MinionThe Stingy

iUniverse LLCBloomington

H . M . M a r s o n

MinionThe Stingy

The STingy Minionhacked

Copyright © 2013 by H. M. Marson.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9784-2 (sc)ISBN: 978-1-4759-9786-6 (hc)ISBN: 978-1-4759-9785-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013912888

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 08/05/2013

Contents

Acknowledgments ........................................................................ixChapter 1 Dumped ....................................................................1Chapter 2 Hacking ...................................................................17Chapter 3 School and Mrs. White ..........................................26Chapter 4 You’re Not a Liar.....................................................38Chapter 5 Country Chic ..........................................................47Chapter 6 Christmas Mystery .................................................60Chapter 7 The Stingy Minion .................................................69Chapter 8 Hello, Is Anyone There? ........................................82Chapter 9 Sunday and the Tic ..............................................100Chapter 10 Yearbook Wisdom ................................................110Chapter 11 Uncle Ray ..............................................................123Chapter 12 Can You Play, Kid? ...............................................136Chapter 13 Stolen Computer ..................................................147Chapter 14 Aardvark ................................................................162Chapter 15 The Plan ................................................................173Chapter 16 Ominous Turn ......................................................190Chapter 17 Sarah Bill ...............................................................208Chapter 18 The White House .................................................224Chapter 19 Hugs and Kisses ...................................................237Epilogue ......................................................................................247

To Maryann and Jean

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Acknowledgments

Fiction is never totally fiction. From the beginning, life experiences of real people inspire, guide, and shape a story. We would like to thank everyone who seeded our imaginations. We are especially thankful to Mona and Larry Rogers, Graham Galloway, and Ron and Rob Silver, friends who committed to the hands-on responsibility of reading and editing our work. Their insight and feedback significantly influenced our writing. Leigh Monahan provided the recipe for the world’s best oatmeal cookies. Thank you, Leigh. Those cookies keep on giving. All we had to do was ask and Elizabeth Heisner guided us through New York’s underground. Alexa Homan supplied teenager advice and assured us that they hardly ever hang up their clothes. At Lombardo’s restaurant, the young, expressive waiter contributed his BMX mag dirt bike to our cause. Erikka Wang of Akira consulted us on teenage fashions. Aunt Ann said lifting her blouse in the church parking lot is just what the doctor ordered. As they say in Missouri, thank y’all for contributing to our fun adventure.

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Chapter 1

Dumped

Hunched over with eyes closed, I clutch each elbow to keep warm, all the while wishing I could just go back to Florida. If only Dad would call. My cell phone doesn’t ring, but I check anyway—no missed calls and no waiting text messages. Nobody cares. How long do I have to stand out here? This northern wasteland is colder than I remember. Black clouds hover above, and a giant pointing finger rains bolts of lightning down upon me. I’ll be a smoking ash pile. Abandoned Sixteen-Year-Old Girl Disappears after Lightning Strike. That’s what the local newspaper will say. Okay, there are no black clouds or lightning bolts, but there are angry words.

“I could’ve hit you!”I turn toward the noise and see some dipstick on a bike. A

jeans-clad leg with laces tied around the lower end crowds my space. I’ve seen this before. It stops pant legs from snagging in a bicycle chain. Planted right in front of me is a well-used sneaker that smells a lot like sewer sludge.

“Hey, you’re blocking the whole sidewalk. I could’ve hit you!”

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More angry words; this guy is going to explode. Out of habit, I straighten my glasses with both hands and blink my eyes twice to ensure good focus. Two penetrating hazel eyes are staring me down. I’ll give him something to think about.

“You should be riding that bike on the street!”That’ll occupy him until I get it together, which had better

be soon.“You’re hogging the whole sidewalk,” he says. “Standing

right in the middle.”“Pedestrians have the right-of-way on the sidewalk. Get

lost.”“Pedestrian! You have to be walking to be a pedestrian.

You’re not walking.”“I’m waiting, idiot. Why are you on a bike? Did you flunk

driver’s ed?”“I have a license! Dad says no car until next year at college.

As for idiot, no idiot could make a stop like that. You’re lucky I didn’t run over you.”

College next year? He’s a senior! And proud of himself. Why? ’Cause he didn’t hit a stationary object?

He’s tall and skinny. I could take him if need be. His sandy, unkempt hair is awful. It looks like an armadillo dug a grub out of it. I have to admit though, even with lame hair, he is easy to look at, but right now, his voice is most annoying and demanding answers.

“What are you, an orphan?”I am an orphan. My parents are divorced. Dad is in prison,

and Mom is dumping me. I feel like a victim of extraordinary rendition, captured and carried off to a foreign land with no possible escape.

“My life is all screwed up! It’s enough to make me say the s-word.”

Damn! I’m spilling my guts to a total stranger.

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“Say it. Don’t just talk about it.”“What are you, a psychiatrist know-it-all?”“Say it right now. Want me to say it first?”“Back off, okay? I can do it.”“Show me.”“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shiiiiiiiiiiit!”“Feel better?”“Yes. I may not be done though. My name is Liz. And

yours?”“Call me Jeremy. Except that’s with an e at the end, not a y.

Spelled J-E-R-E-M-E. People get it wrong all the time.”The dipstick can’t even spell his name right. He’s friendly

though and good-looking. And he didn’t run me over with that filthy, fenderless bike.

“Okay, Jereme with an e, where do you live?”“Nearby. Why?”“I may want to swear again. Will need a friend to share the

moment.”“Oh, so now we’re friends?”Argh! I sound desperate. I am desperate! I’m being dumped

with Dad’s parents in Podunk, Missouri, and I barely escaped a lethal encounter with a giant pointing finger. His hazel eyes are smiling at me now instead of staring me down. I smile back. It has been a while since I felt any kind of friendship. Sheez! His feet stink.

“Do you always wear those smelly high-tops?”“Yeah. Basketball practice. Pretty bad, huh? Bugs don’t

come near me. Haven’t seen one mosquito since I left the gym.”

He’s funny. I like it and go right along. “Haven’t slapped at one since you’ve been here!”

“Elizabeth!” My mother is calling out from the front porch. “C’mon in, honey. Your grandparents want to see you.”

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She’s being nice because my grandparents are listening. She hasn’t called me “honey” for years.

“Time to bounce. Want my cell phone number?”He’s a perceptive dipstick. He recognizes our conversation is

over. Cell phone number? If I accept his, he’ll want mine. I could use a contact here. Okay, he’s just being friendly. Don’t think he’s a drug dealer.

We exchange numbers. He rides off and wheels into the adjoining driveway. Nearby? What a smart-ass. He lives next door. This is good.

“Elizabeth!”I go back to the dark clouds. “Okay, Dorothy. I’m coming!”We had driven from Delray Beach, Florida, to Ellisville,

Missouri, only stopping along the road for necessities. Minutes before our arrival, Dorothy started to cry, one of her best ploys. We didn’t walk up to my grandparents’ house together. After we got out of the car, she told me to stay back while she went to the door. Before I could challenge her, she left me, cold and alone, standing on the sidewalk.

What secret is she hiding now? I thought my move-in with Gram and Grandpa was a done deal.

A half hour after calling me in, her tears stop, and she’s ready to leave. She doesn’t stay for a meal or any small talk. Dorothy has efficiently completed her self-appointed charge, and without waving good-bye, she backs onto the street and drives out of my life.

There goes a piece of work. Good riddance!I stare at the empty driveway for a minute, thinking

about what happened, and turn away. The latch on the screen door clicks behind me. With my head down, I follow the rose-colored hall carpet runner, faded and worn away from years of use. I reach the foot of the stairs and look up. I’m going to bed. Gram said they decorated Dad’s old room for

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me. It’s huge. I walk in and see my suitcases neatly lined along the wall. Grandpa is sitting on the bed. His hands, so large and calloused, grip his knees.

He’s hiding in my bedroom? Grandpa and Dorothy never liked each other. As far as I know, this is the first time he has hidden from her. Either that or he has forgotten where he is again. My grandparents are getting old. It won’t be long before they croak. Then what? I will be a freaking orphan.

I’m too tired for a lengthy conversation. “Hi, Grandpa! Thanks for bringing up my suitcases.”

“It was nothing. There’s food on the dresser. You hungry?”“A little. Mostly tired. It was a long trip. Are you hiding

from Dorothy?”“Hiding? Hell no! Just not acknowledging her.”“Good night, Grandpa!”I hope he catches my meaning.He does. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Your window is open.

Fresh air is good for you. Close it if it gets cold, okay?”Like I couldn’t figure that out!“Okay, Grandpa.”He finally leaves. I close the door to seal off intrusions.

My mind spins like a search engine. Connections fail. I dig my pajamas out of a suitcase. Everything else can wait. I’m too tired.

Damn PJs! My foot tangles in the pant cuff, causing me to tumble onto the bed. On my back like a flipped beetle with legs flailing, I finish putting them on. Oh hell! My top is on inside out! Who cares?

I can’t or won’t move. I desperately seek sleep, but it’s not happening. Memories of Dad going to prison hold my eyes in a dead stare at the ceiling. He started serving a five-year sentence two years ago. Before that time, we were normal. At least I thought so. Mom worked at Sears, and Dad and I had

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our computers. We spent hours in his office laughing and giggling as we animated various computer game characters and synchronized sound and flash for onscreen explosions. We had the time of our lives. School sucked. Everyone poked fun at my work jeans and sudoku puzzle sweatshirts, and they called me weird because I loved doing math problems. I enjoyed spending time alone reading at the library and listening to all kinds of music at home. I didn’t have time to make friends. Besides, I didn’t need them. Dad was my best friend. He held our family together.

Dad yelled at his computer when his programs didn’t work right. That’s when I learned the most. He liked to walk through his code with me. It calmed him, and we always found the problem. When he started writing hacking software, it was the same routine. Before long, I was reading everything I could find about hacking. I knew it was illegal, but everyone was doing it, including the US government. The guiding principle seems to be “It’s all right for me but not for you” and “Just don’t get caught.” Well, they caught Dad, and now he’s in prison for hacking into banks and stealing money.

Mom and I fought all of the time, except on visiting days. Those days, we would pretend to be a happy family, hugging, kissing, and joking with Dad. On the way home, we sat far apart and said nothing. We crossed the River Styx and went back to hell. Mom thinks I should have stopped him because I was there.

What could I have done?I didn’t do anything, and now she hates us both—Dad for

leaving our family and me for not stopping him from hacking. She says I’m as guilty as he is.

What a bitch! Maybe Dad intentionally screwed up so that he could get away from her. One day, she announced she

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was taking me to Gram and Grandpa’s in Ellisville, Missouri. According to Dorothy, she needed some alone time.

Pink and white freaking flowers!I wake up without realizing I had been asleep. My first

shock is the pink and white flowers all around me. It’s children’s wallpaper.

My grandparents are nutcases. What am I, a three-year-old? What in the hell is that noise? I’m not ready to wake up. Not to this. That song is vaguely familiar and loud. Where is it coming from?

“Come on, baby, light my fire. Come on, baby, light my fire. Try to set the night on fire.”

It’s coming from next door! I stretch my arms over my head and glance toward the window. It’s still open. Is he singing to me? He is a dipstick! I sit up and take a deep breath. Wonder what he wants? He didn’t seem the type, but if he is, he can forget it.

I hear a knock on the door and then a voice. “Liz, are you awake?”

“Come in, Gram. A certified bonehead is serenading me.”The door opens.What time is it? She’s dressed with hair pinned back. She’s

wearing makeup. I don’t know about that blush. Undoubtedly, the house is cleaned and ready for visitors.

She smiles and walks to the opened window. “That’s Jereme. Here, I’ll close it.”

“Leave it open, please. I want to hear this.” I smell something. “Yum! It’s sourdough pancakes and pork sausage.”

Gram stops in her tracks, turns, and puts her hands on her hips. “Do you want the window opened or closed?”

I don’t answer. She walks to the edge of my bed. What will she do next? It feels like hospice has arrived. That blush! It’s like death trying to conceal itself.

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“I made your favorite breakfast,” she says. “Your grandfather is downstairs holding a dinner fork in his hand. Would you like to join us?”

Invited to breakfast beats pouring milk over cold cereal. I picture Grandpa at the table with fork in hand, ready to pounce. The image stirs me into action. If I’m to get my share, I’d better hurry.

“I’ll be right there.”Gram caresses my cheek with her hand. “Okay,

sweetheart.”I’m back to being a three-year-old again. Without making a

sound, she disappears. I throw on my robe, take my cell phone off mute, check for missed messages, and head downstairs. Grandpa really isn’t sitting fork in hand. He’s watching TV. He clicks off the morning news and motions me into the living room. Great! He’s wide-awake, and I’m not. Fortunately, his conversations are never deep.

“They’re cutting down about twenty of our biggest in Bluebird Park. Damn things got Dutch elm, they say. Did you sleep okay?”

Is he kidding? Trees?I lie. “Yes, better than ever, Grandpa. Sorry about the trees.”“Good, good. Ann told me the musician woke you up.” He

nods his head toward Jereme’s house. “I’ll light his fire. You just watch. Do you like pancakes?”

“Yes, Grandpa. His music’s not bad for a dipstick.”A smirk tells me he agrees, at least to the dipstick part.

Most people don’t get Grandpa. His mind moves swiftly and erratically. He can hold two conversations at the same time and usually does, even if only one other person is in the room. Gram deals with it by picking the topic she likes best and ignoring the other. Somehow, via genetic tuning, I find it quite normal to stay with both.

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Gram quietly enters. “William, Liz, breakfast is ready.”The kitchen table, covered in a white plastic, flowered

tablecloth, holds a feast. It’s just what I need. Gram and Grandpa lower their heads, so I lower mine.

“Thank you Lord for bringing Liz—Elizabeth—to our home and for Ann’s great cooking. And, if you will, our trees could use some help. Amen.”

The Lord didn’t bring me here. It’s quite the opposite. Dorothy did. And I’ve never heard a before-meal prayer that included trees.

Gram can cook. Her pancakes are delicious, but the joy of eating them doesn’t last. Insects attack.

“You know, we had pine bark beetles two years ago. Was it two years, Ann?”

Bugs and trees! Here we go.Gram nods, but she doesn’t say a word. Trees are the

greatest living things on earth. Grandpa told me this a long time ago. When insects attack Ellisville’s trees, it’s as if intruders have come to attack him. He’s ready to kill.

Grandpa answers his own question. “Sure it was. We have the best trees around. They win awards, big awards. We’ll take you to see—”

“Come on, baby, light my fire …”Grandpa’s eyes swell, and his cheeks bulge as if a thousand

words clog in his mouth. I hear a wet, hissing sound as air escapes from between his lips.

Gram rushes to close the window. “There! Go ahead, dear. The trees?”

The pressure releases from Grandpa’s face. Trees are no longer the topic of his conversation. Trees are important, but they can’t compete with the intruding musician.

He points a sausage-loaded fork at me. “You’re right, Liz. He’s a dipstick!”

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He points the loaded fork at Gram and catches an unwelcome glare. The fork clangs on the side of his plate, and he uses a finger. He’s upset.

“Marie made him change it, didn’t she, Ann? You can’t sing about getting high at a school graduation!”

There’s no answer. Gram continues to stare at him. He doesn’t want an answer. He wants someone to grab a gun and shoot the dipstick.

I risk my life. “Graduation? What graduation?”Grandpa lunges forward, shaking his finger, but Gram cuts

him off before he can say another word.“It happened four years ago, and nobody died for heaven’s

sake! Stop wagging that finger, William, and eat your breakfast while it’s still warm.” She looks at me. “You too, Elizabeth.”

Grandpa picks up his black coffee cup with “An-a one, an-a two” painted below Lawrence Welk’s picture on the side. He takes a gulp and, with cup suspended in midair, shoots a stare, daring Gram to continue the story. I pop a big pancake bite and stay quiet. This is not my fight.

She ignores Grandpa. “Light My Fire is his favorite song. That’s what we’re hearing this morning. Kenneth and Marie, Jereme’s parents, thought this fiery love song was inappropriate and encouraged him to change the line ‘Girl, we couldn’t get much higher.’ He changed it to ‘Girl, we couldn’t get much better’ for his eighth-grade graduation solo—”

Grandpa shakes his head. “He never—”“William Carson!” Gram stops him. “Let me tell Elizabeth

the story, please!”Grandpa retreats.She regains her poise. “Jereme’s parents invited us to go

with them to his graduation, and we gladly accepted. It was exhilarating watching these bright young students. They sang songs, gave the cleverest of speeches, and looked so scholarly

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receiving their diplomas. When Grandpa interrupted, he wanted to tell you that Jereme never changed the line. He played and sang ‘Girl, we couldn’t get much higher.’ No one would have noticed except Principal Dittmyre all but hauled him off by his ear before we finished applauding. Jereme didn’t do it on purpose. He was just nervous and forgot to sing the new line. People looked around with puzzled expressions after the abrupt walk off—”

“Yeah right, he forgot,” Grandpa says. “That was Jim Morrison’s excuse when he made the same mistake on the Ed Sullivan Show. Didn’t believe him either.”

“I believe him, William. He’s a good boy.”“What did they do to him, Gram?”“Well, nothing more happened during the graduation

ceremony, but it was all the talk as we walked out. Those who knew brought everyone else up to speed. On the way home, Jereme was quiet. He asked if he could hold Marilyn, his little sister. She was just a year old at the time. I think entertaining her took his mind off things. His father asked if he had forgotten the line. He said he did and apologized. Kenneth told him his performance was outstanding, and Marie said it was his best ever. Jereme—”

“The kid’s spoiled, I tell ya! I don’t care that the song was on a one hundred greatest songs list. He should’ve changed the line.”

Gram picks up her coffee cup. “William, please get us more coffee.” She then whispers to me, “He gets cranky every time Ellisville loses some of its beautiful trees. I have an idea that will cheer him up.”

Grandpa returns with the coffee.“Let’s have a welcome picnic for Elizabeth,” Gram says.

“We’ll invite the Andrews family, so she can meet Jereme’s parents and sister. You can make your famous stuffed

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hamburgers. I’ll ask Marie to make that delicious salad you like. We just have to decide which park would be best.”

“Bluebird’s the best if there are any trees left. Does the musician have to bring his guitar?”

Gram ignores his question. “You’ll feel better when you see the trees are okay.”

Breakfast concludes. Grandpa puts on a Cardinals baseball cap and goes for his morning walk. Gram takes my white china plate, smeared only with traces of syrup, and places it on top of hers.

“Let’s get the table and kitchen cleaned up, sweetheart. We have a lot to do today.”

I give her my “Are you kidding?” stare. Dad and I never cleaned the table. She continues gathering dirty dishes. I don’t budge.

“Elizabeth! Get off your rear end and help me!”Wow! What’s the big deal?I’ve never seen that side of her before. I don’t want to see

it again, so I do what she says. We clear the table, wash dishes, and clean the kitchen. Gram calls Jereme’s mother to discuss a date for the picnic. It’ll be on a Saturday, two weeks from now. They schedule a girls’ planning tea for this afternoon.

I woke up to flowery wallpaper. Now a tea party?“A tea party, Gram? I’m not in the third grade! Can’t we

just meet and talk?”“We could, sweetheart. A tea is an old custom. Try it,

okay?”She’s bossy this morning. It’s her house. She’ll have it her

way. Someday I’ll have my house.“Mrs. Andrews teaches language arts at Lafayette High

School,” Gram says. “I think you’ll be in her class. She also teaches physical education. If you have any questions about Lafayette, Marie would certainly be a good one to ask.”

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“Marie? Did I hear you say Mr. Andrews’s first name is Kenneth?”

“Yes, Kenneth. He works at Brockway Fuse in human relations. Marie will tell you he should be running the place, and he probably will be someday. Smart young man.” She opens a red leather box and retrieves a three-by-five card. “I have a recipe for scrumptious gingerbread cookies. They will be perfect for our tea. Would you like to help make them?”

She’s really pushing. I should draw the line here, but she just made my favorite breakfast.

Baking is not one of my best things. I can make a cookie hover across a computer screen like a flying saucer, but I have no idea how to make one pop out of a real oven. I don’t want another incident like the one we had earlier.

“I’d love to, Gram.”That starts things going. It’s not very obvious, but Gram’s

kitchen is like a starship control center. In an instant, she has the electric mixer, bowls, measuring cups, spices, flour, and milk positioned on the kitchen counter like a droid platoon in attack formation. Two baking sheets lined with parchment paper mark the final target area. She systematically moves about the kitchen, handing me fixings and giving orders.

What did I get into? I stand at my assigned post, the big mixing bowl, where I sift and blend at her every command. Almost immediately, we are cutting stars and rounds from rolled-out cookie dough.

Gram has preheated the oven to three fifty. She opens the door. “Place both sheets on the middle rack, Elizabeth.”

“On their way. How long do we bake them?”“We want them crispy but not too dark.”I knew it. This is precisely why I will never learn to bake.

It’s a screwy guessing game. Solving the Hodge conjecture would be easier.

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What does she mean by not too dark? And just how crispy is that?

Gram softly pats my back. “Close your mouth, sweetheart. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Okay, I admit it. I’m lost. Does she have to rub it in? Is this the way it’s going to be?

With one proficient twist, she sets the oven timer. “This’ll buzz in twelve minutes. Then we’ll start checking them.”

The buzzer sounds.After a few oven peeks and toothpick pokes, Gram says,

“They’re ready!”We let them cool before sampling. Gram breaks one in

half for us to share. It’s so good that she decides we should have a second. Then we dot the star points and line the rounds with white icing.

As they say, “Go along to get along.”The time is four o’clock, and our planning tea takes place

at the dining room table. I never saw anyone fuss so much about something so unimportant. I hope I’m not like this when I get old. Gram decided to show me how to make a centerpiece. We found a small bunch of zinnias and Gerber daisies at the grocery store, cut lilac sprigs from the front porch bushes, and arranged them in a green ceramic vase. I thought we were done. I should have known better. She had matching green candles and crystal holders hidden in a server drawer.

Okay, it looks a lot better than the ripped pizza boxes Dad and I had.

Like a nectar-seeking bee, Grandpa follows the lilac scent. He compliments our artistic creation.

Yeah, right. He just wants some cookies.He compliments my dress. “Nice dress, Liz.”He doesn’t know it, but this is the only dress I own.

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“Thank you, Grandpa. There are more cookies in the kitchen.”

“Think I’ll try some,” he says.I’m right. He heads for the kitchen. Gram had suggested

I wear a dress. I’m glad she did. Mrs. Andrews walks into the foyer looking like a model right out of a magazine. My usual Carhartt outfits would have been so out of place. I think I know what’s going on here. We fell down a rabbit hole. This is going to be the stupidest tea party ever, not that I’ve been to one. Gram pours the tea and passes the cookies.

C’mon out, Alice. I know you’re hiding somewhere!Mrs. Andrews begins. “Ann, these are the best cookies.

When did you bake them?”Gram looks at me and winks. “Elizabeth made them this

morning from one of my old recipes.”Gram is madder than a March hare. She’s giving me

way too much credit. Her wink tells me to continue the exaggeration. The cookies are delicious. I could have made them.

“Gram did show me where she kept the electric mixer.”Mrs. Andrews starts to laugh. We join in.“Elizabeth helped me a lot,” Gram says. “She could make

them herself next time.”More laughter about the goings-on at Lafayette High

School and in Ellisville ensues.How inefficient. We’re not doing any planning. Meeting

Mrs. Andrews is okay, but that’s not why we’re having this tea. She knows I’m good at computers and can’t bake. So what? We’re supposed to be planning stuff. When Dad and I planned things, we wrote out a lot of details. We knew what we would be doing first, second, and so forth. This is the stupidest planning meeting. Strange, strange, strange, like in a surrealist movie, but I’m sitting here gossiping.

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In the midst of our nonplanning, Mrs. Andrews unsnaps her purse and retrieves a note. “Elizabeth, I have something for you. This was Jereme’s idea, but it’s from all of us.”

Gram is totally surprised. “Marie, you didn’t—”“Please. It’s nothing, Ann. Just something we thought

Elizabeth could use.”She hands me the note. After reading it, I can hardly

speak.The dipstick really is my friend.“What is it?” Gram says.“It’s the password for their Wi-Fi connection.”“Oh! That’s right,” Gram says. “We don’t have the Internet.

How thoughtful!”Mrs. Andrews says, “Use it all you want. Jereme and

Kenneth moved the router a little closer to your house last night.”

“What can I say? Thank you so much! This means more than you know.”

Our planning tea ends.Strange. I’m looking forward to the picnic. I don’t care what

Grandpa says. We’re asking Jereme to bring his guitar, and Gram says I don’t have to wear a dress.