The Great Garage Sale Read online

  Text copyright © 2013 Marilyn Helmer

  Illustrations copyright © 2013 Mike Deas

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Helmer, Marilyn

  The great garage sale [electronic resource] / Marilyn Helmer ; illustrated by Mike Deas.

  (Orca echoes)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0061-8 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0445-6 (EPUB)

  I. Deas, Mike, 1982- II. Title. III. Series: Orca echoes (Online)

  PS8565.E4594G74 2013 jC813’.54 C2012-907259-1

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012952389

  Summary: DJ mistakenly sells the wrong jewelry box to his friend at his grandma’s garage sale and has to sacrifice his beloved skateboard to make things right.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover artwork and interior illustrations by Mike Deas

  Author photo by Gary Helmer

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  For Sawyer and Levi, who I'll bet will be great readers. —M.H.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Disasters

  “Thirty-one, thirty-two…” DJ yanked another weed from the garden and tossed it into the bucket. Wait till Mom found out he had weeded the garden, all by himself, without even being asked. Wouldn’t she be surprised!

  Yank, toss. Yank, toss. Maybe Mom would be so happy about the weeding, she would forget about the peanut-butter disaster this morning. The memory played through DJ’s mind like a bad movie.

  They were dog-sitting Rufus Crudley. Rufus was Uncle Dave’s dog. He was the best dog in the world, except for one thing. Rufus would eat anything he could get his jaws around. That is how the disaster happened.

  DJ had made himself a Super Stacker for lunch. Salami, two kinds of cheese, onion, sun-dried tomatoes, raisins and peanut butter. He took it into the den and sat on the sofa. Oops—he’d forgotten the milk. He put his Super Stacker down and went to the kitchen.

  Unfortunately, DJ had also forgotten two strict rules. One—never leave food on the sofa. Two—never, ever leave food alone when Rufus Crudley is around.

  DJ heard a choking, gagging sound. He raced back to the den. Fortunately, the piece Rufus was choking on came up. Unfortunately, so did the rest of the Super Stacker. All over Mom’s brand-new sofa.

  As he yanked out another weed, a voice broke into his thoughts. “What are you doing?”

  DJ looked over his shoulder. A kid he had never seen before stood behind him.

  The kid was dressed in ripped jeans and a too-large T-shirt. The T-shirt was a riot of wild colors. On his feet was a pair of red high-top joggers. A large cowboy hat sat low on his head.

  Fan-tabulous! DJ was impressed. If only his mom would let him dress like that.

  “What are you doing?” the kid repeated. His voice was low and husky.

  DJ swiped a dirt-streaked hand across his face. “I’m weeding my mom’s garden. I’m going to surprise her.”

  “She’s going to be surprised, all right,” said the kid. “You’re pulling out flowers, not weeds.” His mouth curved into a lopsided grin. “Don’t you know the difference between a weed and a flower?”

  “Of course I do,” said DJ. Who was this smart-alecky kid anyway? “Weeds don’t have flowers on them.”

  The kid rolled his eyes. “See those buds? You’re pulling out plants before they’re big enough to bloom.”

  DJ looked into the bucket. Panic! Most of the plants had buds on them, but they were so tiny you could hardly see them.

  “You want some advice?” asked the kid. “Replant them. Pronto. Maybe they’ll still grow.” He picked up the bucket and sorted through the contents. “You have a couple of weeds, but the rest are flowers.” He dropped the flowers at DJ’s feet and dumped the weeds back into the bucket.

  DJ began replanting, scattering dirt in all directions.

  The kid watched for a few minutes. “Water them when you’re finished,” he said. “I’ve got to go.” He headed down the street.

  DJ pulled off his cap and fanned his face. His curly red hair stuck out in all directions. “Hey,” he called. “My name’s DJ. What’s yours?”

  The kid turned and snatched off the cowboy hat. Long dark curls spilled out. The kid grinned a lopsided grin. “My name’s Samantha,” she called back. “But call me Sam. See ya.”

  She ran on down the street, leaving DJ staring in wide-eyed astonishment.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Garage Sale

  On Saturday morning, DJ checked the garden. He had checked it every day that week. The replanted plants were growing. That girl Sam was right. Since yesterday, two had bloomed. Fan-tabulous!

  Mom came up behind him. “You did a great job weeding.” She gave DJ a suspicious look. “Why this sudden interest in gardening?”

  DJ shrugged. He hadn’t told his mom about the weeding disaster. He had fixed it, thanks to Sam’s advice. Sometimes it was best not to talk about fixed disasters.

  “Grandma phoned,” said Mom. “She wants to know when you’re coming to help with her garage sale.”

  “I forgot.” DJ shot to his feet. “I said I’d be there at nine o’clock.”

  Mom glanced at her watch. “You’re two hours late.”

  DJ charged across the garden.

  “David Jeremiah!” Mom clamped her hands to her head. “Look where you’re going. You almost stepped on my prize rosebush.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” DJ dashed toward the house. “If I broke anything, I’ll fix it when I get home.”

  “Change your clothes,” Mom called after him. “Wash your hands.”

  DJ raced to the bathroom. He rinsed his hands under the tap. The water turned brown. DJ reached for a towel. Oops—better not. Mom’s favorite rosebud ones were hanging neatly on the rack. He dried his hands on his jeans instead.

  In his room, DJ changed into clean shorts and his favorite T-shirt. A happy-faced monkey skateboarded across the front. He noticed a lump in the middle of the bed. He put his hand under the quilt and pulled out a little gray sock monkey.

  DJ looked over his shoulder. No one was watching. He gave the
sock monkey a hug and propped him on his pillow. “Bye, Sockster,” he said. “I have to go. Grandma needs me to run her garage sale.”

  DJ hurried to the kitchen. There wasn’t time to make a Super Stacker. Super Stackers were DJ’s favorite food. No one could make a Super Stacker like he could.

  He stuffed a banana into his pocket. That would keep him going until he had time to make another Super Stacker.

  DJ jammed his helmet on his head. He grabbed his skateboard and ran outside. “Go, Speedwell!” he shouted, and he zipped down the street.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sam Again

  As DJ whipped around the corner, he almost collided with Sam.

  “Hi ya,” said Sam. Today she was wearing an orange and green shirt. Her ripped jeans were splattered with bright yellow paint. She had a black marker in one hand.

  “Hi,” said DJ. “What are you doing?”

  Sam jerked a thumb at the sign on a post. “I’m fixing the sign. Whoever made it can’t spell.”

  DJ looked at the sign.

  Great Garbage Sale today!

  9 a.m.–1 p.m.

  Super Stuff

  Really Cheep

  123 Birdwhistle Drive

  All Sales Final!

  DJ had made that sign himself, and he was proud of it. Sam had drawn a black X through the b in Garage. She had changed the second e in CHEEP to an a.

  DJ frowned. “You messed up my sign.”

  “Your sign?” Sam rolled her eyes. “You should thank me. I fixed it for you. You don’t know how to spell. There’s no b in garage. And c-h-e-e-p is the sound a bird makes.”

  DJ huffed a sigh. He was good at everything in school except spelling. How could anyone keep twenty-six letters in the right order in all those gazillions of words?

  “Where is the garage sale?” asked Sam.

  “It’s up the street at my grandma’s house,” said DJ. “Do you want to come?”

  “Maybe,” said Sam. She looked at DJ’s skateboard. “That’s a neat skateboard. Is it for sale?”

  DJ’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “Speedwell? For sale? No. Never. Not ever.”

  “Speedwell?” Sam grinned. “You gave your skateboard a name?”

  “Why not?” said DJ. He gave all his favorite things a name.

  “I wish I had a skateboard,” said Sam.

  “Come to the garage sale,” said DJ. “My grandma has lots of great stuff.”

  “Does she have a skateboard?” asked Sam.

  DJ shook his head. “She just skis and snowboards.”

  Sam looked at the sign. “The garage sale ends at one pm, right? That’s when I’ll come. That’s when stuff is really c-h-e-a-p.”

  DJ pretended he didn’t hear the spelling. “Do you live around here?”

  Sam nodded. “I live two blocks over, on Huckleberry Lane. We just moved in.”

  “I’d better go,” said DJ. “I’ll see you later.”

  Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tiger the Terrible

  The garage sale was busy. DJ put Speedwell on the porch, safely under a big lounge chair.

  Grandma hurried over. “DJ, where have you been?” She ran a hand through her hair. It was as red and curly as DJ’s. Today she was dressed from head to toe in purple and turquoise. Even her sunglasses had purple frames with turquoise sparkles. DJ thought Grandma was one cool dresser.

  Before DJ could say a word, Grandma hurried on. “Sweetie, I need you to do me a favor.” She handed him a key. “Rita Rowbottom asked me to sell a box of her costume jewelry. I forgot about it until now. Would you run over and get it, please?”

  DJ gulped. Ms. Rowbottom lived in the big house next door. She was very friendly. But Ms. Rowbottom was not the only one who lived in that house. Tiger the Terrible lived there too.

  Tiger was a humongous orange, black-and-white striped cat. She was anything but friendly. The mailman had nicknamed her Tiger the Terrible. DJ thought it was the perfect name for her. He was sure Tiger really was a tiger.

  Whenever Tiger saw DJ, she yowled and growled and hissed. She had very sharp claws. DJ had found that out the first time he rushed over to pat her.

  “Grandma, I don’t think—” DJ began.

  A man came over with an armload of books. “How much for the lot?” he asked.

  “Rita said she would leave the box on the kitchen table,” Grandma said to DJ. She turned to the man and they began to bargain.

  DJ sighed. Grandma was depending on him. How much damage could one cat do? He remembered the scratches. Ouch! A lot.

  DJ walked slowly across the driveway and up the steps to Ms. Rowbottom’s front door. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and prepared to face Tiger the Terrible. He hoped he would come back alive.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Facing the Tiger

  DJ opened the door. The house was silent. Tiger the Terrible was nowhere to be seen. DJ breathed a huge sigh of relief and raced toward the kitchen. Then he heard it—a terrible yowling, growling, tiger-in-the-jungle sound.

  DJ skidded to a stop. Tiger the Terrible guarded the kitchen doorway. Her tail stood up like a bristle brush. Her fur puffed out like a dust mop. She looked three sizes bigger than usual.

  DJ took a step closer. Tiger the Terrible hissed like a deflating bicycle tire.

  Thoughts whirled through DJ’s head. He had to get past Tiger the Terrible. He had to get that box of jewelry. But how?

  Wait. Karate! Of course, he would never hurt Tiger the Terrible. He would just demonstrate a few of his karate chops. That would show her who was boss.

  DJ flailed his arms wildly. Tiger the Terrible wasn’t impressed. She swatted at his leg with bared claws.

  DJ jumped back. He bumped against the hall table. A small box slid onto the floor. Clunky, chunky necklaces spilled out.

  DJ let out a whoop that sent Tiger the Terrible scrambling under a chair. Ms. Rowbottom had left her jewelry box on the hall table. He didn’t have to get past Tiger the Terrible after all.

  DJ grabbed the box and raced back up the hall. He closed the door firmly behind him. No way was Tiger the Terrible going to get out and scare away Grandma’s customers.

  Grandma saw DJ racing toward her. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said as he handed her the jewelry box.

  “I almost needed my life saved,” said DJ. “I was attacked trying to get that box.”

  “Attacked?” Grandma gasped. “Who on earth—?”

  “Tiger the Terrible,” said DJ. “She was guarding the doorway. She wouldn’t let me past.”

  Grandma shook her head. “DJ, that sweet little cat wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Sweet! Little! Cat!” said DJ. “Grandma, Tiger the Terrible could wipe out a whole army of fleas.”

  Grandma wasn’t listening. She turned the jewelry box over. “The price sticker must have fallen off. No matter. Rita told me she wants five dollars for it.” Grandma wrote $5.00 on a piece of tape and stuck it on the box. “Let’s hope someone buys it.”

  Who would buy a box of clunky, chunky necklaces? DJ wondered. But he kept that thought to himself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Super Stacker

  Customers buzzed around the tables like bees in a hive. DJ was so busy, he hardly had time to think.

  “Hey, dude,” a voice called out. “How much do you want for this?”

  DJ turned. A boy with purple hair, two nose rings and a tattoo of a gecko on one cheek stood behind him. He was holding Speedwell.

  “What are you doing with my skateboard?” DJ gasped. He glanced at the porch. The big lounge chair he had hidden Speedwell under was gone. Grandma must have sold it.

  “So�
�how much do you want for the skateboard?” the boy asked impatiently.

  “Speedwell is not for sale.” DJ said each word like it was a separate sentence.

  “Speedwell?” The boy snickered. “You gave your skateboard a name?”

  “Why not?” DJ frowned. Sam had asked that too. What was so funny about giving your special things a name?

  The boy handed Speedwell back to DJ. “You are one weird dude,” he said.

  DJ raced up the steps and into the house. He put Speedwell in the hall closet and shut the door. No one else was going to get their hands on his Speedwell.

  An hour passed. Fewer people came by.

  “It will soon be time to close up,” said Grandma. She sniffed. “DJ, you smell like a banana.”

  DJ sniffed. He did smell like a banana. He shoved his hand into his pocket. Yuck! Squishy, linty banana stuck to his fingers. “I was so busy I forgot about my snack,” he said.

  “You had better clean that mess out of your pocket,” said Grandma. “While you’re at it, make yourself something to eat.”

  DJ didn’t wait for a second invitation.

  “Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” Grandma called after him.

  “Fan-tabulous!” DJ cheered. “Super Stacker, here I come.” The front door slammed behind him.

  DJ cleaned the mess out of his pocket. He still smelled like a banana, but he didn’t mind. The smell went with his monkey T-shirt.

  DJ opened the fridge. Inside was a Super Stacker sandwich maker’s dream. Leftover tuna, provolone, avocado dip, pepper jelly, pineapple and something curly that looked like lettuce. Fan-tabulous! He got peanut butter and bread from the cupboard and set to work.

  DJ built his Super Stacker in layers. It was like building a house. You had to work carefully so it didn’t collapse. Peanut butter was the cement that held everything together. DJ poured himself a big glass of milk. He ate every single bite of his masterpiece. No one, absolutely no one, could make a Super Stacker like he could.

  CHAPTER SEVEN