How to Curse in Hieroglyphics (6 page)

“CUT!” Cheryl yelled again as she pulled her ten-speed bike (trusty warhorse) up short and dismounted, an annoyed frown replacing her smile of satisfaction at the seamless capture. “Dang it,” she muttered.

“What?” Tweed skidded to a stop beside her.

“I did it again!” Cheryl shook her head, her pigtails bouncing furiously.
“You
quipped effortlessly and all
I
could come up with was ‘Got them'!”

In front of the girls, the collapsible playpen they'd brought along stood overturned, acting as a kind of temporary “confinement unit” for the four toddlers who'd managed to stage the breakout.

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Tweed consoled her cousin. “You're the hero-of-few-words type. Schwarzeneggerian, as it were.”

“Great. I'm hard to pronounce.”

“Terminator-esque?” Tweed tried again.

“Super,” Cheryl groused. “Whereas
you're
like a short gothy female Bruce Willis.”

“Do
not
dismiss Terminator comparisons, cuz.” Tweed's expression grew solemn. “The Terminator rules.”

The playpen cage rattled restlessly as the fugitive kiddies tested its limits.

Cheryl pulled an air horn out of the gear bag the twins had stashed earlier when they'd pre-set their (patent pending) Tot Trap and blew three short blasts, signalling a successful conclusion to the hunt. Then, together,
the twins hitched up their catches to a linked string of toddler walker-harnesses, packed up the collapsible pen and marched the bunch back to the Bottoms house, about a quarter mile away on the other side of the cornfield, double time. The whole operation, from the time they'd received the call to the successful tot-return, had taken just over half an hour. The twins operated with clockwork efficiency.

Mrs. Bottoms was grateful, if perhaps a bit red-faced.

“I sent Mr. Bottoms out the minute we noticed the gate was open but … well … his sense of direction just isn't the best, I'm afraid!” She shrugged as she saw her husband suddenly come bustling around from the front of the house (the exact opposite direction from where Cheryl and Tweed had found the youngsters).

“Aha! Found ‘em, Honey!” he yodelled upon spotting the tykes where Cheryl and Tweed had temporarily tethered them to a picnic table. “Whoo! Little monsters sure can motor, can't they? Gosh, if we can't keep ‘em corralled in our own backyard, how in heck are we gonna herd ‘em all around when we head on out to Dudley's World-O-Wonders?”

Cheryl and Tweed recoiled at the mention.

“You mean the … carnival?” Cheryl asked, frowning darkly.

“Well, heck yes!” Mr. Bottoms enthused. “Fun for the whole family!”

“In our experience, there is no such thing as fun for the
whole
family,” Tweed muttered. “Someone always gets left behind.”

“Well!” Mrs. Bottoms clasped her hands briskly, rather more perceptive than her husband, and steered the conversation away from what was becoming a touchy subject. “Okey-dokey, then. Looks like everything's back under control .”

She led the twins into the house, past Hazel Polizzi and Cindy Tyson, who glared at Cheryl and Tweed as the twins went to collect their fee and Fudgsicles.

“Figures,” muttered Cindy with a sour expression on her face—and a gauze bandage pressed to her leg. “Takes freaks to catch freaks, I guess.”

Hazel giggle-snorted and said, “Maybe they had help from their space alien pals.”

Cheryl stopped dead in her tracks, her fists clenching at her sides.

“Easy, partner,” Tweed murmured out of the side of her mouth, urging Cheryl forward. “Professional jealousy is an ugly thing.” Over her shoulder she pegged the rival sitters with a stony stare and, gesturing to Cindy's leg, said, “Better put some butter on that.”

Cindy's ears turned bright red and she sputtered a bit.

Cheryl suppressed a grin and together the twins hurried to catch up with Mrs. Bottoms in the kitchen. As she led them through the living room to the front door, a gaggle of other mothers in attendance all praised
Cheryl and Tweed for their cleverness and efficiency but, sadly, neglected to immediately book them for any sitter appointments.

Out on the front porch, Cheryl sighed gustily, while Tweed glowered, biting determinedly at her frozen fudgy treat. They would have to circle around the long way to get to the other side of the cornfields so they could collect their bikes and gear. But before they could step off the porch, the door behind them opened again and a tall, angular woman stepped out to join them. She had a cloud of frowzy brown hair and large glasses that magnified her eyes and gave her an owlish stare.

“Girls!” she bleated, urgently. “Wait!”

Even though neither of the twins had so much as twitched a foot.

“Howdy, Miz Parks,” Cheryl said.

Tweed nodded and said, “Hiya.”

Miss Marjorie Parks was the Wiggins Cross Middle School librarian, and both the girls were, frankly, a little surprised to see her there. Or
any
where, really, that wasn't the library. Tweed had once expressed a vague notion that she might actually be some kind of robot or something, and when the school got locked up for the summer, they just powered Miss Parks down and rolled her into storage until fall. It appeared, however, that she was wrong about that. Because there she was, standing in front of them with a strange, awkward smile on her face.

“Leaving so soon?” she asked.

“Uh … yeah.” Cheryl glanced at Tweed, who shrugged. “The situation here is all sorted up. Even with Cindy outta commission, Hazel oughta be able to handle the rest of the festivities now that you adults are on high-alert.”

“And the garden gate is padlocked,” Tweed added.

“Well. Yes.” Miss Parks blinked at them. “Of course. Well. I think you did an excellent job back there and I just wanted to commend you.”

Cheryl brightened up a bit, her professional pride somewhat bolstered. “Thanks, Miz Parks—”

“And I wondered if you've ever considered expanding your services to … well … non-humans,” the librarian asked in a slightly breathless rush.

“Non …” Tweed frowned. “Like … aliens?”

But Cheryl had clued in right away. The librarian's trousers were coated in a fine layer of fuzz—white, ginger, grey, brown—a virtual haze of hairs. Miss Parks had cats.
Lots
of cats. And, apparently, no lint brush to speak of.

“Ha ha!” Cheryl laughed brightly to cover Tweed's mistake and nudged her cousin with her elbow. “What my esteemed colleague means is—yes! In fact, feline companions of the four-legged variety are our new field of expertise!”

“‘Of the four-legged variety'?” Tweed muttered, glancing sideways at Cheryl. “How many other varieties are there?”

“Here … ” Cheryl was already fishing through the pockets of her jeans. “Let me get you our card. We specialize in difficult cases.”

“Oh! Right!” Tweed was on board now—here was something that could open up a whole new world of opportunity for them. “We also offer our one-time bargain introductory ‘Best Dang Babysitters' rate for people with your unique circumstances, ma'am.”

“‘Unique' …” Miss Parks blinked, momentarily confused. “Oh, of course. You mean—no actual
babies
to sit.”

“I'm sure your cats are just like children to you, Miz Parks.” Cheryl beamed, kicking into full sales-pitch mode while still fishing for a business card. “And, therefore, on your next out-of-town foray, business jaunt or well-earned romantic getaway, you might do well to consider enlisting our services. Wouldn't want to leave the little puddins' well-being to just anyone.” She finally found one of the While-O-Wait cards and handed it over.

Miss Parks squinted at it. “There's a typo— ”

“It's a slogan.” Cheryl brushed the remark aside with an airy wave.

“Ah. Well. I see.” The librarian smiled, a prim little curling of her mouth-corners. “I mean, it's not that I go out much, but—”

“Oh, but you should!” Cheryl enthused.

Tweed nodded seriously. “Stylish young thing like yourself. No need to turn away gentleman callers any
more, ma'am. Now that you know you can leave the precious shnookumses in our more than expert care.”

Miss Parks pocketed the card. “Well … there is that new carnival in town I've heard of. Perhaps I'll—”

“Keep us in mind, Miz Parks.” Cheryl's smile turned brittle. “Just … keep us in mind.”

“I will.” She nodded. “Thank you, Cheryl. Bumblebee.”

“That's ‘Tumbleweed,'“ Tweed corrected through a pained attempt at a smile. “Please—call me Tweed.”

Miss Parks retreated into the house, a bit of bounce in her gawky gait.

“D'you think she'll call?” Tweed asked.

Cheryl grinned. “Oh, she'll call, Bumblebee. She'll call.”

5

THE CORNDOG MENACE

“S
ometimes I just don't understand you two.”

It was mid-afternoon on the day after the twins' successful tot-retrieval, and Cheryl and Tweed, programming duties already having been dispatched with crackerjack precision, had some time on their hands. They had decided that, for their very first programming effort, they would go with tried-and-true classic monster fare.
Creature from the Black Lagoon
and its two sequels,
Revenge of the Creature
and
The Creature Walks Among Us
, fit the bill nicely, and now all they had to do was wait until evening.

The heat waves shimmered up from the dusty, barren landscape as the sun beat mercilessly down. Tweed was concentrating fiercely, using a hand-held magnifying glass to focus the sunlight into a single beam of
bleached-white laser-light focused on a single un-popped popcorn kernel lying on an old aluminum pie plate. The pie plate was carefully positioned in the sunniest spot available: in the middle of the cargo compartment of Pops's pickup, which was parked beside the barn.

“Don'tcha know you're
supposed
to use that thing to fry ants?”

Cheryl straightened up and glared fiercely at Pilot, who was leaning against the side of the truck, watching them, an easy grin on his face. It was a rare second day in a row that his mom hadn't needed him out at the airstrip helping her with the crop-dusting, and he'd taken the opportunity to ride his bike over to the drive-in to hang out with the twins.

“What did ants ever do to you, Flyboy?” Cheryl asked.

She was in a particularly foul mood for such a sunny day. She and Tweed had woken up that morning to see the last few support arms of a Ferris wheel skeleton clawing their way up into a pale-blue sky to complete the circle of the ride. Dudley's World-O-Wonders was almost finished setting up shop across the road. It was starting to feel like some kind of alien invasion.

“It's what ants
might
do …”—Pilot grinned, oblivious to the thundercloud hovering over Cheryl's head, and made creepy
boogity-boogity
hand gestures and
oooOOooeee
noises—”in the
future
…”

His attempts to draw her into a bout of their usual banter fell flat.

“Never mind frying ‘em. I see you so much as look
sideways
at an ant, Yeager, and you'll answer to me,” Cheryl said, a fierce sparkle in her eyes.

“Aw, c'mon, Cher-bear,” Pilot said mildly, jumping up on the open tailgate to join the girls. He nudged Cheryl with his elbow. “You know I was only joking. I like bugs.”

Cheryl just raised an eyebrow and turned back to her cousin and the experiment at hand. Tweed ignored them both, picking up a small spray-bottle full of cooking oil and carefully misting the tiny, golden-brown kernel.

“Actually … he might have a point,” she murmured finally, never taking her eyes off the kernel.

“Howzat?” Cheryl asked, still grumpy.

“Consider what we know of the subject, cuz .” Tweed said. “The movies have told us time and again that some kind of future atomic catastrophe could easily turn all Earth's innocent little insects into rampaging, giant-sized carnivorous monsters.”

“Oh.” Cheryl blinked. “Right.”

As the three of them pondered the horrors of a looming giant-insectoid invasion, Tweed moved the magnifying glass an inch or two closer to the pie plate. And the kernel popped with an earth-shattering

KA-BLAAMM!!!

The girls both leaped back in surprise, blinking in amazement at the puffy morsel, all thoughts of enormous ants banished from their minds. For a moment, they thought the popcorn experiment had been a success on an explosive scale! But when they looked up, it was to see Pilot pointing at the sky … to where a man in a spangled jumpsuit and garish yellow helmet was soaring in an arc through the bright-blue heavens.

A human projectile invading Wiggins airspace, so close to their own stomping ground? Clearly, the enemy encampment—or “carnival,” as everyone else in town called it—had powerful weapons at its disposal. Cheryl's glowering frown returned to her freckled brow in full force.