Welcome to Wonderland #4 Read online

  “He knows a lot about the activities in the area.”

  “True. He’s done stories for WTSP on just about all the attractions on the short list.”

  We bounded up the stairs to the second floor and went to Mr. Ortega’s room. He was hunched over his laptop, watching video clips of himself.

  “Dad?” said Gloria.

  “One second, hon.” He clicked his computer mouse. “Just need to shave off a few more frames. This is that story I did about high school football championships where they dumped the bucket of Gatorade on my head. This is going to be the tightest demo reel in the history of ESPN auditions.”

  “Will that help you win the job?” I asked.

  “I sure hope so, P.T.,” said Mr. Ortega. “Because, as the legendary football coach Vince Lombardi once said, ‘If it doesn’t matter who wins or loses, then why do they keep score?’ ”

  “So the scoreboard operator has a job?”

  “Good point, P.T. Good point. Now how can I help you kids?”

  We gave him a quick recap of the revamped Florida Fun in the Sun competition and ran down the list of our competitors in the first round.

  Mr. Ortega whistled.

  “They’ve all got great work ethics and will definitely come to play,” he said, because sports reporters say stuff like that all the time. “Let’s break it down. Fishing off the pier at John’s Pass? Just about as boring as it sounds. Unless you love bait buckets full of live, squiggly shrimp.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I like mine deep-fried with tartar sauce.”

  “Fort De Soto? Beautiful. Nice nature hikes. Excellent bird-watching. But there hasn’t been much real action there since they stopped firing the cannons.”

  He liked Splash Down Water Park at the Seawinds Resort.

  “They’ll have a real shot at winning this thing,” he said.

  “What if we put in a Slip ’N Slide?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “Like I said, they’ll have a real shot at winning this thing.”

  “So how about Captain Sharktooth’s Pirate Cruise?” asked Gloria.

  “Never heard of that one,” said Mr. Ortega. “Must’ve flown under my radar.”

  “Then there’s the new Fun Castle,” I said.

  “The big kahuna,” said Mr. Ortega. “They’ve got major marketing muscle and state-of-the-art electronic gaming action. Defeating them will definitely be a challenge.”

  That made me gulp a little.

  “Did you see their Mega Mini indoor golf course when you did that story?” I asked.

  “Yes. And I have to report it is more amazing than anything you might imagine. It features fluorescent holes glowing under ultraviolet lights. They’ve got smoke machines. Sound effects. Animatronic figures like sharks with snapping jaws. They’re hitting on all cylinders, guys, and have taken miniature golf to the next level—the mega mode!”

  It almost sounded like his voice was in an echo chamber when he said that last bit.

  “We definitely need to scout them out,” said Gloria. “And Captain Sharktooth’s. See what we’re up against.”

  “Where first?” I asked.

  “Captain Sharktooth’s,” said Gloria. “Because we know absolutely nothing about their operation.”

  * * *

  Bright and early Sunday, we biked over to the pirate cruise’s pier. They already had a sign up saying they were on the short list for Florida Fun in the Sun’s hottest family attraction.

  “Note to self,” said Gloria, speaking into her phone. “Make short-list sign.”

  We bought tickets and boarded the ship.

  Then we both froze in our tracks.

  Because you’ll never guess who Captain Sharktooth’s weekend tour guide was.

  “What are you two doing here?” asked the tour guide, who was wearing one of those corny captain hats.

  It was Mr. Frumpkes. Our history teacher.

  “We just thought we’d check out Captain Sharktooth’s Pirate Cruise,” I said, trying not to laugh. Mr. Frumpkes was also wearing white shoes, white pants, white gloves, a blue blazer with frilly gold trim on the sleeves, and a snazzy bow tie. He looked ridiculous.

  “Are you Captain Sharktooth?” Gloria asked innocently.

  “No!” snapped Mr. Frumpkes. “It’s my weekend job, Ms. Ortega!” He thrust out his gloved hand. “Do you have tickets?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” I said, and handed him our cardboard stubs.

  “Then welcome aboard. And, Mr. Wilkie?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This is an educational tour. We’ll have none of your shenanigans. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We found a spot along the starboard railing as the boat shoved off. The cruise wasn’t very crowded. Maybe four families.

  “Parents?” Mr. Frumpkes said into a microphone. “Make certain you keep your children under control at all times. They’re your responsibility on weekends, not mine! Now then, if you look over the sides of the boat, you may see some fish. This is the Gulf of Mexico. It is full of fish. And kelp.”

  “Are we going to attack a boat or something?” asked one kid.

  “Why on earth would we want to do that?” asked Mr. Frumpkes, wrinkling up his nose.

  “Because we be pirates!” hollered the boy. “Arrrrgh!”

  “You’re using improper grammar, young man. Mom and Dad? You should keep an eye on that. Now then, John’s Pass, where we were docked, was named after John Levique, a sea turtle farmer in the 1800s….”

  And blah-blah-blah.

  Something about gold and buried treasure and the “Great Gale of 1848.”

  To be honest, it had all the makings of an awesome story. But in Mr. Frumpkes’s hands, it was totally boring. Fact: how you tell a story is just as important as what it’s about.

  The kids on the ship looked miserable.

  Especially one boy in glasses. He had a crew cut, jug-handle ears, and a very green face. I thought he was getting sick—and not just from Mr. Frumpkes’s blah-blah-blahing.

  “I don’t feel so good,” he told Mr. Frumpkes.

  “You are most likely experiencing a form of motion sickness characterized by a feeling of nausea.”

  The boy urped. “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s because your brain is receiving conflicting signals. While your eyes show you a world that is still, the equilibrium sensors located in your ears are sending signals that the environment is in motion….”

  The more Mr. Frumpkes laid out the scientific details of seasickness, the more kids started feeling woozy. Pretty soon, all the boys and girls on the boat (except Gloria and me) clasped their hands over their mouths and moved closer to the railings.

  They were all about to start chumming the water with chunks of vomit!

  I could tell the kid in the glasses was about to hurl.

  “Don’t you dare vomit on our hardwood deck, young man,” scolded Mr. Frumpkes.

  I leapt into action.

  “Ahoy, mateys,” I hollered to all the seasick kids in my best Stinky Beard pirate voice. “Look ye to the horizon!”

  “Mr. Wilkie?” said Mr. Frumpkes, scowling at me. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

  “Saving your hardwood deck, sir.”

  That startled him enough that I was able to grab the microphone out of his hand.

  “I know me an old pirate trick,” I said. “Whenever I feel a wee bit queasy on the poop deck because I had cackle fruit for breakfast…”

  “Those are eggs,” translated Gloria.

  “Aye! When my stomach feels like it might scuttle me into a ‘thar he blows’ situation, I simply look at the horizon! Try it. As we head back to port, look out into the Gulf and stare at the horizon until your world feels fixed and
horizontal, which, by the way, is why they call it the horizon and not the vertic-izon.”

  A couple of kids laughed. They were already feeling better.

  “This is how the famous pirate Jean Le Bigfeet sailed from France to Florida.”

  Mr. Frumpkes was fuming. “Do you mean Jean Laffite, the French-American privateer?”

  “Nargh. Jean Le Bigfeet was bigger than Jean Laffite. He set sail from France after eating a really big French dinner. French fries. French toast. One of those French dip sandwiches. As he crossed the Atlantic, he would’ve totally lost his lunch, but fortunately, he was sailing with the world-renowned French physician and puke-ologist, Dr. Le Barf.

  “He was the world’s leading expert on seasickness and said, ‘Fromage, mon capitaine. Look to zee horizon!’ Jean Le Bigfeet did as the doctor instructed, and safely sailed all the way to Florida and John’s Pass, where he stole all of that turtle farmer’s gold!”

  The passengers were still staring at the horizon when we docked and tied off at John’s Pass. No one barfed, hurled, yakked, or ralphed.

  Gloria and I scampered down the gangplank to the dock before Mr. Frumpkes could write us up a detention slip, which, technically, he probably couldn’t do, because we weren’t at school, but we didn’t want to risk it.

  Gloria and I grabbed some conch fritters at Crabby Bill’s.

  They weren’t as good as Jimbo’s.

  “We are so going to win this thing,” I said. “That pirate cruise was so bad it made everybody sick to their stomachs.”

  “We still need to defeat the Fun Castle,” she reminded me.

  “So let’s go check them out.”

  Gloria and I biked over to the Fun Castle.

  We paid for a pair of putters so we could scope out the Mega Mini indoor golf course. Our clothes and teeth were glowing. The Fun Castle had an awful lot of ultraviolet lights in the ceiling.

  We were on number three, the King Kong hole, where you had to shoot your ball through the hairy legs of a giant animatronic ape with banana breath who was beating his chest and roaring.

  We saw that “funmeister” Bradley coaching a kid.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Um, Dill.”

  “Like the pickle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not many pro golfers named Dill.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not many Olympic athletes or all-star quarterbacks, either.”

  “You’re correct, sir.”

  “Well, Dill, you need to push yourself. You need to give me one hundred and ten percent.”

  “But that’s mathematically impossible, sir….”

  Bradley didn’t like hearing that. His face turned orangish, which is what I think happens to red under ultraviolet light.

  I recognized Dill. He was the same little guy in glasses we’d met on Captain Sharktooth’s Pirate Cruise. The first one to almost hurl.

  “Hey, Dill!” I shouted as if we were old pals. “Why don’t you play with us instead of Bradley?”

  “If he plays with me,” shouted Bradley, “he can learn what it takes to be a winner.”

  “You could probably become a winner with us,” I said.

  “We’re both terrible,” added Gloria. “You’re practically guaranteed a victory.”

  “I don’t even know which end of this shiny stick to use,” I said, waving my putter around.

  “But I’ve already played the King Kong hole,” said Dill.

  “So?” I said. “Play it again. You’ll get a better score because you know how to beat the big ape.”

  When I said that, I was sort of looking at Bradley, who was glaring back at me.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “P. T. Wilkie,” I told Bradley.

  “That’s a weird name.”

  “True. But it’s also very easy to memorize.”

  “So?”

  “So memorize it,” I told him. “Because you’re going to see it engraved on a trophy when me and my friends at the Wonderland Motel beat you in the Florida Fun in the Sun contest.”

  Now I really, really, really wanted to win.

  And not just for Grandpa.

  Now I wanted to beat funmeister Bradley, too.

  Gloria and I headed back to the Wonderland and decided to hit the beach, which is basically our backyard.

  On our way down to the surf with our boogie boards, we bumped into a total surfer dude who was setting up shop maybe ten yards away from our rear retaining wall. He had long sun-bleached blond hair, a smudge of white zinc on the tip of his snout, way cool shades, and one of those puka shell necklaces people wear in Hawaii.

  “Howzit, brah and sistah?” he said when he saw us. “The surf was epic today. Fully macking, man. The waves were total corduroy, y’know?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I guess,” said Gloria.

  The guy had all sorts of rentable beach gear set up around a trio of bright blue umbrellas (which you could also rent). We’re talking kayaks, surfboards, beach bikes, kites, stand-up paddleboards, skimboards, and a stack of beach chairs. A sign stuck out of the sand: Beach Bum’s Equipment Rentals.

  The guy told us his name was Corky.

  “I’m P. T. Wilkie,” I said. “This is my best friend and business partner, Gloria Ortega.”

  “Howzit?” said Corky.

  “Fine,” said Gloria. “I guess. Um, may I ask a question?”

  “Fer shure, dudette.”

  “Is it your intention to set up shop here behind the Wonderland Motel on a regular basis?”

  “Maybe. Who’s asking?”

  “Me and P.T.”

  “What? You dudes have something against life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?”

  “Hardly,” said Gloria. “In fact, we embrace and celebrate the American free enterprise system.”

  “We’re also looking to up the number of activities available to our guests,” I added. “You’re right behind our motel. The Wonderland.”

  “Therefore,” said Gloria, “we might find some seriously sustainable synergies.”

  Corky crinkled his zinc-painted nose in confusion. “Huh?”

  “We might be able to work together,” I said. “We send you guests, you give them something fun to do.”

  “Sounds like a plan, little man,” said Corky.

  He shot out his hand to shake on the deal.

  I stroked my chin.

  “What’s the problem, brah?”

  “How do we know if your gear is any good?”

  “Easy, dudes. Test it out.”

  And that’s exactly what Gloria and I did. For maybe three hours. For free.

  I think that’s why they call it the free enterprise system.

  When we were done having fun in the sun, we headed back to the Wonderland.

  Mom and Grandpa were in the lobby, going over sketches for the Mermaid Room. Apparently, construction was already under way in the Banana Cream Pie Room.

  “Billy just finished the whipped-cream ceiling!” said Grandpa. “It looks so good I almost licked it.”

  “Oh,” said Mom, “I almost forgot. I heard from Florida Fun in the Sun magazine.” She consulted a pink notepad. “Our official panel of judges will be here two weeks from Tuesday. That’ll be the Tuesday of your vacation week.”

  “Great,” I said. “We have plenty of time to prep some new shows. We’ve already lined up a bunch of new beach activities.”

  “Really?” said Mom. “How?”

  “We worked out a strategic alliance with a freelance equipment-rental agent,” said Gloria.

  “A guy named Corky,” I said. “He set up shop out back on the beach. He has a ton of cool stuff. Everything from boogie boards to sun umbrellas.�
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  “Working synergistically,” said Gloria, “we will be able to exponentially maximize the Wonderland’s fun-in-the-sun quotient.”

  Grandpa and Mom had blank looks on their faces but nodded anyway.

  “Gloria?” said Grandpa.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Can I be honest with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t understand half of what you say. But I don’t need to. You’re a wiz, kid! You still do that mock stock portfolio thing you do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You still winning?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a bajillionaire,” I added.

  Gloria blushed. “Only on paper.”

  “Well,” said Grandpa, rubbing his hands together, “we need to turn your paper profits into real moola-boola to help finance all these instant improvements we’re making around here. I want to build a spaceship room, too. The bed is an Apollo space capsule. The lamps look like rockets. The TV plays nothing but Star Wars and Star Trek DVDs. I also have an idea for an Orange Juice Room. Everything’s orange—and there’s an extra spigot on the sinks for OJ. But to pull off all this redecorating, we’re gonna need some major bucks. We’re gonna need you, Miss Ortega.”

  “B-b-but…,” Gloria protested.

  Grandpa held up his hand.

  Gloria quit sputtering.

  “Gloria,” said Grandpa, “I’m going to give you a grubstake.”

  “Really?” said Mom. “How?”

  “Easy. I’ve been saving my pocket change for years. I have fifteen half-gallon orange juice bottles filled with coins. Pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters—even some of those Susan B. Anthony silver dollars you don’t see anymore.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’m taking all fifteen jugs down to the bank, dumping those coins into that counting machine they’ve got, and then I’m taking Gloria and the money to my good friend Laurette.”