Welcome to Smellville Read online

  “EEEUUUW. What’s that smell?” Mr. Perfect cried, and pinched his fingers over his nose.

  Mrs. Perfect groaned. “OHHH, that horrible odor. It smells like burned skunk!”

  All around the room, everyone groaned and covered their noses.

  Parker Perfect started to gag, and pressed a hand over his mouth.

  “The smell . . .” his wife uttered. “It’s making my eyes water. I . . . I’m going to be sick!”

  Covering their mouths and noses, the Perfects spun around—and bolted out the front door. We could see them running full speed across the lawn.

  “What’s their problem?” Rob Slob asked.

  Handy Sandy came up behind him. “Good news and bad news,” Sandy said.

  Choking and gagging, we all turned to her.

  “The good news is, Rob took a bath,” Sandy said. “The bad news is, a bath makes him smell a lot worse!”

  “Hey, look!” Junkfood John cried. “The Perfects left their baloney cake. Anyone want to split it with me?”

  BRAINY JANEY’S HISTORY QUIZ

  Here is a quiz I took in school last week. Of course, I aced every question. Mrs. Hooping-Koff said my answers were the most amazing she’d ever seen.

  How many of these can you answer?

  My answers are on the next page.

  TWENTY

  I’m Babbling Brooke. It’s my turn to tell this story now . . .

  I was standing next to Junkfood John in line at the school cafeteria, when he got into a fight with one of the lunch helpers.

  “Fritos is definitely a vegetable!” John insisted.

  “First I’ve ever heard of it,” the woman replied without changing her expression.

  She had a long white apron over her clothes and wore a net over her short brown hair. In her hand was a big scoop, and she was dishing out macaroni and cheese to anyone who wanted some.

  A white name tag pinned to her apron read: ANNIE.

  “Potato chips come from potatoes, right?” John asked.

  Annie nodded.

  “Well,” John reasoned, “Fritos come from Frito trees. They’re harvested like any other vegetable.”

  Annie sneered at him. “Guess you’ve done a lot of research,” she said.

  John nodded. “Did you know pretzels are considered a fruit,” he asked. “Like Froot Loops. And I’m pretty sure popcorn comes from the leaves of cucumber bushes.”

  “Thanks for all that useful information,” Annie said, tapping her big scoop on the counter. “Can I ask you a question, young man? You came here from what planet?”

  Junkfood John didn’t get a chance to answer.

  Because that’s when a food fight broke out.

  And that’s when I began to worry about Cranky Frankie.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The boys in our house call me Babbling Brooke, I guess because I like to talk a lot. I know they think of me as this flaky rah-rah cheerleader type.

  But I’m also the worrier in our family.

  I mean, someone has to worry about us kids. Here we are, on our own, with no mom or dad. We have to be kids and grown-ups at the same time. And we’re not exactly like the other kids!

  Brainy Janey is a serious brainiac. She’s so smart, you can never tell what she’s thinking! And since she’s too busy thinking all the time, I kind of see it as my job to look after everyone.

  And I instantly became worried about Cranky Frankie when the food fight broke out. He just sat there and didn’t even bother to jump in.

  It all began when Junkfood John smashed half a cantaloupe into Luke Puke’s face.

  Why did he do it, you ask?

  Don’t ask me.

  Luke Puke let out a shrill cry. “Food fight!” he screamed. “Food fight!”

  Some kids didn’t even look up from their macaroni. We have a food fight around 12:30 every day.

  It’s actually a school sport.

  Peter and Patty Perfect once asked if they could get extra credit for tossing food at other kids. I think Mrs. Hooping-Koff said okay. She loves the Perfects.

  Luke Puke then poured a bowl of tomato soup over Junkfood John’s head. The thick, lumpy soup ran down his cheeks. I had to laugh. It looked pretty funny.

  Kids jumped up from their tables, eager to join in. The cafeteria food isn’t worth eating. But it sure is good enough to throw at other people.

  I didn’t move fast enough, and Wacky Jackie smushed an open peanut-butter sandwich into my face. And guess what? I jumped up and began cheering:

  “FOOD FIGHT! FOOD FIGHT!

  “WE’VE GOT THE VEGGIES! WE’VE GOT THE CARBS!

  “WE’VE GOT THE—YIIIKES!”

  I couldn’t finish because someone slid a vat of spaghetti down my back.

  Screams broke out as a whole tray of creamed spinach went flying off the food table. It landed with a SPLAT on top of a bunch of eighth graders. It oozed down them like lava on a volcano.

  Someone heaved a huge glob of banana pudding at Junkfood John. It splattered on his chest and stuck there. John looked down, scooped some up with his hands, and jammed it into his mouth.

  I ducked as two chicken legs whirred over my head. They flew under the next table and hit Nervous Rex, who was hiding down there.

  The screams, the crack of plates, and the PLOP of flying food filled the cafeteria.

  Suddenly, a shrill whistle burst through the deafening racket. It was a long whistle, followed by another long whistle.

  The room began to quiet down as Coach Swettypants blew his whistle. Food stopped flying. And the shouts faded to groans and murmurs.

  Everyone turned toward Coach, who blew his whistle until he was red in the face. Junkfood John kept eating pudding off the front of his pants.

  “Hope you enjoyed your lunch, everyone!” Swettypants boomed. “Now wipe yourselves down and get to class!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  As we all started to parade toward the cafeteria doors, Coach stopped Adam Bomb and pulled him aside. “You’ve got a good arm, Adam,” he said. “I saw the way you heaved that ham across the room.”

  “I’ve been working out a little,” Adam said.

  “Maybe you’d like to join our football team,” Coach Swettypants said. “We need someone who can throw a good ham.”

  Our team, the Smellville Stinkworts, hasn’t won a game. Ever. But we are very good losers.

  We’ve been the All-State Number One Losing Team for five years in a row. That’s something to be proud of.

  You can always tell the guys on the football team in our school. They’re the ones with big casts on their arms and legs, and they walk around with crutches.

  “Think about it,” Swettypants said to Adam Bomb. Then he let him join the others hurrying to class.

  I had my eyes on Cranky Frankie the whole time. He still sat in his seat, sipping a box of Frooty Pelican Juice with a straw. His eyes were down, and his whole body was slumped in the low cafeteria seat.

  I motioned to Handy Sandy. “Look,” I said, pointing.

  She turned and studied Frankie. “What’s the problem, Brooke?” she asked. “Frankie always drinks Frooty Pelican Juice. He likes the taste of pelican.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “Look at him. He hasn’t moved.”

  “So?”

  “He didn’t throw any food, Sandy,” I said. “You know what Frankie can do with potato salad. And you’ve seen him send tubs of mustard flying clear across the lunchroom.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You mean—”

  “He didn’t join in the food fight—his favorite sport,” I whispered. “He just sat there, looking sad and depressed.”

  “Uh oh,” Handy Sandy said, shaking her head. “We’ve got a problem.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Hey, remember me? Your old friend, Adam Bomb. It’s my turn again to tell the story . . .

  That night after dinner, Ptooey the Parrot and I were having one of our insult battles.

  I leaned over the
squawking bird and said, “I’ll feed your feathers to the cat!”

  “Ptooey! You don’t have a cat!” the bird shot back.

  “I’ll buy one. And you can change your name to Cat Food!”

  “Ptooey! Ptooey! Change your name to Litter Box! Squawwwk!” And just like that the bird lifted its leg and plopped something onto my shoulder.

  “GAAACK!” I cried and stepped back. Sometimes that feather-faced idiot makes me so mad, I think I’m going to explode.

  “Hey, give it a rest,” Handy Sandy called out. “I thought we were having a house meeting.”

  “Ptooey! Ptooey! Come back here, Litter Box. I’ve got another present for you! Squawwwwk!”

  PLOP!

  I turned and trudged into the living room, muttering to myself and wiping my shoulder with my hand.

  Everyone was sprawled around the room, still burping from our dinner—meatballs with a side of meatballs on top of meatballs in a meatball sauce.

  Awesome.

  There’s a meatball restaurant around the corner from us. And it’s the place to go, especially if you like meatballs.

  They don’t have anything else. Well . . . they do have dessert. But . . . dessert is coconut meatball pie. And not even Junkfood John will eat that.

  “We need to talk about Cranky Frankie,” I said.

  Nervous Rex gazed around the room. “Where is he?” Rex asked. “Is he s-sick? Is he lost? Did he break something? Does he need a doctor? Is he in trouble? Did he leave? Is he g-gone forever?”

  “Don’t be so nervous, Rex,” I said. “Frankie’s in his room. He said he’s too sad and depressed to come out.”

  Junkfood John’s eyes lit up. “Did he finish his meatballs?” he asked.

  “He didn’t have an appetite,” I said.

  “Can I have them then?”

  “Not now, John—” I started.

  Junkfood John held up a bowl. “I have pickled eel sauce from a week ago, if anyone is interested.” He raised the bowl to his mouth and poured the sauce down his throat.

  “We have to get serious about Frankie,” I said.

  “Yes, he’s totally depressed,” Brooke chimed in. “He didn’t throw anything in the food fight today at lunch. And he didn’t say anything cranky at dinner, either.”

  “He just sat there,” I said, “with a blank look on his face. His eyes were dull, and he stared into space. His mouth hung open, and he never even raised his head.”

  “So what’s different about him?” Wacky Jackie exclaimed, then laughed at her own joke.

  “It isn’t funny,” Brooke scolded her. “He’s too sad and depressed to be cranky. We have to cheer him up.”

  “Ptooey! I’ll cheer him up!” the parrot squawked from across the room. He lifted one leg. “Bring him here! I’ve got a present for him!”

  “Shut your yap, Ptooey!” Luke Puke yelled.

  “You shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “No, you!”

  “No, you!”

  “You!”

  “You!”

  “Both of you—SHUT UP!” I screamed.

  We all knew that Luke and the parrot had the same IQ. But why couldn’t Luke realize he was never going to win an argument with Ptooey?

  “Sit down, Luke,” I said.

  “Sit down, Luke,” the parrot squawked.

  “No, you sit down!” Luke screamed.

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you sit down!”

  “No, you!”

  “No, you!”

  “You!”

  “You!”

  I couldn’t take it any longer. My head was vibrating, buzzing, about to explode. There’s a reason my name is Adam Bomb. My head really was about to blow up all over the living room.

  And it’s very messy, trust me. Not to mention the headache afterward.

  I had to do something.

  I ran to Ptooey, stuffed him into his cage, and pulled the cover down over it.

  Then I darted to Luke’s bedroom, yanked the blanket off his bed, ran back into the room, and threw the blanket over Luke.

  Finally, peace and quiet.

  “Now can we talk about Frankie?” I asked.

  “We have to think hard,” Brainy Janey said. “We have to cheer him up so he’ll be his old cranky self again.”

  Janey had been thinking so hard all day, she had steam pouring out of both ears and her eyebrows formed the word TILT.

  “What can we do?” she asked. “Any one have any ideas?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I have an idea,” Babbling Brooke said, and jumped to her feet. “I wrote a new cheer to cheer Frankie up. Get it? Watch me. See if you think it will work.”

  She clapped her hands, leaped into the air, and began her cheer . . .

  “CHEER UP! CHEER UP! CHEER ALLLL THE WAYYYY UP!

  “UP UP UP. UP WITH THE CHEER.

  “YOU CAN BE CHEERFUL! GIVE US AN EARFUL!

  “DA DAA DAA DUH DA DA DA.”

  The cheer ended in a split. I heard Brooke’s knees crack. She probably broke something.

  Brainy Janey helped Brooke up from the floor.

  As she limped to the couch she said, “It isn’t quite finished. I’m still working on the last line. But . . . what do you think?”

  “Needs work,” Wacky Jackie said. “Like maybe a new beginning, middle, and end. Hahaha.”

  Brooke smiled. “Does that mean you like it?”

  “What else can we do to cheer Frankie up?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Maybe we could tickle him,” Wacky Jackie said. “That always works for me.”

  “He doesn’t like to be touched,” I said.

  “We could tickle him with a feather,” Jackie replied. She turned to the parrot cage. “And I know where we can get the feather.”

  “Awwwk. Ptooey!” the bird cried, underneath his cage cover. “Come over here. I’ll use your face for a pincushion!”

  I groaned. “Can’t anyone shut him up?”

  “Can’t anyone shut him up?” the bird squawked. “Come closer. Awwwk. I’ll spit between your eyebrows!”

  I groaned again. “I know what would cheer Frankie up. A nice bowl of parrot soup!”

  “How about some pickled eel sauce?” Junkfood John suggested and raised his bowl. “I still have a little left.”

  “That won’t cheer Frankie up,” I said. “He’s so sad and depressed, he isn’t hungry, remember?”

  “I have an idea,” Brainy Janey said.

  The room instantly became silent.

  Whenever Brainy Janey has an idea, it’s always smart and good and seriously awesome. So we all gazed at Janey, waiting for her to speak.

  “How about a balloon?” she
said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Huh?” I gasped. “That’s your brilliant idea? A balloon?”

  Janey nodded. “But not just any old balloon. A red balloon.”

  “Poor Janey,” I said. “You’ve been hanging out with Wacky Jackie too much. She drained your brain.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jackie said. “Is that a compliment? I think that’s a compliment, right?”

  “I think a balloon is a good idea,” Janey said. “You know, Frankie once told me that no one had ever given him a balloon.”

  I squinted at her. “He said that?”

  She nodded again. “Frankie said that when he was very little, he went to a carnival. And a man came by carrying a huge bunch of helium balloons on strings. Frankie wanted one so bad, but the man walked right past him. All these years later, no one has ever given Frankie a balloon. He’s been cranky ever since.”

  Nervous Rex held a tissue to his face. “S-stop,” he said. “You’re making me cry. That’s the saddest thing I ever heard.” His shoulders heaved up and down as he sobbed.

  “Ptooey! Awwk. You’re the saddest thing I ever saw!” Ptooey called. “You want a reason to cry? Come over here. I’ll peck your arteries out! Awwk.”

  “Shut your yap,” Luke Puke shouted at the parrot from under his blanket. “I’ll pluck you like a bad guitar!”

  “You shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “You shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “You shut your yap!”

  “No, you shut your yap!”

  “You!”

  “You!”

  “Well . . . let’s try the balloon idea,” I said. “Who wants to go to the store and buy a red balloon? They have them at the Smellville Party Store.”

  Handy Sandy raised her hand. “I’ll go get one,” she said, and started to the front door.

  “Hurry back,” I said. “I hate to see Cranky Frankie so sad.”

  “Back in a jiffy,” Sandy replied as the door slammed behind her.

  Three days later, Sandy returned with a red balloon.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Where have you been?”