by Josh Berk
“Not his own phone,” I said. “His dad’s.”
“What’s he going to do with his own dad’s cell phone? Like his dad wouldn’t find out?”
“Not to keep it permanently,” I said. “He just wanted to use it for a little while. Like how you said the jerk who stole your phone kept texting people you knew? What if that’s what Kyle wanted to do?”
“Why would Kyle want to text people who know me?”
“No, Kyle wanted to text people from his dad’s address book. Kyle wanted to text people pretending to be his dad! Specifically, Kyle’s mom. Remember how you said you wanted to trick your parents into getting back together? That’s what Kyle was doing. His parents were going through a divorce. Kyle thought he could save the marriage, keep them together. He told me as much. He asked me to help him. I’ll bet he thought he could swipe his dad’s phone and start secretly sending friendly texts. Like ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I still want to be married to you, kissy kissy hug hug.’ ”
“Kissy kissy hug hug?” Maria said, arching an eyebrow. “Is that how you text, Lenny?”
I blushed. “What? Me? No. Of course not. But the point is, that’s exactly how Kyle would text if he was pretending to be his dad. Trying to get back together with his mom!”
“So then, what—his dad came into the locker room? And Kyle was afraid he’d be seen with it? So he stashed it the first place he could think of?”
“Right. He stashed it in Davis’s shin guard. Kyle’s dad is truly terrifying, so Kyle definitely didn’t want it to come out that he was the one who took the phone. His dad would kill him! Mr. Webb basically wanted to murder Kyle when he dropped a pop-up. In foul territory! Plus, Kyle didn’t love Davis. Nobody did. Two birds, one stone.”
I felt a huge weight off my back. I could literally breathe easier. Phew. It was so nice to know that Mike wasn’t the one who framed Davis! It was like having my old friend back. Not that he was my friend. I was going to have to apologize. The thought did not sit well. I tried to stop having it.
Thankfully, I got distracted. “There,” I said, really proud of myself. “Kyle Webb’s house.”
“How do you know?” Maria said.
“A good detective knows everything,” I said. “Plus, that’s Kyle in the driveway.” I pointed. He was throwing a baseball to himself and catching it. Just launching it up underhand and waiting for it to fall. Alone. That’s always kind of a sad thing to see. It was, like, even more sad because you knew his dad was a jerk.
“Wow,” Maria said to me. “You truly are the Sherlock Holmes of suburbia.” Then she yelled, “I got it!” toward Kyle.
It startled him and he dropped the ball. It was kind of mean, but I laughed. Kyle looked sheepish.
“Oh, hey, Lenny,” he said, squinting to recognize me.
“Hi, Kyle,” I said once we were closer. “This is Maria Bonzer. Her uncle is the librarian.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Try to contain your excitement.”
Kyle gave me a puzzled look. “So what’s up? Did you, uh, think about what we talked about?”
“You don’t have to be secretive,” I said. “Maria is a detective too. She works for me.”
She gave me a look that would have killed a lesser man.
“With me?” I tried. “I work for her, I mean?”
She laughed. “Listen, we just work together,” she said. “And we know all about the little game you’re playing here—and I don’t mean catch.”
“Excuse me?” Kyle said.
“Oh, okay, Maria,” I said. “Let’s just slow down and—” But I should have known. With Maria Bonzer there was no such thing as slowing down.
“We know all about how you took your dad’s phone,” she said.
Kyle gave her a dumb look. That might have been his normal look. I don’t know. It seemed, like, extra-dumb. What if we were wrong? You can’t just go around accusing people of things.
“Why would I—?” Kyle started to say.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” she said. “Even though I can see that you are quite good at it. You want your parents back together. I get that. Ain’t no crime. So you swipe Daddy’s phone. Send a text to Mom. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Kissy kissy hug hug.’ ”
“Kissy kissy hug hug?” Kyle said slowly.
“Those are Lenny’s words,” Maria said.
“Hey, I—” I started.
“Lenny?” Kyle asked. His voice sounded so sad. “I hire you and this is how you treat me? You think I was the one who”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“stole my own dad’s phone?”
“Why are you whispering?” Maria said.
“He doesn’t want his dad to hear,” I said. “He’s kind of mean.” Then to Kyle I added, “No offense.”
“None taken,” he said, still whispering. “Believe me. I know. He has a temper these days.”
“Yeah, but why are you whispering unless you don’t want your dad to find out the truth?” Maria was talking louder and louder, aiming her words toward an open window.
“Keep it down!” Kyle said.
“Well,” Maria said. “Either you have something to hide or you don’t.”
And with that, Kyle started to cry.
“Gee, that went well,” I said to Maria as we walked back toward her house.
“Yeah,” she said. “If you like seeing dudes cry.”
“I mean, Mike is innocent! I can’t wait to tell him.”
Shortly after he spilled his tears, Kyle spilled everything. He was trying to take his dad’s phone just so he could text his mom. He got caught in the act and stashed the phone the first place he found. Just so happened to be Davis’s smelly shin guard.
He only cried a little. Well, first he denied it, then he cried. Then he told us not to tell anyone, then he cried again. Then he said his dad was going to murder him if he found out. Maria said, “Probably.” Then he said Davis was going to murder him if he found out. Maria said, “Probably,” again. And then he cried again. Okay, he in fact cried a lot. She tried to console him by pointing out that you actually can’t get murdered twice. Shockingly, this did not make him feel better.
But then I came up with a pretty sweet solution.
“All you have to do is tell Coach Zo what really happened,” I said. “Resign from the team like a man and he won’t mention it to your dad if you ask him not to. And we won’t say anything.”
“What about Davis?” Kyle asked, his voice snotty with tears.
“Don’t worry about him,” I said. “I’ll handle Davis Gannett.” Though of course I had no idea how.…
We walked in silence for a minute. “Wait,” Maria said. “If the truth gets out there, won’t Davis be back on the team? Won’t Mike lose his starting job?”
What was I thinking? I got so caught up in solving the case that I missed this obvious outcome. It was wrong that Davis got kicked off the team for something he didn’t do. But of course the other side of that coin was also obvious. If Davis got back on the team, Mike would probably lose his starting spot. Mike was already mad at me! He already said we weren’t friends. Being the starting catcher on this team meant so much to him! His whole future rode on it. Well, at least high school. He would kill me if I ruined it for him. And what did I owe Davis Gannett anyway? All he ever did was call me a dork-bucket and try to make my life miserable.
“Maybe we should go back and tell Kyle not to say anything to Coach Zo,” I said.
“We’re detectives,” she said. “We just find out the truth. If people don’t like it, that doesn’t make it not true.”
I offered to accompany Maria home. I didn’t actually say it that dorkily. Like I’d really be like, “Oh, madam, can I accompany you home?” Fine, actually I did say something like that. Okay, exactly that.
She gave me a horrible and disgusted look. “Dude, you live that way—I live this way. You think I can’t make it home by myself?”
“No, I just … W-well …” I was stammering. “I was just asking to be ni
ce! You don’t have to be so shocked. You made a face like I offered to fart on your cat.”
She repeated the look. “You truly are weird, Lenny,” she said. “You know that?”
“Whatever. Thanks for your help. We still don’t know how that evil new school of yours is stealing signs, but we’re onto something.”
“Also, you’re on something,” she said.
I buckled my helmet and rode off.
I decided to ride straight to Mike’s house. This couldn’t be discussed by text. This couldn’t be discussed over the phone. This was a man-to-man situation if there ever was one. As I pedaled there, I thought back to the winter for some reason. I thought back to the day I made this same trip in order to kick him in the crotch. It seemed like so long ago, yet was really just a few months. Since then he had risen from a guy getting crotch-kicked in the garage to the starting lineup, catching a perfect game. And now I had to go simultaneously apologize and deliver the news that it would all be over? First I accuse him of a crime he didn’t commit and then I help him lose his starting role? Would I want to be my friend if I were him?
I dropped my bike in the driveway and rang the doorbell. As always, Mike’s mom answered. As always, she told me I didn’t need to ring the doorbell. As always, Mike’s little sister was standing there, sticking her tongue out at me.
“Is Mike home?” I asked.
“Up in his room,” Arianna said. “Why so glum, Lenny? Your dog die?”
“I don’t have a dog,” I said flatly.
“I know,” she said. “It’s called a joke.”
I didn’t laugh. I just trudged upstairs to Mike’s room. I stuck my head in the door carefully, like it might get bitten off. Mike was sitting on the floor, playing a handheld video game. He looked up, saw me, then looked back to the screen. His face showed nothing. He said nothing. He was acting like we weren’t friends. Heck, he was acting like we never even met each other.
“Uh, hey, Mike, listen,” I said. “Do you have a second?”
He said nothing. All I could hear was the faint video-game music.
I swallowed hard and continued. “Hey, well, so, listen,” I said. “I really just have to say—”
“The only thing I want to hear you say,” he said through gritted teeth, “is good-bye.”
“Mike,” I pleaded. “Come on. Let me explain.”
“If you don’t want two black eyes,” he said, “you’ll be leaving now.”
Mike was strong and had spent a lot of time toughening up his hands. If he wanted to give me a black eye—or worse—there was nothing I could do to stop him.
I sighed. “You know what,” I said. “I deserve that.”
“You’re right you do!” he said. He threw the video game onto his bed and jumped up. He was a little bit shorter than me, but he drew himself up to his full height and got right in my face.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m going to say I’m sorry and then you can hit me if you want.” I closed my eyes and said, “I’m sorry.” I waited for his fist. “I’ve been hit once. I can handle it again.” Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t want to handle it again. But I figured I probably could. I figured I deserved it.
Nothing happened.
I must have taken him slightly off guard. I opened my good eye halfway and peeked at him. “I’m really sorry, Mike,” I said. “I suspected you of something you didn’t do. I was a bad friend. I’ll never doubt you again. I promise.”
“Um, thanks,” he said. He took a step back. He unclenched his fist.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said.
“Why?” His right fist reclenched, if that’s a word.
“Well, the reason I’m apologizing … I mean, part of the reason … is that I figured out who did steal Kyle’s dad’s phone.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“And it wasn’t Davis Gannett?”
“No. Kyle stole his own dad’s phone.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
I explained the whole thing to Mike. He said nothing. He went back to playing his game.
Then he spoke. He didn’t look up. It was like he was talking to the guys on the screen and not to me. “All along I sort of thought that it wasn’t really Davis. I mean, I didn’t know who it was! And I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have proof or anything. I just … Well, Davis was behind the plate with me most of that practice. There was hardly any chance for him to get near the bleachers, to steal a phone. Plus, why would he hide it where it was sure to be found?”
“Yeah,” I said. “So why didn’t you say anything?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he said glumly.
“You were happy that Davis got thrown off the team? So you could be the starting catcher?”
“Does that make me a bad person?” Mike said, nodding, biting his lip.
“Nah,” I said. “I don’t think so. I think anyone would have done the same.”
“Not you, Lenny. You’re so good.”
“So why do I feel so bad?” I said.
“Because you helped your best friend lose his starting job to a maniac milk-pooper?” he said.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “That.”
“Hey,” he said, “I’m all for anything that makes us a better team. And besides, there’s always next year.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Next year.”
Monday. Lunch. Me and Mike and Other Mike. Once again we were talking about the mystery of the stolen signs. Life was like that. As soon as you solved one mystery, there was another one waiting for you. Mike and I were racking our brains, trying to figure out what to do. There was no game that day. Highland and Griffith were playing over at Highland, giving the Mustangs the day off.
“Hey, so can I help with this whole thing or what?” Other Mike said, looking up from his book.
“Um, sure,” Mike said.
“I doubt the culprit is a warlock,” I said. “We don’t need someone to cast a counterspell.”
“Ha-ha,” Other Mike said. “Though I could tell you that the warlocks in Warlock Wallop do have a sophisticated ball game of sorts that they play called ‘Spurious,’ which you might actually enjoy if you bothered to give it a try. They hit the ball with a bat. Oh, well, okay, it’s actually a spiked club. And there’s a ball, of course. Well, actually, a human head. But anyway, that’s neither here nor there nor in your underwear. The point is that if I’m understanding this correctly, what it seems like is that you maybe could take advantage of my—how do you say—skills in the arts of reconnaissance?”
“You are going to have to tell us—in English—what exactly you are talking about,” Mike said.
“I mean if they are spying on Hunter, the only proper response is to spy back,” he said. “We need to go over there and see what we can find.”
“If you remember correctly,” I said, “I already tried that and it resulted in a little thing called ME GETTING PUNCHED IN THE FACE.” I pointed to my eye. It was only a little red now, but I liked to show it off still.
“Yeah,” Other Mike said, rolling his eyes. “I think you mentioned it once or twice.”
I guess I had mentioned it about a thousand times. I never had a black eye before! I wanted sympathy. And people to think I was cool. It was cool. Traumatic and painful and I don’t recommend it. But still.
“You’re not worried?” I asked. “You’d have to climb up that billboard to see what you can find.”
“So?” he asked.
“So?” Mike yelled. “You’re terrified of heights. We’ve been trying to get you to go off the high dive at the pool for, like, our whole lives. You can’t even stand walking on the curb and it’s, like, six inches high.”
“Well, I don’t see any reason to tempt fate when there’s a perfectly solid road right there next to the curb,” Other Mike said.
“Yeah, but you’re willing to climb a billboard ladder that’s, like, thirty feet high?” I asked.
“Sure.” Other Mike shru
gged. “I mean, I’m not crazy about the idea. But if it needs to be done, it needs to be done. Anything for the team.”
“This is really weird,” Mike said. “You’re afraid to go to the 7-Eleven down the street because you think the old guy who works there is going to beat you up.”
“Well, to be fair, that old guy is really mean. Do you see the way he looks at us?”
“Other Mike,” I said, “that guy is about nine hundred years old. I’m surprised he can see anything at all. I don’t think he’s trying to look angry, I just think he’s trying to look. He squints like that when he’s reading the paper. Plus, how tough can a nine-hundred-year-old man be?”
“Um, remember last summer when you said the same thing about Blaze O’Farrell? And he turned out to be a murderer. Plus, the guy at the 7-Eleven looks pretty wiry.”
“Which brings me to my point,” I said. “You’re afraid of that old guy but not the possibility of someone beating you up for sneaking around Griffith’s field?”
“They’re stealing our secrets,” he said. “I say we steal theirs. You know what they say—fight fire with fire.”
“Huh,” I said. “I always thought the saying was ‘Fight fire with wire.’ ” What? I did. The Mikes laughed.
“ ‘Fight fire with wire’? That doesn’t make any sense,” Mike said.
“Sure it does,” I explained. “You know, you build a wire fence around the fire. It’s a good way to contain the fire and keep it from spreading.”
“No, that wouldn’t work,” Other Mike said. “Fire would just, like, go right through a wire fence. I’m quite sure it’s ‘Fight fire with fire.’ ”
“That makes no sense at all. How would you fight a fire with more fire? Wouldn’t that just make the fire spread? Wouldn’t it just get bigger? What are you going to do, burn a fire? Good luck with that.” I was really sure of myself.
“I think it’s only an expression,” Mike said. “You know, like when it’s raining cats and dogs, you don’t literally see cats and dogs falling from the sky.”
“Well, it’s stupid,” I said. “It should be ‘Fight fire with water.’ It doesn’t rhyme, but it makes a heck of a lot more sense.”