Fish Finelli (Book 2) Read online

  ONCE AGAIN FOR NIKO – E.S.F.

  Special thanks to Kelli C. for terrific editing; to Jared, the best marine mechanic ever; to Chelsea, Steve T., MW, and everyone at the East Hampton Library.

  FOR MOM-MAY THE WIND ALWAYS FILL YOUR SAILS. FOR STEPHANIE-YOU ARE MY ANCHOR AND MY LIGHTHOUSE. – J.B.

  Text copyright © 2014 by E. S. Farber.

  Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Jason Beene.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in

  any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978-1-4521-1083-7 (hc)

  ISBN 978-1-4521-3009-5 (epub, mobi)

  Design by Lauren Michelle Smith.

  Typeset in Century Schoolbook.

  The illustrations in this book were rendered digitally.

  The name Seagull is a registered trademark of John Freeman (Sales) Ltd.

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street, San Francisco, California 94107

  Chronicle Books — we see things differently. Become part of

  our community at www.chroniclekids.com.

  10,000 WAYS THAT WON’T WORK

  “On the count of three,” I said. “One . . . two . . .”

  “Two and a half,” said Roger, grinning so his brown eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “Two and three-quarters,” said T. J.

  “Three!” We picked up the Seagull motor and slid it into the drum of water.

  SWOOSH!

  Water spilled all over us and all over the driveway.

  “Guys, that is way too much water,” I said.

  “It wasn’t too much water before the motor went in,” said T. J.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s the Archimedes Principle. The volume of the motor will displace an amount of water equal to the—”

  “Sheesh, Fish,” said Roger. “We’ve done the bucket test six times already this afternoon. We could have been shooting hoops with Two O or paddleboarding, but no, we’re in your driveway—”

  “One more time. It’s going to work. I just know it,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back so Roger couldn’t see.

  After we emptied out some water, we lowered the Seagull motor into the drum until the propeller was submerged.

  The Seagull is an awesome motorboat engine. Roger, T. J., and I bought it with the money we got for finding Captain Kidd’s treasure. That’s right—we found Captain Kidd’s treasure. It’s a long story, but no, it wasn’t gold and jewels. It was a bunch of old papers, a busted-up silver teapot, and some long underwear. Weird, right? Who would have thought pirates wore long underwear?

  I pulled a basin wrench out of my tool belt and bolted the motor to the side of the drum.

  “How are you boys doing?” called Uncle Norman, sticking his head out the window. He was fixing the kitchen sink and keeping an eye on us while my mom and dad went grocery shopping.

  “Good!” I called back.

  “Good and wet!” Roger grinned.

  “Wet’s okay,” said Uncle Norman. “Just be careful.”

  “All set.” I handed Roger the manual as Uncle Norman disappeared back inside. Uncle Norman is the best uncle ever. He taught me most of what I know about motors, because he has a boat. He also gave me my nickname, Fish. My real name is Norman, after him. One day I was on his boat when a bluefish took a chomp out of his finger. I laughed and said, “Fish.” It was my first word, and it’s been my name ever since.

  Roger cleared his throat. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, or should I say, gentleman and gentleman, for the—”

  “Will you just read the instructions?” I said.

  “Chillax, Fish. Ah, where was I?” Roger stared blankly at the instructions.

  “Fuel tap?” said T. J. helpfully.

  “Open,” I said, pulling the fuel tap.

  “Choke?” said T. J., chewing on a mouthful of candy corn.

  “Closed,” I said.

  “Press the tickler on the carburetor,” T. J. said.

  I opened the carb until a little fuel spilled out.

  “Open the throttle to full,” added T. J. “Oh, and make sure the motor is in neutral.”

  “Wow!” Roger looked up from the manual. “How did you know that, T. J.?”

  T. J. shrugged. “Simple. It’s like making the Super Sundae Special at Toot Sweets. First goes the hot fudge, then the gummy worms, then the ice cream. Next is the strawberry syrup and marshmallows. Then whipped cream, Sno-Caps, and sprinkles go on top.”

  I shook my head. T. J. is like a piñata. You never know what’s going to come out of his mouth, the same way you never know what’s going to come out of a piñata.

  I wrapped the pull cord clockwise three times around the rope pull. “Ready, guys?” I said, steadying the tank with my left hand.

  “Wait!” Roger ran into the garage.

  RAT-TAT-TAT! RAT-TAT-TAT!

  “What Operation Fireball needs is a drumroll.” Roger banged a hammer against an old cookie tin with a reindeer on it.

  The Fireball is the name of our boat. It’s a whaler from the 1970s that the three of us have been fixing up. We’re going to enter it in the Captain Kidd Classic, the biggest boat race of the summer. We’re also planning to beat snooty Bryce Billings in the race, so Operation Fireball is our secret code name.

  Roger and T. J.’s eyes were on me as I turned the flywheel clockwise. I had done every little thing the manual said. This time I was positive I did it right. I took a deep breath and gave a sharp pull on the rope.

  Nothing.

  I pulled a little harder.

  Nothing.

  I wrapped the cord again. Then I pulled on the rope.

  Still nothing.

  “Tartar sauce!” I kicked a rock in frustration. It ricocheted off the oil drum and hit me. “Ow!” I rubbed my knee.

  “Another failure,” said Roger, beating a slow RAT-TAT-TAT.

  Roger was right. I had failed—again. All of a sudden, I remembered something Thomas Edison said before he invented the phonograph (the very first machine that could record sound and play it back).

  “I have not failed,” I said. “I’ve just found ten thousand ways that won’t work.”

  THOMAS EDISON (1847–1931)

  In 1877, inventor Thomas Edison was working on the telegraph when he noticed that the noise the paper tape made when played at high speed through the machine sounded like spoken words. Edison took a tinfoil cylinder and a needle and made the first phonograph that could record sound. The outside horn phonograph was produced from approximately 1898–1931. And you know the first words he ever recorded? “Mary had a little lamb!”

  Roger and T. J. both looked at me. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Fish!” Roger said. “You are not really thinking we are going to do the bucket test nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-three more times.”

  He and T. J. groaned.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I have a plan.” I didn’t quite yet, but I was sure I would think of something any minute.

  Suddenly, there was a piercing scream. AAAAHHHHH!!!

  CHAMPION TEETER-TOTTER OF BLAH-BU-DE-BLAH

  Roger, T. J., and I raced to my backyard. My little sister, Feenie, and Mmm, T. J.’s little sister, were staring at the bushes between my house and Roger’s house. They both wore sparkly fairy wings, as usual. There was a baby carriage turned over on the grass, along with a baby blanket and a bottle.

  “What’s up, ladies?” asked Roger.

  “It’s Tatiana!” said Mmm.

  “She jumped out of the carriage. We were saving her from—oops!” Feenie clapped her hand over her mouth
.

  “Saving her from what, Fee?” I asked. Feenie had the same guilty look on her face she got whenever she pretended some teeny piece of brownie was so my equal half.

  “Nothing,” said Feenie, shaking her head so her pigtails bobbed up and down.

  “Tatiana ran away,” said Mmm.

  “What?!” T. J. said, his face so white that all of his freckles stood out.

  Roger and I looked at each other in surprise. T. J. never got upset, not even the time he got the mini G. I. Joe rifle stuck up his nose and had to go to the emergency room to have it taken out.

  “Margaret Mary Mahoney,” he said, using Mmm’s real, full name, which no one ever called her. “What did you do with Champion Tatiana of Britney Belle?”

  Mmm just glared at T. J., her blue eyes narrowed into angry slits.

  “Oh, boy. Mom is going to be so mad.” He popped an entire handful of candy corn in his mouth and started crunching like crazy.

  Mmm started crying. “Don’t worry, Mmm.” Feenie put an arm around her. “We will find her. We’re Fapits. We have magic powers.”

  In case you’re wondering, a Fapit is a Fairy Princess in Training.

  “Who, may I ask, is Champion Teeter-Totter of Blah-Bu-De-Blah?” said Roger.

  “The most valuable kitten in Britney Belle’s litter,” said T. J. “You know how my mom breeds cats and shows them in cat shows? Well, Tatiana won the Cat Fancy Show twice, which makes her a double champion. Some lady wants to buy her for a bunch of money. My mom’s going to blow her top if we don’t find her. That cat is worth over a thousand dollars.”

  “Whoa!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement in the hedge. A small black, white, and orange paw poked out. “Look.”

  “Tatiana!” screamed the girls.

  “Champion Teeter-Totter of Blah-Bu-De-Blah!” said Roger. “After that cat on the double!”

  Mmm and Feenie ran toward the hedge, their fairy wings flapping.

  “Don’t!” said T. J. “You’re going to scare Champion Tatiana away.”

  Too late. The cat raced toward the front yard in a blur of orange, black, white, and pink. Everyone ran after her.

  “What’s that pink thing on her head?” T. J. asked.

  “A baby bonnet,” said Mmm.

  “So she would look like a baby, not a kitty cat,” said Feenie.

  Feenie and Mmm would make pretty good undercover operatives if they weren’t only four-and-a-half years old.

  We all looked around the yard.

  “Champion Teeter-Totter of Blah-Bu-De-Blah, where are you?” asked Roger.

  T. J.’s stomach rumbled so loudly, we all jumped.

  “How could you be hungry at a time like this?” I asked. “I thought you said it was a matter of life and death.”

  T. J. sighed. “Tater Tots.”

  “What do Tater Tots have to do with anything?”

  “I know I’d stake my life on a platter of crunchy potato snacks,” said Roger.

  “Tater Tots are my favorite kind of potatoes,” said T. J., as if that explained everything.

  UNDERCOVER

  A secret agent or spy who is operating in the field—under cover—pretending to be someone who is not a spy in order to hide the fact that he or she is a spy.

  “Champion Teeter-Totter Tater Tot,” said Roger. “Now there’s a tongue twister.”

  “Tater Tots sounds like Teeter-Totter—” began T. J.

  Just then there was a flash of pink behind the big pine tree at the end of my driveway.

  “Tatiana!” said the girls.

  Everyone ran down the driveway except for me. I headed to the garage to get my bike. We were going to need wheels if we wanted to catch this cat.

  I tiptoed inside so my dog, Shrimp, who liked to sleep under the picnic table, wouldn’t hear me. I started wheeling my bike out and was almost to the driveway when SQUEAK! Next thing I knew, Shrimp bounded toward me, jumped up, and nearly knocked me down. No one knew he was part Saint Bernard when we got him as a puppy.

  WOOF!

  “Shrimp! Stay!” I pointed to the house.

  Shrimp tilted his head to one side.

  “Stay, boy! This is a cat-rescue mission. You’ll only get in the way.”

  WOOF! Shrimp wagged his tail.

  “I know you want to help, but stay, Shrimp. Do you hear me?!”

  I hopped on my bike and pedaled down the driveway. T. J. was bent over with his hand out. Was he trying to bait the cat with candy corn?

  WOOF! WOOF!

  The cat darted out from behind the tree.

  I turned around. Shrimp was lumbering down the driveway.

  “She’s heading for the street!” said Roger.

  “Tatiana!” said the girls. “Come back!”

  T. J. hopped on his bike, popped on his helmet, and took off. I started to pedal after him.

  “Wait for me!” called Roger, grabbing my skateboard from the side of the driveway.

  I felt a tug on the back of my bike and almost tipped over. “What the—”

  “Trust me, Fish,” said Roger, gripping my bike as he balanced on my skateboard. He had Feenie’s pink Cinderella helmet on his head. “It’ll be faster this way.”

  We followed T. J. as he turned down Cinnamon Street. Shrimp bounded after us. WOOF! I could see a streak of pink and orange tearing through the weeds heading for Red Fox Lane, where T. J. and Mmm lived. Maybe Champion Tatiana was going home.

  I had to stand up and pump hard on my pedals to keep up with T. J. as he made the right onto Red Fox. The sweat was dripping down my back. It felt as if Roger weighed five hundred pounds.

  “WOO-HOO!” Roger called. “Cat chasing is fun!”

  “For you,” I said. “I’m doing all the work.”

  T. J. slowed as he got to the white picket fence in front of his house. Champion Tatiana kept right on going. She began to run even faster.

  “There she goes!” said T. J.

  I raced after T. J. as he made a left onto Edge Road. Shrimp was running between us. T. J. kept going on Edge, past Lily Lane and Dune Lane. Boy, this cat sure could run.

  Suddenly, T. J. made a sharp right onto Thither Lane.

  “Watch out, Fish!” Roger swung sideways as I made the turn.

  I slowed and straightened out so he could regain his balance. “You are so riding me all the way home,” I said, gasping for breath.

  We continued south toward the ocean. We were in the heart of the Lanes. The big mansions with pools and tennis courts are hidden behind tall hedges and gates. Most of the people who live there are summer people. They live someplace else, like in the city, and just come here for the summer and weekends. There’s one house that’s so big, they call it the Hotel because it has twenty-five bedrooms and a bowling alley.

  T. J. skidded to a stop halfway down the lane in front of a cobblestone driveway and a big white fence that had to be close to eight feet tall.

  “What are we doing here, T. J.?” I asked, trying to catch my breath. Shrimp stood beside me, panting and drooling, too.

  T. J. shoved a handful of barbecue potato chips in his mouth and pointed up. There on the high branch of an old oak tree that stuck out past the top of the fence was a small black, orange, and white cat. She had lost the baby bonnet along the way.

  “Champion Teeter-Totter of Blah-Bu-De-Blah!” said Roger. “Fancy meeting you here, you Cat Fancy Double Champion.”

  “Now what?” I said, eyeing the distance from the branch to the ground. If the fence was eight feet high, the branch was another six inches or so, making it close to eight-and-a-half feet.

  “How . . . mumble . . . getter?” asked T. J., his mouth full of chips.

  “Simple,” said Roger with a grin. “The powers of persuasion.”

  “Huh?” said T. J., shoving even more chips in his mouth.

  “It’s like how my mom sells houses,” said Roger. “You figure out what your client wants and then just remind them it’s what t
hey want when they see it. For instance, if a couple is buying a starter ranch that they can add on to after the first kid—”

  “Roger!” I said. “Will you cut to the chase?”

  “Look, we all want the same thing—for Teeter-Totter to get down. So all we have to do is remind her that her wish is our wish. Then TA-DA, everyone’s happy.”

  T. J.’s stomach rumbled as he stared worriedly up at Champion Tatiana.

  “Cats don’t usually listen to people, Rog,” I said, thinking of Dude, our old black cat. “They’re not like dogs who respect dominant humans as alpha dogs and—”

  “Watch this,” said Roger, looking up at the cat with a big grin on his face. “Champion Teeter-Totter of Blah-Bu-De-Blah, it’s time to come down. You know you want to.”

  Champion Tatiana looked away from us.

  “Listen to me, Champion T. It’s all right. Just move your little paws.” Roger motioned with his hand.

  The cat didn’t move an inch. She didn’t even look at him.

  “Oh, well.” Roger shrugged. “Guess the powers of persuasion don’t work on cats. My mom says they don’t always work on people, either. But don’t sweat it. I have a Plan B.”

  “What is it?” asked T. J.

  “A ladder,” said Roger, swiping a chip out of T. J.’s hand and crunching on it.

  “Not only do we not have a ladder, even if we got one, we can’t carry it on a bike,” I said.

  “Hmm,” said Roger. “Good point. Give me a minute to come up with Plan C.”

  “There’s only one thing we can do,” I said. “Climb that tree.”

  Roger and T. J. looked at the fence and then up at the tree where Champion Tatiana was sitting. Then they turned to me. We all knew who would be doing the climbing.

  “Think a human pyramid will give you enough boost?” asked Roger.

  I shrugged. It was going to have to.

  “Okay, Teej,” said Roger, patting him on the back. “One, two, three—go!”

  T. J. dropped to his knees by the fence and bent over with his hands on the ground.

  “Now me,” said Roger. “Roger Huckleton, Ace Cat Chaser, steps up to—”