34 - Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes Page 3

  “More lawn ornaments, Jeffrey?” he called out to Dad. I could hear him chuckling.

  Mr. McCall is mean to Mindy and me. But he and Dad get along fine. They’re always kidding each other about their gardens.

  Mrs. McCall poked her head out the front door. “Cute!” she called out, smiling at us from under her white baseball cap. “Come on in, Bill. Your brother is on the phone.”

  Mr. McCall set his pruning sheers down and went inside.

  We lugged Chip past the McCall driveway and followed Dad into our front yard.

  “Over here!” Dad instructed as he set Hap down in the far corner of the yard. Next to Deer-lilah. Deer-lilah is the deer. Dad named her after Lilah from Lawn Lovely.

  With our last bit of strength, we dragged Chip over to Dad. These gnomes were heavy. They weighed a lot more than our other ornaments.

  Mindy and I plopped the gnome down on the grass and collapsed in the dirt next to him.

  Whistling happily, Dad set Chip on one side of the deer. And Hap on the other.

  He stepped back to study them. “What cheerful little guys!” he declared. “I’ve got to show your mom. She won’t be able to resist them! They’re too cute to hate!”

  He hurried across the lawn and into the house.

  “Yo!” I heard a familiar cry from next door. Moose jogged across his driveway. “I hear you have some ugly new lawn things.”

  He charged up to the gnomes and stared. “Way ugly,” he boomed.

  Moose leaned down and stuck his tongue out at Hap. “You want to fight, shrimp?” he asked the little statue. “Take that!” He pretended to punch Hap in his chubby chest.

  “Wreck the runt!” I cried.

  Moose grabbed the gnome around his waist and gave him a dozen quick punches.

  I scrambled to my feet. “I’ll wipe that ugly grin off your face!” I yelled at Chip. I closed my hands around the gnome’s neck and pretended to choke him.

  “Watch this!” Moose shot out a thick leg and karate-kicked Hap in his small pointy hat. The squat figure wobbled.

  “Careful! Stop messing around!” Mindy warned. “You’re going to break them.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s tickle them!”

  “Tickle, tickle!” Moose squeaked as he tickled Hap under the armpits.

  “You’re a riot, Moose,” Mindy declared. “A real—”

  Moose and I waited for Mindy to finish insulting us. But instead, she pointed to the McCalls’ garden and screamed, “Oh, no! Buster!”

  Moose and I spun around and spied Buster. In the middle of Mr. McCall’s garden, pawing away at the green stalks.

  “Buster! No!” I screamed.

  I grabbed the dog whistle and raised it to my mouth. But before I could blow, Mr. McCall exploded out of his front door!

  “That stupid mutt again!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly. “Get out of here! Shoo!”

  Buster whimpered, turned, and trotted back to our yard, head down, stumpy tail between his legs.

  Uh-oh, I thought, studying Mr. McCall’s angry face. We’re in for trouble now.

  But before Mr. McCall could start lecturing us, Dad pushed the front door open. “Kids, your mother says that dinner is almost ready.”

  “Jeffrey, are you deliberately sending that mutt over to ruin my melons?” Mr. McCall called.

  Dad grinned. “Buster can’t help it,” he replied. “He keeps mistaking your melons for golf balls!”

  “Are those tomatoes you’re growing?” Moose’s dad shot back. “Or are they olives?”

  “Didn’t you see the tomato I rolled into the house yesterday?” Dad replied. “I had to use a wheelbarrow!”

  Buster danced around the yard. I think somehow he knew he had escaped big trouble.

  We started for the house. But I stopped when I heard a heavy thud.

  I whirled around to discover Hap lying face down in the grass.

  Buster busily licked his face.

  “Bad dog,” Dad scolded. I don’t think Dad likes Buster any more than Mr. McCall does. “Did you knock that gnome over? Get away from there!”

  “Buster—come here, boy!” I called. But he ignored me and licked at the face more furiously than ever.

  I brought my dog whistle to my lips and gave one quick short blow. Buster raised his head, alert to the sound. He forgot about the plaster gnome and trotted over to me.

  “Joe, pick Hap up, will you?” Dad demanded, annoyed.

  Mindy held onto Buster. I grabbed the gnome by his shoulders and slowly heaved him to his feet. Then I checked for damage.

  Legs. Arms. Neck. Everything seemed okay.

  I raised my eyes to Hap’s face.

  And jumped back in surprise.

  I blinked a few times. And stared at the gnome again.

  “I—I don’t believe it!” I murmured.

  8

  The gnome’s smile had vanished.

  Its mouth stood open wide, as if trying to scream.

  “Hey—!” I choked out.

  “What’s wrong?” Dad called. “Is it broken?”

  “Its smile!” I cried. “Its smile is gone! It looks scared or something!”

  Dad jumped down the steps and ran over. Moose and Mr. McCall joined him.

  Mindy walked slowly in my direction, with a suspicious scowl on her face. She probably thought I was playing another joke.

  “See?” I cried as everyone gathered around me. “It’s unbelievable!”

  “Ha-ha! Good one, Joe!” Moose burst out. He punched me in the shoulder. “Pretty funny.”

  “Huh?” I lowered my eyes to the little figure.

  Hap’s lips were curved up in a grin. The same silly grin he always wore. The terrified expression had disappeared.

  Dad let out a hearty laugh. “Good acting job, Joe,” he said. “You really fooled us all.”

  “Maybe your son should be an actor,” Mr. McCall said, scratching his head.

  “He didn’t fool me,” Mindy bragged. “That one was lame. Really lame.”

  What had happened? Had I imagined that open mouth?

  Mr. McCall turned to Buster. “Listen, Jeffrey,” he started. “I’m serious about that dog of yours. If he comes into my garden again…”

  “If Buster goes over there again, I promise we’ll tie him up,” Dad replied.

  “Aw, Dad,” I said. “You know Buster hates to be tied up. He hates it!”

  “Sorry, kids,” Dad said, turning to go inside. “That’s it. Buster gets one more chance.”

  I bent down to pet Buster’s head. “Only one more chance, boy,” I whispered in his ear. “Did you hear that? You only get one more chance.”

  I woke up the next morning and squinted at the clock radio on my night table. Eight A.M. Tuesday. The second day of summer vacation. Excellent!

  I threw on my purple-and-white Vikings jersey and my gym shorts and ran downstairs. Time to mow the lawn.

  Dad and I had an agreement. If I mowed the lawn once a week all summer, Dad would buy me a new bike.

  I knew exactly which model I wanted, too. Twenty-one gears and really fat tires. The coolest mountain bike ever. I’d be able to fly over boulders!

  I let myself out the front door and raised my face to the warm morning sun. It felt pretty good. The grass shimmered, still covered with dew.

  “Joe!” I heard a loud bellow.

  Mr. McCall’s bellow. “Get over here!”

  Mr. McCall leaned over his vegetable patch. An angry red vein throbbed in his forehead.

  Oh, no, I thought as I edged toward him. What now?

  “I’ve had it,” he roared. “If you don’t tie that dog up, I’m calling the police! I mean it!”

  Mr. McCall pointed to the ground. One of his casaba melons lay in the dirt, broken into jagged pieces. Melon seeds were scattered everywhere. And most of the orange fruit had been eaten away.

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I didn’t know what to say. Lucky for me, Dad showed up just in time. He was
on his way to work.

  “Is my son giving you some gardening advice, Bill?” he asked.

  “No jokes today!” Mr. McCall snapped. He scooped up the broken pieces of melon and shoved them in my dad’s face. “See what your wild dog has done! Now I have only four melons left!”

  Dad turned to me. His expression grew stern. “I warned you, Joe! I told you to keep the dog in our yard.”

  “But Buster didn’t do this,” I protested. “He doesn’t even like melons!”

  Buster skulked around behind the flamingos. His ears drooped flat against his head. His tail hung low between his legs. He looked really guilty.

  “Well, who else could have done it?” Mr. McCall demanded.

  Dad shook his head. “Joe, I want you to tie Buster up in the back. Now!”

  I saw that I had no choice. No way I could argue.

  “Okay, Dad,” I mumbled. I shuffled across the lawn and grabbed Buster’s collar. I hauled him to the corner of the back yard and sat him next to his red cedar doghouse. “Stay!” I commanded.

  I rummaged through the garage until I found a long piece of rope. Then I tied Buster to the tall oak tree next to his doghouse.

  Buster whimpered. He really hates being tied up.

  “I’m sorry, boy,” I whispered. “I know you didn’t eat that melon.”

  Buster pricked up his ears as Dad came around back to make sure I had tied the dog up. “It’s just as well that Buster is tied up today,” he said. “The painters are starting on the house this afternoon. Buster would only be in their way.”

  “Painters?” I asked in surprise. Nobody told me that painters were coming. I hate the smell of paint!

  Dad nodded. “They’re going to paint over that faded yellow,” he said, pointing to the house. “We’re having the house painted white with black trim.”

  “Dad, about Buster…” I started.

  Dad held up a hand to silence me. “I have to get to work. Keep him tied up. We’ll talk later.” I watched him make his way to the garage.

  This is all Mr. McCall’s fault, I thought. All of it! After Dad drove away, I stamped angrily into the garage and grabbed the lawn mower. I pushed the mower around the side of the house and into the front yard. Mindy sat on the front steps, reading. I rammed the mower forward.

  “I hate Mr. McCall!” I exclaimed. I shoved the mower around a flamingo. I felt like slicing off its skinny legs. “He is such a jerk. I’d like to smash the other four stupid melons!” I cried. “I’d love to wreck them all so Mr. McCall will leave us alone!”

  “Joe, get a grip,” Mindy called, peering up from her book.

  After I finished mowing, I ran into the house and grabbed a large plastic bag for the grass clippings. When I came back out, Moose was sprawled on our lawn. Several brightly colored plastic rings lay scattered on the grass around him.

  “Think fast!” he cried. He hurled a blue plastic ring at me. I dropped the bag and leaped for it.

  “Nice catch!” he said, scrambling to his feet. “How about a game of ring toss? We’ll use the gnomes’ pointy hats.”

  “How about using Mindy’s pointy head?” I replied.

  “You are so immature,” Mindy said. She stood and walked to the door. “I’m going to find some place quiet to read.”

  Moose handed me a few rings. He flung a purple one toward Hap. The ring slid neatly around the gnome’s hat.

  “What a throw!” he exclaimed.

  I took a ring and spun around like a discus thrower. I tossed two yellow rings at Chip. They slapped against the gnome’s fat face and slipped to the grass.

  Moose chuckled. “You throw like Mindy. Watch me!” He leaned forward and hurled two rings. They settled neatly around Chip’s pointy hat.

  “Yes!” Moose cried. He flexed his bulging muscles. “Super Moose rules again!”

  We tossed the rest of the rings. Moose beat me. But only by two points—ten to eight.

  “Rematch!” I cried. “Let’s play again!”

  I dashed over to the gnomes and gathered up the rings. As I pulled a handful from Chip’s hat, I stared into his face.

  And gasped.

  What was that?

  A seed.

  An orange seed about half an inch long.

  Stuck between the gnome’s fat lips.

  9

  “Is that a melon seed?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  “A what?” Moose stomped up behind me.

  “A melon seed,” I repeated.

  Moose shook his head. He clapped a big hand against my shoulder. “You’re seeing things,” he declared. “Come on, let’s play!”

  I pointed to Chip’s mouth. “I’m not seeing things. There! Right there! Don’t you see it?”

  Moose’s gaze followed my finger. “Yeah. I see a seed. So what?”

  “It’s a casaba melon seed, Moose. Like the ones scattered on the ground.”

  How could a casaba seed find its way into Chip’s mouth?

  There had to be an explanation. A simple explanation.

  I thought hard. I couldn’t think of one.

  I brushed the seed from the gnome’s lips and watched it flutter to the grass.

  Then I stared at the gnome’s grinning face. Into those cold, flat eyes.

  And the gnome stared back at me. I shivered in the heat.

  How did that seed get there? I wondered. How?

  I dreamed about melons that night. I dreamed that a casaba melon grew in our front yard. Grew and grew and grew. Bigger than our house.

  Something startled me out of my melon dream. I fumbled for my alarm clock. One A.M.

  Then I heard a howl. A low, mournful howl. Outside the house.

  I jumped out of bed and hurried to the window. I peered into the shadowy front yard. The lawn ornaments stood in silence.

  I heard the howl again. Louder. Longer.

  It was Buster. My poor dog. Tied up in the back yard.

  I crept out of my room and down the dark hall. The house was quiet. I started down the carpeted stairs.

  A step squeaked under my foot. I jumped, startled.

  A second later, I heard another creak.

  My legs were shaking.

  Cool it, Joe, I told myself. It’s only the steps.

  I tiptoed through the darkened living room and into the kitchen. I heard a low, rustling sound behind me. My heart started to pound.

  I whirled around.

  Nothing there.

  You’re hearing things, I told myself.

  I stumbled forward in the dark. Closed my hand around the doorknob.

  And two powerful hands grabbed me from behind!

  10

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Mindy!

  I breathed a sigh of relief. And yanked myself away from her grasp.

  “I’m going for a midnight snack,” I whispered, rubbing my neck. “I’m going to eat the rest of Mr. McCall’s stupid melons.”

  I pretended to cram my mouth full and chew. “Yum! Casabas. I need more casabas!”

  “Joe! You’d better not!” Mindy whispered in alarm.

  “Hey, I’m kidding,” I said. “Buster is howling like crazy. I’m going out to calm him down.”

  Mindy yawned. “If Mom and Dad catch you sneaking out in the middle of the night…”

  “It’ll just take a few minutes.” I stepped outside. The damp night air sent a small chill down my back. I gazed up at the starless night sky.

  Buster’s pitiful howls rose from the back.

  “I’m coming,” I called in a loud whisper. “It’s okay, boy.”

  Buster’s howls dropped to quiet whimpers.

  I took a step forward. Something rustled through the grass. I froze in place. And squinted into the darkness. Two small figures scampered by the side of the house. They scraped across the yard and disappeared into the night.

  Probably raccoons.

  Raccoons?

  That’s the answer! The raccoons must have eaten Mr. McCa
ll’s melon. I wanted to wake up Dad and tell him. But I decided to wait till morning.

  I felt much better. That meant that Buster could be set free. I made my way over to Buster and sat next to him on the dew-wet grass.

  “Buster,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

  His big brown eyes drooped sadly. I threw my arms around his furry neck. “You won’t be tied up for long, Buster,” I promised. “You’ll see. I’ll tell Dad about the raccoons first thing in the morning.”

  Buster licked my hand gratefully. “And tomorrow I’ll take you for a long walk,” I whispered. “How’s that, boy? Now go to sleep.”

  I slipped back inside the house and jumped into bed. I felt good. I had solved the mystery of the melon. Our troubles with Mr. McCall were over, I thought.

  But I thought wrong.

  Our troubles were just beginning.

  “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” Mr. McCall’s cries cut through the quiet morning, waking me from my heavy sleep.

  I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock radio. Six-thirty A.M.

  What’s all the screaming about?

  I hopped out of bed and hurried downstairs, yawning and stretching. Mom, Dad, and Mindy were at the front door, still in pajamas and robes.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “It’s Bill!” Dad cried. “Come on!”

  We piled outside and stared into our neighbors’ garden.

  Mr. McCall hung over his vegetable patch in a tattered blue-and-white-checkered robe. He grabbed frantically at his casaba melons, screaming.

  Moose and his mother stood behind Mr. McCall in their robes, wide-eyed and silent. Instead of her usual friendly smile, Moose’s mom wore a grim frown.

  Mr. McCall lifted his head from the garden. “Ruined!” he roared. “They’re totally ruined!”

  “Oh, boy,” Dad muttered. “We’d better get over there, Marion.” He started across our front lawn. Mom, Mindy, and I followed.

  “Take it easy, Bill,” my dad said calmly as he stepped into the McCalls’ front yard. “Nothing is worth getting so upset about.”

  “Easy? Take it easy?” Mr. McCall shrieked. The vein in his forehead throbbed.

  The raccoons, I thought. They attacked the casabas again. I’ve got to tell Dad. Now. Before Buster gets blamed for this, too.