The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “Better hurry up.”

  I nod and leave Renée gathering up her homework. In my room, I change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt ’cause on Fridays, it’s gym. Never want to repeat my grade four boxers mistake, although Bruno and Tyson will never let me forget. At least I learn from my mistakes, I think, as I dash down the stairs and out the door with Renée.

  A grey sky and some wind makes me hug my coat around me.

  Renée hands me my lunch. Good thing, I nearly forgot. I stop to put it in my backpack. She starts walking again, only in the wrong direction.

  I follow. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Listen,” she answers, “Attila called me before. I have to do something for him. It will probably make me really late for class.”

  “No, no, no, no! You can’t be late.” I shake my head, but keep walking alongside her, anyway. “Dad trusts us. Your parents will be mad at him!”

  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want. But Attila’s at Mr. Kowalski’s house. And he needs a piece of art to submit to that contest you told me about.”

  “I don’t get it. He’s never all that nice to you.”

  “What are you talking about? We hang around together all the time.”

  “You’re in the same house before and after school, sure; it’s where you both live. But do you ever do anything together?”

  “We used to draw …”

  “Lately?” I ask.

  “Well, sure. Just the other day, his friends came over and they chased me around with Nerf guns.”

  “Guns! You said he wasn’t violent.”

  “NERF guns. The bullets don’t hurt. I had a gun, too. It was fun. We all laughed.”

  A gang of teenagers shooting Nerf pellets at Renée? Sure, they laughed — but to me, it just sounds mean. Which is exactly what I expect from Attila.

  “Why can’t he get the art himself?”

  “’Cause Dad’s kicked him out of the house. That’s why he’s staying with his art mentor.”

  “So you’re okay going by yourself?” I look at her and she nods. But I know she’s not. She only helps me with the dogs all the time ’cause she hates being alone.

  I stop and Renée walks on alone as if to prove it. Half a block she trudges and doesn’t look back. But I can’t stop watching her. Finally, I decide.

  This should count as my fourth mistake of the day. But like I said, she helps me with the dogs.

  “Fine, I’m coming with you anyway.”

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE FIVE

  “Let’s run so we’re not so late,” I suggest, breaking into what’s more like a fast walk. As I mentioned before, running is something neither of us is that good at. Renée begins moving more quickly, and the wind pushes us along as if it wants us to hurry, too.

  My hands feel empty, jogging these long blocks without any dogs’ leashes in them. “Listen” — I huff my words between steps — “when I was in the bathroom, I read a text from Star.”

  Renée nods again. “I know. Star wants you to wait a couple of days before saying anything about Grumpy.”

  “What? No! That’s not what she said at all.” I slow down. “She threatened to report Ping to Animal Control if we give up the hat to the police.”

  Renée tilts her head. “Really?” She slows down, too.

  “Yup. I went to the bathroom just so I could read her text.”

  “Told you she wasn’t nice.”

  We walk for a bit. Then I wonder out loud, “Why should waiting a couple of days make any difference?”

  She shrugs her shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s leaving the country. We can only hope.”

  “Do you think the Lebels even noticed that Grumpy is gone?” I ask her.

  “Maybe not. The pool’s been closed for a while, right?”

  “Yup.” I glance at my watch. First bell right now. “We should get going,” I tell Renée and we jog for a bit again. “What about the mailbox? And the gun? Is Star involved in that, too?”

  “Of course she is,” Renée answers. “Attila wouldn’t discuss it with me. But he doesn’t seem very worried about the charges.”

  “Is he ever?”

  “No. Mom and Dad sure are.”

  “Uh-huh.” I gesture with my thumb to the right. “Should we turn down this street, to avoid Mr. Rupert’s house?”

  “No. That will take even longer. Let’s just sprint.”

  “Sprint? Gah! All right.” We start running again.

  When we finally get there, Renée’s driveway is empty. Both her parents must be at work; Attila could have easily picked up his own painting. Mr. Kowalski probably has a car, too, even though I’ve only ever seen him jogging everywhere. Bet he could have driven Attila.

  “How are we going to carry Attila’s art to Mr. Kowalski’s house?” I ask, not wanting to repeat the wooden fish mistake. “I bet Reuven doesn’t want anyone using his wagon anymore.”

  “No worries, it’s on a memory stick. I just have to get it from his desk.”

  “Really? He couldn’t have emailed it to the Art Gallery of Burlington?”

  She shrugs. “Probably doesn’t accept art by email.” She unlocks the door and I follow her to Attila’s basement room. I’ve seen it before but it’s still awesome. A king-sized bed, made up neatly in bright-fuchsia sheets and a duvet, dominates the room. A huge Banksy print hangs over it. In the print, a maid holding a dustpan lifts a blanket covering to reveal a brick wall.

  “Of all the posters he could hang, why that one?” I ask.

  “Represents sweeping problems under the carpet,” Renée answers. “My dad takes it personally.” She walks to the desk in the corner, opens a drawer, and pulls something out. “Got it!” she says, and we head back up the stairs and out the door.

  “Mr. Kowalski lives over there.” She points to the end of the street where a strange square house towers over all the others. I’ve often wondered who lives there.

  It has pale-blue siding and a bright-red door. At the top, there’s a railing around the roof as though someone might use it as a balcony. It’s not even that far. Attila could have jogged over to get his own memory stick.

  Instead, we power walk again. Neither of us wants to know what Mrs. Worsley will say when we arrive at school in the middle of gym class. As we get closer to Mr. Kowalski’s house, I see the same beat-up old white van that Reuven’s dad was driving yesterday parked alongside the odd house. Does Mr. Jirad work for Mr. Kowalski? Pay the Artist the message on the dent reminds us. Do people forget to pay for art?

  We continue up the walkway and Renée presses the doorbell.

  It gongs like a church bell and a wrinkled, tanned face peeks out. “Oh, good. You made it.” Mr. Kowalski opens the door instantly and sweeps his hand back. “Come in!”

  We wipe our shoes on the hairy brown mat in front of the door, then step onto the dark wooden floor.

  The hallway, which seems to take up the entire front part of the house, has a vaulted ceiling and a chandelier that looks like it came from the phantom’s opera house. Paintings hang all the way up the wall to the ceiling. Great paintings with bright colours, different shapes, strange faces — I can’t help staring.

  Renée hands Mr. Kowalski the memory stick.

  “Thank you.” He shakes it like a pointer. “Don’t like my students uploading to cloud storage. You can’t trust corporations with art! Attila, your sister is here!” he calls.

  Attila appears and actually smiles when Mr. Kowalski waves the memory stick. “Thanks,” he says.

  First time I’ve ever heard that word from his lips.

  “We’re taking this directly to the gallery,” Mr. Kowalski says. “Should we drop you off at school?”

  “Yes, please,” Renée answers.

  My parents tell me never to accept a ride from strangers and
Mr. Kowalski sure acts bizarre sometimes. Plus his van looks like it’s been through a battle. Still, we’re late for school and nobody asked me.

  Attila rides shotgun next to Mr. Kowalski.

  Renée and I scramble through the side door of the van and find a seat in the back, which is full of art. We squeeze in with a couple of paintings between us. The one facing me is wrapped in clear bubble wrap so I can see the soft blue sky and snowy landscape. It reminds me of the rabbit and boy picture hanging in our guest bedroom.

  “We have a painting of yours,” I tell Mr. Kowalski.

  “You don’t say?” He beams into the rear-view mirror as he starts up the van. “If you don’t mind me asking, what gallery did you purchase it from? I haven’t had that many exhibitions lately.”

  I think carefully about my answer. He obviously thinks Dad bought it.

  We’re driving by Mr. Rupert’s house and I duck without even thinking about it. Then I bob up again, embarrassed. Mr. Rupert’s never going to look for us in this van, after all. “Um, well. My father picked it up …” I let the sentence hang. Maybe he doesn’t have to know it was on the curb at junk pickup day. We turn onto Duncaster, heading toward our school.

  Renée doesn’t think as hard before finishing my sentence. “Someone left it on the curb near a recycling bin just over there, yesterday.” She points. This counts as mistake five of the day. Or maybe the error was accepting the lift in the first place.

  “What!?” Mr. Kowalski rises up out of the driver’s seat and turns to the back, letting go of the wheel completely. The van hits the curb and bumps over it, two wheels on, two off.

  A few hundred metres ahead, Madame X stands at the crosswalk watching. If she’s anything like our previous crossing guard, Mr. Ron, she will want to report Mr. Kowalski’s driving. That’s if the van doesn’t run her over first.

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE SIX

  Hitting the curb forces Mr. Kowalski to face the road again and pay attention to driving. He grabs the wheel and steers the van down onto the street again. Clunk, clunk! It rolls to a stop; he shuts off the engine and turns around again to face us. “Where exactly did you find my work?”

  “Oh, you know. At that house with the crazy little dogs!” Renée answers.

  “Jessica Irwin! That witch!” he cries. “She cheated on our bet.”

  “What bet?” Renée asks.

  “She refused to insure the art in the staff room. Says no one wants to steal art.”

  “Didn’t you redecorate the lounge in a lodge motif?” I am pretty sure that awful fish plaque doesn’t need any insurance.

  “Her idea again! Cost cuts, cost cuts. Then she left the original art in random places to prove no one would take it. We bet on it.”

  “My father didn’t ‘take’ anything, just so you know,” I tell him. “He rescued the painting — the garbage collectors would have trashed it.”

  His mouth drops. “She put it near the trash to devalue it.”

  “But he loves it!” Renée quickly adds. “We all do!”

  I nod quickly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Madame X marching toward us now. Left, right, left, right. She looks about ready to clobber Mr. Kowalski with her stop sign. When she gets to the van, she raps on the passenger window and Attila opens it.

  “Everybody okay in here?” she asks. “Should I call medic?”

  “No, we’re all fine,” Attila answers.

  “You are parked in crossing zone. You should go now.”

  I undo my seat belt. “It’s okay, we can get out here,” I tell Mr. Kowalski. Renée and I scramble to climb out the side door. “When will the winners be announced?” I call back as we step up to the sidewalk.

  “Five o’ clock tomorrow,” Attila answers. “There will be a reception. Why don’t you and Renée come?”

  Wow, he surprises me a second time today. “Okay, I’m sure my dad will come, too. Good luck, Attila,” I say.

  He smiles.

  Then I pull a business card from my pocket and hand it to Mr. Kowalski. “If you want the painting back, you can just call me.”

  “Oh, no. Your father may have accidentally helped me with my bet. Can you just take a picture of it hanging on your wall?”

  “Sure. Hope you win the bet,” I say.

  “Oh, I will. I still have a paintbrush or two up my sleeve.” He winks at me and then they drive off.

  Renée stares after the van, her eyebrows crushed together. She’s thinking hard about something. “The paintbrush thing, that’s a metaphor, right?”

  “Who cares,” I say. “Let’s get to the office before the absentee line calls our parents.”

  We rush the rest of the way, but we’re still twenty minutes late. What to say to the secretary, I wonder, as we make our way to the front counter.

  But I don’t have to worry; Renée takes over the talking. “I had to double back home to get my gym clothes,” Renée tells her. “And my friend Stephen came with me so I wouldn’t have to go alone.”

  Her friend. She makes me sound like a hero. I like it.

  The secretary clicks her tongue but writes out our slips without even looking up. “Don’t be late again or you’ll get a week’s detention.”

  “We won’t,” Renée promises, and then we take off out the door.

  “Whoa, are we ever lucky,” I tell her outside the office.

  She nods. “And maybe, if we walk slowly, we won’t have to play dodge ball.”

  “Good thinking.” After all that rushing, it’s nice to just stroll slowly toward the gym. On the way, we spot Mrs. Klein mopping the morning muck from the floor.

  Renée waves hello and grins.

  We’re getting closer and she’s opening her mouth to talk to her. Oh, no! “Whatever you do, don’t ask her about Mr. Rupert,” I warn her under my breath.

  “Mrs. Klein, are you and Mr. Rupert going out?” she calls.

  Oh, come on! You’re not supposed to ask adults those kinds of questions. Even Renée should know that.

  Mrs. Klein stops mopping and smiles. She once told me that no one notices the cleaning staff. “Yes, we are. Isn’t it wonderful?” She sighs.

  Maybe, in fact, she likes being asked.

  “I never expected to find love again at my age.”

  “Wonderful,” I repeat. The thought of her getting all kissy-faced with Mr. Rupert actually makes me want to hurl. I nudge Renée. “Maybe we can still make that dodge ball game, if we hurry.”

  But Renée can’t be stopped. “How did you two meet?”

  You would think at this point Mrs. Klein would ask us if we didn’t have some place to go. That’s sure what Mrs. Worsley would do.

  Instead, her smile stretches wider. She sighs again. “One night I worked late all by myself and heard some noises.”

  Renée nods sympathetically. “I hate being alone.”

  “Since that car drove into the school, I’ve become very nervous. This time, I got so spooked I ran outside of the building. And there he was.” She stops and smiles. “My hero.”

  Her hero? Or was he the one making the noises?

  “Mr. Rupert?” Renée asks.

  “Yes. He came inside with me and did a thorough inspection of the building. He didn’t find anything, of course. But I felt so safe …”

  “That was nice of him,” I say, grabbing Renée’s elbow and moving her along.

  Mrs. Klein nods. “And we’ve been seeing each other ever since.”

  “Okay, well, later!” Renée says as I drag her farther away. Mrs. Klein starts mopping again.

  Our little chat eats another five minutes of class.

  Mrs. Worsley takes our late slips and frowns at us. “All right, you two. You need to warm up before starting in on the game. I want you to jog around the gym three times.”

  Gahhh! More
running!

  “Okay, Mrs. W.” I take a deep breath and start.

  “I’m just going to change first,” Renée says as I start running.

  Into what? I wonder. Whatever. She scores another five-minute delay and comes out in the sweats and T-shirt I loaned her last night. The pant legs pool up around her ankles. She won’t be able to dodge anything if we make it into the game. But we don’t want to, anyway. Tyson and Bruno can be brutal when they aim the ball at us.

  I slow down to pace myself and Renée takes the lead. We have twenty-five minutes of gym left and we make sure the laps last right till the end.

  The rest of the day feels like a walk in the park after our early morning workout. That’s a simile not a metaphor.

  On the way home, I just know what Renée will suggest, her brother not being at home for her at all. So mistake number six — I even know it as I make it — is asking her myself.

  “It’s not a school night. Do you want to sleep over again?”

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE SEVEN

  Renée nods like crazy. “Yes, please! A sleepover!”

  “We’re not going outside after dark, no matter what happens,” I warn her.

  “Of course not. I’m exhausted. After supper, I’m going straight to bed.”

  “Sure, you are. You know we still have to walk the dogs, right?”

  “As long as we don’t run. We can pick up some clothes for me on the way.” Renée grins.

  Oh, great, walking by Mr. Rupert’s again.

  When we arrive home, Dad proudly shows us his first complete dog sweater: tiny and sky blue with a stripe of orange and indigo around the neck and leg holes.

  “That is a piece of art, Mr. Noble,” Renée says.

  “Wow, yeah,” I agree. “Speaking of which, Dad, can we go to the Art Gallery of Burlington tomorrow? There’s a special show opening.”

  He grins, still thinking about his masterpiece. “Sure. What time?”

  “Five.” I don’t even know if he’s listening. “And can Renée sleep over again?”

  His head snaps up and he turns to her. “You know, you’ll have to go home sometime. Your family is going to be working through Attila’s, um, problem for a while.”