Miranda had driven Willow into town to buy a new pair of hiking boots, as her current hand-me-downs were falling apart.
“You mean the guy from the factory?” asked Lucy’s father, tuning his banjo in the rocking chair. The only time he was able to play music these days was on the weekends. On Saturday mornings you couldn’t prise an instrument out of his hands.
Lucy nodded.
“He’s a quiet guy, keeps to himself,” said Silas.
“How old is he?”
Silas noticed that Lucy had an open notebook on the coffee table before her, pen poised. His black moustache twitched. “Why are you asking questions about Al, squiddo?”
“I’m doing an article. For the school newspaper.” Lucy said it just as she had rehearsed.
“You joined the SPEAMS Sentinel?” Silas rocked forward in his chair. “That’s great! Your mom’s been trying to get you to join for years. Did you tell her?”
“Not yet.” Lucy forced a smile. This was a more enthusiastic reaction than she’d anticipated. Great. I may actually have to join the paper. At least that’d be one less lie to keep track of.
Silas plucked the first few notes of “Enter Sandman”. “What are you writing about?”
“Nu Co.,” said Lucy.
Silas stopped playing. “It better not be about what happened at the factory last month,” he snapped. “Nu Co. is going through enough trouble without dredging up that disaster.”
“It’s not about that,” Lucy fibbed. “Why are you yelling?”
“I’m not yelling.” Silas closed his eyes and rubbed his brow with a knuckle. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m tired, that’s all. What’s your article about?”
Lucy chewed the end of her pen, going over the story she’d concocted in her head one last time. “Well, see,” she said, “the Sentinel is doing a special on the history of the Big Crater Valley. I’m supposed to interview someone who works for the oldest business in Sticky Pines.”
“Why don’t you interview me?” asked Silas.
Good question… “It can’t be someone I know,” said Lucy, “because of ‘Journalistic Integrity’.” She dipped her head solemnly.
“Okay then,” said Silas. “I’ll give Al a call.”
He continued tuning the strings on his banjo: BING, BING, BING.
Lucy sat quietly, staring at him.
“You want me to do it right now?” Silas grumbled.
“This is a REALLY important assignment.”
“Oh for cryin’ in the thunder flippin’ rain.” Silas set the instrument on the floor and stomped over to the landline in the kitchen.
Yeesh. So grumpy. Lucy stuffed her knees into her sweatshirt as she waited for her father to return. After what seemed like an hour but was probably ten minutes, he got off the phone and re-entered the living room.
“We’ll meet Al at Buck’s Burger Barn tomorrow afternoon,” Silas announced.
Lucy jumped up in jubilance. This is it! Alastair Chelon was going to answer all her questions and she’d solve the mysteries of the Pretenders once and for all: who they were, what they wanted, where they came from, how they could change shape… Wait.
“Did you say ‘we’?”
“I’m going with you. Obviously.” Silas laughed at the indignant expression on Lucy’s face. “What, did you think I was going to let you meet a grown man you barely know all by yourself?” He chortled heartily. “Kids,” he said to himself, “how do they ever make it to adulthood?”
Lucy fumed while her dad rocked out on his banjo as loudly as he could.
DINGA-BING! DINGA-RINGA-RINGA! The pinball machine by the haystack clanged as Lucy and her father entered the barnyard-themed restaurant. The town’s only burger joint was packed with the Sunday crowd of hungry Sticky Pineseans dressed in their finest flannel. Lucy hurried past a smudged glass case showcasing a fake cast of a Sasquatch foot. Alastair Chelon sat at a table by the front window, which was already decorated for Christmas, eating a slice of cherry pie.
“Thanks so much for meeting us, Al.” Silas pulled out a chair.
Alastair stood to greet them, wiping his hands on his corduroy trousers. He was a slight man with a sparse ginger moustache and shaggy strawberry-blond hair. His faded flannel shirt had a mustard stain on the sleeve. “No problem,” he said. “I was on the school paper myself, when I was a kid.”
“What year was that?” asked Lucy, sitting across from him. She dumped the contents of her backpack on the table, including several pens in varying colours, her mom’s old tape recorder and a pocket-sized notebook she’d “borrowed” from Willow since her other one was full. It had a unicorn on the cover. That couldn’t be helped.
Silas sat wearily. “Lucita, maybe we should order first.”
“Sure.” Lucy adjusted her glasses and switched on the tape recorder. “I’ll take a hot dog. With fries. I’ll mix the ketchup and mayonnaise myself.”
“This kid’s a crack-up,” laughed Chelon.
“Would you like some more coffee, Al?” asked Silas.
“Ooh, yes please,” said Chelon.
Silas waved at a waitress in braided pigtails and a blue gingham apron.
“Howdy,” said the young woman. “My name’s Michelle. Today’s special is the Bigfootlong with sauerkraut and spuds. What can I rustle you up?”
She must be new. The servers rarely gave the whole spiel as the special never changed.
While Silas ordered, Lucy perused her notes. Since her father was there, she couldn’t just dive straight into direct questions about Chelon’s (totally supernatural) origins. She’d have to get creative.
“Let’s start with what Sentinel readers really wanna know,” Lucy began the interview. “What’s your favourite animal?”
“Ooh, that’s a toughie,” said Chelon.
The waitress poured some steaming coffee into his mug.
“I like owls myself,” said Lucy. She leaned in knowingly.
“I thought you liked the duck-billed platypus,” Silas interjected. “Because everybody thought it was a hoax. Right?”
Lucy’s nostrils flared. “Owls are my favourite North American animal, Dad.”
Chelon sipped his coffee. “My favourite’s probably the turtle,” he said. “Because wherever he goes, he’s home.”
Lucy took down copious notes.
“I like coyotes,” Silas offered.
“That’s great, Dad.” Lucy focused on Mr Chelon. “How long have you worked at the factory?’
“On and off since I was fifteen,” he said. “This pie
