Free Penelope Crumb by Shawn K. Stout Page A

short.”
    As Littie reads off the phone number, I dial and wait. Halfway through the first ring, I notice the man eyeballing us, so I give him a quick smile and then turn my back to him. Three rings later, a man with a gruff voice says, “What is it?” on the other end of the phone. Not
hello
, not
good morning
, not
Crumb residence, Mr. Mortimer Felix speaking. How can I help you?
This man says, “What isit?” like the sound of the ring grumped him up. And right away I know this man is my grandpa.
    “Hi. Is this Mr. Crumb?”
    “You called me,” the man says. “Shouldn’t you know who you called?”
    Good gravy. “There are more than one or two Crumbs out there,” I say. “So I want to be sure I’ve got the right one. Are you Mr. Mortimer Felix Crumb?”
    “Depends on who’s asking,” he barks. “I don’t give to charities, if that’s what you’re after. You sound too young to be asking for money. How old are you?”
    “I’m nine. Going on ten.”
    “Is it him?” Littie whispers.
    I whisper back, “I think so.”
    “Who else are you talking to?” he asks.
    “Nobody.”
    “I distinctly heard you say ‘I think so,’ so don’t lie to me and say you didn’t,” he says. “I may be up in years, but my wits and hearing are front andcenter and I don’t like to be taken advantage of by shysters calling me up and looking for money.”
    I give Littie a face that says, I Think He Might Have Been Raised by Wolves.
    “You’ve got five seconds to state your business, missy, or I’m hanging up.”
    “He called me ‘missy,’” I whisper to Littie.
    “I heard that.”
    “Oh,” I say. “Sorry.”
    “Are you one of those prank callers?”
    “No. This is no prank.”
    “Then what are you selling?” he says.
    “What am I selling?” I repeat. I cover the phone with my hand and say to Littie, “He thinks I’m selling something.”
    She scratches her head. “Tell him you’re selling marshmallows. No, wait. Tell him you’re selling vacuum cleaners.” I shake my head. “No, wait. Life insurance,” she says.
    The man on the phone is counting down fast. “Three…two…”
    So I blurt out, without really thinking, “Do you have a dead son named Theodore Crumb because if you do, I am your granddaughter. I’m Penelope Rae…”
    And before I can even say Crumb, that man, that Grandpa Felix, hangs up on me.

15.
    T hat was him,” I say, after telling Littie all the parts of our conversation that she didn’t hear. “That was Grandpa Felix, or Mortimer, I mean, that I just talked to.” My nose tingles and all of a sudden I feel like my heart doubled in size.
    “How do you know for sure?” she says.
    “I just do.” Then I put my hands on Littie’s shoulders and look her square in the eyeballs. “I need you to do me a favor and call my school and pretend you’re my mom.”
    Littie raises her eyebrows at me and then looksat the man behind the information desk. After a moment, she whispers, “What do you want me to say?”
    I tell her to say that I’m sick with a very scary and contagious flu bug and won’t be coming to school. “It’s not flu season,” she says.
    I roll my eyes at her. “Then just say that it’s not the flu but just some terrible disease that only lasts a day.”
    “What are your symptoms?” she says. “In case they ask.”
    “Nose and eyes that are stuffed full of green snot. A cough. Upchucking. And the runs. Fever of two hundred and five. Red bumps on my arms and cheeks. What’s the thing called when you can’t talk?”
    “Laryngitis?”
    “Yeah, that. And itching. Lots and lots of itching.”
    Littie says, “But I don’t sound anything like your mom.”
    And then I come up with the very smart ideathat she should hold her nose while she talks and say that she’s got the flu bug, too.
    While Littie calls Portwaller Elementary, I talk to the man at the information desk to get some information. After I show him Grandpa Felix’s address and ask how we