Smashie McPerter and the Mystery of the Missing Goop

by N. Griffin

  “We would have to have a hot pursuit!” Smashie’s mind filled with the image of her and Dontel racing after the suspect, arms pumping, legs churning, and finally grabbing the collar of the perp and turning him or her over to the authorities. Or at least to Ms. Early. And then maybe she would be so proud of Smashie that she would let her sing in the musicale! Smashie’s Investigator Suit looking so much like an Officer of the Law Suit would be good for catching a perp like that. Though, she supposed, now that the kids were onto that particular suit, she couldn’t wear it again.

  “Who do you think left the jar there?” said Smashie. “Charlene’s mom? She’s the one who makes the goop and puts it in the jars and labels them. It makes sense that she’s the one putting the codes on them.”

  “But why would she?” said Dontel, cracking another egg.

  “I don’t know why,” Smashie admitted. “But if it was her, we might not have noticed because she did it in a black sneaky Thief Suit!”

  “You always think people are doing things in black sneaky Thief Suits.”

  “Fine. Maybe she wore camouflage, then,” said Smashie, and she began to stir the batter with all her might. “She could have elbowed her way across the room on her stomach and we’d never see her! She could reach up, steal the jars, and —”

  “Smashie.” Dontel picked up the rubber scraper. “I am going to have to stop you. This makes no sense. If she wanted those particular jars, she would have just kept them at her house. My goodness. And besides, she and Charlene were both really happy we were going to use her goop so more people would come to her hair salon.”

  “Ugh,” said Smashie. She knew Dontel was right. “Fine. But then I am going back to my magical-being theory.” And she held the bowl while Dontel sighed and scraped the batter into the pan.

  Dinner between the two families eaten, the adults and kids assembled in the Marquises’ living room. Dontel’s mother started the music. Smashie and Dontel began to practice teaching everybody how to dance the Pony.

  “Fling your arms like this!” Smashie shouted to the adults while Dontel counted out the beat.

  “Do your feet like this!” Dontel shouted while Smashie critiqued the grown-ups’ form.

  And everybody flailed their arms and Ponied until it was time for Smashie, her mother, and Grammy to go home.

  “I hope the kids aren’t too mad at us to let us teach them,” said Smashie under her breath as everybody said their good-byes at the door.

  “They won’t be. We have those apology brownies. I think Mr. Bloom and the kids will forgive us.”

  “I sure hope so. Otherwise, we have some dark days ahead.”

  It was after lunch the next day and Room 11 was beside itself about their first day of rehearsal for the musicale. Ms. Early and Miss Dismont led the two classes in a giant line down the hall to the auditorium. The third grade knew it was supposed to be quiet as it filed through the halls, but it was very difficult to do today. Whispers erupted everywhere.

  “I’ve been working so hard on my song!” said Tatiana.

  “Me and Lilia from Room 12 have, also,” said Alonso. “We’ve been practicing after school every day since the day we signed up to sing.”

  “Dontel and I have been practicing teaching the dances, too,” said Smashie, who was wearing her Choreographer Suit (multicolored sequins up the sides of her jeans and spelling out DANCE-A-GO-GO! across her shirt).

  Willette sniffed. “I don’t know how people are going to learn to dance from people who are mean to people,” she said.

  “Willette! We apologized!”

  “We baked apology brownies for Mr. Bloom!” Dontel cried. “But he’s absent today because he’s at a UFO conference, so we can’t give them to him.”

  “But we will,” said Smashie. “As soon as he’s back!”

  “Oh,” said Willette. “Well, that is really nice of you. Sorry, Smash. I promise I’ll work hard to learn the dances.”

  “Speak for yourself,” muttered a boy from Room 12. “I don’t know that brownies are enough to make up for a man’s hurt feelings.”

  “Or not having any goop to make cool hair with,” said another member of Room 12.

  Smashie and Dontel exchanged bleak looks. If that boy was still mad at them about accusing Mr. Bloom, who knew how many other children still were? And of course the entire third grade was still worried about the missing Herr Goop, too. Even the teachers were. Put those worries together with everybody being mad at them about taxing Mr. Bloom — well, it was hard enough to perform sixties go-go dances in a living room with only Dr. Marquise and Grammy. Imagine what it was going to be like with a lot of upset third-graders!

  “We better solve this mystery of the jar codes — quick!” said Dontel. “We have to redeem ourselves.”

  “I agree,” said Smashie earnestly. “If we do that and give Mr. Bloom the apology brownies, I think people will like us again.”

  “I like you,” said Alonso unexpectedly behind them.

  “Thanks, Alonso,” said Smashie.

  “We like you, too,” said Dontel. But he and Smashie exchanged warning looks. They had better be more careful about being overheard.

  The class filed into the auditorium and sat in a large circle on the stage.

  “We know you all have been working on your acts at home,” said Miss Dismont. “And that’s great. Our musicale is coming up so quickly we don’t have nearly as much time to rehearse as we’d like. So we’re excited to see how your numbers are coming along!”

  “Dontel, have you chosen a dance to go with your speech yet?” asked Ms. Early.

  “Yes,” said Dontel. “We’re going to do the Shimmy. It’s not as good as . . . that dance we aren’t allowed to say, but people do wiggle around in it, and that is still a lot like the way some scientists think parts of the universe are moving.”

  “Splendid,” said Ms. Early. “So here is how our rehearsal will work. I will stay here and practice with the first few singers and their backup people. That keeps Dontel available, so Miss Dismont will bring the rest of you to the gym so he and Smashie can begin to teach you the dances for our inter-act interludes. How does that sound?”

  “Good,” said some of the children.

  Others were silent.

  “They brought Mr. Bloom brownies,” Smashie heard Willette whisper to Jacinda. “I think they really are sorry.”

  “Hmm,” said Jacinda. “We’ll see.”

  “We also want to mention,” said Ms. Early, “that we have a lot of parents and family members who have volunteered to help us as well. Charlene, would you like someone to help you do the hair? Assuming, of course, that we find our missing goop?”

  That’s a lot to assume, thought Smashie. No matter how hard Dontel and I are trying to investigate.

  “I think I’m okay alone,” said Charlene.

  “Regardless,” said Ms. Early, “there are a lot of heads in the third grade. I think we need some support for you, doing all that hair.”

  “I can help,” said Carlos shyly.

  Charlene blushed and said nothing.

  “Wooo-OOOO!” went several children.

  “Stop it!” said Charlene. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “That is very nice of you, Carlos,” said Miss Dismont. “I’m sure Charlene is grateful.”

  “She’s not acting it,” said Smashie to Dontel.

  “That’s the way it is with like-liking someone sometimes,” said John, who had overheard. “You act mad to cover up that you like-like the person you like-like.”

  “Again with the like-like,” sighed Smashie.

  “My mom can help me, Ms. Early,” said Charlene. “She’s taught me everything I know about hair sculpting, anyway, and I know she’d be glad to help us.”

  “If we get the goop back,” said John.

  “Yes,” said Charlene. “If we ever do.” Her face was strained.

  “Splendid,” said Ms. Early. “And we can always have Carlos on hand for backup.�
�

  Carlos tried to hide his smile. But he couldn’t.

  “All right, dancers! Line up behind Smashie and Dontel, and let’s get to that gym,” said Miss Dismont.

  Smashie and Dontel stood up. Smashie couldn’t help casting a longing eye at the singers. Wouldn’t it be useful to have someone who could sing as loudly as Smashie could, doing one of the songs?

  But Ms. Early only said, “See you later, Smashie.” It was clear that she was not thinking of the advantages of having a loud singer in the musicale. Only the ones who were already signed up.

  Smashie sighed.

  It wasn’t easy for Smashie and Dontel not to run to the basketball bin and check to see if the jar of Herr Goop was still there. But they couldn’t, not with all the kids around. It will have to wait until we can find an opportunity, thought Smashie.

  Cyrus pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Just how hard are these dances, you guys?” he asked nervously.

  “They are wicked easy,” Smashie promised.

  “As easy as being rude to Mr. Bloom?” asked Charlene.

  Smashie was taken aback.

  “Charlene! They apologized!” Willette was becoming something of their champion in the matter.

  “Thank you, Willette,” said Dontel.

  “Children,” said Miss Dismont, “these arguments have to stop. We have work to do, and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be fun, despite our worries! Walter, man the music player. When I say hit it, go for it! And Smashie and Dontel can start us off! All right — HIT IT!”

  Walter hit it.

  “Left, right, left!” Smashie shouted, showing the feet for the Pony. She was glad for last night’s practice at the Marquise house. “Right, left, right!”

  “Now swing your arms!” shouted Dontel, demonstrating.

  Clunk.

  It was Cyrus. The children gathered around him as he lay on the gym floor.

  “I can’t do the arms and legs at the same time,” he said miserably.

  “Sure you can,” said Dontel, helping him up. “This is only your first time. Come on. I’ll help you.” And he drew Cyrus off to the side to give him some private instruction.

  Wait a minute, thought Smashie. I know how I can get a glance at those basketball bins!

  As Miss Dismont organized the remaining kids into a line, Smashie crossed the room and stood near the basketball bins. Dontel glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

  “Pony toward me!” Smashie shouted at the other kids. “And hit it!” The children Ponied toward her beautifully, with Miss Dismont, a game if clumsy dancer, bringing up the rear.

  “I’m getting it, Smashie!” yelled Willette.

  “You’re doing great!” yelled Jacinda. Smashie’s shoulders relaxed. Maybe the dance was winning Jacinda over. Maybe it was only Mr. Bloom she had to worry about now. Oh, why did he have to be absent? Still, she had her opportunity to look at that jar and could not be distracted now.

  Dontel clearly understood what Smashie was up to. “Now Pony back toward me!” he called from the other side of the room, with a nod at Smashie, and the children dutifully pivoted and Ponied back whence they had come.

  Smashie seized her chance. With everyone else’s back to her, she squatted down, and sure enough, there, behind the wheel of the basketball bin, was a jar of Herr Goop. But it was not the second missing jar that they had seen before. For this one contained several three-digit numbers, not just the two-digit numbers like the last jar. The numbers on the jar read:

  Could this be the third missing jar? The one Dontel had said had different numbers on it?

  Smashie’s fingers itched to take it. But she knew she couldn’t, not without being noticed. And her time was short.

  Quick! Take a mind picture, Smashie told herself. And she did. Staring at the numbers, she repeated them under her breath until she could see them as clearly in her mind as they were written on the jar. Then, before the children could finish dancing and turn back to her for instructions, Smashie Ponied back to the group herself and prepared to teach the children the next dance.

  When the rehearsal was over, the dance children rejoined the ones who had been practicing musical numbers, and they all walked excitedly back into their rooms.

  “WOW!” said Tatiana. “Alonso, you and Lilia sounded great!”

  Alonso looked down modestly. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s a real good song.”

  “Dontel,” whispered Smashie under the cover of the babble around them, “there was a jar under that basketball bin!”

  “I knew it!” whispered Dontel back. “Was it still that second one that was stolen?”

  “No!” whispered Smashie. “I think it was the third!”

  But before she could continue, they had reached Room 11, and Ms. Early was talking to John. “I wish we had time to hear your piece, John,” she said.

  “You will,” John said miserably. “Next rehearsal. I promised my dad.”

  “All right, Room 11,” said Ms. Early as they entered and settled. “Time for math.”

  “Oh, Ms. Early!” cried Charlene. “I have good news! My mom just left us a jar of replacement goop in the main office!”

  “Yay!”

  “What?”

  “That’s great!”

  “Can you regoop me?” asked Joyce. “I had to wash out the roller-skate wheels, and now my hair is like a group of potatoes again.”

  Room 11 was very hopeful.

  But Dontel and Smashie were puzzled.

  “Huh?” said Dontel. “I thought your mom didn’t have any more ingredients.”

  “She said she got the ingredients from a mysterious benefactor,” said Charlene. “Someone sent her money with a note saying they heard about our troubles and wanted to help us out with our musicale Herr Goop.”

  “Well, that was very nice of the . . . of the . . .” Cyrus started.

  “Mysterious benefactor,” Charlene helped him.

  “Yeah,” said Cyrus. “That.”

  Ooh, thought Smashie. A mysterious benefactor! She imagined a Rolls-Royce pulling up to Charlene’s house and a tiny monkey with a fez presenting Mrs. Stott with a check.

  “But we still won’t have enough,” said a worried Tatiana. “That’s just one jar. We need three!”

  “And I still think someone took the others!” said Siggie.

  “Hmm,” said Ms. Early. “Well, that was very kind of . . . of someone to help your mother, Charlene. But do try to be sparing. We can’t expect more gifts like this. I wish we knew who it was, so we could send a thank-you note.”

  Smashie squirmed in her chair. This was great news, but when was Smashie going to get to tell Dontel about the code she’d seen?

  “Do my hair next?” begged Billy. “Lemme see the jar!”

  “Sure.” Charlene passed the jar to John, who passed it to Dontel, who passed it to Billy, who made the very unwise decision of flinging it back to Charlene, only to hit Patches’s cage instead.

  “Billy Kamarski!” said Ms. Early. “That is not acceptable!”

  Willette sprinted pell-mell to the back of the room, yelling, “PATCHES! ARE YOU HURT? DON’T WORRY! I AM COMING!”

  “Willette, is Patches all right?” asked Joyce.

  “Yes,” said Willette, leaning over Patches’s cage. “He seems fine. He is eating his pellets very nicely.”

  “How about the goop?”

  “The jar didn’t break,” Willette said.

  “Phew!” went much of Room 11.

  “You’re telling me,” said Willette.

  “Splendid,” said Ms. Early. “Room 11, I don’t know if it is because of our musicale or what, but you’re not acting entirely like yourselves. And I am not sure I like it.”

  “I really am sorry,” said Billy. “I just got excited about my hair.”

  “I know. But throwing things is not acceptable.” Ms. Early sighed. “Let’s all calm down and get ready for math.”

  But a rumbly undercurrent of Room 11 continued as the children
found their spots to work, and the relief of some about the replacement goop mixed with the muttering of those still concerned about the missing jars and impending musicale.

  Smashie and Dontel headed to the reading corner once again with their papers and their Investigation Notebooks. Smashie had rid herself of her satin jacket after the censure of her classmates, but her tool belt was still in place. After all, she reasoned, it was mostly pencils, pens, and markers in there, besides her Investigation Notebook. If you really thought about it, how could she do without it? She needed most of those things most every day in school.

  And not having the jacket part of her suit on did make the other kids think she had given up on the investigation after the Mr. Bloom fiasco, so that was good, too. If the code maker or receiver were in Room 11, they’d never know Smashie and Dontel were still hot on their trail.

  “Who do you suppose the mysterious benefactor is?” Smashie wondered aloud as they walked. “Because I think it is a wealthy gentleman with a trained monkey. I think —”

  “Smashie,” said Dontel, saying her name in the way he used to quell her when her imagination threatened to take over. “It’s more likely to be a friend of Mrs. Stott’s, one of Charlene’s relatives, or an adult here at school who knows about our situation. . . . Who knows? But let’s hurry with our math. Because both of us have things to report!”

  “Eep!” said Smashie, and she put aside ideas about trained monkeys as the two friends worked their math problems quickly and efficiently.

  “I need to tell you what I noticed just now, when we were passing the new jar of Herr Goop from kid to kid,” said Dontel when they were done at last.

  “What? Tell me!”

  “The label was made out of a little thicker paper, maybe, but there were no numbers on it!” Dontel leaned toward her. “You know what that means?”

  “No,” said Smashie honestly.

  “It means the perp isn’t leaving any old jar of goop we get under those basketball bins. Just ones with the code!”

  “That must be true!” said Smashie. “Because the jar I found under the basketball bin today did have numbers! Only” — she leaned closer — “not the same ones as on the second jar. That’s why I think it must be the third jar — the one Joyce brought in!”