dad. “Okay, time us again.”
The second time, Samson went all the way around the tunnel and snarfed up all his treats before he’d even done anything. The third time, he sat in the middle of the tunnel and pooped.
“Well, good thing he’s cute, huh?” Francine’s father said as he cleaned the floor with a wad of toilet paper.
Francine had to admit that was true at least. Samson was pretty much the cutest guinea pig that ever existed, with his tufts of long silky hair that spiked out all over and his tiny pink nose. His face and his middle were white, and his butt and the top of his head were black, with one stripe of chocolate brown that stretched across his two round eyes. But if he was ever going to be a world-famous guinea pig on Francine’s animal training TV show, he was seriously going to have to get his act together.
While Francine fed Samson a few more guinea pig treats, her father sat down at the table again and turned back to his sketchbook, immediately lost in thought. Francine’s father was lost in thought a lot. He taught art classes at the local community college, and Francine’s mother often said that his brain was like a collage, lots of piecesthat didn’t quite fit together but somehow managed to make art anyway. Well, her mom
used
to say that. Francine wasn’t so sure her mom would think her dad’s brain was art anymore.
“What are you working on?” Francine asked as Samson snuggled himself into the crook of her elbow, grunting. “A new machine?”
“Hmm?” Her dad flicked his pencil across the page a few times before looking up at her. “Oh, yes,” he said, as though he’d only just heard her. “A brand-new one. Want to see?”
Francine climbed eagerly into the chair beside her father and peered down at the sketchbook in front of him.
Mostly, her dad drew portraits and cityscapes, sketched with his tiny, precise crosshatch strokes. But lately he’d taken to drawing curious sorts of inventions—chain reactions of objects and events that all led to one simple, final task. He’d told Francine once that they were called “Rube Goldberg” machines, after some famous dead guy, but Francine liked to think of them as her father’s own creations. In his latest, a bowling ball was poised at the top ofa large ramp, and if it were pushed, it would crash
down-down-down
into a stack of books, which would topple over to squeeze against a bottle of dish soap, which would pour out into a hanging bucket. When the bucket got heavy with soap, it would fall on top of one end of a seesaw, which would flop a teddy bear into the air, sending it careening into a basket of Ping-Pong balls … There were dozens of steps, and Francine pored over every one of them, until she got to the very last, where a toy car knocked over a broomstick that pushed down the lever on a toaster. Francine grinned as she counted—twenty-seven steps just to make a piece of toast.
“You think we could make one of these for real someday?” she asked her dad.
He gazed for a moment at the page in front of him. “Maybe. It would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
“Totally.”
He shut the sketchbook and ran his hand over the cover. “So this isn’t so bad, right?” he said. “Just the two of us? Well”—he nodded at Samson—“two and a half? It’s kind of cozy.”
Francine shifted in her chair. It was sort of nice to haveher dad to herself for a change. “I guess,” she replied. “But …” What he
needed
to do was come back home as soon as possible. “I don’t think you should stay here forever, though.”
“I’m glad you think that too,” her dad said.
“You are?”
He nodded. “I’ve found an apartment. I move in on Sunday. I think you’ll really like it.”
Francine pulled another guinea pig treat out of her pocket and fed it to Samson. When he finished that one, she gave him another, before he could even squeak about it. “I think he’s gotten a little bigger the past few weeks, don’t
The second time, Samson went all the way around the tunnel and snarfed up all his treats before he’d even done anything. The third time, he sat in the middle of the tunnel and pooped.
“Well, good thing he’s cute, huh?” Francine’s father said as he cleaned the floor with a wad of toilet paper.
Francine had to admit that was true at least. Samson was pretty much the cutest guinea pig that ever existed, with his tufts of long silky hair that spiked out all over and his tiny pink nose. His face and his middle were white, and his butt and the top of his head were black, with one stripe of chocolate brown that stretched across his two round eyes. But if he was ever going to be a world-famous guinea pig on Francine’s animal training TV show, he was seriously going to have to get his act together.
While Francine fed Samson a few more guinea pig treats, her father sat down at the table again and turned back to his sketchbook, immediately lost in thought. Francine’s father was lost in thought a lot. He taught art classes at the local community college, and Francine’s mother often said that his brain was like a collage, lots of piecesthat didn’t quite fit together but somehow managed to make art anyway. Well, her mom
used
to say that. Francine wasn’t so sure her mom would think her dad’s brain was art anymore.
“What are you working on?” Francine asked as Samson snuggled himself into the crook of her elbow, grunting. “A new machine?”
“Hmm?” Her dad flicked his pencil across the page a few times before looking up at her. “Oh, yes,” he said, as though he’d only just heard her. “A brand-new one. Want to see?”
Francine climbed eagerly into the chair beside her father and peered down at the sketchbook in front of him.
Mostly, her dad drew portraits and cityscapes, sketched with his tiny, precise crosshatch strokes. But lately he’d taken to drawing curious sorts of inventions—chain reactions of objects and events that all led to one simple, final task. He’d told Francine once that they were called “Rube Goldberg” machines, after some famous dead guy, but Francine liked to think of them as her father’s own creations. In his latest, a bowling ball was poised at the top ofa large ramp, and if it were pushed, it would crash
down-down-down
into a stack of books, which would topple over to squeeze against a bottle of dish soap, which would pour out into a hanging bucket. When the bucket got heavy with soap, it would fall on top of one end of a seesaw, which would flop a teddy bear into the air, sending it careening into a basket of Ping-Pong balls … There were dozens of steps, and Francine pored over every one of them, until she got to the very last, where a toy car knocked over a broomstick that pushed down the lever on a toaster. Francine grinned as she counted—twenty-seven steps just to make a piece of toast.
“You think we could make one of these for real someday?” she asked her dad.
He gazed for a moment at the page in front of him. “Maybe. It would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
“Totally.”
He shut the sketchbook and ran his hand over the cover. “So this isn’t so bad, right?” he said. “Just the two of us? Well”—he nodded at Samson—“two and a half? It’s kind of cozy.”
Francine shifted in her chair. It was sort of nice to haveher dad to herself for a change. “I guess,” she replied. “But …” What he
needed
to do was come back home as soon as possible. “I don’t think you should stay here forever, though.”
“I’m glad you think that too,” her dad said.
“You are?”
He nodded. “I’ve found an apartment. I move in on Sunday. I think you’ll really like it.”
Francine pulled another guinea pig treat out of her pocket and fed it to Samson. When he finished that one, she gave him another, before he could even squeak about it. “I think he’s gotten a little bigger the past few weeks, don’t
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