Pickle Pizza Page 2

  Eric grinned. “I’d like to sign up sometime.”

  “We’d love to have you,” Miss Lana said.

  Stacy and Eric headed down the hall. In the sculpting studio, Eric counted ten kids at work.

  “Follow me,” Stacy said. Her table was small and flat like all the others. A set of paints and some brushes were there.

  Mr. Albert came over. “Nice to see you, Stacy,” her teacher said.

  Stacy introduced Eric. “Eric’s one of the Cul-de-sac Kids. It’s a club.” She explained about the seven houses on their block. “We have nine kids on Blossom Hill Lane. Most of us are making something for Father’s Day.”

  Eric listened.

  Stacy continued. “Eric wants to make a bird out of sculpey.” She didn’t say it was for his grandpa. Maybe she didn’t want to say that Eric’s dad had died.

  Eric looked at her. Stacy’s a good friend, he thought.

  The teacher scooted a table next to Stacy’s. He found an extra chair. “There we are,” said Mr. Albert. “I will be glad to help you, Eric.”

  “Thanks.” Eric showed him the bird book and the picture of a red robin. The teacher gave him some basic pointers. Then he went to help another student.

  Stacy got Eric started. She stuck her hands into his sculpey. Right into the middle of it. She worked it like bread dough. “There, that’s how to begin. Now you try.”

  Eric stared at the white clump. He picked it up. The sculpey felt cool in his hands. And a little hard.

  Smasho!

  He jammed it between his hands.

  Stacy grinned. “That’s it!”

  Eric glanced at Stacy’s eagle. What a beautiful sculpture—the smooth body and graceful wings.

  He stared at his blob of nothing.

  Flip-flop.

  Eric’s stomach lurched.

  Beside him, Stacy began to paint. He watched her work. Then he looked down at his table. Ee-e-yew, he thought. This glob is supposed to be a Father’s Day present?

  Eric pulled his fingers out of the sculpey. They were shaking. What am I doing here?

  SIX

  Eric’s heart was pounding.

  He got up and left the room. He stood in the hallway.

  Stacy rushed out. “What’s wrong, Eric?”

  He stared at the floor. “I don’t belong here.”

  Stacy grabbed his arm. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

  Eric knew she was right. “What if it turns out all yucky?” he asked.

  Stacy said, “Just do your best. That’s what counts.”

  Eric agreed to try.

  He went back into the classroom with Stacy. He walked past young artists. He saw their small statues. Dolphins, lions, a clown, and even a T-rex. This was work in progress.

  Eric sat at his table and took a deep breath. He picked up the bird book and flipped through the pages. The red robin picture was on page 33.

  With his finger, he traced the lines of its round shape. He was ready to form the body. Next came the tiny head, and wings.

  Eric worked for two hours. Several times, Mr. Albert came to help and give advice. Stacy helped, too.

  By the end of class, Eric’s work in progress was only half finished. He frowned. “Tomorrow’s Father’s Day. I can’t give this mess to my grandpa.”

  Stacy said, “Just tell him you’re working on a top-secret project. When the sculpture’s done, give it to him.”

  Eric shook his head. “It might take weeks. I want something for tomorrow!”

  “What’s wrong with giving him the unfinished robin?” she asked.

  “I just told you.” Eric put his robin glob in a box. “It isn’t done.”

  Stacy wiggled her nose. Off she went to clean up her work area.

  Mr. Albert stopped by. Eric thanked him for his help.

  “Perhaps you can join us,” Mr. Albert suggested.

  “I’d like that,” Eric said. But he knew it was impossible. Besides, he wasn’t an artist.

  Eric went outside to wait for Stacy. He gripped his cardboard box. On top of it, he carried the bird book. Inside the box was a blobby globby robin.

  One after another, the young artists came with their sculptures. Eric tried not to stare.

  If only my sculpture were finished! he thought. If only I could come to class like Stacy all the time.

  Father’s Day tomorrow—and no present. Eric felt sorry for his grandpa.

  He felt sorry for himself, too.

  SEVEN

  Honk! Honk!

  Eric and Stacy ran to get in the car.

  “How was art class?” Stacy’s mother asked.

  Stacy glanced at Eric. “I finished painting my eagle.”

  Eric slumped down in the backseat. The bird book lay on the seat beside him.

  “What about you, Eric?” Stacy’s mother asked.

  “I . . . uh, it was nice.” Eric thought about the class. Mr. Albert and Miss Lana. Stacy and the other kids. All of them had been very nice.

  The NOT nice thing was in his box. The yucko bird sculpture!

  Eric put the box on the floor—and stuck his tongue out at it.

  Stacy and her mom were talking in the front seat. They were making Father’s Day plans. They were planning how to gift wrap the eagle sculpture.

  Eric slapped his hands over his ears. He didn’t want to hear about Father’s Day. He didn’t want to hear about Stacy’s eagle.

  A lump choked Eric’s throat. He missed his dad.

  But he had a terrific grandpa. Eric wanted him to know how special he was. Very special.

  Sometimes at night, Eric would tip-toe down the hall. He’d peek into Grandpa’s room and listen. In the darkness, he could hear Grandpa talking to God. “Please bless Eric, my grandson,” Grandpa would say.

  Those prayers made Eric feel good. And strong.

  Stacy turned around in the front seat. Her eyes were kind.

  Eric took his hands away from his ears.

  “Are you OK?” Stacy asked.

  Eric shrugged his shoulders.

  Just then, Stacy’s mom made a left turn. The box holding Eric’s project slid toward the door. The unfinished bird rolled out. Eric kept his seat belt on. He stared at the bird.

  When the car pulled into the driveway, Eric picked up his sculpture. Quickly, he scooped it into the box. He climbed out of the car. “Thanks for taking me.”

  “Remember what I told you,” Stacy said. “You can finish your sculpture later. Then give it to your grandpa.” Her voice was soft.

  “I know,” Eric said. But more than anything he wanted something for tomorrow. Tomorrow was the day Grandpa deserved a special gift.

  Eric closed the lid on the box and headed for home. Someday he would finish the sculpture. Maybe for Grandpa’s birthday. Or Christmas.

  But today he would think of something. Something to give Grandpa for Father’s Day.

  There was no time to waste!

  EIGHT

  Eric carried the box upstairs. He shoved it under his bed. Then he went to Grandpa’s room to return the bird book.

  Eric decided to go outside.

  Carly Hunter was making chalk drawings on the sidewalk. Big, bright drawings.

  Dee Dee Winters, Carly’s best friend, came skating down the sidewalk.

  “Hello-o, Eric!” Dee Dee called.

  Eric wandered over to the girls. He stood there quietly with his hands in his pockets.

  Carly looked up at him. “Aren’t you talking?”

  Eric shook his head. “Not much.”

  “How come?” Dee Dee asked.

  “Long story,” Eric said. He was thinking about Father’s Day. Again.

  Carly stood up. She put her arm around Dee Dee. “Well, maybe we can help.”

  Dee Dee agreed. “Yeah, we make a mean batch of cookies.” She turned to Carly. “Baking cookies—and eating them—always helps if you’re sad.” Dee Dee’s face burst into a big smile. “That’s what we made for Father’s Day gifts.�
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  Whamo! An idea struck Eric.

  His hands flew out of his pockets. “Got any recipe books?”

  “Do I ever!” Dee Dee said.

  “Can I borrow one?” Eric asked.

  “You mean—may you?” Dee Dee said.

  Eric smiled to himself. Another speech lesson?

  “Wait here!” Dee Dee skated down the street.

  When she came back, Dee Dee showed off her favorite recipes.

  Carly peered at the book. Then at Eric. “Are you gonna bake cookies?”

  Eric stared at the recipe book. He scratched his head. “Maybe.”

  Beep, beep! Dunkum and Jason came riding their bikes. “Look out!” yelled Jason.

  Eric played along and acted scared. He jumped onto the sidewalk. Dunkum and Jason dropped their bikes on the grass.

  “What’s up?” asked Jason.

  “Nothin’ much,” Eric said.

  Dunkum spotted the recipe book. “Are you making Father’s Day cookies?” he asked Eric.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Eric said.

  Dee Dee was still looking at her book. “Hey! Here’s pizza recipes!”

  “So?” Dunkum said.

  “I love pizza!” Dee Dee said.

  “Me too,” Eric said. He went to look at the book.

  Carly put down her colored chalk. “Let’s see how many pizza recipes are in there.” She squeezed between Dee Dee and Eric to have a look.

  While Carly counted, Eric’s brain whirled. Homemade pizza for Father’s Day, he thought. What a great idea!

  After lunch, Eric read the pizza recipe. It was called, “The Perfect Pizza.”

  Eric chuckled to himself. His pizza was going to be more than perfect. It was going to be a surprise.

  The best Father’s Day pizza ever!

  NINE

  Eric sat at the kitchen table. He opened Dee Dee’s recipe book.

  His mother dried her hands. “Looks like someone’s going to cook,” she said.

  “I’m gonna try.”

  She leaned over his shoulder. “Mm-m, pizza. Good idea.”

  “Sh-h! It’s a secret for Grandpa,” Eric said. “For Father’s Day,”

  “Need some help?” Mrs. Hagel’s eyes twinkled. “I’m a pro, you know.”

  “You can help me,” he said. “You can keep Grandpa out of the kitchen.”

  “It’s a deal.” She closed the kitchen door.

  “Work in progress.” Eric chuckled softly.

  In the cupboard, he found the flour, salt, and pepper. In the fridge, he found the eggs and milk.

  Suddenly he spotted the pickle jar.

  Dill pickles!

  Grandpa loved pickles. He ate pickles with everything. Scrambled eggs and pickles. Mashed potatoes and pickles. Broccoli, peas, and carrots—all with pickles. He even ate pickles with apple pie!

  Eric grabbed the pickle jar. “My pizza will be perfect,” he said out loud. “A perfect pickle pizza!”

  Quickly, he set to work. He grated the cheese. Lots of it. Next, he made the dough for the crust. After that, Eric opened a can of pizza sauce.

  Then he chopped the pickles on the cutting board. What a great topping, he thought as he chopped.

  Thirty minutes later, the pizza was ready for topping. Eric took it out of the oven. He sprinkled on extra cheese and pizza sauce. And piles of chopped pickles.

  Then he slid the pan back into the oven. The timer was set. Ten minutes to go.

  Soon the smell of hot dill filled the kitchen. He couldn’t wait to taste his perfect pizza.

  Buzz-zing! The timer went off.

  Eric removed the pan from the oven. Carefully, he cut ten pieces.

  Tap, tap. Someone knocked on the back door.

  He hurried to open it.

  There stood Carly and Dee Dee with a plateful of cookies. “Hi, again,” Carly said, giggling.

  Eric gazed at the cookies.

  “We’re having a taste test,” Dee Dee said. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks!” Eric bit into a chocolate chip cookie. “Mm-m, it’s great!”

  “Goody!” said Carly.

  Dee Dee sniffed the air. “Hey, what’s that smell?”

  “My Father’s Day pizza,” Eric said.

  Carly wrinkled her nose. “It smells . . . uh, funny.”

  Then Eric had an idea. “Wait here,” he said and raced back inside.

  In a flash, he was back with his pickle pizza. “Who wants to taste my baking?” he asked.

  Dee Dee crept up to the pizza. Her eyes got very big. “What’s in it?”

  “Just taste it,” Eric insisted.

  “Uh . . . I don’t know,” Carly said.

  Carly and Dee Dee stared at the pizza.

  “You go first,” Dee Dee said to Carly.

  “No, you,” Carly said.

  Eric stepped between them. He handed each girl a piece of pizza. “Here. Taste it together,” he said. “On your mark, get set. . . bite!”

  Carly and Dee Dee bit into Eric’s pickle pizza. They coughed and spit it out.

  Dee Dee began to gag. “This is gross!”

  Eric’s heart sank. My pizza is a flop!

  He snatched up the pizza and ran into the house.

  Back inside, Eric wrapped up the pizza slices. He shoved them way back in the fridge. Maybe he’d feed Grandpa’s birds tomorrow. If he could get them to eat pickle pizza pieces!

  Feeling sad, Eric went to his room. He looked at the calendar beside his bed. Saturday, June 15. Father’s Day was almost here. There was nothing to give Grandpa.

  Time had run out.

  TEN

  The Hagels went to church the next day. Eric sat between his grandpa and mother.

  After church, Eric helped set the dining room table. He went to the kitchen for some napkins. That’s when he saw Grandpa poking around in the fridge.

  “What’s this?” Grandpa held up a slice of cold pizza.

  “Nothing you’d want to eat,” Eric said.

  Grandpa unwrapped a slice. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s terrible. It’s—” Eric stopped.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Eric stared at the floor. “It was supposed to be your Father’s Day present. But it turned out yucky. I’m real sorry.”

  Grandpa touched Eric’s shoulder. “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Maybe the birds will eat it,” Eric said.

  Grandpa didn’t answer. He took a dish out of the cupboard. But his eyes were on the pizza.

  Then he put the pizza in the microwave to reheat.

  What’s he doing? Eric wondered.

  He remembered yesterday’s taste test. Dee Dee and Carly hated his pizza. They’d even spit it out!

  The timer bell rang. The pizza was warm. Grandpa blew on it gently. Then he bit into the pickle pizza.

  Eric held his breath. Would Grandpa gag, too?

  There was a long silence.

  Then Grandpa’s face lit up. “This is wonderful! Simply wonderful!”

  Eric couldn’t believe his ears. Or his eyes! “You like it?” he asked.

  Grandpa’s face wrinkled up in the biggest smile ever. “This is a grand Father’s Day present!”

  Eric hugged him. “Really?”

  “You know I love pickles.” Grandpa was grinning.

  Eric’s mother came into the kitchen. She was carrying the box from art class.

  Eric rushed over to her. He whispered, “Where’d you find that?”

  “Under your bed,” she said. “I was looking for your shoes and there it was.”

  Eric’s eyes darted to Grandpa. He pulled his mom out of the kitchen. “I don’t want Grandpa to know about this yet,” he explained. “It’s a sculpting project.”

  She smiled. “I can see that. And I want you to finish it.”

  “Someday.” Eric closed the lid.

  “How about this summer?” she said. “Mr. Albert called yesterday.”

  “From the art studi
o?” Eric asked.

  She nodded. “He wants to give you a grant for art lessons.”

  “He’s going to pay for my art classes?”

  “Are you interested?” she asked.

  “Are pickles green?” Eric hugged his mother.

  “That must be a yes,” she said.

  Grandpa peeked his head around the corner. “What’s all the whispering?”

  Eric’s mother told the exciting news. She told Grandpa without saying a word about the robin in the box. The robin that was waiting to be finished.

  “Well, what do you know! We have an artist in the house.” Grandpa winked at Eric. “And a wonderful chef!”

  Eric stood tall. And reached for a slice of pickle pizza.

  THE CUL-DE-SAC KIDS SERIES

  Don’t miss #9!

  MAILBOX MANIA

  Abby Hunter has big plans for the Fourth of July. As president of the Cul-de-sac Kids, she declares “Mailbox Mania” on Blossom Hill Lane. The kids decorate their mailboxes. And choose a judge to vote for a winner.

  As the holiday comes closer, the Cul-de-sac Kids argue. Carly and Dee Dee threaten to drop out of the club. Jason tries to outdo everyone. Soon all the kids are battling.

  Then a mysterious present shows up in each of their mailboxes. Who hid the presents there? And why?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Beverly Lewis loves dill pickles. When she was little, she even drank pickle juice! Now she saves it to make potato salad for her pickle-lovin’ husband and kids.

  Beverly’s idea for this story came from her twins, Jon and Janie, who are young artists. (You can learn to draw, sculpt, or paint. Remember: you never know till you try!)

  Come laugh and solve mysteries with Beverly Lewis and the Cul-de-sac Kids in all the books of the series.

  Also by Beverly Lewis

  Amish Prayers

  The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook

  GIRLS ONLY (GO!)†

  Youth Fiction

  Girls Only! Volume One • Girls Only! Volume Two

  SUMMERHILL SECRETS‡

  Youth Fiction

  SummerHill Secrets: Volume One • SummerHill Secrets: Volume Two

  HOLLY’S HEART