Droppington Place

By John D. Reinhart

It's a plot to murder William Shakespeare: to shut up the most annoying mouth in Queen Elizabeth's England.

And who better to silence the Bard than a copy of playwright Winchester Penrose - a homunculus, an alchemical duplicate, that will revert to the sawdust from whence it came after the deed is done?

Christopher Marlowe, Shakespeare's rival, thinks it's a capital plan, a perfect idea, right up until the sawdust man runs away with the sorcerer's spellbook, and chaos breaks loose.

Twenty-first century Byron Bishop gets pulled by the eyeball - yes, the eyeball - into the world created by the homunculus Penrose: a world made entirely of paper. Paper sky, paper streets, paper houses... even paper people - and right into the middle of this nefarious plot.

On the plus side, he finds Hailey Shen and Kyle Rodriguez, two of his friends from middle school, equally trapped.

On the negative side, they are equally trapped, and Penrose's sawdust head is filled with some radical ideas about right and wrong, and life and death.

And Byron's still sorting out his parents' divorce. He's got plenty to worry about on his own.

Will they ever escape from Penrose's magical clutches? Will they, too, get turned to paper? What happens to Shakespeare? Will Penrose every shut up?

Droppington Place free-wheels through time, flickering between the real and the magical, the dramatic and the adventurous, as Byron, Hailey and Kyle fight a crazy battle of wits, or perhaps a battle of crazy wits, to get home.

If you like playing with words, and if you like Shakespeare, you'll love this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John D. Reinhart
• Release date: Feb 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310384158

John D. Reinhart

John D Reinhart is the author of the novels The Adventures of a Sawdust Man and Marigold's End, plus two more novels currently under wraps. He's the host at California Air Museums, a YouTube channel and website dedicated to encouraging young parents to bring their and explore kids to this untapped technological resource. He's the editor and author of SkippityWhistles.com, a friendly, easy-peasy how-to site designed to help younger adults handle the issues of old-school technology. He's a technical writer/illustrator who delights in teasing meaning out of the arcane, translating engineering complexities into everyday English, and creating helpful illustrations when needed. He's crafted everything from business resumption plans to DIY guides. He has a deep fascination with naval history, and builds model ships in his very few moments of spare time. He is equally fascinated by California's wild and windswept Channel Islands, which happen to be a two-hour boat ride from his home office. He's also a voice actor with literally hundreds of credits to his name, who's studied with the very best in the business, including the legendary Mel Blanc, and an accomplished theatrical actor.. His makes his home in an "upscale surfer town near Santa Barbara," (according to New Yorker Magazine) with his wonderful wife. three dogs, cat, and whichever of his three adult children happens to be home at the moment. 

Book preview

Chapter 1:  Byronia

Twelve-year-old Byron walked the four blocks home, straight down Lupine Street, exactly as he and Mom had rehearsed it five times over the weekend, from school to the new house.

Don’t talk to strangers, she had told him, don’t look anybody in the face. Just come straight home. Don’t cross the street if you don’t have to. We’re new here, and it’s easy to get lost.

And avoid all bullies, he nodded.

That’s perfectly ridiculous, she replied quickly.

Still, he glanced nervously around him to make sure that what’s his name... Kyle... that Kyle wasn’t waiting for him. That Kyle kid, boy, what a thug that kid was.

He didn’t want to think about his first day at the new school - about how mean the kids at N.O. Nelson Middle School had been to him. That kid Kyle was in every class. And Kyle made a joke about him in every class. String bean, spaghetti boy, dipstick.

Hey, Dipwad, Kyle said when they sat down in fifth period. I thought somebody stepped in poop. Turned out it was just you. Everyone at the table roared at that. The teacher didn’t hear it.

Byron’s eyes stung a little at that one. Never in his life had anyone said that kind of thing to him. Or tripped him on purpose. Or punched him square in the middle of his back during math class.

Excuse me, Byron had raised his hand in sixth period.

Yes, uh, Byron? Mr. Hobson, the bald math teacher answered from his desk. They were supposed to be doing problems from their books.

Kyle just punched me in the back, Byron said firmly. He had hoped to nip this bully thing in the bud by reporting it to the proper authorities.

What? I did not! Kyle roared.

Let’s keep our hands to ourselves, ladies and gentlemen, Hobson answered and went back to his work.

That was it. No don’t you dare touch that fine young man!. No Kyle, you are suspended!. Nothing of the sort. Just a simple blank statement.

You are so dead, pencil boy, Kyle whispered fiercely. After school.

That kid Kyle had completely evaporated any of the good feelings he might still have held from the meeting of the tiny Origami Magic Club. Kyle’d even been rude in that.  The walk home was mercifully Kyle-free. But Byron shook his head sadly. Tomorrow would not be.

Four blocks.

The house in the middle of the second block presented a big problem. It didn’t seem like a problem, until he got to the edge of a chain link fence that stretched right out to the sidewalk. He approached it thinking about Kyle, and hoping he wasn’t behind the fence.

BROOOOOWR!

The fence lurched and shook as a huge brown dog, almost as tall as Byron, jumped angrily at him. The thing snapped and snapped and snapped, growling between vicious barks, flinging a shower of angry white slobber like a fountain over the fence, over the sidewalk, and over Byron himself.

The beast leapt against the fence, snapping its jaws like an alligator. The fence rattled and shook, and looked as if it might just fall down under the huge animal’s weight. The monster’s big black eyes glared at him like he was a big juicy steak.

Byron had no choice but to run into the street, around the yellow Toyota truck and the old Mustang with the patchy blue paint, and up the driveway on the other side of the yard. The monstrous dog bellowed and snarled at him, frothy white slobber flipping into the air like a volcano.

Byron ran all the way to the corner before daring to turn around and look at the beast. The thing still frothed and slobbered and bayed like a possessed demon. There was no doubt about it: that second block was a problem.

The hellhound’s deep-throated roar haunted him as he walked up the third and final block. The houses here were nice enough, surrounded by bushes, trees poking up through nice, green lawns.

He stopped at James Street, waiting patiently until all of the cars had passed, just like Mom said.

Wait until all of the cars have passed. Then, look both ways before stepping off the curb.

Mom, I’m in sixth grade, not kindergarten.

He looked carefully both ways before stepping off of the curb.

He didn’t think much of their little rented bungalow, the second house in from the corner of James and Ralston streets, with its dark green clapboard and chocolate brown trim – it reminded him of gingerbread, sort of. Moldy old gingerbread.

He leapt right over the three wooden steps in front of the porch and banged the screen door shut behind him, tossing his backpack on the dining room table.

Don’t bang the screen! Mom called from the living room.

The TV blared a musical movie – he recognized a song from The Music Man. He and Mom had once spent countless hours watching the glorious Hollywood musicals, over and over again, when he was a little younger. He lost interest eventually, but Mom remained glued to the TV, forever watching the singing cowboys, the singing gangsters, the singing orphans.

Hi, Mom, he called and headed for the sanctity of his room.

Put your gym clothes in the laundry, she said absently.

Byron shook his head in disbelief. He hadn’t been issued gym clothes yet – it was just his first day of sixth grade. He decided not to tell her about getting tripped, about everyone laughing at him, about ripping his pants. About Kyle. It had been a perfectly awful day in a perfectly awful school.

Or about that monstrous dog that hadn’t been there on the weekend. He didn’t want to tell her that.

She wouldn’t pay attention anyway. She was so absorbed in The Music Man she hadn’t even turned a light on in the house. The stuffy living room smelled of cigarettes and sweat.

He hurried down the dark hall and into his bedroom, the sound of seventy-six trombones echoing behind him, and quickly pushed the door open.

The other house, that little tiny place in Glendale, had been so small that he’d had only a screened-in porch for his room, and an old army cot for a bed. Here he had his own room.

It smelled like moldy plaster, and one of the two windows had a big piece of wood over it, and the other looked over the alley that ran behind the house, and the ceiling had a big water stain on it. But at least it was his own room.

The mid-September sunshine poured in profoundly through the one window that didn’t have the boards, and added a subtle, oh-so-realistic illumination to the kingdom of Byronia.

Byronia – his enormous collection of paper buildings and model kits. The buildings were everywhere. Lined up along the edge of his table, along the brick-and-board bookshelves, along the windowsills, even arranged carefully in a small community on the floor, models of every imaginable kind of building glowed warmly in the gentle sunlight.  Cathedrals, clapboard houses, railroad stations, medieval castles, churches, and museums lined up next to sailing ships, air ships, and model railroad cars. He had collected and built paper kits of every kind for years.

He paused in the doorway, enjoying the way the sun threw the shadows of the cathedral on the windowsill across the Hamburg Bahnhoff on the floor. Sometimes they looked so real. Nothing bothered Byronia. It was free from bullies and giant dogs, and sulky moms.

Sitting down on the bed with a sigh, he reached up above the battered bookshelf that served as his headboard and pulled down The Book.

Arvy Tassoupolous gave it to him as a going away present when Byron left Glendale, and he’d scarcely had time to look at it.  The first time he’d seen it, Byron had hoped that Arvy hadn’t stolen it – Arvy sometimes showed up at recess with what he called his unusual finds. Once he had a bottle of perfume that smelled awful. Once he had some magazines with naked women in them. Once he had a fake knife that sure looked real.

Last Friday afternoon, when Mom sat, large and tired, in the driver’s seat of the messed up old Volvo, with all their stuff crammed inside, Arvy showed up with The Book in a brown paper bag.

Byro, he called, running up the sidewalk as they backed out of the driveway. Wait!

Mom slammed on the squealing brakes, making the beat up station wagon groan to a halt.

I got you something. To remember me by, Arvy thrust the bag through Byron’s open window.

Cool, Byron said as he glanced at The Book quickly. Cool.

Mom let the brakes go, and the old car coasted down the rest of the driveway.

See ya, Byron called out to Arvy and waved. Arvy waved back. His eyes were red.

You’re my best friend!  Arvy called, waving and waving until Byron couldn’t see him anymore. He shoved The Book into his backpack quickly.

What’d he give you? Mom asked suspiciously. She never liked Arvy.

Just an empty paper bag, Byron answered easily. Look.

He held up the paper bag for her to see. Mom grunted, and they drove to their new house in silence.

Byron sighed at the thought of Arvy’s red eyes and looked carefully at The Book. They’d been so busy, with moving and getting ready for school and everything, that he hadn’t really had time to look at it.

Now, with this awful Monday behind him, he relaxed and looked at it carefully.

It was old. Like, really old. Like, from the 1800s. The brown cloth cover was faded at the corners and stained, but the title Amusing Cottages to Build and Enjoy, was easy to read, it’s golden letters sparkling cheerily in the autumnal sunlight.

The dog-eared, tattered pages glittered under his fingers, as if they were magically possessed. He gasped as page after page of beautiful houses, painted plates in stunning full color, drifted before his eyes. After each plate, each a double-spread painting of a house, came exquisitely detailed line drawings of the same house.

These almost look like... he muttered to himself and angled the book towards the light from the window. They are! 

They were kits.They were meant to be cut out of The Book and glued together. Sure enough, some of the drawn walls had little additional tabs at the corner, with the words Place Glue Here printed in tiny letters.

It’s a book of kits! Arvy, you’re a genius!

He sat back on the cot and considered The Book.

He thought suddenly of Jason Whitman – Arvy had read all of the books in the series, too. This would be a Jason Whitman moment – this discovery of The Book. It was almost like a clue.

I guess you’re supposed to cut these pages out, he muttered to himself, but nothing seems to be missing, no pages have been removed. Mr. Tassoupolous, this book is probably worth quite a bit, like an antique.

Not to worry, Arvy would reply like Bronson, Jason’s guardian. Just let me worry about that.

That meant he probably stole it.

Byron laid it down on the cot next to him and looked at it, wondering what to do. It was full of beautiful kits – the greatest additions to Byronia, ever!

Most of Byronia was made from kits he downloaded onto his computer, almost always for free. Downloaded, printed, and built, 1-2-3. If he messed something: no problem – just print another.

But The Book, this was different. Cutting The Book apart to build the kits seemed really wrong. It was such a fine old book. Obviously, no one had cut The Book apart before him.

But the houses in there were so beautiful. So... different. And what a waste if nobody built the kits.

He picked The Book up again and flipped through the pages. Each house, or cottage, as The Book called them, was named after a street. A big, elegant Tudor mansion was called Holmsby Drive.  There was a cheerful little white cottage with a big screened-in porch called Seaside Place. A masterful brick house with six chimneys was simply called Chelmsford. 

He stopped suddenly. There was Droppington Place – right in the middle of the book. Exactly the house Hailey had copied from her grandfather’s book and brought to Origami Magic Club.

That is just too weird, he whispered, running his eye over the badly drawn little house.  He thought about rummaging through his backpack for the copy Hailey had made, just to be sure, but realized sadly that he'd left his copy on the table for Mr. Sanchez to throw away. He sighed. What a day.

The only way to build the kit, which now obviously had to be built because it was just too much of a coincidence to think that Hailey’s grandfather had exactly the same book as he did, unless Arvy stole it from him, except that Arvy lived in Glendale and Hailey’s grandfather lived in Santa Barbara, so that wasn’t very likely...

He stopped, realizing he’d just been speaking perfectly out loud. He glanced around, waiting for somebody to notice. Someone coughed in the alley outside his window, and The Music Man still hummed from the living room. Phew.

No, the only way to build this kit now was to cut it out of The Book. It seemed such a shame to hack apart that fine old artwork, but, clearly, Droppington Place had to live. But how? He sighed again.

There is always a third answer, Jason Whitman would say. Look for a clue, find an answer. It’s never this or that, but the other.

A third option. How do you build the kit without destroying the book?

Duh.

He stood up quietly and picked up The Book, his heart suddenly beating with excitement.

When Mom used to try and sell houses, she had an office, and she always made a big deal about keeping her office ready for when she got back to work. It was the first thing they’d set up when they got to the gingerbread house, even before they had unpacked the stuff for his room. The Office.

She had a photocopier in her office.

He was Forbidden to use the office. Forbidden, with a capital F.

It’s not a playroom for you and your toys.

Mom, I’m in sixth grade, not kindergarten.

Forbidden.

The office was in her bedroom, right across the hall. Although the door was closed, it wouldn’t be too tough of a journey if he could just keep quiet. His door creaked loudly. He froze.

Marrrrr-ian, Henry Hill bellowed from the living room, the librarrrrrrrr-ian.

He stepped into the hall. Mom was still out there. The silhouette of her hair flickered weirdly in the light coming from the TV.

Her door wasn’t locked, but it creaked and groaned like it was going to fall off its hinges as he opened it.

He stood perfectly still in the hallway, waiting for her heavy footfall that meant she was coming down the