15 IS A VERY RUDE NUMBER
The next day, Jaq stopped at the Pests-B-Gone Emporium on his way home from school. (The one in the marketplace, not the one out by the hushware factory.) Mostly, he wanted to avoid Tormy on the road home, but he also wanted to see the freasels.
He'd wanted a freasel ever since he'd heard the name, with its cuddly free sound that tasted like pasta smothered with melted cheese. Even looking at the word on the wall gave him a warm feeling inside, until he saw the price.
The freasels were 15 damars each. 15 is an obscenely tall and smug number. It's the kind of number that doesn't care if it hurts your feelings. To the people of Yipsmix, every number has its own personality, which is why they take great care in using them. By pricing the freasels at an arrogant 15, Pests-B-Gone was saying, These animals are too fabulous for the likes of you. And that made people want them even more.
Jaq sighed. He couldn't afford a freasel. He couldn't even afford a pair of extra-thick socks to protect his ankles, and they only cost a cheerful 2 damars each. The best he could hope for was some free advice on how to control the nasty biters. Lucky for him, Pests-B-Gone had a help desk, so Jaq got in line behind two farmers. He listened as they talked about their own pest problems.
"My winnowberry vines are covered with caterpokers," the first farmer said. "They're destroying my crop. I can't get rid of them."
"You can pluck 'em off with tweezers," the second farmer said. "It's tedious, but if you get rid of the queen, the rest will die. Me, I got critter moles that are eating up all my green leafies."
"My aunt had critter moles," said the first. "She tried everything—traps, poisons, nets. Nothing worked. Someone suggested getting a giant fang-toothed worm, and let me tell you, that did the trick."
"What happened?"
"The worm devoured those critter moles. Just ate 'em all up. Did a splendid job of aerating her soil, too. As soon as the field was clear, the worm's handler lured it out with some fresh meat, and her fields were ready for planting."
"Sounds expensive."
"It was a few hundred damars past expensive, my friend."
The men seemed knowledgeable, so Jaq decided to ask them for advice. "Are you talking about garden pests? 'Cause I got a bad case of wippers, and I don't know how to get rid of them."
The two farmers bolted away from Jaq as fast as they could run, which might seem rude, but they didn't even want to hear the word wipper for fear of Contagion by Mention, which is a thing on Yipsmix. You overhear someone talk about something, and before you know it, you've caught it, too.
Jaq watched them leave and shrugged. At least he was at the front of the line now. He stepped forward, and the woman behind the desk looked at him with her eyebrows raised. Jaq leaned in and whispered, "I've got … you know," and he reached down and pinched his ankles. "And they tease me."
The woman nodded. "These freasels have all been trained to sling the … you-know-whats."
"I can't afford them."
"We have some extra-thick socks to protect your ankles," she offered.
But Jaq didn't hear her. He was still gazing at the freasels. Their glossy fur, the little chirp sounds they made, the way their long bodies looked like tightly wound springs. He stood there for a few minutes, until he felt the woman watching him.
He shrugged and turned to go.
"Wait," she said, coming around the counter. "I shouldn't be telling you this—my boss doesn't like me sending customers away—but there's a guy I know. His freasel just had a litter of frips. One of them is a runt, and he says he's going to let it die. I told him he couldn't, and he told me if I wanted to save it, I had to take it. But I can't bring home any more animals. Here." She wrote down his address. "Tell him Kithorly sent you."
A huge smile burst across Jaq's face. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you so much!"
"He's just a runt," Jaq said as he showed the tiny creature to his mother and grandfather. "A farmer was going to let him die. He might not even survive."
"Jaq!" His mother was angry; he could tell by the way red splotches appeared on her neck. "I told you, no pets!"
"I'll feed him myself," Jaq said. "You won't have to do anything. Mom, please. Please let me keep him. You know I wouldn't say please unless it was really important." The word please had a sweet, oily taste. It was the kind of word that got really annoying if it was used too much.
"He won't live through the night," Grandpa predicted. "Sorry, kiddo."
"Please," he said again, wincing. "I'll never ask for anything again."
"Darn it, Jaq," his mother said. "I wish I didn't have to come home to more problems. I have enough of them at work."
"Please, Mom," Jaq said. "Having a freasel—it's my dream come true."
"I dream of getting my land back from that farm-stealing Ripley Vilcot," said Grandpa. "But a little pet is nice, too, I guess."
The baby freasel was so small and frail that Jaq was afraid to touch him. He scooped up the little frip as if he were picking up a thin-shelled rickle egg, the kind that cracks if you so much as breathe on it.
He was so beautiful, with reddish-brown fur, a white belly, four stubby little legs, and two arm buds popping out of his front shoulders. So tiny!
Jaq's chest filled up, up, up with joy.
"What are you going to name him?" Grandpa asked, leaning in for a look.
"Klingdux," Jaq said. He'd had the name picked out forever.
"Like the superhero?" Grandpa said. "Good choice."
Jaq didn't sleep a wink that night; he sat up watching Klingdux, willing the tiny creature to keep breathing.
"You're a superhero, little buddy," he whispered. "You're stronger than anything."
He dripped milk into Klingdux's mouth from a spoon whenever his new pet woke up, but mostly the little critter slept.
Live, Jaq begged. Please live.
