It came to him when he tripped over a big stick in the middle of the sidewalk. As he rubbed his knee while sitting on the cold ground, he looked at the soles of his shoes, which were caked with chunky black sludge. He wondered where they’d gotten so dirty and had just had the thought that it must’ve been from the mud caused by the melting snow when both of the important phrases from the third clue seemed to solve themselves simultaneously, several words flashing across his mind’s eye in a rush of understanding.
Opposite of wrong but not correct.
Opposite of wrong but not the word correct. The word right!
Soul is stronger than mine.
Sole is stronger than mine.
Sole of his shoe.
Sole of his right shoe.
Not bothering to get up from the sidewalk, Tick whipped out his journal and turned to the page where he’d written the words from the audio tape. He’d misunderstood when M.G. said he hoped Tick’s soul was stronger than his. The real word was sole, not soul, meaning M.G. hoped the sole of his shoe was strong enough to protect his foot, his right foot, as he hit the ground with it ten times.
Tick scribbled his thoughts down then stood up, his blood surging through his veins. Though he still felt so clueless it was ridiculous, he’d taken another small step. On May sixth, Tick needed to say magic words that he didn’t know then stomp the ground with his right foot ten times.
As he ran the rest of the way home, he couldn’t help but marvel at how completely stupid that sounded.
Three days passed with no reply from Sofia, and though he’d never met her, Tick felt worried sick that something terrible had happened to her. Or that maybe she’d given up and burned the letter from M.G., surrendering once and for all. Tick could barely think of anything else, losing his focus in school; he actually got a B on a test, shocking his English teacher beyond words. Every morning and night he checked his e-mail at home, and he swung by the library every chance he got.
When an entire week had passed in silence, his heart felt completely ill and he didn’t know what else to do but give up on her.
The Thursday before Christmas vacation started, he walked home from school, his head down, staring at his feet through the falling snow. They’d had a couple of weeks’ break from the white stuff, but it had come back with a fury the night before and hadn’t let up. Tick didn’t complain, of course, he loved the heavy snow. But he couldn’t cheer up, feeling sad about Sofia and the lack of any more clues from his mysterious stranger.
He was just passing the patch of woods where he’d met Mothball when something caught his eye on the other side of the road. A wooden sign had been hastily nailed to a sharpened stick and hammered into the ground. Some words were painted on it in messy blue paint, the letters dripping like blood. He couldn’t tell what most of the sign said from his position, but two of the words stood out like a pair of leprechauns in a hamster cage.
Atticus Higginbottom
Chapter
14
Shoes and Mittens
Tick ran over to the sign, squinting his eyes through the swirling snow to read the smaller words underneath his name. His brow crinkled in confusion. He read the sign over again, almost expecting the words to change the second time. Just when he thought he was used to how bizarre his life had become, he received a message that seemed to make no sense.
Atticus Higginbottom
Meet me when night is a backwards dim
Don’t look for a her ’cause I am a him
The steps of your porch will do just fine
But don’t bring snakes, spiders, or swine
For you I have important news
In return I ask for children’s shoes
One more thing, or see me spittin’
Be sure to bring two nice soft mittens
If Tick had woken up that morning and guessed one thousand things a special sign made just for him might have said, a request for children’s shoes and mittens would not have made the list. Not knowing what else to do, and not real keen on anyone else seeing the sign, he yanked it up out of the ground and carried it home with him, trying to sort out
the message. There didn’t really seem to be too many clues in the poem, just a request to meet on the steps of his porch.
Meet me when night is a backwards dim
Tick figured that one out almost instantly. “Dim” spelled backward was “mid,” which meant the stranger wanted him to be waiting on his porch at midnight—presumably tonight. The now familiar shiver of excitement tickled Tick’s spine as he looked at his watch and saw he still had almost seven hours to wait.
Bummer, he thought. It was going to be a long evening.
At dinner that night, Tick sat with his whole family eating meatloaf, the one thing in the universe his mom cooked that disgusted him like fried toenails. If given the choice, it would’ve been a tough decision between the two. He absolutely hated, despised, and loathed meatloaf. Yuck.
He forced down a bite or two, then did his best to smash the gray-green blobs of meat into a little ball so it looked like he’d eaten more than he really had. Kayla devoured hers, though she put just as much on the floor as she did in her mouth.
“What’s the latest at school?” Dad asked, reaching for the bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Not much. I’m doing okay.” Tick realized he’d let his mind get too occupied lately, spending less time with his family. He resolved to do better. They were, after all, just about the only friends he had in the world, besides Mr. Chu.
And Mothball, he thought. And Sofia. Maybe.
“Just okay?” Lisa said. “What? Did Einstein Junior get a bad grade or something?”
“Oh, please,” his mom said through a snicker as though the idea was the funniest thing that had ever been spoken aloud.
“Well . . . I did get a B on my last English test.”
Dead silence settled around the table like he’d just announced he was an alien and was about to have a baby because on Mars the men were the ones who got pregnant. Even Kayla had dropped her wad of meatloaf, staring at him with blank eyes.
“What?” Tick asked, knowing very well what the answer would be.
“Son,” his dad said, “you haven’t gotten a B on anything since I’ve known you. And I’ve known you since the day you were born.”
“Yeah,” Lisa agreed. “I think the world has stopped spinning.”
Tick shrugged, scooping up a mouthful of green beans. “Ah, it’s nothing. Maybe I had bad gas that day.”
Kayla laughed out loud, then yelled in a sing-songy voice, “Tick had tooty-buns! Tick had tooty-buns!”
That broke everyone up, and dinner continued like normal.
“Anything happen lately with your Pen Pal account?” Mom asked.
Tick almost choked on his potatoes, for a split second worried that somehow his mom had logged into his account and seen the e-mail from Sofia. But then he realized he was just being a worrywart, her question totally innocent. He’d been doing the Pen Pal thing for a couple of years, still having never really connected with anyone for more than a few letters here and there. No one had ever seemed interesting enough for him to want to stay in touch—or maybe it was the other way around.
“Not really. I got an e-mail from some girl in Italy, but she seems kind of psycho.”
“Psycho?” Dad asked. “Why, what did she say?”
“She called me an Americanese boy and asked me a million dumb questions.”
Mom tsked. “Last time I checked, not speaking English well and being curious did not make someone a psycho. Give her a chance. Maybe she likes chess.”
“Maybe she’s cute,” Lisa added. “You could marry her and join the mafia.”
“Sweetheart,” Dad said. “I don’t think everyone from Italy is in the mob.”
“Yeah, it’s probably only like half,” Tick said. He expected Lisa to laugh at his joke, but was disappointed to see she thought he’d been serious.
“Really?” she asked.
“It was a joke, sis.”
“Oh. Yeah, I knew that.”
“Well, anyway,” Dad said, moving on. “I think this weekend we should all go see a movie, go bowling or something. Who’s in?”
By habit, everyone around the table raised their hand. Kayla shrieked as she waved both arms in the air.
“All right, plan on it. Everyone meet right here at noon on Saturday.”
For some reason, right at that moment, the thought hit Tick that he should tell his dad about everything. Keeping the secret was eating away at his insides and now with nothing but silence from Sofia, the feeling was getting worse, not better. Just thinking about telling someone seemed to take a thirty-pound dumbbell off his shoulders.
Next time Mom’s out shopping, he thought. I’ll tell him. Maybe he can help me figure everything out. If he believes me.
Tick put his dishes away, then watched some ridiculous game show on TV with his family. The whole time, he thought of one thing and one thing only.
Midnight.
It was time for bed, but Tick wanted to check his e-mail one more time. He felt obsessed, checking it constantly in hopes that Sofia would finally write him back.
He sipped a cup of hot chocolate as he logged into the computer in the living room, almost spilling his drink when he saw Sofia’s name in the INBOX. He put his cup down and leaned forward, clicking on her e-mail.
Dear Tick,
Someone needs to teach you how to answer a stinking question. I asked you many and all you did was write back asking me more. If I lived in the USA, I would smack your head with a pogo stick. I am a good, smart Italian girl, and so I will actually answer your questions.
First, I have to tell you that I had a very hard week. Something is chasing me, and I’m very scared. I almost burned the letter five times. Well, not really. When a Pacini makes a decision, a Pacini never goes back. I made my choice, and I’ll stick to it like butter on a peanut, or whatever you crazy Americans say.
Anyway, I will now answer your questions.
I have four clues now. I got the last one last night. Maybe you did, too. It’s about dead people, which doesn’t sound good.
We should definitely help each other.
Saw the ghost thing, but not the rat thing. Don’t want to talk about it.
I’m twelve years old, almost thirteen.
I like your journal idea. I made one, too. Hope it’s okay to steal your name. Mine is called Sofia Pacini’s Journal of Curious Letters. I even used English to make it seem like yours.
I joke a lot, and if we meet you will think I’m crazy. Last summer I beat up seventeen boys. Glad we can be friends.
Ciao (that’s Italiano, smart boy)
Sofia
He’d just finished reading the e-mail when his dad told him to log off and go up to bed. Grumbling, he obeyed, hating that he’d have to wait until tomorrow to write Sofia back. He thought about sneaking downstairs after his parents were asleep, but he knew Edgar “Light Sleeper” Higginbottom would catch him as soon as he heard the buzz of the computer fan. It was going to be hard enough to tiptoe through the house and open the door to the front porch at midnight without waking him.
He brushed his teeth and said good night to everyone, then got into bed, his lamp on for reading. He decided to take a break from the fantasy novel he had been reading and pulled out the book by Savage, flipping to Chapter One.