Hold the Pickles Read online

  Hold the Pickles

  Vicki Grant

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2012 Vicki Grant

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Grant, Vicki

  Hold the pickles [electronic resource] / Vicki Grant.

  (Orca currents)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-922-3 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-55469-923-0 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)

  PS8613.R367H65 2012 JC813’.6 C2011-907542-3

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011942579

  Summary: Fifteen-year-old Dan Hogg gets a job as a hotdog mascot at a food fair and finds himself caught up in another action-packed mystery.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Christopher Peterson / Getty Images

  Author photo by Gus Richardson

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  This book is dedicated

  to Brennan Sarty, who kindly made

  room in his costume for me.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter One

  A hotdog.

  No, it was worse than that. A healthy hotdog.

  A six-foot, all-natural, high-fiber, low-fat, live-in wiener. I couldn’t believe it.

  When Uncle Hammy called to ask if I’d like to work for him at the Food Fantasia Fun Fair, I was actually kind of excited. I mean, who wouldn’t be? The job offered the two things fifteen-year-old boys care most about in life: food and money.

  All I had to do was hand out samples from his hotdog stand for an afternoon. I could eat as much as I wanted from the other food stalls plus he’d pay me ten bucks an hour.

  Ten bucks an hour!

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Happy little money birds twittered around in my head. Up to that point, my luck had only come in one variety: rotten. Now it looked like something good was actually going to happen for me.

  The offer came at exactly the right moment. Just before Hammy called, I’d been having a little “discussion” with my mother. I really, really needed a personal trainer, but she refused to pay for one. She wouldn’t even talk about it.

  “Dan,” she said and laughed into her cup of coffee. “What do you need a personal trainer for?”

  I’m sure the answer was obvious to everyone but her.

  Girls. That’s the other thing most fifteen-year-old boys care about. With the way I looked, though, I knew I didn’t stand a chance with them. I couldn’t do much about my glasses or my braces or my all-around nerdy vibe. But I figured I might be able to do something about my scrawny physique—or at least a paid professional could.

  I did the math and took the job on the spot. If I worked the whole afternoon, I figured I could afford a couple of hours of training—maybe more. After all, Hammy had mentioned the possibility of tips.

  What he apparently forgot to mention—at least until I showed up at the Metro Center a week later, all ready to go—was that I had to wear a costume.

  “I didn’t tell you about that?” Hammy tried to sound innocent. “Funny. You wouldn’t think I could forget something…like this!”

  He whipped a giant pink-and-yellow foam hotdog out from behind his stall. Its rubbery arms flailed at me like a little kid in a fistfight.

  My dork instinct immediately kicked in. I raised my hands up in front of my face for protection.

  “It’s not going to bite you,” Hammy said. “It’s a hotdog, Dan. If anything, you bite it.” He had a good chuckle over that, but I didn’t join in.

  “You must be kidding. Wear that?” I brought my arms down and folded them across my so-called chest. “Forget it. Not a chance.”

  Hammy leaned against the hotdog and draped his hand over its sesame-seed shoulder as if they were long-lost brothers. The truth was, they did bear a remarkable resemblance to each other. They both had goofy grins, wiry red hair and mustard dribbling down their fronts. The only obvious difference was that the hotdog also came with relish.

  Hammy picked up the hotdog’s three-fingered hand and wagged it at me. “C’mon, Dan! Where’s your sense of humor?”

  Where’s my sense of humor? This was the guy who decided to call himself “Hammy” because he thought it would be funny with the last name Hogg. Trust me, the name Hogg doesn’t need any help getting laughs. I know that from personal experience.

  “It’s my dignity I’m worried about!” I said. “What would my friends say if they caught me parading around dressed like an enormous frankfurter?”

  Hammy’s face went serious. “I thought about that, actually. You know what I think they’ll say?” He paused while he came up with an answer. “They’ll say you look taller.”

  I glared at him. He knows I’m sensitive about my height.

  “And stronger too!” Hammy held out one of the hotdog’s arms. “Look. Built-in biceps!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Right. Like anyone is going to mistake those tennis balls for muscles.”

  “The kid’s got no imagination either.” Hammy seemed to be talking to the hotdog now. It gave him the same blank-eyed stare I did. “Oh well. Doesn’t matter,” he said and patted me on the back. I relaxed.

  “Phew,” I said. Hammy always was a joker. “For a second there, I actually thought you were going to make me wear that stupid thing!”

  That got the biggest laugh yet. “Course I am! I mean it doesn’t matter what other people think. No one’s going to see you. You’ll be completely hidden. All they’ll see is a big delicious Hogg’s Dogg. Now let’s get this show on the road! And by the way, you’d better strip down. It’s hotter than a barbecue grill inside this thing.”

  Chapter Two

  I wish I could say I turned and walked away, but I didn’t. I did what I was told.

  I stripped down to my tighty-whities, and Hammy slammed the hotdog over my head. I felt like a bumblebee trapped in a glass jar—except, of course, a bumblebee would at least have had a view. I could barely see a thing. I was supposed to look out through the black screens covering the hotdog’s eyes, but as Hammy kindly pointed out, I wasn’t tall enough. I had to stretch my neck even to peer out through the mouth.

  Hammy hel
ped me get my hands into the big white Mickey Mouse gloves and my feet into the giant green slippers that he claimed looked exactly like pickles. Then he ran me through my lines.

  “Okay, Dan, try this. ‘Hey, folks! You want fiber in your frankfurter? Then ask for me!’” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “‘I’m Frank Lee Better. The Healthy Hottie! From Hawwwwwwwwwg’s Doggs!’”

  He sounded like he was calling down the next contestant on a TV game show.

  The costume, the name, the stupid slogan—everything about this job was humiliating. I didn’t need a personal trainer that bad.

  So why was I doing it then?

  I waddled from Hammy’s food stall on Level D all the way down to the main exhibition floor. The metal braces that were supposed to keep my giant wiener head from wobbling dug into my shoulders. The tail end of my hotdog dragged on the cement floor. The rough edge of the foam cut into my armpits. The worst thing, though, was the bright blue Frank Lee Better: Superhero cape. Some superhero. I felt like I had a sign pinned to my back that said, Make fun of me. I deserve it.

  At this point, a normal person would have packed up his self-respect and gone home. But I didn’t. I hated everything about the job, but I couldn’t let Hammy down. I knew his business was going through a rough patch. That’s why he was trying out this new high-fiber hotdog. That’s why he spent a thousand dollars for this dumb costume. He was desperate.

  And it wasn’t just because of business problems. The truth was, Hammy’s whole life was going through a rough patch. First the divorce, then losing his house, then that weird thing that happened to his forehead after the hair-implant surgery. The guy seriously needed a break.

  I figured we schmucks had to stick together. Who knows? Maybe a giant hotdog handing out samples for an afternoon would be enough to get people flocking to Hogg’s Doggs. I could at least do that much for him.

  And Hammy had been right about one thing. Unless someone recognized my scrawny ankles, no one would know who was inside the costume. At least I didn’t have to worry about that.

  I struggled to keep my pickle feet from slipping down the stairs and tried to be positive. I was sweating. I was straining. I was breathing hard. This had to be good exercise at least. Some people got their workout in a gym. Some people got their workout in a pool. I just happened to get mine inside a giant hotdog.

  That didn’t sound as positive as I’d hoped.

  Chapter Three

  By the time I made it from Level D to the exhibition floor, half my samples had slid off my tray, and I was seriously hot. Sweat dripped down my back, and my glasses had steamed up like a shower door.

  I could still see enough, though, to realize there were other mascots at the fair. In the crowd I spotted a drumstick, a sushi roll, a cupcake and at least three burgers. They were all hollering slogans and doing silly waves to attract customers. It was a relief to find out I wasn’t the only person willing to make a fool of myself for a few bucks.

  There was also plenty of real food. I remembered Hammy saying I could eat as many samples as I wanted. Suddenly the afternoon didn’t seem that bad. I squinted out Frank’s mouth to see what my choices were. The Codfather Fish ’n Chips looked good. I was dragging myself over to get in line when I had a terrible thought. How was I going to eat anything? The hotdog’s mouth was a canoe-shaped grin covered in black mesh. There was nowhere to put the food.

  I tried to slump in disappointment, but my wiener prison wouldn’t even allow me to do that. I was trapped. My only option was to start handing out samples.

  I didn’t think I’d have many takers. All the other mascots had food that people would actually want to eat. My healthy hotties weren’t hot anymore, and they sure didn’t look too healthy. I didn’t know if the added fiber turned them gray or if all wieners would look that sick without artificial color. I did know one thing though. There was no way I’d eat any—even if I had a mouth to do it with.

  I stood on the sidelines, holding my tray out and occasionally muttering “Free samples.” Everyone ignored me. I couldn’t bring myself to do Hammy’s whole dorky sales pitch. I did have some pride—although you’d never know it to look at me.

  I was almost ready to give up when this kid stopped right in front of me. He looked at my samples and said, “Ooh. Nice.” I was hopeful for a second. Then he said, “Where’d you get those—the morgue?”

  That was it. Something snapped inside me. I mean, these were Hogg’s Doggs! No one could talk about my uncle’s food like that! (Other than me, of course.)

  I lowered my voice to make it as manly as I could. I sounded just like my Aunt Maxie. Then I hollered right in his ear, “I’ll have you know you’re talking to Frank Lee Better!”

  I curled up one arm and pumped my tennis-ball bicep. “I’m all natural! High fiber! Low fat! I’m the best wiener on the market!”

  The kid snorted, “Yeah, I bet you are,” and left.

  My rant hadn’t worked as well as I’d wanted. It hadn’t convinced the kid and had only managed to lure over one other customer, a little old lady. She held her purse with one hand and fingered the samples with the other.

  “I’m just trying to find a nice warm one,” she said in her sweet-little-old-lady voice. (As if that made her germs less deadly than the rest of ours.) She finally settled on an end piece with extra mustard.

  She was sliding her glasses down to inspect it when I heard a girl’s voice say, “These are all natural? Really? They look delicious!”

  I waited for the punch line. My guess was that the other kid had sent someone over to torment me. I tipped my head back to get a better look and immediately realized I’d make a mistake. I had a lot more forehead than I usually did. The movement threw my balance off. I toppled over backward.

  My pickled feet flew up in the air. My samples scattered. I landed hard on my sesame-seed bun. I worried for a second that everyone had seen my tighty-whities, and that’s the last thing I remember.

  Chapter Four

  “Frank…? Frank?”

  I blinked a few times, and this beautiful teenage girl appeared through the black screen of my goofy grin. She was leaning over me, looking into my eyes—or what she no doubt thought were my eyes. Her long brown hair swept across Frank’s face. She was wearing pink lip gloss. She smelled like roses. It was almost too good to be true.

  “Are you all right? Frank?”

  She probably thought I was unconscious, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t answer. The truth was, I was in shock. No one that good-looking had ever spoken to me in my entire life.

  The old lady said, “Maybe we should call nine-one-one…”

  My heart started pounding. I pictured paramedics pulling me out of the hotdog by my feet—and the beautiful girl realizing with horror that Frank Lee Better was actually Puny Little Me.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  “Ah…” I said.

  “He’s trying to talk!” She leaned in closer. I smelled her rose perfume again. That’s when I remembered something really important.

  I’m allergic to roses.

  “Ah…” I went.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Choo!” I let out a giant sneeze.

  The blowback was so strong that my head bounced off the floor. Snot hit the inside of the hotdog and splattered back over my face and glasses.

  The old lady scrunched up her lips and said, “Ooh. Must be awful messy in there.”

  The beautiful girl didn’t shudder or move away from me in disgust. She just said, “Here. Let me help you.” She took my Mickey Mouse hand and pulled me to my feet.

  Beautiful, kind and really strong too. For a second there, I wondered who her personal trainer was. Maybe I should give him a call.

  “You’re very light for someone so tall,” she said. I assumed she was joking, but then she handed me back my tray and added, “Must be all the healthy food you eat.”

  Was she for real? How hard had I hit my head? If I didn’t have mucus dripping
down my face, I would have thought I was dreaming.

  “What a sin you lost all your samples.” She shook her head. Her hair bounced around like it was starring in a shampoo commercial. “They look super yummy.”

  The old lady said, “Oh, yes! They certainly do,” and took a bite of her sample. That took the smile off her face pretty fast. She made a kekking sound and put the rest of the hotdog back on the tray. Either the beautiful girl didn’t notice, or she was too polite to mention it. The old lady held a hankie up to her mouth and toddled off fast.

  I didn’t know if I was thrilled to be alone with the beautiful girl or terrified. Probably a bit of both.

  “So,” she said, “do you make the hotdogs yourself? Is this your own company?”

  I was about to say, “No, I’m only helping my uncle out,” but then I thought, why would I say that? Why blow it? She thinks I’m tall, a business owner and obviously a lot older than I am. Who needed a personal trainer? I was starting to think dressing up as a hotdog was a much better way to get girls.

  I said, “It’s a family company,” which was sort of the truth. An uncle is family.

  “Really?” I could tell that impressed her. “It’s so wonderful to see a company that truly cares about our health.”

  I was suddenly feeling way more confident. It was as if I’d actually become the person she thought I was.

  “All these compliments are making me blush,” I said in my Jolly Green Giant voice.

  “You’re kidding,” she said and waved her hand at me.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “See how I’ve gone all pink?” I pointed at my foam body.

  She laughed like I’d just cracked the world’s funniest joke. Then I really did blush.

  My knees started to knock together. I went from sweating buckets to sweating rivers. I felt like I might faint. I was in love.

  I was just thinking that this had to be the happiest day of my life when I heard a terrible sound. It was Shane Coolen screaming for a hotdog.