Mr. Lemoncello and the Titanium Ticket Read online

  Usually, he could.

  Except that one time with his grandmother’s blow-dryer. When Simon put it back together, the thing sucked air in instead of blowing it out. It inhaled her hair like a hungry, hungry hippo slurping spaghetti.

  It took a week for the bathroom not to smell like a charred wig.

  Fortunately, his grandmother wasn’t upset. She laughed and said, “Yep, just like your father.”

  Simon’s grandparents were some of the few adults in the whole town who had never, ever worked at the Gameworks Factory. Mr. Lemoncello was the main employer in Hudson Hills. Had been for twenty-five years. Everybody said he paid the best wages in the world and had the best benefits, too—medical, dental, free books, a rock climbing wall, two zero-gravity rooms, plus an indoor archery range and a bowling alley.

  Everybody in Hudson Hills loved the zany game maker.

  Everybody except Simon’s grandfather, who said the meanest, nastiest, ugliest things about Mr. Lemoncello—at the grocery store, at the hardware store, at the barbershop, in letters to the local newspaper, even after church on Sundays.

  Sam Skrindle was the town kook.

  Maybe that’s why Simon didn’t have very many friends.

  And why he had to break into the secret building!

  If he did, he’d prove to all the kids at school that not everybody in Hudson Hills named Skrindle was a total joke.

  Simon scurried across the moonlit lawn, past a topiary trimmed to look like Mr. Lemoncello floss dancing, and made it to the pathway, which he followed to the first of the three locked gates.

  There was a small metal box mounted on it. Inside the box, Simon discovered a thumbprint scanner, a video screen, and a keypad. He figured the scanner was for authorized workers. Everybody else probably needed to tap in some kind of security code to open the lock.

  A recorded voice said, “Greetings and salutations!”

  It was Mr. Lemoncello himself!

  Mr. Lemoncello didn’t visit Hudson Hills all that much, but Simon recognized his voice from TV commercials and the All-Star Breakout Game on the Kidzapalooza Network.

  “To enter this supersecret zone,” the recorded voice continued, “puzzletastic skills must be shown!”

  A riddle scrolled across the video screen: There are 100 bricks on a plane. One falls off. How many are left?

  Simon thought about that. He wondered if it was a trick question. It couldn’t be this easy. Then he shrugged and tapped 99 on the keypad.

  A flashing Correct! filled the screen and dissolved into animated fireworks. The pixels rearranged themselves to create a new question: What are the three steps for putting an elephant into a refrigerator?

  What? Simon thought. He knew Mr. Lemoncello was wacky, but this question was just plain weird.

  “It’d have to be a jumbo-sized fridge,” he mumbled. Then he thought out the logical steps. One, open the door. Two, put the elephant in. Three, close the door. It made sense, so he typed those three steps on the keypad.

  “Oh, what fun!” boomed Mr. Lemoncello’s recorded voice. “You have opened lock number one!”

  There was a solid CLUNK of a latch springing free. The gate creaked open an inch. Simon pushed it the rest of the way and hurried down the yellow brick walkway to the second gate, where he found a second puzzle box.

  Another question glowed on its screen: What are the four steps for putting a giraffe in a refrigerator?

  Simon started to type in the same answer that he’d just given for the elephant/fridge question.

  Then he stopped.

  That was three steps. This question asked for four.

  He needed an extra step. He rubbed the short, fuzzy hair on top of his head as if it were a lucky tennis ball. Sometimes head rubbing helped him think. So did humming.

  What if it’s the same refrigerator? he asked himself. He shrugged again. He took a risk and typed in his answer, even though it felt more like a guess: One, open the door. Two, take the elephant out. Three, put the giraffe in. Four, close the door.

  The screen remained frozen for a second.

  Then it burst into those Correct! fireworks again.

  The dots pulled themselves together to form another question: A lion was having a party and he invited the other animals. All of them came except one. Which one was it?

  “How should I know?” muttered Simon. “There are so many animals in the jungle….”

  He heard a whir overhead.

  It was a security camera, swiveling slightly on its post. One more swivel, and its lens would be aimed directly at Simon.

  Panicking, he typed the first and only thing to cross his mind: The giraffe. Simon figured it couldn’t come to the lion’s party because it was stuck in the refrigerator.

  He closed his eyes and hit the enter key.

  “Well, yippee-ki-yay and husker dü!” cried Mr. Lemoncello’s voice. “You have unlocked gate number two!”

  The second gate popped open. Simon couldn’t believe his luck. He raced to the third and final gate just before the overhead security camera completed its pivot to catch him. He was so close to the building, he could see his reflection in the mirrored glass walls. He flipped up the lid on the lockbox and read the riddle he knew would be waiting for him: A lady crossed a crocodile-infested river and survived. How?

  This question seemed to have nothing to do with any of the earlier ones. Maybe Simon’s grandfather was right. Maybe Luigi L. Lemoncello was just a madman with a mangy mustache.

  Or…

  Maybe the new question did have something to do with the old ones.

  Simon’s fingers danced across the keypad. There weren’t any crocodiles in the river, he typed. They were all at the lion’s party.

  He was correct. Again.

  Two words illuminated the screen: Final Question.

  This was it. If Simon answered one more question correctly, he’d be in. He’d be the first unauthorized person in all of Hudson Hills to see what was inside the new top-secret building!

  Up came the final puzzler: The lady waded back across the river and died. How?

  Simon’s cranium felt like it might explode.

  The crocodiles could’ve left the party early. The river could’ve turned into quicksand. There really weren’t enough facts to work with.

  Or were there?

  Maybe all the riddles were connected!

  Maybe the final answer would come from that ridiculously easy first question.

  Simon took a deep breath. He was ready to play his hunch.

  The brick from the airplane fell out of the sky and conked her on the head, he tapped on the keypad.

  “Congratulicitations to thee!” the prerecorded Mr. Lemoncello declared. “You have solved the riddles for gate number three.”

  Simon didn’t hear the familiar metallic CLUNK of the lock opening.

  He pushed against the gate. The chain-link fence rattled but the gate didn’t budge.

  “You made it oh so far,” the voice continued. “So be oh so proud. However, access to the general public is not yet allowed. Thank you for playing. Your memories are your treasures. It’s time for me to activate maximum security measures!”

  Freaking out just a little, Simon jiggled the third gate again.

  It still wouldn’t open. He heard the double KA-THUNK and WHOOSH of what sounded like a pair of catapults.

  FWUMP!

  Direct hit.

  Ew!

  The hurling machine had clobbered Simon with some kind of flying beef potpie loaded with gravy, potatoes, and slimy meat chunks.

  He heard something creaking overhead. Looking up, he saw two rubber buckets perched on top of the gate’s tallest posts. The teetering tubs were hooked up to a gears-and-pulleys contraption. The kind of thing Simon loved making. The buckets w
ere starting to tilt.

  Simon thought about running.

  He probably should’ve just done it.

  Because, while he stood there thinking about it, the buckets dumped their loads directly on his head.

  SCHWUMP! SPLAT! BANG!

  Greasy gravy and bacon sludge flattened his hair and dribbled down the back of his shirt. It was extremely gross. And smelly.

  From off in the darkness, Simon heard barking. Lots of yips and yaps and happy squeals.

  Mr. Lemoncello had released the hounds!

  And Simon Skrindle was standing there frozen. A meat-flavored Popsicle.

  The factory’s guard dogs would tear him to shreds.

  He ran to the gate behind him.

  It had relocked itself. Simon tugged. The gate clattered. But there was no escape. He was trapped. Looking right and looking left, he could see the sharp-edged silhouettes of charging dogs.

  They seemed to be small.

  Angry Chihuahuas with sharp, pointy teeth? Beagles trained to hunt foxes? Miniature hounds and jackals?

  No.

  As the twin dog packs drew closer, Simon could see that they were all puppies. Floppy-footed, tail-wagging, head-bobbing, ear-flapping puppies.

  Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred.

  They leapt up and toppled Simon to the ground so he’d be easier to lick.

  Two puppy tongues lashed the insides of Simon’s ears while six others nuzzled his armpits and another two burrowed under his cuffs and tried to scoot up the legs of his pants. Simon giggled and squirmed. The dogs were so snuggly and squiggly he couldn’t help it.

  A sharp whistle pierced the night.

  “Here, Sounder, Ginger Pye, Old Yeller, Winn-Dixie, and all you others I haven’t had time to name yet!” cried Mr. Lemoncello’s voice through the outdoor loudspeakers. “Your job is done. Here at the Gameworks Factory, security is always fun!”

  The puppies hopped off Simon and, tails wagging, waddled away.

  On what had to be the weirdest night of his life, Simon heard the catapults fire again.

  This time, they lobbed a pair of fluffy, lemon-scented beach towels over the fence.

  Simon stood up, grabbed the towels, and started cleaning what was left of the meaty slop (not to mention gobs of dog drool) off his face, hair, and clothes.

  Behind him, he heard the third gate squeak open. Simon braced himself. He figured the real security guards were coming out to arrest him.

  To Simon’s surprise, he saw Kyle Keeley and Akimi Hughes. They were the famous kids from Mr. Lemoncello’s holiday commercials. The ones who won the escape game at Mr. Lemoncello’s library in Ohio.

  “Hi,” said Kyle while Akimi locked the gate behind them. “Good job on those riddles. It’s like Mr. Lemoncello always says: The future belongs to the puzzle solvers.”

  Simon raised his hand.

  “Question?” said Akimi.

  “Uh, yeah,” said Simon. “What are you two doing here?”

  “Mr. Lemoncello asked us to beta test his newest creation,” said Kyle, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the secret building.

  “What is it?” asked Simon. “What’s inside?”

  “Sorry, Simon,” said Akimi. “That information is classified.”

  “At least until this weekend,” added Kyle with a wink.

  Simon heard the second and then the first gates CLICK open.

  “Catch you later, Simon,” said Kyle. He and Akimi headed toward a car shaped like a cat that had just silently prowled into the parking lot.

  “Wait a second,” Simon called after them. “How did you know my name?”

  Kyle turned around and smiled. “Mr. Lemoncello told us. He’s been watching you. He’s a big fan.”

  Simon was confused. “Of what?”

  Akimi laughed. “You, Simon Skrindle!”

  Jack McClintock’s father was the head of security for the Lemoncello Gameworks Factory.

  He had been for eleven months.

  That meant Jack was basically his number one deputy.

  The McClintocks lived in a house on the Gameworks property. The guardhouse had been built to resemble a gingerbread house, complete with gumdrop shrubs and candy cane gutters. Thanks to Mr. Lemoncello’s patented smell-a-vision indoor air fresheners, the whole house smelled like gingersnaps.

  Jack’s dad thought the house was ridiculous. Jack did, too. A seventh grader at Hudson Hills Middle, Jack liked to go to school wearing camouflage. Or all black. All black was good, too. Made him look like a ninja. Or a member of a SWAT team.

  In addition to a regular TV, the McClintocks had a special room filled with five dozen small video monitors—one for each security camera surveilling the Gameworks Factory and grounds. There were another five dozen blank ones on the opposite wall. They’d cover the insides of the new secret building once it became operational.

  Jack’s father had only been working for Lemoncello for a short time and didn’t really like how the bazillionaire ran his factory. Especially its security.

  “Too loosey-goosey for my taste,” he’d say. “If this were my factory, I’d lock it up tighter than a drum. Then I’d do deep background checks on all employees.”

  Jack wasn’t a big fan of the “world’s greatest” game maker, either, because, in his opinion, Mr. Lemoncello didn’t have enough first-person shooter games. Those were Jack’s favorite.

  But, a job was a job and, according to Jack’s dad, this one came with great benefits, not to mention free rent, which was good, even if you had to live in a house with oversized M&M’s for doorknobs.

  So, when an alarm sounded anywhere on the factory property, day or night, the McClintocks, father and son, sprang into action!

  “Scramble, scramble!” Jack’s father hollered up the staircase. “We need to be Oscar Mike!”

  Security personnel everywhere knew that meant “on the move.”

  Jack rolled away from his homework desk and plucked his tactical jacket off the back of his chair.

  “Intruder alert?” he shouted down the steps.

  “Roger that!” his dad hollered back. “Interloper at the gates. Grab your moonbeam.”

  That meant “flashlight.” Jack had no idea why. Neither did his dad. It was just another thing, like Oscar Mike, that they said in the Marines. Jack’s father was never a Marine but he always wished he had been.

  “Do you two need a snack?” asked Jack’s mom as he and his dad raced through the kitchen. She started spreading peanut butter across slices of white bread.

  “Negatory,” they both replied.

  “We have a kid sneaking around the new building,” said Mr. McClintock. “Can you ID him, Jack?”

  He showed Jack a screenshot he’d taken with his phone.

  “Ten-four, sir,” said Jack. “That’s Simon Skrindle. Total I-D ten-T.”

  Mr. McClintock nodded. He understood the code: I-D 10-T. According to Jack, Skrindle was an idiot.

  “He’s the class joke, sir,” Jack continued. “A total waste of space.”

  “He’s a dummy?” asked Mr. McClintock, arching a skeptical eyebrow. “Then how’d he make it through the first two gates and successfully complete the riddles for the third?”

  “He got lucky, sir.”

  Jack had tried to answer the riddles of the gates himself. He’d wiped out at the second gate. Mr. Lemoncello’s guard puppies had licked him mercilessly.

  “Let’s roll,” said Jack’s father. “We need to go nab your friend. His time’s up!”

  “He’s not my friend, Dad!”

  They ran out the back door, leapt over the mini-pretzel fencing, and headed to a small shed. Jack’s father reached inside and shoved up a large lever. A blindingly bright spotlight thumped on.

  Jack saw Simon Skr
indle standing outside the fence line, looking like a scared raccoon caught with his paws in a dumpster.

  “Freeze!” shouted Jack’s father.

  “You heard my dad!” shouted Jack. “Freeze!”

  Skrindle obeyed their commands. He even put his hands up over his head.

  “Don’t shoot!” he cried.

  “At ease, son,” said Jack’s dad. “We don’t carry weapons. That’s against Mr. Lemoncello’s rules—unfortunately. Are you Simon Skrindle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait a second,” said Jack’s dad. “Are you related to Sam Skrindle? The grouchy old coot who’s always bad-mouthing Mr. Lemoncello around town?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s, uh, my grandfather.”

  “What were you doing back here?” asked Jack’s father.

  “Nothing, sir,” replied Simon.

  “You’re good at that,” cracked Jack.

  Jack’s father hiked up his utility belt. “Tell you what, Simon. I’m gonna let you go. This time. Having to be Sam Skrindle’s grandson seems like punishment enough. You are free to return home. But don’t you ever try to break in again or you’ll have a real soup sandwich on your hands.”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t, sir.”

  Jack and his father watched Simon Skrindle scurry off toward the woods.

  Despite what he’d said to his dad, Jack couldn’t help but marvel a little.

  How did that little squirt figure out all six riddles?

  At school the next morning, everybody was buzzing about that weekend’s big company picnic and town-wide celebration.

  Posters were hung in the hallways promising “A Major, Earth-Shattering, Moon-Blasting, Mars-Jiggling Announcement to Be Made by Mr. Luigi L. Lemoncello Himself!”

  That meant Mr. Lemoncello was coming to the company picnic.

  “The twenty-fifth anniversary is the silver anniversary!” Simon heard one kid say. “Mr. Lemoncello will probably give everybody a commemorative silver coin!”

  “No way,” said another. “That would be boring. This is going to be something awesome!”