The Knick Knack Nightmare Read online

  “But Mom, I’m fifteen. I can—”

  “This isn’t the time for you to play hero.”

  Mom left me at the tree and tiptoed across the faded, white stripes of the crosswalk. My heart raced, froze, and pounded a drum solo. Several gusts of wind ruffled the bottom of her white dress and twirled hair across her face and into her eyes. She didn’t seem to notice, never blinking as she moved closer and closer to the open door. Mom peered inside the house and, without making a sound, stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the darkness.

  I scanned the door and windows, looking for any sign of movement and listening for Mom’s signal. I picked up a small rock nestled between the oak tree’s roots. My hands trembled and my mind raced. How long has she been gone? Has it been minutes or hours? My bedroom curtains swayed, and the window slid open.

  Mom stuck her head out the window and waived. “It’s safe to come in.”

  I squeezed the rock and ran straight into the house. “Mom? Where are you?”

  “I’m up here.” Mom walked down the stairs carrying a broom and dustpan. “Whoever broke into the house is gone now, but they smashed most of my crystal poodles and all my mini teacups.”

  I tossed the rock out the front door. “They broke your knick-knacks?”

  “I’ll call the police. I’ll also leave a message for Martin. His flight won’t arrive in Tokyo for another ten hours, but I’m sure he’ll want to know.” She rubbed her forehead.

  “Sorry.”

  Mom circled the living room, strumming her fingertips together. “I wonder what they were after? There’s still fifty dollars and an opal ring on my dresser upstairs, and nothing’s missing down here. Just some broken knick-knacks and these curio cabinets. What sort of weirdo breaks into a house, smashes a handful of poodles and teacups, and runs away without fifty dollars cash and a five-hundred dollar ring?”

  “An alcoholic cat burglar?” I chuckled.

  “Why don’t you stop laughing and check your bedroom? Your door was open, too.”

  I would’ve beaten a cheetah in a race to my room. Large mounds of clothes piled two feet high in the corners. Three dresser drawers were open. Shirts and underwear spilled out over the edges. Toys, movies, game CDs, half-finished puzzles, and books covered the rest of the floor.

  I was about to tell Mom everything looked normal when I spotted my old, leather trunk. The thief busted the brass lock, smashing it across the key hole, tearing the screws out of the surrounding pine. The old leather ripped in several spots leaving bent brass rivets sticking up like mushrooms on the bare wood. I held my breath and flung open the lid. Gone! It’s gone! My magic coin had been stolen. Everything Arvin and I had gone through - teleporting to those worlds, meeting those people, beating that shape-shifting brat, Levi, and keeping everything a secret from Emilia. It was all for nothing. No more adventures. Finished. Game over. My heart broke worse than the lock.

  I hope the rotten thief teleports himself into a deep, dark cave full of blood-sucking vampire bats. “They broke my trunk and stole my magi-”

  “They stole your maj? What’s a maj?”

  “I mean they broke my trunk. I can’t find Dad’s coin, either. I think they took it.”

  “What about your other gewgaws?”

  “They’re here on the floor.” I tossed several old bottle caps, feathers, a bleached toy car, and everything else back into the broken trunk.

  “Come down. The police are here to take a report.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” Forget the police. What am I going to tell Arvin?

  Mom pulled me close as I entered the living room. “Sorry, Sweetie. But I don’t think the insurance company will pay for an old coin.”

  The plump detective stood next to Mom. He wore a gray suit and a grease-stained, button-front shirt at least two sizes too small for him. His red tie twisted backwards, revealing the label: Smith’s Budget Ties. His white undershirt showed through the oval gaps between buttons as his shirt stretched to cover a decade of squad car donuts and police paperwork.

  “What type of coin was it? Was it rare or valuable?” the detective asked.

  “You could say that. Rare, but not valuable. I don’t think it was.”

  Another officer, a slim man dressed in a spotless, pressed blue uniform, wrote something on a small notebook with a stubby yellow pencil. He had short black hair and wore a gun holstered to a wide belt around his waist. The radio at his lapel beeped every couple seconds. On his shirt pocket, a name tag read Officer Matt Larkin. He oohed and awed, acting as if he cared for our safety - though disinterested in any actual details.

  “Did you get that?” the detective asked Officer Larkin.

  “Got it. Red Sox card. Value unknown. I’m sorry, kid. My dad used to collect baseball cards, too.”

  I crossed my arms. “Not a Red Sox card. A rare coin.”

  “What did it look like, son?” the detective asked.

  I’m not your son. “It was a little bigger than a nickel, but smaller than a quarter. It had two holes in the center and a thin gold band around the edge.”

  Officer Larkin peered at me over his notepad as he wrote, holding it so close to his face, I wasn’t sure if he was writing our answers or drawing stick-figures of mom and me. I suspected both. “Has anyone new been in the house recently?”

  I looked at Mom. “Martin Wexler.”

  “Perry!” Mom squeezed my arm.

  “Maarrtiin Waaaxxxmenn,” Officer Larkin repeated, either writing the wrong name or drawing a smiley face. I couldn’t tell.

  I sneered at the police officer. “Wexler. Not Waxman.”

  “Who’s Martin Wexler?” the detective asked.

  “Martin’s my fiancé. He couldn’t have done it. He caught an early flight to Tokyo this morning.”

  “I see. Well, we’ll do the best we can, Ms. Dobbs.”

  The two men checked our house a second time and returned with a slip of yellow paper. Officer Larkin wrote our case number across the top.

  The detective gave Mom a business card - Det. Jim Masters - and his best, unsatisfying advice. “We didn’t find fingerprints or other clues in the house. Whoever did it left no traces behind. I’m sorry to say, with the entire police department on strike, it’s Officer Larkin and myself to oversee this half of the city. There’s little to no chance we’ll find your son’s missing coin. Call a locksmith and get on with your life.” He walked to the door, leaving behind the smell of fried chicken and cigarettes. “Best luck to you both. And please ask this Martin Wexler person to call us when he gets back.”

  Mom shut the door behind them and sauntered to an overturned display cabinet in the corner. “I’m sorry about your coin. But that’s no reason to take your anger out on Martin.”

  “I only answered the detective’s questions. Aren’t I supposed to?”

  Mom shook her head and made a disapproving tsk-tsk-tsk sound behind clenched teeth. “You’re upset about losing your Dad’s coin, so I’ll let it slide one last time.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Mom knelt and reached inside the cabinet. She removed a little bronze knight and handed it to me. “How about this one?”

  “What’s this for?”

  “Keep it. Add it to your collection. I know it’s not your gewgaw, but I’ll let you have it until the police find your coin.”

  I held the little figurine up to my eye. The knight stood about three inches tall, covered in intricate bronze armor. One hand rested on its waist and the other gripped a long, silver sword. It reminded me of an old Dragon Sorcerer game piece I used to have. This one didn’t look familiar, but Mom had so many knick-knacks all over the house, I wasn’t sure I had seen them all.

  “When did Dad give you a bronze knight? I thought he only gave you those.” I pointed at two silver knights lying beside a piece of broken glass.

  “Honestly, your father gave me so many. I could have forgotten about a few.”

  I put the little knight deep
into my pants pocket, making sure not to poke myself with the pointy sword.

  “Now, let’s see about that lock.” Mom went down the stairs into the basement.

  When things around the house needed repairing, it wasn’t odd to see Mom fiddling around in the attic, pulling wires out of walls, replacing blown fuses, and cutting panes of glass for a certain bedroom window someone broke throwing a baseball in the house with Arvin. Today was no exception. Mom returned from the basement with a spare lock set and got on her knees to install it. Within a minute, she had finished - didn’t even chip a fingernail.

  Mom swept the pile of broken knick-knacks into the dustpan and grabbed her purse off the couch. “Well, that’s that. Let’s meet the Pewter’s at Garden Glen. I’m sure they’re still looking for school clothes.” She replaced our house keys with the new ones and tossed the old lock set into the recycling bin at the curb. “Wait until Patricia hears about this.”

  “Arvin, too.”

  TWO

  Garden Glen Mall proclaimed itself the newest and greatest ‘24/7 Retail and Entertainment Experience’ in Shelbyville. Planners built it on an old Air Force base, abandoned before Mom’s time. One hangar became the Shelbyville Science Museum, and eight smaller buildings became various offices, reception halls, and equipment lockers. They connected two large hangars and converted them into shops and put a massive food court on the bottom floor. The top floor became Ball Sea - five million rainbow plastic balls under a glass roof. The largest ball pit on Earth.

  When Garden Glen opened New Year’s day, classical music played throughout. Silver chandeliers gleamed over white marble floors, and searchlights lit up the night sky. Famous authors came to bookstores to sign their latest bestsellers. Stores sold coats and shoes costing more than a car, and two hundred boutiques had something for everyone - from power suits for CEOs to knitting needles for old ladies. Mom loved to buy knick-knacks at Terry’s Trinkets and tried, frequently, to buy the store’s window display - a five-foot Russian nesting doll - from Terry himself.

  Garden Glen’s more popular nickname ‘Ghost Glen’ kept customers away. Old Man Thompson told me stories about widows of dead soldiers roaming the halls at night and of failed military experiments locked away in secret bunkers, waiting to escape. Nothing could convince me to go there after dark - not movie marathons, all night laser shows, or any other gimmick.

  By Memorial Day, half the shops had closed. Pop music replaced piano concertos, ‘Please, Come Again’ replaced ‘No Loitering’, corn dogs for salads, smoothies for cappuccinos, and both bookstores closed. One became a hunting goods store and the other a discount mart. Pimple-faced tweens and their parents meandered through ritzy halls in ripped shorts and faded shirts, flip-flops slapping against the marble floors. They swam the backstroke in Ball Sea, slurped on slushies until their cups ran dry, and fed quarters into arcade games. But they seldom bought anything else.

  If it weren’t for Adaptive Stature, the mall would have died. It was Minnesota’s only mega store for little people. Every dwarf within a thousand miles shopped there for everything from clothes to furniture sets. For anyone taller than four foot ten inches, walking into Adaptive Structure was walking into another world - a little world of bi-monthly buy-one-get-one sales on pants and shirts. Arvin was trying on a red polo when we arrived.

  “Hey,” Arvin turned around twice to show off his new shirt, “what do you think?”

  “At least there aren’t sequins or cartoon trains on this one.”

  “That was a whole year ago, and besides, I want to try something different. Do you think Kaila will like it?”

  “I’m sure she’ll love it.” I pulled Arvin off to the side, leaving Mom to talk with Ms. Pewter. “I need to tell you something.”

  “I already know.”

  “How could you? It happened this morning.”

  “Sarah told me at the party.”

  “How did she find out? I only saw it when I got home.”

  “She told me…” Arvin’s eyebrows furled. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the burglary. What are you talking about?”

  “What burglary?”

  “Somebody broke into my house while we were at your party. They smashed a ton of Mom’s knick-knacks and got into my trunk.” I softened my voice to a whisper. “They stole my coin. Nothing else. Not Mom’s jewelry or the TV or money.”

  “Why would anyone want to steal an old coin? Do you think they know it’s magic?”

  “The detective said it could’ve been a trophy, but Mom thinks it was just a random weirdo out to break things.”

  “My bet’s on the weirdo. But I wouldn’t worry about your coin causing any problems for us. I’m sure the thief doesn’t have the slightest idea what he took.” Arvin smiled. “Heck! I’d bet you a bajillion bucks the thief will turn himself into a snake or teleport into a volcano before he realizes.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Ms. Pewter walked up behind me and tapped my shoulder. “Isn’t it nice? I’m just not sure about the color.”

  “It’s okay.” I shrugged. “But white would look better on him. His hair’s red enough.”

  Mom thumbed through shirts on a nearby rack. “Everybody looks good in a polo. I bought Perry several, but it’s been a year since he’s worn one.”

  “Let’s keep looking.” Ms. Pewter headed for the exit. “We can always come back later.”

  “Perry, why don’t you get a pretzel with Arvin while Patricia helps me pick out a new curio cabinet.”

  Mom gave me ten dollars and change for snacks and left with Ms. Pewter.

  I followed Arvin to a flickering soda pop machine next to the bathrooms.

  “Anywhoo, what did Sarah tell you at the party?”

  Arvin fed coins into the machine. “It’s about Derek Dolan.”

  “What about Double D?”

  “Sarah Peters told me, Jenny Lewis told her, Amy Hibner heard it from Mary Potts who said she overheard Derek asking Emilia to the Harvest Dance.”

  I wanted to punch the soda machine’s stupid, flickering light. “What a jerk! He knows I like her.”

  “Well, you could’ve asked her first? And stop calling him Double D. He’s not a bra size.”

  I scowled. “You’re not helping. Anyway, school hasn’t started, and the dance is in November.”

  Arvin looked away.

  “Well? What’d she say?”

  “Sarah Peters told me, Jenny…” Mr. Popular’s grapevine took root in every corner of Shelbyville.

  “Arvin! Spit it out.”

  “Emilia said she’d go.”

  Arvin’s can of green melon soda tumbled through the machine and landed in the receiver with a dull THUD.

  “Chip Chip- Chipmunk,” a low, familiar voice called out. Sean ‘Satan’ Davis strutted out of the women’s restroom, dragging a long strip of toilet paper behind him. He wore his usual black on black on black outfit. He had dyed his hair and eyebrows to match his clothes the fuzz growing out of his cracked teeth. Sean was the typical school bully, ripping up homework, knocking books out of hands, and spreading rumors. Sean told everyone about the fire that killed Arvin’s dad. It was one of the reasons Arvin moved away for so long. He used to terrify us, but now he seemed more like a stupid lump of boy parts than the monster we knew and feared.

  “Not again,” Arvin moaned.

  “’Ey, Chipmunk. I’m talking to ‘ya, Poo-ter,” Sean taunted. “I heard you had a party. Did ‘ya finally get into the Lollipop Guild?”

  Arvin pursed his lips. “Those were Munchkins, not dwarfs.” He passed his soda can from hand to hand.

  “’Ya got something on ‘yer head, Chipmunk. Oh yeah, it’s ‘yer hair.”

  Arvin rolled his eyes. “Never gets old, does it?”

  “Why were you in the women’s restroom?” I asked Sean.

  He smiled and pointed to little round mirrors glued to the tip of his shoes.

  “Whi
le they’re pooping and peeing? Gross.”

  “Holy buckets!” Arvin shook his soda. “I didn’t know you were a bully and a weirdo.”

  “I’m gonna stomp ‘ya for that, Chipmunk.” Sean balled his hands into fists and punched them together.

  Arvin gasped and pointed to Sean’s shoes. “What’s that?”

  Sean looked at his own reflection. Arvin pulled the tab on his soda pop.

  PSSSSH

  A sticky green geyser sprayed into Sean’s eyes and up his nose. It bubbled bubbled out of his nostrils and dripped down his chin.

  “Yer dead, Chipmunk!” Sean looked around, but Arvin was already a hundred feet down the hall, running for the elevator - and his life.

  I ran. Sean chased, trailing green soda on the white marble floor. He was about to catch us when the elevator doors closed. Sean slipped on his wet shoelaces and slammed face-first into the door, spraying drops of green goodness all over the glass.

  Arvin waved as the elevator descended. “Hey, Satan. You have something on your face.”

  Sean pressed his face to the class and slid his finger across his throat.

  I looked at Arvin. “Do you have a death wish or something?”

  “Of course not. But I’m not going to run away to Dublin again.”

  “In the meantime, could you try not to get me killed? I don’t have an Irish grandmother.”

  Sean hustled down the adjacent stairs as fast as his thunder thighs could carry him, shoving people out of his way. The elevator stopped on the next floor, and two old ladies in matching pink cardigans got on. One looked oddly familiar.

  “Looks like fine marble, Helen,” one said, admiring her reflection in the elevator floor.

  Helen nodded. “Very nice. But they should clean these windows.”

  “Come on.” I tapped the elevator’s CLOSE button a dozen times. The doors shut, and the elevator descended. “Two more floors.”

  Helen glared at us. “Don’t be in such a rush, boys. Enjoy the ride.”

  Sean rounded the corner on the last flight of stairs as a large, muscular man in a skin-tight purple shirt turned around and gripped both rails. He stopped Sean on the last step. “What’s the rush, Green Goblin?”