The Bungled Bike Burglaries (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries Book 3) Page 8

  It was my turn to beam.

  Ever since my little brother Timmy had disappeared, my dad had fallen into a despair that drove him to drink. He’d lost his job and gained pounds and inches from his couch potato lifestyle. I’d felt like I had to do twice as good to make up for Timmy’s absence. Maybe if I was good enough, my dad would quit drinking and go back to work.

  Then my mom could work just one job. And it wouldn’t be cleaning the Diva’s house either.

  “Wash up and call your dad.”

  I was relieved she forgot the “where” question. As we ate, I showed my mom and dad the contents of the tin and explained what I had learned thus far. The conversation stretched through dinner and dishes. My dad even volunteered to dry so I could head upstairs and get started on homework.

  Sharing my findings about Hope Q. had taken my mind off wondering if Pete, Howie, and Tyasia had ended up in handcuffs. But, when I was alone in my room, the various possible scenarios distracted me from doing any meaningful work. After half an hour, I gave up and called Becca, hoping her police force connections might provide information.

  “Wow. Gabby, you’ve gotten yourself into a tangled mess,” Becca said when I had filled her in. “Bet you wish now you’d had detention.”

  “Yeah. What do you think is going to happen? Or did happen?”

  “I dunno, but I’ll ask my dad if he knows anything.”

  “Can you do it without mentioning my name?”

  “Gabby, you already gave the police your name in conjunction with the theft.”

  “They don’t tell the people they arrest who ratted them out, do they?”

  “Not right away. But if you have to appear in court to testify, the accused will know it’s you.”

  I felt a huge thunk hitting the bottom of my stomach. I imagined a courtroom with Pete, Tyasia, and Howie all in orange jumpsuits behind the defense table, their eyes zeroed in on me as I walked to the witness stand. Officer Glenn was telling me to put my right hand on a Bible and to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

  Becca’s voice saved me from testifying against them.

  “Gabby, you did the right thing. I mean, you couldn’t let your mom lose her job. Plus, Pete hasn’t exactly been honest with you, has he?”

  I chewed on that for a moment before answering. The courtroom scene in my mind shifted. Pete was the witness and Becca was the prosecuting attorney. Officer Glenn, sporting one of those old-timey powdered wigs like George Washington wore, was sitting in the judge’s place.

  “Did you knowingly choose to consort with a known criminal, kicking your girlfriend Gabby St. Claire to the curb?” Becca’s voice thundered.

  Pete hung his head in shame.

  Judge Glenn leaned toward him. “You knowingly chose to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.” She pounded her gavel. “Guilty as charged. You are hereby sentenced . . .”

  “Gabby? Are you there?” Becca interrupted my fantasy court again before I could conjure up Pete’s sentence.

  “Yeah. What do I do now?”

  “Ride it out and hope by Monday it’s all good?” Becca didn’t sound too sure of her own suggestion. In the background I heard her dad’s “Are you still on the phone?”

  “I’m getting off now,” Becca called and added quietly, “Call me Sunday night.”

  “Will do, cockatoo.”

  ***

  I had no sooner hung up than the phone rang. It was Pete.

  “You’ll never guess what happened!” he began in an agitated voice.

  I could picture him pacing like a caged tiger as he white-knuckled the phone.

  “That Howie picked a fight with me and nearly got me arrested!”

  I listened, holding back my comments as Pete relayed his version of the events. According to Pete, Howie was hassling him for no good reason, and it was lucky for Howie the police showed up when they did, or Pete would have had to show him who was boss. Tyasia was conveniently left out of the whole story.

  “Yeah, the cops got a call about a stolen bike. Weren’t you supposed to be tracking down a bike for Donabell?” Pete’s voice shifted from outraged to suspicious faster than I could collect my wits.

  “Yeah.” I hoped my voice sounded neutral and innocent.

  “I bet it was her! I bet that Donabell Bullock called the cops. She could have at least asked us to our faces first rather than call the police and hide behind them.”

  My whole body sagged with relief. He was suspicious of the Diva, not me.

  “Monday, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind,” Pete thundered.

  I gulped. That was the last thing I wanted Pete to do.

  “Don’t do that,” I said, too quickly.

  “Give me one good reason why not.”

  I swallowed, thinking fast. “So you don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing . . .” I had no idea how to finish the sentence.

  Luckily Pete was so mad he filled in the blank for me. “Yeah. You’re right. There has to be a better way.”

  I unwisely decided to push my luck. “How does this whole bike thing concern you and Howie?”

  “They think Howie’s little sister stole it. Poor kid, she can’t ever catch a break. Get this. She had a crush on me last summer, and her folks are so whack, they sent her to some day care place rather than let her play games at the store and be around me.”

  “You didn’t like her back?” The moment I said it, I regretted it. But my luck held.

  For the moment.

  “Are you kidding? She was in elementary school! I felt sorry for Tyasia being the only girl there, so I let her hang with me.”

  Relief washed over me.

  “Get this,” Pete chuckled. “Tyasia was the one who took the back tire off my bike. I was pretty sure it was her because she did it once last summer, trying to keep me from going home.”

  “So why was Howie all bent out of shape?” I was starting to feel horrible about what I had done.

  “He’s whack. Howie went all ninja crazy because her parents were coming to pick her up and might have seen us together and jumped to a conclusion about Tyasia and me. They got on Howie’s case . . .”

  Pete’s rant continued for several more sentences, but I only half heard after the phrase “jumped to a conclusion.”

  I had done some serious jumping. As in leaping-tall-buildings-in-a-single-bound, superhero-sized jumping.

  Superman always landed on his two feet.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to land that way.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Gabby? Wake up, Tootsie. Phone call.”

  I rolled to a sitting position, dropping my feet off the side of my bed. I ran a hand through my bedhead and looked through one sleep-deprived eye at my mom.

  “It’s for you,” she said, handing me the phone.

  My eyes flew open, and even through the fog of waking up before ten on a Saturday morning, I knew I was in trouble. What would I say if Pete was on the other end? If he called to confront me because he’d found out I had called the cops yesterday?

  I pressed the phone to my ear and said “Hello,” but it came out more like “low.”

  “Gabby St. Claire?” The unfamiliar voice held a slight British accent. “This is Dr. Hinkley from Hampton University.”

  I rubbed my eyes, hoping to shake out the sleepy stupor that numbed my brain. Mom was giving me the who-is-it look, so I covered the speaker part and whispered, “Dr. Hinkley from Hampton University. It is about the time capsule.”

  She nodded but made no move to leave. I was glad. Even if I had expected the call and was wide-awake, I hadn’t a clue how to talk to some university professor.

  “Do you still have the newsprint wrappings?”

  “Uh, um, newsprint?” I asked, clueless and uncomprehending.

  “Howie said some of the items were wrapped in old newspaper. Do you still have them?”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled.

&nbs
p; Great. I sound like a moron.

  Fortunately, I ended up putting Mom on the phone to arrange a trip to the museum Thursday, her next day off, so he could examine the letter and artifacts in person. He mentioned something about possibly donating them. I didn’t know about that. Before I had time to ponder it too much, my mom smiled down on me.

  “Imagine that. A university professor wants to meet my daughter!”

  I basked in Mom’s sideways praise.

  “This calls for a special breakfast!”

  I was too wired to go back to sleep, so I followed Mom downstairs and helped whip up her special applesauce walnut pancakes drenched in caramelized syrup and topped with whipped cream. My mouth reveled in the sweet blend of flavors that went perfectly with milk.

  “I got the dishes, Mom,” I volunteered.

  I knew Mom had a long day ahead of her between cleaning the Bordleys’ house and putting in an eight-hour shift at the drugstore. Once the time capsule made us rich, she could quit at least cleaning, if not both jobs.

  I was putting the finishing touches on my book review of Nancy Drew and the Secret in the Old Lace when the phone rang. I tensed. Was it Pete? Did he know? For the forty billionth time, I wished we had caller ID so I’d know if I wanted to answer or not.

  “This is Dr. Bullock. May I please speak with your mother?”

  My heart skipped a beat. The Diva’s dad was calling. This was not good, not at all.

  “She’s at work. Can I—may I, I mean—take a message?”

  “Yes. Tell her we’re making some changes with our cleaning arrangements. Ask her to call me at her earliest convenience.”

  The Diva had gotten my mom fired.

  “Uh, Dr. Bullock, I found the Di—Donabell’s bike. I told her I would, and I did.”

  “What do you mean? You have her bike?”

  “No. The police have it, but I found it. It was parked outside Page Turner’s Novel Ideas, and I called them and they came and got it. I’m sure they’ll be contacting you soon to give it back to you.” I knew I was babbling, but I couldn’t stop. “I told them when I called it was hers. They had painted it purple, but part of the serial number matched.”

  I crossed my fingers and closed my eyes, hoping I’d said the magic words that would save Mom’s job. Just in case the getting-rich plan bombed.

  “The bookstore painted it purple?”

  Dr. Bullock’s confusion was understandable, so I slowed down and explained again. I took my time and elicited a promise that he would tell his daughter.

  “Does my mom still need to call you?”

  “Yes.” Click.

  He’d hung up.

  I’d failed.

  ***

  I waited up for my mom to get home from work that night to tell her in person the terrible news about cleaning the Diva’s house. As the minutes ticked past, I went over my clues with Watson.

  Someone at OMS iced bike locks, probably so another kid could bust them off.

  There were skull stickers on stolen bikes.

  Mocha Locos liked fiery skulls.

  I’d seen laughing skulls at Page Turner’s.

  Pete’s bike tire stolen by Tyasia as a joke.

  Raff was at the pawnshop.

  The evidence was pointing more and more toward the Mocha Locos.

  I heard our front door open, so I closed Watson and delivered the bad news to Mom.

  “Gabby, I’m sure the Bullocks aren’t going to fire me. You shouldn’t let Donabell’s kidding bother you like that.”

  “She wasn’t kidding. She was dead serious. She’s mean like that.”

  “I’m not going to worry about it, and neither should you. Plus, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “I’m going. Just promise me you’ll call the Bullocks first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll call just before I go to work. They’ll be at church in the morning.”

  “The Bullocks go to church?” I couldn’t imagine the Diva worshipping anybody but herself.

  “Yes, Tootsie. Don’t be so shocked. The Bullocks are nice people.”

  Nice as spitting cobras.

  My mom sighed. “I’ve been thinking we should go back to church, even if your dad won’t.”

  She got that far-off, wistful look, the one she rarely ever showed me, the one that meant she wished life had turned out differently. Most of the time she pretended things were as sunny as an August afternoon at the beach. I guess she was trying to protect me or something.

  “I just am so tired, though. And I don’t know what I’d wear.”

  I went to bed thinking that if church was the kind of place Donabell Bullock went, it wasn’t a place for me.

  CHAPTER 25

  Monday, I sat at the silent lunch table, grateful I had dodged Pete’s calls over the weekend and that my stakeout penalty and after-school drama club meeting would keep Pete and me apart during school. I could put off deciding if and when I should tell Pete the truth about calling the police at least one more day.

  Decisions—I had just too many to make right now. Should I donate the canister to Hampton University for the benefit of all of humanity? Try to sell the contents? Should Hope come across as a victim or a survivor? What to do about Pete: come clean or wait it out?

  At after-school auditions, Brandon was grinning yet calm and cool as he dumped his stuff next to mine. Auditioning was easy for him because no one else had his self-assurance or became their character like he did Alvin Ailey. Becca, however, looked like a zombie frozen inside a block of ice.

  Auditions were exhilarating and nerve wracking all at the same time. I had a love-hate relationship with them. Right now the scale tipped to the hate side. The butterflies doing calisthenics in my stomach made my legs pop up and down like pistons. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop moving.

  Add in my tension over the whole bike thing, and I was close to being a nervous wreck.

  As I glanced over at the Diva and her flock of Devotees, I scowled. My nemesis was the picture of poise. It just wasn’t fair.

  “I bet she’ll pick both Dolly Madison and Jackie Kennedy,” gushed Amy Snyder, smoothing down the Diva’s wig and fussing with the pink pillbox hat pinned on top. “Your monologues are brilliant, Donabell. Simply smashing.”

  “Someone has to make sure this show has class and Mrs. Baker has quality monologues to choose from.” The Diva’s head swiveled so her eyes locked onto mine. “About actual people, not figments of the imagination.”

  She jerked her head my way like I was decomposing roadkill on the highway.

  I started to open my mouth, but Brandon put his hand on my arm, which brought me to a heart-thumping stop.

  “Don’t let her get to you,” Brandon whispered. “We’ve got this. Just channel all that negative.”

  I nodded and tried to do that channeling thing of Brandon’s. He claimed nervousness was nothing more than energy that could be channeled into your performance. Instead of trying to calm down, great actors stayed keyed up; they just diverted the energy into their character.

  I couldn’t get the hang of it. I could only hope my delivery would be good enough.

  As I anxiously awaited my turn center stage, I ran my lines, practiced Unique New York, and rolled my head and shoulders to try to loosen them.

  Mrs. Baker clapped once and we all responded in kind, a hush spreading over the auditorium as all of us restlessly awaited what could be our last chance to shine onstage this year.

  “Paulette is bringing around a box. Drop your name in. When I pick your name, you’re up.” At her words, my stomach got the same feeling as when the Loch Ness roller coaster at Busch Gardens was almost at the top of the first and highest peak, the place that always made you wonder why you ever waited in line for an hour just to be scared out of your wits.

  “Today we need to work stage left because the new Atlas sound system is being installed stage right.” Mrs. Baker sounded as excited as a preschooler seeing Santa for the first time. />
  From my seat, I saw six large boxes all bearing the Atlas logo of a muscly weightlifter hoisting a megaphone over his head. The speaker boxes were almost as tall as I was.

  “Before you leave today, please sign the card I placed by the sound booth for the Zollins,” Mrs. Baker continued. “Thank them in your own words for their donation.”

  The words “donations” and “donors” had danced around my dreams all week. Would I donate the time capsule or not?

  “How much did all this cost?” asked a sixth grader.

  “Over twenty thousand dollars,” Mrs. Baker said. “This is top-of-the-line equipment like sports facilities and music venues use.”

  Whistles of appreciation and murmurs of incredulity sounded around me.

  Paulette brought the box, and the three of us dropped our slips in.

  “I’ll post the cast list by Wednesday. Starting next Monday, we’ll rehearse every day this week as well as stay back the Friday of the show to do a couple of tech run-throughs with the new sound system. We’ll have pizza, thanks to the Zollins—you can mention that in the card as well—before our final dress and then razzle-dazzle our audience at seven sharp. Let’s make it our best show ever.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the auditorium. I glanced around. Thirty-five to forty kids, including eighth graders who knew this was their final chance to walk the boards at Oceanside Middle, had eager, nervous expressions on their faces.

  “I think we’re ready to begin,” Mrs. Baker said as Paulette brought her the box. “Monica, close the curtains.”

  As the eighth-grade stage manager complied, I scooted to the edge of my seat in anticipation, willing my legs to at least slow down. Brandon kicked back, hands laced behind his head, the epitome of relaxed confidence. Becca still sat ramrod stiff.

  Our director pulled a slip from the container. “Becca Chapman.”

  Becca unfroze but still had the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look.

  “I hate being first!” she hissed.

  Our eyes met, and Brandon gave her a smile and thumbs-up. She rose, made it to center stage by sheer willpower, and bowed her head.