The Disappearing Dog Dilemma (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries)

by Christy Barritt

  “It does no good to figure things out if you don’t have the muscle to make things happen.” I smiled at Pete, hoping he’d buy it. “Plus there’s the timing. Pete responded faster than a speeding bullet both times I needed him. A minute later would have been too late.”

  It did the trick. Pete puffed back out and stayed that way even when Brandon laughed, “Wasn’t there enough manure at the stables? You have to bring it here?”

  Everyone but Paulette laughed.

  “They don’t. They clean it up and give it away as fertilizer,” she said sincerely.

  No one bothered to explain the joke to her, but they didn’t laugh at her either. We were all back to accepting each other as we were and enjoying each other’s company in the chaotic Oceanside cafeteria.

  Wanda had confessed to dognapping Puddles at the insistence of her mother’s druggie-criminal boyfriend, Dougie. He’d frightened her into being his partner in crime.

  Becca’s dad had filled in the blanks. Wanda’s mom had met the creep in drug rehab in the western part of the state. Dougie had moved back to Virginia Beach with them and convinced Wanda that her mom would somehow suffer unless Wanda did exactly what he told her to. He wanted Wanda to get in with the wealthier crowd so she would have access to their homes and could case them before he burglarized them.

  Mr. Chapman said Wanda had wanted to get caught and Doug the Thug, as I called him, was awaiting trial. My BF’s dad told us the Pollack Lab van at Animal Control was just a guy picking up his runaway pet.

  The best thing he’d told me was “good job.” Since it was coming from a police officer, I took it as the highest form of praise. I just wished he hadn’t lectured us about stranger dangers like we were six-year-olds for another hour and a half.

  “Why is it so hard for parents to believe the best about their teenage kids?” Pete asked. “Why was it so unbelievable that I could be a hero?”

  “Parents! They think because they brought you into this world, they are allowed to make you wish they’d take you out,” Becca groused.

  Everyone chuckled, but I knew Becca wasn’t joking. She was changing, morphing out of the obedient little caterpillar into something else. I just didn’t know what.

  But I, Gabby St. Claire, would get to the bottom of that mystery, too.

  “Yeah, but sometimes making you miserable backfires,” Pete said with a big grin.

  To punish him for getting his aunt’s car all muddy, they had made him “volunteer” to clean out the stables at Beach Barn, where his aunt worked weekends as a cashier. Pete was too embarrassed to tell any of us, but I had to give him credit for making lemonade out of a lemon when he decided to take photos of me during his Saturday stint.

  The ones he’d given me turned out great. Even if the professional ones Paulette’s parents were paying for were technically better, they’d never mean as much to me as his did. His were from the heart.

  I thought maybe I’d drop by Mrs. Baker’s and thank her for helping “my friend” unsnarl the tangled mess with her BFF. And maybe she and I could sort out some opportunity-cost stuff that baffled Watson and me.

  Like, how did Wanda get in a situation where the opportunity cost for keeping her mom safe was doing something illegal? And if she had refused to go along with Dougie’s plan and her mom got hurt, how could she live with that? How does someone like Wanda, or even me, keep from being in a position where you have to choose between two bad choices?

  I, Gabby St. Claire, still had some personal mysteries to solve.

  QUESTIONS

  When Gabby’s brother vanished, people prayed for his return. It didn’t happen, so Gabby figured if there was a God, He was too overloaded with wars and third world starvation to be concerned about one lost kid. Do you agree or disagree? (Read Matthew 18:11–14, Matthew 10:29–31, and Luke 12:6–7 before making up your mind.)

  Pete doesn’t like being the middle child. Where are you in the birth order of your family? Does it make a difference? How or why? Is it best to be firstborn? Last? Middle? An only? How can parents treat their children the same while still respecting their individual differences?

  Hannah gets upset about using animals in research. Should companies test products on animals? Why or why not?

  Gabby sometimes wishes conversations came with a rewind button. Have you ever wished you could push the rewind button on a conversation? When and why?

  Gabby and Mrs. Baker talk about life not being fair. Mrs. Baker takes comfort in knowing that in the scope of eternity, God has it all under control and will set things right, no matter how bad or unfair things seem or are right now. Read Romans 8:28, Matthew 6:34, Joshua 1:9, and Jeremiah 29:11. Do these scriptures support or contradict what she believes?

  Gabby accepts a part-time job as a pet sitter. What qualities would you want in a person taking care of your pets? If you were going to have a part-time job, what would it be?

  Gabby gets in tight spots while pet sitting and wishes she could phone for help. If you were in a tight spot, who would you call and why?

  Mrs. Baker quotes Proverbs 18:24: “There is a friend who stays closer than a brother.” What qualities are necessary for a close friendship like that? If someone doesn’t have those traits, what can they do to develop them?

  Opportunity cost is defined as the next-best alternative not chosen, or the alternative given up, when we make a decision. What are some recent decisions you have made, and what were their opportunity costs?

  Sometimes Gabby feels like she is swimming upstream or being pushed along like an old bottle in the ocean. Do you ever feel that way? What advice would you give her?

  How old or mature should people be before they begin to date? How can someone tell if they are ready? Who should decide: parents, teens, or both?

  Mrs. Baker tells Gabby that same-gender friendships usually change once teens start dating and girls seem to have a harder time adjusting their relationships. How can friends work through these changes as they occur?

  If you had been Wanda, what would you have done? Why? If Wanda had asked you for advice, what would you have told her?

  For more discussion questions and a free novel study packet for The Disappearing Dog Dilemma, visit TeachersPayTeachers. http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/items/edit/1143069

  About the Authors:

  Kathy Applebee:

  Kathy Applebee is an author, playwright and Virginia’s 2011 Middle School Science Teacher of the Year (according to the Virginia Association of Science Teachers). She is a frequent contributor to PLAYS, the Drama Magazine for Young People and Fools For Christ. When she’s not writing, teaching or directing plays, she can be seen on various stages in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Her favorite roles to date include the Wicked Witch of the West, Ouiser (Steel Magnolias) and Lady Macbeth.

  Christy Barritt:

  USA Today has called Christy Barritt's books “scary, funny, passionate, and quirky.” Christy writes both mystery and romantic suspense novels that are clean with underlying messages of faith. Her books have won the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Suspense and Mystery, have been twice nominated for the Romantic Times' Reviewers' Choice Award, and have finaled for both a Carol Award and Foreword Magazine's Book of the Year. She's married to her Prince Charming, a man who thinks she's hilarious—but only when she's not trying to be. Christy's a self-proclaimed klutz, an avid music lover who's known for spontaneously bursting into song, and a road trip aficionado. For more information, visit her website at: www.christybarritt.com.

  Sneak Peak!

  THE BAFFLING BIKE BURGLARIES

  (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries, Book 3)

  By Christy Barritt

  and Kathy Applebee

  CHAPTER 1

  “Shakes on eight!” Mrs. Baker shouted.

  Forty Oceanside Middle School thespians began shaking their limbs one at a time to a count of eight. To any outsider, we might have looked like spastic morons. But to insiders, this was a traditional warm up that helped
prepare us for walking the boards—theater talk for being on stage.

  I loved theater, the butterflies and all. The only thing that could make drama club better: having my boyfriend Pete next to me instead of resident diva Donabell Bullock.

  That’s right. I, Gabby St. Claire, had managed to stay in a romantic relationship for roughly one month, two days and about three hours, give or take five minutes. Not that I was counting or anything.

  “Vocal warm ups! Unique New York.”

  Obediently, we all began speaking the words, slowly and quietly at first, building to a loud, fast staccato rhythm. At least, in theory we did. Most everyone messed up after the fifth or sixth time. It was a tough three-word combo, and I was determined to be the first one who’d do it seven times fast without faltering.

  In the distance, I spotted an electrician wearing gray coveralls with “Zollin Industries” on the back disappear backstage. A moment later he appeared on the catwalk, an elevated platform above us that spanned the width of the stage and gave tekkies access to the gel-covered stage lights. Only half of the lights were on right now, probably because of the work being done in one corner.

  “Take a seat.” Mrs. Baker’s voice managed to be loud and soft at the same time.

  One day, when I was on Broadway, I’d be able to speak like that.

  “As you know, I was able to convince the administration to allow us to do one more play this year. However . . .”

  Uh oh. Howevers are never good when it comes to the powers that be at school. My BFF Becca and I exchanged glances. Her pixie haircut matched her pixie nose but contrasted sharply with the long legs she had folded underneath her.

  I would have traded my frizzy red hair for her dark brown on-its-best-behavior-every-day hair in a heartbeat. I would have gladly borrowed a couple of inches as well to add to my short five foot two frame. But just two. I wanted to stay shorter than Pete.

  Not that Pete had ever said anything about not liking tall girls. But he did resist my encouragement for him to try out acting today. A sharp elbow in my ribs made me jerk back to the present.

  “So, you will choose a character from a novel or a real life person with a connection to one of your classes,” Mrs. Baker said, “and write your own monologue from their POV.”

  The Diva’s hand shot up.

  “POV as in point of view or the perspective of one particular character?” The Diva (the private code name Becca and I had assigned the snooty Donabell Bullock back in fifth grade) glanced around with an air of superiority.

  “That is correct,” Mrs. Baker said. “All the teachers, except a couple, are on board with this counting as an extra credit assignment.”

  Extra credit was good, especially if it concerned my math grade. But knowing my pre-algebra teacher Ms. Lynnet, the worst math teacher in the entire world, I’d bet dollars to donuts she was one of the “couple” who didn’t want to co-operate.

  Becca raised her hand. “If the person we choose overlaps two subjects, can we submit the piece to both teachers?”

  Leave it to overachieving Becca to ask a question like that. But since her parents had pulled her out of our previous production of Oklahoma for one lousy B in pre-algebra, I figured she was just trying to milk this monologue thing for all the academic credit she could get to appease her overly strict parents.

  “That’s between you and them. Did you have someone in mind?”

  “George Washington Carver, Thomas Jefferson, or Alexander Graham Bell. They are scientists and historic.”

  “They’re male. You can’t play a male character.” The Diva scowled at my BFF, probably upset she hadn’t thought of it first.

  A glance at Becca’s crestfallen face launched me into action.

  “She could play one of their female relatives,” I shot back, wishing I could actually, physically hit her between the eyes with one of those suction-tipped arrows. It would stick to her forehead, making her look ridiculous for once. The mental image made me grin. She locked her Frosty the Snowman eyes on mine and wrinkled her too long nose in distaste.

  “Right you are, Gabby,” said Mrs. Baker.

  I basked in her praise as the Diva’s death ray stare grew twenty degrees colder.

  “Please turn your rough drafts into me before a week from Friday. If your monologue is chosen, you will have first dibs on performing it.”

  “Mrs. Baker.” Brandon Coe’s arm went up. “If I chose a famous dancer, can I incorporate dance into the monologue?”

  “Absolutely.” Mrs. Baker’s smile and eyes beamed.

  She became increasingly enthusiastic as we got more jazzed up about this whole thing. I just wished I hadn’t daydreamed during the majority of her talk. But Becca would have all the details when we talked on the phone tonight. I could count on her to pay attention and fill me in.

  The remainder of our meeting flew by as we played theater games and did improvisation exercises. I loved improv. It was one of the few times that acting first and thinking it through later could actually be a virtue.

  “Call me before eight,” Becca reminded me as she dashed out the door after practice.

  My reply got lost under the front row of seats. My backpack had tipped over spilling its contents. It was tough to find everything in the darkness, but no way did I want to feel around on the cold, sloping floor and encounter stuff like ABC (already been chewed) gum, dead roaches or whatever other horrors might lurk in an ancient school almost half a century old.

  “Take a look at this.”

  The deep, unfamiliar male voice surprised me and, in my haste to see who was talking, I banged the back of my head on the underside of a seat. A few strands of hair stuck. I tugged it free realizing with a lurch in my stomach I had ABC gum attached to my already disastrous hair.

  Yuck!

  The voice had come from high on the ladder. The electrician was holding something about the size of a textbook, only round. “Some kid must have stuck this up in the eaves when the place was being built,” said Deep Male Voice.

  “What is it?” asked Mr. Harold, one of the OMS janitors.

  “Dunno. The lid’s rusted on. Probably junk. Might as well trash it.”

  I, Gabby St. Claire, was the next Sherlock Holmes, a solver of mysteries. No way was I going to let them trash whatever it was until I got a good look at it.

  “Can I have it?” I called as I shrugged into my backpack and trotted backstage.

  Visions of opening it and discovering pirate booty or a map to buried treasure filled my head. I saw myself being a teenage millionaire. I’d buy one of those big homes on the beach at Sandbridge. Mom could quit work and we’d drive a Rolls Royce like the Zollins.

  Or maybe it would contain some secret science stuff, hidden away until a future age was ready to receive it. I’d be interviewed on talk shows and give speeches about my discovery. A professional hair and makeup expert would with travel with me so my fly away red hair would finally settle down and look fabulous. By the time I’d been on every TV station in the country, I’d be as famous as Sherlock Holmes.

  “Here you go, Gabby,” said Mr. Harold, depositing the grubby cylinder into my hands.

  I sneezed. I could feel rather than see the rust underneath the coating of dust. I figured if it was as valuable as I thought it was, I’d better not open in front of adults. They just might decide to take it back and I’d lose out on the silver doubloons or crown jewels or secret spy messages it contained.

  “Thanks, Mr. Harold.”

  “Take it home and squirt some WD-40 on it,” suggested the custodian.

  “WD-40?”

  “Lubricating oil. Your dad probably has some in your garage. It does wonders on rusty things like bike chains.”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t add that my father had nothing but old surfing equipment and rusting tools in the garage. Or that he rarely did anything except sit on the couch. But if WD-40 had to do with bikes, Pete might be able to help me out. Pete took better care of his new mountain bike than
most people took care of their kids.

  I tried stuffing it in my backpack, but I needed more room. I slipped my civics book out and hid it under a seat then hurried out to the bike rack, eager to delve into another mystery, one that would make me rich and famous.

  When I stepped outside, I froze when I spotted a patrol car and police officer next to my bike.