Smashie McPerter and the Mystery of the Missing Goop

by N. Griffin

  “It’s all going so quickly!” said John, who looked almost sick with stage fright. But he was right. It was almost time for the Temptation Walk.

  “Smashie.” Dontel grabbed her by the elbow. “Look at Charlene’s left sock. But be discreet about it!”

  Smashie looked casually around, but she couldn’t help but startle at the sight of a paper peeping over the edge of Charlene’s striped sock above her go-go boot. The Mashed Potato might be the only dance Charlene was to perform, given that her hair duties were keeping her busy, but it was clear that she was ready to go on with her nefarious plan to betray her own mother. Smashie looked at Dontel and nodded.

  The Temptation Walk began with high energy, and the children moved perfectly in its squares and diagonals around the stage.

  And then Dontel was onstage, about to speak his astronomy piece. “I’d like to dedicate this piece to Mr. Bloom,” said Dontel, “who has always been a wonderful mentor to me about space.”

  “Wahoo!” called Mr. Bloom as the adults cheered, and Smashie’s heart leaped within her. Maybe his UFO conference had put him in a forgiving frame of mind.

  “The stars we see at night look like pricks of light, but are they?” Dontel asked the audience. “No. They are balls of fire. They are galaxies swirling and colliding as they move through space. . . .”

  As soon as Dontel was done with his piece, there was Smashie, leading the Shimmy in her most astronomy-like way right behind him. Dontel joined in with the dancers, and, finally, offstage they went, to more applause and cheers.

  “We can’t change hair this fast,” panted Charlene. “Everybody has a different shape for each dance! Alonso has to turn from an infinity sign into something to do with Hyacinth Rooney now! Mom, what can we do?”

  “I could help,” said Carlos shyly. “I’ve watched you do it, and I bet I could do a good job.”

  “NO NEED!” shouted Smashie. The last thing she and Dontel wanted was a new way for Charlene and Carlos to get in contact before the Mashed Potato, for heaven’s sake.

  “We need Carlos to . . . to help Cyrus,” said Dontel, thinking quickly. “Can you help him with the steps for the next number?”

  “Could you?” asked Cyrus eagerly. “I am a little dicey on the Mashed Potato still.”

  “I sure can,” said Carlos. He glanced over at Charlene. “It’s . . . it’s my favorite one.”

  “We’ll be fine, Charlene,” said Mrs. Stott soothingly. She was working on the heads for Tatiana’s number, and they were magnificent.

  Dontel and Smashie looked at each other, limp with relief. But not for long. After Tatiana’s wonderful skating number and the Skate dance, there was John, being led onto the stage by Ms. Early. They watched him take in a deep breath as Alonso, with a drum and a brush, got ready to percuss.

  There was a pause. Then a longer pause.

  The audience waited.

  John closed his eyes. He opened them. Alonso gave an encouraging nod. And then, wonder of wonders, John’s fingers hit the keys and he began to sing.

  “Come on over to my place!

  If you can, well, in that case,

  I’ll give you some casserole and some cake, too — hey!

  Come on over to my place!

  I’ll give you shish kebab and some steak, too — hey!”

  The audience whistled and cheered. John was a changed boy, confident at his piano. Alonso moved his head in time with the music, and the auditorium was filled with applause and cries.

  And then it was over.

  “I am so proud of you!”

  “Me too, man!”

  “You killed it!”

  “And your neck looked great!”

  Smashie and Dontel were proud of John, too, but their stomachs were full of butterflies. For now was the time.

  “Smashie,” said Dontel, “we’re about to do the Mashed Potato.”

  “I know.” Smashie gulped.

  “Everything depends on this dance,” whispered Dontel. “We can’t mess it up! We have to save Charlene’s mother from Charlene letting Carlos steal the hair goop formula!”

  And, with hair in the shapes of potatoes, bowls, and mashers, the dancers lined up by height with their partners and got ready for the Mashed Potato.

  Dontel looked at the paired children. His jaw dropped.

  “Of course,” he said. “Smashie!”

  “Yes?” said Smashie.

  “My goodness! Do you see it, too?”

  “Well, yes,” said Smashie. Hadn’t she seen that paper peeping out of Charlene’s sock ages ago? “Duh.”

  Dontel looked at her hard. “And you understand what we have to do now?” he said urgently.

  “You bet I do,” said Smashie. What did he take her for? The goal had been clear since yesterday. “Let’s get on it!”

  And out onto the stage they danced.

  “And now for our finale!” cried Miss Dismont. “THE MASHED POTATO!”

  Heart pounding, out danced Smashie right beside Cyrus at the back of the stage. At this moment, Smashie knew her go-go-dancing costume was every bit as much an Investigator Suit as her red jacket and tool belt had been. She looked across the stage at Dontel and Charlene in the opposite back corner. Carlos and Jacinda were ready in the corner opposite Smashie and Cyrus at the front. And then it started. Heels twisting, arms mashing, the group began to wiggle and dance in the directions Smashie and Dontel had taught them. And then Smashie saw. Charlene — the piece of paper still sticking up from her go-go boot — was determinedly trying to lead Dontel in the direction of Carlos.

  “Come on, Cyrus.” Smashie puffed under the cover of the music. “We’re switching things up a bit. Follow me!”

  “That’s what I’m doing anyway.” Cyrus huffed and danced with her across the midpoint of the stage. Little did he know that they were blocking Charlene from her nefarious intentions to betray her mother for the sake of like-like!

  But what was this? Dontel appeared in front of Smashie, Mashed Potatoing hard in her direction. He was forcing her away from Charlene.

  Cyrus stumbled.

  “What are you doing?” Smashie hissed to Dontel.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed back.

  The dance was growing chaotic. With Smashie and Dontel in the wrong places, nobody knew where to go. So they Mashed Potatoed in place, with Charlene the only one moving purposefully across the stage. Toward Carlos.

  And Dontel was doing nothing to stop her.

  I won’t have it, thought Smashie resolutely, and, her hair potato quivering on the top of her head, she Mashed Potatoed Cyrus once more across the stage to intercept her classmate.

  But again Dontel cut her off.

  Smashie forced him to dance backward away from her.

  Dontel retaliated by dancing her forward toward the wings.

  On and on they tussled, each moving the other back and forth, with no real progress made, as Charlene got ever closer to Carlos.

  “Why are you messing everything up?” Dontel whisper-shouted to Smashie.

  “I’m trying to do what’s right!” said Smashie.

  “Well, so am I!” And the two were locked in dance battle as, behind them, Charlene reached her goal. One more heel twist and she was in front of Carlos and Jacinda.

  And a hand reached down into Charlene’s boot and extracted the paper.

  “Got it!”

  But it wasn’t Carlos who was speaking in triumph.

  It was Jacinda.

  The dancing came to a screeching halt.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “What is Jacinda doing?”

  “Why did Smashie and Dontel change up the dance?”

  Everyone was confused. In the audience, the parents whispered and exchanged puzzled looks. In the wings, Ms. Early and Miss Dismont looked shocked.

  Dontel and Smashie locked eyes. “Dontel!” she cried. “What’s going on?”

  “This,” said Dontel
, and, crossing over to Jacinda, he took the paper from her startled hand, leaped into the audience, and handed it to Mrs. Morales, Jacinda’s mother. “I believe you’ll need it,” he said.

  All chaos broke loose.

  Charlene was sobbing. Jacinda was indignant. Mrs. Morales was puzzled, and nobody knew what was happening. Everybody was trying to make sense of the non-end of the show.

  Ms. Early stood onstage and clapped her hands. “Dontel Marquise,” she called. “And, if I know anything, Smashie McPerter. Come up here. I think you two have some explaining to do.”

  Smashie threw up her hands. “What do I know? Dontel, why did you give that paper to Jacinda’s mom?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Morales, puzzled. “Why? What is it?”

  “It goes with these.” Jacinda crossed over to her mother and handed her three other pieces of paper. “We’ll need them all.”

  “Jacinda!”

  “Dontel!”

  “Charlene!”

  Everyone was yelling at everybody else, and nobody could make head or tail of a thing. The adults were concerned, and the rest of the third-graders were unsure whether or not to leave their Mashed Potato positions.

  “BY THUNDER, WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” It was Mr. Bloom. “Nobody knows what in tarnation you are talking about, Mr. M. and Miss McP.!”

  “Yes!” cried Mrs. Armstrong. “You are making me ILL with worry!”

  “Begin at the beginning, Dontel and Smashie,” said Ms. Early. “And don’t stop until we all understand why our musicale had to be disrupted.”

  “It had better be good,” said Siggie.

  “Everybody better come up on the stage,” said Smashie. “It’s kind of a long story. And I don’t even get the end of it myself.”

  So the families clumped up the stage stairs and joined their children. Miss Dismont began to pass around the plates of refreshments Cyrus had made as Dontel started the tale.

  “It all started with the missing jars of Herr Goop,” Dontel began. “You all remember how we worried they were being stolen, Room 11?”

  Room 11, scattered around the stage, nodded. Family members leaned toward their children, and whispered explanations filled the air.

  “Well, it turns out we were right. They were taken.”

  “Are you accusing Mr. Bloom again?” Tatiana was outraged.

  “What?!” cried Mrs. Armstrong. “Please do not tell me you are accusing a treasured member of our staff! Why, I will be SO ILL I’LL NEED A NIGHT NURSE! I’ll —”

  “No!” said Smashie hastily. “We thought it was him once, but we were wrong! He only found the first jar!”

  “We keep trying to tell him we’re sorry — we even baked him some apology brownies a few days ago, but they are yucky now,” said Dontel.

  “You poor kids,” said Mr. Bloom. “Why, I forgave you ages ago. Just away at my UFO convention and no way of telling ya. No need for apology brownies. I know how it is to be eight years old and get carried away. Why, one time, I was convinced my own mother took my toy helicopter. Why would the woman want it? I don’t know. But it made all kinds of sense to me at the time.” He shook his head and patted their shoulders. “You’re my little friends. Of course I forgive you.”

  Smashie’s eyes filled. She was very sorry, and very grateful. Smashie’s mother and Grammy hugged her shoulders.

  “Back to the mystery, Smashie and Dontel,” said Joyce firmly.

  “We figured it was too much of a coincidence for the next two jars to go missing,” said Smashie. “So we knew something was afoot, even if we didn’t know what.”

  “I thought something was afoot after the first jar, too,” cried Charlene. “When that jar was gone, I was sure Carlos had taken it to give to his father so Mr. Garcia could figure out what was in our Herr Goop and make it and sell it as his own!”

  “What!” cried Carlos and Mr. Garcia at the same time.

  “Oh!” said Joyce. “So that’s why you were staring at him during that tag game.”

  Charlene nodded. Carlos looked crestfallen.

  “Please,” said Mr. Garcia, startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what she’s talking about!” cried Mrs. Stott. “I overheard you telling the other gals at the salon that you didn’t believe I made our goop in my own kitchen. You said I had to have made it in your salon, using your ingredients, and therefore it might as well have your name on it!”

  Mr. Garcia looked puzzled. Then his face cleared. “Mrs. Stott,” he said, “you misunderstood. I was talking about the birthday cake one of the stylists made and served at our salon party for my wife. I was being rude about the stylist’s cooking, for which I am sorry, but I never, ever meant your goop. Why, you invented that goop and it’s genius!”

  Mrs. Stott’s jaw dropped.

  “Is this why you left my salon?” Mr. Garcia asked her.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Stott. “It is.”

  “Please come back,” pleaded Mr. Garcia. “The salon hasn’t been the same without your creativity. And your real gift is sculpture. We need you!”

  Charlene’s mother blushed, and her shoulders sagged with relief. “Mr. Garcia, thank you! I’d love to come back. I miss your salon, and it really has not been all that much fun trying to strike out on my own.”

  “Back to the mystery, please,” said John. “I mean, I’m glad for you and all, Mrs. Stott, but I still don’t get what’s going on.”

  “We didn’t either, at first,” said Smashie. “We thought the goop was just being stolen.”

  “I helped people think that,” confessed Charlene. “I shouted when the second one disappeared so no one would suspect me of stealing our own goop. But then Dontel must have seen one of the missing jars in the gym —”

  “And it had a secret code on it!” Dontel finished.

  There were many gasps.

  “A secret code?”

  “What was it?”

  Smashie and Dontel explained the math they had used to figure it out.

  “Yes,” said Charlene. “That was it.”

  “Well, I’m glad, at least, you were paying attention in math class,” said Ms. Early. “Please go on, Smashie and Dontel.”

  “We figured out pretty quickly it must have been Charlene who was writing the codes and taking the jars to hide in the gym for someone else to find,” said Dontel.

  “Dontel was the one who figured that out,” said Smashie.

  “But why was she doing that? What did the codes lead to?” asked a parent.

  “Messages,” said Dontel. “All over town. At first we thought that they were just, uh — notes,” said Dontel delicately. “To Carlos.”

  Smashie was less delicate. “Because of all the silly like-like talk.”

  “You thought I was sending Carlos like-like notes? Sheesh!” Charlene was very put out.

  Carlos cast his eyes down sadly.

  “Yes,” said Smashie. “But then when I got my hair cut —”

  “You got your hair cut?” asked Miss Dismont. “Why, it looks just the same.”

  “So they tell me,” said Smashie flatly. “Anyway, when I got my hair cut by Mrs. Stott, Charlene had put a last, nearly whole jar that Mrs. Stott had scraped together from the last of her ingredients into a bag. I knew that it just had to have a code on it. And I was right — it did! So when Mrs. Stott gave me the bag to bring to school, it meant that Dontel and I got to the secret message before Charlene’s partner in crime did.”

  “I was so mad my mom gave you that jar,” admitted Charlene. “I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to hide it in the gym!”

  “I bet,” said Smashie. “Anyway, when we found the message, it wasn’t a regular old like-like note at all! It turned out to be a part of the Herr Goop recipe!”

  “Charlene!” cried Mrs. Stott. “Were you giving our recipe away to Carlos because you thought his dad had the rights to it?”

  “No!” cried Charlene. “Mom, how could you even think that?”

 
“We thought that, too,” confessed Dontel. “But we were wrong. We knew Charlene was writing the codes and taking the jars and leaving them to be found, but it turned out it had nothing to do with Carlos. And everything to do with you, Mrs. Stott.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Stott. “And, Charlene, if you took all the jars meant for your class —”

  “Except the first one.” Smashie interrupted.

  “— and used them for this” — Mrs. Stott fought for the words — “code thing, how come we still had them all for tonight?”

  “When I took the second one back, I pretended you had replaced one of the jars and brought it to school for us,” said Charlene, her eyes welling up a bit with the admission of her fib. “I pretended you had a mysterious benefactor.”

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Stott. “So you weren’t just kidding around when you mentioned a mysterious benefactor, Smashie.”

  “Nope,” said Smashie. “I still thought that was true at that point.”

  “And I put the last missing jar back in the reading corner so someone in our own class would find it and think I’d just been careless,” Charlene confessed.

  “I’m the one who found it,” said Tatiana.

  “What I don’t get,” said Siggie, “is how you managed to take the jars out from under our very noses. With the exception of the one that rolled away, the others were taken when we were all there in Room 11.”

  “Well” — Charlene’s voice was teary — “it was pretty easy. You people don’t zip your backpacks much. Mom, I’m so sorry!” Charlene’s eyes filled again. “I was lying and pretending all over the place!”

  Smashie was full of sympathy. She had been just as conflicted about fibbing as Charlene. On the other side of the coin, though, she thought, I was fibbing for justice. But who could say where the line for fibbing was drawn? Smashie shook her head.

  “Charlene did pretend,” said Dontel. “When I peeled up the label on the jar before our last dance tonight, I saw one of the old codes underneath. So it just confirmed to me that Charlene had taken the other, coded jars and then arranged to have them reappear with new, code-less labels on the top.”