doesn’t happen in a drill. Mistake number five has to be thinking any thought that ever comes out of Tyson’s mouth is right.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE SIX
I keep breathing deeply so the drum in my chest stops beating as hard. But as Mrs. Worsley pulls the string to close the blinds, they clatter down loudly and I jump. So does Renée. We knock into each other.
Mrs. Worsley puts her finger to her lips and waves our group closer together. Standing in front of us, Mrs. Worsley folds her arms across her chest. She’s shorter than I am but fierce, like an eagle. She makes me feel safe.
Renée sits next to me on the floor. Staying quiet is a really impossible job for her. Behind her red glasses, her eyes pop. I can smell brown sugar and wonder if that is coming from her skin — some kind of bath lotion or cream — or whether I am going to have a seizure. I read about people smelling strange things before having one; usually, it’s burnt toast, though. The rest of the class shuffles around. The floor feels harder than usual against my butt, so I shift myself, too, but can’t find a comfortable position.
Mrs. Worsley looks at us, and with her finger, counts us, mouthing the numbers. She nods as she finishes and smiles. Then she picks up our read-aloud book, The Night Gardener, and begins to whisper from it. It’s a scary story about a spooky tree that grows in a mansion and manages to control everyone who lives in it. Mrs. Worsley whispering the story is making it scarier today, but in a good way. That tree can’t hurt us, after all, and what- or whoever is causing this lockdown seems another world away as I listen.
Even though I called her Mom once accidentally at the beginning of the year, and that was a pretty embarrassing mistake, worst of that day, I realize I have never liked Mrs. Worsley more than I do right now.
She reads two entire chapters. When the intercom turns on again and Mrs. Watier announces the lockdown is over, I am hooked on the story and disappointed we can’t continue. I must check out Brant Hills library and see if they have the book. I need to know what happens next.
Mrs. Watier explains that the police have searched the entire school and have assured her that there is no danger to any of the staff or students. But she doesn’t explain what caused her to call a lockdown and she doesn’t say anything about the missing fish.
Mrs. Worsley asks Renée and me to open the blinds again, and it’s still a sunny October morning out there. Nothing has changed. No bodies, no fires or bomb squad. But also no fish on the fence.
She asks Tyson to take down the chart paper.
We continue on with math as though nothing happened. Mrs. Worsley talks to us about estimating and rounding a number to the nearest ten to make it easier to add or subtract. She shows us a problem on the Smart Board. “Bronte Creek holds a nest of fish eggs and this nest contains 544 eggs. If 322 hatch, how many did not hatch?”
The problem makes me think of our missing painted fish. If there are 250 students at Brant Hills, there has to have been that many fish on the fence. They were each attached with two heavy metal staples; it would have taken a long time to remove them. Someone should have seen it.
“Stephen?”
“Yes, Mrs. Worsley.”
“How many fish?”
I’m confused for a moment. How does she know I’m thinking about those missing Stream of Dreams fish?
“Two hundred and twenty-two!” Renée calls out.
Now here’s where Jessie would have been a way better friend. He would never have shown me up like that. Even if a teacher called on him after me, he’d pretend not to know the answer. Probably, he wouldn’t even have had to pretend. Renée is just not great at being quietly smart.
“Raise your hand and wait till you’re called on, Renée.” Mrs. Worsley knits her woolly eyebrows together. “Class? Is she right?”
Renée’s always right but I’m not going to answer.
“Remember, we’re estimating.” Her mouth purls. “We round to the nearest ten. For that, we round 544 down to 540 and drop the two from 322 to make it 320. Now, we subtract 320 from 540. The answer is approximately two hundred and twenty.”
“But it’s easy to subtract 322 from 544 and get the exact figure,” Renée says.
She can’t help herself. She doesn’t mean to argue, but it sure comes across that way.
Mrs. Worsley closes her eyes for just a moment, then opens them again. “But we wouldn’t be estimating, would we, Renée? In estimating, we round off the numbers to the nearest tens.”
“But who would want to round off a number when they could have the exact one?”
Plenty of people, I think. Me, for example. It’s not like we’re measuring the fish for suits or anything. Now, if we needed one wooden fish per student, I would count out the students in each classroom exactly. Or round up. Hopefully, they rounded up so no one has to paint the fish the dogs chewed.
“Excuse the interruption, but would Stephen Noble and Renée Kobai come to the office, please? Stephen Noble and Renée Kobai.”
I look around in a panic. The other kids stare at us. This can only mean one thing.
Police questioning! They’re going to put us in a room with double-sided mirrors that they can see through to watch us.
Renée grabs my hand as she stands up, forcing me to my feet, too. I quickly shake myself loose. Then she leads the way out the door to the office.
I can see him through the window. It’s that police officer with the dog, Troy.
He opens the door for us and Renée immediately calls out: “I remember you. You’re the police officer who blew up Reuven’s science project!”
Renée’s right about the policeman waiting for us in the principal’s office. He searched the school with Troy during the bomb scare. With his black muzzle and blond fur, I’d know that golden shepherd anywhere, and he knows us. He’s wagging his tail.
After Troy sniffed out Reuven’s backpack in the computer lab, the remote-control robot removed it to X-ray it. When it showed the wires of his homemade radio science project, the robot took it to the sandbox and exploded it.
But did Renée have to remind the officer about his mistake? Couldn’t she have just said she remembered him from the roof or something? That’s where we first met him and Troy; they were searching from the top of the school down. Renée doesn’t exactly put the police officer in a good mood.
“I am Constable Jurgensen.” He thumbs back toward a woman with a French braid tucked into her police cap. “And this is Constable Wilson. You are the kids with the greyhound and the Jack Russell terrier. Renée and Stephen, am I right?”
We nod.
“Sit down. We want to ask you some questions.” Constable Jurgensen doesn’t sound friendly and even Troy stops wagging at us. That’s Renée’s mistake, number six of the day. Reminding the constable about something that puts him in a very bad mood.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE SEVEN
“Ask
