Fish Finelli (Book 2) Read online

  “Just do it, Roger!” I said, giving him a push toward T. J.

  “Hands off the merchandise,” Roger said. He climbed on top of T. J. but slipped off.

  “Teej, quit eating. I can’t balance if you don’t hold still.”

  T. J. swallowed hard. “I don’t mean to eat. It just happens when I’m nervous.”

  Roger climbed up again and balanced on his knees on top of T. J. Then he put his hands down by T. J.’s shoulders.

  “All right, guys, here I come.”

  This was the critical moment. Carefully, I put one foot on T. J.’s back and then another.

  “Oomph!”

  So far, so good.

  “Ready, Rog?”

  “All systems—go!”

  I climbed knees first onto Roger’s back.

  “Finelli, you weigh a ton,” said Roger. “What did you eat for breakfast? A bowl of hundred-pound weights with extra iron and vitamin C?!”

  “Quit talking,” I said, struggling to keep my balance. I looked up. Eyes on the prize, I thought as I slowly got to my feet.

  I reached my arms up, but the human pyramid shook. I knelt back down fast so I wouldn’t fall. “Hold still!”

  “Hurry up!”

  I got to my feet again. I reached up. The branch was still a few inches away. There was nothing for it. I would have to jump. I felt Roger shaking under me and T. J. under him. The pyramid wasn’t going to last much longer.

  I jumped just as Roger and T. J. toppled to the ground. My fingers touched bark and I held on tight.

  “You did it, Fish!”

  I dangled from the branch. I swung my legs over and slowly pulled myself up. PHEW!

  “WOO-HOO!”

  Roger and T. J. gave me the thumbs-up.

  Champion Tatiana blinked her yellow cat eyes at me from the middle of the branch. Then she looked down on a manicured lawn and a gazebo. I could see a large, gray-shingled house in the distance with a tennis court on one side and a pool on the other. Below me was a pile of weeds. There were some gardeners by the house, mowing the grass. They must have been responsible for the weeds, which also meant they would be coming back. We had to get out of here. I was definitely trespassing.

  “Grab her and let’s go,” Roger called up to me.

  I inched my way along the branch. Every inch I moved toward her, Champion Tatiana moved another inch away from me.

  “It’s okay, kitty,” I said. “I’m here to help you.”

  She stopped at the sound of my voice and looked at me. I moved a little closer.

  “Hold on,” I said in the same soothing voice.

  I moved a little closer. And a little closer. I was just about close enough to reach her. I stretched out my hand. My fingers were brushing her fur when a girl with long black hair burst out of the gazebo.

  “You care more about your boat than about me!” she said into the cell phone at her ear. Then she angrily snapped it shut.

  I don’t know if she was startled by the girl’s voice or if she just wanted to get out of my grasp, but Champion Tatiana jumped, landing on all fours at the girl’s feet. The girl looked down at the cat and then up at the tree right at me. Her green eyes widened in surprise.

  CRACK!

  YOU BET IT’S A BET!

  “Fish! Fish!” came from the other side of the fence.

  I lay there in the pile of weeds, staring up at the prettiest girl I had ever seen. She tossed her shiny brown hair and frowned down at me.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. The weeds had cushioned my fall. I hopped to my feet, brushed off the dirt, and shook the leaves and grass from my hair.

  The girl turned away, but not before I saw her wipe a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand. Why was she crying? I was pretty sure it wasn’t because of Champion T and me. I had a hunch it had something to do with her phone call.

  MEOW! Champion Tatiana stalked through the grass toward the house.

  “Fish!” Roger and T. J. yelled again.

  “Fish?” asked the girl, who looked less upset now. “She’s sooo cute. Here, Fish! Here, Fish!”

  Champion Tatiana turned and walked right up to her.

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “Oh, Fish, you are the sweetest kitty,” cooed the girl, ignoring me.

  She might be pretty, but she wasn’t very friendly. Then again, I had crash-landed at her house without an invitation. I was just opening my mouth to tell her that Fish was my name when a voice called, “Clementine, are you ready to go?”

  That voice sounded familiar. Before I could figure out who it was, the owner of the voice approached us. Dressed in tennis whites and wearing a brand-new pair of gold aviator sunglasses, he even wore a white sweatband with a Sandstone Club logo across his perfectly combed blond hair. “Fish Finelli, what in the heck are you doing here?!” said Bryce Billings. “You’re trespassing big-time.”

  “You’re Fish?!” said Clementine, looking at me in surprise. “I thought the cat was—”

  “I was rescuing the cat,” I said, staring at Clementine, who held Tatiana in her arms.

  “She is so sweet. What’s her name, if it’s not Fish?”

  “Champion Teeter-Tott—I mean, Champion Tatiana,” I said. “She’s a Cat Fancy Double Champion.”

  “Who cares?!” Bryce’s gold glasses glinted in the sun. “Get lost! Like I said, you’re trespassing.”

  Just because Bryce was a year older and lived here in the Lanes didn’t mean he could talk to me like that. It wasn’t as if I was trespassing on purpose, and it wasn’t like this was his house. “You don’t live here!” I said, my face turning red, the way it does when I start getting mad. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “I live right next door,” said Bryce. He spoke real slow, as if he were speaking to a little kid. “And my dad sold Clementine’s dad this house.” Bryce’s dad owns the biggest real estate company around. That’s where Roger’s mom works. “On top of that, our families are old friends. Got it, loser?”

  “I’m not a loser!” I snuck a glance at Clementine. She was busy cuddling Tatiana and didn’t seem to be listening.

  “YEAH! He’s not a loser,” called Roger from the other side of the fence.

  WOOF! barked Shrimp.

  “I see you brought your loser friends with you, like usual,” said Bryce.

  “We are not losers.” I could feel my ears burning, like they do when I’m really mad.

  “You will be when I beat you at the Captain Kidd Classic.”

  “That’s a boat race, right?” Clementine looked over at us with sudden interest.

  “Only the biggest boat race of the summer,” said Bryce.

  “Can anybody enter?” she asked.

  “Anybody with a boat and a motor,” said Bryce. “It’s divided into classes by age group. And this loser has the crazy idea that he can beat me, even though I have more racing experience and a way better boat.”

  “Just you wait, Bryce,” I said, my heart thudding in my chest. “You’ll be eating our spray.”

  It was always my dream to enter a boat in the Classic, but like I said, Operation Fireball was also about beating Bryce. See, Bryce is the one who dared me to find Captain Kidd’s treasure. That was our first bet, and I won, so Bryce had to give me his sunglasses. He was pretty mad, so he said some nasty stuff about my dad being a plumber. Then I got mad and told him in front of everybody that we would beat him at the Captain Kidd Classic. That’s how our second bet started.

  COMPASS

  The magnetic compass was invented in China, and was first used for navigation in the 11th century. It works because the Earth is like a magnet (its inner core is made of iron and nickel), with two magnetic poles, one near the North Pole and one near the South Pole, that cause the compass’s magnetized needle (made of iron or steel) to swing into a North/South position.

  “Ha, ha! Is that still a bet, even though you know I am so going to bury you?”

  “
You bet it’s a bet!” I said, louder than I meant to.

  “Yeah!” said Roger and T. J. from the other side of the fence.

  WOOF!

  “Yeah, right!” snorted Bryce. “Your boat is a hunk of junk and your motor is so old it doesn’t even run.”

  “The Fireball is not a hunk of junk!” Roger yelled.

  The Fireball may be old, but it’s still a good whaler. It’s an eleven-footer just like Bryce’s, except that his is brand-new. The Captain gave it to me two weeks ago for my tenth birthday, when I got my Boating Safety Certificate. That’s the age you have to be to operate a motorboat on your own. You have to learn all this stuff about marine safety, like how you always pass another boat on the port (that’s the left) side, and how the number one rule is to help any boater who gets in trouble. Then the Captain gave me another test with a crazy map to prove I could navigate with a compass. The Captain knows just about everything about boats. He used to be in the Navy. I passed his test, too. Now the boat is officially mine.

  “How much horsepower is allowed in the race?” asked Clementine.

  Whoa! So this girl was pretty and she knew about boats, too.

  “Nine point nine!” we both said at the same time.

  “Jinx!” said Roger from the other side of the fence.

  Bryce rolled his eyes and we heard Roger snicker.

  I tried not to think about Bryce’s top-of-the-line whaler or his brand-new 9.9 horsepower Mercury Four Stroke motor. I also tried not to think about all of the bucket tests the Seagull motor had failed. Or the fact that even if it worked, the Seagull was only five horsepower, and we had to come up with some way to boost it to at least nine if we wanted to compete in the race and beat Bryce for real.

  “Whatever, loser.”

  Bryce turned to Clementine and smiled real big, like he meant it. “My mom’s going to drive us to the club to play tennis. I brought an extra racket for you.”

  Holy cannoli! The smile and the niceness were not the Bryce Billings I knew. That could only mean one thing. Bryce like-liked Clementine! The question was, did she like-like him back?

  “Here,” she said, handing Champion Tatiana to me. She looked like her mind was a million miles away.

  “Thank you!” I said.

  I wanted to say something else, but all I could think of was how I had fallen out of that tree and landed at her feet. My face started getting hot again.

  “You can go through the gate this time,” said Clementine, flipping her long, beautiful hair in my direction.

  Clearly, she remembered my fall, too.

  “Only birdbrains fall out of trees. Tweet tweet!” Bryce laughed and flapped his arms.

  My face was now so burning hot, it was probably as red as a red snapper’s dorsum (that’s what a fish’s back is called).

  “Hey, tomato face!” Bryce rolled his eyes. “You are such a freak.”

  I tried not to get madder, because my face would only get redder. I wondered if Clementine thought I was a freak, too. I snuck a peek at her at the same moment she looked over at me. Instead of looking disgusted, she smiled this little smile only I could see.

  “See ya,” she said, and turned and headed toward her house. Bryce took a moment to make the L for loser sign at me with his thumb and forefinger. Then he ran to catch up to her.

  I gritted my teeth. Now I really had to beat Bryce. After all, Clementine might come to the race. . . .

  HAPPY AS CLAMS

  “Here we go again,” said Roger, yawning as

  he batted a beach ball at T. J.

  It was the next day and we were back in my garage. I had decided to take the Seagull apart and put it back together again. That’s how it said to fix a washing machine motor in one of my dad’s plumbing books. That book also said if you can fix a washing machine, you can fix a rocket launcher. It had to be a good way to fix a boat motor, too.

  T. J. batted the ball back with one hand. WHOOSH! The ball skimmed the top of my head. Startled, I let go of the wrench I was using to remove the spark plugs.

  CRASH! The throttle hit the floor. The rest of the motor fell, too. Oil spattered all over me and the garage floor.

  “Oopsy daisy!” said Roger.

  “Sorry!” said T. J.

  “Guys! We promised my mom we wouldn’t make a mess like yesterday.”

  T. J. and Roger came over to help pick up the pieces. We laid them on my dad’s worktable and stared at them silently.

  “I would like to say a few words in honor of the Seagull. The Seagull was a fine motor that never started,” said Roger. Then he began to fake cry.

  “Roger, quit talking like it’s a funeral,” I said, pulling the engine toward me. The propeller fell off.

  “The Seagull just fell to pieces at the end.” Roger went on fake crying.

  I sighed and bent to pick up the propeller.

  “Face it, dude,” Roger laughed. “We need help.”

  “What about your dad or your uncle?” asked T. J.

  “Busy. They have to install all these automatic flush toilets and sinks in the new art museum.” I took a deep breath. “We can do this, guys. I know we can get this motor working.”

  “Ohhh-kaaaay,” said Roger. “But then what about the fact that it’s only five horsepower and Bryce’s is almost ten? That’s twice as much power, dude. And even though you got a perfect score on your Boating Safety Test, the numbers are the numbers. Ten trumps five every time.”

  “We can double our horsepower,” I said. “I read all about it. We just have to blow out the cylinder somehow, get a bigger piston, and do something to the carburetor . . . I think. We might need a blowtorch to melt the metal, but we can figure that out when we get to it.”

  Roger raised his eyebrows. I stuck a screwdriver into one of the screws on the cylinder. I started to turn it. I lost my grip and the screwdriver flew out of my hand.

  SPLAT! It landed in the bucket of night crawlers Uncle Norman was saving for a fishing trip.

  “Fish, I hate to break it to you, but there are only two weeks till the Classic,” said Roger. “If you want to win, we need professional help.”

  “We don’t have money for professional help,” I said. “Not after we spent all our money on the motor and new steering wheel for the Fireball. Right, T. J.?”

  T. J., who was our unofficial treasurer and in charge of the money, nodded.

  “How much do we have exactly?”

  “Nine dollars and sixty-three cents,” said T. J. “Just about enough for a large pie with extra cheese.”

  “T. J., we don’t need food,” I said.

  “No, what we need is a mechanic who will work for nine dollars and sixty-three cents,” said Roger. “And since that’s not happening, I think Teej is right. We might as well get a pizza with pepperoni.”

  “And peppers,” said T. J.

  “And pineapple,” said Roger.

  “No way,” said T. J. “Pineapple is nasty on pizza. It’s . . . it’s . . . un-American.”

  “Since pizza is Italian, I don’t think that matters,” said Roger. “And it’s not nasty, it’s de-lish.”

  “Guys,” I said. “Will you stay on toppings—I mean, topic?”

  T. J. and Roger laughed.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Yes it is, Fish. And we are on topic. The topic is toppings.”

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “I know you’re serious,” said Roger. “You are in serious need of lightening up.”

  “I don’t need to lighten up. I need help with this motor.”

  “I’ve got it!” said T. J., a big smile on his face. “Clams!”

  “Now, clams on pizza are what I call nasty,” said Roger.

  “Enough with the toppings, guys!”

  “T. J.’s right, Finelli,” said Roger. “Clams are just what we need. Clams as in moolah, dough, money.”

  “I meant the Clam Brothers,” said T. J.

  “Mi and Si?” I said. Micah and Silas King w
ere twins a year older than us. They ran a clam stand every summer on Two Mile Harbor. Their dad was a fisherman.

  “We don’t need them,” said T. J. “We need Eli, their second-oldest brother. He got a job at the marina. My aunt wants my cousin Tater to work there.”

  “Your cousin Couch Po-Tater?” said Roger. “Or, should I say Tater Tot? I thought watching TV was his only hobby.”

  “Not anymore. My aunt gave away his TV and his computer.”

  “Why would Eli help us?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not like we have the money to pay him.”

  “I bet Eli would love to work on a motor. You know, like how firefighters burn down old houses just to practice.” T. J. pulled a squished cinnamon bun out of his pocket and began to chew.

  I looked at the busted-up motor. Maybe T. J. was right. The truth was, a little help would be helpful.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s go see Mi and Si. We can find out if they think Eli would even consider helping us.” It wasn’t as if we could just go to the marina and ask Eli, since he was in high school and we didn’t exactly know him know him.

  “This could be just the thing to get Operation Fireball off the ground,” said Roger. “And we’ve got nothing to lose. Right, Fish?”

  I found out pretty quick just what I had to lose. . . .

  “I am not giving you my Superman Special Shooter.” I frowned at Mi, who was busy counting a wad of dollar bills.

  “Twenty-one, twenty-two. It’s not a gift,” said Mi, thumbing through the money. “Thirty, thirty-one. It’s a trade.” He kept counting and didn’t even look up.

  We were at the Clam Brothers’ clam stand. Just a few turns past the marina, you can’t miss it. A surfboard propped up against a telephone pole says clams in big red letters. The Clam Brothers have been running the stand for years, since the oldest brother, Jared, who’s so old he’s in college, was a little kid. Mi and Si took over after Eli got the marina job.

  Just then we heard the hum of a car coming around the curve.

  “Si, hold up the sign!” said Mi.