kazoo was one of the few highlights in his otherwise bleak life. Give him a kazoo and an empty room, and he could invent concerts that always got a standing ovation.
Pretty soon Mr. Weinschweig walked to the front of the room and began to conduct. If you took into account that they were just a junior high school orchestra, they sounded pretty good. They played the “Latvian Sailor’s Dance” (traditional) and the “Robin Hood Overture” by Rooski-Pedruski. Mr. Weinschweig sometimes got so carried away that he closed his eyes and pretended he was playing an invisible violin with his baton. It was all pretty entertaining.
Orchestra class always seemed the shortest one of the day, and pretty soon it was time for the students to put away their instruments.
While Rodney swabbed out his kazoo with a rag of old T-shirt, he thought, So much for adventure. So much for excitement.
* * * * * * *
The house was empty when Rodney got home. After a moment he remembered that his parents were at the Chocolatron sales conference.
Just as well. He felt like being alone. After he put his books and his kazoo away, he picked up a stack of letters from the floor in front of the front door and sorted through them.
His parents must have been on some funny lists. They got advertisements from some magazines that wanted to make them millionaires, and from others that wanted them to “discover the romance of collecting antique slot machines”; from manufacturers who wanted to sell them Chocolatron scoops, from societies dedicated to the UFO method of tax preparation. Each envelope said something like YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO PASS UP THIS OPPORTUNITY! Or SAVE THE UNIVERSE. SAVE YOURSELF! Or even YOU MAY ALREADY BE IMMORTAL AND NOT EVEN KNOW IT!
That was why when Rodney saw an envelope with a headline written in curlicues and dots and splashes of color, he didn’t think much of it. He guessed you were supposed to wonder what all that fancy art meant, and tear open the envelope in a sweat of curiosity. Like a lot of the other advertising, it was for his dad, but instead of it being typed or printed, the address was written in the scraggly longhand of a little kid. It was one curious package, all right. Rodney had to give the advertiser that.
He sat down with a plastic bag full of cherries and waited for his mom or dad to call in and ask about the mail.
CHAPTER TWO
YELLOW STICKERS
Rodney tried something with the cherries he’d once seen a cousin do. This cousin had a real talent for putting a whole cherry in one side of his mouth, and without seeming to stop for anything, roll a pit out the other side of his mouth. Rodney got the hang of it after a while, but by that time he had tracks of juice on his chin. He decided that he was too grown-up for this kind of thing and put the cherries away.
He’d just begun his math homework (everything they hadn’t done in class because of the singing, they had to do for homework) when the phone rang.
While grumbling about being interrupted, Rodney leaped down the stairs and grabbed the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Rodney? This is your father.”
“Oh yeah. I recognize the voice.”
They both chuckled at the familiar little joke.
“So,” said Rodney, “how’s the conference?”
“My idea about putting Chocolatron into oatmeal went over very big.”
“That’s nice.”
“You don’t sound so good. Everything okay?”
Rodney was fine. He just wasn’t about to get excited about Chocolatron. He said, “Sure. Do you want to hear about the mail?”
Mr. Congruent did. Rodney read him the copy on each envelope, and only one of them interested Mr. Congruent at all. He’d heard all the other pitches before. He said, “Open the one with the weird writing on it.”
“Looks like more advertising to me,” Rodney said.
“Yeah, but for what? Think about it.”
Rodney didn’t have to think about it. It was advertising. He put the phone down and tore open the envelope. He pondered the contents until he heard a tiny voice coming from the phone.
“Yeah, Dad. Sorry. I was just looking at the stuff in the envelope.”
“Don’t keep it to yourself, Rodney. What is it?”
Rodney said, “There’s a pad of small yellow stickers, each about an inch square.” He dropped the pad back into the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. “And this,” he said, “looks like instructions.”
“Looks like instructions?”
“Well, there are no words. Just pictures. Like the directions you get with a Japanese radio.”
Excitedly, Mr. Congruent asked him what the instructions were.
“It looks,” said Rodney, “as if they want you to tear off a sticker and stick it on your forehead.”
A moment later, Mr. Congruent said, “Go ahead.”
“Go ahead? You mean you want your only son to just go ahead and stick this thing—which may be full of exotic skin poison—on his head? Just like that.”
“It’s not poison, Rodney. It’s an adventure.”
Well, here it was. His big chance. He studied the instruction pictures over and over again, as if they could somehow tell him more. There was no way to know how dangerous applying a sticker might be. Was this how his parents had started? Had they been as uncertain about their futures as he was? Had their hearts beat as loudly? Had they sweated as much? Rodney could hear himself breathing into the telephone.
“Listen, Rodney. If somebody wanted to murder any of us with an exotic poison, they could just have put the poison in the paper the instructions were printed on. You’d already be a goner.”
Rodney nodded.
“Are you nodding, Rodney?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m nodding.”
“Besides, any adventure involves an element of risk. That’s one of the things that makes it an adventure. If I hadn’t taken a chance, I might still be shoveling Chocolatron into the atomic furnaces of those crazy aliens.”
“You’re right, Dad. But these stickers are for you. The envelope has your name on it.” Rodney hated himself for saying this. His dad was pitching him the chance of a lifetime, and Rodney was lobbing it right back.
“You’re my son. I’ve already had my adventure. I’m willing to give this one to you.”
“Thanks.” Right back in his court. Part of Rodney was horrified. A major part. But he knew if he didn’t apply that sticker right now, he’d never do it. He’d never do anything except play the kazoo and maybe write the first movement of a symphony over and over again. And he’d continue to be jealous of his parents. More jealous, probably, knowing they’d succeeded and he hadn’t. A terrible life.
Rodney set the telephone receiver on the table next to a folded cardboard model of the Great Auk and skidded his hands down his jeans to get rid of the sweat. He tore the top sticker off the pad. It came away easily. He looked at it. From this moment on, his life would be different. No more of this boring stuff. The excitement would never stop. He applied the sticker to his forehead and waited.
“Rodney?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Did you do it?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“How do you feel?”
“About the same. I don’t think these stickers do anything at all.” Rodney was aware of his lighthearted tone. He felt as if he’d just