Kelsey the Spy (18 page)

“My phone is on vibrate so I don't miss his call.” Becca pats her backpack.

We talk about Albert for a while. Becca saw him drinking water, but otherwise he hides in his shell.

“Speaking of tortoise shells—look what I've designed,” Becca says in a brighter tone and holds out a square of cotton fabric. “Does it look like a tortoise carapace?”

The fabric is fawn brown blended with a shimmering gray. “It's gorgeous,” I say.

“I'm sewing a club vest for each of us,” she says excitedly.

“A club outfit.” I smile. “I love it.”

“Love what?” Tyla interrupts in the chilly tone she uses just for me. Chloe follows behind her, and they sit down across from us.

“Kelsey was admiring my new design.” Becca waves the square of fabric.

“Why are you wasting time with that instead of creating face-painting designs?” Tyla says with a disapproving sniff. “That's what I spent hours doing last night.”

Tyla plops her large sketch pad between the lunch trays, and then Becca and Chloe spend the rest of lunch admiring Tyla's drawings. I sneak peeks too, although I pretend not to care. I have to admit that she's very talented. Her mermaids look magical with hair spilling like ocean waves, and her unicorns seem to fly and leap off the page.

“Each unicorn has a crescent star necklace,” Tyla says with a dramatic finger snap. “Just like a Sparkler!”

I tune out Tyla and think of cookies.

When I told my parents I wanted to have a cookie celebration, they loved the idea. Chef Dad was the most enthusiastic. He offered to have ingredients ready to make his most popular cookie creation: ChipTastics. These jumbo cookies are a sweet and salty combination of nuts, chips, and candy pieces. I don't know what the secret ingredient is because Dad won't reveal that recipe to anyone.

We'll have the kitchen to ourselves, although Dad will be close by if we need help. Mom said she'd read in her room. My sisters will be at a school dance. And my brother? He says he's going “out”—whatever that means.

I hope he doesn't end up in jail.

When school ends, I race to meet Becca as she leaves her last class.

“No call from Reggie,” Becca says before I can even ask.

“Drats.” We fall in step, weaving through throngs of kids. Fridays are always a little crazy with everyone hurrying to escape school for the weekend—even teachers.

We're not meeting at the Skunk Shack because Becca has to do chores before she can come to my house.

“Leo texted that he's tweaking FRODO, but he'll be on time for the cookie celebration,” Becca adds.

“He's not with Frankie?” I ask, surprised.

Becca shrugs. “Guess not.”

It's strange to be home so early on a school day, but kind of nice. I lounge on my bed and pick up where I left off in
Harriet the Spy
. Harriet's friends won't talk to her because they read her notebook, and I wish I could tell her to tell them the truth. A spy doesn't have to reveal all of her secrets, but she needs to be honest with her friends.

After dinner and dish-washing duty, Dad shoos me out of kitchen. “I'll get everything ready for your cookie celebration.”

Pans clang and cupboards creak open, then bang shut while I wait in the living room. The TV blares a sitcom but I'm not paying attention. I keep glancing at the wall clock, counting seconds.

When the doorbell rings, I jump up. I race for the door, but Mom gets there first and invites Becca and Leo into our apartment.

Mom goes to her room while I lead Becca and Leo into the kitchen.

“Voilà!” Dad says with a dramatic flourish of his hands toward the kitchen island, which is arranged with cookie sheets, a mixing bowl, measuring cups, and plastic containers of sugar, flour, and other ingredients.

“Since this is your celebration,” Dad says with a twinkle in his eyes, “I've mixed the dry ingredients—including a few secret spices—but left the rest for you. Be sure to grease and flour the cooking trays. Here are the printed instructions.” He hands me a paper. “I'll be in the living room watching
The Laughing Chef
. Come get me if you have any questions.”

“One question, sir,” Leo says with a polite raise of his hand. “Are we measuring in the metric system?”

Dad chuckles. “Let's stick to the U.S. style of quarts, teaspoons, and tablespoons.”

“What kind of cookies are we making?” Becca asks.

“ChipTastics—my most popular cookie. They have everything in them! Yogurt chips, chocolate chips, toffee chips, raisins, walnuts, almonds … and a few mysterious spices,” Dad says proudly. “Don't worry if you make a mess—that's part of the process. You can clean it up afterward. Have fun.”

Fun is very, very messy.

I point and laugh at Becca's flour-splattered cheek. She pretends to be mad and throws flour at me, which goes up my nose. I sneeze, then grab a fistful of flour and hurl it at Becca. She ducks—and flour splatters Leo. He shakes off the flour, then reels back and throws two handfuls at both of us.

Laughing and sputtering, we look like flour-dusted ghosts. But we settle down, wash up, and get busy baking cookies.

We make more cookies than three kids could ever eat. And we only burn one tray of cookies—leaving an acrid odor blending with sugary sweetness.

I'm slipping on an oven mitt to ease the hot tray from the oven when I hear a burst of music. Becca changes her ringtone frequently, and her current melody is from an Ariana Grande song.

Becca wipes her chocolate-smeared fingerprints on a towel, then grabs her phone from the counter. “Hey, Chloe,” she says; then she goes quiet.

She's quiet while she listens, her cheerful expression darkening like an eclipse of the sun. “Are you sure? But she can't do that!”

Who can't do what?
I wonder.

“Nooooo!” Becca cries like a moan. “We can't survive without her help!”

“What's wrong?” I rush over to Becca, Leo's footsteps padding behind me.

Becca shakes her head, staring down at the phone screen even though it's gone black. She slips the phone into her pocket, then turns toward us.

“Tell us,” I say anxiously. “What did Chloe say?”

“It's a disaster.” Becca shakes her flour-sprinkled dark head. “Sophia and Tyla had a huge fight.”

“Is that all?” I say with some relief. “They argue all the time.”

“Not like this.”

“At least they're talking now,” I point out.

“But they're saying terrible things to each other. Sophia still thinks Tyla told the Corning Comic about the bribe. Tyla called her a liar, and it got worse from there.” Becca brushes flour from her ponytail, then tosses her ponytail over her shoulder. “Tyla and Sophia are at war. Even if we tell them the Corning Comic found out because he read your secrets, they'll still hate each other.”

“You can tell them if you want.” I give her shoulder an encouraging pat. “But they have to solve their own problems.”

“Their problem
is
my problem.” Becca folds her arms to her chest. “And it's yours too.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Tyla refuses to help out at the fund-raiser because Sophia might be there. And Sophia says she won't come because Tyla might be there. Now neither of them will be there. So it'll be just you, me, and Chloe.” Becca sags against the kitchen island. “Chloe will pick up the face paints from Tyla, but she can't paint faces.”

“I can't either.” My hearts sinks.

“And I can't do it alone.” Becca moans. “Our booth is going to lose money—not make it. This is the worse thing ever.”

I agree with her … but we're both wrong.

When Becca's phone rings again, things get much worse.

- Chapter 21 -

ChipTastic

“It's Mom,” Becca says as she turns away to talk in the phone. She just nods, listening until her shoulders go rigid, and she gasps, “Albert!”

When she hangs up, I grip her arm. “Has something happened to Albert?”

“Nothing yet, but it's going to.” Becca grimaces.

“What?” Leo and I ask.

“The lady from the tortoise club—Abigail—has found a home for Albert.” Becca scowls. “Mom is thrilled. She says it's a great solution.”

“No!” The kitchen smells sweet with cookies, but there's a bitter taste in my mouth. “She can't give Albert away.”

“She says it's the only way to get him the best care. His new home will be in Valencia—over 350 miles south—with someone named Tortoise Tom who rescues tortoises. Mom says he's excited to get such an old Aldabra and is already preparing an enclosure for him with a pond and heated building. It's the perfect place for Albert—” Her voice breaks and she sinks down into a kitchen chair.

I come over and put my arm around her.

“Maybe it's for the best,” I say. “We don't even know if Reggie will come back. If he got the big acting role, then he has to stay in LA.”

“He'll come back,” Leo says stubbornly. “Reggie wouldn't abandon Albert.”

“Then why hasn't he called?” I argue.

“Kelsey's right.” Becca sniffles. “We can't count on Reggie to take Albert back. He abandoned him with us. If he doesn't care enough to keep Albert, then he's not coming back. And tomorrow Tortoise Tom will come for Albert.”

“How can your mother meet with him when she'll be at the fund-raiser?” I point out. “She'll be too busy.”

“She's taking Albert to the fund-raiser in the sanctuary's animal trailer. Hank and other volunteers are helping transport Albert. Mom is super excited because a tortoise will be a great addition to the fund-raiser—especially one over a hundred years old. She thinks having Albert there will boost donations and adoptions for the other animals.”

“It probably will,” I agree. “But I don't want Albert to go away.”

“Neither do I.” Becca takes her phone from her pocket and talks into it. “Reggie, why haven't you called me? Albert needs you! We're running out of time.”

“Why the sad faces?” Dad booms as he comes into the kitchen. He peers around, probably noticing some spots of flour we missed cleaning. “Something go wrong with the cookies?”

“No, they're fine,” I say.

“If it isn't about cookies, what's the problem?”

Dad's always been a great listener—maybe that's where I got the trait—so I tell him the truth. “Double bad news.” I spot a chocolate stain on the counter and scrub it with a rag. “Not only is Wild Oaks losing a really cool tortoise, but tomorrow the Sparklers' face-painting booth is doomed.”

“Doomed? That sounds serious.” Dad wets a rag and wipes one of the counters. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Can you face paint?” I ask.

“I can't paint people, but I can paint faces on animal-face cupcakes,” Dad says. “I make a delicious snow-dog cupcake with whipped cream and sprinkles.”

“Sounds yummy, but we need a face painter.”

“It's all about earning money for the Humane Society, right?” Dad points out. “Whatever you bring in will be appreciated.”

“But our booth will probably lose money since the face paints costs so much and only Becca can paint faces,” I say.

“Tyla could paint a face in five minutes—but it takes me fifteen.” Becca groans. “Even if we raise the price to five dollars a face, I can't paint fast enough.”

“What are the hours for the fund-raiser?” Leo asks.

“Ten to four,” Becca answers.

“According to my calculations, if you paint for six hours without taking a break you'll make one hundred twenty dollars,” Leo says.

“Almost the cost of Tyla's fancy face paints.” Becca twists her pink-streaked ponytail. “If only we'd come up with a booth idea that everyone could agree on.”

“Kelsey says the Sparklers all love my cookies.” Dad speaks quickly, his voice rising with excitement. “Why paint faces for little profit when you can sell my cookies and donate
all
the profits? You already have three dozen of my famous ChipTastics.” Dad waves his hand at our heaping cookie platters. “If we work together, we could double that amount. I've been wanting to do my part to help the fund-raiser.”

“Sell cookies instead of paint faces?” Becca stares at Dad in surprise.

“Why not do both?” Dad suggests.

“And I'll help,” Leo adds as he takes down a cooking apron. “I planned to go anyway. Becca can paint faces and the rest of us will sell cookies.”

“Wow!” I grin. “Great idea, Dad.”

“
Fantastique
!” Becca flashes a huge smile. “Thank you, Mr. Case! You may have just saved our fund-raiser.”

“Anything for a good cause—and for my kids,” he adds, playfully tugging on a curl of my hair. “So why are you standing around? Let's make cookies!”