The Boy with 17 Senses (11 page)

If only he could get rid of that little nagging voice in the back of his brain that told him it wasn't going to be so great as long as Plenthy was still stuck on that sensory explosion called Earth. After all, it was Plenthy's note that had led Jaq to all this glug. He owed the guy, and he had to figure out how to rescue him.

“Well, well, well,” a voice said. It came from the brickleberry bushes. “It's the skinny kid with the hair.”

“Weren't you wearing that shirt yesterday?” another said.

“No, that was the scarecrow,” another replied. “I have to say, the scarecrow wore it better.”

“His clothes
are
awful,” another said. “But they do take attention away from that nose.”

Jaq recognized that last voice. “Bonip?” He looked over and saw a familiar twitchy nose duck back behind the ripweed stalks.

“Bonip?” one of the wippers said. “You friends with this guy?”

“Friends? With him? Don't be ridiculous. He gets me worms, is all. Definitely not friends with that loser.”

“Good, 'cause if you are friends with him, that means you gotta go. Talk about spoiling my flow.”

“How about this one—you know why his clothes are torn? 'Cause even they can't wait to get away from him,” Bonip suggested.

“Good one! Even his clothes don't want to hang out with him!”

The rest laughed and hurled more insults at Jaq.

“Yeah,” Bonip continued. “He told me he's got seventeen senses . . . but I guess fashion sense ain't one of them!”

The wippers all roared with laughter.

Jaq felt crushed. He could withstand the other wippers' taunts. He'd put up strong mental walls to block those attacks, and the insults just bounced right off them. But Bonip had gotten past his defenses by being his friend. Or pretending to be. It's hard to steel yourself to an attack from inside your
walls, because it's unexpected, which makes it hurt so much more. Jaq felt the betrayal through his whole body, from his shaky legs, to his gut, which felt like it had been punched, to his eyes, which blinked away tears as fast as they could form.

Sling you all!
he wanted to shout.
I'm going to get my wipper-slinger back, and I'm going to watch him hurl you, over and over. Throw you so hard, you hit that tree and never come back
.

He went inside, leaving his bucket of worms by the door.

It was midmorning by the time Grandpa was ready to go to the market. By then, Jaq's anger had gone back into hibernation. He focused on the good he was going to do with his glug and forgot about the wippers.

“Oh, my bones . . . Oh, my back . . . Oh, oh, oh,” Grandpa said. “How long have we been walking?”

“We just left,” Jaq said. “I literally just closed the gate behind us.”

“Well, it seems like forever. Let me stop and take a rest.” Grandpa leaned against the fence until it started to wobble. “There we go . . . Oh, oh, oh.” He sat down on the ground. Every movement Grandpa made was accompanied by a grunt, which sent out small purple starbursts in Jaq's vision.

It was going to be a long walk to the marketplace. Jaq
looked up the road. How was he going to get Grandpa to walk all that way when he'd just collapsed after walking from the door to the gate, a total of twenty steps?

He had to get Grandpa moving.

“Grandpa,” Jaq said, “tell me about how you lost the farm.”

“I don't like to talk about it,” Grandpa said, the anger inside him forcing him up to his feet. He started pacing. “It just makes me so mad.”

Jaq hoped that an angry Grandpa would be a walking Grandpa, so he kept talking. “Were you swindled? Like me with the key?”

“Key? What key? I didn't even get a key out of the bargain, no,” he said. “In that regard, you did me one better.”

“What happened?” Jaq could remember visiting Grandpa at his old farm on just two occasions. It wasn't until Grandpa lost the farm sixteen years ago, when Jaq was only thirty-three, that Jaq and his mother had come to help take care of him. This little tract of land was all he had left by that time.

Grandpa stopped walking and turned to look at the Vilcots' enormous farm. Jaq watched his grandfather's gaze travel across the vineyard that separated their houses until it reached the Vilcots' home. Past the large house lay an open
field filled with animals. It was a beautiful, bucolic landscape, but it reminded Grandpa of his loss.

Grandpa sighed. The sadness on his face was so raw and open that Jaq felt his insides get all jumbled up with sorrow.

He turned to Jaq. “I'm going to tell you what happened,” he said, “even though I don't like talking about it. But if you can learn something from my mistake, then you should hear it.”

He leaned against the fence and continued. “Many years ago, I was enjoying life on my magnificent farm, happy as a 16 that doesn't know a square root is sneaking up, ready to demolish him into a 4. Did I tell you about the manzeeno orchard down by the river?”

“Yes, Grandpa. Let's focus on the swindle.”

“Right. I'll start over . . . There I was, not a rumble of sadness in my whole being, when who should come for a visit but an old school chum. He'd just moved back to town after living a life of adventure. Oh! The stories he could tell! They were filled with delicious and exotic words, like
chimichanga
and
escalator
and
jambalaya
.

“Well, my old pal had a fantastic new enterprise that was going to bring unbelievable riches to our world. He just needed some cash to get it going. I had a nice farm, as I've told you. Did I mention the wild guarthaberry bushes?”

“Yes. Did you give him money?”

“Well, here's the situation. I had this nice farm, as you know—”

“I know,” Jaq said, before Grandpa could start reminiscing again.

“But not a lot of cash. You know farming, Jaq. The money is tied up in the crops and livestock. I had some available funds, but not enough. So I asked my friend Ripley Vilcot to invest with us. We'd each own a third of the business.”

“Your
friend
Vilcot?” Jaq said.

“Yep, we were friends once,” Grandpa said. He shook his head, as if even he couldn't believe it. At last, he started walking again. “That is, until this other fellow disappeared with our money and Vilcot accused me of being part of the swindle. Vilcot is a prideful man, and he wanted his money back. A Rollop always pays his debts, Jaq. I've told you that before, haven't I?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“I had to sell my farm to pay back every last damar he'd invested. It wasn't enough for Vilcot, though. He wanted to punish me for tricking him, but the police said they couldn't arrest me, because I'd given him his money back. This infuriated Vilcot, so he bought my farm from the fella I'd sold it
to and has been making my life miserable ever since. I can't get a job because he tells everyone I'm a crook.”

“But can't he see you weren't part of the swindle?” Jaq asked. “If you were, you'd have more money.”

“He thinks I set him up and then got swindled out of my share.” Grandpa stopped walking again. They had passed the vineyards and now stood in front of the Vilcots' house. “I curse the day that my old friend came back to town. He stole everything from me—my farm, my money, and my trust in people. A thief always steals more than he knows. Oh, he may think he's just taking your money, but he's also leaving behind a minefield of sadness. Little explosions of despair pierce your heart whenever you think about what you lost. You never know when those sad memories of loss will strike, and they never go away. That's what a thief does—leaves behind a lot of sorrow. I couldn't live with myself if I knew how much sadness I was causing.”

The man sounded an awful lot like the Swindler, and Jaq knew exactly where to find him: shopping at the marketplace with the money he'd gotten from selling Klingdux. Jaq would tell Grandpa about him as soon as they were done selling the glug. He needed to keep Grandpa focused.

Jaq's stare-sense drew his attention to a window in the
Vilcots' house, where he saw Ripley Vilcot scowling down at them.

“Let's get moving,” Jaq said.

Grandpa nodded, and they set off down the road for the market.

17

PRIDE IS PARANOID, LIKE AN ORANGE 6

O
ld Ripley Vilcot was expecting a visitor.

He stood at the wide window while his grandson, Tormy, sat on the floor next to him throwing a ball to Klingdux. Vilcot had wanted the boy with him for this meeting. Tormy needed to learn how to deal with shifty people.

Vilcot didn't like waiting. He also didn't like what he saw outside—that devious old Rollop and his grandson. They were just standing there, looking at his farm. Oh, how he
hated that family. What were they up to with that big plastic bird? Vilcot didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. As he scowled at the pair of them, the boy looked up and saw him. Then they hurried away, looking guilty.

Vilcot's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Pay attention, Tormy,” he said. “But first, let him in.”

Tormy opened the door, then returned to his spot on the floor with Klingdux.

Vilcot remained standing, gazing out the window. He wanted his visitor to squirm a little, to get nervous about why he'd been called into his boss's office. This was not a day to mess with Ripley Vilcot.

At last, the elder Vilcot turned around and spoke. No greeting, no explanation, he got right to business. “How much did you give that boy for this freasel, hmm?” He pointed to Klingdux.

“What did we agree on?” Davardi replied. “You said no more than thirty. Those were the instructions I followed.”

“I'm well aware of what I told you. I did not ask you what my instructions were. I asked you how much you gave the boy. And the reason I am asking, Mr. Davardi, is that this morning, my colleague at the hushware factory told me that Mrs. Rollop was happier than a 3. She's been telling her friends that her money
problems are over. I'm asking because you're standing before me in an expensive leather jacket and matching boots that you weren't wearing when I gave you the money.”

“I happen to own lots of clothes that you haven't seen, Vilcot.”

“Ah, but do you leave the tags on all of them?”

Davardi spun around in circles until he found the offending tag, then plucked it off and stuffed it into a pocket.

Ripley Vilcot came out from behind his desk and approached Davardi, giving him a long, slow gaze from his face down to his new boots and back again.
The man is devious
, he thought.
I knew I shouldn't have trusted him
. Small curlicues of black and deep red spun in the corners of his vision.

“I know how to add things up, Davardi, and this doesn't add up. I know you're as shifty as an 8, so tell me now what you gave that boy, or I will make your life miserable. Don't think I can't.”

Davardi shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. “I didn't give him any damars. I kept them for myself and bought this jacket. I traded for the freasel.”

“Traded what?”

“That big key you gave me. It's pretty, but worthless. It doesn't open anything.”

“That kid traded his pet for a key?” Vilcot had trouble believing Davardi's explanation.

“The key and a story.” Davardi smiled. “I've got a way with words, if I do say so myself.”

Vilcot nodded. He dismissed Davardi with a swish of his hand. He believed Davardi was telling the truth, but it still didn't add up. How could a key make the Rollops so happy?

That key!
Oh, how Vilcot hated that key! He'd been happy to get rid of it. But now here it was again, popping up in a situation that had already made him angry.

Whenever he thought about the key, Vilcot's jaw clenched in anger. It reminded him of the time he'd lost all his money to Rollop and his con man friend, Plenthy. Sure, he'd gotten his money back from that wicked Rollop, but the thought that he'd been conned still stung his pride. And the key was a slap in the face, meant to remind him of his stupidity.