Trashed!, page 3
“Thank you, Arthur. It is nice,” Officer Bernstein said. “But if you want to know the truth, I was wondering how many peppercorns it holds.”
Officer Bernstein had a thing about numbers.
Arthur said, “Depends on how big the grains are?”
Officer Bernstein nodded—a little sadly. Meanwhile, Veda had stood up. “I have to be home by—”
“I know,” Arthur said. “What for, anyway?”
“Watch the niños,” Veda said. “Mamá has a date.”
“Seriously?” Arthur said. He knew Mrs. Lopez was single, but he had never heard of her having a date before. “With a man?”
“Yes, a man,” Veda said. “He’s been working for her for a while, but I haven’t met him. Now I have to see if he’s okay.”
Arthur had other friends with single parents and divorced parents and dating parents. Still, he couldn’t imagine what that would be like, meeting someone your mom liked, someone who wasn’t your dad. “Wow,” he said. “Wow. Okay. I’ll see you at school, then.”
Veda said goodbye to Officer Bernstein and headed for the office, where she’d left her bike.
Arthur stood up too, gathered the pens, stickers, price tags, and index cards, and headed back to the cash counter.
Officer Bernstein set down the pepper grinder—a little sadly—and went with him. Randolph was telling a customer about the store’s toy-sanitizing protocol, but as soon as he saw Officer Bernstein, he narrowed his eyes and looked away. Randolph did not like Officer Bernstein because once, long ago, something had happened between them. Arthur didn’t know what, and his parents wouldn’t tell him.
Sometimes, Arthur thought, being a kid was a pain. Claiming they wanted to protect you, grown-ups acted all mysterious. Instead of feeling protected, you felt confused.
“Is your dad around, do you know?” Officer Bernstein asked Arthur.
Randolph interrupted his sanitized-toy talk to say, “Office.”
“I know the way,” Officer Bernstein said. “See you soon, Arthur. Good to see you, too, Randolph.”
Randolph ignored him.
The direct route back to the entrance took Arthur through Fine China. In general Arthur knew the store’s inventory pretty well, and at that moment he knew china really well. He and Jennifer Y had rotated and restocked it the previous week.
Which was why, when he saw the teacup, he knew it was not supposed to be there.
CHAPTER TEN
The teacup rested among dozens more on a shelf just beneath Arthur’s eye level. It was white and decorated with a picture of a blue cartoon bear. It might have been marching or dancing. It certainly was grinning. The cup was supposed to have a saucer, Arthur thought as he looked it over. There was a chip on the rim above the blue bear’s right ear.
Other cups were on the shelf too, all in sets of six or eight, all complete with saucers.
“See something good?” Done with the customer, Randolph approached from the toy aisle.
Arthur showed him the teacup, and Randolph grinned.
“You know what that bear is, don’t you, Arthur?”
Arthur thought it looked familiar. “Maybe?” he said.
“He’s dancing to the beat of the HoneyJams. A long time ago, they were—”
“—a rock ’n’ roll band,” Arthur said. “Got it.” His grandparents had been huge fans, had met at a concert nearby in Denver. Once a year some of the old musicians still played at the stadium on campus, and his grandparents always dragged Arthur’s parents, and Arthur’s parents always complained that the show went on forever.
“But what’s the cup doing here, I wonder?” Arthur said. “Dad would never take a chipped cup without a saucer.”
Randolph shrugged. “Can’t answer that one. See you tomorrow?”
Arthur said, “Probably,” then reversed direction and headed to the office. His dad was seated at his desk with Officer Bernstein across from him. Grandpa was seated at his own desk, shifting index cards from one box to another.
Dad looked up when Arthur came in. “Done for the day?” he asked. “I think your mom is home.”
“I found this in Fine China.” Arthur held up the cup.
His dad saw the chip right away, shook his head. “I’ll check the UUI in a bit,” he said.
“I can do it right now,” Grandpa said, turned to face Arthur, got a look at the teacup. When he did, his eyes widened. “No way,” he said.
“No way what?” Dad asked.
“Bring that here right now, Arthur,” Grandpa said.
Used to Grandpa’s commands, Arthur obeyed. Grandpa took the cup, flipped it upside down, then right side up, set it on the desk, inhaled, exhaled, shook his head. All this time, it was silent in the office. What could be so important about a teacup?
“That’s the one, though. I remember the chip was just in that spot,” Grandpa said. “Where did you find it, Arthur?”
Arthur told him.
Dad said, “I’m missing something here.”
“Should I look into it?” Officer Bernstein asked. “The case of the found teacup?”
Arthur brushed his bangs out of his eyes. This was probably a joke, he thought, but Officer Bernstein didn’t smile, so it was hard to tell.
Meanwhile, Grandpa stood up, crossed to the wall of shelves that held the UUI boxes, picked out the one for Housewares, opened it, and, one by one, flipped through the cards. Arthur knew exactly where he was looking: Fine China, subcategory Tea Sets.
“No entry,” Grandpa said after a moment. “Not that I really expected one.” He closed the box, then turned to face the room. “Who’d have thought that after all this time the thief would bring it back?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
What thief?” Arthur thought this sounded interesting.
Grandpa’s usual state of crankiness returned. “Well, if I knew that, I’d know where it came from, wouldn’t I?”
Arthur said, “Uh… I don’t know, Grandpa B.”
“Tell the story, Byron. If you don’t mind, that is,” Dad said.
Grandpa returned to his desk and sat down. “That teacup,” he began, “is legendary.”
No one spoke.
“That teacup,” he continued, “is where Universal Trash began.”
“No lie?” Impressed, Dad looked at the teacup too.
“Your grandmother found it in the trash, Arthur. The cup was chipped even then, but she thought somebody would want it, a Breadhead, you know. And we were hard up. Down to our last jar of peanut butter, no gas in the van, and gas was sixty cents a gallon in those days.”
“What’s a Breadhead?” Arthur asked.
Grandpa chuckled, something he did not do often. “It’s what we devoted fans of the HoneyJams used to call ourselves. Jam goes with bread, get it? And they were a jam band, and…” He shrugged. “It seemed funny at the time.”
“Go on, Byron,” Dad said.
“Well, we figured we’d sell the teacup for a dollar, buy a couple of apples, a little gas, drive on to the next show. We had no idea of making a real business, you understand.”
Officer Bernstein looked thoughtful. Sad but also thoughtful. “With gas at sixty cents,” he said, “a dollar buys you one and two-thirds gallons. Say the van got twenty-five miles to the gallon—that’s forty miles.”
Grandpa nodded. “Which is why I had the bright idea of making up some nonsense about how Jerry Strange himself used to play tea party with that cup when he was just a little guy.”
“Jerry Strange was the lead singer of the HoneyJams,” Dad said to Arthur.
“I know that, Dad.”
“Just making sure,” Dad said.
“But that story doesn’t make any sense, Grandpa,” Arthur said. “The bear was a cartoon for the HoneyJams. And they didn’t exist yet when Jerry Strange was a little kid.”
“It was a tall tale,” Grandpa said. “What do you want from me? The point was, it made the cup special, so we could charge more. Five dollars, I think we asked.”
“Eight and a third gallons,” Officer Bernstein said.
“We scrounged a few more items too,” Grandpa said. “T-shirts and earrings, if I remember, beads probably, and we cleaned it all up, put it all out on the only table we owned—a card table with a wobbly leg—added price tags, told everybody it was high-quality stuff, the teacup especially… and what do you know, it worked. We made… ten dollars? I think it was ten dollars. We felt like we were rolling in dough.”
“But someone stole the teacup?” Arthur asked.
Grandpa gave him a look.
“Sorry,” Arthur said.
Grandpa resumed. “Someone musta believed my tall tale because the teacup disappeared. Your grandmother and I musta been busy with something else, and somebody snatched it. We laughed at the time. We could afford to. We had our fortune, our ten dollars. We didn’t mind so much that we had been ripped off.”
Arthur nodded, but he was still confused. “Then what happened?”
“What do you mean, ‘Then what happened?’ ” Grandpa B was cranky again, his usual self. “We grew up, we opened the store on Valmont, we had a kid…. Somewhere in there we got married. Then we got old.”
“I mean what happened to the teacup?” Arthur persisted.
“Have you been paying attention?” Grandpa said. “I don’t know what happened to the teacup, not till today when it shows up out of nowhere.”
“So you think the thief brought it back?” Arthur asked.
“How do I know what thieves do?” Grandpa asked.
“Crazy story, Byron,” Dad said.
“So that’s… what?” Officer Bernstein seemed to be calculating. “You founded the store in the ’80s, so more than forty years the teacup has been missing.”
“Can I have it?” Arthur asked.
Grandpa shrugged. “Makes no difference to me now.”
“You need a chipped teacup?” Dad asked.
Arthur was thinking the cup was the right size for a certain mouse he knew, a ghost mouse. It would be a place for her to hang out. Since he couldn’t say that, he said, “The bear is funny.”
Dad shrugged. “Sure, Arthur. Go ahead and take it. That teacup might be legendary, but in terms of resale? A chipped teacup is worthless.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Upstairs the whole apartment smelled like the chili Arthur’s mom had put on the stove before she’d left for the office. On Sundays she always said she was going to work “just for a couple of hours” and then spent most of the day at the office. After Dad hung out the closed signs and locked the store, he’d come up and make something for dessert.
Arthur’s mom was not in the kitchen, so Arthur walked through it and down the hall to his own bedroom, teacup in hand.
“Whatcha got there?” Close to Arthur’s right ear, Watson’s voice startled him. When he looked, she was perched on his shoulder.
“Teacup,” Arthur said, and placed it on a shelf between his collection of Sherlock Holmes books and a clay pig he’d made in preschool. “It’s your size, I think. I could put some cotton in it or something. A piece of handkerchief? Like a hangout for you, I guess.”
“How thoughtful, Arthur. Thank you,” Watson said. “I’ll check it out, if I might.”
Arthur noticed that Watson seemed to have two speeds, quick and stop. When he placed her in the teacup, she nosed around in a hurry, then came to rest, perfectly still, her bright eyes peeking over the rim. “Just the right size,” she said.
Arthur was pleased he had thought of it.
“So what’s new?” he asked, taking a seat on the edge of his bed.
“Not a lot,” Watson admitted. “Now that I don’t have a body to feed and exercise, I have time on my hands. Perhaps I’ll spend it contemplating life’s mysteries.”
Arthur nodded. “I have some mysteries you could contemplate if you want.”
“Yes?” Watson said.
“I mean, since you’re a ghost, can you tell the future? Or maybe read minds? It would be cool if you could. I mean, if you’re supposed to be helping me? That would be helpful. Like in school or life or whatever.”
Watson tugged her whiskers. “I don’t think I can tell the future,” she said after a moment. “But go ahead and ask your questions.”
Most of Arthur’s questions weren’t school stuff at all but questions about people. What made Officer Bernstein sad? Why was Grandpa B cranky and embarrassing? How come his mom was always at work?
But those questions were hard. Maybe he should start with an easier one.
So, since he was looking right at the teacup, he explained (short version) how it had disappeared and come back. “Do you know who the thief is?” he asked.
“No idea,” Watson said. “Perhaps it’s like a puzzle to solve, a mystery.”
“I like mysteries,” Arthur said. “For a fact, mystery books are what I usually check out of the library. I’ve even read one grown-up one by a writer named Christie something. The plot was kind of tough to follow, but the ending was good.”
“I believe that would be Agatha Christie,” Watson said. “She’s very famous and, like me, she’s dead.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Arthur said. “I mean, I guess it is. Anyway, the mystery of the teacup isn’t a very big one—not like something in a book or a movie, with murder or missing diamonds and whatnot.”
“No, not like that,” Watson admitted. “Still, it’s rather fun to solve a puzzle. Mice, of course, are famous for their navigating mazes, which are a kind of puzzle. Perhaps if you solve the mystery of the teacup, you will feel a glowing sense of accomplishment.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that before,” Arthur said.
Still, he was a little disappointed that Watson hadn’t simply answered the question.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At school the next day Veda updated Arthur on Juan, the guy her mom had had a date with.
“He has a lot of tattoos,” Veda said. “Do you know how much tattoos cost? How come he spends money on that, anyway? Mamá has only four tattoos, one for me and one for each of the niños, and all the tattoos are tiny.”
Arthur shook his head. “I never saw ’em, I don’t think.”
“Because they’re tiny,” Veda said, “which is appropriate for a mom.”
“But besides the tattoos, he was okay?” Arthur asked. He and Veda were in different sixth-grade homerooms, but they had library time together. Now they were in line to check out books. Veda was carrying the maximum number, six. Arthur had one.
“I guess,” Veda said. “I didn’t like the way he smiled at my mom, though. He looked too cheerful—like a puppy.”
“Eww,” said Arthur.
At the checkout desk Mrs. Danneberg, the librarian, looked at Arthur’s book. “Another mystery,” she said.
“Is that bad?” Arthur asked.
“No, no. It’s not bad at all,” she said. “Only, I keep thinking one day you’ll want to read about your namesake, King Arthur.”
“My grandma told me about him,” Arthur said. “He lived a long time ago, and his friends were named ‘Merlin’ and ‘Lancelot.’ Oh, and he was a king.”
Mrs. Danneberg rolled her eyes. She did that a lot. “Right, Arthur. But there is more to learn about him than that. Did you know, for example, that as a kid he was called ‘the Wart’?”
“That sounds very interesting, Mrs. Danneberg,” Arthur said, at the same time that he was thinking warts were pretty gross. “Maybe next week I’ll get a King Arthur book.”
Mrs. Danneberg sighed and pulled Arthur’s choice across the checkout desk. “Next week.”
* * *
At lunch Arthur always sat at the same outdoor table in the picnic pavilion with the same guys, Ethan, Danh, and Zeke. Last year he could’ve sat with Veda, but this year sitting with a girl was not okay. Veda seemed to understand this too. They had never talked about it. They just started sitting with other people.
Ethan, Danh, and Zeke were like Arthur, a little uncool. They were okay at sports but not great, okay-looking but not great, and they didn’t travel to Vail or Jackson or any of the other fancy ski destinations on weekends in the winter. If their moms drove on a field trip, it wasn’t in a new Tesla but in a plain Toyota, and their fleeces were plain Columbia or hand-me-down Patagonia, not Stio or Montbell or any of the cooler labels.
Arthur got along with most of the guys in his class, even if none of them knew anything about customer service, even if Arthur didn’t know a lot about mountain bikes or video games besides the obvious ones. By sixth grade they had been together long enough, had written enough skits together and built enough science fair projects and spoken enough Spanish dialogues, that they were used to each other.
That day at lunch Zeke announced that he’d played Super Smash Bros. for six straight hours the day before.
“So that’s why your butt’s getting big,” Arthur said without thinking. “ ’Cause it’s always stuck to your chair.”
“Bi-i-i-ig Butt Super Smash!” Ethan said. “That’s what we’ll call you from now on, Zeke.”
“All right, guys, sheez, come on,” Zeke mumbled. “It’s not like—”
“Whatta ya got in your lunch, Big Butt?” Danh asked.
Arthur wasn’t even listening by this time. Dad had packed chocolate chip cookies that day, and Arthur was thinking about cookies. Danh and Ethan kept on with the joke for a couple more minutes, but it wasn’t that funny, and soon they forgot all about it.
What Arthur didn’t know was that Zeke actually worried that his butt might be getting big. And Zeke did not forget.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
That afternoon the school bus dropped Arthur off a block from the store at the usual time, three forty. At four he would check in with his dad to see if the store needed him to help out. Between, he took a walk on a nearby trail around a lake so small that it ought to have been called a pond, only everyone was used to calling it a lake.
