The next morning, Jackson woke up to the sound of his stomach growling. Mmmmm, was that the smell of his dad’s famous pancakes? Jackson wondered. Amazing that he could be eating them in the middle of Brazil!
Jackson jumped out of bed and pulled on a fluffy white bathrobe. He trotted out to the dining room. Miley was sitting at the table eating a stack of pancakes.
“Hook me up with some of those delicioso pancakes, Pop,” Jackson called toward the kitchen. He noticed a plate of pancakes and sat down in front of it. He reached for a jar of bright red syrup and looked at the label. It read: BRAZILIAN GUAVA BERRY SYRUP. It wasn’t maple, but it sounded good. He opened it and sniffed. It smelled fruity.
A moment after Jackson started to pour, Mr. Stewart ran out of the kitchen. He grabbed the jar out of his son’s hand.
“Dad, what’s the deal?” Jackson asked.
“Sorry, son. You plus guava syrup equals N-O. That stuff will be torture to get out of the rug!” Mr. Stewart pointed to the thick white carpet under the table.
“Dad, you’re not seriously asking me to eat my pancakes without syrup. They’ll be dry,” Jackson protested.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Mr. Stewart said. “Unless you’re willing to pay for a carpet cleaner.”
“Fine, I’ll have fruit instead,” Jackson grumbled. He went to the refrigerator, and returned with a pink, egg-shaped fruit. “Hey, a pomegranate!” he said. “I read an article in one of my surfing magazines. It’s supposed to be the fruit of champions. Loaded with vitamins. What do I do? Cut it open with a knife or just bite right in?”
“Ahh!” Mr. Stewart gave a panicked shriek. “Stop right there! The inside of a pomegranate is a mess of juicy, red pulp. Don’t open it here.”
“Fine,” said Jackson, grabbing his plate and the pomegranate. “I’ll open it on the deck.”
“Nope. It’ll stain the wood floors,” his dad said.
“What if I eat it near the pool?”
“The pool’s made of granite. It could stain that, too.”
“This is so unfair!” Jackson protested. “Dad, can I have money so I can go out for breakfast? If you won’t let me eat here, you’ve got let me eat somewhere else. I’m starving.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.” Mr. Stewart handed Jackson a few bills. “Here are some reals.”
“That’s Brazilian currency,” Miley said.
“I know that,” Jackson said, examining the unusual-looking bills.
“If I give you a little extra, can you go look for a bib for yourself?” asked Mr. Stewart.
Jackson scowled. Then he stuffed the reals into the pocket of his robe and went to his room to change.
“When do you leave, bud?” Mr. Stewart asked Miley.
She checked the clock. Amber and Adriano were picking her up at ten.
“I’m late!” Miley ate the last few bites of her pancakes and raced to her room.
A few minutes later, Jackson walked to the front door. “I’ll see you later, Dad,” he said. “Don’t worry, I won’t be home for lunch. I’ll grab something at the beach. No one there cares if I stain the sand!”
When Jackson was gone, Mr. Stewart breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at his son’s untouched stack of pancakes. Shouldn’t let those go to waste, he thought. Mr. Stewart sat down at the table, placed a napkin on his lap, and took a bite.
Jackson had been right, they were a little dry. Mr. Stewart reached for the guava syrup.
He held the bottle over the pancakes, but the syrup was so thick it wouldn’t come out. He was about to give the bottom of the jar a gentle tap when he heard a knock. Before Mr. Stewart could get up, the front door opened.
“Meet the latest capoiera mestre!” Roxy leaped into the room. A vase rattled on the mantel. “I had the test this morning, and I aced it! Bow to the master!” she cried. She launched into a celebratory run across the living room. It featured a flying scissor kick, a back handspring, and several deep lunges.
The paintings on the walls rattled.
The kitchen table shook.
The palm of Mr. Stewart’s hand hit the bottom of the bottle a little too hard.
Sploooooooosh! Guava syrup spilled out all over the pancakes, the table, and the white carpet.
“Ah!” screamed Mr. Stewart. “The carpet!”
“Oops. Sorry about that, boss,” said Roxy. “Got too enthusiastic, I guess.”
“That’s okay,” said Mr. Stewart, bending down to inspect the mess. “Just as long as we get this out before Jackson comes home from the beach. He’ll never let me live this down.”
“Don’t worry,” said Roxy. “The master is on it.”
At that moment, they heard a key in the door. Mr. Stewart threw a napkin over the stain to hide it.
The door swung open.
“I forgot my board,” said Jackson, walking into the room. “I need it if I’m going to go straight to the beach after breakfa—” He stopped and looked around. He saw Roxy, the overturned bottle of syrup on the table, and Mr. Stewart looking embarrassed. On the carpet was a large pink stain.
“No way! Oh, man!” Jackson said with a hoot. He went to get his surfboard, laughing all the way to his room.
After a moment, he walked back toward the door. “Got to go,” he said. “Oh, and don’t worry, Dad. I’ll find a bib in your size. Promise!”
Jackson laughed loudly as the door shut behind him.