by N. Griffin
“Yes,” said Smashie. “But now you have lost even me. I thought we had figured out that Carlos was going to get the last part of the formula during the Mashed Potato, and that it was my job to take it from Charlene and make sure he didn’t get it. How did you figure out that Jacinda was Charlene’s real partner in crime?”
“It was when we all lined up in height order tonight,” said Dontel. “I realized then that in a black sneaky Thief Suit, like the one we saw at the Dairy Delight, Jacinda is the same height as Carlos and would look the same. They are both excellent runners, too. And I knew how worried Charlene was about her mom’s business, and I remembered that Mrs. Morales was a patent lawyer, and it all . . . it all just fell into place. I knew Charlene was just trying to get the goop patented in her mom’s name before someone else did it first!”
“You’ve got it exactly,” said Charlene, her eyes filling with tears again. “Even though you told us that Mr. Bloom had the first jar, I couldn’t shake the worry that Carlos was trying to get my mom’s goop. He kept staring at me!”
“Charlene —” said Joyce gently. But Smashie interrupted.
“Dontel, I had no idea!” cried Smashie. “I thought you had gone nuts and wanted Carlos’s dad to have the formula after all!”
“I’m sorry, Smashie! I asked you if you understood before the dance started, and you said yes.”
“I meant I understood the plan we had made,” said Smashie. “Not that you had made a new one. No wonder we were dancing at cross purposes the whole time during the Mashed Potato! Our minds were not as one!”
Charlene was sobbing again. “Mom, I would never betray you! Me and Jacinda did it all for you! I wanted you to strike it rich with the goop!”
“I am more than happy to help with the patent,” said Mrs. Morales.
“Why, thank you!” said Mrs. Stott.
“But why didn’t you just give me the formula, Charlene?” asked Mrs. Morales, puzzled. “Why all the codes and running around?”
“I needed to make sure that the whole formula was never in one place, in case someone did steal it,” Charlene explained. “This was important! It was top secret! It was industrial espionage! I couldn’t trust it to a plain old piece of paper delivered all at once in just a regular old way.”
Industrial espionage! Smashie couldn’t wait to add that to her and Dontel’s Investigator Language list.
“So Jacinda and I devised this plan,” Charlene continued.
“That first day on the blacktop?” asked Dontel.
“Yep,” said Charlene.
“We all thought you were just like-liking Carlos,” said Cyrus.
Charlene blushed. So did Carlos. “Well,” said Charlene, “I do think he’s a wonderful dancer.”
“And I — I . . .” stammered Carlos, “think you are amazing at hair.”
“Thank you,” said Charlene, and smiled a very small, shy smile at Carlos.
“Hoo-boy,” said John. “And so it begins.”
“Smashie and Dontel,” said Jacinda, “I’m sorry I let everyone be so mean to you about Mr. Bloom while you were investigating. I just had to throw people off the trail!”
“Yes,” said Charlene. “Me too. I really apologize! I stirred the pot about Mr. Bloom and you being awful that day in the gym just because you were by the basketball bins and I needed the area clear so Jacinda could find the goop I hid!”
“It’s okay,” said Smashie. “We understand now that you were trying to help your mom.”
“Jacinda, how did you get so involved in this?” asked her mother.
“I felt bad for Charlene and Mrs. Stott. It’s hard to be out of work,” said Jacinda, her lip quivering. “Daddy got laid off and he still . . .” She gulped and stopped. Her parents both put their arms around her.
“Well, it certainly is a fine goop,” said Ms. Early. “I am quite enjoying my own hair sculpture!”
“I sure enjoyed mine, too,” said Mr. Bloom. “But I got tired of all that extra hair and washed it out. I’m my old self again!”
Mr. Flange silently extended the near-empty jar of goop that he and Mr. Bloom had used to Charlene’s mother.
But Mrs. Stott shook her head. “You keep it,” she said. “We wound up with enough Herr Goop for the musicale after all, and I think it’s nice for you two to have the option of lengthening and molding your hair again someday if you want to.” She beamed at them. Mr. Bloom beamed back. It was hard to tell about Mr. Flange because of the size and length of his Herr Gooped mustache, but his eyes looked like they were smiling.
But not everyone was feeling the moment. “This goop stuff washes OUT?” Mrs. Kamarski exclaimed. “Billy Kamarski, why would you tell me it was permanent?”
“Um, because it was funny?”
“We’ll see how funny it is when I get you home with your hair washed in the tub!”
“Aw, Mom!”
“I’m not tired of my old self,” said Smashie unhappily. “I liked my old hair self. Now my hair goes in a lot of different directions when I don’t have the goop in.”
“I am more than happy to . . . recut anyone’s hair,” said Mr. Garcia. “For free, to celebrate Mrs. Stott’s return to my salon.”
“Thank you!” cried Joyce.
“Yes, thank you,” said Smashie, fully aware that nobody thought she needed a new cut.
“I look forward to making your hair beautiful,” Mr. Garcia said to Joyce, and Joyce and he exchanged beams.
“Smashie and Dontel,” said Ms. Early, “I would like to applaud your thinking, even if it has been a very disruptive week.”
“I second that!” said Miss Dismont. “And anyone using math to solve a mystery is an A-plus in my book! Now I think we should celebrate the whole third grade and this Hair Extravaganza and Musicale and its wonderful ending,” she continued. “Let’s have a party!”
“A dance party!” cried Jacinda.
“Yay! Yes!” cried the children.
“I know a great dance!” cried Mr. Bloom. “In keeping with the sixties stuff! It’s called the Jerk!”
And before Mrs. Armstrong could say a word of protest or about being ill, Mr. Bloom had the sound system blaring the Larks, and all the adults were moving.
“Woo-hoo!” cried the dancers.
“Whee!” cried the teachers.
And even Mrs. Armstrong moved her arms in the appropriate motions for the Jerk. Twice, even, she was seen to smile.
The music ended, and Ms. Early went up to the stage and took the microphone.
“I have another fun idea,” she said to the audience. “Dontel and his dad and Smashie’s grammy can teach everyone another sixties dance. It’s called the Loco-Motion.”
“What about me?” cried Smashie, stung. “Can’t I help teach it, too?”
“No,” said Ms. Early. “Because we need you to sing the song while we dance.”
“Sing . . . sing the song?” said Smashie, hardly daring to hope.
“Yes!” cried the audience as a whole.
Smashie caught her mother’s eye.
“Opportunity,” said her mother.
“And I know just what to sing,” said Smashie.
“I’ll improv the piano for you!” said John.
Smashie blinked with joy. “Thank you, Ms. Early!” She hugged her teacher. Ms. Early hugged her back. Then Smashie leaped to the front of the stage, feeling as light as air. While everybody lined up behind Dontel and Dr. Marquise and Grammy to learn the dance, she took up the microphone. “These aren’t going to be the real lyrics to ‘The Loco-Motion,’” she said. “I’m going to make some up in honor of Ms. Early and her tips about thinking. Me and Dontel couldn’t have solved this mystery without them.”
And then, to the tune of “The Loco-Motion,” Smashie began to sing as loudly as she could.
“Everybody needs to think and come and dance now!
Come on, third grade, motion sparks the notion!
You’ve got to use your brains if you want to advan
ce now!
Come on, third grade, motion sparks the notion!”
Smashie was loud but the audience was louder. Everybody sang and danced, and nothing had ever felt quite so wonderful.
So many lovely people helped this book become a book! I’d like to thank Tobin, Jane, Allen, Ann, and Susan for their eagle-like reading eyes. Big thanks to Kristin for helping with the dance research, and HUGE thanks to Esme for helping me with the secret messages. I’d also like to thank my wonderful agent, Linda Pratt, and my super-duper editor, Karen Lotz, for all their help. I’m so lucky to have so many terrific people in my life! Thank you all some more.
• • •
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 by N. Griffin
Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Kate Hindley
Front cover illustration copyright © 2016 by Kate Hindley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2016
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2016944083
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