The Artsy Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll
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fill up their water,” I tell Renée. A delay tactic. I always feel bad leaving them. Renée gives Pong pats and Ping flips over for rubs.
“Gotta go, guys,” I tell them, giving Ping’s belly a last rub. Then Renée and I leave quickly. It’s like ripping off a bandage.
As I lock the door behind us, I can hear Ping’s yap of disappointment.
Renée shrugs her shoulders at me. Hardest part of dog walking. Worse than scooping poop, even.
Next we stop at my house so I can change out of my Noble Dog Walking shirt. I keep the cargo pants of the uniform on. I grab my lunch from the counter. It’s in a plastic box with sections to keep the apple wedges and carrot sticks from touching my cream cheese sandwich. No accidentally grabbing a bag full of defrosting blood-dripping liver today. I did that last week when I left my backpack at school and Dad put my sandwich in a plastic grocery bag. We learn from our mistakes, I think happily. I don’t forget my backpack, either; my agenda’s been signed. My teacher, Mrs. Worsley, is big on that. Even if there’s no homework, Mom or Dad have to initial that they know this.
“Want a granola bar?” I ask Renée as I grab one for on the way.
“Okay.”
I pitch it to her. We walk to school together, chewing on chocolate-covered oatmeal bars. We’re going to be on time. I feel good. It’s a pretty ordinary day so far. There’s going to be a perfectly logical explanation for the fish disappearing, I know it. A missing mailbox, a stolen Halloween display, no biggie. I know if Mom were around and not on layover in Amsterdam, she’d say none of those are my problems, anyway.
We arrive at school just in time for the second bell, so no late slip needed. As always, we start the day singing the national anthem and then listening to morning announcements. Our principal, Mrs. Watier, says nothing about the Stream of Dreams fish disappearing from the fence. You would think she might explain if it was some kind of routine fish cleaning or relocating project, but then, my parents tell me I overanalyze things, so I try to put it out of my mind. One of the grade eight girls begins reading our morning inspiration, but in the middle of it, she stops. We hear some mumbling in the background and then Mrs. Watier interrupts:
“Your attention, please. Everyone stop what you are doing and listen. This is a lockdown. I repeat: we are in lockdown. Please proceed to a lockdown position.”
“Why?” I want to scream, but instead, I take a deep breath. And then another. Maybe those breaths sound loud against the sudden silence. Maybe the blood is draining from my face because my head feels swirly.
Tyson rolls his eyes and punches me. “Calm down, Green Lantern. It’s just a drill.”
But Mrs. Worsley immediately shuts our door and locks it. In a pinched, quiet voice, she speaks. “Grade seven, this is very important. We are now going to do everything exactly as we practised a few weeks ago, do you remember? Everyone, into our safe corner.”
Does this have anything to do with the missing fish? Not unless the disappearance is linked to some kind of gunman loose in the school. Oh my gosh, Mr. Rupert! Did he review the surveillance video and come looking for me? I take another breath. I am not going to panic like I did for the fire alarm last week. That turned out to be a bomb scare. Together with everyone else in the class, I hurry to huddle in our safe corner.
Outside, I see the sun shining and a police car pulling into the parking lot. For a lockdown drill, the police come, so this does not have to mean disaster. I’m not going to leap up and yell at everyone to hide. In fact, I kneel down calmly beside Renée. Tyson must be right after all. This has to be a drill.
Mrs. Worsley’s roll of tape squeals as she sticks chart paper over the window in our door.
A second and then a third squad car pull in behind the first one.
That doesn’t happen in a drill. Mistake number five has to be thinking any thought that ever comes out of Tyson’s mouth is right.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE SIX
I keep breathing deeply so the drum in my chest stops beating as hard. But as Mrs. Worsley pulls the string to close the blinds, they clatter down loudly and I jump. So does Renée. We knock into each other.
Mrs. Worsley puts her finger to her lips and waves our group closer together. Standing in front of us, Mrs. Worsley folds her arms across her chest. She’s shorter than I am but fierce, like an eagle. She makes me feel safe.
Renée sits next to me on the floor. Staying quiet is a really impossible job for her. Behind her red glasses, her eyes pop. I can smell brown sugar and wonder if that is coming from her skin — some kind of bath lotion or cream — or whether I am going to have a seizure. I read about people smelling strange things before having one; usually, it’s burnt toast, though. The rest of the class shuffles around. The floor feels harder than usual against my butt, so I shift myself, too, but can’t find a comfortable position.
Mrs. Worsley looks at us, and with her finger, counts us, mouthing the numbers. She nods as she finishes and smiles. Then she picks up our read-aloud book, The Night Gardener, and begins to whisper from it. It’s a scary story about a spooky tree that grows in a mansion and manages to control everyone who lives in it. Mrs. Worsley whispering the story is making it scarier today, but in a good way. That tree can’t hurt us, after all, and what- or whoever is causing this lockdown seems another world away as I listen.
Even though I called her Mom once accidentally at the beginning of the year, and that was a pretty embarrassing mistake, worst of that day, I realize I have never liked Mrs. Worsley more than I do right now.
She reads two entire chapters. When the intercom turns on again and Mrs. Watier announces the lockdown is over, I am hooked on the story and disappointed we can’t continue. I must check out Brant Hills library and see if they have the book. I need to know what happens next.
Mrs. Watier explains that the police have searched the entire school and have assured her that there is no danger to any of the staff or students. But she doesn’t explain what caused her to call a lockdown and she doesn’t say anything about the missing fish.
Mrs. Worsley asks Renée and me to open the blinds again, and it’s still a sunny October morning out there. Nothing has changed. No bodies, no fires or bomb squad. But also no fish on the fence.
She asks Tyson to take down the chart paper.
We continue on with math as though nothing happened. Mrs. Worsley talks to us about estimating and rounding a number to the nearest ten to make it easier to add or subtract. She shows us a problem on the Smart Board. “Bronte Creek holds a nest of fish eggs and this nest contains 544 eggs. If 322 hatch, how many did not hatch?”
The problem makes me think of our missing painted fish. If there are 250 students at Brant Hills, there has to have been that many fish on the fence. They were each attached with two heavy metal staples; it would have taken a long time to remove them. Someone should have seen it.
“Stephen?”
“Yes, Mrs. Worsley.”
“How many fish?”
I’m confused for a moment. How does she know I’m thinking about those missing Stream of Dreams fish?
“Two hundred and twenty-two!” Renée calls out.
Now here’s where Jessie would have been a way better friend. He would never have shown me up like that. Even if a teacher called on him after me, he’d pretend not to know the answer. Probably, he wouldn’t even have had to pretend. Renée is just not great at being quietly smart.
“Raise your hand and wait till you’re called on, Renée.” Mrs. Worsley knits her woolly eyebrows together. “Class? Is she right?”
Renée’s always right but I’m not going to answer.
“Remember, we’re estimating.” Her mouth purls. “We round to the nearest ten. For that, we round 544 down to 540 and drop the two from 322 to make it