the law.
Someone started to pound on the kitchen door. “You’d better take it back upstairs,” Boom advised as the pounding grew in intensity.
Mertyle clutched the baby. “Whoever it is, I wish they’d just go away,” she said, hurrying upstairs. There it was again — the “I wish.” If only she’d follow those two words with something magnificent.
Boom opened the door to find Mr. Mump waving a piece of white paper with red underline marks all over it. “I demand to speak to your father about neighborhood rules.” His forehead glistened with sweat. He huffed and puffed and shoved the document in Boom’s face. “Rules, I say.”
Mr. Piles, another neighbor, stood behind Mr. Mump and began to complain that he couldn’t back his car out of his driveway because the wheels kept slipping on banana peels. And Mrs. Filburt, another neighbor, complained that the hot pink house paint was giving her a migraine. They were so enraged that they actually started yelling at Boom and shaking their fists. He didn’t know whether to apologize or to hide behind the door. But he did neither because the merbaby started to sing again.
The sad song crawled down the stairs like a creature from a nightmare and enveloped the angry neighbors. They stopped yelling as the song twisted itself around their limbs and slithered into their clothing. Mr. Mump shivered. Mrs. Filburt’s eyes filled with tears. Mr. Piles’s face went as slack as an empty balloon and he turned as white as vanilla ice cream. The merbaby hit a particularly low note, like a foghorn, that vibrated every bone in Boom’s body.
The only thing to do when attacked by pure, undiluted sadness is to get as far away from it as possible. That’s why the neighbors turned and ran down the walkway. As soon as they reached Prosperity Street, the singing stopped. When it came to chasing people away, that song worked better than a vicious Doberman.
I wish they’d just go away.
Another wish granted. Another
Mertyle
wish.
Winger pushed past Mr. Piles and charged up the walkway. “Boom? What happened to your house?” he asked, his words muffled by a mouth full of banana. “You can see the pink glow all the way to my house.” Once inside, Boom shut the door and got real close to Winger, like he always did when something really important needed to be said.
“It’s still granting Mertyle’s weird wishes,” he informed his best friend.
“That stinks.” Winger sat down at the table and offered the rest of his banana to Boom, but Boom wasn’t hungry anymore. “If it’s not going to grant your wishes, then you should go ahead and sell it to a collector. I asked my dad —”
“You what? You told your dad?” Winger’s dad knew everyone on Fairweather Island because he ran the island’s only bank. Word about the merbaby would spread like measles.
“I didn’t tell my dad.” Winger looked hurt, as though Boom had punched him in the stomach. “I wouldn’t do that. I just asked him what was the best way to sell something that’s worth a lot of money.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“He said that by using the Internet a seller could set up an auction and people all over the world would bid.”
Boom had been to an auction once, when one of Mr. Broom’s paintings — a seascape with a two-masted sailing ship — had been for sale. Boom remembered the frenzy as people raised their hands and waved little signs when the auctioneer asked for bids. His dad had made twice as much money as he had expected, and they had all gone out to the Fairweather Bistro to celebrate. There had been fancy drinks with paper umbrellas and an ice cream dessert that the waiter actually lit on fire.
“Maybe I shouldn’t sell it. What if it keeps granting wishes?” Boom asked. “Maybe it will start granting some good wishes.”
“Maybe, but its not granting
your
wishes, is it?”
No, it wasn’t, the ungrateful little monster. It wasn’t even being nice to Boom. Spitting in his chowder.
Someone started to pound on the kitchen door. “You’d better take it back upstairs,” Boom advised as the pounding grew in intensity.
Mertyle clutched the baby. “Whoever it is, I wish they’d just go away,” she said, hurrying upstairs. There it was again — the “I wish.” If only she’d follow those two words with something magnificent.
Boom opened the door to find Mr. Mump waving a piece of white paper with red underline marks all over it. “I demand to speak to your father about neighborhood rules.” His forehead glistened with sweat. He huffed and puffed and shoved the document in Boom’s face. “Rules, I say.”
Mr. Piles, another neighbor, stood behind Mr. Mump and began to complain that he couldn’t back his car out of his driveway because the wheels kept slipping on banana peels. And Mrs. Filburt, another neighbor, complained that the hot pink house paint was giving her a migraine. They were so enraged that they actually started yelling at Boom and shaking their fists. He didn’t know whether to apologize or to hide behind the door. But he did neither because the merbaby started to sing again.
The sad song crawled down the stairs like a creature from a nightmare and enveloped the angry neighbors. They stopped yelling as the song twisted itself around their limbs and slithered into their clothing. Mr. Mump shivered. Mrs. Filburt’s eyes filled with tears. Mr. Piles’s face went as slack as an empty balloon and he turned as white as vanilla ice cream. The merbaby hit a particularly low note, like a foghorn, that vibrated every bone in Boom’s body.
The only thing to do when attacked by pure, undiluted sadness is to get as far away from it as possible. That’s why the neighbors turned and ran down the walkway. As soon as they reached Prosperity Street, the singing stopped. When it came to chasing people away, that song worked better than a vicious Doberman.
I wish they’d just go away.
Another wish granted. Another
Mertyle
wish.
Winger pushed past Mr. Piles and charged up the walkway. “Boom? What happened to your house?” he asked, his words muffled by a mouth full of banana. “You can see the pink glow all the way to my house.” Once inside, Boom shut the door and got real close to Winger, like he always did when something really important needed to be said.
“It’s still granting Mertyle’s weird wishes,” he informed his best friend.
“That stinks.” Winger sat down at the table and offered the rest of his banana to Boom, but Boom wasn’t hungry anymore. “If it’s not going to grant your wishes, then you should go ahead and sell it to a collector. I asked my dad —”
“You what? You told your dad?” Winger’s dad knew everyone on Fairweather Island because he ran the island’s only bank. Word about the merbaby would spread like measles.
“I didn’t tell my dad.” Winger looked hurt, as though Boom had punched him in the stomach. “I wouldn’t do that. I just asked him what was the best way to sell something that’s worth a lot of money.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“He said that by using the Internet a seller could set up an auction and people all over the world would bid.”
Boom had been to an auction once, when one of Mr. Broom’s paintings — a seascape with a two-masted sailing ship — had been for sale. Boom remembered the frenzy as people raised their hands and waved little signs when the auctioneer asked for bids. His dad had made twice as much money as he had expected, and they had all gone out to the Fairweather Bistro to celebrate. There had been fancy drinks with paper umbrellas and an ice cream dessert that the waiter actually lit on fire.
“Maybe I shouldn’t sell it. What if it keeps granting wishes?” Boom asked. “Maybe it will start granting some good wishes.”
“Maybe, but its not granting
your
wishes, is it?”
No, it wasn’t, the ungrateful little monster. It wasn’t even being nice to Boom. Spitting in his chowder.
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