March 1st
Dear Jenna,
I’m deeply saddened that you’ve blocked me on every messaging app, so I’m writing you an old-fashioned letter. Speaking of which, I think old-fashioned is a good thing. It carries traditional values and all that stuff. Don’t be upset because I called you old-fashioned. Let’s go on a second date.
The last wild guitar note faded from the hall. I let my leafy green shoulders relax, glad to be done with rehearsal for the day.
“Hey, nice work today, Tommo,” I said to my turnip drummer.
He clicked his drumsticks together and pointed them at me. “You too, buddy.”
“We’ve got this,” my guitarist Johnny Broccoli said. “We’re totally ready!”
It was a beautiful day on the shore. The sun was shining bright, the waves were gently tumbling, gulls were staying at a pleasant distance, and I was having an ideal time sunbathing, when it was all rudely interrupted by a loud, “Hey look. It’s a mermaid!”
I pushed myself up onto my tail and scanned the beach.
There’s this girl who gets on the same bus as me. She sits in the second seat from the door. She makes every morning beautiful, whether it is or not. And she turns my world into music.
Boom ba-doh badoodle-ay—the bus slows to a stop and the doors open—shhhh-boom—then close—shhh-boom—again.
“All right, I’m here. What did you want to talk to me about?” Without even looking at Oliver, Ben sat down in the booth and turned to the waitress at the neighboring table. “Coffee. Black. Thanks.”
Oliver stirred his creamer into a heart shape. “I’m in love.”
Ben’s head shot up. What?! “With who?”
“For cryin’ out loud, Arnie! Will you quit snapping selfies?” Liz rolled her eyes. “We’ve been sent to explore and catalog planet 4X9, not pad our personal photo albums!”
“We’re the first humans to set foot here. I’m capturing an historic event. Oh look—ancient ruins!” Arnie struck a pose. “The first anthropologist to find ruins on an alien planet.”
Monday morning, four elderly but spry women sat in a corner booth at the local café, their hands cupped around steaming mugs of aromatic coffee. Tracksuits and Nikes identified them as aiming for quality of life. Mobile phones, lined up on the table, identified them as connected to the pulse of the world.
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Lucifer glanced around, then surreptitiously shoved the box under his arm and hurried to the front of the store. He ought to just steal it, but he didn’t use his powers for trifling things if he could help it. Still, if Mephistopheles or one of the others saw him…
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Harold’s parents were allergic to most pets, but sometimes he brought animals home just to be sure. He made valiant efforts with kittens and puppies, and he tried a Gila monster on them that didn’t go over well.
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Ivy had zero misgivings about bringing her armadillo spelunking with us. Gustave was well-mannered and well-bred. He’d accompanied Ivy to prestigious events, such as opera premiers, royal balls, and lectures on the nature of truth by eminent philosophers. His track record was spotless.
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Friends and fans knew him as Nole the Mole. The internet knew him as a viral failure.
Last year, he dueled Herbert the Hammer at the Twenty-Second Whack-a-Mole International Championship for the title of Mallet Master. Herbert’s score reached previously unseen levels, but Nole knew he could’ve beaten him— had he not ignored a “wet floor” sign, slipped, and sprained his mallet hand catching his fall.
I creep down the ancient stone hallway, barely containing my anticipation. Months of tracking down clues, solving riddles and dodging hamster attacks are finally bearing fruit. Beyond the door at the end of the hallway lies the Donut of Time, last breakfast artifact I must recover before I can challenge the Hamsters of Doom and stop them from destroying humanity.
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