Fish Finelli Book 1: Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles Read online

  For Niko –E.S.F.

  Special thanks to Craig Virden, Fish's first fan;

  CNP, who told me about seagulls and pickles;

  Steve T for lit crit; Debbie, a fab cheerleader;

  JRS, my dad, and everyone at the East Hampton Library—Dennis, Lisa, Alex, Jane, Lisa K, Sheila, Gina, Chelsea; and Steve B for maps.

  For my explorers: Fabiola and Mirabelle –J.B.

  First paperback edition published in 2014 by Chronicle Books LLC.

  Originally published in hardcover in 2013 by Chronicle Books LLC.

  Text copyright © 2013 by E.S. Farber.

  Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Jason Beene.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4521-2853-5 (epub, mobi)

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:

  Farber, Erica.

  Seagulls don’t eat pickles / by Erica Farber ; illustrated by Jason Beene.

  p. cm. — (Fish Finelli ; bk. 1)

  Summary: Fish Finelli and his friends set out to find Captain Kidd’s treasure, rumored to be buried on nearby Lyons Island, but it seems like the local library director is looking for it as well—and finding the treasure may be the key to saving the island from developers.

  ISBN 978-1-4521-0820-9 (alk. paper)

  1. Kidd, William, d. 1701—Juvenile fiction. 2. Treasure troves—Juvenile fiction. 3. Librarians—Juvenile fiction. 4. Historic sites—Conservation and restoration—Juvenile fiction. [1. Kidd, William, d. 1701—Fiction. 2. Buried treasure—Fiction. 3. Librarians— Fiction. 4. Historic sites—Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Beene, Jason, ill. II. Title. III. Title: Seagulls do not eat pickles.

  PZ7.F22275Sds 2013

  813.6—dc23

  2012027739

  Design by Amy Achaibou and Lauren Michelle Smith.

  Cover design by Lauren Michelle Smith.

  Typeset in Century Schoolbook.

  The illustrations in this book were rendered digitally.

  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.

  seagulls don't eat pickles

  by E.S. Farber • illustrated by Jason Beene

  Code Orange

  It all started the morning I broke into my lobster piggy bank. I had chosen a basin wrench for the job. It’s a good tool for a delicate operation. I know this because my dad is a plumber and taught me lots of stuff about tools.

  CLINK! CLINK! I shook the lobster a few times.

  It sure sounded like there was a lot of money in there. I hoped it was at least $54.53. That was exactly how much I needed to buy the Seagull. In case you’re wondering, the seagull I’m talking about isn’t the aquatic bird. It’s one of the finest motor boat engines ever made. And I had to get it soon. See, I’ve been fixing up this boat with my best friends, Roger and T. J. We want to race it in the Captain Kidd Classic, the biggest boat race of the summer.

  I held the lobster bank with my fingers over the part on the shell that read Lobster-Palooza—Where Lobsters Rock! The Lobster-Palooza festival happens every summer in our town of Whooping Hollow. I won the lobster bank for bringing in a blue lobster I caught with my Uncle Norman. Only one in about three million lobsters is blue, by the way.

  I put the gripper end of the wrench into the Lobster-Palooza lobster’s pincer claw. I pulled gently. Nothing happened, so I pulled a little harder.

  CRACK! The pincer claw snapped off. Money flew in the air.

  PLOP! Dimes and pennies landed in the fishbowl. Nikola Tesla, my goldfish, started swimming around like

  crazy. As I was fishing the coins out of Nikola Tesla’s bowl, I heard a scream. “Help! Ugly-Buggly!”

  “Fish!” my mom called up the stairs. “Help your sister, please. I’m baking!”

  My real name is Norman, by the way, but I’ve been called Fish ever since I can remember. Uncle Norman, who I’m named after, said it was my first word. I was on his boat when an angry bluefish took a chomp out of his finger. I laughed and said “Fish.”

  “Aaahhh!” my four-year-old sister, Feenie, shrieked again.

  I took off down the hall.

  “It’s in there!” said Feenie, moving her arms so her fairy wings flapped up and down like she was trying to fly. “And it’s the biggest one ever!”

  WALKIE-TALKIE

  Developed during World War II for military communi-cations via air waves, it was both a transmitter and a receiver that weighed about 35 pounds and was carried like a back-pack. Today it has a half-duplex channel so only one radio can transmit at a time, although many can listen.

  The Ugly-Buggly jumped out from behind the toilet. It was huge. Bigger than a praying mantis, with long brown tentacles and legs as fat as noodles. I didn’t want to tell Feenie, but she was right. It was the biggest one I’d ever seen. I definitely needed help.

  I raced back to my room. Dude, our old black cat, was sleeping on my bottom bunk. “I’m on a mission, Dude, so scram!” Dude gave me a look, but he hopped off the bed. I reached under the mattress and pulled out my walkie-talkie. I pressed the PTT (Push To Talk) button.

  “Roger,” the walkie-talkie crackled to life.

  I peered out my bedroom window, which looked right into Roger’s bedroom window. We’ve been next door neighbors for almost ten years, ever since we were born.

  “This is Roger!” came Roger’s staticky, walkie-talkie voice. “Do you read me?”

  “Read and copy!” I said.

  “Whale Creek in fifteen?”

  “Sure, but Roger—”

  “Roger, ten-four, over and out,” said Roger’s staticky voice.

  “Roger, no,” I said. “Roger, it’s—”

  “Roger that!” said Roger. “Over and—”

  “No, Roger, I mean you, Roger, not roger,” I said.

  “Oh,” said Roger. “Roger.”

  “Will you stop rogering me, Roger?” I said.

  “Wilco,” said Roger.

  “We’ve got a situation!”

  “What level?” asked Roger.

  “Code Orange!”

  “I’m there,” said Roger. “Secure the prisoner. You know, I got your back, dude.”

  “Speaking of backs, don’t forget the Bug Patrol Emergency Backpack!”

  “Roger, over and out!” said Roger.

  Ugly-Buggly

  When I got back to the bathroom, Feenie was waving her magic wand up and down in front of the shower curtain.

  “What are you doing with that wand?” I asked. “Trying to make the bug disappear?”

  “As if,” said Feenie. “I’m only a FAPIT, you know.”

  “What’s a FAPIT?” I shouldn’t have asked.

  “Fairy Princess in Training,” said Feenie. “See, to disaway something you need to be a FUFAP, you know, a Full Fairy Princess.”

  “Disaway is not a word, Fee.”

  “Is so,” said Feenie, nodding her head up and down so hard her pigtails flew up beside her ears. “It’s a magic word.”

  “What does it mean then?”

  “You have to be a FAPIT to understand,” said Feenie.

  “Oh, brother,” I said.

  The back door slammed and Roger appeared at the top of the stairs. He was lugging an orange backpack
with a big sticker of a tooth on it that read KEEP YOUR SMILE IN STYLE. He got it the last time he went to the dentist and had ten cavities.

  “We need a Number Three,” I said.

  “Number Three?” asked Roger, his brown eyes widening. “We’ve never had a Number Three before.”

  “I told you it was a Code Orange.”

  But when we got back to the bathroom, the tub was empty. The three of us eyed one another.

  “Where’d it go?” whispered Feenie.

  “Down the drain?” said Roger.

  “Impossible,” I said. “All insects have exoskeletons, you know, skeletons on the outsides of their bodies. So no way a big one, like an Ugly-Buggly, can squeeze through tiny holes like there are in a drain.”

  “Fish, how could you forget the most important rule of Bug Patrol Operations?” said Roger. “Never underestimate the sly and sinister mind of a creepy-crawlie.” He pulled back the shower curtain.

  WHITE FLAG

  Waving something white is the worldwide symbol of surrender. It started way back in ancient China and Rome. When one side didn’t want to fight anymore, they would wave something white on a stick. It was way easier for the other side to see than putting your shield over your head.

  The Ugly-Buggly hopped out from behind a fold. We all jumped.

  “Aaahhh!”

  “See, super-sly, just like I told you.” Roger turned to the bug. “Okay, Ugly-Buggly, we’ve got you surrounded. It’s white flag time.”

  Roger reached into the backpack and pulled out a magnifying glass, a pair of scissors, and a half-eaten tuna sandwich. The whole bathroom suddenly stank like rotten fish.

  “Pee-yew!”

  “So that’s what happened to my lunch,” said Roger. Next he pulled out a jumbo-sized Cheezy Cheezers container. It had a number three on it.

  “Containment Sealer Device?” I asked.

  “Right here,” said Roger. He took out a piece of pink notebook paper with a heart on it that read Beck, you rock! “It’s Summer’s love letter to Beck Billings. Perfect Containment Sealer Device, right?”

  “How did you get it?” I asked. I had a hunch that Summer, who was Roger’s older sister, would not be happy to know we were about to use her private love letter to trap an Ugly-Buggly. Beck happens to be Bryce Billings’s older brother and a star lacrosse player, and every girl at Marine Middle has a crush on him.

  “I found it in her trash,” said Roger. “And I figured, hey, 'Reduce, reuse, recycle.’ Just trying to help save the planet.”

  Driving Summer crazy was one of Roger’s favorite pastimes.

  “I’ll handle the container, you back me up with the Containment Sealer Device,” said Roger.

  “How about if I do the container and you—”

  The bug jumped again.

  “Aaahhh!”

  Roger held up the Cheezy Cheezers container. Then he plopped it over the bug.

  I picked up the pink paper and took a deep breath. Slowly, I slid the Containment Sealer Device toward the container where the Ugly-Buggly was hopping like crazy, trying to get out.

  “On three,” I said to Roger. “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Roger lifted up the container as I slid the paper underneath. We watched for a moment as the bug hopped up and down on Summer’s heart.

  “Mission accomplished,” said Roger. “It’s time for the release.”

  I stood up carefully, my hand keeping the Containment Sealer Device in place. Roger was next to me, his hand on top of the container. Slowly we walked out of the bathroom. Side by side, we started down the stairs.

  “Open the door, Feenie!”

  Feenie ran ahead. Roger and I followed her across the hall. The door was open. We were almost there when there was a bark. Something large, pink, and fluffy bounded into the room.

  “What happened to my dog?” I said, staring at the pink princess quilt tied around him with a jump rope.

  “Woof!” barked Shrimp, wagging his long brown and white tail. Everything about Shrimp is big. We didn’t know he was part Saint Bernard when we got him as a puppy.

  “He’s not a dog,” said Feenie. “He’s a magic horse.”

  Just then Shrimp started sniffing like crazy. He looked at our outstretched hands. He saw we were holding something. He sniffed the air. He stared at Roger. Oh, no, I thought. The tuna fish sandwich! It was in the backpack on Roger’s back.

  “Don’t, Shrimp!” I said.

  But it was too late. Shrimp jumped and knocked into Roger. The container flew out of his hand.

  The Treasure Is Plastic?!

  It took us three tries to get that Ugly-Buggly out of the house. It was a record, even for a Code Orange. After that I headed back up to my room to count the money that had fallen out of the lobster bank. I piled it up in stacks—quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies. And three dollar bills. I counted it slowly and carefully.

  $27.51! What???!!!

  I counted it again. $27.51. The Seagull motor cost $54.53. That meant I needed a whole $27.02. Whoa!

  I sighed and slid down the banister. I had to think of some way to get $27.02 fast, or the summer would be over. But how???

  “Mom, I’m going to Whale Creek,” I said as I walked into the kitchen.

  Whale Creek isn’t really a creek, by the way. And the water is much too shallow for a whale to swim in it. But it’s right by the cove that leads to Whooping Hollow Harbor, where there’s a giant boulder that people used to stand on to look for whales. If somebody spotted one, they would climb a tree and wave their shirt around and yell, “Whale off!” Then the settlers in the town and the Native Americans would go harpoon it. They would split up the whale meat and the blubber (good for oil to light lamps) and this weird stuff ambergris (used to make perfume) and the teeth and bones (good for carving).

  “Take Feenie with you,” said my mom, just as Roger skateboarded through the back door.

  “Aw, Mom.”

  “Fish, my soufflé needs quiet,” said my mom, with a protective glance at the oven. “Or it will fall.”

  “No problem, Mrs. F.,” said Roger. “Heave-ho, ready to go?” He waved his pirate sword and grinned at Feenie.

  “Mom,” I said. “She’ll just get in the way.”

  “Fish!” said my mom, giving me her stingray glare. When she does that, I know she means business.

  “All right, but you have to be the prisoner on the pirate ship,” I told Feenie.

  STINGRAY

  Part of the group of rays related to sharks. It has a long, barbed venomous spine on its tail.

  “FAPITs can’t be prisoners,” said Feenie.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. F.,” said Roger. “I won’t let any evil pirates hurt a hair on her lovely head.”

  My mom smiled. So did Feenie. I rolled my eyes as I grabbed my skateboard and my sword. I’d made it myself out of plywood, with duct tape for the hilt.

  As soon as we got outside, Roger pushed off and ollied down the curb. I jumped on my board and pushed off after him. Shrimp barked and lunged after me.

  “Wait for me!” called Feenie.

  I looked back. She was still standing in front of our house with one foot on her scooter.

  “I’d better pull you,” I said. “Or the tide will get there before we do.”

  I took the rope out of my pocket and tied it around my waist. Then I tied the other end to the scooter.

  “Hold on tight!” I said.

  Off we went to the end of Cinnamon Street. Shrimp barked and raced around us.

  “Dude, I beat your best time by five whole seconds,” said Roger when we got up the hill at the end of Red Fox Lane. He pointed to his stopwatch.

  “I’m not racing, Roger,” I said, trying t
o catch my breath. “I’m towing.”

  “Safety first!” said Feenie, flapping her fairy wings.

  “Safety first!” came a high, squeaky voice from somewhere close by.

  “Who said that?” asked Feenie.

  “Me!” Mmm popped up from behind the Mahoneys’ fence. She was wearing sparkly wings just like Feenie’s. “I’m a FAPIT!”

  “I’m a FAPIT, too!” said Feenie.

  Mmm’s real name is Margaret Mary Mahoney, but she’s been called Mmm since she was born. Margaret was too hard for her brothers T. J. and Mickey to say.

  “Where’s T. J.?” I asked.

  “Doing something to his bike,” said Mmm.

  T. J. was always doing something to his bike. He has this old ten-speed his dad picked up on a carting job. I helped him put new spokes on the wheels. But he’s always getting flats, and then we have to patch the tires.

  As if he had supersonic hearing and could hear us talking about him, T. J. came wheeling his bike down the driveway.

  “I was about to look for you guys,” said T. J. He took a bite out of a mushy candy bar that looked like it had taken a trip through the washing machine. “Check it out,” he said, nodding his curly red head at a gray box strapped to the back of his bike.

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  “Treasure,” answered T. J., wiping chocolate off his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Come on, T. J.,” I said. “The only treasure that’s buried anywhere near here is Captain Kidd’s, and nobody’s ever found it.”

  Some people say it’s buried on Lyons Island, where Captain Kidd landed, right across the harbor from Whooping Hollow. Some say it’s near the old lighthouse at the bottom of Money Pond, which is bottomless and why the treature’s never been dug up. Lots of treasure hunters have hunted for it for years and years. It’s the biggest unsolved mystery in Whooping Hollow.

  “Well, it looks like I just did,” said T. J. “I was at the mall with my dad. He was hauling up the dumpster, and there it was.”

  “You’re telling me you found Captain Kidd’s treasure at the mall?!” said Roger.