Ho-Ho-NOOO! Read online

  “All right, all right.” He laughed. “I promise, I will not cook.”

  “And that includes trying to boil water,” TJ said.

  Dorie agreed. “I hate burnt water.”

  He chuckled. “I won’t even boil water.”

  The mood in the room lightened and Dad gave Dorie another hug. “We may not have presents this year, but we’ll have each other.”

  “And that’s what really counts,” Dorie said, hugging him back.

  Dad held her close. “And that’s what really counts.”

  Everyone seemed to agree . . . or at least pretended to. But even as they nodded, Violet returned to her typing, working all the more feverishly. And TJ knew what that meant. Now, more than ever, Violet was going to get Dad that big-screen TV. Which meant now, more than ever, TJ would have to earn enough money to beat her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shopping Spree . . . 23rd-Century Style

  TIME TRAVEL LOG:

  Malibu, California, December 19–supplemental of supplemental

  Begin Transmission

  Invited subject to go shopping. Hoped to make a sale for Uncle Dorkel. But alas and alack (whatever that means), there’s no pleasing her. 21st-century chicks can be so picky.

  End Transmission

  TJ opened the door to her room and sighed. You’d sigh too if you spotted two goofballs from the 23rd century floating above your desk.

  “Hey there, Your Dude-ness.” Herby grinned, sucking in his stomach and doing his usual failure at looking buff. “You miss us?”

  If TJ rolled her eyes any harder, she would have sprained them.

  “How was your first day at work?” Tuna asked.

  She plopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “You’re telling me you didn’t drop by to spy on me?”

  “Of course not,” Tuna said.

  She looked at him.

  “Well, not all the time.”

  She gave another weary sigh. “Why don’t you guys head up to your attic and we’ll talk tomorrow. I’m really wiped out.”

  “Actually, that’s what we want to talk with you about,” Tuna said. “We’ve concluded that you are placing far too much emphasis on the material aspects of the holiday season.”

  “In English, please?” TJ asked.

  Herby translated: “Christmas is way more than spending outloopish bucks and getting gonzo gifts.”

  She sighed again and looked at the ceiling. “Not around here it isn’t.”

  Tuna argued, “But as a future leader, who will one day save the planet—”

  “And bring back the hula hoop,” Herby added.

  “—you must ignore what others say and do the right thing,” Tuna explained. “In this case, it is experiencing the true nature of Christmas.”

  “You mean like ‘Away in a Manger’ and ‘Silent Night’ and all that?” TJ asked.

  “If ‘all that’ includes loving others as God loves them, then yes.”

  “But giving cool gifts shows love,” TJ said.

  “Sometimes,” Tuna agreed.

  “But there are even more fantabulouser ways,” Herby said.

  TJ closed her eyes. “Well, giving Dad a big wad of cash and beating out Violet is going to be my way.” Suddenly she had an idea and sat up. “Unless you guys could whip up something with that fancy knife of yours.”

  Tuna stiffened. “The 23rd-century Swiss Army Knife doesn’t whip up things.”

  “Right,” TJ snorted, “except trouble for yours truly.”

  “There is absolutely no blade on that knife that manufactures gifts.”

  “Except . . .,” Herby said, thinking deeply (obviously a new experience for him), “you could buy something really groovy from the future and have it FedEx-ed back to you.”

  “Herby!” Tuna warned.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help.”

  “You’re just trying to get her to like you,” Tuna argued.

  “What makes you say that?” Herby said, sucking in his gut a little more and flexing his arms a little bigger.

  But TJ barely noticed. “You’re telling me I can buy stuff from the future for my dad? And that your Swiss Army Knife can ship it back to me?”

  “Yes!” Herby said at the same time Tuna was saying, “No!”

  “Really?” she asked.

  More “Yes!”es and “No!”s (with an extra “Absolutely not” thrown in by Tuna).

  “Ah, come on,” TJ said. She rose from the bed and approached Tuna. “That would be so cool.”

  He looked away.

  “Please?”

  He folded his arms, but she could tell he was already starting to weaken.

  “Pretty please . . .”

  “It goes entirely against the character you should be developing for the future.”

  “Just this once?” She batted her eyes, trying to look sweet and innocent.

  Tuna cleared his throat and faced his partner . . . who was also batting his eyes and looking sweet and innocent.

  “Please?” TJ repeated.

  Tuna swallowed uneasily.

  “Just this once?”

  “Well . . .” He hesitated. “Okay, but just once.”

  “All right!” TJ cried.

  “Wazferk!” Herby shouted as he high-fived her. Then, reaching into his pocket for the knife, Herby opened a new blade and

  a bright orange light filled the room.

  “So what hobbies does your father enjoy?” Tuna asked.

  “Besides burning our meals and trying to figure out the remote?” TJ said.

  “Correct.”

  “Well, he likes to read books.”

  “Don’t tell us, Your Dude-ness,” Herby said, holding out the knife. “Talk to the blade.”

  TJ leaned toward the knife and said, “Books.”

  Suddenly

  a thousand different bottles of pills floated around her—small, big, clear, amber.

  “What’s this?” she said. “He likes books, not medicine.”

  “They’re books,” Herby said.

  “They’re pills,” she argued.

  “Exactly,” Tuna agreed.

  “How do you read a pill?”

  “You don’t read pills,” Herby said. “You swallow them.”

  “By prescription only,” Tuna clarified. “That’s how 23rd-century citizens get information from books.”

  TJ frowned and reached for the nearest bottle as it floated by. She read the label. “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. You mean if I take this pill, I’ll have all the information that’s in the book?”

  “Once you digest it, it goes straight to your brain.”

  TJ nodded, thinking how lucky 23rd-century students would be. Forget school; just go to the doctor and get a prescription. “But . . . what about the actual reading? Dad likes to read.”

  “Reading?” Tuna scoffed. “That’s so 21st-century.”

  “But it’s what he likes.”

  “Sorry.” Herby shrugged.

  “How ’bout travel?” Tuna asked. “Does he enjoy traveling?”

  “We went to Detroit once, for a convention.”

  “Not exactly what I meant.” Turning to the blade, Tuna spoke the word vacation, and immediately

  a giant model of a planet was floating in TJ’s room. (At least she hoped it was model.)

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “You can buy your father his own private planet,” Tuna said.

  “Perfect for those times he wants to get away,” Herby explained.

  “Really?” TJ asked in growing excitement.

  “Absolutely,” Tuna said. “Though it will involve putting him into hyperfreeze for the several hundred years it will take to travel to his destination. However—”

  TJ shook her head. “What else do you have?”

  “Does he like pets?” Herby asked.

  “Sure, we got the cat, the dog, my hamster, my goldfish—”

  “No, I’m talking unique pets.”


  TJ knew she shouldn’t ask the question (especially with these guys), but she couldn’t help herself. “What do you mean . . . unique?”

  As an answer, Herby spoke into the blade: “Uncle Dorkel’s Pet Store.” And suddenly

  scurrying around her room were a couple of very strange animals. And we’re not talking your average strange (even for TJ’s life). We’re talking your stranger than strange.

  “What are they?” TJ cried in alarm.

  “Design-a-Pets,” Herby said proudly. “My uncle owns the store.”

  “Really?” TJ asked. She reached down and caught what looked like a tiny chow chow—except for the part about its jumping only on back legs and having a cute little pouch in its tummy. “What’s this?”

  “A miniature kanga-chow,” Tuna said. “Quite popular among the rich and famous.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Not only do their owners keep them in their purses, but they can use their little pouches to hold their makeup.”

  TJ sighed. “That’s not exactly Dad’s style.” She set the kanga-chow down and watched it hop off.

  Not far away she spotted something that resembled a cat, except it walked on two legs and was holding a banana. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “A chimpanz-kitty,” Herby said.

  TJ watched as it jumped up to her chair and then onto her desk, where it picked up a pencil and examined it.

  Tuna explained, “It’s the perfect pet for those who enjoy cats but want them to empty their own litter box.”

  TJ raised an eyebrow. “How much does it cost?”

  Herby reached for the chimpanz-kitty and read the tag on its collar. “Just $34.95.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Plus shipping and handling.”

  “And how much is that?”

  “One, maybe two billion.”

  “Dollars?” TJ choked.

  “Give or take a million.”

  “That’s terrible!” TJ said.

  “Well, you have to figure for inflation.”

  “And two hundred years is an outloopish distance to travel,” Herby said.

  “Sorry, guys. That’s a little out of my range. I think I better stick to Plan A. With Dad being out of work and everything, the more money I can give to him, the better.”

  “But, Your Dude-ness, we just explained—”

  “I know what you explained,” she said as she crossed to her door and opened it. “I also know what I’ve decided.”

  “But—”

  “Good night, guys.” She motioned to the hallway. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Reluctantly, they nodded and floated toward the door.

  “And take your pals with you.”

  “What if Uncle Dorkel dropped the price to $29.95?” Herby asked.

  “Plus shipping and handling?” TJ asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Good night.”

  “How ’bout two for the price of one?”

  “Good night, guys.”

  “Good night,” they muttered as they floated out of the room and down the hallway.

  She called after them, “Herby? The animals?”

  He pulled out the knife, pressed the blade, and

  everything was gone.

  TJ closed the door, shaking her head. She was grateful to finally be alone . . . well, except for the empty banana peel left by a 23rd-century chimpanz-kitty.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Popcorn and Pop Stars

  TIME TRAVEL LOG:

  Malibu, California, December 20

  Begin Transmission

  Tuna and I are going way overboard to be more than helpful. For some unknown reason, this makes subject way more ungrateful. Guess we’ll have to try way more harder.

  End Transmission

  The next day, after school, Chad went with Hesper to see her manager, Bernie Makeabuck. Together they sat on his rich Beverly Hills sofa in his rich Beverly Hills office, talking about feeding the not-so-rich hungry.

  Mr. Makeabuck, who was somewhere between fifty and a hundred (it was hard to tell with all the plastic surgery and hair transplants), was pacing back and forth in his office. He was dressed, tatted, and pierced like some MTV host.

  “That’s absolutely fantastic, babe!” he said.

  “Really?” Chad asked. “You think it’s good idea?”

  “You bet! Especially if you wear your bikini.”

  Chad blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the one that makes all the guys go crazy.”

  Chad traded uneasy looks with Hesper, who would have traded uneasy looks with Chad if she hadn’t been reading the latest article about herself in Teen Wannabe.

  Mr. Makeabuck smiled. “So lay a big kiss on me and we got a deal.”

  Chad frowned. “I’m sorry; that’s not exactly what—”

  The manager turned to Chad, motioning to the Bluetooth in his ear. Apparently one conversation wasn’t enough for Mr. Makeabuck. He had two going—one with Chad, one on his cell phone—until his desk phone rang and he picked it up to start a third. “What’s up?”

  As Mr. Makeabuck listened, he pointed to Chad and mouthed the words Talk to me.

  Chad cleared his throat and tried again. “I was saying, if Hesper could join my church in feeding the homeless on Christmas Eve—”

  “Fantastic! Yes! Absolutely brilliant!”

  Chad hesitated, unsure who Mr. Makeabuck was talking to until the manager nodded for him to continue.

  He coughed nervously. “We figured if Hesper joined us, then more people would pay attention to the problems of the homeless and—”

  Mr. Makeabuck clapped. “We’ll ship them all off to Afghanistan.”

  “The homeless?” Chad asked.

  Mr. Makeabuck motioned to his phone and continued talking into it. “Absolutely, having the band play for our soldiers is brilliant. Call me back 911 with the 411! Love ya too, babe.” He hung up and faced Chad. “Where were we?”

  “I was saying—”

  The phone rang again.

  “Hold that thought.” Mr. Makeabuck scooped up the receiver.

  Chad slumped into the couch.

  Hesper looked up from her article. “So are you two having a nice talk?”

  Chad motioned to Mr. Makeabuck, who was busy with his multiple conversations. “I don’t think he’s heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not?” Chad asked.

  “No, silly. You have to be super rich and disgustingly famous for him to pay attention.”

  Chad shook his head. “Then why are we here?”

  “Because I’m super rich and disgustingly famous.”

  “But—”

  “Watch and learn.” Suddenly Hesper’s sweeter-than-sweet face turned to a sourer-than-sour expression as she screamed, “I AM NOT HAPPY!”

  Mr. Makeabuck startled. His own face grew white with fear. “Got an emergency!” he shouted into the phone. “Call me and we’ll do lunch!” He hung up and gave Hesper his full attention. “What’s the matter, babe?”

  Instantly Hesper turned on the tears. “My boyfriend (sniff-sniff) has a fantastic idea and you’re not (sob-sob) even listening.” (The gal was definitely Oscar material.)

  “That’s not true, babe,” Mr. Makeabuck said as he crossed around the desk and handed her a tissue. “I heard every word.”

  Hesper gazed through her tears while making her lip tremble and her chin quiver all at the same time. (I told you she was good.) “You did?” she asked in her most helpless voice.

  “You bet, and I think it’s fantastic. Absolutely brilliant. It’ll be the news event of the season!”

  “Just the season?” Hesper sniffed.

  “Of the year. Of the entire decade!” He lowered his voice, but it quickly rose in excitement. “We’ll contact all the networks. Have them set up their cameras. And then, when everything’s set, we’ll bring you in by helicopter to greet the cheering mas
ses.”

  “Oooh—” Hesper giggled—“I like that.”

  “Actually,” Chad coughed, “that might be a little more than I—”

  “Better yet! We’ll lower you down to them on a cable!”

  “Yes!” Hesper clapped. “I love it, love it, love it!”

  “I can see it now.” Mr. Makeabuck grew breathless in excitement. “Everyone is wondering, ‘Where will the food come from? Who will save the poor and downtrodden?’ And then the lights blaze on and there you are, dropping down from the sky, like an angel from heaven!”

  “Perfect!” Hesper cried.

  “In fact, we’ll have the wardrobe department design a giant pair of angel wings you can flap!”

  “Perfect! Perfect! Perfect!”

  “We’ll even hire the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra to play the Hallelujah Chorus as you fly in!”

  Hesper clapped her hands and squealed in delight as she said to Chad, “I told you he was a genius!”

  Chad fidgeted. “I was thinking of just having her work beside the rest of us. You know, showing how we’re all the same—just one human being helping another?”

  The room grew deathly still, worse than the dinner table when you tell Mom you flunked the math quiz.

  Finally Hesper choked out the words, “You want me to be like—” she shuddered—“everyone else?”

  “Well, yeah,” Chad said, “that’s the whole point.” He glanced at Mr. Makeabuck, whose jaw hung so low it rested on his desk. Then he turned back to Hesper, whose sweet, innocent expression had become a deadly death glare.

  He swallowed.

  More glaring.

  More swallowing (except that his mouth had gone totally dry).

  And then, just before Hesper leaped out of the chair to strangle him, Mr. Makeabuck broke into a chuckle. “Hey, that’s great, kid.” His chuckle transformed into laughter. “You got yourself a keeper here, babe. I mean this kid is funnnnn-y!”

  Hesper’s glare vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Yeah, he really is sweet.” She gave Chad a look making it clear he better be.

  Mr. Makeabuck continued laughing. “What a sense of humor. You really had us going there, kid.”

  “Actually, I—” Chad’s voice caught and he tried again. “What I mean is—”