Twenty minutes later, he did the worst thing he could possibly do.
He fell asleep.
Chapter
15
Little Ball of
Bread Dough
Tick snapped awake a half-hour after midnight. His alarm clock glowed with evil red numbers, as if they wanted to make sure he knew his mistake was unforgivable.
Jumping out of bed with a groan, he ran to his window and looked outside for any sign of the supposed visitor. He couldn’t see the entire porch from his angle, but the steps were visible in the bright moonlight that poked through a break in the clouds. No one was there, and Tick felt his heart sink.
I’m such an idiot!
Maybe he’d messed the whole thing up and lost the trust of M.G. He didn’t know who’d painted the sign, but he had no doubt it was related to the M.G. mystery, and he even suspected it was Mothball or maybe her friend Rutger. She’d said he might come visit him. Sofia mentioned in her e-mail that she’d received the fourth clue, but Tick hadn’t seen his yet. What if the midnight meeting was supposed to provide it?
Hardly able to stand the frustration and worry, Tick put on some warm clothes, determined to go outside and search for his visitor.
Stepping only on quiet spots in the house, avoiding the most obvious creaks and groans he knew from years of experience, he crept down the stairs and to the front door. After quietly slipping into his coat and boots, then wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck, he very carefully unlocked the deadbolt, then turned the handle. Knowing if he opened
the door slowly, it would let out a creak that would wake the dead, he jerked it open in one quick motion, preventing almost any sound at all.
His heart pounding, he stepped out into the bitterly cold night, quietly shutting the door behind him.
After searching the whole yard and finding nothing, he sat on the front porch and put his head into his cupped hands, squeezing his eyes shut in anger at himself. How could he have been so stupid? He should never have lain down to read—everyone knew that was the number one way in the world to make yourself fall asleep. He blew out an exasperated sigh as he leaned back and folded his arms, looking up at the sky. Dark, churning clouds, their edges softly illuminated by the moon hiding behind them, seemed to move across the sky at an unnatural pace like something from a horror movie in fast forward.
Tick shivered, and he knew it wasn’t the cold alone that caused it.
He leaned forward to stand up when something hit him on his right temple, followed by the soft clatter of a rock tumbling down the steps. He looked just in time to see a pebble the size of a walnut come to a rest a few feet away.
Belatedly, he said, “Ow” as he looked around to discover where the rock had come from. Nothing stirred in the darkness, the only sound a slight breeze whispering through the leafless trees in the front yard and sighing over the snow-covered bushes lining the front of the house. He thought one bush may have moved more than the others, and he was just about to investigate when another rock hit him, this time in the right shoulder. Sure enough, the rock came from the suspected bush, the powdery layer of snow almost completely knocked off.
“Who’s over there?” he asked, surprised he didn’t feel more scared. “Quit throwing rocks like a baby and come out.”
The bush rustled again, then a small figure stepped out from behind the branches. It was impossible to make out details in the scant light, but the person looked like a little kid, maybe six or seven years old, bundled up in layers and layers of clothes. He or she resembled nothing so much as a big round ball with little bumps for arms and legs and a head.
“Who are you?” Tick asked, standing up and stepping closer. “Are you the one who left me the note on the sign?”
The little person walked toward him, waddling like an overweight duck. A shaft of moonlight broke through the clouds just as the visitor reached a spot a few feet in front of Tick, revealing in vivid detail what he’d thought was a child.
It was a man. A very short and very fat man.
He was dressed all in black—black sweat pants and sweatshirt, black tennis shoes, black coat, black hat pulled over his ears. Tick’s dad had once made a joke that sweat suits were made for people to exercise in, but the only people who seemed to wear them were fat people like himself.
Knowing all too well what it felt like to be made fun of, Tick always tried never to do it to anyone else. As the strange little round man walked up to him, Tick promised himself he would do his best to refrain from all known fat jokes.
“I’m large, okay?” the man said, though he barely came to Tick’s waist. His voice was normal with no accent or strange pitch. Tick didn’t know why that surprised him so much, but then he realized he’d been expecting the guy to sound like one of the Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz.
So much for not judging others on their looks.
The short man continued, “And I must be the dumbest fat guy you’ll ever meet, because I wore all black to camouflage myself in a place that is covered in snow.”
Tick stared, with no idea how to respond.
“My name is Rutger,” the stranger said, holding a hand up toward Tick. “My hand might be the size of your big toe, but don’t be scared to shake it. Nice to meet you.”
Tick reached down and clasped Rutger’s hand, shaking it very gently.
“What’s that?” Rutger asked. “Feels like I’m grabbing a floppy fish. You think I’m made of porcelain or something? Shake my hand if you’re gonna shake my hand!”
Tick gripped harder and shook, completely amazed by this new person. He finally spoke back. “Sorry. I’m just a little surprised. I didn’t know . . .”
“What? That I’d look like a shrunken Sumo wrestler? Come on, let’s sit and talk awhile. This weight is killer on my tiny legs.” Rutger didn’t wait for a response, walking over to the porch steps and taking a seat on the bottom step. Even then, his feet barely touched the ground in front of him.
Tick smiled, finally feeling at ease, and joined Rutger on the steps. “So, you’re friends with Mothball, right?”
Rutger slapped his round belly. “You betcha I am! That tall stack of sticks is the best friend a man can have, even if she is three times my size. Well, up and down, anyway, if you know what I mean.” He raised his hand vertically, as if guessing the height of something. “Ah, Mothball’s a funny one if you get her going. Word to the wise though. Don’t ever ask her about the day she and her twin sis were born unless you have about seven days with nothing else to do but sit and listen.”
Tick grinned. “I’ll remember that. Why’d you throw those rocks at me?”
“Why were you late?”
“I . . . uh, good point. Slept in.”
Rutger looked at Tick intently, searching for something. “Looks like you forgot your assignment, too.”
“I did? What—” Then Tick remembered the poem and what it had asked for. He’d meant to scrounge around in the basement to find some old shoes and mittens. “Oh, never mind—you’re right, I forgot. Sorry.”
Rutger slapped Tick on the shoulder. “It’s okay, I can wait.”
“Huh? You mean . . .”
“That’s right, big fella. Come back with what I asked for and maybe I’ll talk.”
Tick paused before responding, hopeful that Rutger would wink and say he’d only been kidding. “You’re . . . serious?”
Rutger leaned closer like a giant rubber ball rolling forward. “I’ve been to more places in the last two weeks than you’ve seen in your whole life, boy. My shoes are just about ready to call it a day and walk off my feet—no pun intended, though that was a pretty good one. And my hands—cold, young man, cold.”
“You mean, the shoes and mittens are for you?”
“Who else, boy? Do you think I’d be traipsing around the Realities with a little child stuck to my hip? Of course they’re for me!” His voice had risen considerably, and Tick worried his dad would hear.
“Don’t talk so loud. You’ll wake the whole neighborhood.”
Rutger answered in an exaggerated whisper. “You won’t hear another peep from me until I’m holding a nice new pair of shoes and a warm-as-muffins pair of mittens.” He nodded curtly and folded his arms.
Tick stood up. “I’ll go—but what did you mean when you said the Realities?”
“Oh, come on, boy. It’s all about the kyoopy—science, Chi’karda, Barrier Wands!”
Tick stared, wondering if anyone in history had ever answered a question as poorly as Rutger just had. “What are you talking about?”
Rutger put two fingers together and swiped them across his lips, the age-old sign for zipping one’s mouth shut.
“Fine,” Tick muttered. “Be back in a minute.”
He walked up the porch steps and opened the front door. Just before he stepped into the house, Tick heard Rutger say something creepy.
“Good. Because when you get back, we need to talk about dead people.”
Chapter
16
Nowhere in Between
Tick wasted five minutes searching for the box in the basement where his old clothes were stored—the ones his mom couldn’t bear to part with. He finally spotted it and pulled almost everything out before he found a pile of shoes of varying sizes. He chose three pairs that seemed the closest to Rutger’s size, then rummaged through everything else again, searching for mittens or gloves. He found nothing.
He walked back upstairs, still doing his best to keep quiet, and dove into the closet holding all of their winter clothing. He finally came across a pair of yellow mittens his grandma in Georgia had knitted out of yarn a long time ago. They’d been his once, but Kayla had been wearing them ever since she destroyed her own pair in the fireplace. Tick tried not to laugh at the thought that they should fit Rutger just perfectly.
I can’t believe I have a Hobbit in my own front yard.
Holding in a snicker, he went outside.
“Oh, those will do just fine. Just fine! Thank you.” Rutger hurriedly pulled on the mittens, then replaced his worn shoes with a pair of sneakers that Tick must’ve grown out of very quickly because they still looked relatively new.
“Glad to be of service,” Tick said, settling on the step beside his new friend. He shivered from the cold and tightened his scarf around his neck. “Now I think you had a lot to tell me? What was that about dead people?”
The little man rubbed his newly wrapped hands together and leaned against the step behind him. “Ah, yes, dead people. There’s a phrase that Mas—” He caught himself before saying anything else, looking at Tick with guilt written all over his face.
“What?” Tick asked.
“Oh, nothing . . . nothing. I was just going to say that there’s something a good friend of mine always says: ‘Nothing in this world better reflects the difference between life and death than the power of choice.’ Says that all the time, my friend does.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Rutger looked at him intently. “What’s your name, son?”