the top of the stairs.”

“It wasn’t me, dude,” Herby said as he tried taping one of the broken pieces to another.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t me,” Tuna said as he tried jamming his own two pieces together.

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

“Well, it wasn’t—”

“So what happened?” TJ interrupted.

Herby answered, “The delivery dudes were kinda carrying your dad’s TV up to his room when they kinda ran into the force field and dropped it, and it kinda bounced down the steps and crashed into your Christmas tree and kinda turned into . . .” He motioned to the pile of broken branches and electronics.

“That’s the TV set Violet bought?” TJ asked in astonishment.

“Was,”
Tuna corrected.

Herby let out a whoop as he successfully taped his pieces together . . . well, successfully except for also having his fingers taped to them.

Meanwhile, Number Too and his sisters had crowded into the room. “Hey!” the boy demanded.

“Where are those voices—?”

Without bothering to look, Herby struggled to reach into his pocket, pulled out the Swiss Army Knife, and

froze the children in time.

(Well, not really
froze
, more like slowed them down in an it-will-take-forever-for-the-kid-to-finish-his-sentence kind of way).