The Sasquatch Escape


By Suzanne Selfors, Dan Santat

Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Selfors Dan Santat
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-316-20934-2


CHAPTER 1

STORY BIRD


The weird shadow swept across the sky.

Ben blinked once, twice, three times, just in case an eyelash had drifted ontohis eyeball. But it wasn't an eyelash. Something was moving between theclouds—something with an enormous wingspan and a long tail. Ben pressedhis nose to the passenger window. "Grandpa? Did you see that?"

"So, you've got a voice after all," his grandfather said. "I was beginning tothink you'd swallowed your tongue."

Benjamin Silverstein, age ten, had not swallowed his tongue. But it was truethat he hadn't spoken since being picked up at the airport. He'd shrugged whenhis grandfather had asked, "How was your flight?" He'd nodded when hisgrandfather had asked, "Are you hungry?" He'd looked away when his grandfatherhad said, "I bet you miss your parents." But not a single word had come out ofBen. After a while, his grandfather had stopped talking, and they'd driven downthe lonely two-lane highway in silence. There'd been nothing interesting to lookat, no houses or gas stations or billboards. Just trees. Lots and lots of trees.

But then the shape had appeared, circling and swooping like a wind-kissed kite."I've never seen a bird that big. It's got a tail like a rope."

Grandpa Abe slowed the car, then pulled to the side of the highway onto thegravel shoulder. "All right, already. Where is this bird?" he asked after thecar came to a stop.

"It darted behind that cloud," Ben said. They waited a few minutes, but the birddidn't reappear. The fluffy cloud drifted, revealing nothing but twilight sky.

"How big was it?"

Ben shrugged. "Big. Maybe as big as a helicopter."

"As big as a helicopter? And a tail like a rope?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hmmm. That doesn't sound right." Grandpa Abe scratched one of his overgrowngray eyebrows. "I've never seen a bird like that."

"Well, I saw it."

They waited another minute, but nothing flew out of the cloud. "Is thehelicopter bird one of your stories?" Grandpa Abe's eyes narrowed withsuspicion.

"What do you mean?"

"Your mother said you've been making up stories."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ben grumbled. But he did know. Thatvery morning, he'd made up a story that the pilot had called the house to cancelBen's flight because he'd lost the keys to the plane. Then Ben had made up astory about losing his suitcase so he wouldn't have to go on this trip. Neitherof those stories had worked. His parents had gone ahead with their plans and hadsent Ben away.

Sometimes, Ben's stories worked to his advantage, like the time he'd claimedthat a California condor had snatched his math homework, when actually he'dforgotten to finish it. After his teacher pointed out that California condorsdon't usually do such things, Ben changed the bird to a pelican. Becausepelicans are known troublemakers, the math teacher gave Ben an extra week tomake up the assignment.

The way Ben saw it, stories were always more exciting than the truth.

Grandpa Abe sighed. "I should live so long to see a bird the size of ahelicopter." He set his crinkled hands on the steering wheel and merged backonto the highway.

Ben sank into his seat and hugged his hamster cage to his chest. The hamster, aChinese striped variety named Snooze, lay curled beneath a pile of chewed-upnewspaper. The pile expanded and contracted with the hamster's deep, slumberingbreaths. Ben wished at that very moment that he could be a hamster. Life wouldcertainly be easier if the entire world were a simple plastic rectangle. Itdidn't matter if the rectangle was set on a windowsill in Los Angeles or in thebackseat of an old Cadillac driving down a highway in the middle of nowhere. Theworld inside the rectangle always stayed the same—stuff to chew, stuff toeat and drink, a wheel to waddle around in. No worries, no troubles, no changes.

"My grandson, the storyteller," Grandpa Abe mumbled.

"The bird wasn't a story," Ben said. "It was real."

CHAPTER 2

WELCOME TO BUTTONVILLE


Here we are," Grandpa Abe announced as he exited the highway. The sign at theside of the road read:

Grandpa Abe drove down Main Street. The evening sky had darkened, but the cornerstreetlights shone brightly, casting their glow on the little town.

Ben frowned. It didn't look like the nicest town on Earth. It looked like thesaddest town on Earth. There were no bright awnings, no corner fruit stands, nosidewalk tables where people sipped fancy drinks. Instead, many of the littleshops that lined Main Street were empty, with signs in the windows:

"This town hasn't been the same since the button factory shut down," Grandpa Abeexplained. "Most of the young families moved away to find work."

Ben had heard about the button factory. His mother kept a big bowl of buttons inthe entertainment room back home in Los Angeles. "Those buttons were made byyour grandfather," she'd told him. "He worked in a button factory most of hislife."

"How come the factory shut down?" Ben asked, peering over the seat.

"Customers stopped wanting handmade buttons like these," Grandpa Abe replied,pointing to the big wooden buttons on the front of his shirt. "People should beso lucky to get handmade buttons. But it's cheaper to buy the plastic ones madeby a machine."

Ben's gaze traveled up the wooden buttons and rested on his grandfather'swrinkled face. He hadn't seen his grandfather in six years. Ben's dad said itwas because Grandpa Abe didn't like to travel. Because Ben had been only fouryears old at the time, he didn't remember anything about the last visit. In thephotos at home, Grandpa Abe had dark hair just like Ben and Ben's dad. Buttoday, not a single hair remained on his shiny scalp.

Ben must have been staring pretty hard because his grandfather turned and winkedat him. "You look different, too," Grandpa Abe said. "Your hair is shorter."

Ben ran his hand over his hair, which was cut to precisely three-quarters of aninch every two weeks. He thought about making up a story that his hair had beencut short because he'd been infested with Caribbean head lice, or because theends had caught fire when he'd been struck by lightning. The real reason Ben hadshort hair was because his mother insisted it was stylish. She always took himto her hairdresser in Beverly Hills rather than to a barbershop, where the otherboys went.

The Cadillac pulled up to a stop sign, just opposite a shop called the DollarStore. A girl leaned out of the store's upstairs window. It wasn't her fuzzypink bathrobe that caught Ben's attention, or the way her long blond hair glowedin the lamplight. What caught his attention was the way she was staring at thesky with her mouth wide open, as if seeing something very strange.

Ben unfastened his seat belt, rolled down the opposite window, and stuck hishead out. Cool night air tickled his nose and ears. A shadow darted between twoclouds—a shadow with enormous wings and a long, ropelike tail. If Ben hadblinked, he would have missed it.

The girl looked down at Ben. Their eyes met. She'd seen it, too.

Then she mouthed a single word before disappearing behind the curtains.

"You want me to catch a cold?" Grandpa Abe complained.

As Ben closed the window and buckled his seat belt, Grandpa Abe drove throughthe intersection and turned onto a side street. Ben wrapped his arms around thehamster cage again. He wasn't an expert at reading lips, but he was prettycertain he knew what word the girl had said.

Dragon.

CHAPTER 3

THE HOUSE ON PINE STREET


All the houses on Pine Street looked the same because they were company houses,built long ago by the owner of the button factory. Each was narrow with a whitepicket fence and three steps that led up to the front porch. Each was paintedgreen with white trim and had a brick chimney. The only way to tell GrandpaAbe's house from the other houses was its cherry-red porch swing.

Grandpa Abe's cane tapped as he led Ben up the steps. The inside of his housesmelled like coffee and onions, which wasn't so bad. Dust sparkled at the edgesof a crowded bookshelf and a cluttered table. The furniture was patched andfaded. Stuffing leaked from the sofa pillows. The entire house was the size ofBen's father's garage.

"Not much to look at, but it's home," Grandpa Abe said. "I know you're used tomuch better."

Ben set the hamster cage on the kitchen counter, right next to a bowl ofpeanuts, and looked around. There was no big-screen TV, no chandelier, no fancyPersian carpets. And clearly no housekeeper. Ben opened his hamster cage anddumped in two peanuts. They landed with soft plops in the newspaperlitter. As Snooze popped his head out of his nest and grabbed a treat, Benwondered if his grandfather was poor.

Grandpa Abe rubbed the back of his bald head. "Better go get your suitcase andI'll show you where you'll be sleeping."

Ben went back outside. A single star had appeared in the now cloudless sky. Itnever got very dark in Los Angeles because the city never went to sleep. Buthere in Buttonville, even with the lights glowing, night pressed in with eerie,charcoal-colored shadows. So dark. So quiet. Ben grabbed his suitcase andhurried back into the house.

"This is your bedroom," Grandpa Abe said as he opened the door behind thekitchen. He reached up and pulled a cord that hung from the ceiling. The lightswitched on, revealing a room not much bigger than a closet, with peeling yellowwallpaper and the faint odor of mothballs. "If I were you, I'd keep that mousein here, out of Barnaby's reach."

"Snooze isn't a mouse; he's a hamster," Ben said as he dumped his suitcase ontothe bed. Dust particles jumped off the quilt and took flight through the airlike cosmic gymnasts. "Who's Barnaby?"

"Who's Barnaby? Barnaby's my cat."

"You have a cat?" Ben's heart thumped. He snatched the cage from the kitchencounter and hurried back into the bedroom. "A cat?"

"He's an excellent mouser, that cat," Grandpa Abe said proudly.

"Mouser?"

"What? You're surprised by that? Cats catch mice, that's what they do," GrandpaAbe said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But Barnaby's never killed ahamster. As long as you keep the door closed, your hamster will be fine."Grandpa Abe pointed his cane around the room. "That's your closet and dresserdrawers."

Ben set the cage on top of the dresser. His parents hadn't said anything about acat that liked to hunt. But then again, his parents hadn't said anything aboutthis trip except, "We need time alone to work out some troubles, so we'resending you to stay with your grandfather."

Grandpa Abe hobbled over and sat at the end of the bed. "So? What are yourplans?"

"Plans?"

"For the summer. What do you want to do?"

Ben shrugged. "What is there to do?"

"There aren't any jobs, if that's what you were hoping for. Ever since thebutton factory closed, finding work is nearly impossible around here." Dustparticles swirled beneath the overhead bulb. "You could come with me to thesenior center. We've got bingo on Monday, board games on Tuesday, dance lessonson Wednesday, guest lectures on Thursday, and Friday is birthday day, when wecelebrate all the birthdays for that week. Saturday is pudding day."

"Pudding day?"

"We eat pudding. It's fun."

Ben didn't want to hurt his grandfather's feelings, so he simply said, "Yeah,sounds like fun."

Grandpa Abe reached over and patted Ben's knee. "Cheer up, boychik. It won't bethat bad. You'll find something to do. Boys always find something to do. You'llkeep yourself busy while your parents work out their troubles, and then you'llbe back home for school before you know it." With a grunt and some creaking ofthe knees, he got to his feet. "In the meantime, I have a leftover brisket thatI'll warm in the microwave."

As soon as his grandfather had left the room, Ben released a groan that he'dbeen holding since he got off the plane. This was going to be the worst summerever. Summer was supposed to be spent swimming in his pool with friends orrowing at the lake. Not stuck at the senior center playing board games andeating pudding.

"Nothing fancy around here," Grandpa Abe explained fifteen minutes later as theysat at the kitchen table. He handed Ben a chipped plate and a fork with a benthandle. "Been living the bachelor life for twenty years. Don't care much forfancy. I need fancy like I need a hole in the head."

Dinner was pretty good. The potatoes were creamy and the brisket wasn't too dry.The pickles were served right out of the jar, and the soda was sipped straightfrom the can. "No need for glasses," Grandpa Abe explained. "Glasses need to bewashed, and I don't like doing dishes." He nodded toward the stack of dirtydishes that towered in the sink.

Grandpa Abe didn't seem to care about manners. He chewed loudly, scraping thelast bits of food right off his plate and into his mouth. After a loud burp, hewiped his mouth on his sleeve. Ben looked around. Napkins didn't appear to be apart of Grandpa Abe's world, so Ben wiped his mouth on his sleeve, too.

"Let's go sit on the porch and count the stars," Grandpa Abe said as he reachedfor his cane. "And maybe we'll catch a glimpse of that bird, the one as big as ahelicopter." He winked at Ben, clearly still believing that the bird had comefrom Ben's imagination.

As Ben carried his plate to the sink, he pictured the blond girl.Dragon, she'd mouthed. Ben frowned. He didn't think for an instant thatthe rope-tailed bird was actually a dragon. Dragons weren't real. Dragons werestories. And he knew all about stories.

But the bird was something, and if not a dragon, then what?

CHAPTER 4

DOLLAR STORE GIRL


Grab some breakfast," Grandpa Abe said the next morning as he pointed to a boxof doughnuts. "We've got errands to run."

Doughnuts for breakfast? Back home, Ben always had oatmeal with bananas orwhole-grain cereal. "Thanks." He took a powdered-sugar bite.

"You'd better keep your bedroom door shut. Barnaby's on the prowl."

Ben hadn't yet seen Barnaby the cat, but he'd imagined him to be a gigantickiller with fangs and glowing red eyes. He checked on Snooze, who was asleep asusual. Then he shut the bedroom door and followed his grandfather out to thecar.

Although Ben still didn't want to spend an entire summer in Buttonville, hedecided, as he munched on the doughnut, that things weren't all that bad. Hisgrandfather hadn't made him take a shower that morning and hadn't asked a bunchof questions like, "Did you brush and floss? Did you put onclean socks? Did you take your vitamins?" Since Grandpa Abe was wearingthe same clothes he'd worn when he'd picked Ben up at the airport, Ben decidedto wear yesterday's clothes, too. He never got to do that at home.

But to Ben's disappointment, Buttonville's Main Street looked just as threadbarein the daylight as it had the night before—maybe worse because now all theflaking paint, broken windows, and cracked sidewalks could be seen. A pair ofold men sat on a bench outside the Buttonville Hardware Store. They waved asGrandpa Abe drove past. Grandpa Abe waved back. A woman washing the windows ofthe Buttonville Diner also waved. Grandpa Abe waved back. The girl with the longblond hair who'd been leaning out the window last night was now standing outsidethe Dollar Store, a broom in her hand. She didn't wave, but she watched intentlyas Grandpa Abe parked the car.

"So? What will you want for dinner?" Grandpa Abe asked, pulling a canvas hat outof the glove compartment and setting it on his bald head. "How about a nicebrisket? You like a nice brisket? They make a nice ready-to-eat brisket at themarket."

Ben didn't point out that they'd had brisket the night before. He was watchingthe girl across the street, and she appeared to be watching him.

"Did you swallow your tongue again?" Grandpa Abe asked.

"Sorry," Ben said. "Sure, I like brisket."

"Then brisket it is." Clutching his cane, Grandpa Abe struggled out of the car.Ben hurried around to the driver's side to help him. "Looks like Pearl Petal iscoming this way," Grandpa Abe said with a slight nod of his head. The blond girlwas crossing the street, still clutching the broom. "She's a nice girl, thatPearl, but a bit of a troublemaker. Watch yourself." The tip of his wooden canetapped against the sidewalk as Grandpa Abe headed into the Food 4 Less Market.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Sasquatch Escape by Suzanne Selfors, Dan Santat. Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Selfors Dan Santat. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown Books for Young Readers.
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