Dorko the Magnificent Read online

  Bright. Tomato. Red.

  I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t.

  “Ignore them,” said Cat, but I could tell she was having a hard time not laughing, too. She stared a little too hard at her taco. Peanut butter and jelly tacos are weird, but they are not interesting. When Becka Scott snorted and blew a chocolate milk bubble out of her nose, even Cat lost it. She tried to hide her laughter in a fake coughing fit, but I knew what was going on.

  Like I said: Hardy. Har. Har.

  You want to know the scary part? That was the good part of my day!

  It’s shocking but true. After recess, we went back to class and I stopped making eye contact in hopes that the fake sneezing would stop. It did not. Every couple of minutes, someone let a killer sneeze fly in my direction.

  Whatever.

  There were only two hours until the bell and freedom. Don’t get me wrong, they were two loooooooooooooooong hours, but they passed. Eventually. I lived through social studies. I lived through art. And finally, all that was left was Free Read Time. Ten glorious minutes of reading, then I was free for the whole weekend.

  Just as I opened The Life of Houdini, Mrs. M made an announcement.

  “This has been a long week,” she said, looking straight at me. “So it’s nice to end it with something special. Instead of our usual reading time, we’re going to have another surprise visitor for Who Knew What They Do.”

  In case you’re wondering, Who Knew What They Do is when parents come to class and talk about their jobs or hobbies or trips or whatever they want. I think it should be called Who Knew What They Do Could Be So Boring, but nobody asked me.

  In case you think I’m exaggerating, I made a pie chart to show you how boring it is. I used a pie chart because the only interesting visit was when Eric’s mom came to class and told us how to make pies. Those pies she brought in were delicious.

  Instead of reading a fascinating book about one of the world’s greatest illusionists, I had to waste ten minutes listening to a surprise guest talk about raising cucumbers or grooming cats. Fine. I could sit through anything for ten minutes, because after that I was home free. I could even listen to a repeat of the most boring session of all time: Fine-Tuning Your Portfolio for High Returns. I’m looking at you, Nate Watkins’s dad.

  Mrs. M schedules parents to come in, but she never tells us when it will be. She thinks it’s more interesting if we’re surprised when they show up.

  Whatever.

  I put away my book, crossed my arms over my desk, and put my head down. But before I even closed my eyes, I heard something that made me sit up like a poodle at a dog biscuit factory.

  “Wake up, Trixie. You might just learn something.”

  GRANDMA MELVYN STOOD IN FRONT OF THE ROOM, LEANING ON HER CANE. SHE wore a glittery Niagara Falls sweatshirt and her green jogging shoes with flashing lights in the heels. She held an old cigar box under her arm. Mrs. M moved to an empty chair by the door while Grandma Melvyn set the box on Mrs. M’s desk and looked around the room as if she had just landed on a weird new planet.

  “Our surprise guest today is Robbie’s grandmother,” Mrs. M said. “She is filling in for Robbie’s mom, who couldn’t make it this afternoon. Let’s all give Ms. Melvyn our undivided attention.”

  I guess that’s the thing about surprise visitors. They always surprise you. Mom didn’t even tell me she was supposed to come in today. She probably had some call that kept her from showing up, but it didn’t matter now. The only important thing was that Grandma Melvyn was standing in front of my class with a cigar box that could contain anything. Knowing Grandma Melvyn, it wouldn’t be good.

  Grandma Melvyn stared at me for a second, then scanned the room.

  “Here’s a new word for you bunch of Trixies,” she said. “Numismatist.”

  Hannah Weissman raised her hand. Grandma Melvyn gave her the Wicked Wobble Eye. Hannah Weissman lowered her hand.

  “You probably think it’s a lung disease,” Grandma Melvyn said. “Shows what you know. A numismatist is a person who collects money.”

  Grandma Melvyn reached into the cigar box and pulled out a piece of blue paper with a picture of a cranky-looking man standing in front of a banner that said 5 CANADA. It looked like play money.

  “This is five Canadian dollars,” she said. “I got this in Niagara Falls.”

  She put the bill back into the box and pulled out a bill with the words 50 CANADA and a picture of an even crankier-looking man.

  “I got this in Montreal,” she said.

  She put the bill back into the box and pulled out a plain old American ten-dollar bill.

  “I got this at the gas station,” she said.

  Grandma Melvyn went on and on like that, pulling money out of the cigar box and saying where she got it. Some of it was crazy-colored money from other countries, and some of it was quarters she found in her couch. Grandma Melvyn never explained anything about how the money was made or why she collected it.

  Surprise! Who Knew What They Do was boring. Again. But you know what? That was okay. At least Grandma Melvyn didn’t make anybody cry.

  I looked at the clock. Five minutes to go. I put my head down on my arms, closed my eyes, and thought about all the things I would do this weekend. I had a great list:

  Not be at school.

  Ride my bike.

  Help Cat with her hat experiment.

  Work on my sketches for a moon base prison for you know who.

  I was just thinking about jet packs and robot guards when I realized that the room was quiet. Very, very quiet.

  I lifted my head and looked around. Grandma Melvyn was standing in front of the class with her lower lip quivering.

  Wait. What had I missed?

  “It’s gone!” she said. “My one-dollar Canadian coin is missing.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Maybe you dropped it on the floor,” Mrs. M said, patting Grandma Melvyn’s shoulder.

  When had Mrs. M gotten out of her chair?

  “No, I didn’t!” said Grandma Melvyn. “It was right here. It’s disappeared. Just like a magician made it vanish!”

  WHAT?

  I think the bell rang then, but I didn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear over the deafening silence of twenty-six fifth graders turning to look straight at me.

  OUTSIDE OUR ROOM, STUDENTS SWARMED THE HALL ON THEIR WAY TO freedom, but my class was trapped in a giant bubble of silence where time stood still. I saw things I hadn’t noticed before: the ink spot on Mrs. M’s sleeve, Hannah Weissman’s shoestrings tied in a gigantic bow because they were a mile too long for her shoes, the perfectly round freckle on the side of Grandma Melvyn’s chin. You notice things like that when time stands still. I would have been happy to sit there all day noticing things, but like they say: Time waits for no man.

  Well, I’m here to tell you it waits for no kid either. I found that out when Mrs. M popped the time bubble with just one word.

  “Robbie!”

  Just like that, the spell was broken. I stood up and walked to the front of the class like a zombie.

  Mrs. M glared at me. She looked like she was about to explode.

  “Do you remember our conversation yesterday?”

  “Yes … but … but …”

  “That’s a lot of butts for one kid,” Grandma Melvyn said. “Turn out your pockets.”

  My zombie hands reached into my Windbreaker and pulled the pockets inside out, and as they did, four shiny silver coins spun high through the air in a glorious glittering arc. They bounced off the tile floor with a sound as sweet as shattering crystal.

  Everyone gasped. And then there was that moment that doesn’t have a name. It was right there staring me in the face, and I didn’t even know it until the moment passed, and it passed with a vengeance. A third of the class dived under Mrs. M’s desk to grab the Canadian coins. A third stood there jabbering and pointing from me to Grandma Melvyn and back again, and the other third grabbed their backpacks and ran out the door to ca
tch their buses. A taxi pulled up to the curb outside our classroom window.

  “There’s my ride,” said Grandma Melvyn.

  She picked up her cigar box and grabbed her cane. As she started for the door, she leaned close and whispered two words that echoed in my brain and blocked out everything else. Two words that left me standing there long after Grandma Melvyn stepped into the hall and was swept away in a river of laughing, pushing students making a break for freedom …

  “You’re welcome.”

  I WAITED FOR MRS. M TO LET ME HAVE IT, BUT SHE JUST SAT AT HER DESK AND shook her head.

  “Go home, Robbie,” she said. “Just go home.”

  I grabbed my backpack, ran out of the school, and sprinted toward home. I wished I had my bike, but Mom hasn’t let me bike to school since a couple of bikes got stolen there. She says we can’t afford to replace it if someone takes it, so I have to walk to school.

  I ran all the way home. Grandma Melvyn set me up, and I wanted to know why. I was going to give her a piece of my mind. But when I got home, she wasn’t there.

  I found a note and a key on the kitchen table. Mom wanted me to water Grandma Melvyn’s plants. Great. I didn’t feel like doing favors for Grandma Melvyn. She made me look like a thief in front of the whole class. But Mom wasn’t asking; she was telling. And frankly, I was glad to get away on my bike. I pedaled so fast, the whole stinky, rotten week couldn’t catch me.

  It took five minutes to bike to Grandma Melvyn’s house, which is a little white Monopoly house in a whole neighborhood of identical little white Monopoly houses with the same porches and the same mailboxes and the same tiny yards. You might expect Grandma Melvyn’s house to have something weird about it, something that screamed “CRAZY LADY LIVES HERE.” But it looked like every other house, except for the yard full of dandelions. I dropped my bike on the grass and unlocked the door.

  It’s not far to Grandma Melvyn’s, but I hadn’t been inside her house for years. When I was little, I hated going there because her couch freaked me out. It was one of those soft flowery couches you sink into when you sit down. I thought it was trying to eat me alive, and I cried every time I got near it.

  Hey. I bet you were weird when you were little, too.

  I stepped inside the house. The living room hadn’t changed much since the last time I was there. The couch still looked hungry, and I avoided getting too close as I walked past, but you’ll be glad to know that I didn’t cry. The dining room table was cluttered with newspapers and a mountain of junk mail. Grandma Melvyn’s house smelled like old coffee and stale news. I didn’t want to linger.

  I found a pitcher under the kitchen sink and watered the potted plants on the windowsill. Then I refilled the pitcher and walked down the hall to water the plants in the bathroom.

  The hallway was lined with dozens of old black-and-white photographs in mismatched frames. The pictures were mismatched, too. A silver train shooting across the prairie. Men in fedoras and women in narrow skirts bustling down a skyscraper canyon. A handsome man posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. An elegant nightclub where elegant women in beaded gowns danced with men in tuxedos.

  One handsome man showed up over and over again. Standing by a palm tree along a boardwalk. Walking in front of the Empire State Building. Sitting on a rock at Mount Rushmore while stone-faced presidents stared over his shoulder. I bet that was a creepy feeling.

  And he wasn’t the only one who showed up over and over in the pictures. I found a woman in another picture of Mount Rushmore taken from the identical spot. She stood by the same rock, blowing a kiss to Thomas Jefferson. The woman had short, wavy hair and laughing eyes. I found a picture of her by the Eiffel Tower, too. And by that palm tree along the same boardwalk. You get the idea.

  For every picture with the man, there was another with the woman. The beautiful, laughing woman with a perfectly round freckle on her chin.

  Near the end of the hall, there was one missing photograph. In its place was a patch of dark blue paint with a curlicue edge where a picture frame had hidden the wall for so long that everything around it had faded to a soft, sad blue while the paint behind it stayed dark. The picture was gone, but the dark blue patch lingered like a memory. A ghost. What was the missing picture?

  I finished watering the plants, locked the house, and biked home.

  I HAD AVOIDED GRANDMA MELVYN SINCE SHE MOVED IN, AND I GUESS IT WAS bugging Mom, because on Saturday night she made me sit by Grandma Melvyn at dinner. We ate in the dining room. I hadn’t been there since Mom’s party, and going back felt like returning to the scene of the crime. I couldn’t wait for dinner to end.

  Grandma Melvyn didn’t say anything while she ate, but she never took her eyes off me. I tried to stare back at her, but it was like having a staring contest with an owl. Not a winning situation.

  After dinner, Mom and Ape Boy did the dishes. Ape Boy loves putting the dishes away because it involves climbing on chairs and countertops when Mom’s not looking. Grandma Melvyn and I sat at the table with our bowls of ice cream. She poked me with her cane.

  “Are you going to thank me?” she asked. “That coin trick was pretty good.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “Everyone thinks I’m a thief!”

  “Correction,” said Grandma Melvyn. “Everyone thinks you’re a clever thief. Big difference. At least they’re thinking about you. You can’t buy that kind of press.”

  “Wha … Why … Wha … ?”

  “Don’t fry your brain over it,” she said. “I stuck the coins in your pocket the night before, when your teacher called to remind your mom to come to class. Trixie looked so frazzled, I decided to go instead.”

  “Why?”

  “Somebody needs to help you with your act.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I’m going to help you with your magic act,” she said. “Though you could use some fashion help, too. Did your mother buy that shirt for you?”

  “I’m eleven,” I said.

  “It shows,” she said.

  I thought about making a crack about her tacky sweatshirts and her sparkly shoes, but I didn’t. I want to live to see sixth grade.

  “What do you know about my act?” I asked.

  “Enough to know you need help,” she said. “If I’m stuck in Trixieville, I might as well have a hobby. You’re as good as the next. Let’s start with a disappearing act.”

  Grandma Melvyn ate the rest of her ice cream and licked the spoon.

  “Ta-daaaa!”

  She snorted and stood up.

  “Classic,” she said. “Oh yeah, it arrived today. Trixie made them put it in the garage. Some people have no clue.”

  I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT GRANDMA MELVYN WAS TALKING ABOUT, SO WHEN SHE was gone, I sneaked to the garage to see. Just beyond the bicycles, lawn mower, abandoned roller skates, and a fish tank filled with birdseed—don’t ask—there was a tall mahogany cabinet I had never seen before. And it wasn’t any old cabinet. I had seen cabinets like it in catalogs for magicians. My heart beat faster as I looked closer. It was beautiful. It was at least six feet tall and four feet wide with four small wheels at the base. I twirled it around and looked at each side. They were identical. No doors. No handles. No obvious way to open it. I got on the floor and felt under the cabinet for a latch. The bottom was solid wood.

  I twirled the cabinet very slowly, examining each panel. On the third side, I found an unusual spot in the grain about two feet above the floor. The grain of the wood in one spot whorled tightly, like a thumbprint. I pushed on it and the panel creaked open, revealing the black velvet interior of a magician’s disappearing cabinet.

  I heard a noise behind me and turned around. Grandma Melvyn was standing in the doorway.

  “Magic lessons start tomorrow,” she said.

  Then Grandma Melvyn turned and disappeared into the house. Maybe it was my imagination, but I think she was just a little bit taller than before.

 
MAGIC LESSONS START TOMORROW.

  I couldn’t sleep just thinking about it. Actually, I couldn’t sleep for three reasons:

  There was a real magician’s cabinet in the garage, and it belonged to Grandma Melvyn. What did she know about magic?

  Grandma Melvyn wanted to give me “magic lessons”? I didn’t have a clue what that meant. It might be good, or it might be very not good. Correction, make that extremely, very, very not good.

  Ape Boy found Mom’s stash of dark chocolate and ate it all. He spent the night swinging onto the top bunk and jumping off again. Each time I got to sleep, he peeked into the Hideout and whispered, “Are you asleep? I’m not asleep. Are you asleep? How come you’re not asleep? Want some gum? Yay!”

  Ape Boy settled down at four in the morning, but by then I was wide awake. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cabinet. Then I got an idea.

  Maybe—and it was an elephant-sized maybe—I could use the cabinet in the talent show. After all, Grandma Melvyn had humiliated me in front of the entire class, even if she didn’t think so. Letting me use the cabinet would make up for that … a little.

  If I had a real magician’s cabinet, I would have the greatest act ever. At least the greatest act in the history of the Hobson Elementary School Talent Show. Yes, I know that’s a very low standard. Thank you very much for pointing that out. But every magician has to start somewhere.

  With Grandma Melvyn’s cabinet, I could show everyone that I was a real magician. For once, I could stand on the stage in front of the whole world, and when that moment with no name arrived, everyone would know what came next. No screams. No fire trucks. Just me taking the biggest bow of my life to thunderous applause and cheers: Bravo! Encore! Well done, kiddo. There couldn’t be a better way to end my career at Hobson than that!

  It was almost dawn when I finally drifted to sleep, and I’m pretty sure I was smiling when I did.