Frederik Sandwich and the Earthquake that Couldn't Possibly Be

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Copyright © 2018 by Kevin John Scott

Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover illustration © Gilbert Ford

Internal images © VectorPot/Shutterstock; Freepik

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Names: Scott, Kevin John, author.

Title: Frederik Sandwich and the earthquake that couldn't possibly be / Kevin John Scott.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, [2018] | Summary: A completely implausible earthquake sets Frederik Sandwich and Pernille, a mysterious stranger, on an adventure through secret and forbidden places in their small town.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017008281 | (13 : alk. paper)

Subjects: | CYAC: Adventure and adventurers--Fiction. | Underground areas--Fiction. | Earthquakes--Fiction. | Toleration--Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S336847 Fre 2018 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017008281

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgments

A Sneak Peek of Frederik Sandwich and the Mayor Who Lost Her Marbles

About the Author

Back Cover

For Milo and Sam

Prologue

Eleven Years before the Earthquake that Couldn’t Possibly Be

On Frederik’s Hill by King Frederik’s Garden Park there lived a boy named Frederik. His parents had simply run out of ideas, exhausted and overjoyed as they were in the aftermath of his birth, in Frederik’s Hospital, overlooking Frederik’s Shopping Mall, at the end of Frederik’s Street.

A boy, the midwife announced, and what other name was to hand?

On Frederik’s Hill that royal name was given to almost everything, and Mr. and Mrs. Sandwich didn’t wish to stand out, thank you, new to the country, neighbors eyeing them with suspicion. They wanted to blend in, shop in Frederik’s Fruit and Veg, sip coffee at Frederik’s Café while gazing across Frederik’s Square at the statue of King Frederik the Fifth—or was it the Fifteenth? No one quite recalled, there having been so many King Frederiks over the centuries in an orderly succession: Frederik, William, Frederik, William, like the ticktock of a clock. In the sprawling city beyond the Hill, the Williams were much preferred. Hence William’s Castle, William’s Wharf, and William’s Seaside Strand. But Frederik’s Hill rose above the city beyond and thought itself a trifle better, a separate borough with separate traditions despite having long been engulfed by the city beyond on every side. On Frederik’s Hill, for as long as anyone had set down records, the line of Frederiks was celebrated.

Mrs. Sandwich gazed at the baby’s folded-up face and tried to read some sign of who he might become, this miniscule mite, minutes old. She tried to think of something original. But history was against her, as she knew. Alfonso’s Apothecary had lasted a winter, but nobody had bought his remedies. Not with trusty Frederik’s Medicines just along Frederik’s Street. Locals had cured their sniffles with Frederik’s Medicines all their lives, despite the despot behind the counter, whose name wasn’t Frederik at all, by the way.

Balthazar’s Boulangerie went the same way, in business for a week or two, till the bread went bad and barely a toe had crossed the threshold. There were buns and loaves to be had around the corner at Frederik’s Breadsticks. Balthazar’s window offered riches in pastry and glaze, beautiful Berliners, scrumptious scones, cherries and nuts on top of everything. Frederik’s Breadsticks offered little that wasn’t dry and sorry and stale. But the name was dependable; the name could be trusted. The wares were immaterial.

The exhausted mother, hair matted against her forehead, held her wrinkled bag of a boy and peered through a misted window, and all she could see in any direction were Frederiks, Frederiks, and more Frederiks.

Have you thought of a name for your little boy? the midwife asked from the foot of the bed.

I can think of only one, she replied.

Chapter 1

Alone Alone

Fiddle-lick! Fiddle-lick Sore-itch!

"My name is Frederik, Frederik snapped. Frederik Sandwich." He was seething. Wanted to pop. It made him boiling mad and they knew it. A posse of predatory kids at the pedestrian crossing. Their lips twitched. Eyes moistened. Spit was sprayed. Sides were grasped—they were laughing, howling, uncontrollably. At him. Every one of them. Frederik Grevsen, Frederik Faurholt, Frederik Dahl Dalby, and not just the Frederiks either. Erik the Awkward. Erica Engel. Calamity Claus, his arm in a sling again. All of them. Hooting. It was always like this. He wanted to fold in on himself and disappear, be far away, have someone—anyone—be kind.

What’s so funny?

He never knew. Had never ever understood. Frederik was the single most common name on Frederik’s Hill.

"Fiddle-lick!" wailed Erica Engel.

Flipper-rack! Frederik Grevsen chortled.

They dabbed at their cheeks. Exchanged high fives. With everyone but him.

A sharp wind whipped along the long street. It made noses run like crazy. But was anyone mocking that? No! Just his name. Only his. And half of them had the same one!

This had been happening for years. To Frederik alone.

He was always alone.

And yet no one else was. The neighboring kids hung around in a great big pack of great big pals. Only Frederik was left out. And why? Was he any different than them? No! He had spent his early childhood doing the same as them: exploring, experimenting, nothing much on his mind beyond forward and backward and ooh, I wonder what’s under here. He had learned to walk like them and talk like them. In two different languages actually. And that was the one thing that seemed to set him apart. The one thing was the two languages. There was one for everyday outdoor usage and another his parents used at home. Nobody else understood that one, so he kept it quiet. He tried to mask any trace of his family’s peculiar accent. He spoke almost exactly like a local. He was a local. He had the most popular local name. So what, in fact, was so funny? What was their point?

Froller-rock!

Flabby-wreck!

"Stop it! That is not how I said it!"

The traffic lights changed. Dabbing their eyes, chuckling still, the neighbors peeled away, across the street, heading home, leaving Frederik by himself. Just like every day.

He had to follow after them. Home was that way. Buses and bicycles rumbled and rattled, ready to race away the moment the lights were green. The street was a canyon of orderly buildings stretching to the sunset. Old, plastered tenement blocks, six floors high. A thousand wood-framed windows reflecting a fire-red sky. He passed the duck pond, the blue house, and the yellow. Holding back. Humiliated. He caught the whispers of their laughter on the breeze.

Past Frederik’s Fruit and Veg. A glance through the window of Frederik’s Antiques.

And then all the children ahead of him stopped. Abruptly.

He hesitated. Stopped too. Didn’t want to get too close.

Across the street, outside the Café Grondal, well-dressed women huddled under blankets, sipping cocoa at ornate tables. Gretchen Grondal, proprietor, pillar of the community, busybody, paused from taking orders and peered at the children as if to say standing in the street is against the rules.

But the children didn’t care about the rules—not at that moment. For standing tall, very tall actually, outside the shop on the corner of his street, was the weird girl.

Frederik didn’t know her name. No one did, as far as he was aware, and given her appearance, it was probably unpronounceable. She lived right there, above the upholsterer’s workshop, a jumble of fabrics and furniture behind vast plate glass that reflected every passerby like a mirror, splashing sunlight in all directions when the weather was right. She had evidently just got home from school, though Frederik didn’t know which school she went to.

She didn’t speak. She eyed the watching children with open disdain. She examined a fingernail, twisted a few strands of her weird white hair in a knot, tossed her head, and turned away to her door.

The weird girl was weird.

Everyone said so.

She acted weird. Looked weird. Dressed weird. Therefore was weird. Hard to argue. Weird white hair. Weird skin too. Dark. Not just a tan from a skiing vacation or an evening or two in a tanning bed. Not that kind of dark. Something much more permanent. Something foreign. On Frederik’s Hill, foreign was definitely, definitively weird. The white hair could be local enough, but the dark skin, no. And the two did not go together.

The girl stepped quickly inside the upholsterer’s workshop. The door slammed behind her. The window rattled. Frederik watched her recede behind the shine of the glass. She merged with the shadows and was gone. Like a ghost.

Weirdo, said Erica Engel.

They should all be kicked out, my dad says, Erik the Awkward added. All the foreigners. And the whole group pivoted. Suddenly. To stare.

At Frederik.

He took a few steps back. A chill in his belly all over again. Yes, he said. He tried to laugh. It didn’t come out in the least bit convincingly. Maybe they should, he said and was instantly ashamed of himself for agreeing with bullies.

Who wants them? Frederik Dahl Dalby murmured.

What good are they? Frederik Faurholt.

Not welcome, Frederik Grevsen, under his breath.

"What do you think, Fiddle-rack?" Erica Engel sneered.

I don’t know, he said. I expect you’re right. She’s weird, that weird girl. Don’t you think? I think so. Definitely. Weird.

He was sweating. It wasn’t hot. He was shivering too, and it wasn’t cold, not for frosty Frederik’s Hill on a breezy spring afternoon. They would notice him sweating and shivering, and then it would get worse. He tried another chuckle but no one chuckled with him. All those faces, fair and freckled, a line of blue eyes, unblinking. Cold, blue eyes fixed on Frederik.

"I’m from here, he added, desperate now. From Frederik’s Hill."

A single snort of scorn from Erica Engel. Knowing looks among the boys.

Should all be kicked out, my dad says, Erik the Awkward muttered again, and they all moved a pace or two closer. Frederik stepped off the edge of the sidewalk to get around them, to get away. There were shouts from behind. A blizzard of bicycles whipping by, bells ringing furiously, harsh words, shaken fists. On Frederik’s Hill, there were hundreds of cyclists, thousands of them, everywhere. You never ever stepped off the sidewalk without looking. He had almost caused a horrific accident. He dropped his face in shame and ran for the corner, past the upholsterer’s, toward his house, a block away, where he could be alone alone.

Catch you tomorrow, Flabby-wick, someone called at his back.

He didn’t turn to find out who. Whoever it was, they were no friend of his. Frederik didn’t have a friend in the world. He had never understood why, though he knew it was somehow because of his name and the way he said it. And a little part of him, deep inside, longed to object, to shake things up, to really rock the boat—to stop them mimicking him and mocking him and making him miserable. But it wasn’t done. It wasn’t allowed. No matter how much a shake-up might be needed, a shake-up was the very last thing that could happen on sensible, rule-following Frederik’s Hill.

Chapter 2

The Earthquake that Couldn’t Possibly Be

At the age of eleven or thereabouts, Frederik suddenly woke up. Of course, he had awoken before at a whole range of ages, three for example, eight and a half, and everything in between on an orderly, daily basis. There was nothing unusual about awakening at the age of eleven apart from the violent shaking. The bed was shaking. Violently. Like an airplane in turbulence. The whole room. Rippling and shuddering. Frederik, at first, was unruffled. He had been asleep in a world of dreams where unusual things happen all the time, and this was another unusual thing and therefore entirely to be expected. Except he was awake. When Frederik worked that out, he became rapidly ruffled after all.

The room was dark. Through slats in the blinds, streetlights made stripes on the ceiling. The stripes were vibrating.

Aaaagh, said Frederik, to see if he could, to make sure this wasn’t one of those dreams where he thought he was awake but really wasn’t. But sure enough, the sound came out in a warble.

Aaaagh, he said again, and this time it wasn’t an experiment but a creeping doubt. Pictures clattered and the bed shook like a washing machine. How long had this been going on? A minute? More? He could still remember his dream and there had been no shaking—not till he awoke abruptly to find his bed on the move.

He tried to make sense of this unprecedented situation, not daring to budge. His room took up the top floor of a tall, narrow house. His parents slept four floors below in their basement bedroom—they found it cozy. Frederik meanwhile felt a glorious freedom up here in the rafters. He loved to lean from the balcony and stare over rooftops, between chimneys, tracking time by the clock tower that looked like a lighthouse but couldn’t possibly be because the sea was too far away. He could gaze at the stars through his telescope and feel like he was among them, part of a never-ending, orderly pattern. Up here, there were no unpleasant neighbors, no one he had to avoid. But tonight, all alone halfway to the sky with everything rattling, he felt for the first time entirely too far from the ground.

In the shadows, he could see only shapes—the end of the bed, the wardrobe. The silhouette of his precious telescope as it fell off its stand and rolled to the edge of the dresser. He reached out a hand in dread but was too far away. The telescope tipped, a dead weight of metal and delicate glass. It hit the hardwood floor with a thud and a tinkle of broken pieces. His most treasured possession!

Frantic, frightened, and fascinated, all on top of one another, he scrambled to get up and check outside. Hesitated—afraid of what might be out there. Tanks invading the streets and shaking the city off its foundations. No. Nothing like that had happened in generations. And tanks would be noisy. Beyond the rattling blinds and his property smashing, there was no sound. No far-off rumble, no nearby clatter. No thunder, no gunfire, and still the furniture jolted as though the building had been loaded on a truck and driven down an unpaved road.

There had to be a sensible explanation, and his next thought was an earthquake. But Frederik’s Hill was built on silt and sand and thousands of miles from anything so dramatic, a pimple on the lowest, dullest island of a stable, orderly nation. No faults,