Things took a different kind of bad bounce the next day, when we went for groceries. A stained blue bandana was lying in the back of our old Toyota. “Hey,” I said, “that Lamar guy—”
Aunt Jenn turned red as her hair. “I gave him a lift partway home.” She stuffed the bandana in her pocket. “I better return it tomorrow. Say, did we get yogurt?”
We both knew we’d bought yogurt. You could tell she was avoiding something, and I had a bad feeling what it might be. If there was one thing Wiley Kendall and I agreed on, it was Aunt Jenn and boyfriends. Wiley Kendall didn’t like them because he wanted to be one; I didn’t like them, period. She hadn’t had a boyfriend for a while, but all at once I suspected something was up with creepy Lamar Del Ray.
Over the next while, I was like Nick Storm on a case, hunting for evidence. Aunt Jenn didn’t go on dates or get flowers, but her moods got wacky: sometimes she’d be all jazzed up, sometimes tired and grumpy. Mind you, she got that way every time she tried to quit smoking, but now it was worse. And every time I mentioned Lamar Del Ray, she’d change the subject. That said love to me, but I needed more proof.
Then other worries came bouncing in at all kinds of crazy angles. With the Internet back, there were emails from Studies Institute and I found out how much it cost to go there: twenty-five thousand dollars a year. That was a lifetime of me helping Wiley Kendall and way more than a three-thousand-dollar bursary. Aunt Jenn was working so hard. Could we do it? Even worse: If we did, what if I couldn’t live up to that best she wanted for me?
To take my mind off things, I tried to write my mystery, Bad Bounce, but it turned into a worry too. I knew the story but I didn’t know how to tell it. Where should it start? Who should tell it? How could I make the ending a surprise? If you want to see some ways I tried, I can show you those later too. (See Appendix Two.) World’s Best detectives got to think about one problem at a time. I was swamped. You can see why I kept forgetting to give the bouncy ball back to Zal.
I guess he forgot too, because he never asked for it. We were all busy. Trout season opened and CC went north with her family most weekends. After school now, she practised fly casting into a tire in her backyard. Zal started baseball practice and went to a magic convention with his mom. I kept an eye out for signs of Lamar romance, puzzled over my story, went to the library and did extra chores for Wiley Kendall to keep from worrying even more about the money.
Aunt Jenn worked all the overtime she could get. Nights she worked late, I’d have dinner with Mrs. Ludovic, our neighbour next door. We’d watch the suppertime news and Jeopardy!, shouting out the answers. By now it was early June and the local news was reporting a string of bank robberies. The police suspected it was the same man each time. They were offering a reward of fifteen thousand dollars for information, calling him the Borsalino Bandit.
I didn’t get it until Mrs. Ludovic explained: “Borzaleeno is big hat, fancy hat, like cowboys.” She waved her hands around her head as we watched TV. Borsalino really suited her accent. Onscreen was a grainy shot of a hat and shoulders from a bank security camera. The wide brim of the hat hid the rest. Police said the robber had a beard and wore dark glasses.
One suppertime I was on Mrs. Ludovic’s balcony, fiddling with the antenna for her, when a noisy muffler drowned out the TV. A dingy SUV I’d seen before pulled up across the street. This time the Gator Aid sign was straighter. The bearded driver looked across at our building. Our eyes locked.
“Dinner!” called Mrs. Ludovic, breaking the spell.
I stepped back. The SUV rumbled away.
I don’t know why, but I texted Zal right off: have your b ball. My phone buzzed. Zal had texted: Bring it Saturday. Ask can you come with me to get new ball glove
The next bounce of the ball would start connecting the dots.