you.”
And just to demonstrate, the Hoove drifted over to Billy’s backpack, took the piece of blanket out of its box, and floated up to the ceiling, waving the tattered old thing around like it was a pair of underpants fluttering on the clothesline.
The Hoove couldn’t wait to put the plan in motion. He rustled Billy out of bed and practically threw him into the shower. While Billy was in the bathroom, Hoover changed the note so that it told kids to go outside and find the blanket waving on the flagpole. The Hoove was so jittery, he made Billy try on three different T-shirts until he found the one that was just right — a vintage shirt from the Brooklyn Dodgers, back when the team still played in New York. It wasn’t really that old, but it was made of soft blue cotton and had some fake fraying around the collar that made it look authentic.
“Now you look dapper,” he said to Billy, standing back to admire the outfit he had carefully selected. “So let’s go to school and watch you go from a zero to a hero.”
The Hoove followed Billy into the kitchen. He was itching to get on the road, and very annoyed that Billy had to stop for breakfast. But Billy had told him that there was no negotiating with his mother about breakfast, and if he tried to skip it, it would only provoke a lecture from her on how it’s the most important meal of the day.
Billy’s mother was surprised to see him at the breakfast table so early. She had heard about his tonsil, of course — nothing that happened at Moorepark Middle School escaped the principal’s notice. But she had chosen not to say anything to Billy. He was already embarrassed enough without having to discuss the situation with his mother. Instead, she chose to give Billy a reassuring smile as she put a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice on the table for him.
“I’m happy to see you up and eager to goback to school, honey,” she said, looking for her car keys, which she had left somewhere on the kitchen counter. “If you face trouble with a smile, everyone will respect you for it.”
Billy tried not to consider what his mother would think if she knew what he was planning. He just nodded and took a spoonful of his oatmeal. The Hoove sat down on the chair next to Billy.
“Hurry up,” he said. “You don’t have to scrape the bowl.”
Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding found her car keys and came over to say good-bye to Billy. As she bent down to give Billy a kiss on the cheek, she got a strong whiff of the Hoove’s orange grove aroma.
“Be sure to change your shirt before you leave,” she said to Billy. “Somebody smells like he spilled orange juice on himself.”
“See you later, Mom,” Billy said.
“Be a good boy,” she answered, then added, “What a silly thing to say. You always are.”
“And that is exactly his problem,” the Hoove said, although Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding could nothear him, and certainly would not have agreed with him if she had.
By the time Billy had put his glass and bowl in the dishwasher, the Hoove was waiting for him at the back door, holding his backpack. Hoover floated next to Billy as they walked to school. When they reached the corner of Moorepark Avenue and Avocado Lane, the Hoove stopped in his tracks.
“Hold it, ducky. I want to savor this moment.”
Then he took a giant exaggerated step out into the street, over an imaginary line. He burst into a big smile.
“Victory!” he shouted. “This is the first time in ninety-nine years I’ve crossed over this line. Now I know how those astronauts felt, exploring new territory. One small step for the Hoove, one giant step for ghostkind.”
Billy had to laugh. If he had to have his own personal ghost, Hoover Porterhouse was not a bad choice. He certainly was a lot of fun.
“Do you mind if I fly on ahead?” the Hoove asked Billy when they were still a block awayfrom school. “I want to get there before you and check out the grounds. See where everything is. Get my game
And just to demonstrate, the Hoove drifted over to Billy’s backpack, took the piece of blanket out of its box, and floated up to the ceiling, waving the tattered old thing around like it was a pair of underpants fluttering on the clothesline.
The Hoove couldn’t wait to put the plan in motion. He rustled Billy out of bed and practically threw him into the shower. While Billy was in the bathroom, Hoover changed the note so that it told kids to go outside and find the blanket waving on the flagpole. The Hoove was so jittery, he made Billy try on three different T-shirts until he found the one that was just right — a vintage shirt from the Brooklyn Dodgers, back when the team still played in New York. It wasn’t really that old, but it was made of soft blue cotton and had some fake fraying around the collar that made it look authentic.
“Now you look dapper,” he said to Billy, standing back to admire the outfit he had carefully selected. “So let’s go to school and watch you go from a zero to a hero.”
The Hoove followed Billy into the kitchen. He was itching to get on the road, and very annoyed that Billy had to stop for breakfast. But Billy had told him that there was no negotiating with his mother about breakfast, and if he tried to skip it, it would only provoke a lecture from her on how it’s the most important meal of the day.
Billy’s mother was surprised to see him at the breakfast table so early. She had heard about his tonsil, of course — nothing that happened at Moorepark Middle School escaped the principal’s notice. But she had chosen not to say anything to Billy. He was already embarrassed enough without having to discuss the situation with his mother. Instead, she chose to give Billy a reassuring smile as she put a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice on the table for him.
“I’m happy to see you up and eager to goback to school, honey,” she said, looking for her car keys, which she had left somewhere on the kitchen counter. “If you face trouble with a smile, everyone will respect you for it.”
Billy tried not to consider what his mother would think if she knew what he was planning. He just nodded and took a spoonful of his oatmeal. The Hoove sat down on the chair next to Billy.
“Hurry up,” he said. “You don’t have to scrape the bowl.”
Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding found her car keys and came over to say good-bye to Billy. As she bent down to give Billy a kiss on the cheek, she got a strong whiff of the Hoove’s orange grove aroma.
“Be sure to change your shirt before you leave,” she said to Billy. “Somebody smells like he spilled orange juice on himself.”
“See you later, Mom,” Billy said.
“Be a good boy,” she answered, then added, “What a silly thing to say. You always are.”
“And that is exactly his problem,” the Hoove said, although Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding could nothear him, and certainly would not have agreed with him if she had.
By the time Billy had put his glass and bowl in the dishwasher, the Hoove was waiting for him at the back door, holding his backpack. Hoover floated next to Billy as they walked to school. When they reached the corner of Moorepark Avenue and Avocado Lane, the Hoove stopped in his tracks.
“Hold it, ducky. I want to savor this moment.”
Then he took a giant exaggerated step out into the street, over an imaginary line. He burst into a big smile.
“Victory!” he shouted. “This is the first time in ninety-nine years I’ve crossed over this line. Now I know how those astronauts felt, exploring new territory. One small step for the Hoove, one giant step for ghostkind.”
Billy had to laugh. If he had to have his own personal ghost, Hoover Porterhouse was not a bad choice. He certainly was a lot of fun.
“Do you mind if I fly on ahead?” the Hoove asked Billy when they were still a block awayfrom school. “I want to get there before you and check out the grounds. See where everything is. Get my game
Similar Books
