“The sixties ended a long time ago,” Darren pleaded. “People like money now. This jackpot could change your life — you wouldn’t have to work in the store all day!”
“The store keeps me close to my fellow man,” Mike informed him.
“You could retire and hang out with your fellow man all day! With flowers in your hair!”
The storekeeper piled infant size at the top of the stack.
“You could buy your own farm and live off the land and grow organic flax while listening to the Beatles! Or you could move to San Francisco and groove or something!” Darren was babbling now, frantically trying to get through to this laid-back hippie. His eyes scoured the store. There had to be something here that would penetrate all that hair and the thick skull underneath it — that would upend his desire to have nothing and want less!
And there it was, right next to the register — the instant-coffee jar with the slit in its lid. Darren stared at the hand-lettered sign: GIVE TO THE CREATION OF A WOODSTOCK MUSIC FESTIVAL NATIONAL HISTORIC SITE. It seemed to hold no more than the few coins that had been there the first time Darren had entered the store.
“Or,” he finished triumphantly, “you could donate the money to make Woodstock a national historic site.”
The storekeeper turned around, creating a breeze that billowed his poncho. “You think?”
“Totally! That’s the great thing about money — you spend it on what you want!”
The exposed portion of Mike’s face grew dreamy. “Future generations will be able to see what we were doing there! That we weren’t just partying in the mud — that we were pooling our own psychic energy to create an example of how humanity could be!”
“But we’ve got to hurry,” Darren added urgently. “If somebody else gets there first, you can kiss that historic site good-bye!”
Galvanized into action, Mike grabbed a set of keys from a hook. “Mind the store!” he tossed over his shoulder to the clerk. “I have urgent business!” He dashed out the door, with Darren scrambling to keep up with his long-legged strides.
Griffin stared at the paper. What was there to say about a plan that was going down the drain? He wished he could blame it all on Darren’s desertion … but that wasn’t it.
I was too eager to make it happen, he admitted to himself. I wanted to prove to Ben and the others that there’s only one Man With The Plan.
At this awful moment — watching the plan founder — what Griffin really felt was lonely. Failing was bad enough, but to have no one there to say “That’s okay, buddy. You gave it your best shot” had to be rock bottom. At that moment, he missed his team more than he resented Victor Phoenix. Now he wondered if there had been too much bad blood, too many angry words, for things ever to be the same again. If that were true, even coming up with the ticket and getting all thirty million dollars for himself wouldn’t be worth it.
Anyway, ticket finding was out of the question now because he wasn’t even in Green Hollow looking for it. Dad had finished designing the smaller SweetPick harness and had asked Griffin to help him test it. Griffin couldn’t very well refuse. His father’s meeting with the Brazilians had been pushed up, so this weekend would be the last chance to iron out any bugs.
Mom wasn’t around, which meant Luthor had to be included in this expedition. Coaxing him into the station wagon was never easy. Getting him to stay there when Dad loaded the SweetPick in the back took all they had left of the Puppy Treats Savannah had brought over.
“I hope the Brazilians place a large enough order to pay for all the dog food this is costing,” muttered Mr. Bing, putting the car in gear.
The testing ground turned out to be an open field lined with transformer towers east of Cedarville along the Green Hollow town line. There was no sugarcane, obviously. But the tall reeds, weeds, and grass provided a similar environment in which to put the SweetPick through its paces.
The device was lighter than before, especially with the modified harness, which was now a more comfortable fit.
“That’s good news,” Mr. Bing decided. “In South America, they use younger workers, and a lot of women, too. So you’re a better model than I’d be, sizewise.”
Luthor refused to leave the car, but his nose hung out the open rear window as he kept a wary eye on the Dangerous Thing.
Following his father’s instructions, Griffin cut and bundled grass, rushes, and even a stand of wild rhubarb. The prototype was performing beautifully, until there was a sharp snap, and one of the bolts that held the Safe-chete blade in place sung past Dad’s ear, disappearing into the weeds.
After much searching, Mr. Bing came up with it. “Stripped!” he announced in disgust. “Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve got half my workshop in the car, but I didn’t bring another bolt.”
So Dad drove to the nearest hardware store while Griffin and Luthor cooled their heels in the shadow of the transformers in their test field. The detached Safe-chete blade lay on the grass, but that made the Doberman no more comfortable. He kept a safe distance, never taking his attention off the SweetPick. Griffin had to laugh, because Luthor’s naked fear reminded him of his own feelings toward the Doberman.
Griffin pointed to the blade on the ground. “It can’t slice and dice you now; it can only tie you up.”
The roar of a loud engine swelled in the field. Griffin watched the road, expecting to see a huge truck pulling at least two trailers. Instead, a strange vehicle came into view. It was a 1969 Volkswagen bus with its original motor and no muffler, gloriously painted with peace signs and psychedelic colors. Even before he spotted the driver, Griffin knew who it had to be. Mike hunched over the wheel, his FLOWER POWER headband as vivid as the Day-Glo rainbows on his van.
There was someone with him in the passenger seat. Griffin squinted. Piggy eyes, cement head …
“Vader!” he exclaimed aloud, his blood boiling. He should have known! That money-grubbing slimeball would never give up on thirty million dollars. Even after the deadline had passed, he’d be booking passage on a spaceship so he could run himself through a time warp and get a second chance. Vader must have gotten an eleventh-hour lead on the missing ticket. And he’d somehow convinced the last hippie on Long Island to give up all his 1960s idealism and make a sprint for the cash.
Griffin wasn’t aware of the moment he started running, but he was at full speed by the time the VW flashed by on the side road. He didn’t consider the long odds against catching a motor vehicle. He barely noticed that he was still wearing the SweetPick prototype, or that the Safe-chete blade was lying abandoned on the grass like a piece of junk. He just ran.
A few seconds later, a large black-and-tan blur overtook him on the left. Luthor would never pass up an opportunity to chase a car, especially when his human companion was chasing it, too. And knowing that the SweetPick was back there behind him lent wings to his four muscular legs.
“Good boy, Luthor!” Griffin panted. “Stick with him!” Griffin might lose the car, but Luthor never would.
The road traced the boundary between Green Hollow and another suburban town, Swandon. Even hustling at top speed, Griffin fell behind quickly, and soon the van disappeared from view. He could still see the Doberman, a tiny dot in the distance. Less than a minute later, even the dog was gone.
The doubts came then. What am I doing? How could I be so stupid? I took off on Dad, abandoned the Safe-chete blade, lost Luthor, and I’ll never catch Vader now!
He was about to slink back to the testing ground, when a speck reappeared on the horizon, assuming canine dimensions as it grew closer. Luthor was starting back. That meant the van had stopped and the Doberman was returning to pick up Griffin and lead him to it.
Griffin usually rolled his eyes at Savannah’s lectures on the brilliance of her sweetie, but he had to admit this was Luthor’s finest hour. His brain had figured out what needed to be done, and he was doing it. Now he loped over to Griffin, ignoring his terror of the SweetPick. Lassie herself, Griffin was sure, would have been incapable of s
uch loyalty, resourcefulness, and courage.
“Luthor, you’re the best!” Griffin wanted to hug the Doberman but remembered at the last moment that he was still wearing the SweetPick. It would be unkind to test the boundaries of such bravery. Instead, he said, “There’s a big steak in this for you, buddy,” and the dog began to lead the way back along the road.
Swandon was farther from the train line, making it smaller and less a commuter town than either Cedarville or Green Hollow. Its most prominent feature was Swandon College, a cluster of ivy-covered redbrick buildings on a treelined campus.
Of course! thought Griffin. There was no business district in Swandon. People had to go to Green Hollow or Cedarville for restaurants or movie theaters or stores. The closest place to buy a lottery ticket was Mike’s. The winner could just as easily be here as in Green Hollow.
Griffin wished he’d gone out for the track team. A little extra stamina would have come in handy on the long jog into Swandon — especially with the SweetPick weighing him down. He was about ready to pass out when he spotted the van parked in front of what looked like a gracious old Victorian home. Seeing the finish line within reach gave him the second wind he needed, and he and Luthor trotted up the circular drive and stood panting in front of the entranceway.
At close range, the place looked a lot more run-down, with loose shutters and peeling paint. Three Greek letters painted across the double doors declared this to be Sigma Delta Phi.
A fraternity house! Griffin’s heart sank. There could be twenty or thirty frat brothers living in there! Instinctively, he plugged this new information into the plan. On the one hand, it would be harder to find the owner of the ticket. On the other, Darren would have to deal with that complication, too, which might give Griffin the chance to catch up.
Heavy pounding hip-hop bass resounded from the house, even though all the windows were closed. These fraternity guys sure liked their music loud. Griffin could only imagine the kind of stereo they’d buy when one of them realized he’d just won thirty million bucks.
Griffin knocked on the door and, when nobody answered, kicked at it. “Anybody home?” he bellowed. At last, he barged in uninvited, and froze, mouth dropping open in amazement. A massive party was in full swing. Wall-to-wall revelers packed the house, gyrated on the dance floor, mobbed the food table, and spilled up the spiral staircase to the second story. The stereo was blasting so loud that Griffin felt the music as much as he heard it — the air actually moved with the pulsing beat.
A mountain of a fraternity brother in a Sigma Delta Phi T-shirt that strained to contain his overdeveloped muscles barred Griffin’s entry. “This is a private party, kid, not Chuck E. Cheese.”
Sticking to the plan, Griffin faced him down. “Did you buy a Giga-Millions ticket last October sixth?”
“I said get lost!” He reached for Griffin, intending to toss him out the way he’d come in.
Griffin stepped aside to reveal Luthor at the end of his leash. His single warning bark could be heard even over the roar of the music.
The bodybuilder backed away to admit the newcomers. “You know you got your knapsack on backward.”
Griffin stayed on message. “Is there anybody here who buys lottery tickets?”
But the frat boy had melted into the crowd, far from Luthor’s path.
Griffin scanned the rocking house for Darren’s sturdy form or a tall figure topped with Mike’s flyaway hair. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. There must have been two hundred people packed in like sardines.
How was he ever going to find the right person in this Where’s Waldo? of college kids?
Darren, too, was lost in the sea of partygoers, trapped in the kitchen behind a conga line of seven frat brothers who had duct-taped themselves together at the waist. He had one advantage over Griffin, though — a name.
“Is one of you guys Grant Bruckman?” he shouted above the din.
A high-kicking sneaker nearly took his head off, and he had to duck.
Mike had his hands over his ears. “They call this music?”
“It’s pretty loud!” Darren agreed.
“I don’t mind loud!” Mike insisted. “I was at Woodstock! But this is garbage! Haven’t these kids heard of the Beatles? Joni Mitchell? Simon and Garfunkel?”
Darren approached the conga line from the rear, safe from the flying feet. “Grant Bruckman?” he rasped again.
One of them pointed to the living room, which wasn’t much help. It was a solid mass of jumping, dancing humanity. You couldn’t fit a toothpick between the people.
He dragged Mike past the conga line and through the doorway into the giant double parlor. Swinging arms beat at them as they fought their way through the mob.
The storekeeper was still complaining. “In the sixties, we sang about love, peace, and social justice! These songs can’t change the world! I’ll bet you can’t even play them backward to find the hidden message!”
Darren ignored him. “Grant!” he hollered. “Grant Bruckman! Are you here?” His voice disappeared in the general noise.
Then something completely unexpected happened. The crush of dancers parted like the Red Sea, but there seemed to be nothing in the gap that was created. Darren lowered his gaze and spotted the cause of the disruption: an all-too-familiar snout and a canine expression that clearly said, Get out of my way.
Darren jumped. It was Luthor. And, handling the leash a couple of steps behind the Doberman, Griffin Bing.
Darren fled back into the kitchen and hid behind a butcher block. How had Bing found the frat house? He couldn’t possibly know about Melissa’s app!
It doesn’t matter how he got here, Darren reminded himself. He’s here, which makes it twice as urgent to identify Bruckman and grab the ticket.
He still had an edge over Griffin — Mike, and a quick ride to the lottery office in his hippie-mobile.
He looked around. Mike was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
The station wagon jumped the curb and stopped a few feet into the weeds.
“You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a hardware store around here,” complained Mr. Bing, trudging across the field to the testing area. “And when you do find one, they’ve got every size bolt except the one you need. Which means you need another store —”
His voice trailed off with the slow realization that he wasn’t getting an answer. “Griffin?”
Silence.
“What happened? Did you doze off?”
In growing alarm, he realized that maybe Griffin could sleep through his return, but no one could ever sneak up on Luthor. The guard-dog training was too firmly ingrained.
“All right, Griffin. This isn’t funny anymore. You can come out now.”
A glimpse of something shiny caught his eye. He reached down into the reeds and grass and pulled up the detached Safe-chete blade. There was no sign of the rest of the SweetPick. Griffin must still be wearing the body pack.
But where?
* * *
Six bikes rolled up to 214 Kiwi Lane.
Savannah stroked Penelope’s soft fur as the cat relaxed in the basket in front of her handlebars. “What is this place?”
Victor took in the big home with the Greek letters on the door. “I think it’s one of the fraternities at Swandon College. Grant Bruckman must be a student.”
Pitch hopped down and started for the front door. “Sounds like they’re having a party. Cool. I’ve heard frat parties are wild.”
“We’re not here to party,” Ben reminded her, repositioning Ferret Face inside his shirt. “We need to get the ticket from Grant and head straight to the lottery office. It’s almost four.”
“I don’t like parties,” came Melissa’s soft voice from behind her hair.
“We’ll do all the talking,” Victor assured her. “Let’s go.”
The blond boy was halfway up the front walk when the door was flung wide and three frat brothers backed out of the house, carrying an armch
air with a partygoer draped over it, fast asleep. A second face had been drawn on his high forehead in shaving cream. The three planted the chair on the lawn and raced back inside.
Pitch grinned. “What did I tell you? Wild.”
“You say that like it’s something good,” mumbled Melissa.
They were about to enter when the bodybuilder blocked their way. He regarded the six middle schoolers suspiciously. “You don’t have a dog, do you?”
“We’ve got a cat,” offered Savannah, holding out Penelope. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Unless you’ve got a panther, beat it.”
Slam!
“Now what?” asked Ben, comforting Ferret Face, who didn’t like confrontation.
“You can’t just walk into a frat house at our age,” clucked Logan. “It takes acting. You have to create a character who belongs there.”
“I’m four foot nine,” Ben protested. “What am I supposed to do — stilt-walk?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of those supergenius kids who get into college when they’re eleven?” Logan exclaimed, inspired. “Just give me a minute to get into character.”
“If you can convince people you’re a genius,” Ben said, “then you are a great actor.”
There was a whistle from above. “Guys — up here.”
Everybody stared. Pitch mugged down at them from a second-story balcony. “Climb up the trellis like I did. I’ll help you over the rail.”
There was a chorus of protest. It was a small matter for Pitch to ascend the wooden framework. She’d been born into a climbing family. A carabiner had served as her diaper pin. For the others, the terrace seemed high and out of reach.
Of all people, Ben put an end to the argument. “I’ll go first,” he announced. He was no daredevil — in fact, he was a wimp and proud of it. But he sensed something familiar in Pitch’s initiative. It was Griffin’s can-do attitude, his fearless willingness to try anything to keep an operation moving along. Most of the time, that personality trait gave Ben nightmares. Yet, right then, he missed it so badly it was almost a physical ache.