Fish Finelli Book 1: Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles Page 2

  “Uh-huh.”

  I eyed the box. “But it’s plastic. A real treasure chest isn’t made of plastic.”

  “Oh, yeah?” asked T. J. “If what’s inside this box isn’t treasure . . . I’ll eat my . . . hat.”

  He popped open the lock on the chest. Our eyes opened wide. The chest was filled with gold.

  “Snap!” said Roger. “We’re rich!”

  “Hold your horses, guys,” I said, picking up a gold coin. It was plastic, just like the chest. In tiny letters on the bottom it read MADE IN CHINA.

  “It’s from China, T. J.,” I said.

  “China?” said T. J. “China’s those plates and teacups and stuff that me and Mickey and Mmm aren’t supposed to touch.”

  Roger and I laughed. “It’s not china like dishes,” I said. “These gold coins are made in China, the country China, as in on the continent of Asia near Japan. Home of Confucius and Jackie Chan and the Great Wall, the place where gun powder was invented, and the abacus and wonton soup. Get it?”

  “Oh,” said T. J., chewing on some licorice. “Wonton soup’s okay, but I like egg rolls better.”

  “The point is that these coins were made in China,” I said.

  “They’re still gold, though, right?” He winked at me.

  “Not real gold,” I said. “Plastic molded and painted to look like gold.”

  T. J. ate the rest of his licorice while he digested this information. “But just because they’re plastic doesn’t mean they’re not treasure, right? ’Cause I sure don’t want to eat this stinky old baseball cap.”

  Are You Captain Kidding Me?

  The boat was anchored at the foot of the Captain’s dock. It’s an old whaler that needs some work and a new motor, which is why I’m saving up for the Seagull, but it’s light and fast and can hold a lot of weight. The Captain says a whaler can still float after taking a thousand rounds of weapons fire, and can even run if it’s cut in half. (Of course, you have to have the half with the motor.) He says I can have it, once I get my Boating Safety Certificate next month when I turn ten and learn how to navigate with a compass. Then he’s going to give me the same test his dad gave him, like, a hundred years ago, before whaler boats were even invented.

  Everyone stopped by the dock. It goes all the way out to Whale Rock, right by the cove, so you can see all the boats going by. It’s just about my favorite spot in the world. I walked around the back of the house and looked up. The Captain wasn’t on the widow’s walk at the very top. Only his telescope was. His house is really old. It belonged to his grandpa’s grandpa, who was a whaler and used to go on voyages to hunt for whales. His grandma’s grandma used to walk on that very widow’s walk, looking for his ship.

  “Let’s get this party started, Fish!” called Roger.

  I ran up the porch steps and picked up a long wooden paddle that was hanging from a string off an old bronze gong. The Captain traveled a lot in his Navy days. He brought the gong all the way back from Madagascar (that’s an island in the Indian Ocean near Africa, by the way). I hit the gong with the paddle and jumped back.

  BONG! BONG! BONG! I covered my ears. That thing is so loud, it makes my teeth rattle.

  A minute passed and then another. POP! A bright red streak shot over our heads. It was a flare, just like the flares they used at sea when the Captain was in the Navy. The Captain loves to set off flares. Sometimes I think he forgets he’s living in a house and not on a ship.

  The flare is our signal.

  “Finally,” said Roger. “Let’s go, mateys.”

  “Not so fast, Rog,” I said. “We need PFDs.”

  “Oh, good, snacks,” said T. J. “I never heard of Peefdees. Are they a new kind of potato chip?”

  Roger laughed. “They’re life jackets, dude, not part of any food group.”

  “You mean Personal Flotation Devices,” I corrected. The one time I forgot, the Captain got so mad he actually shot off his cannon.

  The Captain kept the PFDs in an old wooden shed by the dock. I pulled out two small ones for the girls and three bigger ones for Rog, T. J., and me. The Captain has lots of boating equipment from when his kids were kids. He always tells me so long as I keep things shipshape, I can use whatever I want.

  The girls sat in the middle of the boat, waving their wands around. They looked kind of funny with fairy wings poking out of their PFDs. At least they were wearing the life jackets.

  We pulled the boat out as far as the anchor would let it go. “I am Captain Terrible Teeth,” said Roger, sticking his plastic vampire teeth in his mouth. “I am here to rescue you ladies!”

  “Aaahhh!” they screamed.

  “You don’t stand a chance against Captain Kidd, the bravest pirate hunter of the seven seas,” I said. “Now get in and paddle, Terrible Teeth!”

  Roger growled, but he hopped in and picked up the old oar we used as a paddle.

  “My spyglass, Smee!” I nodded at T. J. “I think I see a sail to starboard.”

  “I bet it’s a ship flying the Jolly Roger flag here to rescue me,” said Roger. “Get it? Jolly Roger? Roger!”

  T. J. held out the telescope we keep in a bag under the seat. The box of plastic gold was right beside it.

  “Not so fast, Terrible Teeth,” I said. “This gold is ours.”

  “Oh, yeah, Kidd?” said Roger. He hopped up and brandished his sword. “I challenge you to a duel.”

  “I accept,” I said, whipping out my sword.

  “Hey, Kidd, I see a boat on the horizon,” said Roger.

  “You just don’t want to duel, you coward.”

  “I’m not kidding. A boat is coming all right.”

  I made my way to the bow and looked through the telescope. Sure enough, a boat was coming toward us through the harbor. It was white with a bright green stripe and it was moving fast. The waves it made rocked our boat.

  “To starboard!” I told T. J., so we could get a better look.

  “Starboard?” asked T. J.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Right?”

  “Right!”

  “Right, what?” T. J. cocked his head, confused.

  “Turn the wheel to the RIGHT!” I ordered. “That’s what starboard means.”

  T. J. yanked hard on the wheel. The boat turned so fast, it almost flipped over.

  “Aaahhh!”

  Roger whistled. “Check out this baby! I bet she’s got twenty horsepower!”

  “What do horses have to do with it?” asked T. J., popping a jelly bean in his mouth.

  “I bet they’re magic horses,” put in Feenie.

  “Horsepower isn’t magic, it’s a measure of power,” I said. “See, if the motor is twenty horsepower, it means it has the power of twenty horses. To really figure it out, you’d need to know the size of the horse and—”

  “What the heck, Fish?!” interrupted Roger. “Who’s at the wheel?” He lunged for the telescope.

  The boat rocked and the girls screamed. T. J. dropped his jelly beans into the water.

  “Don’t, Shrimp!” said T. J., as Shrimp jumped for the bag. The boat rocked again.

  I looked through the telescope. “There’s two of them,” I said. “And they’re in a brand-new whaler. I think it’s a Super Sport. Wow!”

  It was the boat of my dreams. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Captain’s whaler, but it needs a lot of work. The paint is peeling, the hull is cracked, and the wheel is all rusty. It’s from way back in the 1970s.

  “Pirates?” asked T. J. He sadly watched Shrimp gulp down his jelly beans.

  “Nah, it’s Bryce and Trippy, I think.”

  “Yep,” agreed Roger. “Bryce’s dad told my mom all about Bryce’s new whaler. He had it custom
made and it’s got a stereo and a GPS and special fishing rod thingies and cup holders. Bryce named it The Viper. Hiss!” Roger opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue as if he were a snake.

  Roger’s mom works as a real estate agent for Benedict Billings, the real estate king. He also happens to be Bryce and Beck’s dad.

  “Look at the babies playing pirates!” said Bryce as soon as he spotted us. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses, so we couldn’t see his eyes.

  “They’re sure not going to get far in that beat-up old boat,” said Trippy.

  “Only babies play pirates,” said Bryce.

  “Who you calling babies?” I asked. Just because Bryce was eleven, that didn’t mean he could talk to us like that.

  “Yeah, we’re pirates!” said Roger, who was still wearing his plastic teeth.

  Bryce and Trippy laughed so hard, they doubled over.

  “Oh, yeah?” I said before I could stop myself. “This may look like a game to you, but it’s not. It’s a training exercise.”

  “Huh?” said T. J. and Roger. They were both looking at me as if I had gone crazy.

  “Training for what?” shot back Bryce. “To be pirates? I don’t think so.” He revved the whaler’s awesome brand-new Mercury FourStroke engine.

  “Later, babies,” sneered Bryce.

  “We’re pirate hunters, actually,” I said before I could stop myself. “Treasure hunters, to be exact.” My eye fell on the plastic box of gold. “And we’re . . . uh . . . looking for Captain Kidd’s treasure.”

  CAPTAIN KIDD

  (c. 1654–1701)

  William Kidd, an excellent mariner, was hired by King William III of England to hunt down pirate ships and take their treasure. Some people thought he was a pirate, so he was put on trial in London. According to legend, he stopped at an island to bury his treasure before being captured in New York. He was hanged at Execution Dock in 1701.

  Bryce and Trippy laughed at us.

  “No one’s ever found that treasure,” said Bryce. “Not even real treasure hunters.”

  “That’s right,” chimed in Trippy.

  “So, how are you going to find it?” asked Bryce.

  Everyone’s eyes were on me, even Shrimp’s.

  “He’s just bluffing,” said Bryce. “Why are we wasting our time talking to some dumb fourth-graders who don’t even have a motor on their boat?!”

  “I am not bluffing,” I said. “We are so going to find it.”

  “How?” asked Bryce. He sat back down and put his hands on the whaler’s shiny silver wheel.

  “Yeah, how?” asked T. J., staring at me with his mouth open so I could see all the chewed-up jelly beans.

  “Maybe we know where Captain Kidd’s treasure map is,” I said. The words sprayed out of my mouth like water out of a whale’s blowhole.

  “No way!” said Bryce.

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “I dare you, Fish Finelli!” Bryce laughed. “I double-doggie dare you to find that treasure. You’re a big faker!”

  “He is not a faker,” said Roger and T. J.

  “Let’s see the map, then!” said Trippy.

  “Yeah!” agreed Bryce, high-fiving him.

  “It’s not here,” I said.

  “Babies playing pirates is all you are.” Bryce revved the motor again. “Yo-ho-ho!”

  “Just you wait, Bryce! You’ll see!”

  “Oh, yeah?” shot back Bryce. “I bet you . . . ” His voice trailed off as he frowned, thinking.

  “Your sunglasses,” Roger cut in. “Fish gets your sunglasses if he finds the treasure.”

  “Okay,” said Bryce, his mirrored sunglasses catching the light as if they were on fire. I had to admit they were pretty cool. They were from Get Whooped, the surfer shop. And they were the kind real surfers wore.

  “But if Bryce wins, what does he get?” said Trippy. “It’s gotta be something good.”

  I looked at Roger. Roger looked at me. T. J. held up his almost empty box of Mallomars and shrugged.

  “If I win—I mean when I win—Fish gives me fifty bucks,” said Bryce. “ ’Cause it’s not like he has anything I’d ever want.”

  “Deal?” asked Trippy.

  I didn’t say anything for a minute. I was too busy thinking about how I had a whopping $27.51. How could I possibly give Bryce almost twice that? And forget about the Seagull. It would be long gone before I could even think about buying it.

  “You know what you are?” said Bryce, revving the engine. He held up his forefinger and stuck out his thumb to make an L and pointed it right at me—the universal sign for loser.

  The tips of my ears started burning, the way they do when I get really mad. “Deal,” I said before I could think about it for one more second.

  “You’ve got two weeks to get me my money,” said Bryce. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to be sorry when we find that treasure!” I shouted as the engine roared to life.

  Bryce and Trippy shot off in a surge of spray that sent water all over us. Our boat rocked. Roger and T. J. looked at me as they wiped the water out of their eyes. Feenie and Mmm and Shrimp did, too. No one said anything for a long moment.

  Then Roger grinned. “Fish, are you Captain Kidding me????!!!!”

  The Librarian's Got the Booty?!

  "It’s very clear.” Roger pointed to the gold-lettered sign. “By appointment only. And last time I checked, you did not have an appointment.”

  “What are we doing here?” asked T. J. He blew a big pink bubble with his gum. It popped all over his nose.

  “T. J., can you quit chewing so loud?” I whispered. “We don’t want anyone to notice us.”

  “Why not?” said T. J. “I brought my library card.”

  “I did, too,” I said. “That’s not the point.”

  “No, the point is, Fish, we need an appointment,” said Roger. He made his duh face, which makes his eyes bulge like a squid’s.

  “Do you really think they’d give a kid an appointment?” I shot back. “It says ‘Researchers Must Go to the Front Desk for Assistance.’ That means they’ll know we’re kids.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” asked Roger.

  “The Lioness donated a bunch of stuff to the library,” I said. “So, maybe there’s a map or a letter from when Captain Kidd landed on Lyons Island that will give us a clue.”

  The Lioness is what everybody calls Winthrop Lyons IV’s widow, who lives on the island. She’s supposed to be as tough as a lioness. That is pretty tough, since it’s the females, not the males, who defend the pride.

  “I’m starving,” said T. J. He pulled a roll of SweeTarts out of his pocket and popped a fuzzy one into his mouth. It looked like it was covered with dryer lint.

  Roger leaned against the door and put his ear to the shiny wood.

  “Hear anything?” asked T. J.

  Roger shook his head. “Silent as a dead man’s chest. I say yo-ho-ho, let’s go for it.” He reached for the doorknob.

  “Roger!” I hissed. “Don’t!”

  Suddenly, the knob started to turn all by itself.

  We stepped back just as the door opened. A skinny woman with red-framed glasses stepped out. “Oh,” she said in surprise. “Hello, gentlemen. Sorry, but I’ve got to run. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” She hurried down the hall, as Roger put his foot in the space between the door and the jamb so it wouldn’t lock.

  “Fifteen minutes, Finelli. Ready, set, go!” Roger took his foot out of the doorframe. “The usual warning if there’s trouble, okay?”

  Heart pounding, I slipped inside. There were old wooden bookcases filled with old leather-bound books. Under the window was a desk
with a computer on it. Opposite that was a long, glass-covered table.

  I went over to take a look. Under the glass was a whale jawbone with a scrimshaw design of a ship, a beat-up arrowhead, and an old map. Maybe it was a treasure map! I looked closer. Nope. It was just a map of the town.

  “Now what?” I said.

  I turned. My eye was caught by the letters on the cabinet drawer in front of me. It read AB–AS. The one below read AT–BD.

  The card catalog! Perfect! Instead of computers, librariesused to have these cabinets with cards in them, called card catalogs. Each card lists the name of a book, its author, and some stuff about it. Each book also has a call number that tells you where to find it. It’s called the Dewey Decimal System ’cause it was invented by this dude, Melvil Dewey, back in the 1800s. And lots of the call numbers have decimal points. Dewey Decimal—get it? I could look up Captain Kidd and find the call numbers for the books about him.

  I reached for the C drawer. Then I remembered that it wasn’t like Captain was Captain Kidd’s first name. That was William. I was just bending down for the WA–WU drawer when I realized that stuff is usually alphabetized by last name, not first. So I needed a K drawer. As I scanned for K, I spotted the words Lyons Island on one whole drawer. Sweet!

  I flipped through cards about the island’s ecosystems. Next was a bunch of cards about Winthrop Lyons and the Native American chief who gave him the island in the first place. Turns out it was called Monchonake (mahn-cho-nake) back then, which means Island of Death. Spooky.

  And then I came to one card that read in this teensy, old-fashioned writing: A List of the Treasure Left by Capn. W. K. to W. Lyons, including Pieces of Eight, Arabian gold, emeralds, rubies, diamonds . . .

  PIECES OF EIGHT

  Also known as Spanish dollars, they were first minted in 1497 in Spain. Each was worth eight reales (see why it’s called a piece of eight?). The first United States silver dollar was based on it, although the dollar contained less silver than a piece of eight and so was really worth less.