CHAPTER 13

At breakfast on Monday morning, Maryam said, “Omar, shall I show you where your room is? It looks like you’ve forgotten, because        

I gulped down the spoonful of porridge I had in my mouth and stared at her, wondering what the big problem was.

“What are you staring at? Seriously. You came in the other day when I was with my friends, and you even came in last night when I was sleeping, fumbling about like an

“What? Why would I—”

“I bet you were looking for things to sell at your stupid talent show.”

“Maryam!” Mom stepped in. “That’s quite enough rudeness from you. How dare you accuse Omar of swiping things from your room.”

“What? I don’t believe it. You always take his side.

Maryam gave up on her breakfast and folded her arms.

Dad said, “It’s quite all right for Omar to come into your room, you know. We don’t treat family like strangers. And, after all, he’s your dearest, darlingest, only brother—you never know when you might need to depend on each other.”

I giggled. And even Maryam giggled and quickly pointed out Dad’s mistake. “What about Esa?”

“Oh yeah, Dad winked.

Esa turned over his bowl of Coco Pops in protest. That almost made us late. Almost.

There’s nothing Mom and Dad hate more than lateness. So even a

is factored into our “getting-ready time” in the mornings. Super nerdy, I know.

I knew the rest of the day was going to pass sooooo slowly, because I absolutely couldn’t wait for talent contest day. By the time I got into bed that evening, I felt like I’d lived through a million hours, not just fourteen.

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•  •  •

On Tuesday morning, as I was hopping into the Peanut, my heart was racing. Talent contest day—

Mrs. Rogers was in her driveway, putting her trash out. “Omar, is your spa open today? I could do with a foot rub.”

“Not today, Mrs. Rogers, but you can come to the talent contest,” I shouted through the car window.

And then I thought about the fact that I hadn’t ever seen her feet . . . What if they were covered in and she had really long toenails because she’s too old to bend over and cut them?

I was   all day. Was it going to go well? Was it going to be a big hit? What if nobody turned up to watch? What if we didn’t sell any cookies?

Charlie checked and double-checked and triple-checked that we had everything ready and in place for the evening. Charlie and Daniel practiced their talents, and basically so did the whole rest of the playground.

The Green Eggs and Ham kid had added cartwheels to his act, and I could have sworn Sarah was humming through all of math and social studies.

When I went into the bathroom, I practiced smiling in the mirror, but it made me feel silly, so I stopped. I wasn’t entering the contest anyway, so I didn’t really need to worry about whether a smile-hypnosis act would work. I focused on how busy I’d be with the judging, to help calm my nerves.

In the evening, Mom took me back to school early to meet my friends and set everything up. The rest of the family, including Mrs. Rogers, was going to turn up with all the other guests.

I brought my toys to donate and a big box of samosas that Mom had made and said we could sell at 50 cents each. They smelled so and were so that they made my tummy grumble and get confused about whether it was nervous or hungry. I shoved one into my mouth as we walked toward the auditorium.

When we got through the door, I spotted Mrs. Hutchinson right away. She was talking to someone really tall who I’d never seen before. I walked over, and that’s the first time I met him . . .

“Ah, hello, Omar,” Mrs. Hutchinson said. She turned to the man she was talking to and said, “This is the young boy I was telling you about.”

The man gave a little flourishy bow and said to me, “Lancelot Macintosh at your service! I’m the uncle. Your teacher’s uncle, that is. And luckily, a school board member, too, so I have the honor of helping to judge the contest with you this evening.” And he smiled a real smile, the kind that makes your eyes smile, too. I wondered if he had an actual hypnosis smile, because I liked him right away! I liked his —it was the kind you only see on French waiters in cartoons, all curled up at the sides. Nobody real has that kind of mustache. But Lancelot Macintosh did. He smelled of

and he was holding a fancy walking stick that he didn’t seem to need at all. He was wearing a tweed jacket and pants that were too short for him, with bright-red socks peeking out from underneath. I wondered if it was because he was so tall he couldn’t find any to fit. And then he said,

for no apparent reason.

A third-grade teacher walked past in a hurry, sending her light-as-a-feather silk scarf gliding down to the floor, but Lancelot Macintosh spun around and caught it on his walking stick before it hit the ground. He wasn’t even looking in her direction when it fell! SO cool! He plucked it off the stick and gave it to me.

He smiled. “Why don’t you return that to its owner?”

I did, and the teacher was so happy, she put $5 in my donation box.

I went right back to Lancelot Macintosh, though, because he was so interesting. Daniel and Charlie had arrived, and Lancelot Macintosh was telling them about a man who had been the Formula One world champion THREE times even though he was involved in a big accident. He’d just started answering the   we had about it when Mrs. Hutchinson reminded us we had a big job to do. We all scurried off to finish setting up the chairs and putting up a banner on the stage—in just half an hour, the show would be starting!