Welcome to Wonderland #4 Read online

  “Their pants are uniformly khaki,” added Gloria.

  “Oh, and they have name tags!” said Dill.

  “Okay,” I said, “we can do all that. You guys have polo shirts and tan shorts, right? Plus, Jack Alberto has a label maker. He can print out name badges for everybody on the staff.”

  “Can I be on the staff?” asked Dill.

  “Definitely. In fact, I have an idea.” I turned to Gloria. “I don’t know if this is in your notes…”

  “It probably is.”

  “But both the Super Fun Castle and Snarlin’ Garland’s have costumed mascots. Sir Laughsalot and the pit crew kids.”

  Gloria tapped the page in her notebook. “My third bullet point. Right after parking attendants with orange airport-cone flashlights.”

  “We need a mascot,” I said.

  “Ooh, ooh,” said Dill, raising his hand. “I could be a mascot. I saw some Halloween costumes across the street in that store where we got the water gun gear!”

  “I saw those, too,” I said. “One of them was a dog, which would be perfect. You could be Air Fur One’s big brother—Air Fur Too.”

  “And,” said Dill, “I could carry Frisbees around in my mouth.”

  Gloria shook her head. “Bad and semi-unsanitary idea. Just meet and greet.”

  “I’ll write you up some stuff to say,” I told Dill. “Because that’s another thing I noticed about our competition—they’re both very tightly scripted.”

  Gloria nodded. “Bullet point number seven. They also have video screens in the parking lots to promote their major attractions.”

  “We can do that,” I said. “We have a ton of TVs. We can roll one out of an empty room and park it underneath the Welcome to Wonderland sign out front. I’ll create some kind of splashy graphics on the computer, transfer the file to your laptop…”

  “Which,” said Gloria, “I’ll link to the TV with an HDMI cable.”

  “Booyah!”

  We did a three-way knuckle knock.

  And then we went to work.

  Because we only had twenty-three hours and thirty minutes to make the Wonderland as slick and polished as we could.

  I don’t think I’ve ever worked harder at anything in my life.

  We put together sharp-looking uniforms—once we realized that just about everybody owns a navy-blue polo shirt and a pair of khaki shorts.

  Jack Alberto came over with his label maker. In a flash, we all had semiofficial–looking name tags. Jack and his younger brother, Nate, volunteered to be our parking lot attendants. We gave them light-up jack-o’-lantern flashlights left over from Halloween. (It was the closest thing I could find in our storage shed to official airport-cone lights.)

  Clara, our head housekeeper, and the rest of the staff went around polishing and buffing everything that needed spiffing up, including the statues. They shined our Morty D. Mouse statue until it was so bright that you could see your reflection in his cheese wedge. They used Windex on the windows to the Banana Cream Pie Room (which was currently vacant) on the first floor so Frolfers could look in and ooh and aah at it while they waited to tee off.

  Dill dashed across the street to Shore Enuff Stuff and bought his Air Fur Too costume.

  Mom, who’d found her own navy-blue polo shirt, was tidying up the lobby and restocking the soft drink machines. She took out Grandpa’s Cel-Ray cans and put them in our kitchen fridge. “It’s an acquired taste,” she said. “And so far, Dad is the only one I know who’s acquired it.”

  Mr. Ortega was up in his room, making sure everything was “locked down tight” for Johnny Zeng’s big arrival.

  Everybody was pumped.

  Even Grandpa.

  When he saw all of us bustling around the property, he came out of his workshop and his funk.

  “P.T.?” he said. “What the heck is going on? What’s with the spit-and-polish job? Why are you wearing those clothes? You look like an insurance salesman on his day off.”

  “Well, Grandpa,” I told him, “we’re not giving up without a fight!”

  “You shouldn’t, either, sir,” said Gloria.

  “I agree,” said Dill, flopping down his hands at the wrists so they resembled paws. Then he panted. I had to hand it to him: the kid did a good dog.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” said Grandpa. “I get the picture. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to put a fresh mustard-scented candle in the Bologna on White Bread Room!”

  Sunday dawned and we were as ready as we could be.

  Mr. Ortega had plugged Johnny Zeng’s two o’clock appearance at the Wonderland Motel on his sportscast the night before.

  Our parking lot was packed.

  Air Fur One was prancing around, wagging his tail, greeting guests. Dill was out there doing the same—in costume.

  “Welcome to the Wonderland!” he said, reciting the script we had worked up together. “I’m doggone glad to see you! I’m sure you’ll have a pawsome time!”

  Jack and Nate were waving their orange pumpkin flashlights, directing cars. Our new “video sign” was filled with a slow-motion montage of Air Fur One’s airborne antics set to techno music blasting out of a boom box.

  Gloria and her Junior Achievement gang were running the souvenir table, selling a ton of stuffed dogs, commemorative flying discs, and dog-shaped sugar cookies. Out back at the Banana Shack, Jimbo was grilling special Air Fur One hot dogs, in honor of the “hottest dog” on the Frolf circuit.

  Grandpa was strolling around in his silly golf pants and floppy hat.

  It was awesome!

  A little before two, Johnny Zeng arrived with a young woman in a business suit. Johnny was a gangly sixteen-year-old guy wearing golfing gloves, spiked shoes, and a baseball cap.

  “Johnny Zeng, I presume?” cried Mr. Ortega, jutting out his hand to shake the golfer’s. “Welcome! Thanks for agreeing to do your first-ever interview with yours truly. Who’d you bring with you today?”

  “Heather,” said Zeng.

  “I’m his agent,” said the lady in the suit.

  “Well, welcome.”

  Mr. Ortega’s camera crew turned on their blazing lights, raised the boom microphone, and went to work.

  “So, Johnny,” said Mr. Ortega, beaming his smile, “welcome to the world-famous Wonderland Motel here on St. Pete Beach in Florida.”

  “This place is famous?” said Johnny, looking around and making a stinky face. “For what? Being boring?”

  Mr. Ortega did his professional-sports-reporter chuckle. “Heh-heh-heh. For being in a movie. But enough about the motel. Are you ready to catch disc-flinging fever?”

  Johnny shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Then hey, hey, Tampa Bay—let’s get to it.”

  “In a minute.”

  “Huh?”

  “Johnny needs to wait,” said his agent. “For his coach.”

  “Your golf coach?” asked Mr. Ortega.

  “No,” said Johnny. “New guy.”

  Mr. Ortega looked a little stunned, so I jumped right in.

  “Um, any idea when your new coach will be here?”

  “Soon.”

  Johnny Zeng was a teen of few words. I guess a lot of them are.

  So we waited.

  Until a guy on a thrumming motorcycle pulled into the parking lot, totally ignoring Jack and Nate and their pumpkin flashlights.

  The biker parked where he felt like parking and whipped off his helmet.

  It was Bradley. From the Super Fun Castle.

  “Hiya, Johnny,” said Bradley.

  “Hey, Bradley.”

  “You’re his coach?” I asked as Bradley climbed off his Harley.

  “You bet.”

  He undid the bungee cords tying down his gym bag to the back of the bike.
/>   “I reached out to Johnny and his people late last night after I caught the sports report on WTSP. Manny said he’d be here at two o’clock for the first-ever on-camera interview with Johnny Z.”

  “That I did,” said Mr. Ortega, proudly bouncing up on the balls of his feet.

  “Big fan, sir,” said Bradley, holding out his hand.

  Mr. Ortega shook it. “Thanks for watching. At WTSP, we put the T.S.P. in Tampa, St. Pete.”

  “Huh?”

  “Wait a second,” I said to Bradley. “You called Johnny Zeng at, like, eleven-thirty? Last night?”

  Bradley smiled smugly. “He who hesitates is lost—which, by the way, makes him a loser.”

  “And as his coach, will you be Frolfing with him? Today?”

  “I prefer to call it disc golfing.”

  “Fine,” I said. “We’ll just raffle off two spots in Johnny Zeng’s foursome instead of three.”

  Now Bradley was shaking his head. “Not going to happen, kid. It’s just going to be me and Johnny Z.”

  “B-b-but…”

  “If you have a problem with that, we can deep-six this interview and I’ll take Johnny over to the Super Fun Castle, where he can see what it’s like to play on a professional-grade course.”

  “Ooh,” said Johnny’s agent. “That sounds amazing.”

  Mr. Ortega’s eyes widened. This interview was supposed to be his big break, his ticket to ESPN.

  I couldn’t let Bradley crush his dreams.

  “Fine,” I said, handing Johnny and Bradley two official Wonderland Frisbees from a laundry basket.

  “No thanks,” said Bradley, unzipping his gym bag. “We brought our own.” He pulled out two jet-black discs. “They’re professional grade. Just like me and Johnny.”

  “Well, hey, hey, Tampa Bay,” said Mr. Ortega, rolling into his TV catchphrase. Again. “Let’s get to it.”

  Johnny Zeng, his agent, Bradley, Mr. Ortega, and the camera crew marched over to the first tee box with their shiny, aerodynamically perfect black discs.

  And of course, as soon as Bradley and Johnny Zeng were ready to fling off, the judges arrived.

  The panel of five judges who would determine the Wonderland’s fate cruised into the parking lot in a big van wrapped with a vinyl Florida Fun in the Sun decal.

  “Places, everybody!” shouted Grandpa. “It’s showtime!”

  The van door slid open, and out climbed the lady we’d labeled Ms. Matchy-Matchy and her son, Geoffrey. I recognized the other judges from our visits to the regional rounds at the Super Fun Castle and Alligator Alley.

  “Welcome to the Wonderland, ladies and gentle-men,” I said. “We hope you have a wonderful, funderful time!”

  Dill bopped over in his dog costume. “Pardon my inter-ruff-tion, everybody, but I hope you folks have a pawsitively pawsome time!”

  Geoffrey giggled.

  I started my welcome speech.

  “This, of course, ladies and gentlemen, is the world-famous Wonderland Motel. I’m P. T. Wilkie. Before I worked here, I worked at an orange juice factory. But my boss had to fire me. I couldn’t concentrate.”

  “My,” said Ms. Matchy-Matchy when I finished my welcome spiel. “I love how you spiffed the place up since our last visit. And the snappy dialogue? Clever. Very clever. Are those new uniforms?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said proudly, patting down my name tag label, because it was sort of curling up and peeling off my shirt. “And wait till you meet the newest member of our fun-in-the-sun team: Air Fur One! The disc-catching dog!”

  “There’s a dog?” squealed Geoffrey.

  “Two!” said Dill, doing his paws-up/panting act again.

  “I want to meet the real dog, not you!” said Geoffrey.

  “Well,” I said, doing my best to sound like the tour guides on the jungle boat ride at Disney World, “you’ll find him around back, sitting in the shade, because Air Fur One sure doesn’t want to turn into a hot dog.”

  Geoffrey did a quick goody-goody, jumpy-clappy thing and took off for the Banana Shack.

  His mother grinned. “Excellent display of hospitality,” she said, tapping her temple. “I’m making a mental note. Oh, I see that fellow from the Super Fun Castle is here….”

  She’d seen Bradley.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She put her hand alongside her mouth and whispered, “That must mean your Frolf course is more fun-in-the-sun than his!”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  We were golden.

  We were going to win Grandpa his prize!

  Or so I thought.

  Until I heard what sounded like an earthquake.

  The thundering crash came from the Banana Cream Pie Room.

  Grandpa was on the landing outside, panicking.

  “The whipped-cream ceiling just flattened the pie-tin bed!” he hollered. “Good thing nobody was in the room!”

  Mom and Gloria ran over to see what all the commotion was about. Plaster dust billowed out from under the door. Tourists were gasping. So were the judges. Bradley was the only one in the whole crowd smiling. In fact, he was sniggering—which is like laughing, only meaner.

  Our first-floor theme room didn’t look like a delicious dessert anymore.

  It looked like a disaster zone.

  “Oh, my,” said Ms. Matchy-Matchy, standing right behind me.

  I figured she was making another one of those mental notes.

  “Was that supposed to happen?” she asked.

  I looked to Grandpa. He stood there, frozen, his eyes wide with panic.

  I looked at Mom. She nodded, letting me know I should do whatever I thought I needed to do—no matter how preposterous.

  So I did what I do best. I spun a story. A real whopper.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” I told the assembled crowd, “this is what happens when a giant gets tired of sleeping in the clouds and checks into your motel.”

  I gestured to the room on the second floor directly above the remains of the Banana Cream Pie Room.

  “The guy has huge shoes. Boots the size of boats. Guess he must’ve kicked them off.”

  “There’s a giant up in that room?” asked Geoffrey.

  “Yep,” I said. “The Super Fun Castle may have crashing helicopters, but we have crashing ceilings.”

  “It looks like somebody had a giant pie fight in there!” said someone close to the window.

  “Good one, sir,” I said. Everyone laughed. “According to his driver’s license, this giant hails from San Francisco. I think he plays baseball.”

  More laughter.

  Grandpa shot me a wink. It looked like he was breathing again. “Good job, P.T.,” he whispered. “Details are important. They make a story pop.”

  “This is so cool,” said Geoffrey, admiring the mess on the other side of the plate-glass windows. “They, like, totally trashed an entire room. That’s way better than all that fake stuff blowing up at the Super Fun Castle.”

  Grandpa’s smile grew wider.

  “You and Gloria go take care of the Frolfers,” he said. “I’ll take over here.”

  We shot him a thumbs-up, and the master showman took the stage—the concrete patio in front of what used to be the Banana Cream Pie Room.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that giant upstairs is quite famous. Used to have a goose that laid golden eggs. But he traded her in for one that made bacon.”

  Gloria hurried back to her souvenir shop; I corralled the panel of judges.

  “That was fun!” I told them.

  “Incredible special effects,” said Ms. Matchy-Matchy. “Wonderfully realistic.”

  “That’s why we call it the Wonderland. So, who’s ready to meet the sixteen-year-old golf wiz they call Johnny Z?�
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  All the judges raised their hands.

  “Well, he’s right there, teeing off on the frog slide hole.”

  “How exciting,” said Ms. Matchy-Matchy.

  “Well, that’s what the Wonderland is all about, ma’am: making dreams come true. For Johnny Zeng, it’s hurling a disc at chain-link baskets. For others, it’s having fun with friends and family in a place that feels like home. And for others, it’s meeting Air Fur One, our resident disc-crazy dog!”

  Right on cue, Air Fur One pranced over.

  The judges oohed and aahed.

  Air Fur One gave them a happy little bark.

  More oohing and aahing.

  That was replaced by the sound of grumbling and growling.

  It wasn’t the dog.

  It was Bradley.

  “Would you people please be quiet?” he shouted.

  The judges gasped and took a step back.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Ortega, dropping into his best hushed-golf-announcer voice. “It’s important for us all to stay as quiet as we can, for Johnny Zeng needs to step up to the plate and fling a home run.”

  “Manny?” said Bradley.

  “Yes, Bradley?”

  “Don’t talk until after the toss.”

  “Right you are, Coach.”

  Air Fur One wagged his tail, sat down, and kept his eyes laser-locked on Johnny Zeng’s Frisbee.

  “Be the disc,” coached Bradley.

  “Be the disc,” repeated Johnny Zeng, tightening his grip on the shiny black saucer. He bent his knees, going into a crouch, and flexed his disc-flicking wrist.

  “He’s going into his crouch,” narrated Mr. Ortega as quietly as he could. “Limbering up the all-important extensor carpi ulnaris muscle.”

  “Manny?” said Bradley. “Shhh!”

  Mr. Ortega mimed locking his lips.

  Finally, Johnny Zeng hurled his disc.

  And of course Air Fur One took off after it.