The Best Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  For everyone who has ever walked a dog before but especially for the people who help me walk Mortie (aka Ping) and Worf (aka Pong): my grandchildren, Hunter, Fletcher, Finley, William, Jadzia, Violet, Desmond, and Scarlett

  While the setting and some of the mistakes may be real, the kids, dogs, teachers, principals, custodians, and neighbours are all made up. If you recognize yourself or anyone else, you’ve clearly made a mistake. Good for you!

  Dedication

  Day 1

  Day 2

  Day 3

  End

  Acknowledgements

  day one

  day one, mistake one

  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.

  Nobel 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 gr
een 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.