Bobbie Mendoza Saves the World (Again) Read online

  Dedication

  To Neva, a true patron of the arts.—M.F.

  To Mom and Dad—thanks for making me, me. And for a whole bunch of other stuff too. I love you tons.—B.J.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgments

  About the Creators

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Foreword

  Being special is a nightmare.

  It’s true. I know these things. How?

  Because I’m special.

  Don’t believe me? I’ll prove it to you.

  You know that Christmas that almost never happened? Wait. You don’t remember? What do you mean you don’t remember? Oh, that’s right, you don’t remember that Christmas that almost never happened because . . .

  Yeah, that’s right. Me. Bobbie Mendoza. Age twelve. Christmas saver kid-person.

  But before that I was a mostly normal tween-age girl. (Note: please forget I used the word “tween-age.”)

  I liked normal stuff: like painting my little brother Tad’s toenails black with yellow stars when he’s asleep. Or convincing my mom that waffle-pops are part of a nutritious breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Or helping my dad dress up our dog, Maggie, to look like a hipster.

  Yup, then I became the “chosen one.” Chosen by two elves (yeah, elves, you heard me) to travel to the North Pole by whale (that’s right, a whale) and fight off demon snow angels and this creepy/scary Watcher machine in order to save Christmas. (I’m not making this up.)

  I’m sure you read all about it. Except you didn’t. And THAT’S why being special . . .

  I thought when I got back from saving Christmas that maybe I’d be given a medal or a ribbon or at least a participation trophy.

  It wasn’t like I was expecting a parade in my honor or raspberry waffle-pops with the president or a personalized romantic ballad sung by my favorite singer, Jonas Jerklin. (No! I don’t think he’s dreamy. He just sings really, really well.)

  Did I just swoon out loud?

  But of course none of that happened. And that’s what they don’t teach you in Being Special 101. When you get back from your magical adventure, where you have to be brave and overcome impossible odds and discover who you really are . . . there’s just one tiny little problem.

  NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT IT!

  Because . . .

  Mostly because no one would believe it. But also because . . . where would I begin?

  So I figured if I can’t tell anyone about it, then it might be best to pretend it never happened, right? If I can’t stand out, might as well blend in! There was only one problem with that. This guy.

  He’s my uncle Dale. And he’s weird. Not weird-uncle weird. We’re talking texts-with-elves weird. And this was before I saved Christmas. Back when he used to rant about Trans-Dimensional Barriers and cheer power, and we all thought he was crazy. But then I saved Christmas and it all turned out . . .

  He’s so happy now that he knows he’s not crazy that he doesn’t understand why I’m not happy. He doesn’t get that not being able to tell my crazy story is a real bummer.

  Especially since I’m about to start at a brand-new school tomorrow. I know I’m supposed to be this battle-hardened Christmas-saving warrior, but the thought of having to fit in and make a whole set of new friends is causing me to FREAK OUT!

  What if I can’t relate to them? What if they think I’m super weird?! What if I blurt out some crazy factoid about reindeer bladder leakage in the middle of lunch?

  Fortunately, Uncle Dale tried to help.

  He found me a place where I can tell my story. He found a support group for folks who have encountered Trans-Dimensional Beings.

  A Trans-Dimensional Being is, generally speaking, something or someone that if you’re seeing it you probably shouldn’t be. It’s weird. It’s strange. But it’s NOT like my neighbor Mr. Billups, who mixes tuna salad with ketchup and anchovies.

  Uncle Dale thought I needed some like-minded people to share my feelings. The problem is, these people are just as crazy as he is!

  Trust me, nothing makes you want to be normal more than sitting around a group of people who swear a werewolf once delivered them Chinese food or how they saw a mer-man riding around on a Segway.

  So that’s where I am right now. Trying to be normal. AT THE LEAST NORMAL-EST PLACE ON EARTH!

  Help!

  Chapter 1

  So this is how I spent my Sunday evenings—in the smelly old gymnasium of the Nondenominational Church of Happiness and Stuff with my uncle Dale and fourteen other poor souls who claimed to have had an encounter with a Trans-Dimensional Being.

  How was this going to help me at school tomorrow?

  “Thank you, Ms. Ginsburg,” said the group leader, Topher.

  Topher is deadly boring. His only claim to TDB fame was growing up next door to a Sasquatch (who may or may not have just been some really hairy dude).

  Topher turned his attention to me. “Bobbie, do you have anything to share?”

  Of course I didn’t have anything to share.

  But if you don’t share, if you say, “Nah, I’m fine, Toph, I’m just here for the stale donuts,” then he just keeps poking and prodding you until you lose your temper or share everything in one long emotional rant. Sort of like a mom.

  Normally I’d cave, but I’ve got a system. Watch and learn.

  Aren’t I clever?

  “Guess that means it’s my turn!” boomed Uncle Dale.

  Uncle Dale loves it when it’s his turn. He doesn’t have any trouble sharing. Especially on his website.

  Since that Christmas thing I mentioned, traffic to his site has nearly tripled. From twelve monthly visitors to thirty-five.

  Uncle Dale is weird, but it’s a good kind of weird. The kind that takes the attention off me.

  Most of the time.

  Uncle Dale addressed the group. “Bobbie starts a new school tomorrow and she’s terrified of not being able to relate to anyone or make any new friends because they may find out what happened to her in the Trans-Dimensional World.”

  Wait. What?

  Every eye turned to me.

  Topher smiled. “Well, Bobbie, it does seem like you have more to share.”

  I sighed. “Are you sure we can’t
go back to Ms. Ginsburg and her farting chimney pterodactyl?”

  Uncle Dale put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Bobbie, we’re here to help.”

  I’d had enough.

  “Fine!” I shouted. “I don’t want the new kids at my school to think I’m weird. I don’t want to accidentally talk about how I know Santa or I’ve seen things that everyone else would think are crazy BUT I KNOW are real! I want to fit in! I want to forget what I saw! I want to forget what I did!”

  Great. Now the rest of the session was going to be about me, my problems, and ME! I needed a distraction. I needed someone to save me. I needed a miracle!

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Chapter 2

  The scary Amazon Viking lady was in my face with all the confidence and poise of an exploding can of Cheez Whiz.

  Topher rushed to his feet. “Excuse me, but this is a private meeting!”

  The Viking gal grabbed Topher by his bow tie. “Private?! Listen up, Soft-Spot. Ain’t nothing gonna be private when vampires and trolls and zombie squid are running wild in the streets. I’m talking chaos, people. Mass hysteria!”

  She marched around the room and glared at each of us in turn. Then she grabbed one of Dale’s donuts, shoved it in her mouth, and sat down. Right next to me. No one said a word.

  Next time I wish for a miracle I’ll be more specific.

  She leaned over and smiled at me. “So you want to pretend like it never happened! Lemme tell you something, little miss missy, an attitude like that is gonna get you roasted, toasted, and swallowed whole by a dragon-bear.”

  A what?

  “You got any idea what that is?!” she shouted.

  I cleared my throat. “I assume it’s a creature that’s part dragon and part bear?”

  She paused for a brief moment. “Good guess.” Then she turned to the others. “As for the rest of you! With your whiny, crybaby stories of ‘Oh . . . wha wha, Elvis is my Uber driver, whaaa. I got two words for ya . . .”

  Topher—sounding like a mouse whispering into a cave—attempted to speak. “Ma’am, we understand you’re upset, but if you could please let us finish our meeting and then perhaps you and I could talk . . . in private, away from everyone else.”

  The crazy lady started laughing. Not a “that’s-so-funny” kind of laugh. No, it was the kind of laugh you hear in old movies when the villain has the good guy hanging over a tank of hungry beavers and he thinks it’s over, but it’s not over because the good guy can speak telepathically with the beavers and tells them to eat the villain. But what the good guy doesn’t know is that the villain holds all the beavers’ children hostage until they eat the good guy.

  Topher gulped as Laughing Lady walked toward him. We all watched it unfold like a beautiful slow-motion train wreck.

  “I don’t understand what’s so funny,” said Topher.

  “Sure you don’t . . . But maybe you’ll start laughing if I tickle your gigantic feet!”

  “BIGFOOT!” shouted Uncle Dale with glee.

  The rest of us just stared, openmouthed. Great. This is exactly the type of thing I was hoping to not see before my first day of school tomorrow.

  “That’s right,” said Loraine, “all this time your little support group has been led by a Class B Metatarsus Abnormality with Extreme Filamental Outgrowth!”

  “Bigfoot.” Uncle Dale nodded.

  I mean sure, we’ve all seen the blurry pictures, but none of them looked as terrified as Topher did. I felt sorry for him as the scary lady dragged him toward the door.

  I looked at Uncle Dale. “Who in the heck was that?!” I asked.

  “Loraine. Loraine the Bounty Hunter. And we need to talk to her!”

  Chapter 3

  We caught up to Loraine as she started to get into her ancient VW Bug.

  Uncle Dale cried, “Loraine! Loraine! Hold up a sec!”

  Loraine turned to Uncle Dale. “Who are you?”

  “Sorry,” said Uncle Dale. “I’m Dale Mendoza and this is my niece, Bobbie. We’re both huge fans.”

  “What?” I said.

  Uncle Dale continued, “That were-zombie you captured in Portland last week was a thing of beauty!”

  “You know about that?” Loraine said.

  “Of course I know . . . you may read my blog . . . theyreeverywhere.com.”

  “Hmmmm . . . You wrote that story about the recent unicorn influx.”

  “That was me!” said Dale proudly.

  She looked Dale over. “You got some stuff wrong. Unicorns don’t poop glitter—they poop rainbows. And did you know their horns are poisonous?”

  I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Poisonous unicorn horns? Right.”

  “Laugh if you want, little lady,” said Loraine. “Those horns emit a slumberification toxin that puts whoever they sting into a fifteen- to twenty-minute coma.”

  “Sounds like a nap,” I said.

  “The victims do seem to wake up relaxed and refreshed,” said Loraine.

  I nodded. “A nap.”

  Uncle Dale started taking notes. “And the rest of my article?” he asked.

  Loraine turned back to her car. “The rest of it was okay.”

  Uncle Dale swooned. “Thhhhankyou! You have no idea how much that means to me! Would you be willing to write a guest column?!”

  I’d had enough.

  “What’d you do with Bigfoot Topher?” I demanded.

  Loraine held up a small necklace. “I used a non-particle destabilization shrink-ifier.”

  “But of course,” I said. “A non-particle destabilization SHRINK-IFIER. Does that come with Wi-Fi?!”

  Loraine smiled. “You bet. And the password is UR_NOT_FUNNY . . . all uppercase.”

  I am too funny. Everyone says so.

  Uncle Dale tried to ease the tension. “How exactly did Topher camouflage himself like a Bigfoot?”

  Loraine shook her head. “There’s an app for that.”

  Dale inspected the app. “So a Glargantasaur can turn itself into a sixty-six-year-old grandmother of seven from Des Moines named Janice?”

  Loraine nodded. “Don’t you love technology?”

  “You must be working for SCUD,” said Dale.

  “Freelance. Bounty hunting is the game. Loraine is the name.”

  “SCUD?” I asked.

  Loraine sighed. “The Security Council of United Dimensions.”

  “It’s an organization of Inter-Dimensional and Trans-Dimensional Beings who work together to maintain the Trans-Dimensional Boundary,” explained Dale.

  “And we’re seeing a lot of activity this side of the boundary. It’s never been worse. Not sure what’s going on, but something’s got ’em jumping. That’s why SCUD has assembled my NICE List.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  Dale lit up. “Can Bobbie and I help?!”

  Loraine glared at us. “I work alone.”

  Good for her. I admire independent, strong women.

  She turned, slid into her clown car, and drove off into the night.

  Uncle Dale smiled. “Alone? We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 4

  So instead of having a nice, relaxing night before my first day of school, I had to watch our tiny group leader get turned into a Bigfoot and endure a Trans-Dimensional lecture from an angry bounty hunter telling me all about how I need to watch out for were-zombies and unicorn poop.

  I was on edge.

  My mom and dad could tell.

  Mom fake-smiled. “You’re going to do great tomorrow at your new school!”

  Dad matched Mom’s fake smile. “Just a suggestion but I’m thinking if you wear something other than black it might go better for you.”

  As I’ve said before, black goes with everything.

  Even me.

  Mom’s smile grew. “Yeah! And maybe smile at people! Or a person. One person. Or the floor. You decide.”

  What?

  Yeah. That’s going to help.

  Dad’s smile started to
fade. “You’re going to do great, kiddo, just great!”

  Great. Just great.

  I went up to my room and lay down. As I stared at the ceiling, I tried this old trick I do that usually calms me down. I made a list of all the bad things that could happen. I know it sounds crazy, but once I make a list and read it out loud, I realize how crazy it all sounds. It works.

  Most of the time. But not tonight.

  Calm down, Bobbie. Deep breaths. In one, two, three. Out one, two, three.

  One. Two. Three.

  One.

  Two.

  Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Chapter 5

  I’m asleep. I think. I’m not sure. It’s not like when you’re asleep you can tell if you’re asleep. If you think about it, you can’t even tell when you’re awake if you’re asleep. I mean, maybe we’re always asleep and when we wake up we just wake up in another dream that seems like we’re awake. We’re always asleep. Asleep on some alien dream farm where they grow bodies for spare parts. And the alien doctors argue about what to harvest first.

  Wait. What was that? Out of the corner of my eye. Something moved. Something big. It went behind that huge cactus with the laughing cow heads.

  I’m dreaming. I’m sure of it. But it’s not the laughing cow head cactus that tipped me off. Who hasn’t seen a laughing cow head cactus before?

  Suddenly, there it was again. Out of the corner of my eye. I turn, but it’s gone . . . right behind the giant toilet paper roll.

  I sneak up to the roll and peek behind it. Nothing. Well, nothing except a green lake of lime Jell-O and a large spork. Hmm . . . don’t mind if I do.

  Some people dream in color. Me? I dream in flavors. Mostly lime. But sometimes cherry and grape. Never licorice.