Читать книгу The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Sylvia McNicoll - Страница 7

At three o’clock in the afternoon, the fire alarm jangles. Mrs. Worsley’s arms startle open like a bird’s wings, but she quickly folds them back down across her chest, hiding her hands in her armpits. Her woolly eyebrows knit and her mouth purls.

“I’ve taught here for thirty years,” she told us on the first day of school. “There is nothing you can do that will shock me.”

But on day thirty, this alarm takes her by surprise. Drills are always planned, which can only mean one thing.

I leap from my seat, wave my arms, and shout, “Fire! Fire!”

No one moves.

Mrs. Worsley’s left eye twitches as she reaches up to grab my shoulders — I’m taller than she is — and squeezes gently. “Stephen Noble, calm down.”

Everyone stares. My face turns hot. Mistake number one of the day.

My mother says I read too much into things. That’s what I’ve done with this fire alarm. Based on Mrs. Worsley’s body language, I decided it was a real-life emergency and jumped to warn everyone. Now they’re all snickering behind their hands or rolling their eyes at silly old Green Lantern, my nickname since grade four.

Back then at least I had a best friend, Jessie, who stood by me when I did goofy things, even when I dropped my jeans to change for gym and had boxers on instead of gym shorts. Of course, they were the Green Lantern specials that Mom brought back from England. Jessie told everyone that I had changed into my secret identity. None of the kids believed him.

“If that’s the worst mistake you made all day, Stephen, you’re rockin’,” Mom had said on her phone the morning after the underwear thing. She works as a flight attendant, so she’s away a lot. To make me feel better, she told me a story about how the pilot forgot to put the landing gear down that day and how that caused a belly landing and quite some damage.

“You could have been hurt,” I told her.

“True, but I wasn’t. Nobody was.” She sighed. “Don’t think so hard about things. By next week everyone will have forgotten about your Green Lantern incident.”

Shows you what she knows. The nickname lingers on. Also my fear of airplane travel.

Yelling out “Fire! Fire!” may not have been as bad as dropping my drawers three years ago, but it’s still the worst mistake for me today and I’m definitely not rockin’. On top of that, Jessie moved away over the summer. There will be no one to stick up for me later when everyone makes even more fun of me.

It started back in that grade four gym class and continues. It would be way easier to make a new friend if I were good at a team sport. If I were any good at soccer, Tyson and Bruno and me might be pals. Instead, I trip when I kick at the ball and let goals go by me. Because I’m tall and have long arms and legs, everyone expects me to be good at basketball, but I can’t sink a basket. Or spike a volley­ball. What I excel at isn’t played at school: Wii bowling. I sigh. Jessie is a great Wii bowler, too.

Mrs. Worsley releases my shoulders and faces the rest of the kids. “Grade seven, line up quickly and quietly.”

Renée’s hand shoots up but Mrs. Worsley ignores her. I can’t blame her. Renée’s hand is always up. And if the teacher even looks her way, Renée’s glittery glasses or hairband might blind her. Renée will keep waving her hand until Mrs. Worsley becomes hypnotized into answering her. And the teacher can never answer just one question. There’s always another question and another till it turns into this big back and forth discussion. Which is why nobody wants Mrs. Worsley to call on Renée. It always slows everything down.

“Should we take our things?” Renée yells out when Mrs. Worsley continues to ignore her.

This time Princess Einstein has a point. In about fifteen minutes the final dismissal bell will ring.

Mrs. Worsley shakes her head. “No talking! Hurry!” She shoos us with her hands toward the door.

Everyone lines up.

“Renée, Stephen, you two go ahead and hold the doors.”

She’s pairing us up again like she’s done from the beginning of school, as though she wants to keep us out of her hair. I understand giving Renée keep-busy work; otherwise, she’ll question Mrs. Worsley to death. But me?

Of course, whenever we have to partner up, there’s no Jessie, so Renée’s pretty much my only choice, anyway, and where I’m super tall and bad at sports, Renée is super short and bad.

As we lead the way down the hall, I search for flames and sniff for smoke. Nothing.

“Hurry, Stephen!”

I hustle to catch up to Renée at our class’s set of exit doors and slam my back into the remaining one to open and hold it in place.

“Nice job, Green Lantern,” Tyson says as he passes through.

“Wearing your ring?” his friend Bruno asks.

“Sure is,” Tyson says. “He put out the fire while we weren’t looking.”

Har de har har, I think.

The whole school pours out through three exits. Long streams of students spill over from the blacktop to the field.

Finally, when no one seems to be left inside the school, Renée and I let the doors shut behind us.

“Crazy to have a drill at the end of the day,” Renée says. “Something has to be up.”

Mrs. Worsley gives us the glare.

“Shh! We’ll get a detention.” Talking during a drill is a big no-no at our school. Still, I’m glad Renée thinks the same way I do. We walk together to the end of our line. I feel like a gawky giant next to shorty glitter girl.

Teachers begin to count the kids in their lines and, one by one, hold up their clipboards to signal to the principal, Mrs. Watier, that everyone is accounted for.

Mrs. Watier is new to our school and young and hip compared to Mrs. Worsley. She drives a black convertible TZX and wears tall black boots with everything, even jeans. Mrs. Worsley drives a beige, boxy car and wears white sneakers with all her clothes, skirts and dresses included. No jeans, not ever. Today, our cool principal paces and studies the rows of students, eyes narrowed.

All the clipboards go up. No students lost in this disaster.

No sirens wail, no fire trucks pull up. Maybe it’s just a drill, after all. Mrs. Watier talks to each teacher, and after she chats with ours, our regular end-of-the-day bell rings and Mrs. Worsley dismisses us.

“But I don’t have my agenda!” Renée protests.

“Never mind. Forget your homework for one night. Go straight home, please.”

I squint at the school doors. If it’s not a real fire, then why can’t we go back in?

Mrs. Worsley is the queen of the agenda. Everything we do in class — tests, runs for cures, videos we watch, all the stuff we’re supposed to do for homework, books or chapters to read, websites to browse, things we need to bring in, every gym or crazy hat or hair day, everything — she wants us to write it down and have our parents sign it so they know about it. “Never-minding” us about the agenda is a weird thing for her to do. I can’t believe this is just a drill. She would make us write that in the agenda. Something way more serious has to be happening.

“Stephen, did you hear me?”

“Yes, Mrs. W.”

“Then be on your way.”

I have another important job starting today, so leaving right on time without homework would be very convenient if it weren’t so suspicious. At the edge of the schoolyard, I turn to look back at the school and scan the building. I’m looking for a sign, a clue, something to let me know why Mrs. Worsley was so anxious to get rid of us.

day one, mistake two

No agenda, no books, no homework — I should be dancing the happy zombie dance. But at home, I still wonder about that drill. I take a McIntosh from the fridge, wash it carefully, slice it into quarters, then eighths, and spread peanut butter over the pieces. Ahhh! The smoothness of the peanut butter calms me as I bite in. Too bad our school can’t allow us to bring any for lunch. When I’m done, I slide my plate into the dishwasher, wash my face and hands, and brush my teeth triply long. If I meet someone along the way with a nut allergy, they should be fine.

Then I switch into my Noble Dog Walking sweatshirt and cargo pants. The shirt sports Dad’s logo: a paw print with the word NOBLE over it and a dog bone underneath with DOG WALKING written inside. Dad used to be an air traffic controller, which is how he met Mom, but guiding airplanes stressed him too much, so he started this business because he says nothing calms you quite like walking a dog.

When Jessie left, I needed something to do; I’ve always wished I could have a pet, but we can’t ’cause of Mom’s allergies, so I asked if I could help. Dad liked the idea and he got me this uniform, which matches his exactly. Mom says we look like twins, but Dad’s even taller than I am and keeps his hair cut really short to hide that he’s losing it. Mine’s black and shaggy, more like Mom’s. But just like Dad, I use all the pockets in the cargo pants. There’s one for everything I need:

Dog treats, the best ones in town ’cause Dad makes them from scratch — check.

Noble Dog Walking business cards — check.

Poop ’n’ scoop bags — check.

A ball to throw — check.

And the key to the Bennetts’ house — check.

Ready to go, I head out the door again.

Dad has a bunch of dogs to walk during the late-afternoon time slot, so he’s subcontracted the Bennetts’ two to me. They’re airline people, too, so they’re away a lot, but they know me and trust me. Mrs. Bennett often carpools with Mom. Today’s my first day on the job alone.

I walk the five houses down to the Bennetts’. When I head up the walkway, Ping, their scruffy Jack Russell, barks his alert to the world. As he barks, he bounces up and down in front of the window like a … well … a ping-pong ball. Rouw, rouw, rouw!

Pong, their tall, slim greyhound, leans the top half of his body on the frame of the window and wags his long tail silently.

When I unlock the door and step inside, the dogs rush me, Ping leaping up and nipping at my pant leg, and Pong sidling strong and silent to push Ping out of the way.

“Down!” I call to the dogs.

Ping makes a lucky leap on to the pocket with my phone.

Blip, blip, blip, blip, blip, blip, blip!

Nuts. I didn’t lock my phone. Ping just speed- dialed my father. Mistake two of the day. Now Dad will think I’m incompetent.

“Hello, Dad?” I say when he picks up. “Sorry. The dog jumped on the cellphone.”

“Do you want to walk them one at a time?”

“No. We all have to get used to each other.”

“Okay, then. Lock your phone.”

“Doing that now. Bye.”

Ping is still jumping.

“Sit!” I holler. Then I rattle the bag with Dad’s legendary liver bites. Instantly, Ping sits and I snap his leash on. Pong sidesteps my grab for his collar while Ping circles, binding my legs. Another rattle of the treats draws Pong close enough to snag, too. “There, now!”

Shuffling to the door loosens the noose around my ankles, and I step out to grab the handle. I gently sweep Ping away with my foot to open the door. The pair spring for the outdoors, but I yank them back so I can lock up.

And we’re off — like a wagon pulled by a mismatched team, a horse and a pony. The sun shines bright this October afternoon, making the air just one notch warmer than crisp. The team drags me along the sidewalk toward Brant Hills, the park they love.

Ping snarls at Pong when he knocks him aside to get ahead. His snout wrinkles, his lips peel back, and his pink gums show. Nasty rabid raccoon snarl.

“Stop!” I command.

He snaps at Pong’s long toes and scoots ahead. When Pong lifts his leg on a lamppost, Ping doubles back to salute it, too.

School was dismissed about a half an hour ago, and Mr. Ron, the crossing guard, must be about to walk home when he calls out to me from the corner. “First day on the job?”

I nod. I gave him our business card yesterday and told him about Ping and Pong.

“You gotta show them two who’s boss.” He points the stop sign in his hand at the dogs. “Give those leashes a good yank.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Ron.” I don’t want to look like a bad dog walker, so I tug back hard.

“Yup, yup, yup,” he agrees with my efforts. Stuffed behind a yellow and orange safety vest, Mr. Ron’s belly leads the way as he starts across the street, one gigantic hand acting as a safety gate in front of us, the other holding up his sign. We’re halfway across when a Volkswagen Beetle roars around the corner. Ping lunges to attack the noise. I yank back hard, as Mr. Ron pushes me along with his shovel-like hands. The dogs tumble after me, landing on the sidewalk. The car doesn’t even brake. Its tires brush by Ping’s back leg.

day one, mistake three

Ping’s bark rises in pitch.

“Shhh! Ping, you’re okay. Shh!” I pat him all over to double-check.

“Stupid driver! She nearly killed us,” Mr. Ron says. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” I brush myself off and scramble to my feet. “It wasn’t a woman. It was Mr. Sawyer.”

He used to be the custodian at our school. But from the back, all Mr. Ron would have seen was his long, blond hair, which looks like the strands of his favourite weapon, the mop.

“That the Mr. Universe janitor? The body­builder? Where does he get off disobeying my directions?” He twirls the stop sign like it’s a baton.

“He’s not our custodian anymore.” I shrug my shoulders. “Didn’t get along with Mrs. Watier.”

“Really? I saw them at the movie theatre to­gether in the summer. Did you catch his plate number?”

“No, but there can’t be that many old Beetles in town. Especially orange ones.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Wednesday night is Beetle Cruise Night at the mall. VWs from all over will be coming. All colours, too. Yup, yup. I plan to go.” Mr. Ron sighs. “I learned how to drive on one.”

“I thought you didn’t drive,” I said.

“I didn’t say I learned well. Never got my licence but I still love ’em.” He lifts his cap and wipes the sweat from his brow. “I would remember that car if Mr. Sawyer had parked it in the lot.”

“I don’t remember seeing it, either.”

“Well, I’m going to report him for reckless driving.”

Mr. Ron always threatens to report bad drivers. He wanted to report Mrs. Watier when she cut in front of him on her first day, top down on her TZX. But I don’t think he did.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I nod.

“And the crazy dogs, they’re fine, too?”

“Yup, yup,” I answer, the way he usually does. Both dogs strain at the leash, anxious to get going again. The bright green of the park beckons. “See you, Mr. Ron!” I wave as we head onto the field.

We pass by the parking lot of the school and it’s almost entirely empty. The teachers sure cleared out of there quickly, but I’m going to try not to over-think this. There’s only Mrs. Watier’s TZX and a black SUV with a long, white trailer attached. I’ve never seen it before — it’s not like anyone’s allowed camping over on school property. What’s in the trailer, I wonder. Why is it even in our parking lot?

The dogs won’t hold still long enough for me to check it out more closely.

They pull me past the playground swing set and climber. Ping tries to detour through the huge sandbox, but I rein him back, steer both dogs across the soccer field, past the baseball diamond, up the hill and down. Brant Hills Park has so much run-around room for the dogs. Behind the community centre and library, at the far end, there’s even a tennis court and a concrete skateboard pod.

The dogs race toward the row of trees that marks the top of the last hill, double sprinkling on most of the trunks. Ping suddenly becomes hysterical, leaping up on one of them.

“What is it, boy? Squirrel?” I scan all the branches. Nothing moving. Oh, wait, what’s that? A little knotted black bag sits on the lowest bough. “You need your eyes checked, Ping.” I draw closer, reach up, and grab the bag. Oh, man. I can’t believe some people.

Dad always says that because we’re profes­sional dog walkers, we have to show model behaviour, which means cleaning up after less responsible dog owners, the worst part of the job as far as I’m concerned. But why would anyone scoop after their pet and then perch the bag of poop in a tree? I shake my head and we continue, little black bag jiggling in my hand as the dogs drag me forward.

Over near the library a flash of red under the sun signals that Renée is heading in our direction, a stack of books in her arms. She’s studying to be a genius, as usual.

“Hi, Stephen!” She waves.

At least she doesn’t call me Green Lantern. Still, I pretend not to hear or see her as I focus on getting rid of the poop bag. Last thing I need is the class hand-waver hanging around. Mom says I need to make a new friend, not to replace Jessie — we can still get together with her discount flight tickets, if I can get over my fear of flying — but just so I have someone nearby. With Princess Einstein on my tail, that will be even harder.

Two tall, domed bins stand at the edge of the parking lot, and that’s where the dogs and I head. Because the garbage cans had been knocked over and dumped so often by raccoons or teenagers, the city replaced them with these. They’re cemented to the ground, and the chute at the top has a lever to fool the animals, and some people, too. With Ping and Pong yanking me around, I juggle to push the smelly bag through the hole in the dome.

“Why did you put dog doo into the recycling bin?”

“You’re following me.” I turn to face Renée.

“The path leads this way.”

She’s right, of course, about the path as well as me dumping the bag into the wrong container. I pushed the bag into the blue bin. The black one is for trash. “I made a mistake, all right?” Number three for today.

“You’ve probably spoiled all the recycling.”

I frown and think about fishing through the bin for that bag, but it’s too tall, and I can’t see through the chute to find it. “Not the worst mistake I’ve made today.”

“You never know,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, how a mistake will turn out. Need help with the dogs?”

How can this recycling-bin error turn out well? I wonder. “No thanks, dog walking is my job. I’m responsible for these guys. And they don’t like just anyone.”

Meanwhile, Ping wags his whole butt at Renée. His tail propels him into a flip so that he lands on his back, close to her feet, angling for a belly rub. And still he wags.

“This one likes me fine.” Renée crouches down to pat him. “Wow, he’s fuzzy.”

Pong brushes against her for attention, too, whipping his long tail. She reaches to stroke his back, double-handed patting now. “This one’s smooth.” She squints at me through her glittery glasses. “Why would anyone choose such different dogs?”

“Because … well, the Bennetts rescued Pong from Florida. He’s a retired race hound and came with the name Pong. Then, when Mrs. Bennett started her new job with the airlines, she adopted Ping from the shelter to keep him company.”

“What a coincidence! She found a dog with a name that matched the greyhound’s.”

“Of course not. She just named him Ping to be cute.”

At that moment Ping snaps at Pong.

“Do they even like each other?”

“Not much.” I shrug. “They’re still adjusting.”

“Let me take the little guy.” Renée grabs his leash.

“No.” I grab it back. “He’s the hardest one to control.”

Ping rolls over and sits up, head cocked like he’s ready to listen. Renée holds out her hand and he places his paw in it. A perfect shake and perfect dog behaviour, all for Renée. Maybe little dogs like smaller people.

“Okay, fine.” I hand the leash back.

A flock of gulls squats down by the football field. When one gull lifts off and flies over us, Ping’s calm ends. He leaps into the air, barking. Rouf, rouf, rowf!

“Can we let them chase the birds?” Renée asks.

“Absolutely not.” I point out a sign that shows a stick man holding a leash attached to what looks like an elephant. “All dogs must be on leashes.”

“That’s a dog? Looks like a pterodactyl to me.” Renée drops Ping’s leash. “Whoops, my bad!” She winks at me as Ping tears after the gulls.

I shake my head at her.

“What? Technically, he’s still on a leash. Let Pong go, too. C’mon, it’s only fair.”

Ping’s legs turn into wings, his ears, happy flags in the wind. Such joy. I shouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t. Still, I release Pong’s leash, too. He sails after Ping, legs stretched full out, long snout open in a big toothy grin.

The gulls leap into the air, screaming insults at the dogs. Pong circles the field after one of them; Ping circles after another. Too late, I spot the skateboarder rolling down the path. Both dogs abruptly halt their bird chase and switch their attention to the wheels rattling over the pavement. They break into a gallop after them.

day one, mistake four

Letting the dogs run free tops all the mistakes I’ve made today. Mistake number four, if I’m counting, but it only happened because I listened to Princess Einstein. Ping leads the charge, baring his teeth, growling himself into a froth — a fuzzy streak aimed at those rattling wheels. Pong makes his quiet stealth-lope after Ping, toward the guy on the board.

He’s carrying a binder and is dressed in a white shirt hanging untucked over grey dress pants. Not a skateboarder look. Probably came straight from Champlain High School.

“They don’t bite!” I call as Renée and I chase after them. “They’re really very friendly.” Lame words that don’t help.

To avoid running over Ping, the guy flips off the board, landing really hard on the black paved path.

“Ping! Pong! Come back here!” Renée calls, as though they will listen to her.

Instead, Ping tackles the skateboarder, licking the guy’s face and wagging his behind. Pong stands close, sweeping the air with his tail. If I waited for the dogs to obey me, I’d be waiting a long time. Instead, I run to them and snatch up the leashes, yanking them away from the skateboarder. “Oh, man! I am so sorry!”

The guy doesn’t answer for a moment. His knees poke out of his pants, bleeding.

“Are you all right?” Renée asks. “I can run into the community centre and get some ice.”

“It’s just a scrape,” he answers, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. There’s something weird about those eyes; they look crossed but they’re not. Maybe because one looks more solid, darker. That’s it, one’s brown and the other is green. Renée’s staring and I shove her.

“You’re bleeding,” she tells him. “They’ve got a first aid box.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “I’ll clean it up at home.”

“Why wait? Infection can set in quickly. Have you had a tetanus shot in the last five years?” I ask him.

“Forget about it. I had my tetanus yesterday.” He sounds annoyed.

It’s at this point that I reach into one of my pockets for a business card. “We’re so sorry about the dogs. We should have controlled them better.” I hold the card out to him but he’s busy scratching behind Ping’s ears and smiling. A dog lover, phew! “Listen, your pants are wrecked. Send my dad the bill and Noble Dog Walking will cover it.”

“Dogs did me a favour. Tomorrow, I won’t have to wear these ugly pants to school.” He takes the card anyway. Maybe he knows someone who will need Dad’s services.

Pong squeezes in for some pats, now, whipping his tail across the guy’s shoulder. The skateboarder reaches way up to stroke his head. “What kind of dog is he?”

“Greyhound,” I answer.

“But he’s not grey.”

“They come in all colours,” Renée explains. “Grey means bright or fair in old English.”

The guy squints at her

I shrug. “She studies Wikipedia in her spare time. He’s a retired racing dog.”

“Must’ve been expensive.”

“Oh, probably.” Should I have said that? Maybe the guy will think our dog-walking service is only for wealthy dog owners. I pull the dogs away so he can get up. We give him a head start and he skates toward the community centre.

To be extra safe, we double back the other way, heading for the school again. Ping suddenly leaps into the air, barking like crazy.

“What is it, Ping? Another bag of dog poop in a tree?”

“Check out the roof!” Renée points. “There’s a dog running around up there!”

day one, mistake five

“Hey, Mrs. Klein’s up there, too.” I point to a wiry, short, red-haired lady. Our latest custodian is roaming the roof with the dog and a policeman.

“It’s not ball day today, is it?” Renée asks.

Once a year our other custodian used to clear the roof of all the balls that landed there.

“Of course not,” I answer. “Would she throw balls down when there’re no kids around to catch them?”

“You’re right. That would be no fun. She wouldn’t need the police for that, either. Maybe the dog is sniffing out a criminal.”

The Ping Pong team pulls us past the baseball diamond and goalposts, and up the hills toward the school.

“They’re looking for a bomb,” Renée says between breaths.

“Oh, yeah?” I bluster, so wanting her to be wrong. “How do you know?”

She points to the white trailer I noticed earlier in the parking lot. “That’s where the bomb squad stores its equipment.”

She can’t possibly know this. “But the trailer’s not even marked.”

Renée shakes her head. “Imagine the panic if it were. The bomb squad came to my dad’s bank last February. That’s definitely their trailer.”

Of course it is. Princess Einstein knows it all. “We should leave the park, then. Why are we going closer?”

“Because I want to know more.”

As we reach the school, Ping wags himself crazy. He rears on his hind legs and bounces on only two paws. Dog body language for Look at me, pay attention to me. Friends, friends!

Pong wags, too, and his mouth opens into a grin.

The dog running around the edge of the roof looks like a German Shepherd–retriever cross, gold and black with floppy ears. Sniffing along the edge, he stops to give the Ping Pong team a yip and a wag.

“Would you kindly leave the area,” the police officer calls down. “Your dogs are distracting Troy, here.”

“Troy distracted them from their walk.” Renée may think she’s just explaining, but to me, it sounds like she’s back-talking the police officer. “Shouldn’t he be trained to ignore them?” she asks.

“Yeah, well, no one’s perfect. And he’s bored.”

“Not finding anything?” I ask, trying to smooth things over.

“A bologna sandwich,” Mrs. Klein answers. “You kids should eat your lunches.”

“Clear out,” the cop says more firmly.

Suddenly, Troy forgets our dogs and rushes off barking. He leaps down to a lower level of the roof, nose down, tail wagging, and sniffs at some large pipes. Those pipes lead to the furnace room.

“Let’s go,” I tell Renée and pull Pong away from the schoolyard.

“Wonder what they found …” Renée says.

I break into a jog now.

“Slow down. What’s your hurry?”

“We could blow up!” I answer.

“Nah. We just have to dive to the ground and cover our ears,” she says.

“They’ve gone back inside. Troy must have smelled a bomb in the furnace pipes.” My hands get sweaty and I breathe more quickly.

“Or another bologna sandwich. Don’t you want to know?” she asks.

“I owe these dogs an hour. A safe hour. We’re heading back toward the library.”

“Sure, we can check out the school on our way back.”

“Hurry!” I run again, giving her no chance to argue. We need to put distance between ourselves and a possible explosion. We breeze by the skateboard park. There are some kids riding their BMX bikes up and down, but no one’s in the tennis court. “In here.” I take Pong into the court, and she follows with Ping and shuts the gate. There, I throw the ball for them, and we chase them to get it back. Great exercise … for us.

When Renée’s phone plays a bar from Beethoven’s Fifth, she checks for texts. “It’s my brother,” she says, as though I’ve asked. “Attila’s in the house now, so I can go home.”

“Did you just call your brother Attila, as in Attila the Hun?”

“Yeah, I know, strange name. But my parents are Hungarian. It’s popular there.”

“Wait a minute, is he the Attila who spray painted graffiti on Champlain High’s wall?” Dad read me the story from InsideHalton.com, so I knew all about it.

“How many could there possibly be?” she snaps at me. “He cleaned the wall and finished his community service.”

I wince, starting to feel sorry for her now. “Your parents think you can’t be alone without him there?”

“Um, no,” she lowers her voice. “My parents are fine with me being alone in the house. It’s me. I don’t like to be by myself.”

“Bombs don’t scare you but you can’t be alone?”

“I’m not afraid ’cause I’m with you,” she explains. “In the house, when I’m by myself, I hear noises, and instead of thinking, ‘Oh, that’s just the fridge,’ I imagine things. Like it’s a burglar or a serial killer moving around.”

“I imagine things, too,” I admit. “Not so much in my own house, though. Dad’s almost always around.” I straighten up and puff my chest out. I like that she’s anxious about being alone; it makes me feel stronger. And I like that I give her courage.

Out of breath we walk toward the school again. It’s still in one piece, so no bombs went off yet.

I see a couple of people near the white trailer. One is wearing a helmet and strange bulky green suit and helmet. The other holds a black box of some kind in his hand. Mrs. Watier’s car is gone.

“Oh my gosh, they must have found a real bomb,” Renée says.

“Let’s head a different way,” I suggest.

“Nooooo! I want to take pictures with my phone.”

“Does your phone have a zoom lens?” The question becomes pointless as she and Ping tear off. Pong drags me after. Closer and closer to the school we go.

Ping begins barking.

Something is moving, jerking back and forth, actually. It looks like a remote-control transformer, only it’s the size of Renée, who is on the short side.

We draw closer. It’s a robot with tractor treads. From its outstretched arms, a large, lime-coloured backpack dangles. Wires hang from the bottom.

“What is that thing doing with Reuven’s school bag?” Renée asks as she trains her phone in the di­r-­­ection of the robot.

“Shouldn’t we be diving down and covering our ears?” I don’t ask how she knows whose bag it is.

We watch as the robot zigs and zags its way to the sandpit. Then, it drops Reuven’s bag into the sand and backs away. Once the robot returns to the white trailer, there’s a loud bang and a burst of sand.

“I don’t believe it. They blew it up!” Renée says.

“Did you get a good shot of the explosion?” I lean over her shoulder and she shows me. When I look up again, I see the guy in the strange outfit — he looks like an astronaut — heading for the sandpit.

When he gets there, he stirs through the sand, putting the bits of Reuven’s bag into a bin. Ping barks like crazy at him but Renée drags him away.

We walk toward the white trailer, where the robot now stands, motionless. The police officer pulls out a ramp from the back of the trailer. Then, he uses the black remote to manoeuvre the robot slowly up the ramp.

Ping finds a new reason to bark himself hoarse, which attracts the officer’s attention.

“Why are you guys hanging around? This site could be dangerous.” His eyes narrow. He looks suspicious.

“We go home this way, sir,” I tell him. “Over there’s the park exit.” I point.

“But we were wondering …” Renée smiles brightly.

This time the mistake of the day isn’t mine. Mistake number five clearly belongs to the Halton Police Department. It’s way worse than allowing the dogs to throw the skateboarder down, way more embarrassing than shouting “Fire!” when there wasn’t one.

“Why,” Renée asks, “did you blow up Reuven Jirad’s science project?”

day one, mistake six

Along with her high-pitched tone, Renée tilts her head and squints at the police officer, altogether making it seem like she can’t believe anyone could be so stupid as to blow up Reuven’s project. Over Ping’s barking, Renée continues, explaining to the police officer that Reuven built a mini boom box, how he worked on it for three weeks. I try to quiet the dog down.

The officer shifts on his feet and winces as he defends himself. “Well, the suspect’s bag was left unattended on the floor near the computers, right next to the furnace room. A strategic area to affect maximum damage.”

Renée often makes me feel dumb, too, like when we work on math or science together: But why would you do it that way when it’s so much simpler to do it this way? So I nod supportively as I agree with the police officer. “Blowing up the backpack was a sound safety measure.”

“Well, Reuven is bit absent-minded,” Renée adds, scooping up Ping. Pong stands quietly, leaning against my leg. “But a lot of kids leave their bags in all kinds of places.”

I nudge her to try to make her stop.

“Our imaging equipment showed wires.” The police officer’s voice sounds strained. He’s talking through his teeth, which are forced into a grin, maybe to stop him from biting Renée. “And the school received a threat, so we couldn’t take the chance.”

“We had a bomb threat?” I ask. My mind races. When that fire alarm sounded earlier and we all had to leave without our agendas and homework, Mrs. Watier and Mrs. Worsley must have thought there was a bomb in the school.

“There now, don’t go spreading that around.”

“No, of course not,” I say, wishing I could tell everyone in class tomorrow. It would make up for me panicking over the fire alarm. There was a real threat after all.

“Too bad Mrs. Klein is new,” Renée says. “Mr. Sawyer, our old custodian, would have recognized Reuven’s bag. Still, Mrs. Watier should have known about the science project.”

Leave it alone, Renée, I think. The officer looks more annoyed with every word from her mouth.

“The principal had to leave, if that’s who you mean,” he says stiffly, one eyebrow raised and both hands on his hips. “The custodian said something about a wedding dress fitting.”

“Mrs. Watier is getting married? But she’s already a Mrs.,” I say.

“I can’t believe women need fittings for their wedding dresses,” Renée says. “Why can’t they make them the right size in the first place?”

“That’s true. Guys only get measured for their tuxes once. Then they pick them up. My dad was a best man last year, so I know.” Now Renée has me doing it. “Must be a pain to have to take off for something like that.”

“Speaking of taking off,” Renée interrupts, “I have to go. My brother is waiting.” She puts Ping on the ground again and starts walking with him, expecting me to follow, I guess. No goodbyes or anything to the police officer.

“Me, too!” I tell him. There’s nowhere I really have to be. I just want to leave in case he feels the need to arrest one of us for being annoying know-it-alls and I’m the only one left.

The policeman stares after us with both eyebrows up, now.

“Bye.” I give him a wave.

Renée and Ping are already way in the lead, so Pong yanks me forward. We leave the police officer frowning and scratching his head.

Pong and I gain on Renée and Ping.

“Want to walk me home?” she asks.

“I’ve already given the dogs their hour.” Really, I’m not happy about the way she talked to the police officer. It reminded me too much of all the times she treated me that way.

“You’ll be giving them extra exercise, which will make them behave better. And make you a better dog walker.”

She’s right about the exercise, but she’s being a know-it-all again.

“Please?” Her head tilts again, and her eyebrows and eyes beg along with her tone.

She’s lonely. I get that. Since Jessie moved, I never have anyone to walk with, either, except the dogs now.

“Fine.”

Her house is around the corner at the end of our street. I always try to keep the dogs off everyone’s lawns when we stroll. They gallop along on the stretch of grass between the sidewalk and the street. As we walk east, they’re on our left. “Good boy, walk nice,” I encourage Pong as we go. “Don’t let him pull,” I tell Renée.

But Mason Man’s big red truck attracts their attention. It’s parked across our path, half in and half out of a driveway. Mason Man is large, like his truck, and his arms are as thick as logs. He lives on the other side of the park and owns a golden re­triever that we walk. Mason Man does everything with bricks: wishing wells, barbecues, driveways. Today, the sun gleams off his bald head as he spreads mortar on some rust-coloured bricks edging the driveway. It looks like he’s building a wall.

“Hi!” I call, but he’s concentrating and doesn’t answer me.

Renée and I carefully steer the dogs around the back of the truck. Then we turn the corner and Renée goes into her house. “See you tomorrow,” she says.

“See you.” Can’t avoid her, really; she’s in my class, after all. I’m left with the two dogs all by myself now, and I hate to admit it, but Renée really was a big help. As we head back, the dogs become confused and want to stay on my left, just like before. The leashes criss-cross, but I manage to steer Ping off people’s lawns. We turn the corner again. This time it’s Pong who gives me grief. He pulls ahead to the driveway next to Mason Man’s truck. He stretches to reach the pile of bricks, sniffing and saluting the pile with one leg up.

“No, no!” I yell, but it’s too late, he lets go a heavy stream.

“Hey!” Mason Man looks up from his wall and shakes his trowel at me. “You know how old these bricks are?”

I want to be honest, but Mason Man’s a scary-looking dude on the best of days. With the trowel in his hand, he’s armed and dangerous. Still, he’s waiting for an answer. “Um, well, they look pretty ancient, actually,” I finally answer.

He picks up one from the pile, and I duck away as he shoves it under my face. “A hundred years old.”

With a rectangular indent in the middle and the word STANDARD printed inside it, the brick just looks tired to me. You would think the people hiring him to build this wall would spring for new ones.

“These are reclaimed bricks from an old farmhouse on Highway 5. You let that animal pee on antiques.”

“Sorry.” I try to make it right with him. “If you have a hose, I would gladly wash them down for you.”

“Never mind. I don’t have time for that.”

“Here, Mr. Mason, take my card. If you call me, I’ll give Bailey a free walk someday when he needs one.”

He holds it in his hand for a moment and shakes his head. “How can I trust you with him if you can’t control these two. I should find a different walking service entirely.”

“These are new clients for me. We still have to get used to each other,” I explain.

“Huh!” Mason Man grunts and stuffs the card in his back pocket. Maybe he’ll use the number for Dad to complain later.

Mistake number six of the day becomes ticking off one of Dad’s local dog-walking customers, and a meaty, scary-looking one at that.

day one, mistake seven

What if Mason Man cancels our walking service for Bailey? My first day on the job and I screw up. What will Dad say? I’m going to have to call him right away. But first I rush the dogs back to the Bennetts’ house and take them inside, so we can’t get in any more trouble. They’re panting hard, so I head for the kitchen to fill their water bowls.

Pong puffs hot breaths through my pant legs as he follows close on my heels. Ping snaps up a rubber goose and honks it as he runs around with it lodged in his teeth. Look at me. Pay attention to me. I have a toy, you don’t. I grab it from him and toss it as far as I can so the noise stops. His toenails scrabble across the hardwood floor as he chases after it. Despite the walk and extra attention, the two still seem desperate for company; it’s going to be hard to leave them. Let’s face it: back home, I’ll be alone, too. Ping shakes the goose at me. “Listen, your mom’s going to be home in an hour,” I tell them. “I can’t stay and play.”

Both sets of ears perk up at the word play. They haven’t really heard anything else. I guess it wouldn’t hurt if I hung around and tossed the goose for them for a little while.

At this moment my cellphone rings. Uh-oh! Did Mason Man already complain to Dad? I try to be super professional answering the call. Dad bought me this phone because of his business and insists I answer it a certain way. “Hello, Noble Dog Walking. Stephen here. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Stephen. It’s Delilah Bennett. Have you finished with the boys’ walkies?”

Ping honks his goose hello.

I stick my finger in my other ear. “Yes, Mrs. Bennett. We’re back at your house right now.”

“Perfect. As it turns out, I’m going out on another flight. Mr. Bennett won’t be home till late.”

“You want me to give them their supper?”

Pong lifts one ear up straight and tall at the last word.

“Yes, please. A couple of those little white boxes of sirloin stew for Ping. It’s in the cupboard. Half a tin of liver barkies for Pong. His is in the fridge. And Stephen?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bennett?”

“Would it be possible to throw in an extra walk for them? Around seven o’clock?”

“Um, sure.” This may make up for losing Dad a customer if Mr. Mason cancels his service. The dogs watch my mouth and face, ears up, tongues out. “An extra walk,” I repeat.

The mere mention of the W-word makes them go crazy. Ping wags so hard he flips over. Pong jumps up and places his long toes on my chest. They’re super happy and they like me. It’s like having two dogs of my own. Closest I ever got to owning any dogs was while playing Minecraft. But I’m going to have to abandon them now, unless I suggest something that’s totally against Mom’s rules. “Um, Mrs. Bennett, can Ping and Pong hang out at my place?”

“That would be perfect. I’ll pick them up from your house later, then.”

I hang up and set out the stew and barkies for the dogs, and they race each other to finish. The winner? Ping. He polishes off his own, then muzzles into the greyhound’s food and snarfs the rest of that up, too. No wonder Pong is so skinny.

With Dad’s delicious dog treats, I manage to get both dogs sitting long enough to snap on their leashes — so much work and we’re only a couple of houses away.

As we walk, I know this is definitely a huge mistake to bring the boys home. Mistake number seven. I sigh. We aren’t supposed to have any animals in the house because Mom’s so allergic. Still, she’s on the Paris–Amsterdam­–London run and will be away for three more days. I’ll keep them outside in the yard the whole time. This should only be for a few hours. For just awhile longer, they won’t be lonely.

Luckily, I keep a tight grip on the leashes. I hear the bass pumping before I see it: the orange Beetle driving by at a clip. And what kind of VW makes an engine noise like that? Ping and Pong pull forward to attack, they’re so mad. Do they remember our last encounter? As I struggle to keep them back, I notice a different person driving this time. I could swear it’s our principal, Mrs. Watier.

My eyes follow the Beetle as it crosses the intersection and doesn’t turn. Hmm. That is the street where Mrs. Watier lives. Did she really drive for a wedding dress fitting in that old VW when she has a perfectly good TZX? And how did she even get the Beetle from her arch-enemy Mr. Sawyer?

day one, mistake eight

Back at home, Ping and Pong shove each other around, snapping and growling to get inside first. As fast as we enter the house, I take them straight to the backyard, where I push them out to the patio.

When they realize I’m not joining them, Ping begins barking and Pong scratches madly at the sliding door.

“You have each other. Now play!” I call to them in frustration. But it’s no use. Pong is going to tear up the screen if I don’t let him in.

Fine. I slide the door open and take them downstairs to the family room. With a laminate floor and an easy-clean leatherette couch, the dog hair shouldn’t be a big deal. I can wipe and sweep it up. There, I turn on the Wii. From the screen, Jessie’s avatar grins at me. It feels like at any moment, one of those round knob hands will wave at me.

I click onto my avatar, which has the same brown eyes as I do, plus the shaggy black hair. Compared to Jessie’s, mine has a straight-line mouth and eyebrows shaped in high arches, which make it look like it’s worrying. Jessie’s seems like it’s happy and excited, just like Jessie. Having the real Jessie around made me happy, too. We had fun together. I only wish he were here to play bowling with me.

I wonder if Renée likes Wii. Anyhow, I’m not totally alone. I do have the hounds. They scramble alongside of me toward the screen. They bark their cheers when the ball strikes down all the pins. I get about six strikes in a row. If I could do this well in any of the sports at school, I’d have lots of friends.

Then I download a movie called Dog Hotel and we all relax — Pong sprawls across the entire couch, his horse-head heavy on my lap; Ping lies on his back on the loveseat, paws in the air, tummy cooling and waiting for stray rubbing.

Suddenly, I hear the door upstairs. Ping flips over, growling. Pong leaps from the couch.

I locked the door behind me, so it can’t be a burglar. Dad must be home! Oh, no, mistake number eight: I forgot to call him! He’s going to be mad when he sees the dogs here.

He clomps down the steps. Ping and Pong run toward him.

“Hi, Stephen …” The dogs hurl themselves at him, throwing him down on the stairs. Oooph! They slurp at his face.

When Dad catches his breath, he says in a tired voice, “You brought them home!” He pats them both at the same time, but Ping still snaps at Pong. Dad shakes his head. “What’s this going to do to your mother?”

“They’ve been outside or down here the whole time. I’ll vacuum and Mom won’t even suspect.”

“It’s a mistake to get too attached to the clients.”

“Oh, don’t worry. They’re too badly behaved for that to ever happen. Mrs. Bennett was going to be out the whole night, and I just felt sorry for them.” Now is the time to tell him about Mason Man, too.

I follow him up the stairs and so do the dogs.

He frowns when he sees them in the kitchen.

“I’ll vacuum the whole house, I promise,” I tell him.

“As long as your mother doesn’t get sick when she steps through the door. Why don’t you make us a salad while I barbecue the chicken,” Dad says. He’s great with a grill, and with meat and dog food. Vegetables, not so much.

As he forages in the fridge, he tosses me a lettuce and a bag of vegetables. Then, he heads outside, dogs at his feet and a tray of chicken parts in his hands, and I miss my chance to explain about Mason Man.

I hang back to work on the salad. Celery in tiny bits, tomatoes in quarters, bite-sized lettuce leaves — I chop and tear. Then I toss everything with a vinaigrette and head outside to the patio table, salad bowl in my hands.

“So, what’s new?” Dad asks as he flips the chicken.

Here’s my chance. “Um, um. We met Bailey’s owner on our walk.”

“Oh, yeah, Mason Man? He’s not getting a lot of work these days. I’m not walking Bailey very often.”

“Really? He was building a wall for someone.”

“Well, that’s good. Maybe business is picking up.”

“I don’t know. He sounded really crabby and he did mention something about not using our service.” There, that is the truth. I decide to skip the part about Pong’s wetting those antique bricks. I want to keep my job, after all. Maybe Mason Man was just grumbling. Probably, he’ll never tell Dad.

“Mason Man often tries to do without our service. Hates the expense, really. He’ll bring Bailey with him or rush home at lunch to walk him. In the end, he always comes back.”

“You may be right,” I say.

“Were the dogs good for you?”

My mouth twists to the side. I find it hard to tell the truth on this one. “No. Renée helped me, though.”

“New friend?” he asks hopefully.

“Not really. Just some girl.”

“What’s wrong with girls? Your mom is my best friend.”

“Geez, I’m not marrying Renée, Dad.”

“Not yet. But if she helps so well with the dogs…. Just kidding. Anyhow, they’ll get better.”

“Sure. Just look at them right now. They’re fine.”

“Got a lot of homework?” Dad tries a different conversation.

“No. We had a fire alarm at the end of the day. Mrs. Worsley told us to not bother bringing our agendas home.”

“Wow. Really?” Mrs. Worsley called Dad once about not signing my agenda when there wasn’t even any homework, so Dad knows not bothering isn’t like her.

“Yeah, so I thought we must be having a three-alarm blaze or something.”

“But it turned out to be nothing?”

“Well, the bomb squad came later and blew up Reuven’s backpack.”

“What?”

I explain to Dad about the dog on the roof and the robot carrying out the backpack, which had wires hanging out the bottom. “Mrs. Watier had left for the day for a wedding dress fitting. And we have a new custodian, so she didn’t recognize Reuven’s bag. It had his science project in it and it looked like a bomb.”

“Why were they even looking for a bomb at the school?”

“I’m not supposed to spread it around …” I lower my voice. “But there was a threat.” I start worrying all over again. “Do you suppose there’s a real bomb still ticking somewhere in the school?”

day one, mistake nine

“No. The bomb squad wouldn’t leave if there was even half a chance.” Dad knows about bomb threats because of his years at the airport. Still, he avoids mentioning that because I’d worry about Mom. “At my school, there used to be bomb threats all the time. Nothing ever blew up.”

“Really?”

“Sure, during exam time. Kids didn’t want to study, I guess.”

“We aren’t writing any exams.”

“Some big project due for someone?”

I twist my mouth and raise my eyebrows. “Seems extreme.”

“Just a joke, then. Heh heh.” He sees me staring at him and stops smiling. “Not a good one, though.”

I eat my chicken and salad. Even if his reasoning about the bomb threat doesn’t make sense, having Dad around all the time makes me feel better. Up till last year, when he quit air traffic, I hardly ever saw him.

After supper, I snap the dogs’ leashes on for their seven o’clock walk.

“Do you want me to come?”

I sigh. It would be great to have his company, but most nights by this time, Dad relaxes in his favourite chair with his knitting in hand and his electric footbath at his feet. He started knitting last year, too, when he also quit smoking. He looks pretty comfy.

“No, that’s okay. They’re my clients.”

We head out. The air has cooled a little and the dogs have calmed down with all the attention they’ve been getting, but I still keep a tight grip on them.

Somewhere, I’ve read that you should walk dogs on different routes to stimulate their intelligence. So for that reason, and out of curiosity about the orange Beetle, we cross the main intersection to the posher side of the neighbourhood.

The houses sprawl and have triple garages and artsy sculptures in the front yard. Most have pools with sheds that are mini houses on their own. I sigh again. Before he moved in August, Jessie lived a couple of blocks from here and we played and had sleepovers in their pool house. I miss those sleepovers.

The dogs and I have to stroll along the edge of the street since there are no sidewalks. This could be another mistake of the day, as they will probably do their business on someone’s very-well-looked-after lawn.

I don’t exactly know where Mrs. Watier lives, just that her house is on this side of Brant Street. I’m starting to doubt my eyes by now, anyway. How could it have been her driving? Sure, she sometimes drives a little fast, but would she have such heavy bass playing?

Around the bend of the street is Jessie’s old house. I feel like sneaking in the backyard to peek in the pool house, just for old times’ sake. But that’s not something I’d ever do. He doesn’t live there anymore, so it just wouldn’t be the same.

Besides, Ping starts barking at this point and Pong yanks me forward. Ahead is the skateboarding dude again, dressed in baggy jeans and a T-shirt this time. He has a wooden ramp in the middle of the street and he’s skating up it. His eyebrows scrunch on his forehead, his teeth clench in a frown, and his face is the colour of a stop sign. He looks like a different guy, more than just determined, maybe even angry.

In the middle of the street, really? If the skateboarder lives in this neighbourhood, he must have a driveway big enough to practise safely. Does he have a death wish or something?

I pull the dogs back hard. Ping hacks like he’s choking.

The skateboarder sails over the edge of the ramp for a second. Then crash, he clatters down onto his side.

For a full thirty seconds, he doesn’t move.

Is he unconscious? I grab the cellphone from my pocket to call an ambulance, but then he’s back up, cursing and rubbing his elbow. He approaches the ramp again.

Are you kidding me?

I see a car coming around the corner a little too fast, and I want to flag it to slow down.

Crash! The skateboarder’s on the ground again. I wave madly at the car.

Does the driver see me? Does he understand someone’s lying in the middle of the street? “Stop, stop!” I call.

Happily, the car slows down, gives a honk, and then drives safely around him.

The dogs and I walk up to the skateboarder, whose cheek is bleeding. “Are you okay?”

“Great,” he grumbles.

Ping reaches in with his nose to lick his face. The skateboarder pushes him away. Pong wags his tail and whimpers in sympathy but keeps his distance.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to practise jumps in the middle of the street?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, my ninth mistake of the day. I’m in shock, so I babble, sounding a lot like Renée, and it comes across as a mini safety lecture. We all know the answer — even the skateboarder.

His nose wrinkles, and his strange two-coloured eyes look up and burn holes into me. “Mind your own flippin’ business.”

day one, mistake ten

Okay, the skateboarder said something way more harsh than flippin’. Ping and Pong bark out their disapproval, but I apologize because I did ask a stupid question. I have to drag the dogs away. As we shuffle off, I notice a flash of orange on the left.

The Beetle sits in a three-car driveway. That’s Jessie’s old house! He never mentioned who bought it. Is that Mrs. Watier’s house now? Her TZX isn’t there, but that would only make sense if she drove the Beetle home.

I wonder if the skateboarder lives next door to our principal. Or does he just skateboard in random neighbourhoods, maybe so his parents won’t know about his dangerous habits?

We circle around the block and cross over Brant Street again, but instead of going through the park, I walk the team through the townhouse complex instead. Lots of dogs live here, so there’s plenty of good sniffing for Ping and Pong. We head toward a jogger decked out in a lime-coloured sweatsuit and matching runners. She’s flanked by a large, panting Rottweiler.

As we draw closer, his tail stub winds around like a boat propeller.

“Is he friendly?” I call loudly. She’s wearing earbuds.

“Buddy loves meeting other dogs,” she answers.

The three dogs get tangled up in each other’s leashes immediately, and suddenly, there’s a low growl and a snap from the Rottweiler. Pong snaps back and they go at it, snarling and biting at each other with fangs bared. Ping barks hysterically on the side as I unwind the leashes. The Rottweiler suddenly turns and lunges at Ping, who squeaks like a toy.

Did the jogger say Buddy loved meeting other dogs or eating them, I wonder. Finally, I drag my team away from the Rotti.

“They would have worked it out,” the lady says.

Much easier to wait when you own the tougher dog. Still, I smile and hand her a Noble Dog Walking business card just in case Buddy needs some exercise when she’s away.

Then I lead the Ping Pong team away.

The moment I get through the door, Dad’s cellphone rings. “Noble Dog Walking, Jim Noble speaking, how can I help you?” He pauses. “Hello, Mr. Bennett.” He pauses. “You’re both going out of town!” He shakes his head as he listens. “All right, it will be up to Stephen. But I have to tell you, we don’t usually board.” Another pause. “Three days would be a long time for them to be alone, I agree. All right. We’ll settle up later.” He ends the call and chews his lips. “Airline people.”

“What are you going to do?” I say sympathetically. But I know Dad wants to expand his business and sell his homemade dog treats and food. He doesn’t want to turn down any of his clients’ requests. “Mom’s going to be away for three more days also.”

“Exactly, so we might be all right.”

I smile. Real-life dogs are way better than the square-block Minecraft pets. “We’ll have to clean really well.”

“Or you can take them home and we can just feed and walk them. The Bennetts would be all right with us looking after them either way.”

“That would be cruel. These dogs really are social.” Still, keeping them at our house, will that prove another big mistake?

“You have to keep them out of our bedrooms,” Dad warns. “We shouldn’t have allergens in our sleep area.”

“Absolutely! They can sleep in the bathroom. No carpets, easy to wash down.”

“Good idea.”

So that night, I spread out a sleeping bag across the ceramic tile and give the boys some old stuffed animals and half a bag of dog treats. “Dad, we’re almost out of liver bites,” I call. “Maybe just enough for tomorrow.”

“Fine, I’m making some Wednesday.”

Perfect. The dogs cozily crunch on the bites I gave them, and we all settle down for a nice quiet night.

Not.

I’m just dozing off when they start.

Snap, growl, whimper, repeat. I think I can ignore it. I know I can. They’ll go to sleep eventually.

But then I can hear Pong hurling himself against the door. Whomp, whomp, whomp. It can’t hold up against him.

My three night lights help me navigate out of my bedroom to the bathroom, where I open the door. Hard to be annoyed when the dogs are so happy to see me, wagging themselves silly, leaping up on my pajama legs.

“Oh, come on, then.” I spread out the sleeping bag across my bedroom floor. Hopefully, the allergens will all be trapped in the bag. They seem to settle down nicely. I fall asleep quickly and deeply.

In the middle of the night, the dogs bark like the hounds of Hades, the mythical multi-headed dogs Renée presented on at school the other day. I get up. “Whatsa matter?” I can barely talk I’m so groggy. “Do ya need to go for tinkles?”

Pong leaps at the window. My room faces toward Brant Hills. Ping jumps on the bed to be able to look out. So much for allergens. I peer out to see what’s upsetting them.

The park lights make it bright enough to see a distinctly shaped little car drive across the school parking lot. That old Beetle keeps turning up everywhere. It stops and I pull the dogs away. Can’t be Mrs. Watier this time. Or can it? “Just somebody out driving,” I tell the dogs.

My explanation doesn’t soothe the team. Pong whimpers. Ping gives a few sharp barks. I’m not convinced, either.

Dad comes into my room, rubbing his eyes. “For Pete’s sake, what are they doing in here?”

“They were lonely.” I frown and point out the window. “There’s a car driving around in the school parking lot.”

“Big deal. Probably lots of cars drive there. We just don’t know it because nobody wakes us.” He scratches his stubble. “Look, if you can’t settle them down, we’ll have to take them back to their house. We need our sleep.”

“They’ll be okay, Dad. It’s just new to them. Shh, Ping, shh!”

Dad shakes his head and trudges back to his bedroom.

I pick the little one up and dump him onto the bed. Pong jumps up to join him. I’ll wash the sheets and vacuum my bed when they leave.

They curl up but still end up taking most of the room. An engine starts up in the distance, and Ping growls low and menacing.

I peek out the window again. The Beetle seems to be jerking back and forth across the lot now. It reminds me of the bomb-detonating robot.

Sighing, I settle myself back down into the space left for me on the bed. It’s 12:01 on my cell; techn­­­­­i­cally, it could be called tomorrow already. Another low growl comes, this time from Pong. A chill runs up my spine. What bothers them so much about that car? The last mistake of the day, number ten, turns out to be not investigating more closely.