Don't Chicken Out Page 3

  After school, Fiona climbed into the Bingo Bus and said hello to Mrs. Miltenberger and the Broads in the backseat. “Fiona Finkelstein, how’s it going, lovey?” said Mrs. O’Brien.

  Fiona had gotten used to telling the Bingo Broads some of her troubles in the past. They were always very eager to give advice. Sometimes too eager. And not all of their advice was bad, but after a couple of rotten apples, Fiona had decided it was better for everyone if she didn’t follow what they said.

  “Fine and dandy,” said Fiona. Then she noticed the blue boot on Mrs. Lordeau’s foot. “What happened?”

  “Oh, the dumbest thing,” she said. “I was hunting for spices in my cupboard and fell off a footstool. It’s just a sprain, but I’m supposed to stay off it.”

  “Does it hurt?” asked Fiona.

  Mrs. Lordeau patted the top of the boot. “Not enough to keep me from bingo. But it’s going to hurt Mayflower more than it hurts me.”

  “You and that dog,” said Mrs. Huff.

  “Poor boy, I won’t be able to take him on his walks like this,” said Mrs. Lordeau. “At least not for a couple of weeks.”

  “Enough about you,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “I want to hear about Fiona. Violet here tells us that you are quite the helper at home, sugar.”

  Mrs. Miltenberger pulled away from the curb and eyed Fiona in the rearview mirror.

  “You told?” Fiona felt her cheeks burn.

  Mrs. Miltenberger grinned and shrugged. “I might have said something about it. All in good fun.”

  Fiona stuck her hand in the air to protest. “In my defense, nobody told me that Max’s underwear would be involved. And that crack in the lemon tree pot could have been there all along. You don’t know.”

  The Broads laughed. “I don’t blame you at all, Fiona,” said Mrs. Huff. “Laundry is the worst.”

  Mrs. O’Brien ran her fingers through her short hair. “What’s the root cause of this sudden need to help?”

  “I want a job,” said Fiona plainly.

  “A job,” said Mrs. Lordeau. “Now what kind of job are you looking for, honey?”

  “You’re too young for a job,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “You’ve got the rest of your life to work, so you should be enjoying your time now.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little hard work, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Huff. “I started helping my father wash windows when I was just eight years old. Hard work puts hair on your chest.”

  “The girl doesn’t need hair on her chest, Gert,” said Mrs. O’Brien.

  Mrs. Miltenberger said, “Fiona does work. She gives weather reports at WORD. She’s the ballerina weathergirl.”

  “Well,” said Fiona, “I don’t do that as much anymore.”

  Mrs. Huff played with the mole on her chin. “Fiona, now you listen to me. Your job is to do well in your subjects at school. That’s enough. Don’t grow up too fast, hear.”

  “That’s right, Fiona. You be like that Peter Pan,” said Mrs. O’Brien.

  “Don’t tell her that, Fanny,” said Mrs. Lordeau. “Fiona doesn’t want to be like Peter Pan. The girl has to grow up sometime.”

  Mrs. O’Brien smacked the seat with her hand. “Now just what is wrong with Peter Pan?”

  A lot of the time, the things that grown-ups said were confusing. Principal Sterling wanted Fiona to act grown up, and so did Mr. Bland. And so did Fiona, for that matter. Being grown up meant being able to do more stuff. “Don’t you like being a grown-up?” Fiona asked.

  “It’s not that,” said Mrs. Huff. “It’s just that it’s so much more fun to be your age.”

  Fiona nodded just to be polite. They were old and must have forgotten what it was like to be nine going on ten and not be allowed to do anything. Fiona stared out the window while the Broads argued about whether it would be better to be able to fly or never get old.

  Fiona shook her head. It was an easy choice. She’d rather be able to fly. Because then she wouldn’t need permission to get on an airplane to go to California and see her mom. She could just go anytime she wanted. She imagined herself lifting off, right then, right through the roof of the Bingo Bus. She was about to soar when she saw bright red balloons out the window. “What’s that?” She followed the red balloons to a sign that read GRAND OPENING and to another one that read THE FISH HUT.

  “Stop the bus!” shouted Fiona.

  “Glory days!” said Mrs. Miltenberger, hitting the brakes.

  “Peter, Paul, and Mary!” said Mrs. O’Brien.

  “Gracious!” said Mrs. Huff.

  Mrs. Lordeau clutched her chest and gasped. “I’ve already got one leg in a boot! Are you trying to finish me off?”

  “What on earth is the matter, Fiona?” said Mrs. Miltenberger, turning around in her seat.

  Fiona pointed out the window. “Can we go in there?”

  Mrs. Miltenberger gave Fiona a Doom Scowl with Two Helpings of Maximum Doom. “Have you lost your mind hollering like that?”

  “Sorry. Can we?” Fiona kept her eyes on the store.

  “I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, turning back around.

  “Come on, Violet,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Let’s go in. I’ve been wanting a goldfish. You know, for some company.”

  “Company?” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

  “Everybody needs some company.”

  “Just pull in there,” said Mrs. Lordeau, pointing to an open parking space. “We’re all going in.”

  Fiona smiled at the Bingo Broads. Mrs. Miltenberger shook her head, but it was four against one. Mrs. Miltenberger found a parking space in the lot across the street, and when she turned off the bus, Fiona was the first one out.

  She didn’t wait for the others before darting inside. The Fish Hut was filled with shelves, three rows high, of bubbling fish tanks. Each tank was filled with colorful fish, some so electric they could have been plugged in.

  “What kind of fish are you interested in, Fiona?” asked Mrs. Lordeau, as she hobbled inside on her crutches.

  “Oh, I don’t want a fish,” said Fiona.

  “You don’t? Then why . . .”

  “May I help you?” said a man holding a green net. His shirt pocket had the name Rick sewed on it with dark blue thread.

  “You can help me,” Fiona said. “I’d like to work here.”

  He laughed and patted Fiona on the shoulder. Then he asked Mrs. Lordeau, “Are you interested in a fish? For our grand opening, all of our goldfish are on sale. Twenty percent off.”

  “Oh, I’m not really a fish person,” said Mrs. Lordeau, eyeing the bubbling tanks. “Dogs are more my speed. But my friend here is looking for employment. Perhaps you have something she could do?”

  Rick smiled at Mrs. Lordeau and then looked Fiona over. She was glad she had worn matching socks today. “I’m not hiring. But if you’d like to look at some fish . . .”

  “I can do lots of things,” said Fiona. She walked over to a fish tank that had a thick, gray fish with long whiskers resting on the bottom. She knocked on the glass real hard until the fish swam to the back of the tank behind a rock. Then she turned to Rick and said, “See? I’m a good fish rouser. Which would come in handy because the last thing people want to buy is a sleepy fish.”

  Rick’s hand clutched his shirt. Then he pointed to a sign hanging above the top row of fish tanks. “Little girl, what does that say?”

  Fiona read the sign out loud. “Please do not tap on the glass.” Then she understood. “Oh, sorry about that. But then how do you wake up the fish?”

  “Wake up the . . . ?” Rick scratched his head and then turned his attention to Mrs. Miltenberger and the rest of the Bingo Broads, who were examining some striped fish. “Good afternoon. How may I help you?” He eyeballed Fiona a couple of times until Fiona shoved her hands into her pockets to show him that she was going to let sleeping fish alone.

  Mrs. O’Brien said, “I’m interested in a low-maintenance type of fish. Preferably one that isn’t too temperamental.”

&
nbsp; “She doesn’t want a fish who thinks she’s a diva,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

  “That’s right. My life only has room for one diva, and that’s me.”

  Rick said, “I’m sure we can find a fish suited to your needs.” He led Mrs. O’Brien to the fish tanks near Fiona.

  “What about this one?” Fiona pointed to the fish she woke up, careful to keep her finger off the glass. “There. Behind that rock.”

  Mrs. O’Brien brought her face close to the glass and peered into the tank. “An uglier face I have not seen,” she said.

  Rick cleared his throat. “That’s a catfish. A scavenger. It will eat almost anything and helps keep the aquarium clean.”

  “I do like a fish that cleans up after itself,” she said.

  “And it likes to take a lot of naps,” said Fiona. “Not catnaps, but catfish naps.”

  Mrs. O’Brien and Mrs. Miltenberger laughed at Fiona’s joke, but Rick brought his lips together in such a way that Fiona guessed he didn’t have a sense of humor when it came to fish.

  Fiona pointed to another catfish in the next tank. It was pressed up against the side of the tank so you could see its underneath side. “This one is trying to get out!”

  Rick said, “He’s eating the algae off the glass.”

  “That’s the one you should get, Mrs. O’Brien,” said Fiona. “It even does windows!”

  “Sold.” Mrs. O’Brien tapped on the glass and said to her new fish, “Pack your bags, because you are coming home with me.” Then she turned toward Fiona and pinched her cheek. “You, my lovey, have a future in sales.”

  Fiona smiled at Rick then, as if to say, “What do you have to say about that job now?”

  But he just shook his head at Fiona and asked Mrs. O’Brien, “What size is your aquarium at home?”

  “I don’t have an aquarium,” she said.

  “No matter.” He scooped Mrs. O’Brien’s fish into a plastic bag full of water. “We have everything you need here.”

  Fiona watched him wind the top of the bag around his fingers and then thread it into a knot. “How about a fish for you?” he said.

  “Me?” said Fiona. “I don’t know. I want to get a monkey, but my dad keeps saying no.”

  Rick held up the bag and looked Mrs. O’Brien’s fish in the eye. “A lot of responsibility, taking care of a pet. Maybe you’re not ready.”

  Fiona felt her cheeks get hot. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a few crinkled dollars and some change. She quickly scanned the fish tanks. She’d rather have a monkey. That she knew for sure, because how much fun could a tiny fish be, anyway? Then a yellow sign in the shape of a sunburst caught her eye. The sign was taped to a corner of a small fish tank behind the register. “What are those?” she said, pointing.

  “Pollywogs,” said Rick.

  “Pollywogs?” said Fiona. “Are they as fun as their name sounds?”

  “Pollywogs,” he repeated. “You know, tadpoles.” He cleared his throat and opened his eyes wide. “Frogs.”

  Fiona didn’t know much more about frogs than she knew about fish. But there was one thing she did know: frogs have legs. And by her account, that made them closer to monkeys than fish. She looked for Mrs. Miltenberger to make sure it was okay, but she was all the way at the other end of the store with Mrs. O’Brien. So Fiona handed her crumpled money over to Rick. “Sold!”

  • Chapter 7 •

  Fiona stared at her pollywog the whole ride home. “I’m not seeing any legs yet.”

  “Next time you get an idea to bring home a critter, I wish you’d ask me first,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “Your father may not be too pleased.”

  “I’ll take good care of him,” Fiona said. “Mr. Funbucket won’t get into any trouble.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about.”

  “When will he get some legs?” Fiona asked.

  “Rick said it could take a couple of months,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Have patience.”

  “But Mr. Funbucket looks like he’s ready to start walking,” said Fiona. “Hey! He just looked right at me when I said his name.” She pressed her face against the bag. “Mr. Funbucket. Mr. Funbucket. Mr. Funbucket. There! He did it again!” She held the bag out for Mrs. Miltenberger to see.

  “Not while I’m driving!” she said, pushing the bag away.

  Fiona continued to stare. “Still no legs.”

  . . .

  . . .

  “Still none.”

  “Fiona,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “Please.”

  . . .

  . . .

  “Nope. Still none.”

  • • •

  “Where did you get that?” said Max when he came home from swim practice.

  “The Fish Hut.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, sliding his swim goggles to the top of his head.

  “Just a place.” Being a pet owner made Fiona feel very grown up. So grown up that she didn’t feel the need to share every detail about her day with Max. And also because she didn’t want him to think he was grown up enough to have a pollywog or any other kind of pet that had legs (or would have them sometime soon).

  “Where’s Mrs. M.?” said Max.

  “Next door, getting something for me.”

  “What is she getting?”

  Fiona set the bag with Mr. Funbucket in it on the coffee table. Then she folded her arms across her chest. “Max, it’s grown-up stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Max stuck his nose in the air and in a high-pitched voice that sounded something like Fiona’s said, “It’s grown-up stuff. Oooooh. And you just wouldn’t understand.” Then he stuck out his tongue and stomped off to his room.

  Mrs. Miltenberger opened the front door and held up a fishbowl. “I found it! I knew I had one from when Mr. Miltenberger, rest his soul, got me a pair of hermit crabs years ago on a trip to Myrtle Beach. I never really took to them, the hermit crabs. Those legs, creepy.” She handed the bowl to Fiona. “Anyway, they only lived for about a year or so, and I kept that bowl because you never know when a new critter is going to crawl back into your life. Or in your case, swim.”

  Fiona thanked Mrs. Miltenberger and then untied the knot at the top of the bag. She held the bag over the fish bowl and carefully poured in the water. Mr. Funbucket tried to stay in the bottom of the bag as long as he could, scared little fellow, but he finally gave up and slid into the bowl with a splash. “Welcome home,” said Fiona. Mr. Funbucket flipped his tail and began to swim, which Fiona translated to, Thank you ever so kindly; my new home is just fine and dandy. “I’ll need to get you branches and rocks so you can climb once you sprout your legs,” Fiona told him.

  Fiona kept watch for any leg-sprouting activity until Dad came home from the news station. She thought she saw a leg spring forth at one point, but it turns out that pollywogs can go to the bathroom while they’re swimming. “What’s new, Bean?” Dad said, taking off his coat.

  “This!” said Fiona, pointing to Mr. Funbucket. “He’s a pollywog.”

  “I see that.”

  “He won’t be for long, though, because he’s going to get some legs soon and turn into a frog.”

  “That’s what happens,” he said, sighing. But legs must not have been as exciting to Dad as they were for Fiona, because he barely looked at Mr. Funbucket before he started going through the mail.

  Fiona whispered to Mr. Funbucket, “That’s my dad. Usually he’s pretty friendly, but sometimes he gets a little stressed at work. As long as you keep your room clean, you should get along with him fine.”

  On her way out the door, Mrs. Miltenberger tripped over one of Max’s action figures that he left lying about on the floor. “Cursed things!” she yelled.

  “Where’s Max?” Dad said.

  “In his room,” answered Fiona, keeping her eyes on her pollywog.

  “Go get him, please.”

  “MAX, GET DOWN HERE!” yelled Fiona as loud as she could.

  Dad shook his head. “
I asked you to go upstairs to get him, Fiona.”

  “Really, Fiona,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

  “But I didn’t want to miss Mr. Funbucket getting his legs,” she said. “What kind of a responsible pet owner would I be if I missed that?”

  Dad sighed and rubbed his forehead. Max’s feet pounded the upstairs hallway. “Like a herd of elephants,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

  “He’s got his flippers on again,” said Fiona. Max could make a lot of noise when he went places, but when he had his flippers on his feet, the walls shook.

  “Careful on the stairs,” hollered Mrs. Miltenberger. But she was too late, because as Fiona took her eyes off Mr. Funbucket for one second and glanced at the stairs, Max’s left flipper folded under itself and sent Max down the last few steps in a tumble.

  “What did I tell you about wearing those things in the house?” said Dad.

  Max pulled himself up, straightened the towel he had draped over his shoulders as a cape, and gathered the bundle of swim medals he wore around his neck. “I’m okay,” he said. “It takes more than a faulty flipper to keep Captain Seahorse down.”

  “Have a seat, Captain,” said Dad. “I’ve got some news.”

  Fiona didn’t like the way that sounded. Dad took a deep breath, and one side of his mouth curved up into a smile while the other side stayed where it was like it didn’t know what to do. “What’s the matter?” asked Fiona. Already her stomach churned. She crossed her fingers and made a wish that it wasn’t cancer or divorce or getting braces. Lately, these were the three things that she worried about most.

  It didn’t help that Mrs. Miltenberger had a panicked look on her face. She said, “Should I stick around, Norm?”

  Dad nodded. “You’re family, Violet. Have a seat.”

  Fiona put her hand on Mr. Funbucket’s bowl to let him know that it would be okay. Even though she wasn’t so sure herself that it would be.

  “Your mom called,” he said.

  Fiona put her arm over her stomach and held her breath.

  “Heartaches and Diamonds is being canceled,” said Dad. “Your mom is losing her job.”

  Fiona started breathing again. This was a lot less bad than cancer and divorce, at least. Her mom would find another job. And even if she didn’t, she could come home, maybe. So then why did Dad and Mrs. Miltenberger look like their mouths were full of gravel?