LITMIR.BIZ

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She doesn’t mean to argue, but it sure comes across that way.

      Mrs. Worsley closes her eyes for just a moment, then opens them again. “But we wouldn’t be estimating, would we, Renée? In estimating, we round off the numbers to the nearest tens.”

      “But who would want to round off a number when they could have the exact one?”

      Plenty of people, I think. Me, for example. It’s not like we’re measuring the fish for suits or anything. Now, if we needed one wooden fish per student, I would count out the students in each classroom exactly. Or round up. Hopefully, they rounded up so no one has to paint the fish the dogs chewed.

      “Excuse the interruption, but would Stephen Noble and Renée Kobai come to the office, please? Stephen Noble and Renée Kobai.”

      I look around in a panic. The other kids stare at us. This can only mean one thing.

      Police questioning! They’re going to put us in a room with double-sided mirrors that they can see through to watch us.

      Renée grabs my hand as she stands up, forcing me to my feet, too. I quickly shake myself loose. Then she leads the way out the door to the office.

      I can see him through the window. It’s that police officer with the dog, Troy.

      He opens the door for us and Renée immediately calls out: “I remember you. You’re the police officer who blew up Reuven’s science project!”

      Renée’s right about the policeman waiting for us in the principal’s office. He searched the school with Troy during the bomb scare. With his black muzzle and blond fur, I’d know that golden shepherd anywhere, and he knows us. He’s wagging his tail.

      After Troy sniffed out Reuven’s backpack in the computer lab, the remote-control robot removed it to X-ray it. When it showed the wires of his homemade radio science project, the robot took it to the sandbox and exploded it.

      But did Renée have to remind the officer about his mistake? Couldn’t she have just said she remembered him from the roof or something? That’s where we first met him and Troy; they were searching from the top of the school down. Renée doesn’t exactly put the police officer in a good mood.

      “I am Constable Jurgensen.” He thumbs back toward a woman with a French braid tucked into her police cap. “And this is Constable Wilson. You are the kids with the greyhound and the Jack Russell terrier. Renée and Stephen, am I right?”

      We nod.

      “Sit down. We want to ask you some questions.” Constable Jurgensen doesn’t sound friendly and even Troy stops wagging at us. That’s Renée’s mistake, number six of the day. Reminding the constable about something that puts him in a very bad mood.

      DAY ONE, MISTAKE SEVEN

      “Ask away.” I smile just a little to show the officers we’re friendly and co-operative. But not so much that they think we’re laughing at them. Renée and I each take a chair. “We’d be happy to answer anything we can.”

      “Good,” Constable Wilson says, smiling. “That’s great.”

      Troy’s muzzle opens into a happy pant. It looks as though he’s grinning at us.

      “Did either of you see anybody suspicious around the school this morning when you were walking the dogs?” Constable Jurgensen asks, one eyebrow at attention.

      “Hmm, no, we arrived at school a little later than usual,” Renée says.

      “That’s right, we headed toward Bruce T. Lindley first,” I add.

      Troy wags as though he likes our answers.

      “So you didn’t see anyone enter the school armed with a gun?” Constable Jurgensen continues.

      I gasp. Oh, no, Mr. Rupert! I shake my head.

      “No, sir,” Renée answers.

      “What about last night?” Constable Wilson asks. If they’re playing good cop, bad cop, I think she’s the nice one. I notice she’s the one who holds Troy’s leash. “Or early this morning?”

      I shake my head.

      “Did you notice anybody different hanging around? Any unusual activity?” Constable Jurgensen barks. Troy woofs, too.

      Constable Wilson loosens her hold on Troy.

      “Nothing,” I say.

      Constable Jurgensen’s nose and eyes seem to sharpen. “You sure? You live close by, don’t you?”

      “I do.” I point to Renée. “She doesn’t.”

      Troy steps forward, sniffing my pant leg.

      I shuffle uncomfortably.

      “You don’t look so good.” Constable Jurgensen’s voice turns hard. “You feeling guilty over stealing the Stream of Dreams display from the fence?”

      “No!” I squeak. I can almost hear the fish in my pocket clack together as I jump.

      Troy woofs again.

      “We didn’t steal the display,” Renée says. “Why would we?”

      Constable Wilson clears her throat. “The crossing guard, Mrs. Filipowicz, says she saw you with wooden fish in your wagon.”

      Troy sniffs a little higher on my pant leg.

      “Those weren’t fish from the school’s kindergarten fence. They belonged to my brother, Attila.”

      “Attila!” Constable Jurgensen exclaims. Then he turns to Constable Wilson and explains, “He’s the juvenile who spray-painted the high school.”

      “Yes, but he’s paid his debt to society,” Renée says. “He made the fish blanks for the Stream of Dreams project for both schools.”

      I jump in. “Madame X, um, Mrs. Filipowicz, saw us taking the blanks to Bruce T. Lindley.”

      Constable Wilson squints at us. “Attila didn’t come into this building, did he?”

      “No! He goes to Champlain High not Brant Hills.”

      Will Renée tell them that Attila borrowed a shop car to deliver the blanks to Bruce T.? Did he have permission from the shop teacher? Or would using the Saturn be considered theft, too?

      For once, Renée stays quiet. I think she does the right thing.

      “So you don’t know anything about the disappearance of the fish from the fence?” Constable Jurgensen asks.

      I should tell the police about those wooden fish in my pocket right now. But they’ll think we’re involved, for sure, when we don’t know a thing. I stick my hand on top of them. The bass and swordfish feel as if they have come alive and want to leap out of my pocket.

      Troy seems to sense this and jumps up.

      “What do you have in your pocket?” Constable Wilson asks.

      “Liver bites,” I answer, pulling a zip-lock bag from the other side. “My dad makes them. Can I give Troy one?”

      “Absolutely not,” Constable Jurgensen says.

      Troy keeps his paws on my legs and wags his tail.

      “Sorry, boy,” I say, and scratch behind his ears.

      “Do you mind showing us what you have in your other pocket?” Constable Wilson asks.

      My face heats up like tomato soup. Now what?

      I knew I should have pulled out the swordfish and bass the moment Constable Jurgensen mentioned the Stream of Dreams project. Before even. The moment we walked into the office, I should have asked why the fish had disappeared from the fence and shown the police the two that the dogs picked up somewhere along our walk.

      Instead, slowly, reluctantly, I

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