The Great Peach Experiment 1, Erin Downing [books to read romance .TXT] 📗

they lunged and karate-kicked each other in the grassy space along the side of the road. Herb’s tummy troubles seemed to have improved after Lucy had ordered him a turkey sandwich at Betty’s Pies.

While they battled, Freddy spouted off a collection of random facts about mice: “Did you know there are thirty-eight known species of mice? They’re usually nocturnal, so they prefer to play at night. Also, their teeth never stop growing. Never, Herb. So if your mice don’t get enough stuff to chew on, they could grow vampire teeth that stick out of their mouths and then they’ll eat us all in our sleep.” Lucy found it fascinating that Freddy was an endless fountain of useless facts about nearly everything. She listened as he rambled on. “Did you know mice can squeeze through a gap that’s only as wide as a pencil? In some parts of the world, mice are considered a special treat, and people eat them for protein.”

When she’d finally had enough of her brother’s mouse facts, Lucy called out, “What seems to be the trouble, Dad?”

“Well,” Dad replied, “I think I’m going to need to do a bit of preliminary research and see if we can identify the problem.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. Her dad approached nearly every problem using the scientific method:

1. Ask a question.

2. Do background research.

3. Construct a hypothesis.

4. Test with an experiment.

5. Is the procedure working? If not, repeat steps 1–4. If yes, carry on.

6. Analyze data and draw conclusions.

7. Do the results align with the hypothesis?

8. Analyze and communicate results.

This process was great for lab work. But she’d found that this approach didn’t always allow her father to bend and flex enough when faced with real-world challenges. Through the side window, Lucy could see her dad scanning every inch of the truck. “I don’t think it’s a belt,” he muttered. Lucy rolled her eyes. She was pretty certain her dad knew absolutely nothing about the inner workings of food trucks, or even cars—real or toy.

“It doesn’t look like we hit an animal,” he mused. “My guess is, our problem is a tire,” Dad said, stating his hypothesis.

“Bingo,” Lucy whispered. She paged through the truck’s manual, which she found in the glove box, and discovered that the spare tire ought to be tucked inside a special compartment in the floor at the back of the truck.

Dad paced back and forth, using a little silver pressure gauge to test each of the tires. Judging from the way the truck had bumped and thumped before they pulled over, Lucy knew one of the tires probably looked pretty flat and he likely didn’t even need to check the pressure to see where the problem was—but her dad wasn’t the type to make assumptions without gathering evidence. He would, it seemed, buy a food truck on a lark, but that was a whole other ball of wax.

“Aha!” Dad cried out finally. “I believe the problem is our front right tire.”

Lucy giggled. “A solid hypothesis,” she muttered.

Dad stood stock-still, staring at the front of the truck for a very long time. “How are we going to fix this?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe we should call someone?” Freddy suggested.

“That’s expensive and cuts into our summer earnings,” Dad said, stroking his chin. “Perhaps we could try patching it?” He hemmed and hawed, then said, “Worth a try.”

He began riffling through the truck, apparently trying to find something he could use to try to patch the tire. He came up empty-handed. Another ten minutes passed, during which he stared at the truck without testing any solutions at all. “Maybe I should just try driving on it, to see if it’s still causing problems?” he finally said.

“Can I pee out here in the grass?” Herb hollered, but got no answer.

Lucy realized they would very likely be stuck on the side of the road for the next six days if someone didn’t step in and do something. She realized she had a choice to make: she could help her mixed-up mess of a family, or let everything fall apart again.

Lucy set her book to the side and hopped out of the truck.

“Lucy! Do you have a hypothesis?” Dad asked. “I think it’s the tire. But I haven’t been able to gather quite enough data to draw a full conclusion and solve the problem.”

“Sometimes,” Lucy answered through gritted teeth, “a flat tire is just a flat tire.” Then she popped open the truck’s big back door, dragged the enormous spare out of its hiding spot, and got to work.

From the Sketchbook of Freddy Peach:

HOW TO SPEND A MILLION DOLLARS

When I’m a millionaire, I’m going to have a private pool for Herb (and me) that is bigger and better than the snooty country club pool. With waterslides! Fountains! A swim-up ice cream bar! Live music! Underwater TVs!

How Dad spent Mom’s million? On a busted food truck.

Dear Great Aunt Lucinda,

This food truck experiment—it’s crazy, right? Do I need to worry that Dad has gone totally nuts? I know you can’t actually answer any of my questions (since we don’t have an address you can write back to, and Dad won’t let us use his phone—it’s for “work and roadside emergencies only”), but I’ll keep writing you old-fashioned postcards from our trip, so you can maybe send help if it seems like we really need it. Has Dasher stolen and buried any of your wigs again lately? Haha!

Much love,

Lucy

8

  HERB’S COLLECTION

They had been away from home less than a day, but Herb already missed his stuff. For the past few years—almost as far back as he could remember, really—Herb had been cultivating a special collection of treasures that he watched over and cherished. It was his garden of goodies. His mound of magic. His pile of precious.

Freddy too often told Herb his stuff was just junk.

Lucy had told him he’d created a fire hazard.

But Herb loved and carefully guarded every last item in his collection. There were nearly two