Sink or Swim (9 page)

“'Night, Dave.” He goes into the bathroom to wash up.

Balthazar pokes my stomach with his big brown nose and rolls over onto his back. I reach over and tickle his pale pink belly gently with my claws, and quicker than you can say “sometimes being twelve is like flying a single-engine airplane over the Rocky Mountains blindfolded without a parachute,” I fall, exhausted, into a deep and troubled sleep.

DON'T LOOK NOW

“SORRY I'M LATE,
Doris. I can't get this darn collar to close.” My dad races into the kitchen while Dave and I finish our egg-white omelets and gluten-free toast. Dad grabs his coffee cup and sticks out his neck, and my mom gets his shirt buttoned in about two nanoseconds. Dad sits down next to me and shoves a blueberry muffin into his mouth. Balthazar sits under the table eagerly licking up the crumbs at my dad's feet as they fall to the floor.

“Honey?” Mom clears her throat. Dad just sits there chewing and sipping his coffee. “Wasn't there something you wanted to say, Fred?

Dad finally gets the hint, spits out a mouthful of coffee, and nearly chokes on his muffin. “I understand you're going through some difficulties, Charlie.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “And, well, your mom and I . . . we were teenagers once ourselves, as hard as that may be for you to believe, and we know it can be quite a difficult and a challenging time. So . . .”

“Get to the point, Fred,” Mom mutters under her breath. She hands Dave his lunch. He winks at me as he scoots out of the kitchen like a rat deserting a sinking ship. Great timing, Dave!

My dad swallows the rest of his muffin in one large gulp. “I want you to know your mother and I have given this a lot of thought, and after much discussion . . .”

“Your dad and I are going to be driving you to and from school for a while, honey,” my mom finishes.

“It's not that we don't trust you, Charlie,” my dad says. “It's just that—”

“We don't trust you, Charlie,” my mom interrupts.

I slurp down my glass of OJ with my long pointy tongue and try not to panic. “I get where you're coming from.” What am I going to do now? I have totally got to bring the poor creature his breakfast before I go to school because (A) I promised, and (B) if I don't, he'll just go out and steal more food, and I'll be in even more trouble.

“We called the Endervelts and the Strangs and said we'd be happy to drive Sam and Lucille, too. They'll be here any minute. Isn't that nice?” My mom pours my dad some more coffee.

“Yeah. Great.” When everybody sees my parents driving me to school like I'm eight years old, I will never hear the end of it. I might as well just paint a sign on my back that says
SHOOT ME NOW
and get it over with.

The doorbell rings. My friends are here. “Let's go, sweetie!” My mom tosses her apron onto the counter. “Don't forget your backpack, Charlie!”

How could I forget it? I've got the creature's breakfast crammed into it: three jars of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and all the canned tuna fish I could carry. It is so heavy I can barely hoist it onto my shoulder. I told Stanley I would meet him behind the rock outcropping at the corner of Cedar and Lonesome Lane on my way to school today. What do I do now?

My parents each hold one of my arms and escort me out to the driveway like a convicted felon.

“My mom says I can't go to the Junior Scientists of America Jamboree in Wapakoneta, Ohio, next summer if I don't shape up,” Lucille whispers as she helps me into the back of the truck.

“I'm under house arrest,” I whisper back.

“Like we didn't notice,” Sam says quietly as he climbs into the truck.

“Seat belts on, everybody!” my mom yells. We lurch noisily down the driveway and head for school. None of us wants anybody to see my parents driving us, so we scrunch way down and don't say a word the entire way.

When we get to school, we jump out of the truck and slink across the courtyard toward the front door, praying that none of the
nine trillion
Stevenson Middle School students pushing their way into the building will notice us. As if.

My mom shouts above the roar of the crowd: “Wait a minute, sweetie!”

It gets dead quiet as four hundred curious eyes turn to watch her get out of the truck and walk slowly up to me with outstretched arms.

My knobby knees grow weak at the horrifying possibility that my mother will kiss me good-bye in front of the entire Stevenson Middle School, grades five through eight. I can feel my score on the popularity chart plunging to record-breaking low levels with every step she takes until at last she stands before me. “You forgot something, honey.” Everything turns into slow motion as she throws her arms around my massive neck and plants a big sloppy kiss on me. And then the entire middle school bursts into a round of spontaneous applause as she walks off, hops into the truck with my dad, and drives away like nothing happened.

As we enter the school lobby, Craig Dieterly and a bunch of Banditos and One-Upsters amble over to gloat.

“Cute, Swamp Thing, real cute!” My nemesis tries to tickle me under the chin, only fortunately he can't reach that high. “Does Mommy know her itty bitty baby monster is a thief and a liar?”

“Come on, Dieterly!” Lucille exclaims. “Charlie's innocent and you know it. There's no hard evidence.”

“That's what
you
think, Strang.” Craig Dieterly smiles malevolently. “There's been a new development in the case.”

“You are in so much trouble it's crazy, Charlie Drinkwater.” Rachel Klempner smiles gleefully. “It's so exciting I could burst. It's like I'm living inside of my own personal
CSI
episode and I am never ever going to change the channel as long as I live.” She is practically salivating.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“They found a star witness,” Craig Dieterly says. “You'll never guess who.”

Sam, Lucille, and I exchange a worried glance.

“
My mother.
She saw you sneaking around Beautiful Bites yesterday afternoon carrying a carton of those pies right after the robbery. She was on her way to work at the hospital. She's a volunteer nurse on alternate Tuesdays. What do you have to say to that, Mr. McSlimy?”

Oh no! She must have spotted Stanley and thought it was me. I don't blame her. Even I can barely tell us apart.

Sam pulls himself up to his full four feet eleven and a half inches. “I say prove it, Dieterly.”

“I say don't waste your breath, tubby.” Amy Armstrong doesn't even bother to look up as she applies a perfect coat of smelly lacquer to her beautifully shaped nails. “Craig's mother is telling the truth. Last year Mrs. Dieterly received a letter of commendation from the American Medical Association. And they don't send letters of commendation to liars. So there.” Amy Armstrong tosses her head and I am practically blinded by the sunlight reflecting off her golden curls. Then she laughs her adorable laugh and for one brief moment I almost forget how insincere she actually is.

“I didn't do it,” I say. “I was home watching TV at the time of the break-in. I have witnesses.” I point to Lucille and Sam.

“Your two loser friends would say anything to get you out of trouble and you know it, Mouse Breath.” Craig Dieterly snorts. “They don't count.”

“That's not very nice,” I protest.

“We're interesting.” Amy Armstrong blows on her nails. “We don't have to be nice.”

“That's right,” Norm Swerling chimes in. “And after Craig's mom talks to Principal Muchnick, they'll be dragging your tail off to juvenile detention so fast you won't know what hit you.” He cracks his gum for dramatic emphasis. I'm not exactly sure what juvenile detention is, but it doesn't sound good.

“What's Muchnick got to do with this?” I ask.

“Haven't you heard?” Rachel Klempner says a little too eagerly. “Principal Muchnick wasn't happy with the police investigation, so he started his own inquiry into the matter.”

I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my very ample stomach. Now that an actual credible witness thinks they have seen me committing the crime, how will I ever get anyone to believe I didn't do it?

Craig Dieterly pushes me against the wall and starts twisting my shirt collar. “I didn't do it . . . I swear . . .” I struggle to catch my breath. “This is all . . . a terrible . . . mistake.”

I spot Mr. Arkady watching us from the far end of the lobby. Norm Swerling says Mr. Arkady keeps a special coffin in his office for occasional daytime use when the sun gets too bright. Norm Swerling will basically say anything about anybody as long as it isn't nice.

“Are you calling my mother a liar?” Craig Dieterly pushes his big stupid face right into mine. “You take that back right now, or else I'll—”

“Or else you'll vutt, Meester Dieterly?” Our science teacher glides on over and intervenes. And not a moment too soon.

“Oh, never mind.” Craig Dieterly skulks away. As he passes he murmurs to me, “Teacher's pet.”

“Mr. Drinkvater.” Mr. Arkady stares into my eyes intensely. “Let's have a leetle chat, shall vee?” He beckons me to follow him with a long, crooked finger. “Come vitt me.” He swoops gracefully up the stairs to his office. I follow him, trying not to trip over my flippers and my eight-foot tail.

Maroon velvet drapes cover the windows and block out every shred of daylight in Mr. Arkady's inner sanctum. Row after row of small dead rodents and snakes floating in formaldehyde-laden glass jars line the shelves. Stuffed ravens stare peacefully down at us from their concrete perches. I settle into an enormous chair that looks like it's made out of old bat wings and rat tails. It reminds me of a Bela Lugosi movie I saw when I was seven called
Murders in the Rue Morgue
. I like this place. I feel at home here. Mr. Arkady studies me closely. “How are tinks goink, yunk lizard?”

“Well, I'm sort of in trouble, actually, as you probably know, sir.” I twiddle my claws nervously. All I can think about is how hungry poor Stanley must be as he goes through town, frantically looking for the antidote to save our relatives from extinction, and wondering why I deserted him this morning.

Mr. Arkady nods. “I haff heard a few tinks alonk the grapevine.”

“Principal Muchnick forced me to be on the swimming team and I can't swim. Plus I'm a suspect in a series of robberies.”

“I haff been vatchink the case vitt great interest.”

“I'm innocent, sir, I swear!”

“Uff course you are, Charlie,” Mr. Arkady quickly replies. “Anyvunn vitt half a brain knows dat.”

I tap my flipper on the rug. I stare absentmindedly at a row of stuffed weasels. “Plus . . . there's this other thing.”

“Vatt other tink?” Mr. Arkady sits up in his chair and cocks his head to one side.

“I can't tell you,” I say softly. I am dying to tell Mr. Arkady all about Stanley. He could probably even help find the antidote. Only I can't. Two years ago I told Mr. Arkady that Craig Dieterly had put the thumbtacks under Doc Craverly's tire. I asked him not to tell, but Mr. Arkady told Principal Muchnick anyway. Craig Dieterly figured out that it was me who snitched and he glued the top of my desk shut. I couldn't open it for the rest of the week.

No matter how much I would like to trust him, I must never forget that Mr. Arkady is, after all, still an adult.

“Speak up, yunk lizard. I can't hear you.”

“I said,
I can't tell you.
”

“Vie not?” Mr. Arkady asks. He raises a pencil-thin eyebrow and gazes at me with his dark, piercing eyes.

“It's a secret. I can't tell
anyone
.”

“Ahhh.” Mr. Arkady pulls his cape up around his pale, thin neck. “A secret. How intriguing.” He rests his black-velvet-slipper-covered feet on the edge of his desk. His eyes twinkle and a faint smile crosses his thin, purplish lips. “A vell-kept secret ees a tiny mystery just vaitink to be solved. And I luff mysteries. As a yunk student I studied the complete vurks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You know who dat is?”

“Yes, sir. He wrote the Sherlock Holmes novels. He was a forensic genius.
The Valley of Fear
is one of my favorite books.”

“He vuss vitout a doubt the greatest mystery writer of all time. Dat book is the reason I became interested in science!” Mr. Arkady beams at me. “I read it venn I vuss a small boy-chick in Transylvania.” He folds his long bony fingers in his lap and listens in rapt attention. “Vutt can I do for you?”