Trouble with a Tiny t Read online

  For my mother, Janet,

  who always knew I would write a book.

  – MSS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  SUNDAY

  STILL SUNDAY

  STILL SUNDAY—ABOUT TO GET IN THE CAR

  SUNDAY—BACK AT MOM'S

  MONDAY MORNING

  MONDAY—AT SCHOOL

  MONDAY—AT RECESS

  MONDAY—AT LUNCH

  MONDAY—AFTER SCHOOL

  MONDAY NIGHT

  TUESDAY—AT SCHOOL

  TUESDAY—AFTER SCHOOL

  TUESDAY—LATER

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  WEDNESDAY—AT SCHOOL

  WEDNESDAY—AFTER SCHOOL

  WEDNESDAY—LATER

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT

  THURSDAY MORNING

  THURSDAY—AT SCHOOL

  THURSDAY—AT THE MUSEUM

  THURSDAY—STILL AT THE MUSEUM

  THURSDAY—ON THE BUS

  THURSDAY, STILL ON THE BUS—SPEECHLESS FOR ONCE

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  FRIDAY

  FRIDAY—FIRST RECESS

  FRIDAY—AT LUNCH

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  SATURDAY MORNING

  SATURDAY—LATER

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  SATURDAY—BACK AT MOM'S HOUSE

  SUNDAY MORNING

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Back Cover

  Cover

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Acknowledgements

  cover

  1

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  99

  100

  101

  102

  103

  104

  105

  106

  107

  108

  109

  110

  111

  112

  113

  114

  115

  116

  117

  118

  119

  120

  121

  122

  123

  124

  125

  126

  127

  128

  129

  130

  131

  132

  133

  134

  135

  136

  137

  138

  139

  140

  141

  142

  143

  144

  145

  146

  147

  148

  149

  150

  151

  152

  153

  154

  155

  156

  157

  158

  159

  160

  161

  162

  163

  164

  165

  166

  167

  168

  169

  170

  171

  172

  173

  174

  175

  176

  177

  178

  179

  180

  181

  182

  183

  184

  185

  186

  187

  188

  189

  190

  191

  192

  193

  194

  195

  196

  197

  198

  199

  200

  201

  202

  203

  204

  205

  206

  207

  208

  209

  210

  211

  212

  213

  214

  215

  216

  217

  218

  219

  220

  221

  222

  223

  224

  225

  226

  227

  228

  229

  230

  231

  232

  233

  234

  235

  236

  237

  238

  239

  240

  241

  242

  243

  244

  245

  246

  247


  248

  249

  250

  251

  252

  253

  254

  255

  256

  257

  258

  259

  260

  261

  262

  263

  264

  265

  266

  267

  268

  269

  270

  271

  272

  273

  274

  275

  276

  277

  278

  279

  280

  281

  282

  283

  284

  285

  286

  287

  288

  289

  290

  291

  292

  293

  294

  295

  296

  297

  298

  299

  300

  301

  302

  303

  304

  305

  306

  307

  308

  309

  310

  313

  314

  315

  316

  2

  back cover

  SUNDAY

  One false move, and I’m dead.

  Well, not dead dead. But if Pops hears me down in the basement, he’ll blow like a volcano—angry, spewing lava everywhere. But, given what’s down here, it’s worth the risk.

  I place my foot on the stair, careful to avoid the spot in the middle where it squeaks. I spend enough time visiting Gram and Pops to know the trouble spots. Silence. I take the next stair. And the next.

  Crrkkk.

  I freeze, listening for sounds from the living room above. There’s nothing but Gram fiddling in the kitchen, Pops snoring like a lawnmower, and the dull hum of the football game Dad’s watching.

  I take another step in the dark. A single light hangs from the center of the room, and I hold my breath until I find the string. The bulb clicks on, dull and yellow, casting eerie shadows across the endless pile of boxes—stuff that belonged to Uncle Marty… before he disappeared three months ago.

  I twist my ear up again for sounds that Pops might be heading to the top of the stairs to holler, “Dagnabbit, Westin Hopper! Stay out of Marty’s things!”

  But so far, so good.

  Uncle Marty was an explorer and adventurer, always traveling to distant lands, slinking through hidden pyramid passageways, looking for buried treasure. All that treasure is here now, stashed in boxes. There could be a pharaoh’s chalice. Or rubies and sapphires. Or maybe that mummified alien hand he told me he found during a dig in Albania. For real.

  I seriously want to find that. The guys—Josh, Alex, and Frankie—would go crazy if I found an alien hand. Maybe Snake would stop being so mad at me for the basketball incident. I asked them to hang out today and help me look, but they had stuff to do. Snake didn’t believe me about the hand, so now I have to find it for sure.

  I step toward the boxes stacked in one corner, across from shelves filled with Gram’s Christmas decorations and Pops’s old records. It smells weird down here, like stale barf and old cardboard. Josh and I used to play in the basement when we were little, before Pops got all cranky. We’d always pretend it was a cave because even with the light on, it’s still super dark.

  I tap my thighs, spying around. Where would I stash an alien hand? Somewhere no one would suspect.

  Next to the boxes is a giant taiko drum, which would be so awesome to bang on but would totally give away that I’m down here, so I don’t. On a table next to the drum is an old green army box that says grenades across the side. Even I know better than to touch that. On top of that is another small, wooden box with a combination lock—the perfect size for a mummified hand.

  I try to lift the lid—yay, not locked!—but inside is just a little key and some rolled-up papers. I glance down at the key, thinking. If I had an alien hand, I would definitely lock it up. I just need to find the lock this key belongs to.

  I lift the key out of the box, and my other hand accidentally bumps the numbers on the combination lock. The lid slams shut. Good thing I don’t need to get in there again.

  I look around for things with keyholes. Over there! On the floor by some paintings is a small, blue, hard-sided case. Even in the dim light, I can see it has a lock. Score!

  I slide over to it and kneel down on the cold cement floor, pulling the case toward me. I click the metal tabs. Locked.

  I poke the key into the hole and—aha!—it is totally my lucky day, because the key fits.

  I quickly click open the tabs and lift the lid. Turns out it’s totally not my lucky day because the case is filled with boring clothes. No hand. No amazing, awesome thing that’s going to change my life. Darn it.

  On top of the clothes is a red velvet drawstring pouch with gold stitching. The pouch must be seriously old because one, it smells like stinky socks. And two, it’s patchy and worn in spots—like something Gram might have put makeup in a hundred years ago.

  I pick up the pouch to inspect. There’s something stiff in it—a card, all yellow and worn around the edges. The print is faded but I can make out the words:

  MADAME ZAQAR’S SHOPPE OF OCCULT CURIOSITIES AND ENCHANGED ARTCLES

  GRIMOIRES. TALISMANS. AMULETS. WANTDS. CRYSTAL BALLS.

  Okay! The first sign of something cool! On the back of the card, in creepy handwriting, it reads:

  Beware: The purchased customized enchantment herein, conjured by the eye, is to be activated by one conjurer and passed down by blood. Purchaser hereby agrees to all terms of use (see indoctrination manual) and to do no harm.

  — Martin Q. Hopper

  Purchased enchantment? Like, Uncle Marty bought something magical that apparently has a manual and terms of agreement and everything?

  Now we’re talking.

  I dig through the rest of the case, pulling out all the clothes in search of something that looks like a grimoire, talisman, or amulet… except that I have no idea what the heck a grimoire, talisman, or amulet is. But all I find are shirts.

  I sweep my gaze around the boxes of Uncle Marty’s things, and my eyes fix on the creepy swamp painting that used to hang over the sofa in his fancy townhouse—the one with a bug-eyed crocodile staring hungrily at a purple turtle onshore. The painting, not the townhouse, obviously.

  I have so many questions. What the heck is a grimoire? What does indoctrination mean? Where is Madam Zaqar’s shop? Why would Uncle Marty hang such an ugly painting? Do crocodiles even eat turtles? Can anything eat a turtle? Probably not. Too hard.

  I sneeze from a dust bunny and drop the pouch back into the now-empty case. I have to stop daydreaming about turtles and find this enchanted thing Uncle Marty bought before Pops wakes up and realizes I’m down here.

  I start to put the clothes back in the case and—yikes! I jump back. Something is creeping around the open case in front of me. It looks like a massive spider. What the—? Not a spider!

  No way. This isn’t even remotely, conceivably possible.

  Not in the least, little tiny bit.

  Waddling along the inside edge of the case is a purple turtle. Like the exact same one from the painting. A teensy version, the size of a gumdrop.

  I lower my shaking hand toward it to see if it’s real or if I’m crazy, but then I freeze—the red pouch is wiggling. There’s a lump inside, and it’s alive.r />
  From the pouch’s opening comes a snout, then two bug eyes, then claws! No way! It’s a mini crocodile. Like the one from the painting!

  The crocodile spies the turtle and—uh-oh, I think I’m about to find out if crocodiles do eat turtles.

  “No, don’t!”

  Snap! Quicker than the flick of a rubber band, the crocodile clamps down and gobbles the poor turtle up like a snack. Then the crocodile looks up at me with his bug eyes, blinks, and slowly waddles back into the pouch like nothing happened.

  My mouth hangs open wide enough to drive a truck through. No, no, no way. I did not just see that. The things in Uncle Marty’s ugly painting… came out of this little pouch. They came alive and crawled… Out. Of. A. Pouch.

  My heart thumps like a dribbling basketball as I stare down at the pouch—now completely flat—in the case.

  I hold my breath, waiting to see if the croc comes out again. Or another turtle. Something. Anything. But there’s no croc. No turtle. No nothing. Just the plain, red pouch—flat and empty—sitting there.

  That did not just happen.

  No way, no how.

  But… what if it did?

  What if this pouch is the enchanted thing from the card?

  Holy gobbled turtle.

  Who needs a boring alien hand to show the guys?

  I found MAGIC.

  STILL SUNDAY

  I kind of want to stay down here and see if anything else crawls out of the pouch, but I’m pushing my luck as it is. Pops could wake up any second.

  I shut the case with the pouch inside, leaving the clothes on the floor in a pile. If I can get more things to come out of this pouch, I’ll need this suitcase to trap them. No one needs a tiny, chomping crocodile roaming around freely.

  Arms clasped tightly around the case like it’s a lifeboat, I slink up from the basement and into the kitchen. I peer down the hall toward the living room, checking to see if the coast is clear. Dad’s still watching the game, and Pops is still making snore-y warthog noises. I need to find Gram.

  “Westin, what have you got there?” Gram scares the pants off me from inside the pantry. She goes to open the oven door and pulls out a sheet of cookies. A blast of hot air hits me, which only makes me sweat more.

  I grip the case tightly. “Just… this? It was downstairs.”

  Gram slides the cookies onto a rack with her spatula and looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Is that Marty’s?”

  I nod.

  “What’s inside?” She runs cold water over the empty cookie sheet.

  I could lie. And I do think about it for a millisecond. But I can’t lie to Gram. She’s the nicest person in my whole world.

  “It’s empty,” I tell her. “Except for a little red pouch that’s also empty. But I’m pretty sure it’s magic.”

  Then I wait, holding my breath.

  “Magic, huh?” Gram asks.

  I nod. “Can I keep it?” Pleeeeeease, I add silently.

  Gram shrugs. “I’ll tell you what. You sketch something for my fridge, and we’ll trade. Marty’s magic pouch for the drawing. And when he returns, you bring it back. Deal?”