The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ