A true wicket is a flat pitch where the cricket ball bounces in a very predictable way—the opposite of a sticky wicket.
that night, we wondered if the Butler would come on Saturday too—even though, my mother said, he must want some time off. But on Saturday morning, when I got up for Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers, the Butler was already in the kitchen, humming.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Beethoven.”
“Elgar,” said the Butler. “Beethoven is too German for mornings.”
I went to the pantry to get breakfast.
I looked through all the boxes of cereal.
No Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.
I looked again.
No Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.
How can you watch Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers with no Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars?
I pulled out most of the cereal on the cereal shelf to make sure—even the cereal that is so healthy that no one ever eats it.
No Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.
“They’re not there,” called the Butler. I went back into the kitchen, where he was dicing onions and red peppers.
“What aren’t there?”
“Uncivilized Sugar Stars.”
“Just because they don’t have Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars in Buckingham Palace doesn’t mean they’re uncivilized,” I said.
“Yes, it does,” said the Butler, and he scraped the onions and red peppers into a bowl of whisked eggs.
Okay, this was really getting to be a pain in the glutes.
Driving the Eggplant was great. But that didn’t make up for the Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars. I mean, Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars didn’t seem like a whole lot to ask for after a week of sixth grade.
Probably the Butler hadn’t even tried Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.
Probably he’d never even heard of Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars before.
“So what am I supposed to eat for breakfast?”
“A tray is poised for your arrival in the dining room,” he said.
I went into the dining room. A glass of orange juice. An egg sitting in a little cup with a little knitted cap on—to keep it warm, I guess. Two pieces of toast standing in a rack. A dollop of orange marmalade—I hate orange marmalade—in a white bowl. Salt and pepper shakers. A quartered pear. And a cup of tea with milk and sugar, the saucer on top to keep it warm too.
“This is going to be hard to eat in front of Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers,” I called into the kitchen.
“Imagine the relief you must feel, knowing you need not eat your breakfast in front of Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers, but may eat it in the dining room, like a—”
“I know, I know: like a civilized person.”
“Indeed.”
This was really, really getting to be a pain in the glutes.
I sat down in the dining room. No one else was up yet, but I sat down in the dining room. By myself. In the dining room. Where we never eat. The dining room.
You know how weird it is to sit in a dining room when you’re the only one there?
I took the knitted cap off the egg.
“How am I supposed to eat this egg?” I hollered.
“One places the knife against the shell, parallel with the lip of the cup. Apply pressure gradually and the shell will open up. Then—”
“Got it,” I said.
I placed the knife against the shell, parallel with the lip of the cup. I applied pressure gradually.
The shell did not open up.
I applied more pressure gradually.
The shell did not open up.
More pressure gradually.
And more.
Not gradually.
Until the knife ripped through the stupid egg and the top half slopped over the white bowl of orange marmalade and plopped onto the floor.
I am not making this up.
Onto the floor.
Fortunately, Ned was by the table to lap up the egg.
“All perfectly well in there, young Master Carter?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
I ate the bottom half of the egg and tried not to mind the pieces of eggshell. I ate the toast without the marmalade. I drank the tea, which had plenty of milk and sugar in it. When I was done, I picked up the eggshells Ned had left on the floor and scratched behind his ears to thank him for taking care of the plopped egg.
Then he threw up.
“You’ll need to take Ned for his walk soon,” the Butler called.
“So would it have killed you to wait?” I said—but just to Ned.
I took Ned for his walk anyway. The second time around the block, Billy Colt was waiting for us. He pointed at Ned.
“Does he always poop next to my driveway?”
“Always,” I said. “I trained him to do it.”
“Don’t you have a butler to do this?”
“Do what?”
“Pick it up or something?”
“Only on the occasion of an emergency—and this isn’t.”
“Maybe not to you,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said.
Billy Colt tilted his head. “Is he throwing up, too?”
“Did you see the Butler’s car drive by yesterday?”
“No.”
“You sure? Like, around four o’clock?”
“No. How come?”
“No reason,” I said—and I was sort of surprised at how disappointed I was.
Not as much as I was about not getting an email back, though.