When I got home that day, I found a note taped to the door.
Howard, don’t come in this way. Just cleaned carpits. Come in through the back door. Mom.
Oh, give me a break! I realize I asked Stick to train me, but this was almost insulting! How dumb did he think I was? First, the note was clearly in his handwriting. Second, it specifically said “Howard.” Was it all right for everyone else to come through that door, just not me? I don’t think so! And if all that weren’t bad enough, he misspelled “carpet” — as traps go, this one was too lame for words!
Obviously, he’d be waiting for me, snowball in hand, behind the side gate. Absolutely pathetic . . . and just the kind of sneak attack Stick would try. But this time, he’d outsmarted himself. He was the one who was in for a chilly surprise!
I opened the front door and stepped onto a completely dry, not-even-close-to-clean carpet. Did he really think I wouldn’t check it out? I headed into the kitchen and stealthily slid back the patio door. This was the moment I’d been waiting for — Stick would never expect me to attack him from behind! I tiptoed out onto the patio.
SPLAT!
Out of the deep blue nowhere, the sky had opened up and dumped a small avalanche on top of my head. Only it wasn’t the sky — it was Stick. He was standing on the roof with a trash can full of snow.
“Oh, you are so eeeeasy!” he screamed, laughing so hard I thought for sure he’d do a nosedive off the roof. “Did you see the way I misspelled ‘carpet’? That was so you’d figure out it was a fake. And you did! Congratulations on being a total feeb! Consider this another valuable lesson from Nate’s school of pain!”
I was fuming. But there was nothing I could do — I’d asked for this! I could still hear the irritating sound of rooftop cackling as I stormed back into the house.
When I stepped inside, I ran straight into a snowman. It wasn’t a real snowman. It was just a picture in a coloring book. But it was two inches from my nose.
“Yes, yes, I remember,” I told Orson, who was expertly steering the picture back and forth to keep it in my view. “I know I promised I’d help you build a snowman.”
Orson is my five-year-old brother, and he never asks for anything. He pretty much never says anything. I’ll bet I can count on my fingers and toes the number of words Orson has said in his whole life. It’s not that he isn’t smart — he’s like a genius on the computer — it’s just that whatever’s going on in his brain doesn’t seem to want to come out of his mouth. Mom says he’ll talk when he’s ready. I’m sure she’s right.
In the meantime, he finds plenty of other ways to communicate. Like smacking me in the face with a coloring book.
“Will you cut that out!” I said.
Orson was getting impatient because I’d been stalling on the whole snowman thing. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to build a snowman. I just wanted to build it later. Like in July. Because, as I’ve mentioned, going outside this time of year strikes me as insane — that’s where winter lives!
Besides, I had other things on my mind.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, Orson,” I explained. “I just found out there is this robot contest, and there’s a very real chance that my nemesis, Gerald Forster, could win. And what’s the point of even having a nemesis if you’re going to let him win things?”
Orson lowered his head until all I could see was the top of his brown, bowl-shaped haircut. He might only be five, but he had this guilt thing down to an art.
“All right, all right,” I said. “We’ll build a . . .”
I stopped in mid-sentence and stared out into space. Build? Yes, that’s right. You don’t make a snowman — you build a snowman! And I knew someone who could build practically anything.
I walked into the kitchen and dialed the cordless phone.
“Uncle Ben?” I said. “Bring your tools. We’re going to build a snowman!”
I looked at Orson and winked. He’d given me an idea and, with a little luck, G-Force and his Basket-bot were in for a very chilly surprise.