While we had talked a bunch of times, all I really knew about Madeleine was that she was Korean and had been adopted as a baby. And she didn’t like me. In fact, I was pretty sure she hated me.
In second grade her mom invited me to her princess unicorn birthday party because she wanted Madeleine to have an Asian friend. “I’ll have to talk to your mom about more playdates,” she had said, leading me into their bonus room, where all the girls twirled in tulle princess skirts made especially for the party.
Her mother left us to ourselves as we started to play. Everyone knelt around the birthday girl, seated on a golden metal folding chair, the taffeta from her Princess Celestia headband getting caught on the backrest. I had joined in, used to taking charge of imaginary games, and found myself calling out instructions to Madeleine Brown’s guests. When I asked everyone to name a magical unicorn of their own, Madeleine took over and called on the girls one by one. I had started the game because I had the perfect unicorn name: Sunshine Lilly Buttercup, but when it was my turn, Madeleine skipped right over me.
One of the girls noticed and called out, “You forgot Kazu.” Madeleine cut her eyes at the girl before turning toward me.
“She doesn’t ride a magical unicorn,” Madeleine snapped. “She has a donkey.” The other girls laughed nervously.
“I do not,” I had said as I slouched in my spot, concentrating on the sandy carpet strands so that I wouldn’t cry. I stayed like that for the rest of the party, and Madeleine continued to ignore me.
When it was time to leave, Madeleine called after me, her voice sour and mean. “See you later, Bossy Jones.”
On the risers, Madeleine stood above the group of sporty girls surrounding her. They all wore some combination of red and black: Lincoln Elementary School colors. As she leaned over to whisper into her neighbor’s ear, she met my eyes and snapped straight up, like a skittish cat seeing a bulldog. I scrunched my eyebrows together, wondering what Madeleine Brown had to be afraid of.
The girls around her paused and then followed her gaze to where I stood in the middle of the first riser. Madeleine had a look like she was working out a story problem in her head. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and called out, “Hey, Detective Jones! What are you looking at?” Kids around her snickered, and a prickly heat climbed my neck.
Most kids knew me as Detective Girl, and up through fourth grade everyone seemed to think it was cool that I liked unraveling mysteries. I carried the Sleuth Chronicle everywhere and asked probing questions when I thought someone might have information I needed for a case. But fifth grade was different from fourth grade. The same kids who thought it was cool last year were starting to roll their eyes at me this year. It all felt very shaky, like a towering Jenga bridge I had to cross. But no one had ever made fun of me about it out loud.
I searched for March and found him a couple rows above Madeleine Brown. He had heard, and his eyes were so wide I thought his eyeballs might plop from his head. I reached deep into my pockets and found the Jolly Rancher Ms. Packer had given us for quiet reading that day. With newspaper aim, I pulled my arm back and went to throw the candy at Madeleine Brown, whispering to myself, “Block this, soccer head!” as Mrs. Hewitt tapped her baton on the music stand, silencing the room. The sound distracted me, and I released the candy way too soon, launching it toward Mrs. Hewitt and hitting her on the cheek. As if on cue, the entire class gasped and turned to look at me.
Mrs. Hewitt pressed a hand to her cheek and spun toward my riser. “Ms. Jones?”
I opened my mouth to apologize, to explain, but it felt like my lungs were empty, and I had forgotten how to breathe.
Mrs. Hewitt scanned the room, her gaze landing on Madeleine, who was shaking with laughter. “I would like you and Ms. Brown to stay after school today. I have a special assignment for you both.”
Madeleine pivoted to me again, her eyes blazing.
I smirked back and let myself enjoy the moment, because I knew that every second that followed was sure to be miserable.
CHAPTER THREE
Madeleine and I stood on opposite ends of the music room, our arms folded across our chests. Mrs. Hewitt swept through the doorway holding a bright yellow folder. She opened it and pulled out two sheets of paper—one for Madeleine and another one for me.
“What is this?” Madeleine held the sheet music away from her body like it was a banana peel.
Mrs. Hewitt sighed loudly. “I saw what happened in class today, ladies.” She leveled us with a look. “And because I’m a music teacher, we’re going to resolve this”—she gestured wildly at the space between Madeleine and me—“with song.”
I raised my hand. “I’m really not much of a singer—”
Mrs. Hewitt cut me off. “It’s a lovely song, and for two weeks I want you both to stay after school on Monday and practice this duet. If, by any chance, you don’t cooperate and do your best, that two weeks will become three, which will become four and so forth.”
I glared at the song’s title, in all caps at the top of the page: “WE’RE GOING TO BE FRIENDS.” This was a joke, right? I glanced around the room to see if maybe Ms. Smith, the principal, was hiding somewhere, ready to burst out laughing. Instead, I met Madeleine’s eyes. We finally had something else in common—mortification.
“My mom—” Madeleine started, but Mrs. Hewitt interrupted.
“Your parents have been notified.” She walked around the piano and bent over the keys. “Right now, they think you’re participating in an extra-credit music assignment. I would be happy to call them back and explain that this activity has since devolved to detention.”
The sharpness of her tone rang through the room. She was a tough cookie, Mrs. Hewitt. I wasn’t going to test her. Besides, after what had happened that morning, I couldn’t afford to get into any more trouble with Mom.
Without introduction, Mrs. Hewitt played the melody to “We’re Going to Be Friends.” After she’d finished, she waited a couple beats before saying, “Ready?”
Madeleine Brown and I stumbled our way through the first verse of the song.
I ran back to Mrs. Thomas’s class to grab my backpack before Mom came to pick me up from school. All the kids had left the classroom except CindeeRae Lemmings, teacher’s pet. Since school started, I had heard CindeeRae talk about her younger brother, soccer tryouts, her new Hot Stick rollers, all the books she was reading for the genre challenge, and of course, her lead as Annie, which had played at the Civic Auditorium that summer.
But unlike all the other times CindeeRae had come up to her desk to talk, Mrs. Thomas was not smiling with all her perfectly white teeth showing. Instead, Mrs. Thomas patted CindeeRae’s back while she cried, big dollops that left a slick spot on her desk.
“We got Lobster for Christmas two years ago. We named him that because he has red hair, too. He’s an Irish setter, and everyone loves him.” I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a string of snot was hanging from CindeeRae’s nose to the desktop. Mrs. Thomas must have noticed, too, because she pushed a handful of Kleenex toward her. CindeeRae cleaned herself up. “Who steals dogs? That’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard.” Speaking that truth out loud must have made her even sadder, because she collapsed to the desk again, her shoulders bouncing with hiccuping sobs.
“Sweetie.” Mrs. Thomas pushed a strand of red curly hair from CindeeRae’s face and tucked it behind her ear. “Why don’t we call your mom so she can give you a ride home?”
CindeeRae sat up, her shoulders still hunched, and wiped tears from her face with the backs of both hands. Her cheeks were all splotchy and her breath uneven. She caught me watching her but didn’t look away. I thought of Genki and how sad I would be if he disappeared. I gave her a sad smile and she nodded at me like she understood.
“Okay, hon,” Mrs. Thomas said, guiding CindeeRae into the hall with a hand on her shoulder. “You head to the office and call your mom for a ride home.” We both watched her walk away, dragging her purple ba
ckpack behind her with one hand.
Mrs. Thomas turned around and smiled at me, all the shiny bangles on her wrists jingling as she brought her hands to her hips. “What are you still doing here, Kazu?”
“I stayed after for extra credit in music class.” I lifted my backpack from its hook, not meeting Mrs. Thomas’s eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “Extra credit.”
She drew the words out like something hid between the syllables. I realized she knew exactly what extra credit was code for.
“Don’t forget your homework folder.” She pulled it from my cubby and handed it to me.
I swung the backpack over my shoulder and clasped the gray folder to my chest. “Thanks, Mrs. Thomas. See you tomorrow.”
As I waited for Mom by the big window in the office, I watched CindeeRae walk from the school to where her mom was parked at the curb. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it looked like her mom’s eyes were red and swollen, too. The Denver Dognapping Ring had grown by one Lobster, and it really was the meanest thing ever.
CHAPTER FOUR
In addition to my paper route, I had two side jobs after school, because I was an enterprising individual. Mom would say that sounded braggy of me, but I was all about spreading truth, even if it made me look good.
One of my side jobs was walking the Tanners’ Labradoodle on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. They lived next door, and Genki went berserk every time he saw me walk Barkley past our house. Today he jumped onto our bench seat and scratched at the window, his paws pedaling against the glass like he was working some doggie magic on us.
Barkley looked over her shoulder, kind of snobbish, and kept prancing.
We walked to the corner of Honeysuckle and down Morningside to Lakeview Park, which didn’t have a lake so much as an overgrown pond with too much algae. This summer March and I spent three hours trying to free our Frisbee from beyond the tall grass where it had landed, in the mucky part we called the Swamp. We never got the Frisbee back, and for eight days March thought he had microcystin poisoning from the algae, which can make you puke, and blister on your lips. He only got a stomachache and a red bump on his palm from flicking a tree branch in and out of the water, but he still thought he was dying.
I took Barkley on the walkway that circled the entire park, past the soccer and baseball fields, two playlands, and a huge water fountain. When I got to the shady path behind the Pioneer Village and museum, I let Barkley off her leash to run ahead of me. The Tanners had never told me not to let Barkley off her leash, but they had never given me permission, either. She always got antsy toward the end, and this seemed to help. Plus, I had been walking her for six months now, and she had never once run away.
Until today.
As we passed the backside of Pioneer Village, a blacksmith stepped from his tiny log cabin, dropped his tools and they clanged together. The noise rang out like a gunshot, echoing between the old-timey buildings. Barkley jumped in surprise and shot down the shady path, her tail waving behind her. I froze as I watched her flop off before I finally snapped out of it and chased after her. She turned toward the overflow parking lot for the museum and disappeared.
My legs ached as I ran to catch up, but the trees lining the path blocked my view, and I couldn’t see which direction she went. Guessing left—the way we usually walked back home—I followed the road through the middle of the park and to the end of Summer Glen. Turning in circles, my eyes darting wildly around the park, I willed Barkley to jump back into my line of sight.
My heart rattled in my chest and my hands shook as I glimpsed a young boy walking his fluffy white dog toward Federal Boulevard and a young family cycling toward the playground. A soccer team practiced in the field, and two black Labs pulled at their leashes while the owner stood still, watching kids dribble a ball in and out of a long line of orange cones.
Barkley would have run to the dogs, hoping to play. Where was she?
I stared at no-Barkley until my vision blurred. Then I spun back toward the museum and retraced my steps to all her favorite pit stops: the garbage can by the baseball field, the base of the water fountain, the shelter by the playground.
As I rounded the corner of the shady path for the second time, a van screeched to a halt. I was in the middle of the road, my arms raised to block the blow, but it had just missed me. Dad complained about the speed limit in the park all the time, claiming turtles moved faster than twelve miles per hour. But this van was going way faster than that, and it seemed weird anyone would be in that much of a hurry leaving Pioneer Village. I panted, trying to catch my breath, and realized that if I wanted to, I could reach out and write my name in the dirt caked on the van’s hood.
I was waiting for the angry driver to step out and lecture me, frozen like a criminal with my hands up, when I heard a yip. Muffled maybe, but I could have sworn it was Barkley crying in the back of the van. It revved hard and screeched again, only this time it sped around me and out Lakeview Park.
Barkley’s leash hung empty from my hand, like I was walking a ghost dog. Had that van taken her away? I closed my eyes and tried to remember what it looked like, but all I could picture was my name written on the dirty hood.
I stood in front of a garbage can and twisted the leash around my hand, watching my fingertips turn red. I couldn’t tell the Tanners I broke the leash law and let Barkley run straight into a dognapping ring. If I hadn’t let Barkley loose, she wouldn’t have been swiped. The leash proved my guilt. I untangled the pink lead from my grip, tossed it into the trash, and raced home.
Mom drove me around Lakeview Park and the surrounding neighborhoods so I could look for Barkley. The clouds seemed to darken and drop as we searched up and down the streets.
I called out my window weakly, almost certain that Barkley had been snatched and not lost. When she got scared she would roll onto her back and whimper, a little pee spotting the ground, and I wondered if the dognapper would yell at her for wetting the back of their van.
The radio was off, although Mom still tapped out a beat with her fingers on the steering wheel. She cleared her throat after I finished going over the whole story for what felt like the millionth time and said, “That doesn’t seem like Barkley. Something must have caused her to pull away from you like that.”
I picked at a spot on my jeans. “The blacksmith dropped his tools. I think it scared her.” At least that part was true.
“That would do it,” Mom said, turning back onto Honeysuckle. “Genki would have come back for you, though. He always comes back for you.”
Genki would have made a better human than me. If I had taken him today he would have protected Barkley, because he always came through in a pinch. I didn’t even recognize him when he thought someone in our family was being threatened. Jimmy Mason had chased me home from the bus stop one day in third grade and Genki jumped the fence and circled him like a frothing were-monster, while I had watched all curious to see if Genki was going to kill him or not. Later, Mom had yelled at me for not calling Genki off, but I knew my hesitation meant Jimmy Mason would never bother me again. And so far he hadn’t.
“It’s not Barkley’s fault,” I said. “It’s my fault, and the Tanners are going to hate me forever.” That part was true, too.
Mom slowed as we neared home. “You need to tell them.” She pulled ahead to the Tanners’ house next door. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.” Mom had already heard me lie once today; I didn’t want to double-up on all that dishonesty. “I’ll go alone.”
I walked to the Tanners’ front door, my heart knocking around my chest like a caged bird. Hearing our car hum behind me, I turned around and waved Mom away. She put the car in reverse and slowly backed toward our house and into the driveway. She didn’t get out.
Taking a big breath, I knocked on the door. Mrs. Tanner answered, breathless, her big baby belly peeking past the door frame. She smiled, but when her gaze dropped to my side and found nothing, she looked back at me, her eyes
a little wild. “Where’s Barkley?”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, tears holding to my lashes. “The blacksmith scared her on the shady path and she ran away.”
Mrs. Tanner’s hand rose to her mouth and stayed there. She had once told me that she and her husband had gotten Barkley as newlyweds in college. Barkley was their practice baby, she had joked; they were preparing for the real deal sometime around Thanksgiving.
“Mom and I drove all around the park,” I said. “And through all the Lakeview neighborhoods. We still couldn’t find her.” The tears paused at my chin and then slid down my neck.
Mrs. Tanner’s eyes had filled with tears, too. She finally broke from her trance. For a second it looked like she was going to bend over to my level, but then she put her hand on my shoulder instead. “It’s not your fault, sweetie. Barkley’s easily spooked.”
We both stood there, not looking at each other. The tulips in the flower beds had lost all their petals, and the stalks stood tall and naked. I didn’t know what you do after telling someone you lost their practice baby.
“I’m sorry for crying, Kazuko. It’s all these pregnancy hormones. I’m sure we’ll find Barkley in no time.” Her voice got chokey. “I’ll call Frank right now so he can come home early and start looking.”
I nodded and asked if she wanted me to help them hang flyers. With all the dogs that had gone missing, there wasn’t a lamppost or telephone pole that didn’t have a missing dog flyer stapled to it.
“It’s sweet of you to ask. I’ll let you know.” The tears were rolling down her cheeks now, and she shut the door just as her face broke into the ugly cry.
I stood there for a moment, listening to her sobs fade as she moved away from the door.
Kazu Jones and the Denver Dognappers Page 2