In my rush to call Paulette, I didn’t bother taking off my jacket, which worked out since Paulette and her family were out (according to the maid who answered the phone) and Mom had other plans for me.
“Tootsie, the Wrangleys are home and need their key back,” she told me. “When you get back from returning it, we need to have a talk.”
I could tell by her furrowed eyebrows that I was in hot water. Instead of trying to worm it out of her, I headed back out. Halfway there it hit me.
I forgot to clean up the mud!
The rest of the way I agonized on how to best apologize, but all my worry was for nothing. The Wrangleys thanked me and never mentioned the mud. As I took their key off my ring, I realized I still had Mrs. Baker’s.
I headed right over and found my teacher carting plant pots and tools out of the shed. The structure slumped over like an old man with a bellyache.
“Hi, Mrs. Baker,” I called out. “Sorry, I forgot to give this to you.” I held out her key.
“Did Pixie have the puppies yet?”
She smiled. “All seven of them. Would you like to see them?”
“Absolutely.” I followed Mrs. Baker inside.
Pixie rested on her side in the midst of seven of the cutest little greyhound puppies I had ever seen. Of course, they were the only greyhound puppies I had ever seen, but that was beside the point. Most of them were gray-brown like Pixie with white throats. The tiniest one was all brown except the tip of one ear. Another had a white throat and looked like he had kneesocks on his front feet and anklets on his hind paws.
I squatted down, careful not to get too close. Their little eyes were squeezed shut, but they rooted and burrowed with their pink noses, trying to find the warmest spot. They made tiny squeaky noises, especially when Pixie licked one of them.
“They’re adorable,” I said with a sigh.
“They are, aren’t they,” Mrs. Baker agreed. She was pulling cash out of her wallet.
“You don’t need to pay me,” I said.
Maybe that’s what was up with Mom—she wanted to remind me not to take any money.
“Of course I do, Gabby. Without your quick thinking, they wouldn’t be here.”
“Please, my mom won’t let me take any money. Really.”
Mrs. Baker cocked her head to one side, then returned her money to her purse. “Who was that boy that helped you yesterday?”
“Pete—Lana’s brother. He goes to our school, he just isn’t an actor,” I added.
“Give him my thanks. Amos told me how he couldn’t have done it without him.”
“I’ll tell him. Can I ask you a question? For a friend, that is?”
“Sure, Gabby. Fire away.” Mrs. Baker drew a chair in from the kitchen and sat. She must have guessed it was going to be a complicated question.
I sat on the floor. It might be a long answer.
“This friend of mine used to have just one friend, but now she has more friends and a boyfriend, and the first friend doesn’t eat lunch with them anymore.”
“I see. So what is the problem, exactly?” Mrs. Baker asked.
If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here, I wanted to say. I didn’t want to go into more detail either, or she’d know I was talking about myself. So I decided to try an economic angle.
“So in Civics—except it’s the economics part right now—we’re talking about opportunity cost and always having to give up the next-best thing to get the best thing, but I don’t think it’s necessarily true. I mean, can’t you have both things? Both friends?”
It sounded a little confusing and stupid, so I hoped Mrs. Baker could sort it out. Most teachers were pretty good at that sort of thing, especially when you didn’t want them to.
“People use the word ‘friend’ today to mean anything from a casual acquaintance to a longtime we’ve-gone-through-it-all-together best friend. I’m guessing the two original friends were more like the latter.”
I was pretty sure latter meant the last one, so I nodded.
“It could be one friend is afraid of losing the other friend or that they won’t be that close anymore,” Mrs. Baker offered. “Usually same-gender friendships change once teens start dating. But girls seem to have the hardest time of adjusting their relationships, even if there is time for all friends.”
“But why? It’s not like a boy uses up all your friend-ness.” I was pretty sure friend-ness wasn’t a word, but I didn’t know what the right word was.
“You might have the same amount of friend-ness, as you put it—at church we refer to that as phileo love, the friend kind of love. But with more friends, you have to divide your time and activities between them. I think that’s where opportunity cost comes in.” She paused and added, “It might be tempting for your friend to spend all her available time with her boyfriend, but it’s probably smarter to balance things out. Boyfriends come and go, but a good friend can stick closer than a brother.”
“So, what should my friend do about her other friend?”
“Fear, especially fear of the unknown, can invite people to do things they normally wouldn’t do. I would advise your friend to talk to her first friend about the whole situation. And I mean really talk, and as soon as possible. The longer things are wrong, the more likely they are to stay wrong.”
That made sense. The longer Timmy was missing, the more Dad drank and the worse things got. But it wasn’t fair or right because there was nothing I could do to fix it.
“Things don’t always work out,” I blurted, thinking of Timmy and Dad and even Mr. Baker’s plane crashing.
“How do we know? We haven’t come to the ends of our stories. Remember in Oklahoma, how everything looked dismal for Laurey, especially since Curly was on trial for killing Judd? Remember how the judge made it all work out?”
I nodded, easily recalling the details of the play that had been my stage debut.
“God is our judge. In the end, He’ll set things to right, no matter how bad or unfair things seem or are right now. I find it comforting to know that in the scope of eternity, God has it all under control and everything will work out.”
The doorbell rang. Mrs. Baker jumped up so quickly I thought she expected an invading horde of Martians to break down her door. A look of pure panic flashed across her features before she smoothed her dress and patted her hair. I noticed she wore makeup, which she never did at school. I’d been too engrossed with the puppies or my own problems to note that detail before.
Amos was at the door!
But instead of being dressed in sweats or like a bum, he had on nice slacks and a dress shirt. His hair was pulled into a ponytail, his beard and moustache trimmed and neat. He wore flip-flops, but the bandages were less bulky than before. He wasn’t using a cane to walk, probably because he’d broken the only one he had saving Pixie. As he stepped inside I could see he limped, but a tiny bit, not like before.
Had saving the puppies changed him somehow? Or . . .
Mrs. Baker and Amos?
“I’m glad you decided to go to church with us this morning,” Mrs. Baker said, welcoming him into her home.
Amos nodded, then spied me. He scowled for a fraction of a second.
Mrs. Baker turned to me and said, “Gabby, we have room for a fourth if you’d like to attend? Hannah will be down in a sec and would go with you to the youth group Bible study.”
Behind her, upstage in theater talk, Amos was shaking his head and mouthing the words “you owe me” and “mud.” He had a point.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Mrs. Baker. I have stuff I gotta do.” Like call the Zollins.
“Okay, but know the invitation is always open,” my teacher said with a sincere smile.
I didn’t know what to say, so I softly called goodbye to Pixie and the pups and made a beeline for the back door, wondering what my mom wanted to talk to me about.
CHAPTER 37
“Gabby, your father and I are very disappointed in you.” My mother uncrossed her arms and went back down
stairs, leaving me to fume over the fact I was grounded.
Goth Girl had not just ratted me out for being at the movies with Pete, but she’d told my mom about the kiss as well. How was I supposed to know that my mom’s thrift store friend was the same girl who’d been in the movie theater bathroom and suggested using my hair tie as dental floss?
I dialed the Zollins.
“Miss Paulette isn’t here. Whom should I say called?”
“Gabby St. Claire,” I said, forcing myself to speak sweetly and not scream. Since my whole life was pretty much shot, I figured I might as well call Becca and pile up my frustrations in one big heap.
“I suppose you called because you saw the newscast and wanted to rub my face in it that I was wrong about Pete,” Becca snarled.
I was taken aback. “No. I called . . . wait. What news story?”
“About the police busting up a major dogfighting ring, which was behind the kidnapping of the pit bull. The stupid criminals thought they could mislead the police by taking Fluff and the Irish setter, but police aren’t that dumb, you know. They not only caught the dognapper, but busted everyone involved. But you can go ahead and gloat if you want.”
“I don’t want to gloat. I’m glad the police solved the case. Dogfighting is horrible. Was the pit bull okay and everything?”
“Yeah . . .” Becca’s voice trailed off.
I waited.
When she spoke next, she sounded a smidgen less hostile. “The dogfighters had tried to buy or at least breed their dogs with Lucky—that’s the pit bull. The owner suspected they were into fighting, so he kept refusing. He told the police about it, and with the help of Paws and Furballs, who’d already been trying to get some hard evidence against the creeps, they busted them.”
“Becca, I didn’t know anything about the dogs or the police. I just called because I want whatever is wrong between us to be made right.” There. I came out with it. Laid it on the line. Bared my soul.
I waited again.
“Oh,” Becca said softly.
I could tell she was moving into another room because the sound of classical music in the background got fainter and fainter. I took it as a good sign that she was going for some privacy. Maybe we could patch things up. I heard a door close.
“So talk,” she said, still a bit defensively.
“Why didn’t you sit with us at lunch Friday?”
“I’m a fifth wheel.”
“You’re not. You’re my best friend,” I blurted. “I don’t know what I did to make you so mad at me.”
“For one thing, I’m not really mad at you. It’s just that . . . well . . . life’s not fair.” Becca burst into tears.
For the next half hour she talked a little and cried a lot, but the long and short of it was, like Mrs. Baker kind of guessed, fear. Becca was afraid I wouldn’t have time for her anymore. Or that I would dump her for Paulette because Paulette had rich parents and Becca thought she had whack jobs. She was pretty bent at her parents because, even though she did everything right, except maybe that one B in math, they never let her do anything.
Anything she wanted, that was.
“So, what boy in his right mind, even when I am sixteen and even if I have straight As and whatever other impossible criteria my stupid parents throw in for good measure, what boy is ever going to come to the house and meet my parents?”
By meet, she meant get the third degree from her ex-marine cop father. I could totally see her point. You could be popular, fun, pretty, rich, and anything else that made the perfect girlfriend, but guys weren’t going to be lined up so they could meet your monster father.
“I totally get why you didn’t tell your parents,” she said when I told her I was grounded and why.
“So Monday, you’ll sit with us?” I asked.
“Of course, seahorse,” she quipped.
“Becca, there is another thing.” I filled her in about the Pollack Labs van at Animal Control, the gray car, and both trips to the pawnshop.
“Maybe Puddles is one of those copycat crime things—someone taking advantage of the first crime to get away with a second, unrelated crime. I’ll tell my dad when he gets home tonight.”
I pulled out Watson and read her what I’d written under each suspect.
“I think we can eliminate Paws and Furballs,” Becca said.
I agreed.
We mulled over each of the other three suspects and the evidence about each when my BFF said, “We have to ask: Who benefits if a ruby collar is missing?”
“Pollack Labs could use research animals,” I suggested weakly.
“They aren’t dumb enough to mess with the Zollins. Whoever took Puddles doesn’t fully understand just how powerful the Zollins are.”
“You’re right.” I drew a line through Pollack Labs.
“Raff has dark hair.” Becca didn’t want to say that. I could tell. But she was right.
That left only Pete on the suspect list. I wanted to explain to her all the reasons it couldn’t be him, but before I could, she shouted into the phone.
“Just a second! I gotta go,” she muttered. “General Hitler just got home and is calling.”
I bit back my disappointment. “Later, gator.”
“See you at lunch, Cap’n Crunch.”
“At noon, baboon.”
Before I had time to let Pete’s guilt sink in, the phone rang again. It was Paulette. I quickly explained my theory to her, but she couldn’t seem to grasp what I needed her to do to test my hypothesis.
“Can you put your dad on the phone?” I finally asked.
I re-explained the whole ruby-scratching-glass thing to her dad, and in moments he confirmed what I had suspected.
The rubies were fakes.
I, Gabby St. Claire, am an amazing detective, just like Sherlock Holmes.
I told Mr. Zollin all about Paradise Pawn but left out the gray-car part. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I just couldn’t make myself mention it.
“Gabby, we appreciate this a great deal,” her dad said. “Now I need you to keep a lid on this whole thing. I’ll take it from here. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said reluctantly.
I doubted Mr. Zollin understood the irresistible urge to share my brilliance with the world. Or at least three thousand of my closest friends and acquaintances. It would be tough, but I’d manage. But at least I’d have the satisfaction of telling Becca, since she’d have to keep it quiet as well.
Paulette came back on the phone. “Gabby, next Saturday, would you come with Puddles and Mr. Jangles and me to get our pictures taken?”
“Sure,” I said.
Then I remembered I was grounded.
CHAPTER 38
“Sh, here comes Brandon,” Becca hissed.
I stopped midsentence. It was Friday, and all week Becca and I and even Paulette had kept a lid on the fake-collar news. It had almost been as torturous as being grounded and unable to spend time with Pete after school or to do something to prove him innocent.
Brandon plopped his lunch tray down. I craned my neck, looking for Pete in the knot of students exiting the lunch line.
“He’s not coming,” Brandon said, looking concerned.
“Why?” I asked.
“Lana said Pete is in big trouble.” Brandon shrugged.
My heart froze.
Pete’s been caught! Mr. Zollin took the fake collar to the police, who pulled off his fingerprints. Pete is in jail somewhere, and it’s my fault!
“Isn’t he in school?” I squeaked, hoping and praying his parents had posted bail.
“No. Besides being grounded for life, they made an appointment for him with . . .”
“A lawyer?” I gulped.
“No,” Brandon laughed. “Maybe a counselor. Or to get a shot.”
As long as he’s not getting shot.
“Parents overreact to everything,” Becca ranted. “Last night my mom threw out all those magazines your mom gave us! She says I am not to read that �
��trash’ anymore. I need to focus on my studies—not boys, clothes, and ‘trashy popular’ music.”
Paulette joined us, handing me a flyer about the Paws and Furballs fundraising photo shoot. I stuffed it in my pocket quickly, hoping to divert the conversation before Paulette could mention I was going with her Saturday. I worried Becca might pull back into her shell like a turtle surrounded by sharks. I mean, if it had been me, I would have seen Benedict Arnold written all over it.
“I’m glad you’re going with me Saturday,” Paulette said before I could choke down the peanut butter superglued to the roof of my mouth.
Even though I couldn’t swallow in time, Becca only arched her eyebrows and mouthed the word “grounded.”
Grounded. Pete and I are both grounded. Did my mom call his parents?
As I pushed through the crowded halls after lunch, I tried not to worry about Pete. Instead I attempted to formulate a good argument to get me ungrounded by Saturday. I’d always wanted to ride horses either as a cowgirl rodeo star or possibly Lady Diana style. I even begged my parents to get me a free pony after reading Misty of Chincoteague and realizing that the ponies lived on an island not far from Virginia Beach. My parents said no to the pony, but Dad had promised to take Timmy and me to see the annual pony swim and auction on Pony Penning Day.
Once a year in July, saltwater cowboys swim some of the wild herd from the island to the mainland. Dad even promised we could watch from the water, perched on his surfboard.
Then Timmy disappeared, and so did all of Dad’s promises. I’d outgrown the desire to have my own pony, but I would never outgrow the desire to have my little brother and my old dad back.
Lost in my own thoughts, I nearly ran over Wanda and the Diva, chitchatting in the doorway of the Civics classroom. Wanda had wormed her way into the Cool Clique in record time. The whole group now wore matching necklaces, apparently ones they’d made at that sleepover.
I took my seat, and Mr. Cicorelli started passing back our quizzes from Thursday. I scowled at my red 73 percent until I saw the big, fat 71 percent the Diva had scored.
“Since everyone’s quiz grades were low, I thought we’d better review and then retake the quiz,” Mr. C. started. “Scarcity means we all have to make what?”
The Disappearing Dog Dilemma (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries) Page 11