home this way, sir,” I tell him. “Over there’s the park exit.” I point.
“But we were wondering …” Renée smiles brightly.
This time the mistake of the day isn’t mine. Mistake number five clearly belongs to the Halton Police Department. It’s way worse than allowing the dogs to throw the skateboarder down, way more embarrassing than shouting “Fire!” when there wasn’t one.
“Why,” Renée asks, “did you blow up Reuven Jirad’s science project?”
day one, mistake six
Along with her high-pitched tone, Renée tilts her head and squints at the police officer, altogether making it seem like she can’t believe anyone could be so stupid as to blow up Reuven’s project. Over Ping’s barking, Renée continues, explaining to the police officer that Reuven built a mini boom box, how he worked on it for three weeks. I try to quiet the dog down.
The officer shifts on his feet and winces as he defends himself. “Well, the suspect’s bag was left unattended on the floor near the computers, right next to the furnace room. A strategic area to affect maximum damage.”
Renée often makes me feel dumb, too, like when we work on math or science together: But why would you do it that way when it’s so much simpler to do it this way? So I nod supportively as I agree with the police officer. “Blowing up the backpack was a sound safety measure.”
“Well, Reuven is bit absent-minded,” Renée adds, scooping up Ping. Pong stands quietly, leaning against my leg. “But a lot of kids leave their bags in all kinds of places.”
I nudge her to try to make her stop.
“Our imaging equipment showed wires.” The police officer’s voice sounds strained. He’s talking through his teeth, which are forced into a grin, maybe to stop him from biting Renée. “And the school received a threat, so we couldn’t take the chance.”
“We had a bomb threat?” I ask. My mind races. When that fire alarm sounded earlier and we all had to leave without our agendas and homework, Mrs. Watier and Mrs. Worsley must have thought there was a bomb in the school.
“There now, don’t go spreading that around.”
“No, of course not,” I say, wishing I could tell everyone in class tomorrow. It would make up for me panicking over the fire alarm. There was a real threat after all.
“Too bad Mrs. Klein is new,” Renée says. “Mr. Sawyer, our old custodian, would have recognized Reuven’s bag. Still, Mrs. Watier should have known about the science project.”
Leave it alone, Renée, I think. The officer looks more annoyed with every word from her mouth.
“The principal had to leave, if that’s who you mean,” he says stiffly, one eyebrow raised and both hands on his hips. “The custodian said something about a wedding dress fitting.”
“Mrs. Watier is getting married? But she’s already a Mrs.,” I say.
“I can’t believe women need fittings for their wedding dresses,” Renée says. “Why can’t they make them the right size in the first place?”
“That’s true. Guys only get measured for their tuxes once. Then they pick them up. My dad was a best man last year, so I know.” Now Renée has me doing it. “Must be a pain to have to take off for something like that.”
“Speaking of taking off,” Renée interrupts, “I have to go. My brother is waiting.” She puts Ping on the ground again and starts walking with him, expecting me to follow, I guess. No goodbyes or anything to the police officer.
“Me, too!” I tell him. There’s nowhere I really have to be. I just want to leave in case he feels the need to arrest one of us for being annoying know-it-alls and I’m the only one left.
The policeman stares after us with both eyebrows up, now.
“Bye.” I give him a wave.
Renée and Ping are already way in the lead, so Pong yanks me forward. We leave the police officer frowning and scratching his head.
Pong and I gain on Renée and Ping.
“Want to walk me home?” she asks.
“I’ve already given the dogs their hour.” Really, I’m not happy about the way she talked to the police officer. It reminded me too much of all the times she treated me that way.
“You’ll be giving them extra exercise, which will make them behave better. And make you a better dog walker.”
She’s right about the exercise, but she’s being a know-it-all again.
“Please?” Her head tilts again, and her eyebrows and eyes beg along with her tone.
She’s lonely. I get that. Since Jessie moved, I never have anyone to walk with, either, except the dogs now.
“Fine.”
Her house is around the corner at the end of our street. I always try to keep the dogs off everyone’s lawns when we stroll. They gallop along on the stretch of grass between the sidewalk and the street. As we walk east, they’re on our left. “Good boy, walk nice,” I encourage Pong as we go. “Don’t let him pull,” I tell Renée.
But Mason Man’s big red truck attracts their attention. It’s parked across our path, half in and half out of a driveway. Mason Man is large, like his truck, and his arms are as thick as logs. He lives on the other side of the park and owns a golden retriever that we walk. Mason Man does everything with bricks: wishing wells, barbecues, driveways. Today, the sun gleams off his bald head as he spreads mortar on some rust-coloured bricks edging the driveway. It looks like he’s building a wall.
“Hi!” I call, but he’s concentrating and doesn’t answer me.
Renée and I carefully steer the dogs around the back of the truck. Then we turn the corner and Renée goes into her house. “See you tomorrow,” she says.
“See you.” Can’t avoid her, really; she’s in my class, after all. I’m left with the two dogs all by myself now, and I hate to admit it, but Renée really was a big help. As we head back, the dogs become confused and want to stay on my left, just like before. The leashes criss-cross, but I manage to steer Ping off people’s lawns. We turn the corner again. This time it’s Pong who gives me grief. He pulls ahead to the driveway next to Mason Man’s truck. He stretches to reach the pile of bricks, sniffing and saluting the pile with one leg up.
“No, no!” I yell, but it’s too late, he lets go a heavy stream.
“Hey!” Mason Man looks up from his wall and shakes his trowel at me. “You know how old these bricks are?”
I want to be honest, but Mason Man’s a scary-looking dude on the best of days. With the trowel in his hand, he’s armed and dangerous. Still, he’s waiting for an answer. “Um, well, they look pretty ancient, actually,” I finally answer.
He picks up one from the pile, and I duck away as he shoves it under my face. “A hundred years old.”
With a rectangular
