there,” said Ms. Landry, the school secretary, when I finally walked into the office. She pointed to an old wooden bench next to Mr. Rodriguez’s door. I obeyed quietly. Ms. Landry was a fat, blonde lady with painted-on eyebrows. She returned to typing on her computer keyboard and ignored me.
I was glad. I chewed on my fingernails and, even though I wasn’t supposed to, bumped my feet against the bench. What difference did it make now, anyway? After all, I was dead meat as soon as Mom found out I had been sent to the office. What on earth did I do? I felt like my dog Peevers waiting for Mom to yell “NO!” after Peevers left a stinky present on the living room rug.
Thinking of Peevers cheered me up some. She’s a good-natured, but goofy, Labrador mix that Dad brought home the week before he left to move in with his girlfriend, Susan. My little brother Mark and I fell in love with Peevers right away. She had big chocolate eyes and soft brown fur and was even more hyper than Mark. (If you knew my little brother, you’d know why I didn’t even think that was possible at first!)
But even as I let the puppy tug at my shoelaces and lick my chin, I knew Mom would send it packing with Dad. After all, he had violated the First Rule of Mothers, which neither Mark nor I had ever been able to get around: Don’t bring pets home without consulting Mom first.
Luckily for Mark and me, Susan refused to take the dog.
“I don’t believe that man!” stormed Mom after she got off the phone with Dad that afternoon. “He expects me to take a pet that his girlfriend doesn’t want!” She threw down the dish towel she was holding and kicked it angrily.
Later, when she had calmed down, Mark and I pleaded to keep the pup. Mom finally gave in, saying we might need a watchdog, and muttering that we were getting a “better deal than poor Susan.”
Mom started calling the puppy “My Pet Peeve,” explaining that a “pet peeve” is the most annoying thing you can imagine. Before long, our new puppy’s name was shortened to “Peevers.”
I was in first grade when Dad moved out and Peevers moved in. Until that year, we lived in a big two-story brick house on Pecan Street in New Orleans. There, Mark (who was only three at the time) and I each had our own room, and we even had this big playroom for our toys. Peevers lived in the house with us, but could go in and out the doggy door leading to our big backyard, which was surrounded by a brick wall that was fun to balance on when Mom wasn’t looking.
All in all, it had been a pretty rotten year for our family. Right before Christmas that year, Mom was laid off from her job at Hansen’s Antique Shop. She decided to go back to finish her college degree, but even after she had graduated, she couldn’t find a job. So Mom, Mark, and I moved to Milton Street, to a little wooden house that needed lots of repairs. There, my brother and I had to share a bedroom, and we had no playroom. A rusty chain-link fence surrounded the backyard. Using the excuse that our new house was too small, Mom insisted from day one that Peevers spend less time in the house and more time in the fenced area.
But Peevers just hated that yard. As soon as we put her back there and closed the gate, she dug a hole under the fence and made her escape. After trying lots of tricks to keep Peevers penned in, Mom sort of gave up.
Peevers took advantage of her new freedom to become Milton Street’s most notorious criminal—a real toy thief. She regularly stalked the kids playing outside with their toys, waiting for a chance to strike.
Here’s how she did it. First, she picked some poor unsuspecting victim like William Clementson from down the block. William would be innocently playing with his action figures in the dirt in front of his house, happily unaware of approaching danger. Peevers would go slinking through the hydrangea bushes until she was just a few paw-widths away. Then she rushed the poor kid, jumping around, licking his hand, and pretending she wanted to play. No kid could resist her… but it was a trap!
As soon as William put his toy down to pet Peevers, it was no-more-Miss-Nice-Dog. She pounced. With the toy clenched in her jaws, she took off like a furry rocket. William followed, screaming, straight to our backyard where Peevers had started to bury her loot.
To break Peevers of this habit, Mom tried everything, including the occasional thwack with the Times-Picayune newspaper. But the dog seemed determined to create her own little toy cemetery in our backyard. Not even the Sunday paper could stop her!
I was thinking so hard about Peevers that I forgot I was waiting to see the assistant principal. When Mr. Rodriguez’s door opened suddenly, I jumped. A fifth-grade boy emerged with a black eye and a torn shirt. His good eye looked red as if he’d been crying. I knew how he felt. The tear ducts in my eyes started to sting as I wondered what my own punishment would be.
3 Captain Stone Griffith Joins the Crew
“Ms. Landry, Shawn’s parents will arrive in a moment to pick him up. He’s had a rough day.” Mr. Rodriguez patted Shawn on the back, adding, “Sit here, son.” Turning to where I sat, the assistant principal noticed me for the first time. “Hi, Paige, come on in.”
On shaky legs, I followed him into his small, crowded office. I liked it right away. Even though I still felt very nervous, I tried to remember what it looked like so I could tell Breanna.
There was a basketball hoop over the window, which was covered with cartoon-character curtains. Pinned to the bulletin board behind his desk were dozens of cartoon strips cut from newspapers. In addition to many books, the bookshelves held trophies, little statues, and photographs. On the ceiling was a black poster, covered with what seemed like zillions of tiny silver dots.
But I found myself fascinated with a stand holding a long, dark tube that poked stiffly through the curtains.
“Do you like my telescope?” asked Mr. Rodriguez, noticing my gaze.
“Yes, sir,” I said, sitting on the edge of the chair he offered. “But why do you have it in here? Do you use it to spy on kids on the playground?” Instantly, I felt bad about having said that. Mr. Rodriguez seemed friendly enough. Why had I insulted him?
But he laughed. “Well, I could. That’s a pretty good idea.” He sat down behind his desk. “I just like to watch the stars at night when I work late. I have another one at home.”
I suddenly remembered that I had been called to his office for something serious. “Are you going to call my mother?” I asked, jumping right to the point.
“Actually,” said Mr. Rodriguez, “I’ve already called her.” I must have looked upset because he said, “Cheer up. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I haven’t? Then why am I here?”
“Well, this may sound silly but… Ms. Bourgeois wanted me to ask you about the little green Martians in her purse. What is she talking about, Paige?” Mr. Rodriguez leaned forward with his chin in his hand, studying my face.
I giggled with relief and tried to explain. When I finished, I peeked at Mr. Rodriguez through my bangs to see if he understood.
He
