“My mom hired him to coach Attila — you know — on his portfolio. Mr. Kowalski used to be head of the art department at Mohawk.” We start walking and close in on a new pile of junk. Renée stops. “Aw, look, someone’s throwing out a picture!”
Leaning against the garbage can is a framed painting of a boy and a rabbit in the snow near a farm. “That’s too bad. I kind of like it,” I say. But there’s no time for me to rescue it and make it to school on time.
The recycling truck lumbers up alongside us now, and both dogs go crazy. The driver dumps some newspapers and clankity bottles into the back of it, then some cardboard tied together with white string.
Rouf, rouf, rouf!
No artwork, kitchen sets, or mattresses — that’s for a separate pickup. The driver hops back in the cab and throws a lever.
Ping’s barking takes on a new frantic pitch as the truck starts to shuffle from side to side, in kind of a Watusi. It’s like the driver has turned on the vehicle’s digestive system and the truck needs to shake down all the food.
Mistake number four turns out to be watching the strange dance. We should have been watching our dog clients at all times, keeping them safe and out of mischief.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE FIVE
When the truck finally moves on again, the dogs turn super quiet. Good. We’re really close to their house now. Tails stop wagging. Ping and Pong know the fun is over. At the Bennetts’ bungalow, I pull the key from one of my pockets, unlock the door, and unleash them.
They slump down at either end of the white-tiled hall, quiet. That’s not like Ping at all.
“He’s got something in his mouth,” Renée says.
Ping’s eyes shift around guiltily as I drop to my knees to check.
“Where did he get this?” I gently pry a painted bass from his mouth. The bass has messy green scales and sad black blobs for eyes.
“Pong has one, too.” Renée holds up a swordfish.
“That looks like Bruno’s Stream of Dreams creation. See the blob of white near the sword part?”
“And the bass belongs to Tyson. They both picked the biggest fish and then did sloppy paint jobs.” Renée shakes her head.
“I didn’t see where the dogs picked them up, did you?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Too bad. Could be our Stream of Dreams thief.” Both of us think on this, first quietly, then outside our heads. “Has to be from one of the junk piles,” I say.
“Really? Who would dump stolen art right in front of their house?” Renée asks. “Kind of bold. Isn’t that just asking to be caught?”
“True. Besides which, if someone stole them, why would they just chuck them?”
“Well, Madame X wanted them off the fence,” Renée insists. “No one else seems to be upset about them disappearing, either.” We look at each other.
I can’t obsess about this too long. Mom tells me that never helps. I must move on. The dogs stand around me, watching, big-eyed with attention. They want their chew toys back. I don’t know what to do with the paint-blobbed fish, but I sure don’t want Ping and Pong to get splinters in their mouths. “Oh well,” I finally say and shove the fish in one of the bigger pockets on my pants.
“Better fill up their water,” I tell Renée. A delay tactic. I always feel bad leaving them. Renée gives Pong pats and Ping flips over for rubs.
“Gotta go, guys,” I tell them, giving Ping’s belly a last rub. Then Renée and I leave quickly. It’s like ripping off a bandage.
As I lock the door behind us, I can hear Ping’s yap of disappointment.
Renée shrugs her shoulders at me. Hardest part of dog walking. Worse than scooping poop, even.
Next we stop at my house so I can change out of my Noble Dog Walking shirt. I keep the cargo pants of the uniform on. I grab my lunch from the counter. It’s in a plastic box with sections to keep the apple wedges and carrot sticks from touching my cream cheese sandwich. No accidentally grabbing a bag full of defrosting blood-dripping liver today. I did that last week when I left my backpack at school and Dad put my sandwich in a plastic grocery bag. We learn from our mistakes, I think happily. I don’t forget my backpack, either; my agenda’s been signed. My teacher, Mrs. Worsley, is big on that. Even if there’s no homework, Mom or Dad have to initial that they know this.
“Want a granola bar?” I ask Renée as I grab one for on the way.
“Okay.”
I pitch it to her. We walk to school together, chewing on chocolate-covered oatmeal bars. We’re going to be on time. I feel good. It’s a pretty ordinary day so far. There’s going to be a perfectly logical explanation for the fish disappearing, I know it. A missing mailbox, a stolen Halloween display, no biggie. I know if Mom were around and not on layover in Amsterdam, she’d say none of those are my problems, anyway.
We arrive at school just in time for the second bell, so no late slip needed. As always, we start the day singing the national anthem and then listening to morning announcements. Our principal, Mrs. Watier, says nothing about the Stream of Dreams fish disappearing from the fence. You would think she might explain if it was some kind of routine fish cleaning or relocating project, but then, my parents tell me I overanalyze things, so I try to put it out of my mind. One of the grade eight girls begins reading our morning inspiration, but in the middle of it, she stops. We hear some mumbling in the background and then Mrs. Watier interrupts:
“Your attention, please. Everyone stop what you are doing and listen. This is a lockdown. I repeat: we are in lockdown. Please proceed to a lockdown position.”
“Why?” I want to scream, but instead, I take a deep breath. And then another. Maybe those breaths sound loud against the sudden silence. Maybe the blood is draining from my face because my head feels swirly.
Tyson rolls his eyes and punches me. “Calm down, Green Lantern. It’s just a drill.”
But Mrs. Worsley immediately shuts our door and locks it. In a pinched, quiet voice, she speaks. “Grade seven, this is very important. We are now going to do everything exactly as we practised a few weeks ago, do you remember? Everyone, into our safe corner.”
Does this have anything to do with the missing fish? Not unless the disappearance is linked to some kind of gunman loose in the school. Oh my gosh, Mr. Rupert! Did he review the surveillance video and come looking for me? I take another breath. I am not going to panic like I did for the fire alarm last week. That turned out to be a bomb scare. Together with everyone else in the class, I hurry to huddle in our safe corner.
Outside, I see the sun shining and a police car pulling into the parking lot. For a lockdown drill, the police come, so this does not have to mean disaster. I’m not going to leap up and yell at everyone to hide. In fact, I kneel down calmly beside Renée. Tyson must be right after all. This has to be a drill.
Mrs. Worsley’s roll of tape squeals as she sticks chart paper over the window in our
