Tj and the Rockets (6 page)

The first people everyone suspects are kids. When I go into the corner grocery store, the man who owns it practically stands on top of me. I don't steal things. It drives me nuts when people always think it's kids.

“It's not them, though, is it?”

“I don't think so,” said Mom. “They haven't been in all week.”

“Who has been in?” I asked.

“All sorts of people,” said Mom. “Too many to keep track of. Except that, and I can't be absolutely sure, but the days when things often seem to go missing and I notice they've gone missing are Thursdays and Saturdays.”

“Wait a minute!” I said. “Those are the days I'm in the store.”

“And the days Seymour drops by,” said Mom gently.

I couldn't believe it. She couldn't be saying what I thought she was saying.

“It's not Seymour!” I said. “Seymour's not a thief.”

“I didn't say that he was,” said my mom.

“You practically did!” Now I was really
mad. “Everyone always blames kids. It doesn't matter if there's a reason or not!”

“I just thought I should mention it,” said Mom. “You know that I like Seymour, and usually I trust him, but he's acting weird lately, even for Seymour. Maybe there's something going on that we don't know about. He's always got a packsack and lately he roams up and down the aisles picking up stuff.”

“It's not Seymour!” I said. “You were in the store, maybe you stole the stuff if that's all you're going on…”

“TJ…”

I was way too mad to listen. I was so mad I grabbed my rocket gear and went out to wait on the sidewalk for Gran. Luckily she drove up about a minute later.

“What's wrong, TJ?” she asked.

“Everything,” I said.

“That about covers it,” said Gran.

We picked up Seymour and arrived at Rocket Flats. That's what Seymour and I had nicknamed the field at the edge of town.

“Looks like the cows are delighted to see us again,” said Seymour.

“What's with you and cows?” I said.

“I like cows. They just kind of stand there and look peaceful,” said Seymour. He frowned. “What are you crabby about? You're the one with the science fair project. I still haven't got an invention.”

“I haven't got a science fair project if it flies like last time,” I said.

Now that I realized how fast the rocket went, I was extra careful to follow the safety rules. I made sure the fins weren't damaged. I made sure the wind hadn't started to blow, not just down on the ground, but also up where the clouds were.

The most important thing, of course, was to always make sure the ignition key was in my pocket. That way the rocket could never be set off accidentally while Seymour and I were standing close to it.

I put the engine in the rocket, slid it down the launch rod and connected the igniter wires. It really was a little rocket, not even knee high.

“It's cute,” said Seymour, stepping back from the launchpad once everything was set up. “I wonder how it will fly.”

I was wondering the same thing. Because it was a lot smaller and lighter than the one last time, did that mean it would travel faster? Or would it be slower because the engine also wasn't as powerful? Would it go as high?

I nodded to Seymour.

“Five, four, three, two, one… liftoff!”

Zing
!

Faster than thought the little rocket was in the air and speeding skyward. Up and up. Higher and higher. In no time at all its slender body was only a black speck in the blue. Wow!

Of course as fast as it went up, in the blink of an eye it was also slowing down. Maximum height. Arcing over.

“Streamer time,” I said.

I'd been counting under my breath. I knew from the size of engine exactly how many seconds until the second little explosion that would pop the nose cone and release the streamer. The
rocket was so light this time that it didn't need a full parachute; just a few plastic streamers would slow it down more than enough.

“Come on, streamers,” I said.

The rocket gave a quick shudder, but the nose cone didn't seem to be free. The streamers hadn't appeared.

Faster and faster the rocket dropped, a little dart streaking toward earth.

“The rock pile!” said Seymour.

Why didn't I notice these things ahead of time—the trees, the rock pile? I only really saw they were there when my rocket was headed straight for them.

“No!” I cried.

Smack
.

The little rocket landed hard upon the rocks. Seymour and I scrambled up the pile. There it lay—crumpled. The nose cone was only half popped and there were bits of black melted
something
around the outside.

What had happened? Why hadn't the nose cone popped properly? What was the black material plastered on the side?

“The cows were amazed,” said Seymour.

I scowled at him, but I managed not to say anything. I
was
crabby and I knew why. It wasn't just the rocket.

As we gathered things up and made our way back to Gran and the car, I could feel my mind jumbling its way through all sorts of things. The worst part about Mom accusing Seymour of stealing was that even though I
knew
it wasn't him, at the back of my mind I was turning it all over and over in my head. I couldn't help myself. I kept looking for times he might have stolen things or reasons he might have taken things. How could I even think that about my best friend?

There was only one solution. I had to figure out who was really taking things. Until I did, I had to keep Seymour away from the store so Mom and Dad wouldn't suspect him anymore.

“I guess we both just have to keep trying,” said Seymour as Gran drove us away from the field. “I'm thinking of doing a Rube Goldberg.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A Rube Goldberg invention,” said Seymour. “They're a kind of super-complicated machine for doing something simple like buttering toast.”

I had seen pictures. They seemed more like an un-invention than an invention. I didn't say that to Seymour.

“Sounds great,” I said. “Gran can drop you off at home so you can get started.”

Seymour shook his head.

“I'll come to the store with you and look around some more. Did you know that creative ideas often come at the spot between waking and sleeping? I'll watch you stock shelves. That's boring enough to put me to sleep.”

I definitely didn't want him in the store.

“It's busy in the store on Saturdays, Seymour,” I said. “Mom and Dad don't want you falling into a trance in the middle of the place.”

“Then we could play mind games, word games. That kind of thinking shakes up your brain and helps you invent things. Look. What's this?”

He picked up the pen and pad Gran kept in the car and wrote

BLACK
COAT

I didn't have the faintest idea. We stopped at a streetlight. Gran glanced at the paper.

“Black overcoat,” she said.

“Hey, you're brilliant!” said Seymour. “Maybe you should be the inventor!”

Gran smiled.

“Can you figure out a way to make a quarter go through a hole the size of a penny?” asked Seymour. “Inventors need to visualize the solution even before they try it. We'll practice at the store.”

I had to think of something fast.

“Seymour,” I said, “necessity is the mother of invention.”

Seymour looked at me. One eyebrow went up and one eyebrow went down.

“Thomas Alva Edison,” he said.

“Is that who said it?” I asked.

“I don't know,” said Seymour. “But his first rule was ‘Never invent something
that isn't needed.' I forgot about that. And he was one of the greatest!”

“So follow his advice,” I said. “Go home and find a problem that needs solving and
then
you'll know what to invent.”

I must have made a better argument than I thought because he actually asked to be dropped off at his house.

When I got to the store, Mr. G. was the only one in the front. Dad and Mom were in the storeroom. They were both talking to the security system man this time.

“Are you going to buy it?” I asked when they came out.

“It's a lot of money,” said Mom.

“We're going to think about it for a few days longer, but we'll probably go ahead,” said my dad.

If they did buy it, everyone would know the store was equipped with it and the stealing would stop. I'd never get a chance to prove it wasn't Seymour!

I really, really kept my eyes peeled that afternoon. The man with a beard was in. So were the plugged-in teenagers. There were some people who looked like they
were painting a house, and the man I knew was a carpenter and dozens of other people.

Mr. Wilson came in. I was kind of hoping it was Mr. Wilson, but I followed him around and confirmed what I pretty much suspected. He might be a science nut, but he didn't shoplift.

“Are you following me around, TJ?” asked Mr. Wilson. “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

If I'd had the nerve I would have suggested he help us out with our science projects or at least let his students do their own. I didn't have the nerve.

“You were right about Gabe's project,” said Mr. Wilson. “It's a good one.”

How did he know what Gabe was doing? I turned back to ask him and—
ka-wham
—knocked over the entire garden seed display. Seed packages flew everywhere.

While I was picking them up, Amanda's mother came into the store. Her cat-food refund was waiting for her and she didn't steal anything. You know you're really
desperate when you watch Amanda's mother for shoplifting.

The lady with the frizzy gray hair was in to pick up a bar of soap as she always did. She even smiled and said hello, which at least made me feel a bit better about crawling around on the floor after a bunch of carrot seeds.

It wasn't until I was about to head home that I noticed something. Mom and Dad had put up a schedule at the back of the store to show when everyone was working. I was written down for Thursday and Saturday. Someone else was down for the same days. He worked a few other days too, but the truth was, if you went by the days things were taken, it still fit.

That person was Mr. G.

Chapter 9

Mr. G.! I liked Mr. G. He worked for the store!

Part of me felt sick to my stomach. Part of me was really, really mad. I'd heard on the news that some employees steal from their workplace. How much
had
he stolen?

I didn't tell Mom and Dad. If a kid is accused of shoplifting, everybody believes it. If an adult is accused of shoplifting, you have to have proof. I had to think of a way to prove to Mom and Dad that Mr. G. was taking things. I didn't want to even hint at it beforehand. I didn't want to tip-off Mr. G. before I proved Seymour was innocent.

I still didn't know if I should tell Seymour. For the next three days I hardly saw him, except at school. He'd actually come up with an idea and was spending a lot of time at it.

I'd been busy too. Besides thinking about Mr. G., I'd been building another rocket. It was a larger one this time—three kitten lengths—and I was building it perfectly and painting it beautifully because I wasn't going to fly it. It was going to sit safely in the middle of my science project, and I was going to put pictures of space around it. It would look great and nothing would go wrong.

“Eureka!”

That was Seymour phoning on Tuesday night.

“You mean you've invented something?” I asked.

He'd already hung up by the time I asked, but ten minutes later the doorbell rang.

“Where's T-Rex, the mad attacker?” he asked.

“He's in the kitchen. He only attacks when I first get home. After that he settles down.”

“You know what's wrong, don't you?” asked Seymour.

I hadn't really thought about anything being wrong. Seymour set a box and his backpack down in the middle of the living room and began to unload them.

“What you've got is a very bored cat. You and your parents are away all day. T-Rex gets bored. When you come home, he attacks.”

“Cats don't get bored. They sleep.”

“They sleep eighty percent of the time. That still leaves twenty percent of the time to be bored.”

“He eats for most of that, plus he's got Alaska to play with,” I said.

“I know, I know, but he still needs a little more entertainment, living indoors as he does.” Seymour grinned. “Besides,” he said, “wait until you see what I've built.”

It was made of all those building sets parents give their kids at Christmas
in order to turn them into architects. Seymour had also used some extra elastic bands, Epsicle sticks and duct tape.

“I call it The Amuze-A-Kitty. I spelled it wrong on purpose to attract attention. That's good advertising. It's a self-entertaining cat toy,” said Seymour. “You know how T-Rex loves to chase things. Well—here is a dangly thing for him to bat around, right?”