Smashie McPerter and the Mystery of Room 11 Page 7

  “What are you doing with that glue, Charlene?”

  “Gluing my camera! What do you think?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Well, stop!”

  “Dontel,” whispered Smashie, “we have got to get going with investigating. Nobody trusts anybody anymore!”

  “I know. It’s awful in here!” Dontel looked at their classmates, who were milling about the room alone or in pairs, eyeing one another mistrustfully. Dontel turned to Smashie. His voice was grave. “We are going to have to do the best thinking we have ever done.”

  “Willette,” Mrs. Early raised her voice slightly, her eagle eye peeled, “why aren’t you working on your camera?”

  “I can’t get started, Ms. Early. My oatmeal carton wasn’t in the box.”

  “Oh, Willette, how awful!”

  Willette shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  Ms. Early addressed the class. “Did anyone get Willette’s carton by mistake?”

  Nobody had.

  “You can have mine!” Billy jumped up and ran over to Willette, his own carton outstretched. “Here! Go ahead and take it. We have lots of empty ones at home. I’ll bring in another one tomorrow.”

  “Billy!” said Ms. Early, pleased. “That is very kind of you.”

  “No problem, Ms. Early. I’m glad to help.” Indeed, Billy looked almost sick with eagerness.

  “He’s trying to make people not so mad at him,” Smashie whispered to Dontel. She understood the impulse.

  “I think you’re right.”

  “I could help Willette make her camera now,” said Billy earnestly to Ms. Early, “and then I’ll work on mine at home by myself after school. That way both of us will be all caught up for tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to work with Billy,” Willette said instantly.

  “Willette Williams, that is not the way we approach teamwork in Room 11.” Ms. Early was stern.

  “But I don’t want to be glued!”

  “I’m telling you!” cried Billy. “For the last time, it wasn’t me!”

  “Hello, hello!” The busy door of Room 11 whizzed open once more and a set of blond curls appeared, beaming, inside it.

  It was Mr. Carper.

  “Oh.” Clutching a large plastic pork chop in one hand, Mr. Carper started at the sight of the children. “They’re here. I thought they had art first thing.” He gestured in the direction of the art room with the chop.

  “Why does he have a pork chop?” Smashie whispered puzzledly to Dontel.

  “Probably he’s practicing with it,” Dontel whispered back. “For that circular.”

  “I bet you’re right,” said Smashie. “And I bet he got it from the kindergartners’ pretend grocery store.”

  “Room 11 only has art on Tuesdays,” said Ms. Early, eyeing the chop. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Mr. Carper hesitated, then flashed his teeth in a disarmingly wide smile.

  “Oh, I think you can, Ms. Early,” he said with a throaty chuckle.

  “In what way?” said Ms. Early, her eye growing chilly.

  “Just thought I’d pop in and see if you were free. See if you wanted to talk over how things went when you were out, blah and blah.”

  “Why don’t you show her those packets?” Dontel muttered. “She’ll be real glad about those.”

  “I’m afraid we’re rather busy just now,” said Ms. Early.

  “Well, when are you free? Don’t the kids have library or something?”

  “I thought he liked Mrs. True,” whispered Jacinda.

  “I think he thinks Mrs. True likes him,” said Joyce.

  “Ugh,” said Smashie.

  “No library today,” said Ms. Early. “We have the nutrition assembly this afternoon instead.”

  Mr. Carper’s lips twisted. Then, straightening, he reapplied his smile. “So disappointing,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “I was looking forward to visiting with you right away. You know, Ms. Early — wait, what’s your first name?”

  “Let’s stick with Ms. Early.”

  “Ha-ha, that’s right, don’t want to confuse the kiddies, hey?” Mr. Carper grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows.

  Dontel clapped his hand to his forehead and shook his head from side to side.

  “How come he cares so much about her name?” Smashie whispered to Dontel. “Why doesn’t he just call her Teacher with the Head or something, like he does with the rest of us?”

  “Anyway,” Mr. Carper continued, “funny thing about that assembly, Ms. Early. Huge coincidence. I mean, I model, right, and here’s the TrueYum looking for a model, and they show up here on the exact day I’m substituting!”

  “Mr. Carper, aren’t you expected down in the kindergarten?”

  “Oh, the aide is taking over. What do I know about kindergarten? Well, anyway, all I’m saying is that I think someone might be making an appearance soon in a grocery store near you, if you know what I mean.”

  “I really don’t.”

  “The circular,” said much of Room 11.

  “Spot on, kiddies,” said Mr. Carper. He held the pork chop to his mouth and made as if to take a large bite. His teeth gleamed as he held the pose.

  “Oh,” said Ms. Early. “Yes. Miss Dismont mentioned you were . . . interested in that.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Carper smiled. “I’m something of a —”

  “Frontunner,” Charlene finished wearily.

  Mr. Carper glared at her. “Yes, Girl in the T-Shirt,” he said. “I am.”

  “So kind of you to drop by,” Ms. Early said. But Mr. Carper did not take the hint. He glanced toward the back of the room and nodded at Patches’s empty cage.

  “What about that hamster?” he asked. “Did anyone find it?”

  “Not yet,” said Ms. Early. “But we are holding out hope.”

  Mr. Carper snorted. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Are you going to keep that cage in the back of the room? Because those things are full of —”

  “Indeed we are, Mr. Carper,” said Ms. Early crisply. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to get back to our cameras, and I am quite sure you need to get back to the kindergarten.” She glanced at the pork chop. “And return their materials.”

  Mr. Carper chuckled. “All right, I get it. I’ll wait until we can be alone,” he said. He glanced again at the back of the room. “I’ll grab that cage for you if you want,” he said. “Clean it out, get rid of all the —”

  “Smooth, man,” John muttered. “Because that’s what all the ladies want, a clean hamster cage.”

  “Better than flowers,” Siggie murmured back, and the two boys laughed.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Carper,” Ms. Early said firmly.

  “Ta-ta,” said Mr. Carper, and, knotting his sweater casually around his neck, at last he went.

  “Let me measure our oatmeal cartons,” Smashie said as she and Dontel got back to work on their cameras.

  “Sure,” said Dontel. “And after you do that,” he muttered, “let’s do some investigating. See who remembers whom being where when.”

  Smashie looked at him admiringly. “That was a wonderful sentence,” she said.

  Dontel smiled shyly. “Thank you,” he said. “I thought of it last night. Anyway, we should start questioning people.”

  “Yes,” Smashie agreed. “Ask them if they saw anything strange.”

  “But we have to do it without arousing suspicion.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dontel turned to Jacinda.

  “Jacinda,” he said casually, “who all did you eat lunch with yesterday?”

  “Who wants to know?” Jacinda asked amiably, cutting out a square of aluminum foil.

  “Just wondering,” said Dontel. “I’m trying to, uh, develop my memory. See if I can remember exact details of things. I’m, uh, working on remembering everything about the lunchroom yesterday.”

  “Huh,” said Jacinda. “Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess. I sat with Tatiana, Charlene, and Joyce. Lik
e every other day.”

  “That’s right,” said Dontel. “I remember now.”

  Smashie sidled away and over to Cyrus.

  “Wasn’t lunch recess just the worst yesterday?” she asked him offhandedly. “Didn’t the people you hung out with think it stunk, not to get to play? Who did you hang out with, there on the blacktop?”

  “I read to the first-graders with Willette, remember? I barely had any time out on the blacktop.”

  “Oh. That’s right.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “So you were with the first grade for the whole entire time until you came back out to the blacktop?”

  “What are you, a detective? Of course I was. Ask their teacher, Ms. Dart.” Cyrus snipped and glued.

  Smashie smiled hastily. “Of course I am not a detective,” she said. “You didn’t think this was a Detective Suit, did you?”

  Cyrus glanced at her outfit. “No,” he said. “I don’t really get what kind of suit that is.”

  “It is just my clothes today, Cyrus, is all.”

  “I see,” said Cyrus.

  “Smashie,” Ms. Early called, “why aren’t you at your own seat?”

  “I’m going, Ms. Early,” said Smashie, and sidled hastily back to her table. “It is very hard to question people closely about their movements without making them suspicious,” she whispered to Dontel.

  “Or without making them think you’re strange,” Dontel agreed.

  “I think we’re ready to paint, Ms. Early,” said Jacinda.

  Ms. Early passed a weary hand over her brow. “I think we’ll save that until later, Jacinda. We’ve had a lot of interruptions this morning, and this is taking longer than I thought it would. Let’s move on to reading now. We’ll finish our cameras after morning break.”

  Ensconced in the cushions in the reading area, Smashie and Dontel hastily read the chapter in the novel Ms. Early had assigned and moved on to their investigation.

  “Let’s write down all the people who have alibis,” said Smashie, pulling her Investigation Notebook and a pencil out of one of her pouches. “Which is also good Investigator Language.”

  “Good idea,” said Dontel. “It is.”

  “And Cyrus,” said Smashie. “Add him and Willette. I am kind of terrible at investigating, Dontel. I forgot I even saw those two coming back from reading to the first grade when I ran back for my hoodie. What kind of investigator forgets things like that?”

  “Well, we are only beginners,” said Dontel. “We will get less terrible. Eight kids down and eleven to go.” He sighed. “We sure have our work cut out for us.”

  “Let’s think about the other idea I had yesterday at your house,” said Smashie.

  “Not the mad scientist again,” moaned Dontel.

  “No. Though that was an excellent idea,” said Smashie. “See here; if you don’t want to listen to what I —”

  “I’m sorry, Smash,” said Dontel. “I didn’t mean it was a bad idea. But what did you really mean just now?”

  “I meant my idea about if anyone was wearing suspicious clothes yesterday.”

  “I remember,” said Dontel. “You wanted to investigate if anybody was wearing an all-black Thief Suit.”

  “Yes,” said Smashie. “Or if somebody was in a mask.”

  “But, Smashie, I think we all would have noticed if someone had been wearing anything like that.”

  “Not necessarily!” said Smashie. “Not if it were something that was a part of a person’s regular clothes!”

  “What do you mean?” Dontel furrowed his brow.

  “I mean,” said Smashie, leaning forward, “Alonso Day!”

  “Alonso? What?”

  “That balaclava helmet!” Smashie cried. “Think about it! Nobody would recognize him if he had that on! He could sneak in anywhere and steal any number of hamsters! I am entering his name on the Suspect List right now,” she said, and set to purposefully with her pencil.

  “Except,” said Dontel, “that he is the only one in the whole school that wears that kind of hat, so if he wore it inside to steal hamsters, everybody would know it was him. It would be a terrible disguise, Smashie.”

  Smashie blinked.

  “Also, he was with our class the whole time during lunch. That was when he got glued.” Dontel cleared his throat. “To, uh, that balaclava helmet.”

  Smashie’s shoulders slumped. “Rats.” She blinked at her Investigation Notebook. Then she took up her pencil once more.

  And she crossed out Alonso’s name.

  “Dontel,” she said. “I do not think we will ever solve this case.”

  “Think of it this way,” said Dontel. “At least we’re narrowing down the list of suspects.”

  “That is a good point,” said Smashie.

  “I wouldn’t mind if someone ran by and shouted the name of the thief at us, though,” said Dontel. “The way it happens for that detective in my grandma’s books.”

  “That would be nice,” said Smashie. “But we will be prouder if we use our own brains.”

  “Clean up, children,” called Ms. Early. “It’s time for —”

  BAM!

  Why doesn’t Mrs. Armstrong ever open the door gently? Smashie wondered.

  The moment of reckoning had come. Mrs. Armstrong had arrived, and she and Ms. Early were ready to address the class about the consequences of people gluing people to things.

  “Good morning, Ms. Early,” said Mrs. Armstrong.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Armstrong.” Ms. Early went to the front of the class and stood beside the indignant principal. “Children, please give us your full attention. You know what this conversation is about.”

  “Ms. Early and I are both ILL about this whole gluing fiasco!” Mrs. Armstrong exclaimed.

  “Completely unacceptable behavior,” Ms. Early agreed. “We are very disappointed.”

  “We’ve discussed the matter thoroughly,” Mrs. Armstrong continued, “and have agreed that we will continue with silent indoor morning break and no-games lunch recess until someone comes forward.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Charlene.

  Ms. Early held up her hand. “Room 11 is a team,” she said. “And one member of our team has violated the trust of the rest of the team. Now, I have every faith that that person is sorry and knows how to do the right thing. I am sure that person will not permit the whole class to suffer. Therefore, I agree with Mrs. Armstrong and we will carry on as she has said regarding free time until that person comes forward. I feel confident it will not be long.”

  “Grr,” said John, but not loud enough for her to hear. “I feel confident it better not be long, or I’ll —”

  “In addition,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “until you can prove yourselves responsible with gluing materials, all gluing privileges are hereby suspended.”

  Room 11 gasped. “All gluing privileges?” they cried.

  “All of them, I am afraid.” Ms. Early nodded. “The gluer has shown that he or she cannot control his or her impulses to glue. Therefore, although I know several of you still need to glue portions of your cameras, all the gluing materials in the room are being confiscated immediately. That includes glue sticks, squeezable bottles, rubber cement, and, of course, the hot-glue guns.”

  “Mr. Bloom will keep the materials for you in his office until you earn them back.” Mrs. Armstrong shook her head in despair. “I hope you know we never wanted it to come to this, Room 11! We are ill at the stomach with a basin beside the bed about the whole situation!”

  And she left, closing the door firmly behind her.

  “Man,” said Alonso.

  “Heck,” said Smashie.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Ms. Early sighed. “One of you can bring the things to Mr. Bloom right now.”

  “I’ll go!” cried Jacinda.

  “I will!”

  “I will!”

  All of the children were eager for a chance to visit with the kindly custodian.

  “I’ll use the name tin so it will be fair,�
� said Ms. Early. The name tin was an old cookie container filled with small plastic chips, each of which had the name of a member of Room 11 written on it.

  Ms. Early averted her gaze and plunged her hand in the tin. “Dontel Marquise,” she read from the chip.

  Dontel beamed.

  “Lucky!” said Smashie.

  “I’ll gather the things up right now,” he said, and went to the supplies area. “Ms. Early?” he called after a moment, his arms overflowing with materials he had gathered. “There’s too much here for just me. Could I please have help?”

  “Gracious,” said Ms. Early. “Who would have thought we had so many gluing materials? All right. Smashie, help your friend, please.”

  Hooray!

  Smashie leaped to obey.

  Smashie and Dontel headed out the side door of the Rebecca Lee Crumpler Elementary School and stepped onto the little walkway that led behind the building to Mr. Bloom’s trailer. They could already hear his music playing — opera ladies, from the sound of it.

  “Dontel,” said Smashie as they picked their way carefully down the path, “this is a terrific opportunity.”

  “I know,” said Dontel. “Me and Mr. Bloom can talk about space.”

  “Yes,” said Smashie. “But also we can question him! See if he noticed any of our classmates carrying out suspicious activity in our room during lunch!”

  “I am starting to worry that maybe it wasn’t a member of our class at all, Smash,” said Dontel. “We have got to be open to that possibility.”

  It was a dreadful one. There were plenty of other students in the Rebecca Lee Crumpler Elementary school, not to mention families and guests popping in the whole time. If they had to include all of those people, this investigation might get kind of exhausting.

  “Well,” said Smashie, resolute, “Mr. Bloom knows everyone and everything that goes on in this school. He just might know something that can help us.”

  They arrived at Mr. Bloom’s trailer. Smashie’s hands were so full of glue that she had to knock on the door with her elbow.

  The door flew open.

  “Sous le dôme épais où le blanc jasmin . . .” sang the opera ladies Frenchly.

  “Why, if it isn’t little Miss McP. and Mr. M.!” Mr. Bloom beamed. “Come in, come in. Been expecting someone from your class. Mrs. A. told me to be on the lookout.”