Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Okay, Jamal—new assignment: Tomorrow, at school, get within earshot of Sara, Brooke, or Kaylie and make a big stink about how you’re working with the fifth-grade roller skaters. Say, you’re their equipment manager.”

  “Do I need a costume? Maybe a jaunty cap?”

  “Nope. Just make sure at least one of the mean girls hears you talking about how you need to set up the roller skates outside the greenroom thirty minutes before the show starts.”

  “No problem. I am very good at being loquacious and/or garrulous. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yeah,” said Briana. “You blab a lot.”

  “Indeed I do, Briana. Indeed I do.”

  “Okay,” said Riley, “it’s nearly seven. I have to head home.”

  “Are you chatting with your dad tonight?” asked Mongo.

  Riley smiled. “Right after dinner.”

  “Awesome,” said Briana. “I guess I better head home and put together my own costume for the talent show.”

  Mongo’s moony face lit up. “Are you going to dress like Shrek when you sing ‘Hallelujah’?”

  “Um, no. That would be stupidious.”

  “Princess Fiona?”

  “No, Mongo. My mom made me this really pretty white dress so I’ll glow like an angel when the spotlight hits me!”

  “I hope you win,” said Jake.

  “Thanks. I just hope I do a good job and don’t forget my lyrics!”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jamal. “You do that, you’re toast. I have seen what they do to singers who blow the lyrics on American Idol and, trust me, girl: It is not pretty.”

  Everybody headed home.

  Riley was feeling pretty good, the way he always did after he saw a wrong and figured out how to make it right.

  He felt even better when he linked up with his dad for a laptop chat.

  Riley’s father, Colonel Richard Mack (who everybody called Mack) was currently overseas with the Special Forces in Afghanistan. Thanks to Skype, Riley and his dad could still talk two or three times a week—chatting across several thousand miles and nearly as many time zones.

  “Your mom is superexcited about this charity thing at the country club,” his dad said.

  “Yeah. It’s going to be extremely fancy. They’re charging five hundred dollars a ticket!”

  Riley’s dad whistled.

  “I just hope they don’t make us eat eggs Benedict.”

  His father laughed. “Don’t worry, son. It’s a banquet. You’ll probably have some kind of rubbery chicken.”

  “Do they put yellow goop on it?”

  “Negative. Chicken goop is typically brown.”

  “Cool.”

  “It was awfully nice of Mr. Paxton to invite your mother to be a VIP.”

  “Yeah. He’s pretty decent, I guess. But . . .”

  His father arched an eyebrow. “But what?”

  “Well, his daughter, Sara, she’s in this big talent contest tomorrow at school and we found out she’s trying to eliminate her competition by, basically, taking them out of the game.”

  “How so?”

  “We uncovered intelligence suggesting she and her accomplices will be tampering with some fifth graders’ roller skates to make the wheels fall off in the middle of their act.”

  “Have you shared this information with the proper authorities?”

  “No. Not yet. But, well, Sara Paxton is superpopular at school. Not just with the kids, but the teachers and the principal, too. She’s a cheerleader and president of every club. It would just be my word against hers and her word would definitely win.”

  “Can you take independent action to thwart Ms. Paxton’s efforts without causing physical injury to her and/or school property?”

  “Yeah. I think so. And, if we don’t, those fifth graders will be the ones getting physically injured.”

  “Then do what’s right, son. Defend those who can’t defend themselves.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. May I make one request?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s keep your mother out of the loop on all things Paxton. We don’t want anything to ruin her big night at the country club.”

  “Gotcha. No problem.”

  Riley and his father spent another half hour chatting about all kinds of stuff. His father told Riley how he and his men were spending some time doing humanitarian visits to Afghan hospitals and teaching the locals how to play baseball. Then, right before they signed off, Riley’s dad said something that gave Riley a huge lump in his throat.

  “Son, I am delighted to see you using your extraordinary talents to serve a cause greater than yourself. Keep up the good work!”

  Of course, Riley and his dad both knew that Riley Mack hadn’t always used his “extraordinary talents” to do good.

  Three years ago, a few days before Riley’s ninth birthday, his dad received new orders and shipped out to a far-off combat zone, meaning he wouldn’t be around to celebrate Riley’s big day with ice cream and cake.

  First, that made Riley sad. Next, it made him mad. Then, he did something extremely bad.

  On the morning of his ninth birthday, Riley went to the supermarket and stole a whole ice-cream cake, which he stuffed down the front of his pants. Riley had always been clever. Cunning. But that day, he was actually kind of stupid.

  First of all, an ice-cream cake is a pretty huge thing to smuggle out of a store inside your pants. Second, the ice cream melted quickly, so wherever Riley walked, he dribbled an easy-to-follow trail of milky goo. He was busted before he made it past the bag boys.

  He and his dad had a long, long talk on their laptops that night.

  Surprisingly, his father didn’t yell or scream. Didn’t threaten to have Riley’s mom take away all his video games or lock him in his room till he turned eighteen. In fact, his father remained eerily calm.

  “Son,” he said, his voice strong and firm, “as you know, because of my commitment to our country, I cannot be there to babysit you twenty-four/seven. Therefore, you have a choice. You can keep acting up, being selfish, causing your mother grief. Or you can use your incredible skills and talents to serve something bigger than yourself. Your choice, son. I suggest you choose wisely.”

  That’s why Riley had a lump in his throat.

  His father had just told him he’d chosen wisely.

  6

  PRESCOTT PAXTON FINISHED UP HIS overseas phone call.

  “There’s no more left in the field?”

  “None that we know of, sir,” said his subordinate. “The recall worked quietly and efficiently. And your follow-up notion was sheer brilliance.”

  That made Paxton smile. Of course it was brilliant. Everything Prescott P. Paxton did was a stroke of genius. That’s how he had become chairman and CEO of Xylodyne Dynamics.

  “Excellent work over there, Crumpler.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Paxton. I feel we can press forward on the project with confidence. If there’s any further push-back on this side, I’ve set up a contingency plan.”

  “Ah! Thinking ahead, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remind me to put you down for a bonus, Crumpler.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Paxton. I sure will.”

  Paxton glanced at his sparkling Rolex watch.

  “Need to run. My daughter is in a talent contest at her school this afternoon.”

  “I hope she wins, sir.”

  “Nyes. I’m sure she will.”

  On the drive over to Fairview Middle School in his sleek Mercedes, Paxton contemplated his next moves.

  Potential disaster had been averted. It was, indeed, time to move forward and land the next big fish.

  His multinational corporation, Xylodyne, did billions of dollars’ worth of business with the United States military and had all sorts of contracts to supply goods and services to troops stationed overseas.

  It was time to pick up a few more.

  That was the real reason behind the whole G
reens for the Army Green gala at the country club. Frankly, he couldn’t care less about sending golf balls to the “brave men and women” in the military.

  In fact, the very notion made Paxton laugh.

  Everybody knew that people only joined the army when they couldn’t find a real job, like being chairman and CEO of Xylodyne Dynamics. But, he’d keep those kinds of thoughts to himself. He’d pretend to be patriotic and slap magnetic yellow ribbons on the bumpers of all the country club’s golf carts.

  Inviting the local war hero’s wife to the banquet and talent show finals was yet another stroke of Paxton genius. The Pentagon general he was also inviting would be impressed and eager to do more business with a patriotic, army-wife-supporting chairman and CEO such as Prescott P. Paxton.

  As he cruised down a leaf-dappled lane, he said to his steering wheel, “Call office!” A hands-free speakerphone dial-toned, then diddled out the digits.

  His secretary picked up on the second ring.

  “Xylodyne Dynamics. Mr. Paxton’s office.”

  “Nyes, Ginger, it’s me.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Paxton. Did your daughter win the talent contest?”

  “Not yet. But I’m sure she will. Did we hear back from General Clarke?”

  “Yes, sir. He’d be delighted to join you at Brookhaven for the gala and has agreed to serve as a judge.”

  “Wonderful!” Paxton’s day just kept getting better and better.

  “And sir, may I just say that my husband and I had brunch at the country club yesterday, and the landscaping renovations look spectacular! The greens are so lush and, well, green!”

  “Nyes, they certainly are. I’ll be at Fairview Middle School till three. If there’s an emergency, you know how to reach me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “End call.”

  The speakerphone did as it was told. Paxton liked appliances that obeyed him.

  When the golf course was reopened, Paxton felt certain the membership would vote to have his historic term as club president commemorated on a plaque of some sort. Maybe they’d even ask him to sit for a portrait to hang on the Wall of Esteemed Past Presidents.

  He had been president of Brookhaven for two years, and the relandscaped golf course would be his legacy. Work had started late last fall and, even though it had cost a fortune, continued throughout the winter and into the spring. Now the course was less than two weeks away from reopening.

  Paxton pulled into the middle school’s parking lot. As instructed, the assistant principal, Mr. Ball, had blocked off the one remaining visitor parking slot at the front of the school with a bright orange traffic cone, reserving it for Prescott P. Paxton.

  Of course he had.

  Mr. Ball and his wife enjoyed receiving reduced “scholar’s rate” memberships at the Brookhaven Country Club, a discount that could only be approved by the current club president.

  It’s good to be king, Prescott thought proudly.

  And then he entered the school to watch his princess, Sara, win the talent-competition crown.

  7

  RILEY AND JAKE CROUCHED BEHIND the kettledrums on the left hand side of the stage.

  “Video signal is coming in four-by-four,” whispered Jake, angling his laptop screen so both he and Riley could see the two spy cam shots of the roller skates lined up in front of Mrs. Yasner’s office cubicle.

  “Four by four” meant the signal was strong and clear.

  Riley glanced at his watch: 2:40 p.m. Twenty minutes till showtime.

  He was about to mutter, “Where are they?” when Jake tapped him on the shoulder.

  Across the stage, a door creaked open.

  Sara Paxton, Brooke Newton, and Kaylie Holland came tiptoeing up the steps to the stage right wings.

  “Shhh! Be quiet, you guys,” said Sara.

  All three girls were wearing spangly baseball caps perched sideways atop their golden hair and some kind of red-white-and-blue sequined leotards.

  “Get out your wrenches, girls!” whispered Sara.

  Riley and Jake watched as the girls fiddled with the front axle nuts on all six pairs of skates lined up outside Mrs. Yasner’s office. The digital recorder in the laptop captured their every move.

  “Okay,” said Sara. “Let’s go. We need to rehearse some more.”

  “What?” whined Brooke. “We already rehearsed, like, two times.”

  “Chya!” agreed Kaylie.

  “I don’t care,” said Sara, planting a hand firmly on her hip. “We need to win. If we don’t, my daddy will be very, very disappointed.”

  Kaylie and Brooke shivered with dread and the three of them scurried off the stage.

  “We got ’em!” said Riley.

  “Maybe we should grab a pair of skates and have Ms. Kaminski dust them for fingerprints,” suggested Jake.

  Ms. Mary Kaminski was a young science teacher at Fairview Middle School who was a total CSI freak. She had even started an after-school club called CSI: Middle School Edition. Science experiments in her class sometimes involved cool stuff like fingerprinting and tomato splatter patterns.

  “Good idea, Jake,” said Riley. “But I think our video clip is all the forensic evidence we need.”

  “Should we take it to the principal’s office?”

  “Let’s wait till after the show. I want to see Sara’s face when the fifth graders roll onstage and their wheels don’t fly off.”

  Jake closed the laptop and tucked it under his arm.

  “There you are!”

  It was Mr. Holtz, the teacher who everybody thought knew everything about the school’s AV and computer equipment. Actually, all he knew was how to find Jake Lowenstein.

  “Hey, Mr. Holtz,” said Jake, passing the laptop off to Riley. “What’s up?”

  “This Saturday? Are you busy?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Because there’s a two o’clock wedding reception at the country club. I just bumped into Tony Peroni out in the hall. His usual sound guy is out of town, so he asked me to run his sound system for that, too!”

  Riley smiled.

  That meant Mr. Holtz had to ask Jake to run it—if anybody wanted it to run properly.

  “I’ll pay you ten bucks.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Holtz,” said Jake. “I do it for the challenge.”

  “It should be a simple setup. Just Peroni and his electric-keyboard player, Greg Wu. Ooh. Here’s Mr. Peroni now!”

  A chubby man in a tuxedo with a ruffled shirt waddled through the stage door. His swept-back pouf of hair looked like it used to be jet-black. Now it was dyed jet-black (except for the white roots). It looked like Mr. Peroni shampooed with liquid shoe polish.

  “Mr. Peroni?” called the teacher. “This is Jake Lowenstein. He’s gonna help us out this Saturday for the wedding and next Saturday for the talent show finals.”

  “Beautiful, baby. Beautiful.” When Tony Peroni thrust out his hand to shake with Jake, Riley caught a flash of diamonds from the wedding singer’s horseshoe-shaped pinky ring. “How we looking here?”

  “All set to go,” said Mr. Holtz. “Right, Jake?”

  Jake nodded.

  Peroni nudged his head toward Riley. “You in the show, Red?”

  “No, sir,” said Riley. “Today, I’m just a guy in the audience enjoying the show.”

  “Beautiful, baby. Beautiful. Hey, Jack? Is it Jack?”

  “No, sir. Jake.”

  “Fantastic, kid, fantastic. Here’s my CD. Cue up track one. It’s my killer opener. Who’s running the followspot?”

  Mr. Holtz raised his hand.

  “Terrific, baby. Just keep it locked on me whenever I’m onstage.”

  Riley could hear the audience starting to assemble on the other side of the red velvet curtain.

  He stepped away from Jake, Mr. Holtz, and Tony Peroni so he could tap the Motorola H9 Bluetooth Headset jammed deep in his left ear. The thing was about the size of a dime and allowed you to listen and talk on your cell without
anybody knowing. Jake’s dad had boxes of them stored on a shelf outside the furnace room. He did some kind of supersecret work for the government and people were forever sending him gizmos and gadgets. Riley and his crew made sure none of the stuff ever went to waste.

  “Jamal?”

  “Standing by, Riley Mack.”

  “You did good. The girls took the bait. We have them on video. How’s Briana?”

  “Nervous and anxious. She’s down in the girls’ locker room putting on her costume.”

  “She’s gonna win this thing fair and square!”

  “That’s Mongo,” said Jamal. “I was showing him how to work his Bluetooth.”

  “It’s so small,” said Mongo, “it could fit in my nose. But, then, I wouldn’t be able to hear you guys. Would I?”

  Riley grinned. “All right, everybody. Head to the auditorium. It’s time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!”

  “Mr. Mack?”

  Riley spun around.

  It was Assistant Principal Ball.

  “Did you know,” he said, “that Disney doesn’t have an ‘Education Channel’?”

  “No, sir,” Riley said breezily. “Then again, I don’t watch too much TV. Not when I’ve got homework to do.”

  The assistant principal squinted. He didn’t like Riley. Never had. Probably never would.

  “What, may I ask, are you doing in the backstage area? Are you part of this afternoon’s entertainment?”

  “Not right now, sir. But, maybe after school, if you’re free.” He tapped the laptop he had tucked under his arm. “I just found this hilarious little video that I think you’re gonna love!”

  8

  RILEY AND MONGO TOOK THEIR usual seats at the rear of the auditorium.

  (The back row was the easiest to slip out of whenever duty called. It was also the best place to take a snooze if the assembly was boring.)

  Jamal was seated down near the front, with the rest of the fifth graders.

  Assistant Principal Ball was at center stage, in front of the red curtain, tapping a microphone.