Kelsey the Spy Page 4

  But I only get halfway across the parking lot before slamming on my brakes. Sheriff Fischer’s black-and-white patrol car is parked outside his office. Great! Now I can ask him if he saw my brother. A good spy checks out all clues.

  While I’m working up my courage to go into the sheriff’s office, Sheriff Fischer steps out of the office. He’s not alone. He slips his arm around a dark-haired woman and draws her close to his chest in a very cozy hug.

  OMG—it’s Becca’s mom!

  The sheriff and Mrs. Morales are both divorced and went to high school together so they’re good friends. I even saw them hold hands once but didn’t think it meant anything. Now I’m not so sure.

  And when the sheriff kisses her—a big, fat kiss on the lips that lasts a very long time—I almost fall off my bike.

  That is not the casual kiss of just a friend. That’s the kind of kiss you give someone you’re dating. Becca has not said a word about her mom and Sheriff Fischer dating, which can only mean one thing: Becca has no idea.

  - Chapter 6 -

  Notebook of Secrets

  When I get home, I race straight into my room and go to my wooden chest. I reach down for the carved decoration on the bottom of the front panel—which is actually a hidden drawer—and take out my notebook of secrets.

  I can’t stop thinking about the Kiss. When Becca told me her mother was having lunch with a friend, I’m sure she didn’t know the friend was the sheriff, or that they were doing more than having lunch. Becca once confided to me that she expects her mother and father to get back together someday.

  Wrong, I think as I sink onto my bed.

  Becca will be crushed when I tell her … if I tell her.

  First this secret is going down on paper with the others I collected today.

  Usually secrets come slowly, like waiting for weekends or birthdays. If I uncover one a month, that’s more than the average. Yet today I learned four secrets. And they’re not little ones either, like when my sisters snuck out to an over-eighteen club or my father used a butter substitute in his famous sugar crumb cookies.

  All four are big secrets. And two of them are about my club mates.

  Sitting at my desk with a pen and notebook, I think back to this morning when I followed Kyle on my bike.

  Secret 32. Reserved for the secret “something” in Kyle’s white box.

  Secret 33. Leo is only eleven years old and will turn twelve soon. His mother is planning a surprise birthday party.

  Secret 34. Reggie and his sister faked a robbery to get rid of the grandfather clock.

  Secret 35. The sheriff and Becca’s mom kissed!

  Writing down the secrets helps me see them clearer. Although I was shocked at first to find out Leo’s age, now that it’s sunken in, it isn’t a big deal. So what if he’s younger than me? He’s still my friend.

  And it was cool listening to Reggie’s story, then meeting Albert. A 130-year-old tortoise—wow! Albert is more than twelve times my age.

  But the last secret is different. I rub my chin as I reread Secret 35: The sheriff and Becca’s mom kissed. Mrs. Morales and the sheriff are both single, so why shouldn’t they date? Maybe he’s crushed on her since high school and ignored their feelings until she was divorced. Really, it’s sweet and romantic.

  Unfortunately, Becca won’t see it that way.

  When she finds out, will she be shocked or angry, or burst into tears?

  Secrets are dangerous; they can destroy lives. If revealed, Reggie’s could damage his parents’ marriage. If other kids find out Leo is only eleven, they’ll tease him (even more than some do now). But Becca deserves to know about her mother.

  How can I balance truth and lies to protect my friends?

  Thinking so hard makes my head hurt. I lean back on a pillow, feeling exhausted. Yawning, I close my eyes and sink into sleep.

  Footsteps. A knock on my door.

  My eyes pop open and I look over at the clock. Drats! I’ve slept over two hours!

  “Kelsey, are you in there?” my mom calls out softly.

  “Yes, Mom. Just a sec,” I say when I spot my notebook of secrets sitting out in plain sight on my bed. Quickly, I grab it and return it to the hidden drawer. Just in time too, because Mom peeks into my room.

  “Just letting you know that dinner’s ready,” she says.

  “Dinner already?” I repeat, realizing I missed lunch. “Okay. I’m coming.” I jump up and follow her out of my room.

  It’s a family rule to eat dinner together at the dining table, and I’m last to arrive. As I chew homemade sourdough bread, my gaze settles on Kyle. I study my brother like a speck of blood under a CSI microscope, trying to guess where he went this morning and what was hidden in his box. Where could he have disappeared to right in front of my eyes? I keep hoping he’ll bring up the topic, but all he talks about (as usual) are strategies for getting a full-ride scholarship.

  When he asks me to pass the bread, I hand him the basket and ask casually, “So how did the heavy lifting go today?”

  “Huh?” Kyle’s face goes blank like someone clicked Delete in his brain.

  I smile sweetly, amused that he doesn’t remember the excuse he gave when he rode off on his bike this morning. “With your old buddy Jake?”

  “Oh yeah, Jake.” He blinks fast. “Everything was cool.”

  I almost laugh because if he really did lift heavy furniture today, he’d complain about sore muscles. Kyle is so bad at lying. My brother is definitely up to something—and soon the CCSC will be on the case.

  Later that night, I reach up to my bookshelf and take down my favorite book. Curling up against my pillows, I flip the book open to Chapter One of Harriet the Spy. Whenever I have more questions than answers, I turn to Harriet for advice.

  Skimming pages, I pause at the scene where Harriet’s friend Sport asks to go spying with her. Harriet replies, “Spies don’t go with friends.”

  My eyes grow heavy and the book falls from my fingers. I think of my spying adventures with the CCSC: going on stakeouts, solving mysteries, and reuniting lost pets with their owners.

  Harriet got it wrong, I think as I drift off to sleep.

  Spying is better with friends.

  - Chapter 7 -

  Fit-Pic

  The next day nothing goes as planned.

  While I’m chewing Dad’s corn-flake-crusted French toast, Becca calls the house phone.

  “Hey, Kelsey,” she says but without her usual cheerfulness.

  I swallow and ask, “Is something up?”

  “How’d you know?” She sighs. “I can’t make lunch today.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Sick of Tyla,” she gripes. “Remember that urgent problem she had yesterday? Well, her bratty brother threw her cosmetic case with all the face paints into their pool.”

  “I bet the pool looked like someone vomited in it,” I joke.

  Instead of laughing, Becca groans. “The Sparklers needed those paints for our fund-raiser booth.”

  “Wait a minute.” My brain whirls. “They decided on a face-painting booth instead of one of the cool ideas we suggested?”

  “Tyla hated all our ideas. Since her face paints are destroyed, new ones have to be bought. And Tyla insists that I go with her.”

  “Can’t Tyla shop by herself?” I glare at the phone.

  “Yeah—if shopping were an Olympic sport, she’d win gold medals. But I’m the Sparkler treasurer so she wants me to go with her. I dread it because before we buy paints, she’ll drag me into every store and make me wait while she tries on clothes.”

  “Sounds fun. Not.”

  “It won’t be as torturous if you’re there.” Becca’s voice rises with hope. “Please, please, come with us.”

  An afternoon with the Queen of Everything criticizing what I wear, say, and do? No, thank you.

  When I return to eating my breakfast, my French toast is soggy and cold, like how I feel inside.

  Before I have time for a pit
y party, the phone rings again.

  For a hopeful moment I think Becca is calling back to say we can hang out today. But it’s my grandmother with an invitation to my family—a Fitness Picnic in the park.

  I start smiling. We hadn’t had a Fit-Pic in months. Gran Nola, a yoga instructor, organizes a game of exercises with prizes for most graceful, highest achievement, and fastest. And if there’s a race, our dog Handsome runs with us.

  Mom says this is just what she needs to avoid thinking about “pre-first-day-on-the-job jitters,” and Dad can’t wait to get started on the menu for the Fit-Pic. He consults with my grandmother on the phone, rattling off food choices, and then rushes to the kitchen to get ready. I expect my brother to stay home to study or my sisters to hurry off to be with friends. But they actually seem excited to hang out as a family—something we rarely do since moving to the apartment.

  We find the perfect picnic table in a ring of shady oaks. And while Dad sets out a feast, Mom joins us kids for Gran Nola’s fitness games.

  “Our first contest is the William Tell,” Gram announces and then passes out apples.

  We place apples on our heads and twist into whatever yoga pose Gran shouts out. Whoever poses longest without dropping their apple wins (and Gran always comes prepared with wrapped prizes). The Cobbler’s Pose and Cow Face Pose are easy. Difficulty increases with the Eagle Pose. Mom loses her balance and laughs as she—and her apple—fall to the grass. The King Dancer Pose takes out both Kyle and Kiana, leaving me and Kenya. So it’s a pose-off! We balance on one foot with our other leg bent and our palms praying. I’m doing good, my focus steady, until my nose itches and I sneeze. Kenya whoops over her win.

  Gran Nola announces the fitness race, and all the kids line up.

  This isn’t a run-to-the-finish-line race. Nothing is that simple with Gran Nola. She sets up three fitness challenges: hula-hoop, jump rope, and headstand. Mom and Dad are judges as we complete each task. My sisters are great at hula-hooping and finish at the same time. Not so easy for me. The hula-hoop circles more often around my ankles than my waist. But I finally achieve the fifty spins needed to go on to jump roping. I’m quick at jump roping and make up time. At the finish though, it’s my brother who wins by standing on his head for five minutes.

  “Guess your big head is good for something,” Kenya teases.

  We all laugh, then sit down for a picnic that should go down in history as the Best. Lunch. Ever. Dad even prepared special canine cuisine for Handsome.

  While I’m chomping on a happy face cupcake, Handsome barks and then pokes his Frisbee at my leg.

  “Want to play?” I ask, then swallow the last bite of cupcake.

  Handsome barks excitedly, his dark eyes shining. There are too many trees around our picnic table, so I lead him to a grassy area and throw the Frisbee. After several throws, I notice another dog—a Queensland healer—watching us.

  The dog is about twenty feet away, half-hidden in the shade of a green bush. The medium-sized healer has short, gray-brown fur and a cropped tail. There’s a longing look on his face, as if he wants to play Frisbee too. I glance around for his owner but don’t see anyone.

  And that’s when my brain clicks.

  I’ve seen this dog before—or at least his photo on a lost pet flyer. I’m sure it’s the same dog, and he’s been missing for over a week.

  Slowly, I stand up and hold out the Frisbee.

  “Hey, boy,” I say softly. “Want to play with us?”

  The dog looks up at me but doesn’t move. But Handsome barks and lunges for the Frisbee. “Sit, Handsome,” I whisper. “Stay.”

  Handsome whines a complaint, but he’s well trained and sits. His gaze stays on the new dog though, playful and friendly.

  I take a careful step forward, holding out the Frisbee like I’m offering a yummy dog treat. “Come over here and you can play with us.”

  The healer’s stubby tail wags, and I can read eagerness in his blue eyes. But there’s fear too. He backs away.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I promise sweetly. “Come here and get the Frisbee. I have dog treats back at our table. You’ll be safe with me.”

  The dog hangs its head and whines.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I say soothingly. “I’ll take you back to your owner. Come here and everything will be fine.”

  That stubby tail wiggles, and I think he’s starting to trust me.

  I take another step, then another and—the blur of gray-brown fur spins around and vanishes into the bushes.

  “Come back!” I call, running around the bushes. But there’s no sign of him.

  Drats. I lift up the Frisbee and resume playing with Handsome. But I keep an eye out for the Queensland healer. Unfortunately, he never returns.

  Later that night, when I’m slipping into my pajamas, I search through missing pets flyers until I find a photo of the Queensland healer. His name is Bobbsey. He’s ten months old and loves to run and jump—which is how he escaped from his yard. His owner is offering a twenty-five-dollar reward.

  I’ll show this flyer to Becca and Leo when we meet at the Skunk Shack tomorrow. Then we’ll bike around looking for lost pets, which is always fun. It might be awkward though, because I won’t be able to look at Leo and Becca without thinking of the secrets I uncovered.

  Sighing, I take my notebook of secrets out of the hidden drawer. I curl up against my pillows and read through the latest entries. I imagine how each person would feel if I exposed their secrets, which reminds me how important it is to write down secrets instead of talking about them.

  With a yawn, I close my notebook. I’m so tired I could sleep for a week. I reach for my pajamas, then stop when I glance at my backpack. Drats! I almost forgot my algebra homework. (Why teachers assign homework over the weekend is a mystery to me!)

  I take out my textbook and paper but can’t find a pencil. I turn my backpack upside down, dumping its contents onto my bed. Finally, a pencil! I lean back against pillows and get to work. When the last algebra equation is done, I toss everything into my backpack, then turn off the light.

  Sunlight stabs my eyes.

  Morning already?

  I glance at the clock. Already half past seven? I’m running late!

  Usually Mom wakes me when I oversleep, but her new work hours are even earlier than my school hours. And Dad is busy making breakfast.

  I stagger out of bed, my muscles a little sore from yoga poses. I move slowly like a tortoise when I need to be speedy like a rabbit.

  After I get dressed, I tame my tangled hair into a ponytail and brush my teeth. As I’m leaving the bathroom, there’s a thud from my brother’s room. Kyle rushes out of his room, carrying toiletries and a change of clothes. He brushes past me on his way to shower, mutters “sorry,” and then slams the bathroom door.

  Immediately, I jump into action.

  This is my chance to search his room.

  - Chapter 8 -

  What I Found

  My sisters treat showering like a vacation destination—packing luggage and moving into the bathroom for an hour or two. But not Kyle. He never takes more than ten minutes. Will that be enough time?

  With a furtive glance down the hall, I duck into Kyle’s room. I leave the door open a crack so I can hear the rush of running water. As soon as the shower stops, I’m out of here.

  My brother’s room isn’t much bigger than mine, but it feels spacious because he’s so neat. Everything has an orderly place; his desk is spotless with supplies such as pens and paper organized on shelves. His bedspread doesn’t have any wrinkles. And no socks or shoes clutter the floor.

  Where would he hide a large box? I tap my chin and slowly turn in a circle to gaze around the room.

  Nothing under the bed.

  Nothing behind or under the computer desk either.

  The box is too wide to fit into a dresser drawer so that only leaves the closet. But all I find are shirts and pants hanging in order of size and color. I drag a chair over to check the
top shelf where I hide my spy pack in my own room. No luck—until I look behind a suitcase in the back corner and see an edge of white.

  The mysterious box!

  My heart pounds as I shove the suitcase aside. I have to move quickly. The box is bigger than I realized; about three feet long and six inches deep. But it’s surprisingly light, like holding a balloon.

  And when I lift off the lid …

  Nothing.

  Why would Kyle hide an empty box? Something important must have been inside it—but what? And how will I ever find out?

  I start to put the lid back on when sunbeams from the bedroom window behind me shine on a tiny green spot inside the box.

  Only it’s not a spot.

  I pick up a flat, round piece of plastic. It’s olive-green, the size of a quarter but thinner and bendy. Both sides are smooth with no identifying marks.

  What is this? And why hide a tiny green circle in a large box?

  Before I can come up with any ideas, I realize it’s quiet.

  The rush of shower water has stopped. As soon as Kyle dries off, he’ll come in here to get ready for school.

  Drats. I have to get out of here!

  I shove the box back behind the suitcase. I don’t realize I’m still holding the green circle (a gaming disk, maybe?) until I’m already back in my room. The bathroom door creaks open, and Kyle’s bare feet shuffle against the worn hallway carpet.

  Whew!

  Sinking into my computer chair, I turn the coin-sized plastic disk over in my palm. What are you?

  No time to figure it out now.

  When I hear Dad calling my name from downstairs, I slip the disk into my pocket and grab my backpack. I race to the kitchen and slather a bagel with strawberry cream cheese. I’m halfway out the door when Dad taps my shoulder.

  “Don’t forget this.” He grins as he hands me a sack lunch.

  “Thanks!” I kiss his cheek, then hurry out of the apartment. I take two stairs at a time to the bike rack where I unlock my bike and pedal so fast I make it to school as the warning bell rings.

  I usually stop by my locker, but instead I go straight to my homeroom. The bell rings as I slump into my desk.

  “Made it!” I whisper in exhausted relief.