Portia's Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship

by Anna Hays

  Misty stares into my eyes and declares, “I have a case for you to solve. It’s about a very close friend of mine who is in desperate trouble.”

  I don’t even blink. “Sorry, Misty. I’ve got a major case on my hands that still needs solving.”

  Wearing every emotion on her face, including sad, worried, excited, and anxious, Misty plows ahead. “It’s only someone’s life at stake!”

  After a long pause followed by an ocean of anticipation, I ask her, “Are you serious?”

  Then the bell rings.

  Misty completely ignores it. “Yes! Detective Avatar, would you leave a friend out in the cold? I know you better than that.”

  QUESTION: Has Misty checked the weather lately?

  IMPORTANT NOTE: Since the wildfires have decided to make their unwanted entrance to Palmville, the temperature is way hot, hovering around the high nineties. It’s not cold in the least, not even with air-conditioning. And besides, Misty doesn’t “know” Portia Avatar. I’ve spoken maybe twenty-five words to her. But I must admit, this new girl is certainly different. Maybe because of her unusualness, the case might be worth pursuing.

  I find myself saying, “Let’s talk more about your ‘friend in need’ later at my mom’s restaurant, Contentment. I’ll be there after four.”

  Misty skips in place. “You mean you might actually consider the case? This is the most joyful news I’ve heard all century!” She stops skipping. “I forgot to tell you one thing. No one must know anything about this. It’s top secret.”

  I assure Misty that it’s my job as a girl detective to keep secrets. I’m a professional.

  She responds, “Absolutely, of course, for sure.”

  Chapter 3

  3:03 P.M., HALLWAY,

  PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  I load up my books, preparing myself for a long afternoon of homework. As I place one five-pound book after another into my knapsack, I wonder about the case that new girl had brought up earlier at lunch.

  QUESTIONS: What could it possibly be about? Who is the mysterious subject and what does she mean when she says a life is “at stake”? And why the big secret?

  I grab one of the magenta shoulder straps of my book bag and secure it under my arm, then feel around for the other strap, which is hanging just out of my reach. Suddenly Webster Holiday appears and hands me the strap. He gives me a half-moon smile. “Gravity can be so unkind, Miss Avatar.”

  FACT: Webster Holiday, age eleven (he skipped a grade), has the brightest green eyes in the entire five-mile radius of Palmville. He’s also super smart and possesses a sly sense of humor. Sometimes his jokes fly over me like a soaring California bald eagle, but most of the time, I get what he’s trying for, even if the punch line isn’t always delivered with absolute grace and precision.

  Adjusting the strap on my shoulder, I quietly say, “Thanks, Webster. Did you have even a vague idea of what Killjoy was talking about in class?” Forcing a laugh, I answered my own question. “Of course you did. You’re a total math genius.”

  Webster’s face remains 97 percent expressionless. “I’ve done the numbers and have determined that there’s a high probability that Killjoy’s math quiz will be sprung upon us in the next forty-two hours.”

  For some unknown reason, I get a major energy boost and continue on my word safari going nowhere. “I’m so not ready for it. Thanks for the warning, though. I know Miss K. is going to throw in some trick questions, and she always adds ridiculous bonus questions too.”

  I look around and notice there’s no Webster anywhere anymore. It’s just me talking to myself—with a surprise new guest. Miss Killjoy is standing right next to me. “Portia, is there something you want to discuss with me?”

  Embarrassment central! “No, Miss Killjoy. I’m perfectly fine. Webster was here, and…never mind.” Staring at my math textbook sitting on the top shelf of my locker, I decide to distract her from thinking too much about my peculiar behavior. “Wow, math is such a mind-boggling subject.”

  Miss K. smiles and responds, “I like to think so. Good afternoon, Portia!”

  Before she picks up on the fact that my sincerity meter is way down below zero, I break free of her piercing eyes and make a run for it, out the door, down the hill covered with painted desert flowers, past the straight line of tall, skinny palms, through a man-made stone path toward town. I head to my after-school job helping out at the dusty wonderland Trash and Treasures, Palmville’s one and only junk shop.

  My brisk walk to Trash and Treasures is accompanied by a sweet-sounding medley of Palmville’s finest bird residents. It’s true that all the birds are extremely happy here. They sing about this fact day and night. My guess is that this widely varied bird population, which includes wild parrots, mockingbirds, catbirds, and nightingales, enjoys living in Palmville because the weather is nearly perfect, except of course for major earthquakes, severe droughts, flash floods, and seasonal wildfires. Whenever we’re not experiencing a total natural disaster, life is pretty much blue skies and warm breezes.

  FACT: Palmville was hit by a five-alarm earthquake back in the fall. After overtime days and nights of hammering, sawing, measuring, and building, The Tent (and the rest of the town) is up and operating again, which makes my mom, and therefore me, very content. The dust has settled around town and the rebuilding is well underway, and in some situations, even complete. But there are still obvious signs of post-earthquake damage around town, like the overabundance of cracks in the sidewalks on Main Street and the slanted steps leading up to the front door of Hansel’s Hardware. But the only thing the weathermen (and women) report on these days are the crazy wildfires that lurk just outside town in the nearby canyons. It’s fire season, and it’s decided to arrive early this year.

  I rub my eyes as I walk toward Main Street. The dryness in the air is a possible clue that maybe the wildfires are getting closer than the weatherpeople report on the news. I immediately erase that thought from my brain and instead weave through all the shortcuts I know by heart until I arrive just below the hand-painted sign that hangs at the entrance of Trash and Treasures.

  3:24 P.M.,

  TRASH AND TREASURES

  It’s always wisdom central with Trash and Treasures owner Vera Alloway. Her answers are usually questions. Her questions are almost always answers. And she makes you think in a way that doesn’t feel like homework.

  DESCRIPTION: Vera has a definite personal style. Her year-round desert tan is accompanied by her salt-and-pepper short hair. The earrings she wears are created from broken pieces of gold and silver jewelry she handpicks herself from a treasure trove of long-forgotten heirlooms. Colorful clashing buttons are strung on a necklace created with two recycled chains skillfully clasped together. Her sandals are made of worn leather with long straps that tie around her ankles.

  Announcement! If you have anything in your house that you think is worthless, broken, or out-of-date, give it to Vera. She’ll make sure it’s fixed and transformed into something amazing. Every day she carefully polishes, paints, and glues together combinations of collectibles, wobbly furniture, and formerly extraneous knickknacks. Vera strongly believes in second chances, especially for discarded pieces of junk.

  Vera says she’s old enough to know. I’m pretty sure that means she’s sixty-three. I have reason to believe that she reads minds, too. She can always tell what’s on my mind before I even open my mouth. Even though Vera has been around since the last century, I’ve only gotten to know her over the past few months since the earthquake, when Indigo first volunteered my services at Trash and Treasures. At first it was, “Thanks, mom.” But as I got to know Vera and her mystical secret world of junk, not to mention her endless supply of more-than-decent advice, it quickly became, “THANKS, MOM!”

  I hear a muffled voice from Vera’s mysterious back room. “Care for a pomegranate, Ms. Avatar?” The voice belongs to Vera. It grows louder as I see her walk toward me, clutching a dozen torn prom dresses. She places them in a messy
pile next to me on the floor. “I never knew how heavy lace could be!” Then she hands me a pomegranate.

  I happily accept the offering. “Indigo is going to love this. I’m sure she’ll find a way to turn it into something ‘interesting.’ How did you know she was on a pomegranate mission?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Vera then directs me to the part of the store reserved strictly for music. Faded sheet music balances on shelves, crooked concert posters line the wall, and prehistoric audiocassettes fill the secondhand wood-paneled bookcases. Vera invites me to help her sort through a new shipment of vinyl records.

  NOTE: A vinyl record is a plastic round saucer the size of an average steering wheel that has music programmed onto it. As it spins around on this contraption called a turntable, the music plays with this never-ending scratching sound on every tune. I can’t believe people actually listened to songs this way and liked it! I totally feel sorry for them.

  Vera selects one of the vinyl records. On the cover is a photo of a woman with big hair named Patsy Cline. The title of the album is Sentimentally Yours, and the word “Heartaches” also appears on the cover. Vera carefully slips it out and places it on the turntable. The music plays at full volume. Vera smiles a rare smile, then does a shuffle as she reaches for her trusty measuring tape. It’s almost as if she’s dancing. She looks at me with squinty eyes. “What happened to your necklace?”

  I look down at the necklace I’m wearing today, a gift from Vera. The gold-plated shooting star hanging from a simple chain is now completely unrecognizable. “Ralphie did it! I swear I’m going to squish him the next time our paths cross!”

  Vera looks at me with a sparkle in her eyes. “That’s a pretty darn bold move, missy!”

  “You don’t understand. Ralphie has eight legs. Seven should serve him just fine!”

  Vera crinkles her nose like she’s got an itch.

  I then recount the strange adventure of Misty and her deceptive retainer case. I describe Misty’s cave-girl message to me about “being the one” and her out-of-the-blue-sky request for me to take on a new case featuring her alleged “friend in need.” The more I tell Vera this unusual tale, the more she insists, “This Misty chickie sounds like a live one! Taking on this new case will only help sharpen your detective skills. As I see it, it’s a no-lose situation, Ms. Avatar.”

  I look straight into Vera’s eyes. I can’t argue with her crystal-clear wisdom. I take a deep breath and then exhale. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I think you should know that I’m an incredibly busy person with miles of homework and a pop quiz on the way. I’m not sure there are enough hours, minutes, seconds, or even nanoseconds in the day or night to take on another case!”

  Vera says with the cosmic patience of an old lioness, “You’ll find a way.”

  She then disappears into the back office while I sort through recycled prom dresses to the scratchy country melody playing in the background. I decide to arrange the dresses by color instead of size, just to keep things entertaining. Almost an hour passes, and then the sound of a rooster’s crow from my PDA signals that it’s time to head off to Contentment. I lift the mechanical arm from the record player just at the point when Ms. Cline is singing about how she’s longing for a lost love who had blue eyes. I turn off the record player and shout good-bye in the direction of Vera’s office.

  Vera responds, “So long, Portia. You know that you’re on your way to a new discovery!”

  I’m still not sure if taking on Misty’s new mysterious case is the best timing. With some hesitation, I answer, “I hope so!”

  Before I leave, Vera adds, “I’ll see you next time. A new shipment of lamp shades is coming in on Wednesday. I’ll need some help sorting them.”

  “I’m there!” And just like that, with my knapsack back on over my shoulders and a pomegranate in one hand, I’m out the door.

  Under the Palmville sky, a handful of wild parrots flock from one tree to the next, chirping and flapping their way down the street, hovering just above me, like guardian angels, making sure I make the short trip to my mom’s restaurant safely.

  Chapter 4

  4:36 P.M.,

  CONTENTMENT (THE TENT )

  A wooden flute plays softly over the hidden speakers. The Tent’s renovation is nearly complete, except for a few touches. Hap wipes down the counter slowly and methodically, spacing out to the hypnotizing world fusion music over the speakers.

  DESCRIPTION: After the earthquake, The Tent was restored to its original state, except for the kitchen area, which now consists of new and shiny stainless steel appliances. When it was first redone over a month ago, everything felt so clean, like that new car smell that is always impossible to recreate no matter how hard air freshener companies try to do it. But, just like new car smell, it’s fleeting. So now, when I walk into The Tent, the scent of freshly ground curry has already seeped into the walls. And, today, just like every day starting at 8 a.m., organic free-trade coffee brews, filling the air with a rich coffee bean aroma that always reminds me of home, even though home is down the street and around the corner. Iced sun tea stews next to the open window near the front counter. Mismatched wooden tables purchased at neighboring flea markets are painted a rainbow of colors, inspired by the fruits and vegetables that grow in Indigo’s two gardens, one outside the back of the restaurant, and the other in our very own backyard at home.

  I’m just about to stir Hap from his zoned-out love-is-always-in-the-air state when Indigo enters from the back room, balancing a large hemp-woven basket filled with pomegranates. I notice that the pomegranates have a layer of dark dust on them.

  I ask Indigo, “What’s the latest news on the fires?”

  Responding with her calm, lavender-blended-with-rosemary voice, “Rock dropped by The Tent a little while ago and says the fires are 40 percent contained.”

  “Rock was visiting you? How does he come up with all this free time?”

  Smiling, Indigo continues, “He’s not that concerned, so you shouldn’t be either, sweet Portia.”

  IMPORTANT FACT: Rock Neruda is a really muscular Palmville firefighter who has befriended my mother. He came snooping around just after the earthquake, and from what I gather, there is potential for a romance between them, but it seems to be just beyond their reach.

  Indigo helps me take off my colossal knapsack, calling gently over to Hap, who is caught in a frozen stare with his eyes glued to her, “Why don’t we give Portia a preview of the pomegranate smoothies we were exploring today?”

  In a trembling voice, Hap manages, “Brilliant idea, Indigo.”

  My taste buds are not sure how brilliant the idea is yet, but I’m so hungry right now I could eat almost anything, including another one of Indigo’s latest experiments with pomegranates.

  My PDA then lights up, informing me that a new message has arrived. I check the sender, and it’s none other than Amy the Clamdigger inquiring about my whereabouts.

  To: pavatar@palmville.net

  From: mememe@palmville.net

  Excuse moi for asking, but I tried to find you after school and you were absolutely nowhere in sight. Fact or fiction: Were you with new girl? Just curious. BFF:) Amy

  I’m about to respond to Amy’s message when I notice an oddly shaped pendant swinging left to right in front of me. It belongs to Misty Longfellow. Her mouth sparkles from the purple-tinted full-on hardware wrapped around every tooth in her mouth. She looks around in awe. “Contentment is so utterly coolio! I cannot believe that you have the honor and privilege to come here whenever you want to and eat whatever you want to at this most specialicious paradise.”

  Hap notices my “new friend.” He graciously brings over two freshly blended pomegranate smoothies, handing each of us one. Misty is overjoyed, and she breathlessly thanks Hap. “This is incredibly awesome!” She clutches the tall drink in her hands and takes a giant gulp of the magic pomegranate potion.

  Moving slowly to an imaginary song, Misty barely holds on to her frui
t drink while attempting a waltz. Slipping and sliding on the exposed wooden floor, she loses her balance, sending the pendant that was hanging around her neck across the dining tables to the other side of the room. She panics. “My Sweet Sunshine!” I watch as she carefully scoops up a mysterious miniature object, then places it inside her pendant. Her face looks 1,003 times more relaxed now. She sighs. “Welcome home, Sweet Sunshine!”

  I try to get to the bottom of this strange behavior. “That necklace is interesting.”

  Misty responds, “Sweet Sunshine likes it too! So comfy cozy. Want to see?” She carefully opens the pendant, revealing a three-legged grasshopper. “Sweet Sunshine, meet Portia Avatar.”

  I manage a lame “Hello” to the grasshopper, while making a mental note of Misty’s peculiar habit of carrying around small creeping and crawling insects.

  Misty confesses, “Sunshine is just one of my many friends in need. I can’t help myself. I see a grasshopper with three legs and I swear I hear her call out my name—Save me, Misty!’—and before I know it, she’s living in my latest fashion accessory.”

  While still figuring out why Misty is so rescue-crazy, I make an attempt to learn more about the new case. “So, this ‘friend’ of yours. What seems to be the trouble?”

  “What friend?”

  “Your friend. The one whose life is at stake?”

  “Maxwell!”

  Slowly I lean forward. “What seems to be Maxwell’s problem?”

  “It’s something you have to see for yourself.”

  I put on my best detective face but say nothing.

  IMPORTANT NOTE: Girl detectives must remember to wear their “detective” faces at all times, otherwise there’s a chance they could jeopardize their various cases. That means no displaying any obvious signs of emotion, including super excitement, extreme fear, and/or total confusion.