The Magical Fruit Read online

  “I know,” Doctor Proctor said, watching the referee walk toward the center circle to start the extra time. “But we have to try whatever we can to win this game! If there’s no winner, there’ll be a rematch next Saturday, and that’ll be too late.”

  “Please, Lisa!” Nilly said. “At least you don’t have to stand in the goal.” He pointed to the goal, where Nero Longhands was standing, wearing gloves and the goalie’s jersey.

  Nero had never been goalie before, but since no one else on the Rotten Ham team had either, Krillo had done a quick eeny-meeny-miny-moe-holy-moley-pick-a-goalie. And Nero had lost.

  The referee started the game again by blowing his whistle. Lisa was playing left back. Krillo had said she should try to get in the way of the guys in the blue as much as she could and that they didn’t really expect anything else from her.

  But every once in a while it’s funny how fate can step in and put a person in just the right place in this world, a place no one had the slightest idea they truly belonged. And I’m not talking about Lisa now. The few times Lisa got anywhere near the ball, she was pretty much running the wrong way, looking the wrong way, or not really understanding how a ball rolls, bounces, and sort of generally behaves.

  I’m talking about Nero Longhands.

  “Did you see that save?!” the radio reporter screamed to the sideline commentator after Ibranaldovez headed the ball right toward the very bottom corner of the goal. But in one tiger leap, Nero was there, stretching out one of those unbelievably long arms of his to put his hand between the ball and the ground and then hammering it over the crossbar. “Gordon, I haven’t seen anything like this since—since—”

  “Get Longhands on the national team NOW!” the TV reporter howled as Nero saved a super-hard shot with ease. And the Chelchester fans kept groaning, pulling out their hair, and chomping on their fingernails as Nero caught, saved, and wiped his hands. And even here, before you know the outcome of this match, I will give you the good news. Because the good news is that Nero Longhands had a long and prestigious career as the national team’s goalkeeper. The not-quite-so-good news, well, the downright bad news, was that this game was almost over and there was no sign that Rotten Ham was going to cross the midline and approach Chelchester’s goal.

  “We have to do something!” Doctor Proctor cried in desperation. “There’s only a minute and a half left in the game!”

  “I hate clocks,” Nilly mumbled.

  Just then the ball rolled toward Lisa, who was standing way over by the sideline in front of the bench. It stopped right in front of her feet, and she stared down at it.

  “Come on, Lisa!” Nilly yelled from the bench. “Get going! Do a Cruyff Turn, a camel feint, a nutmeg, then a bicycle kick! It’s not that hard!”

  “It’s not?” Lisa said, cautiously raising her foot. She didn’t get any farther than that, because Ibranaldovez came flying through the air, cleats first, right then. His cleats hit both Lisa and the ball, causing them both to fly off the field and hit the ads with a sickening crash.

  “Red card!” Krillo screamed angrily, leaping up off the bench. “Life-long imprisonment! Electric chair!”

  But the referee just gave them a free kick.

  Lisa opened her eyes and looked up to see three Nillys and three Doctor Proctors all looking down at her, seeming very concerned.

  “Does it hurt anywhere?” Nilly asked.

  “Only all over,” Lisa said. “And could you please stop being in triplicate?”

  “You just hit your head a little,” Doctor Proctor said. “Lie still, Lisa, I’ll go get—”

  “Lie still?” Lisa said, irritatedly kicking away the advertising banner, which was half covering her, and getting up. “We have a game to win!” Then she passed out and fell right back down on her butt again.

  “Lie still, you have a concussion, and it’s too late to do anything about the game anyway. Here, drink a little water,” Doctor Proctor said.

  But instead of taking the bottle, Lisa furrowed her brow in concentration.

  “We have to take that trophy home with us today,” she said.

  “She didn’t just hit her head a little bit,” Nilly muttered.

  “That free kick, it’s ours, right?” Lisa asked.

  “Yes, but my dear Lisa, even if I had a wood-chopping shoe that fit you, it’s quite a ways down our half of the field.”

  Lisa got up. “Do you remember what you packed as we were leaving home?”

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “Give me the bag of the stuff that I foolishly didn’t want you to bring.”

  “You mean . . . ,” Doctor Proctor began.

  “She means . . . ,” Nilly said.

  “Hurry!” Lisa moaned.

  Doctor Proctor ran back to the bench, opened the suitcase, found the bag, and brought it to Lisa, who resolutely opened it and poured the contents into her mouth. Nilly licked the bag to make sure all the powder was gone. Then Lisa marched over to Krillo.

  “I want to take that free kick,” she said.

  Krillo sighed and shrugged. “All righty. It’ll be the last kick anyway. The referee is just blowing his whistle now.”

  “HELLO!” THE RADIO reporter said. “It looks like Rotten Ham is planning to let that little girl take the last kick in what has been a dramatic final game. She’s taking position. With her back to the ball, actually. Is she planning on wrapping this up with a heel kick? Well, why not?”

  LISA LOOKED UP at the stands. Saw all those faces staring at her. She wasn’t the least bit nervous anymore. Her only thought was that she didn’t care if it seemed impossible, because she could do this! Because she was Lisa, the one and only Lisa. She felt a bubbling in her stomach. She knew it would come soon, and she started counting down: six, five, four . . .

  She saw the referee raise the whistle to his lips, and she bent over all the way so her butt was pointing right at the ball. She remembered what Nilly had explained, that if her butt was pointing down toward the ground too much, she would launch herself into the air, like a fartonaut.

  Two, one . . .

  Then it came. The explosion. The one that comes after you swallow a whole bag of Doctor Proctor’s fartonaut powder.

  The radio reporter screamed, “It almost looked like her heel didn’t make contact with the ball at all, and yet the ball is flying off like a projectile!”

  “But it’s heading straight for Chelchester’s goal, so the goalie is bound to catch it,” his co-commentator said. “There, he caught it.”

  “But look, Gordon! There was so much force to the kick that the ball’s taking the goalie with it. . . . Wow! All the way into the goal and . . . the whole net is ripping!”

  “That’s the worst I’ve seen!”

  “That’s the best I’ve seen, Gordon!”

  “But that’s a goal! 3–2 Rotten Ham!”

  “And there! The referee blew his whistle. The game is over!”

  “Rotten Ham ’n’ Potatoes has won it, Gordon!”

  “Lisa!” Nilly howled, leaping up and down.

  “Best in the world! Lisa!” Doctor Proctor cheered.

  “Ockolmes!” Krillo roared, running out onto the field just as fast as his fisherman’s boots could carry him.

  “Toes, my Toes!” sang Tony and the other fans dressed in white over in the corner.

  And then for a while they all ran around hugging and telling each other that it was really true: They’d won the World Cup at Wobbley Stadium!

  And after Nero Longhands and the other players on the team had gone up to the queen and picked up their awards, they carried Lisa around the stadium on their shoulders while she held up the big trophy.

  “Carry me to the locker room,” she commanded, clutching the trophy.

  And when they were in the middle of the players’ tunnel, right as they passed the spot where Nilly was standing with an innocent smile and an open suitcase, someone—probably a guy in swim goggles—turned off the lights so it went dark.

&
nbsp; There was screaming and yowling and tumult, but when the lights came on again a moment later, Lisa was still sitting up on her teammates’ shoulders. And the trophy she was holding was so identical to the one she’d been holding a few seconds earlier that it didn’t occur to anyone that it might be a different trophy.

  And while the players were drinking champagne and celebrating in the locker room, a black London cab was flooring it to the airport. And the cab contained a driver, three happy people we’re very familiar with, and a suitcase containing a gleaming World Cup trophy with a ribbon around it.

  Jell-O. What Else?

  IT WAS MONDAY. Oslo was bathed in May sunshine. The bell had just rung after their last class, and Lisa and Nilly were walking home together.

  “What was it like to come home and not have your own room anymore?” Lisa asked.

  “That’s what was so weird,” Nilly said. “Eva had moved all her stuff back out, and she said I could have my room back.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. She even gave me a hug. And said she’d missed me a tiny bit. I’m afraid she might even hug me again sometime,” Nilly said with a shudder.

  “Well, but isn’t that good?” Lisa asked. “I’ve heard that a hug from your sister is one of the nicest things in the world.”

  “Being hugged up against such large red zits?” Nilly said. “Good thing I bought that zit cream for her at the airport in London, huh?”

  “Is that why you had to borrow money from Doctor Proctor?”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t come home without even so much as an English tea bag, could I? I’ll save up the money and pay Doctor Proctor back.”

  “Hmm,” Lisa said.

  “What do you mean, ‘hmm’?” Nilly asked, since he knew Lisa well enough to be able to hear that this wasn’t just a hmm hmm.

  “You guys argue all the time,” Lisa said. “But you know what? I think deep down inside you love each other some after all.”

  “Me? Love? That witch, Eva?” Nilly scoffed, rolling his eyes. But Lisa just smiled wisely, as if to say he wasn’t fooling her with that act.

  They turned onto Cannon Avenue, and as they did so a large black limousine pulled up next to them and stopped, and the back door opened.

  “Lisa and Nilly! Hop in!”

  A man they’d met before was sitting in the backseat.

  “We’re on our way to see Doctor Proctor,” the king of Norway said. “Congratulations on a mission well done. The inspection was this morning, and the World Bank was happy with everything.”

  “Well, we didn’t have time to melt it down, so they did think it was a little odd that Norway’s national gold reserve was shaped like a big trophy,” the driver said, smiling into the rearview mirror.

  “Hi, Helge,” Lisa said.

  “One of the inspectors picked it up and thought it felt surprisingly light for solid gold,” the man in the front passenger seat said. “But we explained that the trophy always feels light after a victory.”

  “Hi, Hallgeir,” Nilly said.

  “And we just received a phone call from London from our colleagues in Her Royal Highness’s Even More Secret Service. They still don’t have any proof that Rublov and the Crunch Brothers stole the gold, but they arrested Rublov anyway.”

  “Why?” Nilly asked.

  Helge and Hallgeir both chuckled a little before they responded, “A bank employee told the police that Rublov threatened her with a gun when he forcibly deposited Monopoly money into her bank. And that the bank has surveillance video to prove it.”

  “Plus, there were witnesses who saw Rublov rob an old lady and her baby in Hyde Park.”

  “Plus, he apparently hung on to the back of a sightseeing bus, stealing a ride without paying his fare.”

  “He’s going to be in jail for a good while.”

  They pulled over in front of Doctor Proctor’s overgrown yard, and when they pushed open the crooked gate, they saw a big banner draped between the pear trees.

  JELL-O FESTIVAL.

  And there they all were, under the banner. Doctor Proctor and Juliette Margarine, Eva and Nilly’s mom, Lisa’s commandant father and her mother, Mrs. Strobe from school, and Gregory Galvanius.

  And on the picnic table behind them was the biggest Jell-O mold any of them had ever seen.

  Juliette was carrying a tray of champagne and pear soda around, and once they’d all helped themselves, the king chimed his spoon on the side of his glass and turned to them.

  “My dear subjects . . .”

  Mrs. Strobe cleared her throat, raising an eyebrow and giving the king a stern look over the top of her glasses.

  “Uh, I mean my dear fellow citizens,” the king hurriedly corrected himself. “And dear friends. Yes, most especially friends . . .”

  Mrs. Strobe nodded approvingly, and the king continued:

  “I have a joyous announcement to make. It comes from my third cousin, or perhaps she’s my second cousin . . . a few even claim she’s my first cousin. Unfortunately, a few things happened that make it slightly unclear. . . .”

  Mrs. Strobe cleared her throat again.

  “Anyhow, to the point!” the king hurriedly said. “The queen of England has decided to name Lisa the Jack of Spades of New South Wales for her extraordinary performance during the finale at Wobbley. And Doctor Proctor will be dubbed a knight of the third-rate order for restoring the Empire to greatness with his invention. England is planning to launch its first fartonaut into space next month!”

  Everyone present clapped and cried “hurra,” which is Norwegian for hooray. After that everyone turned and looked at Nilly.

  “Sorry, Nilly,” the king said. “The queen didn’t really think it was appropriate to honor someone who’s famous for having kicked the world’s best soccer player into the stands.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nilly said, laughing with them. “At least I got a little notoriety.”

  “Exactly,” the king said with a knowing wink.

  Everyone waited anxiously to hear what would come next. But the king took his time, sniffling, adjusting his shirt collar a little, taking a sip from his glass. Until Mrs. Strobe cleared her throat in warning.

  “Right,” the king said. “It turns out that after they were done making the new wax figures for Madame Tourette’s Wax Museum this year, they had a little bit of wax left over. Not much. Not enough for your average prime minister, for example. But enough for a little guy who already has his own fan clubs over in England, someone everyone is curious about, wondering whatever happened to him? But all they know about him is that he called himself Beckadona Hamarooney Sherl.”

  “They’re going to make a wax figure of me!” Nilly squealed. “I’m famous!”

  “In a way,” the king said. “But since you were at Wobbley on an assignment of a rather secret nature, unfortunately, you can never tell anyone that you are Sherl.”

  “Rats!” Nilly said.

  “And so I suggest a secret toast to Sherl!” the king proposed.

  Everyone laughed and raised their glasses to Nilly, who bowed low before draining the pear soda from his glass in one long gulp. Followed by a not insignificant burp.

  Then they sat down at the table.

  And while they slowly consumed yard after yard of the best Jell-O any of them had ever eaten, Lisa whispered to Nilly, asking him if he was sure he had managed to swap out the trophy in the players’ tunnel. And Nilly responded that it was true, that type of on-the-fly, pitch-dark trophy exchange was not for amateurs, but he wasn’t Nilly for nothing. Was he?

  Lisa studied her friend thoughtfully as he arrogantly stuffed another foot or so of Jell-O into his mouth.

  “But you’re totally sure that—” she began.

  She didn’t get any response, because just then they heard a voice yelling and the distant hum of an engine. Everyone looked around, unable to place where the sounds were coming from. Until someone happened to look up. And there, high above the top of
the pear tree, they saw a triangular shape approaching.

  “Look at me! I’m Petter! I’m the one and only Petter, and a heck of a Petter I am!”

  “Petter!” Lisa called up to him. “Who’s that with you?”

  “Huh?”

  “The girl next to you?” Lisa clarified.

  “Oh, right. This is Petronella. She’s the one and only Petronella! A heck of a Petronella! She’s the one who added the engine to the hang glider. A real Hillman engine! We flew straight into the headwind! Is there any Jell-O left, Doctor?”

  And there was.

  And as our friends ate, laughed, and told their unbelievable stories, and Nilly tried to teach everyone the Toes song, the spring sun sank behind the crooked blue house at the very end of Cannon Avenue.

  And with that, we call the game over for now.

  THE END

  OR . . .

  MEANWHILE, ACROSS THE North Sea, three brothers were playing poker in the city called London. And their mother covered her ears as they yelled things to one another like:

  “It is too true! You got a flush. That means you have to flush it down the toilet, so I win! International rules!”

  “But then I jack your ace, so now it’s my ace!”

  “Stick out your knuckles!”

  “You boys are driving me crazy,” their mother muttered, escaping to the kitchen to make more Birmingham pudding.

  IN A SMALL shack of a clubhouse, Krillo yelled for Nero to come help him lift the trophy into the trophy case, which had been empty ever since Rotten Ham had been founded a hundred years earlier.

  “It’s almost weird,” Krillo groaned as they lifted. “That a trophy should be so heavy!”

  AND LONG AFTER the sun had set in Norway and England, the party was over, and you and I had gone to bed, a guy by the name of Nilsen woke up when the phone next to his bed rang.

  “Yes?” he said with a yawn.

  “Is this the host of Norway’s Biggest Liar?”

  “Yes,” Nilsen said, wondering where he’d heard the caller’s voice before.

  “I have an anonymous tip for you. Do you remember that guy named Nilly, who you had on your show?”