Chapter Sixteen
Cobbleton rang out with an excited cacophony of holiday-inspired sounds.
Honking cars and whinnying horses. Clanging bells and shouting vendors. Everyone tipping their hats to each other. Though not everyone was in the holiday spirit.
A sign had been taped to the door of Pawnbroker:
GOING OUT OF BUSINESS
BUY ONE, GET TWO FREE
(BUT ONLY IF YOU BUY THREE MORE!)
Inside, among stacks of moving crates, Edison fitted a lid over one. He had donned an orange coat and hat, rainbow trousers, a velvet waistcoat over a yellow shirt, and a coral-colored bow tie.
Journey appeared from upstairs, looking beautiful in a fitted leather jacket with a white faux-fur trim, royal-blue skirt, and yellow bow tie—though her expression looked anything but jolly.
“Did you hear? The professor’s franchising!” Edison excitedly relayed to her as he continued to pack. Apparently, he thought Jeronicus was moving into a bigger and better store in order to sell his inventions—maybe even into a factory of his own.
“Edison, he’s not franchising. He’s closing the shop,” she corrected him with a sad edge to her voice. “But not if I can help it!” She knew the shop was something special—and much, much more than just a pawnshop. Maybe she could convince Jeronicus that it was truly a magical place, too. Ducking, she took off in search of her grandfather.
It wasn’t long before she found Jeronicus in the wintry square, and they walked side by side in silence. There was a frigidness in the air that had little to do with the inclement weather.
“Journey, I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he said. “Now, please come along. I need to find Mrs. Johnston.” They turned down a bustling side street lined with shops, each with lines out the door, and trolleys loaded with wares. Children frolicked past them through the crowds. Everything smelled like gingerbread and vanilla with the musk of pine and the scent of fresh snow.
“Happy holidays!” a pleasant voice cheered. It was undeniably Ms. Johnston.
Jeronicus handed Journey his basket full of packing supplies. Then he walked to Ms. Johnston, who helped the greengrocer carry a heap of parcels into her nice, warm establishment.
Ms. Johnston looked radiant in an ocean-blue dress, waistcoat, and jacket, her flat-brimmed hat bedecking her head. She approached the open back of a cherry-red mail truck, which boasted stacks of packages. When she noticed Jeronicus heading toward her, she froze up, thrilled.
“Mrs. Johnston!” he called out. “Mrs. Johnston! I’ve been looking for you all day. You always come by the shop. Is something wrong?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”
“Jerry. What a surprise!” She slowed her steps toward the back of the mail truck.
“What’s the problem?” Jeronicus pressed. “Are you all right?”
She moved behind one of the truck’s open doors and composed herself, then stepped out and ran her gloved fingers coolly along the edge of the door. “It’s new. Do you like it?”
He regarded the mail truck. “Nice truck,” he confessed.
“Isn’t it?” She nervously yanked a cluster of mistletoe from inside, sticking it out over her hat. Glancing up at it, she feigned shock then tittered. “How did that get there?”
“Mrs. Johnston, I . . . I don’t have time for this,” he said with a little laugh and shake of his head. “I just need you to collect my boxes—”
“I know. I know!” She dropped the mistletoe back into the truck, deflated. “You have boxes that need collecting.” She picked up mail. “Everyone in Cobbleton has boxes that need collecting!” she said, dumping parcels and envelopes into his hands. “Only they’ve all gone for the holidays to be with their families. And loved ones . . .” she added longingly.
“Focus, Mrs. Johnston,” he said gently. “Focus.”
She snatched back his mail. “You know, Jerry, a little fun wouldn’t kill you!” she snarled. Then she hurled the parcels and letters into the back of her truck. She went to slam the doors, but they jammed, so she irritably fussed to shut them until finally she managed to fumble the latch shut, nervous under Jeronicus’s serene, watchful gaze. Maybe she’d overreacted a touch.
“Good job,” he complimented her once she’d done it.
She brushed off her skirts and took a cleansing breath, wishing it’d be different. She yearned for him to see her for who she was. And, even more importantly, to see his brilliant self.
“Mrs. Johnston,” he said, trying to get her attention as she moved around to the front of her truck. “Mrs. Johnston, I need this taken care of today.”
“Happy holidays, Jerry.” She sidled into the driver’s seat.
“I’m closing the shop in a few days,” he added solemnly.
“It’s snowing!” she exclaimed with a hearty chuckle, in denial about the news. As he opened his mouth again to say more, she cut him off, maintaining her upbeat demeanor. “I hear your granddaughter’s here.” She slammed her hands on the steering wheel exaltedly. “Oh! Grandchildren are like children! Only you can give them back,” she said.
“If you could just give me the time of day,” Jeronicus tried again.
She laughed and kicked on the truck’s engine, which sputtered.
Jeronicus reached in to help her.
She swatted his hand away. “It’s fine, Jerry! I’ve got it!” She gripped the wheel with aplomb and straightened in her seat. It was clear she was still getting accustomed to her new vehicle.
He reached back in and released the emergency brake. “Here we go,” he said.
“Thank you, Jerry!” she said.
“You’ll come by, though. You’ll come by, right?” He sounded desperate.
“Of course, Jerry!” She faced forward. “And off we go!” She honked her horn. “Get out the way!” she screamed to those strolling peacefully through the snowy lane.
Jeronicus called after her as the truck jostled away. “My name is Jeronicus!”
“It’s Jerry!” she called back, followed by a few jolly honks of the horn.
Shaking his head, he spun around—only to get hit square in the face with a snowball!
“Hey!” He surveyed the busy street for his assailant.
Wham!
Another snowball hit him dead in the chest.
“Okay! Okay. Whoever that is, you’re in for it,” he challenged.
An old lady sipping tea in a window arched her brow with a tilt of her head toward the lane. He followed her quiet tip-off, and his sights landed on Journey peering out at him behind sacks of flour piled up on the street outside the bakery, hand full of fresh and sparkling snow.
“Journey?” he asked incredulously.
His granddaughter took a step out into the lane and chucked a snowball, which exploded against him upon impact. She let out a cheer and dodged back behind the tall stack of flour bags.
“You asked for it.” Jeronicus strode to a shop window and began writing a formula into the frost on the pane with his finger. Children spied on him from inside another shop across the lane, watching him finish his equation, take snow from the sill, and pack it into his gloved hands.
Journey watched, too. Her eyes went wide. What did her grandfather have up his sleeve?
As if in answer, Jeronicus arched back his arm and let the snowball rip through the air. It sailed down the lane, with Journey and the other children watching it move as if by remote control, maneuvering past shoppers, vendors, and a horse until it vanished into the pale, distant sky.
Journey faced her grandfather, cackled gleefully, and waggled her fingers at him as if they were taunting moose antlers. “You missed me!” she teased, realizing it wasn’t a fair match.
But then, the snowball came sailing back around like a boomerang and—
Wham!
Hit her right in the face!
She looked at Jeronicus, bewildered.
Jeronicus waggled his fingers back at her. “Oh! Somebody got hit with a snowball!” He beckoned for the onlooking children to join him. “I need some help,” he said as they neared.
Journey nodded, impressed. So she had herself some fierce competition after all. She ducked back behind the flour bags and wrote out a formula in the air. Two could play at this game. As she kept devising a winning equation for the oncoming duel, she recruited two girls her age to join her in her efforts. “Hey, you want to come play with me? Give me some snowballs!”
The girls scrounged up snow, unable to see what Journey was seeing as she continued to write in the air. Jeronicus, however, could see the faint glow of her letters and symbols. A boy handed him a snowball. When he looked back up, he could no longer see the flicker of magic.
In moments, Journey’s formula was complete, and the teams had been formed: girls with Journey and boys with Jeronicus. She let her snowball fly. Midair, it split into four snowballs, which hit Jeronicus and the three boys. Journey and her friends whooped and danced in triumph.
Jeronicus gaped. Then he and his team fired away. Their snowballs fell short. Still, he joined his teammates in a merry little dance, and gave them high fives as they circled him. He broke out into a smile, which seemed to be contagious. The old lady in the window laughed raucously, entertained by the old man’s spirits. Then a giggle slipped from his mouth, as if on ice. More townspeople stopped to stare. They hadn’t seen him laugh like this in many years.
The children continued to pack snowballs and let them soar. It was a snowball fight for the ages—pure, good, old-fashioned fun without any more formulas. A few passing townspeople got caught up in it, joining in. At one point, the whole lane partook in the lively, snowy reverie.
Journey emerged through the melee. “Grandpa J! This is so much fun!”
Jeronicus flung a snowball right at her, grinning mischievously.
But his snowball hit the constable instead, who’d stepped in the middle of the fight.
More snowballs hit him from every direction.
Jeronicus’s expression fell as he watched the constable wipe snow from his face.
He locked eyes with Jeronicus, who held out his arms as if ready for the handcuffs.
After Journey smooth-talked their way out of the situation, they returned to Pawnbroker.
“Edison!” Jeronicus called as he set foot back in his shop, with Journey behind him. “Of course. He’s probably out there somewhere having fun.” He set down his giant basket. “Much packing to do. Much time to be made up.” He gestured. “See to it that these boxes are full.”
Journey indignantly tossed back her head. “But Grandpa, I don’t want to be—”
“Packing,” he reminded her, striding ahead.
“Grandpa, I was just trying—!”
“Boxes!” He marched upstairs. “Try to find the synchronicity between the two.”
Journey stuck out her lip. He really needed to lighten up. And where was Edison? Her grandfather was probably right and Edison was off having fun, maybe even having a snowball fight of his own. She picked one of the flyers up from off an old trunk whose bold letters shared that Pawnbroker was going out of business. She sighed. Then something on the floor caught her eye . . .
Edison’s glasses.
She picked them up and studied them. How odd.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
There was a loud banging from upstairs.
She rushed up to the workshop to find Edison, tied with a thick rope to the leg of the worktable. She rushed over. “What happened?!” Her nimble fingers hastened to free him.
“Gustafson!” Edison cried. “He started bragging that he was the greatest inventor, and how the professor hadn’t invented anything in years, and—”
Journey pulled the rope off him, and stared. “Edison, tell me you didn’t.”
He frowned. “I’m the worst apprentice ever. I mean, you’re a really bad apprentice, but not even close to how bad I am!”
Journey looked around. Just as she’d feared, the robot was gone. “Buddy,” she breathed.
Edison went to stand and bumped his head on the bottom of the table. “Ow! I’m okay.” Rubbing his noggin, he stood to join her.
“Where’s Buddy?” she asked frantically.
“I think I hear my mother calling me! Did you hear that? I definitely did.” Edison charged for the door. “Here I come!”
“Edison,” Journey said unyieldingly.
He paused in the doorway and glanced sheepishly back at her.
She took a heartened breath. “We have to get Buddy back.”
Much to Journey’s surprise, Edison nodded resolutely. “Yes, we absolutely do.”
Minutes later, Journey and Edison raced through the town and stopped in an alcove when they spotted Ms. Johnston’s mail truck parked on a sloping street. They quietly peeked out at it.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Journey asked.
Edison gulped. “If I say no, will you stop thinking it?”
Journey quirked an eyebrow. Then she bolted toward the truck, with Edison reluctantly following. They climbed into the open back, past piles of packages tied with string and stacks of sealed letters—likely presents and cards that might barely make it to their recipients before the big day. Just as they vanished into the depths of the truck, Ms. Johnston emerged from the florist’s.
“It’s new! I’m still getting used to it,” she called merrily to the florist. “I only almost killed one person today!” she joked. “Progress!” Then she closed the back of her truck, unwittingly sealing Journey and Edison in complete and utter darkness.
While most children their age were settling in for Christmas Eve, Journey and Edison sat in the cardboard-scented gloom as the truck lurched forward and started to Gustafson’s Factory.
Journey would stop at nothing to rescue Buddy.
It was her only hope of saving the shop, and the fate of her grandfather as well.