whale, so creative.”
“Green and white are my favourite colours.” Green Lantern is also my nickname at school ’cause Bruno and Tyson saw my superhero boxers once when I changed for gym back in grade four.
Renée stares at the duffle bag. “I wonder why the fish are still here. The Bruce T. Lindley kids are done the environmental part of the project. They’re supposed to paint these today.”
“Maybe Attila forgot to deliver them.” I smile. A big mistake on Attila’s part.
Renée sighs. “Imagine all the kindergarteners standing around in their smocks with nothing to paint.”
It’s comforting to know that even tough Attila can forget something as important as this. The idea makes me feel generous. “I know, why don’t we bring them to the school for him?”
“Are you sure? It’s a fifteen-minute walk between Bruce T. and Brant Hills. We’ll have to take Ping and Pong with us or we’ll be late.”
“Absolutely.” Brant Hills is where we go to school, grade seven. Bruce T. Lindley only goes to grade six. I pick up the duffle bag, then drop it again on my feet.
Ow, ow, ow! My second mistake of the day. I’ve raised Renée’s hopes — now I’m going to have to let her down. “These fish weigh a ton. There’s no way I can carry them all the way to Bruce T.”
DAY ONE, MISTAKE THREE
Compared to Attila forgetting the wooden fish blanks in the first place, trying to lift them all at once is a just a weensy error in judgment. Attila is bigger and pumps iron, so he can probably do it with one hand.
Renée crumples her eyebrows. “Attila will get in so much trouble if the school doesn’t get these this morning.”
“Well, then, maybe we can divide them up.”
“Okay, except … there’s another bag in the hall. Let me check. OMG, yes, this one is full of fish, too.” Renée drags a second, larger hockey bag from the other end of the hall.
“No way.” I shake my head. “Okay, wait, maybe … what about a wagon? Do you have one?”
“No.” Renée snaps her fingers. “But Reuven does.”
“Right, that red metal number. The one we used to deliver the Post.”
“He’ll let us borrow it for sure.”
“All right then!”
Ping yips his excitement.
Stepping around Ping and Pong, we drag the bags to the front door. Then Renée runs to ring Reuven’s doorbell while I hold on to the dogs.
No answer, but I see his wagon at the side of the house. Just sitting there, waiting. Ping ruffs and Pong raises one tall ear when Renée rings the bell a second time.
“We’re going to be late,” I call to her.
She nods, looks around hopefully, then just grabs the wagon. “We’ll return it before he even notices it’s gone. He won’t mind.” She races it back to the front of her house.
“Does he have a surveillance camera?” I ask as she approaches.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“’Cause Mr. Rupert has one and his mailbox got stolen.” In my mind, I can picture Mr. Rupert dressed in a camouflage uniform, stalking someone with a rifle in his arms. I turn to look at Renée’s face. “You don’t think Attila took it, do you?”
“Not his style. Now, if someone had spray-painted a war scene on his walls, I would be suspicious …”
“Mr. Rupert would probably like a war scene on his walls.”
“You’ve got a point, there.” Renée lifts one end of the hockey bag and I the other, in order to hoist it on to the wagon. The bag completely fills it. Then I sit the duffle bag on top. The sides are really low on this wagon, not like those tall plastic ones with built-in comfy seats for kids. Still, there’s no way we’re making two trips.
We start to walk slowly, the duffle bag shifting with every crack and bump in the sidewalk. Holding Pong’s leash makes it even more awkward to pull the overloaded wagon.
“I can take a turn with the wagon,” Renée offers. I give her the handle. But it becomes trickier when Ping dives to nip at the wheels.
“Here, give it back.” Now I have a genius idea. I wind Pong’s leash through the handle and, still gripping the loop of it, allow Pong to do most of the pulling. Ping keeps nipping at the wheels, and it’s hard steering him and the wagon. But the school is only a block away. We should make it in plenty of time.
As Pong tugs the wagon around the corner back the way we came, near Mrs. Whittingham’s house, I tell Renée about her amazing Halloween display. “Wait till you see the doll in the swing. It’s so lifelike that …” My mouth drops open.
The yellow swing moves gently in the breeze, empty now.
“Guess she took it in,” Renée suggests. “Maybe it scared the little kids.”
“Her van isn’t back yet, though.” I try to look through the windows but the curtains are closed. “Her raven and tombstones are missing, too.”
“Early for Halloween, anyway,” Renée says.
“I just hope Mr. Rupert doesn’t blame me.” But I know he will. He saw me lifting that doll. And just like he will never let me forget that Pong pooped on his flowers, he won’t let this go, either.
“Why would he think you did this?”
“Because …” I don’t really want to explain, and at that moment, Ping starts growling, a rumbling, low big-dog kind of growl. Surprising from such a pipsqueak spring coil, really.
A woman in a bulky blue coat with an orange vest overtop approaches. She’s wearing dark sunglasses and a police-type cap. Her face is vampire white and her hair hangs down as flat and straight as a crow’s wings. At her side she carries a stop sign. Our new crossing guard — Madame X the kids call her because there’s a yellow X of reflective tape across the back of her orange safety vest.
The stop sign may be upsetting Ping. He doesn’t like buses, skateboards, people in hoodies or with packages and umbrellas, and now, I guess, women in bulky coats with stop signs.
Closer and closer she comes. I can’t tell if she notices us or not because of her sunglasses.
Ping’s rumbly growl sets Pong off. Suddenly, he jerks the wagon forward. The top bag of fish pitches to the side. I make a grab for it a second too late. The bag tumbles. Wooden fish blanks clatter everywhere.
Madame X raises her stop sign high. When it comes down, it will slice Pong right through. Ping barks hysterically.
Renée throws her arms out to protect the dog.
But Madame X drops to her knees, placing the sign down
