“I can take a turn with the wagon,” Renée offers. I give her the handle. But it becomes trickier when Ping dives to nip at the wheels.
“Here, give it back.” Now I have a genius idea. I wind Pong’s leash through the handle and, still gripping the loop of it, allow Pong to do most of the pulling. Ping keeps nipping at the wheels, and it’s hard steering him and the wagon. But the school is only a block away. We should make it in plenty of time.
As Pong tugs the wagon around the corner back the way we came, near Mrs. Whittingham’s house, I tell Renée about her amazing Halloween display. “Wait till you see the doll in the swing. It’s so lifelike that …” My mouth drops open.
The yellow swing moves gently in the breeze, empty now.
“Guess she took it in,” Renée suggests. “Maybe it scared the little kids.”
“Her van isn’t back yet, though.” I try to look through the windows but the curtains are closed. “Her raven and tombstones are missing, too.”
“Early for Halloween, anyway,” Renée says.
“I just hope Mr. Rupert doesn’t blame me.” But I know he will. He saw me lifting that doll. And just like he will never let me forget that Pong pooped on his flowers, he won’t let this go, either.
“Why would he think you did this?”
“Because …” I don’t really want to explain, and at that moment, Ping starts growling, a rumbling, low big-dog kind of growl. Surprising from such a pipsqueak spring coil, really.
A woman in a bulky blue coat with an orange vest overtop approaches. She’s wearing dark sunglasses and a police-type cap. Her face is vampire white and her hair hangs down as flat and straight as a crow’s wings. At her side she carries a stop sign. Our new crossing guard — Madame X the kids call her because there’s a yellow X of reflective tape across the back of her orange safety vest.
The stop sign may be upsetting Ping. He doesn’t like buses, skateboards, people in hoodies or with packages and umbrellas, and now, I guess, women in bulky coats with stop signs.
Closer and closer she comes. I can’t tell if she notices us or not because of her sunglasses.
Ping’s rumbly growl sets Pong off. Suddenly, he jerks the wagon forward. The top bag of fish pitches to the side. I make a grab for it a second too late. The bag tumbles. Wooden fish blanks clatter everywhere.
Madame X raises her stop sign high. When it comes down, it will slice Pong right through. Ping barks hysterically.
Renée throws her arms out to protect the dog.
But Madame X drops to her knees, placing the sign down next to her. “Dare, dare, nice doggy.” She reaches out with her black-gloved fingers and pats Ping.
Ping drops even lower.
“I can geeve heem treat, yes?” She asks me, probably because I’m wearing my uniform, complete with our Noble Dog Walking paw print logo across the shirt pocket.
“Um, sure.”
“I’m meesing my own Jack Russell from when I was leetle girl.” She gives him a small milk bone. “Cheese flavour,” she tells him and then holds a bigger one out for Pong. “Bacon.”
Ping flips to his back and she strokes his belly.
Meanwhile, I stuff all the fish back into the bag.
“Eez good you took down those ugly feesh. They block my view and I can’t see dee keedies when I’m doing crossing.”
Mistake number three of the day goes to Madame X for thinking these wooden blanks are actually the painted ones used to decorate the fence around our kindergarten play area. Yes, I think it’s fair to count adults’ mistakes, too. They’re always quick to point out kids’ mistakes, after all.
I open my mouth to tell her these are fish blanks, not the painted ones from our school fence. At that moment a few notes of Beethoven’s Fifth plays from Renée’s backpack.
She removes her cell from a side pocket and checks the screen. “It’s Attila.” She frowns as she reads. “He’s panicking. He borrowed one of the shop cars to deliver the fish, but when he came home, they were gone.”
Well, okay then, check Madame X’s whoopsie. We clearly made the bigger mistake; let’s call ours mistake number three of the day. Struggling to do moody Attila a favour ’cause we thought he forgot his community commitment, we underestimated him. Attila just figured out an easier way.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE FOUR
Madame X continues walking toward Brant Hills, while Renée and the dogs and I scuttle awkwardly in the other direction toward Bruce T. Lindley’s parking lot to meet Attila.
He’s waiting for us by the time we get there. Tall, with a black, pointy mohawk and heavy gorilla arms, he gives no wave or hello, just a grunt: “Give me those.” He grabs the handle and drags the wagon toward the front door.
“We need to return Reuven’s wagon,” Renée calls brightly as we follow behind. She’s one-third his size and acts three times as cheerful.
“Wait out here! They” — Attila points down at the dogs — “can’t come in.”
As he pulls the wagon up the front steps, bump, bump, bump, the duffle bag tips and spills again. Attila curses, and as he collects the fish, mutters something that sounds like, “Hate, hate, hate.”
We scramble to help him, I don’t know why. When we’re finished, he grumbles, “Stupid fish.”
Then he disappears into the school for what seems like hours.
“Hope they don’t notice the teeth marks on the shark,” Renée says.
“The kid that gets it will,” I answer. “But maybe they’ll like the teeth marks.”
Finally, Attila comes back outside, returning Reuven’s empty wagon to us. He grumbles again, nothing that sounds like a thank you, then drives off in the old, yellow Saturn they’ve been working on in shop class.
I can’t help shaking my head. “Well, that was pleasant.”
Renée frowns. “Attila’s got a lot on his mind.”
“What? Did he get a new video game?” I can never understand why Renée sticks up for Attila. He’s not very nice to her.
“No! He has a deadline to apply for Mohawk College. Or Dad says he’ll send him to military college. And he needs a portfolio.”
“Uh-huh.” We start back to Reuven’s house with the wagon and dogs. “You know, his art is brilliant. Too bad it’s always spray-painted on a wall.”
“Yeah, well so is Banksy’s.” Renée told me about Banksy before. He’s a British street artist famous for his graffiti and, yes, it’s very cool. But the art seems a bit angry, too. Just like Attila.
“Bet Banksy never got into a college with it.”
“So you get Attila’s problem. Having to jig saw those fish pieces for the Stream of Dreams projects took all of his spare time, too.”
Actually, I understand her family’s problem. Renée tells me her parents always fight about Attila. While their dad wants to send him away, his mom thinks he’s gifted and misunderstood.
Gifted and grumpy, I think.
As we get to Reuven’s house, I check the outside for surveillance cameras. None. Good. We park the wagon. Then we jog with the dogs down a paved shortcut. They gallop ahead, loving the extra action.
The shortcut continues through three streets and lands us across the road from our school, Brant Hills.
There, Madame X waves her stop sign at cars to help some little kids and their mom get to the other side. And that’s when I realize something’s wrong.
The mom takes the kids in through the kindergarten play area and I watch as they start playing on some trikes behind the wire fence.
“Hey,” I tell Renée, “I can see the kindergarteners.”
“You’re right. Oh my gosh. The fish are missing from the fence!”
“I em so happy you took dem down,” Madame X says as she walks us to the other side. She points to the play area. “Look at those cute keedies.” She smiles as a little boy waves a mini
hockey stick at a girl on a trike.
“But the fish were colourful and happy looking,” Renée says. “Art-ee-fish-ful,” Madame X says. She blows into her whistle sharply. “Leetle boy, stop that! You don’t heet people with hockey stick.”
He doesn’t listen to Madame X, but the duty teacher hears her and breaks the two kids up.
Renée and I don’t have time to investigate the missing fish right now. We need to get Ping and Pong home, and I still want to change out of my Noble Dog Walking uniform before we go to school.
More recycling bins and a mattress and a sofa slow us down as the dogs continue to investigate everything on the way back toward the Bennetts’ house.
At one curbside, a plastic toy kitchen set with a stove and fridge and cupboards stops me. “Aww. I used to have one of these!” I turn the knobs on the stove just because, and the little round elements turn red. “No!” I push Pong away when he lifts up his long back leg.
We keep walking. The hundred-year-old jogger passes us, just barely. The dogs bark. Renée calls, “Good morning.”
He touches his cap. We hang back to give him time to clear some distance.
“I don’t get it,” Renée says. “Why does he wear that jacket with his jogging shorts?”
“To carry his pacemaker?” I suggest.
“Oh, he’s not that old. He’s just scrunched up from working at his desk.”
“How do you know?” I’m not sure why I even ask. Renée always knows everything.
“My mom hired him to coach Attila — you know — on his portfolio. Mr. Kowalski used to be head of the art department at Mohawk.” We start walking and close in on a new pile of junk. Renée stops. “Aw, look, someone’s throwing out a picture!”
Leaning against the garbage can is a framed painting of a boy and a rabbit in the snow near a farm. “That’s too bad. I kind of like it,” I say. But there’s no time for me to rescue it and make it to school on time.
The recycling truck lumbers up alongside us now, and both dogs go crazy. The driver dumps some newspapers and clankity bottles into the back of it, then some cardboard tied together with white string.
Rouf, rouf, rouf!
No artwork, kitchen sets, or mattresses — that’s for a separate pickup. The driver hops back in the cab and throws a lever.
Ping’s barking takes on a new frantic pitch as the truck starts to shuffle from side to side, in kind of a Watusi. It’s like the driver has turned on the vehicle’s digestive system and the truck needs to shake down all the food.
Mistake number four turns out to be watching the strange dance. We should have been watching our dog clients at all times, keeping them safe and out of mischief.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE FIVE
When the truck finally moves on again, the dogs turn super quiet. Good. We’re really close to their house now. Tails stop wagging. Ping and Pong know the fun is over. At the Bennetts’ bungalow, I pull the key from one of my pockets, unlock the door, and unleash them.
They slump down at either end of the white-tiled hall, quiet. That’s not like Ping at all.
“He’s got something in his mouth,” Renée says.
Ping’s eyes shift around guiltily as I drop to my knees to check.
“Where did he get this?” I gently pry a painted bass from his mouth. The bass has messy green scales and sad black blobs for eyes.
“Pong has one, too.” Renée holds up a swordfish.
“That looks like Bruno’s Stream of Dreams creation. See the blob of white near the sword part?”
“And the bass belongs to Tyson. They both picked the biggest fish and then did sloppy paint jobs.” Renée shakes her head.
“I didn’t see where the dogs picked them up, did you?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Too bad. Could be our Stream of Dreams thief.” Both of us think on this, first quietly, then outside our heads. “Has to be from one of the junk piles,” I say.
“Really? Who would dump stolen art right in front of their house?” Renée asks. “Kind of bold. Isn’t that just asking to be caught?”
“True. Besides which, if someone stole them, why would they just chuck them?”
“Well, Madame X wanted them off the fence,” Renée insists. “No one else seems to be upset about them disappearing, either.” We look at each other.
I can’t obsess about this too long. Mom tells me that never helps. I must move on. The dogs stand around me, watching, big-eyed with attention. They want their chew toys back. I don’t know what to do with the paint-blobbed fish, but I sure don’t want Ping and Pong to get splinters in their mouths. “Oh well,” I finally say and shove the fish in one of the bigger pockets on my pants.
“Better fill up their water,” I tell Renée. A delay tactic. I always feel bad leaving them. Renée gives Pong pats and Ping flips over for rubs.
“Gotta go, guys,” I tell them, giving Ping’s belly a last rub. Then Renée and I leave quickly. It’s like ripping off a bandage.
As I lock the door behind us, I can hear Ping’s yap of disappointment.
Renée shrugs her shoulders at me. Hardest part of dog walking. Worse than scooping poop, even.
Next we stop at my house so I can change out of my Noble Dog Walking shirt. I keep the cargo pants of the uniform on. I grab my lunch from the counter. It’s in a plastic box with sections to keep the apple wedges and carrot sticks from touching my cream cheese sandwich. No accidentally grabbing a bag full of defrosting blood-dripping liver today. I did that last week when I left my backpack at school and Dad put my sandwich in a plastic grocery bag. We learn from our mistakes, I think happily. I don’t forget my backpack, either; my agenda’s been signed. My teacher, Mrs. Worsley, is big on that. Even if there’s no homework, Mom or Dad have to initial that they know this.
“Want a granola bar?” I ask Renée as I grab one for on the way.
“Okay.”
I pitch it to her. We walk to school together, chewing on chocolate-covered oatmeal bars. We’re going to be on time. I feel good. It’s a pretty ordinary day so far. There’s going to be a perfectly logical explanation for the fish disappearing, I know it. A missing mailbox, a stolen Halloween display, no biggie. I know if Mom were around and not on layover in Amsterdam, she’d say none of those are my problems, anyway.
We arrive at school just in time for the second bell, so no late slip needed. As always, we start the day singing the national anthem and then listening to morning announcements. Our principal, Mrs. Watier, says nothing about the Stream of Dreams fish disappearing from the fence. You would think she might explain if it was some kind of routine fish cleaning or relocating project, but then, my parents tell me I overanalyze things, so I try to put it out of my mind. One of the grade eight girls begins reading our morning inspiration, but in the middle of it, she stops. We hear some mumbling in the background and then Mrs. Watier interrupts:
“Your attention, please. Everyone stop what you are doing and listen. This is a lockdown. I repeat: we are in lockdown. Please proceed to a lockdown position.”
“Why?” I want to scream, but instead, I take a deep breath. And then another. Maybe those breaths sound loud against the sudden silence. Maybe the blood is draining from my face because my head feels swirly.
Tyson rolls his eyes and punches me. “Calm down, Green Lantern. It’s just a drill.”
But Mrs. Worsley immediately shuts our door and locks it. In a pinched, quiet voice, she speaks. “Grade seven, this is very important. We are now going to do everything exactly as we practised a few weeks ago, do you remember? Everyone, into our safe corner.”
Does this have anything to do with the missing fish? Not unless the disappearance is linked to some kind of gunman loose in the school. Oh my gosh, Mr. Rupert! Did he review the surveillance video and come looking for me? I take another breath. I am not going to panic like I did for the
fire alarm last week. That turned out to be a bomb scare. Together with everyone else in the class, I hurry to huddle in our safe corner.
Outside, I see the sun shining and a police car pulling into the parking lot. For a lockdown drill, the police come, so this does not have to mean disaster. I’m not going to leap up and yell at everyone to hide. In fact, I kneel down calmly beside Renée. Tyson must be right after all. This has to be a drill.
Mrs. Worsley’s roll of tape squeals as she sticks chart paper over the window in our door.
A second and then a third squad car pull in behind the first one.
That doesn’t happen in a drill. Mistake number five has to be thinking any thought that ever comes out of Tyson’s mouth is right.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE SIX
I keep breathing deeply so the drum in my chest stops beating as hard. But as Mrs. Worsley pulls the string to close the blinds, they clatter down loudly and I jump. So does Renée. We knock into each other.
Mrs. Worsley puts her finger to her lips and waves our group closer together. Standing in front of us, Mrs. Worsley folds her arms across her chest. She’s shorter than I am but fierce, like an eagle. She makes me feel safe.
Renée sits next to me on the floor. Staying quiet is a really impossible job for her. Behind her red glasses, her eyes pop. I can smell brown sugar and wonder if that is coming from her skin — some kind of bath lotion or cream — or whether I am going to have a seizure. I read about people smelling strange things before having one; usually, it’s burnt toast, though. The rest of the class shuffles around. The floor feels harder than usual against my butt, so I shift myself, too, but can’t find a comfortable position.
Mrs. Worsley looks at us, and with her finger, counts us, mouthing the numbers. She nods as she finishes and smiles. Then she picks up our read-aloud book, The Night Gardener, and begins to whisper from it. It’s a scary story about a spooky tree that grows in a mansion and manages to control everyone who lives in it. Mrs. Worsley whispering the story is making it scarier today, but in a good way. That tree can’t hurt us, after all, and what- or whoever is causing this lockdown seems another world away as I listen.
The Artsy Mistake Mystery Page 2
