Wrinkles Wallace: Fighters of Foreclosure

By Marquin Parks

Follow Wrinkles Wallace and his crew in another zany adventure! They managed to pass 5th grade, but this time in their topsy-turvy world, their now 11-year-old teacher, Mr. Sittin' B. Quiet, and his family find themselves on the verge of foreclosure. All your favorite characters are asked to attend a "Sleepover to Remember," to find some way to raise more than $22,000--overnight! Wrinkles and his off-beat friends team up with their talents, adding a new member along the way, and use their wits and determination to try and save the Quiets' house before the bankers come on Monday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990403111

Book preview

sleepover.

CHAPTER 1

The Reintroduction

I’m back before you had a chance to miss me. Yeah, it’s me again, Wrinkles… Wrinkles Wallace, and to make a long story short (200 pages down to about 130), I’ll just give you the most important details. But, before I do, I’m going to need you to keep an eye on this book. I’d hate to see it come up missing before you can finish reading it. Be aware of who is watching you read this book. I’m just saying…

So all right, shortly after graduating from the fifth grade at 28 (Hey, it only took me one more day than it took everybody else!), I ended up going back to my regularly-scheduled life. I was delivering pizzas at the local dollar store and playing dodgeball on Wednesday nights. What else would you expect from a twenty-eight-year-old?

Since graduation, Snooze (his parents named him Uncle Bubba), 30, has counted me to sheep-sleep seven times. The last number I always remember is 1,218. I still keep playing it in the lottery, hoping I’ll win big. Do you know how many dollar pizzas I could buy with that kind of money?

Urhiness, who is eighteen, met me at some second-hand thrift stores and has revamped my entire wardrobe. No more spandex and wool sweaters for me. For one hundred foldable first presidents, I look like a new man. Dapper and debonair are words that seem to come to my mind.

Lenny, who is at least seventy, stops by occasionally to say hello to my Grandma Wilbur and go riding on her motorcycle. He’s around so much; she made an attachment for his wheelchair, so that he could ride alongside us. Lenny no longer needs his wheelchair, but he refuses to sell it because of high gas prices. His argument is that his wheelchair gets 1,000,000 miles per gallon. Though he has gas, I don’t think it’s by the gallon.

I’ve also been invited to Spork’s house to eat dinner. No, it’s not what you think; I still don’t trust her cooking. However, she did open up a restaurant out of her home. So far, not too many people are willing to eat there because word of her cooking well enough to pass the fifth grade still isn’t really getting around. Plus, let’s just say, potential customers aren’t impressed enough with her previous offerings to risk their lives eating from her new menu.

Even when I stopped by her house while delivering pizzas in her neighborhood, I always ate before I arrived, or tried only the little toothpick samples she gave out. I must admit, they were pretty tasty, but not worth dying for (or from). I mean, even if I were a wet dog, I couldn’t see myself shaking the idea of believing that Spork made those dishes, and that they were great. Somehow, I think Urhiness had a lot to do with Spork’s success in the Old Endings Preparatory kitchen. If it weren’t for Urhiness washing the pots, pans, and silverware, or offering suggestions, I would have surely beat Spork’s cooking like a vegetable. Instead, I lost, and Spork managed to pass.

I haven’t talked to my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Quiet, since I graduated from his class a little while ago. Honestly, I can’t say I want to, either. I just don’t find myself wanting to hang out with my teacher. If your teacher was ten years old and his name was Sittin’ B. Quiet, would you want to play video games and hang out with him? That’s what I thought. So, when I got a card from him in the mail, I didn’t figure things would be like this.

CHAPTER 2

The Card

Dear Wrinkles,

How have you been? You would know how I’ve been if you would call or come by and see me. I am starting to get the feeling that you’re avoiding me. Wrinkles, I don’t like that feeling. So, to remove any doubt, I’m inviting you to A SLEEPOVER TO REMEMBER at my house. All of your classmates have been invited and we are going to have a blast! Return this card with your answer, so I know if I need to make room for you.

YOUR FAVORITE 5th GRADE TEACHER,

Mr. Quiet

P.S. Please circle one: YES no

So, my entire class and I have been invited to what our teacher is calling, A Sleepover to Remember, but I know this isn’t a sleepover. My classmates all know this isn’t a sleepover. I mean, who goes to their teacher’s house for a sleepover? Nobody! Plus, everybody knows teachers live in their classrooms, or the teachers’ lounge. I heard they have bunk beds in the teachers’ lounge and they all have to share one bathroom.

I’m not even going to talk about the last time I spent the night at school. All I will say is that Mr. Quiet was asleep in the classroom and I had to stay up all night. I’m not trying to do that again and I bet my classmates feel the same way.

But what do you tell the ten-year-old teacher who helped you pass fifth grade? What do I tell the 5th grade teacher who helped mysteriously motivate us into finding a way to pass his class? What do I tell the one-and-only, Mr. Sittin’ B. Quiet? You cannot circle NO!

CHAPTER 3

The No

Well, I circled No. I circled it with a big, fat, red crayon and drew arrows pointing to it, to make sure Mr. Quiet got the message. I even crossed out the Yes to make sure there was no possible way to mistake my answer because, while I like Mr. Quiet, I wasn’t trying to spend the night over at his house. Again, he’s a teacher and we all know their idea for having fun out of school falls somewhere between reading a book for 20 minutes per night and doing way too much homework.

Knowing Mr. Quiet, I came to realize he’s always up to something and I’d probably end up accidentally hurting myself or someone else if I got involved. He would probably want me to be some sort of leader at the sleepover. The problem is, I still have not recovered from the last episode at Old Endings Preparatory, where I had to lead the entire class in passing fifth grade.

So anyway, I was out delivering my final Washington’s-worth of pizza one Friday night when I knocked on the door with my signature sound.

BAM-BAM-BAH-BAM-BAM! (Quick pause.) BAMBAM!

While I was waiting for someone to pay for the pizzas, I smiled at the sign they had on the door.

Solicitors will be fined!

Management

Suddenly, I heard the familiar sound of ice cream truck music playing in the background. I turned to see if it was who I thought it was. Sure enough, it was Spork’s ice cream truck blasting music and bouncing up and down on hydraulics.

I felt a small tap on my hand and turned back toward the now opened door. All I could see was a cooking game show on the giant television in the background and somebody sleeping on a puffy-pillowed recliner. Then the hand quickly reached up and grabbed my chin hairs and brought me down to about four feet nine inches.

Mr. Quiet, a.k.a. Sittin’ B. Quiet, a.k.a. my second fifth-grade teacher, a.k.a. the ten-year-old, had a dollar and a dime in his other hand and a devious smile on his face.

Nice of you to join us, Wrinkles!

Yeah, said Spork as she patted me on the back with a real spatula. She must have upgraded from the fly swatter she used as a spatula in the past. Glad you could join us for the sleepover!

My showing up was a surprise, I said. I was trying to tell as much of the truth as I could and they probably knew it. Obviously, being there at Mr. Quiet’s house on the same night as his sleepover was a surprise to me. But, I mean, I’d rather have been at home playing video games and eating chocolate covered nachos with blue cheese dressing.

Yeah, right, said Mr. Quiet with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Wrinkles and Spork, come on in. Welcome! Make yourselves at home! Mi casa, votre maison! (Was that Spanish and French for My house, your home?")

Spork walked into the television room and made a quick right. I thought she would pause to look at the show, but maybe she had already watched that episode 1,000 times. Knowing her, she probably went straight to the kitchen to see where the real action takes place.

Meanwhile, I stood in the doorway with my hand out, waiting for Mr. Quiet to pay me for the pizzas. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He cleared his throat to get mine.

I said, Mr. Quiet, I’m going to need to get paid for these pizzas.

Not a problem. Here’s a dollar and a tip.

He low-fived the money into my hand and went to grab the pizzas.

I held them over my head and said, Mr. Quiet, where is the rest of the dough? You’re a little short. You might want to go ask your parents for the rest of the money.

What did I say that for? The kick in my shin brought me right back down to fifty-seven inches short and Mr. Quiet quickly removing the pizzas out of my hand.

"I’m sorry about that, Wrinkles. You had a mosquito on your leg. I was just helping you out. Those