The Cereal Box Crisis: A Short Story

[GGray]

The Rumor

“Hey, Will!”

I looked up from my history book to see who was disobeying the school rule about talking in class. It was J.J. Jones, who sat behind me.

“Will!” he repeated. “I’ve gotta tell you something!”

I glanced at the teacher. He was busy grading math papers (multiplying fractions—that takes all your concentration), so I felt pretty safe. “Yeah, J.J.?”

“You know Tim Felix?”

I nodded. “Of course! After all, he’s been living here for the past year!”

From the expression on J.J.’s face, I figured he was trying to look grim. “Well, he’s a...”

“Jeremiah Jason Jones! William Robert Cuzzford!”

I gulped and turned around to face the teacher. He was tapping his pen on his desk and staring at me and J.J.

Some time later, I wearily wrote, “I will not whisper in class” for the hundredth and last time (in my best handwriting, too!) I sighed with relief and looked at the clock. A quarter to four! Boy, was I late! I rushed outside and collided with J.J., who had finished his writing five minutes before me (I still think he only did about ninety-three).

“So, what about Tim Felix?” I asked curiously.

J.J. peered in all directions, then said in a low voice, “He’s the worst kid in the state! I have it straight from Joel Taylor. You know how Danny’s been missing from class the last couple of days? Well, it’s Tim’s fault! He....”

I listened to the rest off J.J.’s statement in amazement, then rushed off to tell Harvey.

Two days later, a few of us boys were playing soccer. When Tim approached us, we backed off.

“What’s wrong?” Tim asked.

“You know what you did!” Nicky Donnell shouted. “Poor Danny!”

“What about him?” Tim inquired.

“You were jealous that Danny had more allowance!” Nicky proclaimed. “So you went after him with a portable bomb-firing gun, like in the horror movies. He ran away from you while you chased him and laughing in evil glee! He was so busy running that he didn’t see that he was on the edge of a cliff, and he fell down and broke his ankle!”

Um...where did the kid get a weird story like that? That didn’t even resemble what J.J. told me. Anyway, the nearest cliff was about 100 miles away.

Tim also looked astounded. “Where did you hear that?”

“Harvey told me,” Nicky said.

“I heard it from Will!” Harvey said defensively. “Well, I might’ve added a detail or two, but...”

“Yeah, a detail, like that bomb-firing machine gun!” I scoffed. “I heard the original story from J.J.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly the original story...I heard it from Joel,” J.J. snapped, obviously beginning to realize that this version of how Danny broke his ankle wasn’t quite the truth.

“Well, Paul told me,” Joel said.

“I heard it straight from Danny!” Paul shouted, “and it wasn’t anything like that bomb-gun tall tale! Danny said that you tipped over a ladder he was climbing on—and that you did it ON PURPOSE!”

We all headed for Danny’s, intent on learning what really happened.

Davey, Danny’s little brother, told us that ‘Danny was hurt’. We all dashed upstairs, where Danny was sitting on his bed. His foot was bandaged, and a pair of crutches leaned against the wall.

“See?” Harvey exclaimed. “His ankle IS hurt!”

“Wow! Neat crutches! Can I use them when you’re done?” J.J. blurted out. The rest of us looked at him like he was insane (especially Danny).

Danny looked a little ashamed as Nicky blurted out the bomb-gun story.

“Tell them what actually happened!” Tim demanded.

Danny gulped and turned red. “Well—we were playing two-man tackle...”

“What?” Harvey interrupted.

“It’s football for two players. Tim was closing in on me, so I...I kinda disobeyed the rules and ran up a ladder that was leaning against the house. It tipped over, and I got a sprained ankle. I was too embarrassed to tell the truth to Paul, so I said that Tim tipped the ladder over by accident. I’m real sorry, Tim—I never thought it would get spread around to everyone and get RADICALLY changed in the process!”

Unfortunately, even though WE knew the truth now, the rumor had already spread through the entire town. Of course, nobody believed the bomb-firing machine gun part, but everybody thought that Tim was a mean kid who beat up kids he was jealous of.

“This is BAD,” said Joel flatly when we got together to discuss a solution.

“We have to make some kind of a public announcement,” said Danny. “We could say clearly in front of everyone that this crazy story about Tim was a fib.”

“You mean YOU have to,” Paul said. “You started this!”

“I know!” Harvey said. “You can announce it after that big play the whole school’s going to see.”

“You mean the high schoolers’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Abridged?” asked J.J.

“Yeah! Your brother Brad’s directing and producing it, so he can arrange it so you can come out during intermission and tell the REAL story,” said Harvey.

“Wait a sec! I’m not gonna do that! My reputation will be destroyed!” Danny protested.

“TIM’S reputation will stay destroyed if you don’t,” Joel pointed out.

“Well, it’s not only my fault! I tell a simple fib and you dummies have to turn it into that weird thing about guns and cliffs and spread it all over town!” Danny muttered. “Can’t we just write an editorial in the paper?”

“Only the grown-ups read the editorials,” Harvey said. “They’re not the ones who believe that Tim’s evil.”

“We’ll all go up with you, but you have to talk, Danny,” Paul offered.

That’s what happened. During the intermission, we all headed for the stage.

In the wings, Danny lost his nerve. “I can’t do it!”

“You better!” Paul shoved him onstage, and we all followed.

Somehow, Danny was able to tell the true story, and somehow, the rest of us managed to stay onstage until he was done. Exactly as he finished, we ran off in probably one second flat.

“So that’s over and one with,” Harvey sighed in relief as we took our seats in the balcony.

Danny wasn’t so sure. “What if some random guy visiting town heard that weird rumor and decided to use it as basis for a best-selling novel and there’s a film adaption and it gets nominated for an Oscar and it wins and Tim’s name is forever immortalized up there with Darth Vader and Norman Bates?”

“Look, Danny, just shut up,” Paul advised. “That’s as likely as a landing on the sun.”

A month later, a few of us were skateboarding in the park when Danny walked up with a solemn face.

“So, I hear the chances of a landing on the sun just went up,” he said.

“What?” Paul demanded. “What are you talking about?”

Danny held up one of those paperback novels with weird covers. “Look.”

Paul grabbed it and read the title aloud. “The Evil Child. What is this? It looks as corny as a taco chip.”

“Read the description on the back.”

Paul did. Let’s just say it resembled the final version of the rumor, bomb-firing machine included, and the kid on the cover looked ominously like Tim. We were all pretty much about to die when Danny chuckled.

“Ha, fooled you! It’s my latest photoshop creation.”

“That is NOT funny,” said Joel. “Didn’t you learn anything?”

Before Danny could answer him, Cory Bannon ran over. “Hey! You want to hear something? It’s about Tom Donnell!”

“Not interested,” most of us announced together.

“But I am!” Danny shouted.

We all glared at him.

“Just kidding!”


THE END

 

[Zella]

The part about the book was great.

 

[Mozart the Meerkitten]

never start a rumor weed. ever.

 

[GGray]

The Rival Restaurant

I, William Robert Cuzzford, am the son of Mr. Robert Cuzzford, Important Person. He’s the one-and-only owner of the Cuzzford’s House of Fried Chicken Restaurant Chain, which is just about the best restaurant in the universe. I’m always on the lookout for ways to advertise this great eating house—for every successful ad, my allowance gets raised. I have other reasons, too, only I can’t think of any at this moment.

Well, since I love Cuzzford’s so much, you can imagine my feelings when, one Saturday, a new restaurant opened up in town—Montmorency’s Diner (often called Monty’s for short). I knew something was going on in that empty building, but never in my wildest dreams had I expected it to be a rival restaurant! There were other restaurants in town, of course, but all the ones in our section of town were fast-food places. This looked like it might turn out to be serious competition! I had to do something. I raced over to Hiram Bannon. (He’s the manager, and my dad was away on a business trip, so he was the one responsible for Cuzzford’s.)

“Hey, Mr. Bannon!” I screamed, rushing past several startled customers.

“What is it, kid?’ Mr. Bannon asked. “I’m busy.”

“Competition! Down the street!” I gasped.

“Fine, fine. Now, beat it!”

You know, I sometimes get the impression that Mr. Bannon doesn’t like me very much. But his rudeness couldn’t stop me. This was a serious business issue!

“This is Montmorency’s Diner I’m talking about!” I said in desperation.

Mr. Bannon wasn’t impressed. “Never heard of them.”

I was aghast. Never heard of Montmorency’s Diner? He must never have read a newspaper for the last three years. It was famous—almost as famous as Cuzzfords. And that meant serious trouble.

Since Mr. Bannon was so uncooperative, I went over to my pal Harvey’s to see if he had any ideas.

“I heard that this Monty’s place fries their food in car oil,” Harvey said
confidentially.

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “It’s probably just a rumor—and, after the mix-up with Tim and the broken ankle, I’m not going to spread any more rumors around.”

“Well, okay,” Harvey said reluctantly. “But maybe they are doing something against health rules...and if we could discover it, they’ll have close!”

“Great idea!” I said. “So, how do we start?”

Harvey got out his favorite magazine—SpyTeam.

“To be a spy,” Harvey informed me, “you need dark glasses and a high-
collared coat.”

“Wouldn’t that be kind of, well, conspicuous?” I asked.

“Well, I guess so,” Harvey said, consulting SpyTeam. “Ooh, look here—a cool disguise!”

“That’s more like it,” I said. “Completely normal except for the wax nose to alter the facial features.”

I decided to melt down some crayons. I mean, crayons are wax, aren’t they?

“What color?” asked Harvey. I considered this. “Orange and white.”

While a dozen of Harvey’s crayons bubbled on the stove, we discussed the topic of espionage.

“Wasn’t there some spy in the Revolutionary War?” said Harvey. “Nathan Hale or something.”

“Sure,” I answered. “I remember him—he was hung. That’s what people do to spies.”

“Not anymore,” said Harvey confidently. “I read a more recent book, that happened in 1944. Spies then got shot by a firing squad.”

A loud explosion, like a gunshot, made us jump. The crayons were
overboiling. Harvey hastily turned off the stove while I scraped wax off the
stovetop. Finally, we dumped the waxy lump on the table and let it cool a little.

I eyed the warm, sticky mess. “Does SpyTeam say exactly how to safely apply that stuff to our faces?”

Harvey consulted SpyTeam. “Not exactly. We’ll have to guess.”

I cautiously scooped up a glob of light orange wax and pressed it over my nose. This made it rather difficult to breathe.

“Say, Harvey!” I called, sounding like my real nose was being pinched. “Does it look like a nose?”

Harvey sadly surveyed my face. “Not even close. It looks like a big orange blob of ice cream.”

I scraped most of the wax off. The rest I had to peel off in front of a mirror. It hurt.

“Boy, now I know what it feels like to be tarred and feathered,” I remarked to Harvey as he cleaned up the table. Then we headed for SpyTeam, intent on finding a more reasonable disguise. Unfortunately, we found none.

“Don’t worry,” I said confidently. “We’ll just saunter into Monty’s, making like easy-going customers. That’s the best disguise.”

Harvey wasn’t so sure. “Customers are supposed to be buying food, not looking around.”

I had a pretty good idea. “Monty’s serves salad. We’ll pack a Cuzzford’s salad and sit down at a table and eat it. Everybody will think it’s a Monty’s Specialty Sprout and not a Cuzzford’s Green Delight. The general public can’t be expected to know the difference. Nobody we know will probably be there to recognize us—only a bunch of tourists from Tealton who are on their way to the South Coast or something. They’ll be coming through all winter, and Cuzzford’s desperately needs their business.”

“Won’t the workers notice that we brought the salad in?” asked Harvey. See, he’d recently heard of the fate of a guy who came to a Springville Cuzzford’s with his own lunch packed. The consequences were severe.

I had this covered, too. We’d sneak the salad into Monty’s inside a bag and act as inconspicious as possible. When the waitress came around, she’d think we were already situated and had ordered our food.

We cautiously entered enemy territory. Harvey carried the fatal bag. We felt like people trying to smuggle things from Texas over the border to Mexico.

After we chose a seat far away from the kitchen and sat down, we ate the Cuzzford’s Green Delight and observed.

Harvey defined the situation. “Waitresses wear gloves, the orders seem to be going fine, the floors are clean, and the dishes are decent enough. This was a bad idea.”

Suddenly, I had an even better one...more daring. I fingered the cash
in my pocket. Then, as the waitress approached our table, I said confidently, “Two glasses of milk and two kiddie steak dinners with mashed potatoes and chicken soup on the side, please.”

The waitress left. Harvey was aghast. “Wh..what?”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “Wait for the food, then do as I do.”

In about ten minutes, we had our meals. Just loud enough to be heard by all the other customers, I announced, “Ugh! There’s a long black hair in my soup.”

Harvey took his cue. He stabbed his steak with his fork. “Do they actually call this stuff steak? It’s so dry it tastes like dried beef.”

I made a great show of examining the mashed potatoes that came with the steak. “I think I just saw a spider running around in these.”

Harvey screamed as he knocked over his milk. “Rat eggs and fly fur! In my MILK!”

“That’s rat fur and fly eggs,” I corrected him under my breath, then said loudly, “There’s a fly paddling around in my milk, too!”

Harvey banged his cup against the table. “This is the worst place ever! I’m never eating here again!”

I slammed down the bill. “Let’s go eat at that other great restaurant down the street—Cuzzford’s!”

We looked up to see the head waiter glaring down at us.

“Boys,” he said, “please go somewhere else to play your pranks.”

We left, embarrassed.

“Say, Will,” Harvey whispered on our way out, “what’ll we do now?”

This was a difficult predicament, all right. I considered the possibilities:

Possibility: Burn down Monty’s.

Objections: Dad might not like his son to be jailed for arson. (Harvey’s parents might not be thrilled, either.)

Possibility: Advertise BIG for Cuzzford’s!

Objections: I can’t think of any objections.

I chose—Advertise BIG. I wrote signs to hang all over town with Harvey. Harvey scanned one. “‘Cuzzford’s House of Fried Chicken—make your meal a delightful chest of memory!’”

I crumpled it into a little ball. “Sounds like a painted Christmas scene.”

I retried. The next sign announced, “Cuzzford Rocks! To be a real happy kid, neat out at Cuzzford’s!”

Harvey shook his head. “Naw. Anyway, you put ‘neat’ instead of ‘eat’.”

I accepted this objection. The sign I wrote next was the worst of the three. "Don’t be cheesy! Don’t get queasy! It’s so easy—eat at Cuzzford’s! Especially try the great wings!”

“Talking about ‘cheesy’ and ‘queasy’ make me feel like doing anything BUT eating,” Harvey told me. “Even wings, and even at Cuzzford’s.”

I totally agreed. We needed a better way to advertise. And what better way to advertise than on TV?

“Where are we going to get permission to air a commercial on TV?” Harvey asked.

 

[GGray]

“My dad is part-owner of a TV station,” I said. “He already airs
commercials—but they’re not the cool type. Our scriptwriter isn’t the most
original guy in the biz. We gotta come up with a good idea before we can air the ad, though. I’ve tried it. It’s your turn.”

Harvey thought a while, then presented a list of topics to me.

Be cool—eat at Cuzzford’s!

Don’t get left behind—come to the restaurant with the top attendance!

All cool dudes eat at Cuzzford’s! Are you one?

Cuzzford’s—Home of the Biggie Pack Wings!

“People go for organic stuff these days,” I remarked. “I heard that in the news.”

“So, you want people to think you kill your own chickens?” Harvey asked dubiously.

“That’s a great idea!” I shouted.

I began to write a poem about making the chickens ready for cooking, while Harvey commented on it.

My dad takes me to the chicken shed
Where rows of chickens are hung up dead....

“How about you change that last line,” Harvey said. “It’s a little...gruesome.”

I thought this over. “Okay.”

My dad takes me to the chicken shed,
Where lots of chickens are daily fed.
Those chickens will soon be in a fry.
We get ready, my ax and I.

The first plump chicken, unaware,
Is led to a sort of electric chair.
This one will go in a sweet meat pie.
We get to work, my ax and I.

By the time the sun is high in the sky,
We’ve done in eight chickens, my ax and I.
So customers, now, don’t you panic!
Cuzzford’s does it all organic.

“Catchy,” Harvey said. “I’ll act out the poem with rubber chickens and recite it while you tape it.”

We carried out our plan. For some strange reason, the TV people refused to air it. Something about it being gross and doing more harm than help.

“Monty’s is getting more and more business!” I gulped the next morning, looking out the window at the full parking lot.

We fell back on the spying maneuver. I rang the doorbell of Monty’s and applied for a small after-school job. The manager eyed me with condescension.

“How old are you, kid?” he asked.

“Ten,” I answered. “I can volunteer here free of charge and as long as my dad agrees.” Unfortunately, the laws of our town did not agree with this statement—and even more unfortunately, the manager knew this.

I had a sudden inspiration. I knocked into a waiter who was walking by with a tray full of drinks. “Oops. Sorry.”

“That was no accident,” the manager said angrily.

I grabbed the mop from the guy who was about to clean up the spills. “Don't bother. It was my fault—I’ll do it.”

“Never mind,” said the manager. “But if you want to make up for your little trick, come in tomorrow afternoon and mop the whole floor. It’s Joe’s day off.”

 

[GGray]

The next day, on my way to Monty’s, I stopped off at the Donnells’ to drop off some cookies Claudia baked. Hannah Donnell answered the door.

“Something awful’s happened!” she burst out. “Somebody just took a lot of money out of Daddy’s bank account!”

“You mean his debit card was stolen?” I gasped.

Hannah shook her head. “No, he had it! We don’t know what happened yet.”

I nearly dropped the cookie package. Somebody was around, draining the Donnells’ bank account! This was bad enough, but suppose that same Somebody had heard about Dad’s famous Cuzzford fortune? Maybe that Somebody would aim for our money next! I handed Hannah the cookies and rushed to Monty’s, making a mental note to keep an eye out for suspicious characters who could be bank account robbers passing through town.

The only people I saw, however, were some tourists who didn’t look smart enough to pull a cunning theft. I also saw the Duke family—traitors! Danny noticed me mopping the floor.

“Punishment?” he asked grimly.

I shook my head. “It’s...complicated.”

Danny shook his head in disgust as I mopped away. Brad, Danny’s grown-up brother, used his debit card to pay for the chicken dinner when they were finished eating.

Realizing I needed another bucket of water, I went into the kitchen.

“Hey, Ike!” It was the manager, motioning to the guy who worked the cash register.

“Say, Ike,” the manager whispered. “This set-up is fine—but we better hit the road before the cops catch on.”

After I heard that, I was definitely staying to listen. This sounded illegal, all right.

Unfortunately, Ike replied, “Sure, boss.” He didn’t mention what the set-up was! I guess life isn’t like the mystery movies, where crooks have convenient monologues with themselves whenever a spy is around.

I put the bucket and mop away and rushed over to Harvey’s.

“Hey! Monty’s is illegal!” I gasped.

After I filled Harvey in on the details, he said, “They’re sure doing something against the law—but what?”

Speaking of illegal things reminded me of the Donnells. I told Harvey the awful news about the bank-account thief.

Suddenly, the truth hit us both at the same time. “MONTY’S!”

“The debit-card machine must be rigged somehow!” Harvey declared

We lost no time in notifying the police. It turned out that the manager, Ike, and one other guy did something that allowed them to take money from the accounts of anyone who used their debit-card machine—something about a false front. I didn’t understand it all. Anyway, the criminal crew were dragged off to jail, and Harvey and I received a super reward. The best part of the whole business, in my opinion, is that Cuzzford’s is once again without real competition in town! Why? Well, the bad publicity caused that particular Monty’s to pack up and relocate to another city.

THE END

 

[Zella]

Yay! Justice!

 

[GGray]

The Egyptian Hoax

This story began the time I, William Cuzzford, was cleaning the attic. Not that the cleaning part is memorable enough to have a story about it. The story’s about what I found.

Now, before I start, I’d like to make one thing clear. I was EIGHT when this happened. So don’t go around thinking I’m still this dumb.

Anyway, it happened on a boring sort of day. My sisters were attending a ballet in Beachville. Dad was with them. I was searching for my newest video game, which had accidentally been stored in the attic. (In case you’re wondering, no, I was not left at home with no supervision. I was left at home with the supervision of the teenage daughter of the Cuzzford’s manager—which was basically the same thing as being left home alone. She spent the whole time on the internet—my dad’s computer, too!)

After a few minutes, I finally, I spied my game on top of a stack of crates full of some sort of old clothes. Naturally, I climbed to retrieve it. That was a mistake, because, no sooner had I put both feet on the edge of the bottom crate, then it slipped out from under the stack. The results? Old clothes all over the attic. I knew I’d better tidy things up to avoid certain consequences.

The cleaning gradually turned into exploring. I discovered an old chest in the most dusty and spiderweb-filled corner of the attic. I opened it, revealing a daguerreotype (that’s a way of taking pictures that was invented before digital cameras) of a little kid. The words at the bottom were William Henry Cuzzford. Just so you know, that wasn’t me—it was my great-grandfather! (I’m William ROBERT Cuzzford.) Boy, that must’ve been an old chest. I explored further. I uncovered a picture of my grandmother as a little girl, a terrible-looking tie, a broken watch, a locket (containing nothing), a small jewelry box (also containing nothing) and a handstitched bag (this also contained nothing.) Then I found the bottom of the box.

“Hmmmmm...” I thought. “There must be something pretty old in that other box over there.” So I opened the other box sitting nearby. It revealed only...could it truly be?...an Ancient Egyptian artifact! Well, it had to be. After all, it was a small wooden sphinx, carved onto a wooden base with small pyramids surrounding it! This was 100% Ancient Egyptian. This was phenomenal. I’d heard museums pay big bucks for artifacts. Plus, it would be neat to walk into the Beachville Museum, point at the sphinx, and say casually, “You know, guys, I discovered that in my attic.” Maybe the museum would be cool enough to put a photo on the glass case—a photo of me, grinning, holding the artifact. Of course, I’d be wearing a Cuzzford’s T-shirt for advertisement. The red one whose logo clearly stated to the world, “Who can pass up Cuzzfords’ Best Barbeque Dreamy Creamy Delight? Special low-prices on double-dipped barbeque wings oozing with a delicious bleu cheese dressing!”

Okay, maybe not that shirt. The words might be too small to see in the photo, and I wanted it to be the coolest photo of me ever seen. I could wear the blue shirt which read a short and sweet, “Eat-out Crisis? For Low Prices and No Vices, Super Service—don’t be nervous; come to Cuzzfords!”

My pleasant and picturesque daydream was shattered by the realization that my knowledge of doing business with museums was nil. I raced to my bike and zipped off for the small library. Going at my speed, it’s a wonder I didn’t leave bike tire tracks in the sidewalk. Anyway, once I reached the library, I dropped my bike against a bike rest and dashed inside.

“Get me all you’ve got about doing business deals with museums!” I ordered the librarian.

“They’re on the reference shelf,” she answered. Normally, I would’ve
remarked that I’d intended her, as a member of the library staff, to do the getting, but, since I was in a hurry, I walked to the reference shelf myself. I carefully read the titles and made a selection of three books: The Biggest Bone: Selling Dinosaur Bones to Museums; How We Sold the Mummy for Fifty Cents;and Now What Do I Do with My Artifact?

I’d expected a step-by-step guide, but I began reading. The Biggest Boneshould’ve been called The Biggest Bore. If I say I understood a sentence here and there, it’d be going over. The last sentence was ‘Above all previously mentioned information, never make the precarious mistake of allowing the museum to underestimate the quality of your prehistoric find, which, brought to the public’s eye, will enhance the intrigue of those prodigious reptiles whom we are only in knowledge of through their intricate skeletal conformation discovered by ambitious searchers relentlessly seeking for more evidence of their departed yet well-known and notable existence!”

How We Sold the Mummy for Fifty Cents shouldn’t have been put with the reference books at all. I doubted its nonfiction label. Two amateurs looking for artifacts in Egypt discovered a mummified crocodile and brought it home. They took it home. Then, they got a little tired of looking at it every time they entered the dining room—which, in my opinion, is no proper place to keep a dead croc (mummified or otherwise). They were desperate to get rid of it. They tried to give it to the neighbors, who refused. Then, they gift-wrapped it and sent it as a present to the mayor for his birthday. They celebrated until it was mailed back with a certain bonus letter. Finally, they sold it to a museum for fifty cents. Desperate or not, I’d think twice about making a bad deal like that.

Now What Do I Do with My Artifact? gave better information. When I was done reading it, I had a plan all lined up in my head.

1. Phone the museum.

2. Tell them I found something that might be of interest to them.

3. If they’re interested, tell them to come over at 6, when my dad would be home.

4. Show them the artifact.

5. They buy it and I'm famous.

There you have it—How to Sell an Artifact in 5 Easy Steps. I should’ve
written a book and added it to the poor reference selection. With this happy
thought in my head, and rushed home. Then I inspected the sphinx. With shock, realization of the truth hit me like a branch in the face. It was no artifact. It was a fake...in tiny words on the bottom was the distinctly modern phrase: Made in Taiwan. And after all my wasted research! I decided on a somewhat underhanded strategy. I’d just pretend it was real. After all, if it fooled me, why wouldn’t it fool someone else? I produced my older sister’s cell phone (which she had carelessly left on the counter) with great confidence and called the Beachville Museum.

That evening, Dad inquired about the truck that had just pulled into our yard. It was emblazoned with the words ‘BEACHVILLE MUSEUM—MAKE
LEARNING A PART OF YOUT DAILY LIFE.’ In my haste, I’d forgotten to
explain to Dad about the Egypt business. I quickly did the explaining. Dad looked a little doubtful and asked if he could see it. Before I could show it to him, the museum men came in.

They asked me a bunch of questions which I couldn’t exactly see had any connection with the artifact, like ‘how old are you’ and ‘what grade are you in.’ Finally, they asked me to name my price. I grinned proudly as I named it—fifty dollars.

The museum men, who were by now looking as doubtful as my dad, asked for their end of the deal—the artifact. Trying to suppress my guilt, I fetched it and placed it carefully on the stand they had brought over. I moved the stand where it could be seen best—in the full sunlight. I awaited the ‘oooh’s’ and the ‘aaaah’s’. Imagine my horror at the outburst of laughter which followed! Had they noticed that it was a fake????

“What’s so funny?” I demanded. One man handed me the sphinx. “This is not an artifact, William. For twenty years, Pharaoh’s Fast Food Restaurant handed these out. I’m afraid we can’t give you any money for this toy.”

I fled to my room as my annoying sisters (who were spying from the other room) began to laugh, too.

Later, I got to thinking. It had been my fault after all, trying to cheat them like that. To this day, the wooden sphinx sits on the shelf in my room, and every time I see it, I remember to be honest when I make deals!

THE END

 

[Zella]

I liked it.

 

[GGray]

“Chicken!”

This whole story happened because I didn’t want to be called a chicken. It all started on the Sky Bridge, in Grand River Falls. That’s a dangerous place. If you fall, you’ll be swept a ways downriver to Misty Falls, and that means you’re dead.

(By the way, this is another story of my stupidity when I was seven.)

I was in Grand River Falls because my dad had a restaurant there, and he was checking on the management. J.J. came along with my dad and me. Well, I got a little bored after a while. My dad had to lecture the guy in charge of the Cuzzford’s because he wasn’t a very good boss or something. J.J. and I wandered off to the main tourist attraction—the bridge. We were the only ones there, because it was a cold and rainy day.

J.J. looked over the edge nervously. “I don’t like this place.”

I was too busy admiring the bridge arches that seemed to reach the clouds to pay attention to his anxiety. If I’d been more alert to the happenings on the bridge instead of looking at the architecture, I would’ve seen Vince walking up. As it was, I didn’t notice him until he shouted his usual greeting.

“Yo, man! Or should I say, men.”

I’d never exactly been a friend of Vince’s, and J.J. had disliked him ever since Vince publicized my pal’s accidental baldness. J.J. was glad his baseball cap covered his still-scanty hair, or Vince would’ve brought up that sore subject again.

“Like, what’re you doin’ here, little people?” Vince asked, perching himself on the bridge rail.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I cautioned him. I didn’t want to see even my worst enemy fall into the Grand River.

“Well, you ain’t me,” Vince said.

“I’m glad about that,” J.J. muttered.

Vince shifted himself closer to the edge of the rail. “So, what’re you chickens up to today?”

“I’m no chicken,” I assured him.

“Sure you are,” Vince laughed. “Would you do what I’m doing? No! So you’re chickens, both of you.”

“I am NOT a chicken!” I protested. “I’ll show you!”

With this foolish remark, I jumped up beside Vince. He eyed me in surprise. “Hey. Not bad. But can you do THIS?” He scrambled up into the bridge’s right arch, waving one hand.

“Yeah, of course I can!” I proclaimed, proceeding to copy the spike-haired bully’s exact movements.

The final and biggest dare (and the most dangerous) was to walk on the railing WITH MY EYES CLOSED. I accepted the challenge and slowly began making my way along the rail.

“Don’t, Will!” J.J. screeched. I ignored him—I had to. My reputation—and possibly the reputation of Cuzzford’s—was at stake here!

About half-way along, I began to feel pretty confident. Suddenly, there was a giant bang, right next to my ear. I jumped—and toppled off the rail into space. I felt something grab my shoe as I plummeted down to the Grand River. Fortunately, I was on the swim team and knew how to keep afloat. When I opened my eyes, I saw J.J. bobbing next to me. He must’ve grabbed my foot and tried to save me. We were both being swept downriver by the swift current.

J.J. screamed in panic. “Will! We’ll go over the falls!”

I had realized that a moment before he spoke. “Don’t give up the ship, J.J.! We could be rescued!”

“What ship?” J.J. spluttered as the current swept us into the rapids above the falls.

This was nearly the end of both of us. However, as you probably guessed from the fact that I’m still around to tell the story, we survived.There were a few big rocks in the rapids, and we managed to crawl up onto them. We had a long cold wait til the rescue helicopter lived up to its
name and rescued us, though.

I was punished, of course. But what I got was mild compared to Vince. When his parents found out that he’d shot off a firecracker next to my ear to make me lose the dare, he was grounded for quite a while. He wasn’t a murderer or anything—he thought I’d fall onto the bridge, not off it.

Needless to say, I didn’t accept any more dares for a while—even if I was called a chicken!

THE END

 

[Zella]

That's a hard way to learn a lesson.

 

[GGray]

Here are the Donnell kids (except the youngest, Kathie, who we couldn't make under the program because it can't make babies)

Left to right:

Ivy (14), Tom (9), Nicky (6), and Hannah (5).

 

[GGray]

Here are the Felix kids [left to right, Colette (10), Kateri (10), Tim (9), and Ambrose (6)]:

 

[GGray]

Here are Joel's older sister, Leah (12), and the Bannon kids: Liz (20) and Cory (11).

 

[GGray]

These are the Smith kids (they come in later):

Anne Iris (18), Marie (9), and Tilly (7).

 

[GGray]

Finally, these are Will's sisters, Claudia (20), and Rosalie (7).

 

[SeaStar]

Any new Will stories coming?