Super Secret Club: Nightmare Cousins

     In the garden of number forty eight, Rainbow Lane, Neopia Central, stands a tree house. But this is not just any treehouse. This treehouse is the headquarters of the Super Secret Club. It’s Super (of course) and Secret (naturally) and the Club risk their lives on difficult, dangerous missions, like retrieving the ball that fell into Mrs-Jenkins-Next-Door’s garden, and taming the wild Warf that somehow managed to crawl through the hedge. There’s no mission too big, no task too terrifying. They will work tirelessly to ensure that justice prevails in the garden. Until nap time, that is.

     It is a beautiful late spring morning in Neopia Central. Flowers have sprouted up from every surface. Mallards and Beekadoodles compete with each other to see who can sing the most cheerily (the Beekadoodles have a week-long winning streak. The Mallards, understandably, are not at all cheery about this development). The sun casts its rays over the tops of the rows of houses, warming the soon-to-be bustling capital of Neopia.

     At this time, there is nobody in sight, save for two familiar figures strolling down the path to number forty eight. Vyla and Taros have trod this route for so long now that nobody thinks it odd for two children their age to be out and about this early in the morning.

     The two chat good-naturedly about the horrific science test that their teacher had set them the previous day. Taros is convinced that said teacher is in fact a cyborg sent to infiltrate their school.

     “Nobody normal could come up with questions like that.” He reasons to Vyla with utmost seriousness.

     “I’m sure you’ve actually done a lot better than you’re letting on. “ Vyla counters. She’s too proud to admit it, but she’s fully aware that Taros is far more studious than her. If he had trouble with the test, then she might as well drop out of school there and then.

     By now, the two of them have reached the ever so slightly crooked gate in front of their youngest friend’s house. It takes them a moment to realise that there is no shout of excitement as they make their entrance, or the sound of tiny feet on the path, racing out to meet them.

     Something must be very wrong.

     Frowning, they march down the pathway to the front door. Taros knocks on the solid wood with his large paw. After a few moments, it is opened, not by their pint-sized pal, but his Mama.

     “Hey there, guys.” She greets them. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

     Vyla and Taros make assorted noises of agreement. “Where’s Al today?” Taros asks concernedly. “He’s not sick or anything, is he?”

     “Oh no, not at all.” She laughs, pointing over her shoulder. “In the living room…but be warned, he’s not in the best of moods.”

     The pair gulp in unison: A grumpy Al is not a nice sight to see.

     Eventually, they pluck up the courage to walk inside, tiptoeing through to where Mama’s directed them.

     The room is a mess, with crumpled pieces of paper decorating the floor, interspersed with the occasional building block. An array of crayons lies carelessly atop the radiator, slowly melting onto the carpet in technicolour rivulets. A toy car has somehow found its way into the Goldy bowl, floating upside-down whilst the original resident skirts nervously around it.

     In the centre of the carnage, with his face buried in a cushion shaped like a cookie, is Al.

     “Whoa , buddy.” Taros squats down beside him, whilst Vyla begins to tidy up the worst of the mess. “Why aren’t you outside playing?”

     “Don’t wanna.” The baby Grundo grumbles into the cushion.

     “But it’s a lovely day outside, pal. You love sunny days.”

     “Don’t wanna!” Al repeats, much louder.

     “Al, I don’t like seeing you upset. What’s happened?”

     “Hmph…” Al replies. Somehow, Taros doesn’t think he’ll be getting an answer.

     He looks over to Mama, who has just entered the room to survey the carnage that her baby boy has caused.

     “I can explain.” She tells him with a sigh, plucking the car from the Goldy bowl. “My sister’s invited herself over.”

     “Oh?” Vyla looks up in interest: Mama doesn’t often mention her sister. “Isn’t she nice?”

     “She’s….” Mama pauses, struggling to find a word that won’t sound offensive. “All right, I suppose.”

     “Does she have any pets?” Taros asks, still sat beside Al’s despondent form.

     At the mention of the word ‘pets’ Al emits a sudden, loud groan.

     Taros takes that as a ‘yes’.

     “There are three of them. Two are around your age. They’re a bit snooty, but you can hardly blame them, coming from a rich family.”

     “And the other one?”

     “A big meanie!” Al shouts, finally sitting up.

     “Al, don’t say that, it isn’t polite.” Mama chides him. “Although, I don’t disagree.”

     Al grins toothily, whilst Vyla asks. “What does his cousin do?”

     “It’s more about what she doesn’t do. She’s far too perfect a baby. Never seems to do anything wrong, at least not when her mother’s in the room.”

     “But she’s a bad, bad baby!” Al finishes for her. “She broke my san’castle, an’ pulled up all the flowers, an’ ate all my cookies, an’…”

     “Yes, Al, I think we get the idea.” Vyla smirks. “But why were all your toys on the floor?”

     “I made a whole bunch ‘o mess so we can scare ‘em away.” He explains, making it sound like the most logical thing in the world. “Mama’s sister don’t like things bein’ untidy.”

     The Super Secret Club (and Mama) decide to stick around for a while, just in case the cousins get past Al’s cleverly designed trap. It’s not long before the distinctive sounds of three pairs of feet clomp their way up the path. Al suddenly grows nervous.

     “No no no!” He cries. “I don’t want ‘em here! Make ‘em go away, Mama!”

     His shouting comes to no avail, as moments later, fierce knocking can be heard on the door. Mama reluctantly goes to answer it. Vyla stands in the doorway, watching as she accepts an uncomfortable hug from her sister.

     The three cousins are herded into the sitting room, whilst Mama and her sister head to the kitchen to begin a lengthy chat. A Royalboy Acara leads the way, wrinkling his nose at the décor of the sitting room. He’s closely followed by a Royalgirl Cybunny, who steps primly over the collection of toys left on the floor, as though they’re contaminated. She holds what looks like a baby Usul, although it’s hard to tell, since the pet in question is bedecked in hundreds of ribbons and bows.

     The cousins perch on the edge of the sofa opposite the Super Secret Club. Al scowls over at them, his pudgy arms folded.

     “Well.” The Acara begins at length. “I’d almost forgotten how common you were.”

     Vyla’s opinion of the boy plummets from wariness to instant dislike.

     “Al’s Mama may not be as rich as yours, but I’ll bet she works twice as hard.” She hisses.

     “Oh?” The Cybunny replies, affronted. And what is it that your mother does?”

     “Mama writes stories for the Neopian Times, an’ draws pretty pictures sometimes.”

     “Really?” Taros can see through their supposed interest instantly. “How many of these stories have been published?”

     “Four.” Al shows them four of his stubby fingers. “That’s a real big number.”

     “Is not.” The Usul squeaks.

     “Is too.” Al replies fiercely.

     “Is not. My Mama’s won the Beauty Contest fifteen times.”

     “Well…My Mama’s won a trophy for Better Than You!”

     “My Mama’s got fifty trophies in her cabinet.”

     “My Mama’s the best in the whole wide world!”

     “No, Mine’s the best!”

     “Mine!”

     “Mine!”

     “MINE!” The baby Usul screeches so loudly that the windows seem to rattle in their panes.

     Al knows when he’s lost an argument. He huffs in disappointment. “Come on, Super Secret Club, let’s go to the treehouse.”

     He grabs Vyla’s hand, marching outside. Taros runs after them.

     The Super Secret Club sits morosely in the treehouse. Al stomps around, making the floorboards creak.

     “We gotta get rid of ‘em.” He growls. “They’re ruinin’ ev’rythin’!”

     “But what should we do, Al?” Taros asks. “They’re not gonna go home for ages.”

     “Hmmm…” Al twiddles his antennae. “What don’t meanies like?”

     “Being told they’re wrong?” Vyla suggests.

     “Already tried that.” Taros reminds her. “Getting told off?”

     “Like we’d be believed if we told on them.” Vyla sighs. “This is hard. Got any ideas, Al?”

     “What if we’re sick? They’ll have to go home!”

     “That’s a great idea,” Taros enthuses. “But there’s one small problem: We’re not sick, are we?”

     “Oh…” Al murmurs, looking defeated.

     “We don’t have to actually be sick, though.” Vyla responds thoughtfully. If we just made it look like we were, then they might be fooled.”

     “How we gonna do that,Vyla?” Al pipes up, excited once more.

     “Luckily, I paid attention in Biology class…” the Techo smirks. “Lend us your crayons, Al?”

     The Super Secret Club return to the house several minutes later, eager to show off their new look: They are now covered in rather realistic yellow spots. After meticulous coaching from Vyla, they now adopt thoroughly miserable expressions, dragging their feet as they make their way into the kitchen.

     “Mama.” Al greets her weakly. “I don’t feel good.”

     He decides to cough loudly for good measure. Taros catches Mama’s eye, and a look of understanding passes between them.

     “Nor me.” Vyla puts in, with an exaggerated sneeze. “I dunno what it could be.”

     “Well.” Mama replies gravely. “It looks like a bad case of the Lumps to me.”

     “The Lumps?” Mama’s sister exclaims, looking horrified. “That’s contagious, isn’t it?”

     “Oh, yes.” She confirms breezily. “Even being in the same room as someone with the Lumps can cause immediate infection.”

     “And you let bring my pets here, knowing that they could become ill? How could you, Alice?”

     “They didn’t seem too bad this morning, honestly.” She winks at Vyla, who suppresses a laugh. “But I suppose you’ll want to be leaving now?”

     “You certainly won’t be seeing me again any time soon!” she agrees hysterically. “Children,we’re leaving this instant!”

     The cousins troop through to the kitchen, forming a neat line behind their mother. They shoot identical looks of dislike at the Super Spotty Secret Club, neglecting to even say goodbye as they are shepherded out the door, which slams shut with a wonderful air of finality.

     “Mama?” Al whispers to her, almost shyly. “I’m not really sick.”

     “I know you’re not, you daft boy. Come here.” She scoops the giggling Grundo into her arms.

     “You’re the best Mama in the world,” Al tells her quietly. “Even though you’re not rich.”

     “And you’re the best pet in the whole world,” Mama replies. “Even though you’re covered in yellow spots. Come on, let’s get you all cleaned up.”

The End.