Finding Orion Read online

  Dedication

  To my loving family. Stay quirky.

  Epigraph

  “Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.”

  —Arthur Schopenhauer

  “Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice.”

  —Epitaph marking the tomb of Sir Christopher Wren

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Welcome to the Circus

  If Santa Rode a Harley

  Turning on the Sky

  The Superfluous Side Trip

  A Treasure Trove of Toothbrushes

  Fortunes and Felons

  Parry and Riposte

  Shaking Things Up

  The Big Surprise

  Ashes to Ashes, and Lightning out of Their Butts

  Fishing for Answers

  Like Assassins in the Still of the Night

  Ice Cream, Poop, Winky Face

  An Avalanche in Reverse

  Swooners, Mullets, and Magic Trees

  Why I Will Never Get in a Bar Fight with My Sister

  The Kwirks Go to War

  The Test of Men

  Sympathy for the Devil

  The Necklace and the Hog

  Finding Papa Kwirk

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by John David Anderson

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Welcome to the Circus

  The night we found out about Papa Kwirk, I had a jelly bean for dinner.

  Not jelly beans. A jelly bean. One.

  Strange as it may seem, I was used to it. Jelly beans were often the appetizer du jour at the Kwirk residence.

  We sat around the glass table, so recently Windexed that you could still smell the ammonia. My older sister, Cass, wearing purple lipstick and hum-rapping songs from Hamilton. Younger sister, Lyra, pigtailed and perusing the pocket dictionary in her lap, no doubt discovering new words to show off with (like perusing). Mom and Dad sitting shoulder to shoulder, as if they were required by law to be within kissing distance, a sort of reverse restraining order.

  And me, elbows on the table, hands pressed to my cheeks, staring at the lonely piece of candy on my plate and thinking surely I was adopted.

  It’s a fantasy I come back to time and again: my parents sitting me down, showing me the papers, reciting the long-hidden history of my true origin. The orphanage where I was left. The day my so-called mother picked me out of the dozen or so slobbering tots. Or maybe something mysterious. Something more basket-on-the-doorstep-in-the-dead-of-night. Maybe I was rescued from a pack of hungry wolves in the middle of a dark forest. Or I crash-landed on Earth and they found me sucking my thumb in the middle of a crater. Though that would make me the alien, and I’m pretty sure that’s not the case; if anyone in this house is from another planet, it’s not me.

  I know. Everybody’s family is a little nutso. But there’s nuts . . . and then there’s the Kwirks.

  I poked at my dinner, mottled beige and brown, a tiny thing sitting in the center of a big white plate like a weed sprouting in the snow. I wasn’t going to be the first to try it.

  “I have to admit, I’ve really outdone myself this time,” Dad said, pushing his glasses back to the top of his nose.

  Dr. Fletcher Kwirk. Conductor of the Kwirk family crazy train. Owner of a cow-patterned lab coat with the words Science Is Udderly Awesome sewn on the front and two dozen tacky, uber-colorful bow ties. A geek and a dork and a nerd all rolled into one, a true triple threat. My father knows the words to every cartoon theme song from the 1980s and sings them constantly, begging me to sing along. Ever heard of a Snork? Sounds like something that might happen if you drink warm soda too fast, but it turns out it’s a race of annoying underwater creatures with bendy straws sprouting from their heads. Their theme song is the worst piece of music ever created, and Dad can belt out every word. Tailspin and Gobots. Muppet Babies and Inspector Gadget. He knows them all. He says it comes from too many Saturdays spent glued to the TV, but I suspect it’s because he never bothered to grow up. Or maybe grew up too fast and is trying to get back there.

  Which might also explain why he makes candy for a living. Dad is the chief flavor chemist at Kaslan’s Candy Factory here in town. He has a PhD in organic chemistry and can tell you the exact compound necessary to make watermelon Jolly Ranchers taste the way they do (i.e., nothing like actual watermelons). If you’d like, he can even explain the chemical connection between Silly Putty and McDonald’s french fries, thereby ruining something you love for the rest of your life.

  But mostly he makes jelly beans. Kaslan’s pride and joy was its Hundred-Flavor Mystery Jelly Bean Pack, and Dad can take credit for concocting twenty-seven of those flavors. Hence the appetizer on my plate.

  My older sister rolled hers back and forth like a dead bug she couldn’t identify. “It’s not garlic again, is it? Because I honestly feel like you perfected that last time.”

  I nodded emphatically. Dad’s garlic jelly bean tasted just like real garlic—which, in jelly-bean form, is pretty disgusting. Just because you can make a piece of candy taste like something doesn’t mean you should.

  “It’s not garlic, I promise,” Dad assured us.

  “Is it armpit?” Lyra asked, which is not a question a ten-year-old from any normal family should ever pose at suppertime. Not with a straight face, at least, and my sister’s face was straight as a ruler.

  “No. It’s nothing bad. You’ll like this one. And, to be honest, we’re having some trouble isolating exactly what armpits taste like. The chemical composition is proving difficult.” My father frowned. It had been several weeks since my family—minus one conscientious objector—sat around this same table with their shirtsleeves scrunched to their shoulders, craning their necks and licking their own armpits and describing the taste while my father took notes. “Musky” was one. “Salty” came up. “Not entirely unpleasant” was Lyra’s response. Of course, she hasn’t hit puberty yet; I’m guessing armpit doesn’t get better with age.

  I wouldn’t know. I refused to lick my pits in the name of science or candy. Not until they make cinnamon-flavored deodorant, which my father could probably do.

  “That’s all right, though, ’cause this blows armpit right out of the water!” Dad was practically bubbling up out of his chair, waiting for us to try his latest creation.

  Naturally Cass was the first. Always ready to don the mantle of eldest, bravest child. Without even pinching her nose, she popped the whole thing in her mouth and chewed slowly, her face scrunching. Not a great sign. “Wow. Is that . . . ?”

  “It most definitely is,” Dad answered, eyes bright, expectant.

  Cass chewed a little more, swallowed, her eyes bulging. “Dad, it’s brilliant!” she said at last. I waited for it to come right back up, certain she was bluffing, trying to get us all to dig in so we could share in her misery. I shifted a little in my chair, just in case her barf went projectile and sailed over the plastic flower centerpiece (Mom is allergic to pollen). “Come on, guys, you have to try it,” Cass prodded.

  Reluctantly I pinched the bean between two fingers and brought it to my lips, which instinctively curled inward. We’d been down this road before, my lips and I. Limburger cheese? Check. Curdled milk? Of course. Pickle. Patchouli. I had betrayed my taste buds too many times, and now they’d partnered with those lips to form a formidable first line of defense. In this family, you always have to be on your guard.

  My tongue recoiled inside my mouth.

  “Come on, Rion, just eat it. It’s good,” Lyra goaded, having gulped hers down. “Don’t be a chicken.”

&nb
sp; Everyone at the table snickered. Alarms triggered inside my head.

  “What? What’s funny? It’s terrible, isn’t it? That’s why you’re laughing. It really is armpit. It’s an armpit-flavored jelly bean!”

  “No,” Mom assured me. “It’s not that at all. Trust us. It’s fine. Try it.”

  I tentatively touched the jelly bean to the tip of my tongue. Had either of my sisters said it, I would have refused, but Mom was different. I trusted her. Closing my eyes, I bit down. My glands gushed as all those artificial flavors manufactured in my father’s lab were unleashed.

  And I suddenly got the joke.

  Chicken. It was a fried-chicken-flavored jelly bean. And it was totally funky.

  I mean, it tasted fine—tasted just like fried chicken, in fact—but it was still a jelly bean, and chewing a jelly bean is not at all the same as sinking your teeth into a piece of golden-crisp KFC. Yet the flavor was unmistakable, that salty, succulent sensation that somehow tricked my brain. I chewed slowly and swallowed.

  “Huh,” I said.

  It was remarkable. My dad is kind of a genius.

  Then again, so was Victor Frankenstein.

  “See. What’d I tell you?” Dad said. “We’ve finally perfected the compound that approximates savory foods. I mean, bacon’s been around for a while, of course. And the Slugworths think they’ve got the formula for sausage down, but frankly their sausage just tastes like dog food. This, on the other hand . . . this could be a real game changer!”

  “The Slugworths” was Dad’s name for Kaslan Candy’s biggest rivals—the slew of blank-faced, heartless, soulless, scheming scientists at Garvadill Food Supplies. At least that’s how he describes them. Garvadill concocted artificial flavors and then sold them to food manufacturers all across the world. Unlike Dad’s company, whose recipes were strictly used in-house for Kaslan’s famous confections, Garvadill catered to large corporations. They were global, big-business, bloodthirsty pirates, only in it for the money, as opposed to my father, who worked nine hours a day just to put food on our table and a smile on every kid’s face—at least until the sugar rotted all their teeth and they had nothing left to smile with.

  Dad claimed that Garvadill was notorious for stealing formulas from the competition, though nothing had ever been proven in a court of law. He was exaggerating, of course—this was candy we were talking about—but Dad was convinced that the Slugworths were out to get him. As a result, he treated his flavors like nuclear launch codes. Ultra top secret. The fried-chicken jelly bean I’d just eaten had probably been tasted by only one or two other people before it ended up on my plate. You’d think that would make me feel special, being one of the first. Except next time the flavor would probably be asparagus or cottage cheese.

  Dad couldn’t stop gloating. “Those chumps at Garvadill would kill for this recipe. I mean, we still have some kinks to work out regarding replication, but the possibilities are endless. With this we should have no trouble making pork chop jelly beans, brisket jelly beans, smoked turkey, rump roast. Who knows? We could someday have a jelly bean that tastes exactly like filet mignon. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  It would definitely be something. You know what else would be something? Actual dinner.

  “It’s amazing, Dad. Really,” Cass said. “You nailed it.”

  “Yeah, Dad,” Lyra echoed. “The taste is uncanny in its verisimilitude.”

  She and Cass gave my father a round of applause, and he took a bow over his plate. Sometimes living with my family was like being part of a freak show. One of those old traveling circuses. All we’d need is a clown. And maybe a parade of elephants.

  Dad looked at me, waiting for something, and I realized I hadn’t said anything yet. For some reason, he needed the whole family’s approval. For everything. He was always asking us if we liked his tie or what we thought of the latest Kaslan’s Candy commercial. He actually looked disappointed if you didn’t laugh at one of his corny jokes. I usually just humored him. It was easier that way.

  “You know . . . what she said.” I pointed at my little sister. “Uncanning versus millipedes.”

  Lyra groaned at me for botching her fancy words, but I ignored her. I knew she thought I was mocking her, but most of the time I had no idea what she was saying. Across from me, Cass went back to rapping Hamilton, so I had no idea what she was saying either. It was like every member of my family spoke a different language.

  My mother stood up and kissed my father on his starting-to-thin brown hair. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie,” she said. “It was fantastic. Unfortunately, I made manicotti for our second course, so if you’ve suddenly got a craving for fried chicken, you’re out of luck.”

  Actually, I was kind in the mood for fried chicken. I could still taste it. Dad leaned back in his chair, arms crossed triumphantly, face alight with satisfaction. “Filet mignon,” he whispered. “This is going to make Kaslan’s a fortune, you just wait and see.”

  Across the table, Cass started rapping again.

  “There’s a million things I haven’t done. But just you wait!”

  I wadded up my napkin and threw it at her to get her attention. “No show tunes at the table,” I said, invoking a rule that had been in place for the last year or so, though admittedly it was more of an ongoing request than an actual rule, and I was the only one who tried to enforce it.

  “No throwing things at your sister,” she snapped back, taking my crumpled napkin and tossing it back at me. Just to annoy me, she continued to rap even louder. I tried to kick her under the table, but I missed and hit the table leg instead, stubbing my toe. Dad was oblivious, lost in daydreams of a fried-chicken-flavored fortune.

  I was about to start making up my own rap, about an annoying sister who won’t shut up, when I heard a knock at the door.

  My sisters and I all scrambled out of our chairs and down the hall, but I was the first with my hand on the knob. Maybe, just maybe, it was a private detective hired by my real family to hunt me down because they felt bad for abandoning me and sending me to live in this nuthouse.

  It wasn’t a private detective, though.

  It was, in fact, a clown.

  The circus was complete.

  “Mo-om, there’s a clown on the porch,” Lyra yelled over her shoulder, which might have beaten out “Is it armpit?” as the oddest sentence of the evening.

  The clown gave us a weak smile. He had twin triangles of orange hair spiked out like horns and a bright red smear of a mouth to match his obnoxious nose and oversized flappy shoes. Rosy cheeks bloomed on a painted white face. His outfit was patterned in multicolored stars, a rainbow galaxy that clashed with a polka-dotted bow tie that looked a little too similar to one my father owned. The tag on his clown suit said his name was Chuckles McLaughsalot. Everything about our visitor screamed hijinks and happiness.

  Except for the pained look on his face.

  “Is this the Kwirk residence?” he asked.

  We all nodded.

  “Your parents home?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see Mom and Dad coming to the door, my mother wiping her hands on a towel. “Hi. How can we help you, Mr. Clown?” my mother asked.

  “It’s Mr. McLaughsalot,” Lyra corrected.

  The clown frowned. “You can call me Chuckles, ma’am. I’m here from Happy Times Message and Telegram Service to deliver a message to the Kwirk family.”

  Dad rubbed his hands together. “Wow. A singing telegram? I didn’t even know they still had such things. Did my company send you? Is this about the fried chicken?”

  Chuckles looked confused. “Fried chicken?” He stared at my father for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” The clown released a deep sigh that made his nose squeak a little. “Listen, Mr. and Mrs. Kwirk, I feel like I should apologize in advance. This isn’t really my thing. I normally do anniversaries, you know. Birthday parties. Occasionally I’ll help with a marriage proposal. But this . . . this is a first. To be honest, I
’m not entirely sure I can go through with it.”

  “Performance anxiety can be debilitating,” Lyra informed him.

  Chuckles looked down at Lyra like he’d just seen her there. “Uh-huh. Right. Okay. You know what? I’m just going to get it over with.” The clown produced a pipe from some hidden flap in his puffy rainbow suit and blew out one shrill note, humming after it. “Ooohhhh,” he began.

  “Hang on,” Cass said suddenly, one finger up. “Can I go get my phone so I can post this? My friends in musical production will love it.”

  “Honestly, that’s probably not a good i—” Chuckles started to say, but Cass had already dashed back into the dining room, leaving the rest of us staring at the clown standing slump shouldered outside our door. I glanced up and down the street to see if any of the neighbors were outside, watching. “There’s a clown talking to the Kwirks,” one of them would say. “Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” another would answer. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing they’d ever seen happen at our house.

  My sister returned, her phone held out in front of her. “Sorry. Please continue, good sir.”

  Chuckles hummed once more, getting his pitch before launching into a familiar tune, though I couldn’t place the name of it. Sort of folksy, almost like an old nursery rhyme. The clown tapped one oversized red shoe as he sang.

  “Oooooh, Papa Kwirk, he made life grand.

  He laughed big laughs. He made big plans.

  By all accounts, a superman.

  But Papa Kwirk has kicked the can.”

  Chuckles hesitated, just for a second, scanning our faces. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d heard him right. Or maybe I had, but I was waiting for something else. A punchline. An explanation. An actual chuckle from Chuckles. I stole a look at Dad, who was standing behind me, but he looked just as confused as I was. Our collective stunned silence only seemed to spur the clown on.

  “Yes, he’s met the maker. He’s at the gate.

  He’s pushing up daisies. He’s found his fate.

  He’s belly-up. He bit the dust.

  He’s counting worms. He’s gathering rust.