Kelsey the Spy

by Linda J Singleton

  “Each unicorn has a crescent star necklace,” Tyla says with a dramatic finger snap. “Just like a Sparkler!”

  I tune out Tyla and think of cookies.

  When I told my parents I wanted to have a cookie celebration, they loved the idea. Chef Dad was the most enthusiastic. He offered to have ingredients ready to make his most popular cookie creation: ChipTastics. These jumbo cookies are a sweet and salty combination of nuts, chips, and candy pieces. I don’t know what the secret ingredient is because Dad won’t reveal that recipe to anyone.

  We’ll have the kitchen to ourselves, although Dad will be close by if we need help. Mom said she’d read in her room. My sisters will be at a school dance. And my brother? He says he’s going “out”—whatever that means.

  I hope he doesn’t end up in jail.

  When school ends, I race to meet Becca as she leaves her last class.

  “No call from Reggie,” Becca says before I can even ask.

  “Drats.” We fall in step, weaving through throngs of kids. Fridays are always a little crazy with everyone hurrying to escape school for the weekend—even teachers.

  We’re not meeting at the Skunk Shack because Becca has to do chores before she can come to my house.

  “Leo texted that he’s tweaking FRODO, but he’ll be on time for the cookie celebration,” Becca adds.

  “He’s not with Frankie?” I ask, surprised.

  Becca shrugs. “Guess not.”

  It’s strange to be home so early on a school day, but kind of nice. I lounge on my bed and pick up where I left off in Harriet the Spy. Harriet’s friends won’t talk to her because they read her notebook, and I wish I could tell her to tell them the truth. A spy doesn’t have to reveal all of her secrets, but she needs to be honest with her friends.

  After dinner and dish-washing duty, Dad shoos me out of kitchen. “I’ll get everything ready for your cookie celebration.”

  Pans clang and cupboards creak open, then bang shut while I wait in the living room. The TV blares a sitcom but I’m not paying attention. I keep glancing at the wall clock, counting seconds.

  When the doorbell rings, I jump up. I race for the door, but Mom gets there first and invites Becca and Leo into our apartment.

  Mom goes to her room while I lead Becca and Leo into the kitchen.

  “Voilà!” Dad says with a dramatic flourish of his hands toward the kitchen island, which is arranged with cookie sheets, a mixing bowl, measuring cups, and plastic containers of sugar, flour, and other ingredients.

  “Since this is your celebration,” Dad says with a twinkle in his eyes, “I’ve mixed the dry ingredients—including a few secret spices—but left the rest for you. Be sure to grease and flour the cooking trays. Here are the printed instructions.” He hands me a paper. “I’ll be in the living room watching The Laughing Chef. Come get me if you have any questions.”

  “One question, sir,” Leo says with a polite raise of his hand. “Are we measuring in the metric system?”

  Dad chuckles. “Let’s stick to the U.S. style of quarts, teaspoons, and tablespoons.”

  “What kind of cookies are we making?” Becca asks.

  “ChipTastics—my most popular cookie. They have everything in them! Yogurt chips, chocolate chips, toffee chips, raisins, walnuts, almonds … and a few mysterious spices,” Dad says proudly. “Don’t worry if you make a mess—that’s part of the process. You can clean it up afterward. Have fun.”

  Fun is very, very messy.

  I point and laugh at Becca’s flour-splattered cheek. She pretends to be mad and throws flour at me, which goes up my nose. I sneeze, then grab a fistful of flour and hurl it at Becca. She ducks—and flour splatters Leo. He shakes off the flour, then reels back and throws two handfuls at both of us.

  Laughing and sputtering, we look like flour-dusted ghosts. But we settle down, wash up, and get busy baking cookies.

  We make more cookies than three kids could ever eat. And we only burn one tray of cookies—leaving an acrid odor blending with sugary sweetness.

  I’m slipping on an oven mitt to ease the hot tray from the oven when I hear a burst of music. Becca changes her ringtone frequently, and her current melody is from an Ariana Grande song.

  Becca wipes her chocolate-smeared fingerprints on a towel, then grabs her phone from the counter. “Hey, Chloe,” she says; then she goes quiet.

  She’s quiet while she listens, her cheerful expression darkening like an eclipse of the sun. “Are you sure? But she can’t do that!”

  Who can’t do what? I wonder.

  “Nooooo!” Becca cries like a moan. “We can’t survive without her help!”

  “What’s wrong?” I rush over to Becca, Leo’s footsteps padding behind me.

  Becca shakes her head, staring down at the phone screen even though it’s gone black. She slips the phone into her pocket, then turns toward us.

  “Tell us,” I say anxiously. “What did Chloe say?”

  “It’s a disaster.” Becca shakes her flour-sprinkled dark head. “Sophia and Tyla had a huge fight.”

  “Is that all?” I say with some relief. “They argue all the time.”

  “Not like this.”

  “At least they’re talking now,” I point out.

  “But they’re saying terrible things to each other. Sophia still thinks Tyla told the Corning Comic about the bribe. Tyla called her a liar, and it got worse from there.” Becca brushes flour from her ponytail, then tosses her ponytail over her shoulder. “Tyla and Sophia are at war. Even if we tell them the Corning Comic found out because he read your secrets, they’ll still hate each other.”

  “You can tell them if you want.” I give her shoulder an encouraging pat. “But they have to solve their own problems.”

  “Their problem is my problem.” Becca folds her arms to her chest. “And it’s yours too.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Tyla refuses to help out at the fund-raiser because Sophia might be there. And Sophia says she won’t come because Tyla might be there. Now neither of them will be there. So it’ll be just you, me, and Chloe.” Becca sags against the kitchen island. “Chloe will pick up the face paints from Tyla, but she can’t paint faces.”

  “I can’t either.” My hearts sinks.

  “And I can’t do it alone.” Becca moans. “Our booth is going to lose money—not make it. This is the worse thing ever.”

  I agree with her … but we’re both wrong.

  When Becca’s phone rings again, things get much worse.

  - Chapter 21 -

  ChipTastic

  “It’s Mom,” Becca says as she turns away to talk in the phone. She just nods, listening until her shoulders go rigid, and she gasps, “Albert!”

  When she hangs up, I grip her arm. “Has something happened to Albert?”

  “Nothing yet, but it’s going to.” Becca grimaces.

  “What?” Leo and I ask.

  “The lady from the tortoise club—Abigail—has found a home for Albert.” Becca scowls. “Mom is thrilled. She says it’s a great solution.”

  “No!” The kitchen smells sweet with cookies, but there’s a bitter taste in my mouth. “She can’t give Albert away.”

  “She says it’s the only way to get him the best care. His new home will be in Valencia—over 350 miles south—with someone named Tortoise Tom who rescues tortoises. Mom says he’s excited to get such an old Aldabra and is already preparing an enclosure for him with a pond and heated building. It’s the perfect place for Albert—” Her voice breaks and she sinks down into a kitchen chair.

  I come over and put my arm around her.

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” I say. “We don’t even know if Reggie will come back. If he got the big acting role, then he has to stay in LA.”

  “He’ll come back,” Leo says stubbornly. “Reggie wouldn’t abandon Albert.”

  “Then why hasn’t he called?” I argue.

  “Kelsey’s right.” Becca sniffles. “We can’t count on Re
ggie to take Albert back. He abandoned him with us. If he doesn’t care enough to keep Albert, then he’s not coming back. And tomorrow Tortoise Tom will come for Albert.”

  “How can your mother meet with him when she’ll be at the fund-raiser?” I point out. “She’ll be too busy.”

  “She’s taking Albert to the fund-raiser in the sanctuary’s animal trailer. Hank and other volunteers are helping transport Albert. Mom is super excited because a tortoise will be a great addition to the fund-raiser—especially one over a hundred years old. She thinks having Albert there will boost donations and adoptions for the other animals.”

  “It probably will,” I agree. “But I don’t want Albert to go away.”

  “Neither do I.” Becca takes her phone from her pocket and talks into it. “Reggie, why haven’t you called me? Albert needs you! We’re running out of time.”

  “Why the sad faces?” Dad booms as he comes into the kitchen. He peers around, probably noticing some spots of flour we missed cleaning. “Something go wrong with the cookies?”

  “No, they’re fine,” I say.

  “If it isn’t about cookies, what’s the problem?”

  Dad’s always been a great listener—maybe that’s where I got the trait—so I tell him the truth. “Double bad news.” I spot a chocolate stain on the counter and scrub it with a rag. “Not only is Wild Oaks losing a really cool tortoise, but tomorrow the Sparklers’ face-painting booth is doomed.”

  “Doomed? That sounds serious.” Dad wets a rag and wipes one of the counters. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Can you face paint?” I ask.

  “I can’t paint people, but I can paint faces on animal-face cupcakes,” Dad says. “I make a delicious snow-dog cupcake with whipped cream and sprinkles.”

  “Sounds yummy, but we need a face painter.”

  “It’s all about earning money for the Humane Society, right?” Dad points out. “Whatever you bring in will be appreciated.”

  “But our booth will probably lose money since the face paints costs so much and only Becca can paint faces,” I say.

  “Tyla could paint a face in five minutes—but it takes me fifteen.” Becca groans. “Even if we raise the price to five dollars a face, I can’t paint fast enough.”

  “What are the hours for the fund-raiser?” Leo asks.

  “Ten to four,” Becca answers.

  “According to my calculations, if you paint for six hours without taking a break you’ll make one hundred twenty dollars,” Leo says.

  “Almost the cost of Tyla’s fancy face paints.” Becca twists her pink-streaked ponytail. “If only we’d come up with a booth idea that everyone could agree on.”

  “Kelsey says the Sparklers all love my cookies.” Dad speaks quickly, his voice rising with excitement. “Why paint faces for little profit when you can sell my cookies and donate all the profits? You already have three dozen of my famous ChipTastics.” Dad waves his hand at our heaping cookie platters. “If we work together, we could double that amount. I’ve been wanting to do my part to help the fund-raiser.”

  “Sell cookies instead of paint faces?” Becca stares at Dad in surprise.

  “Why not do both?” Dad suggests.

  “And I’ll help,” Leo adds as he takes down a cooking apron. “I planned to go anyway. Becca can paint faces and the rest of us will sell cookies.”

  “Wow!” I grin. “Great idea, Dad.”

  “Fantastique!” Becca flashes a huge smile. “Thank you, Mr. Case! You may have just saved our fund-raiser.”

  “Anything for a good cause—and for my kids,” he adds, playfully tugging on a curl of my hair. “So why are you standing around? Let’s make cookies!”

  Mom joins in the cookie production line. And when my sisters get home from their dance, they offer to wrap the cookies in decorative bundles. My sister Kenya—the more creative twin—does a lot of DIY (do-it-yourself) craft projects. She brings out a spool of metallic gold ribbon and ties off each bag of cookies with it. More practical than creative, but equally clever, Kiana shows us how to use the edge of the scissors to curl the ribbon into spirals.

  We’re all working when my brother comes in, sweaty and tired. He doesn’t ask what we’re doing and stomps directly into his room and closes his door.

  Several hours and more than two hundred cookies later, I’m exhausted in a good way. Despite everything that went wrong today, our cookie celebration was a delicious success. After my friends leave, I sink into my bed, expecting to fall into a deep sleep.

  But my brain runs like a hamster on a spinning wheel. I can’t stop thinking about Albert and unsolved mysteries—like why my brother would need a lawyer. I imagine him behind bars in prison orange. I worry about Albert too. What if he dies of a broken heart? Tortoise Tom might have lots of experience with tortoises, but he’s not Reggie. Albert needs his family.

  Mysteries torment me too. Was it really Erik who left the ransom note and the wooden puzzle box? He never admitted it; I assumed he was guilty because the Corning Comic site was taken down.

  But the wooden box with the clue to my notebook was placed in my locker before I talked to Erik. Why pretend he didn’t know about my notebook if he’d already taken the steps to return it? And the timing of his website shutting down is weird too. He knew I’d get my notebook back and keep his secret, so why delete his website? I only asked him to take down the cartoon about Sophia.

  Stop thinking and go to sleep, I tell myself. But my hamster-wheel brain circles around and around facts and questions. Finally, I snap on my light and go over to my closet. I take down my spy pack and pull out two baggies of evidence.

  Evidence A: The green disk or button or game piece. I still don’t know what it is, but it’s the only real clue I have to what was inside my brother’s large, white box. I pick the disk up and turn it over between my fingers, feeling like I’ve seen one of these somewhere recently. But where?

  Evidence B: The ransom note with its bits of papers from magazines. There’s a photo of a half-smiling, half-frowning clown face on the back of one of the “ransom” scraps and a logo from a trendy teen magazine. Erik probably has lots of magazines since he’s interested in photography, but I’m surprised he’d have a fashion magazine like InbeTWEEN. Was I was too quick to hang a “guilty” verdict on Erik?

  But if not Erik, then who?

  Studying the scraps of paper, I focus on the happy-sad clown face. It has some meaning, I’m sure. But what?

  One way to find out.

  I toss on a robe and go into the living room and power up the computer. I put in keywords like “clown face,” “smile,” and “frown.”

  And there’s the exact image on my scrap of paper.

  The picture is defined as: two masks, one smiling and one frowning, generally accepted as the symbol of the two aspects of theater. The smiling mask signifies comedy, and the frowning mask signifies drama.

  OMG! The drama club uses this image on their posters.

  I hold the note up to my face and sniff that odd flowery-chemical scent again. I was wrong about it coming from the paper—the smell of hair spray mixed with mouthwash is coming from the glue!

  The paper eyeball stares up at me, and olfactory memory (as Leo would say) takes me back a few days. I replay the sequence of events that began when I accidentally brought my notebook to school. Puzzles shift into place and I can see the big picture.

  I know who’s guilty.

  - Chapter 22 -

  Accusations

  The Humane Society fund-raiser is a Case family event.

  Usually we all pile into our van and go together. But since Mom is an animal control officer, she has to be there early in her animal control truck. I’m going with her since I need to be there early for the Sparkler booth.

  The fund-raiser is being held at Bluff Vista Park, which has grassy acres of oaks and pines that sweep into a high bluff overlooking the Sun River. It’s in an exclusive area of Sun Flower near a golf course and a fa
ncy development of new, very large homes. When we arrive, lots of cars and official vehicles are already there, including the sheriff’s patrol car and a truck and trailer from Wild Oaks Sanctuary.

  Mom looks great in her uniform and beams with pride as she locks up her work truck.

  “This is going to be fun,” she tells me, tucking her keys in a pocket. “I can’t wait to pass out brochures on responsible pet care and spay-and-neuter clinics.”

  “That’s all you’re going to do?” I ask. “Sounds boring.”

  “Not at all! I love giving advice and answering questions.” She picks up a leather briefcase, then goes around to the back of the truck. “Also I get to run this cool machine that makes personalized pet tags.”

  I almost ask Mom to make a tag for Honey, but I haven’t told her about my kitten. Becca’s mom is the only adult who knows Honey is mine. Someday, I’ll bring Honey home—when we move out of the no-pets apartment.

  Mom carries a heavy box that must contain the pet tag maker, and I stack two boxes of cookies in my arms. I scan the rows of festive booths, some still in the process of being set up and others waving banners and balloons inviting visitors. Becca told me the Sparkler booth is on the third aisle at the bluff end of the park. Trees thicken around the uphill path to the bluff, which I’ve heard offers a gorgeous view of Sun River and would be fun to hike.

  “There’s my booth.” Mom points to several long tables covered with a white canopy on metal poles. “If you need anything, come find me.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I shift my arms for a better grip on the cookie boxes.

  It takes a while to find the Sparkler booth. I walk up and down aisles, admiring all the booths. While the main objective of the fund-raiser is to raise funds, the goal is also to teach people to be responsible pet owners. One booth has tables and chairs set with animal coloring books and crayons for kids. I flip through one of the books and read captions about pets that have been rescued and adopted through the Humane Society. Another booth offers free pet grooming for dogs and cats adopted during the event. There are booths just for fun too, like balloon popping. (I told the Sparklers this was a good idea, but no one would listen.)