“I’m grounded from you again,” March said as I slid next to him on the bus. We always sat on the last bench by the emergency exit, where no one bugged us because we were fifth graders.
“How long this time?” I pulled my Sleuth Chronicle from my backpack. I was just thirty dollars short from getting my own iPad, which I would use to digitize my detective business. The Sleuth Chronicle was almost full, and no self-respecting detective ran their business on paper these days.
Mine was the second-to-last stop, and the bus was almost full. It echoed with chatter and laughter and smelled like moldy oranges.
“Now through the weekend.” March rolled his eyes before facing the front of the bus. He was tall and skinny with crazy wide eyes. Somehow he had gotten the flat side of his hair to fluff up since I saw him earlier that morning.
I shrugged. “I’m grounded for a full week—we couldn’t hang out anyway.”
March turned to me again, his eyebrows pulling together. “You’ve got to stop being so nosy about the dognapping ring.”
I tapped my pen on the open notebook. “Impossible! I’m meant to solve crime.” Like studying for a test, detecting felt like the logical thing to do. Mom called that feeling atarimae. If you saw an old lady struggling to bring in her groceries, then you helped her bring in her groceries: atarimae. If you made a ginormous mess creating a papier-mâché weremonkey, you cleaned it all up—even the newspaper globs that somehow lodged beneath the tabletop, hardened like cement, and made your dad swear when he found them: atarimae.
And if dogs in your town were disappearing and you knew you could find the dognapper, you solved the crime and saved the day: atarimae.
I guessed that Mom felt the same way about curating exhibitions, and Dad felt the same way about engineering.
“You’re a kid, Kazu. Kids don’t solve crime.”
“Willie Johnson was just twelve when he won the Medal of Honor during the Civil War,” I said. “Joan of Arc was thirteen when she led the French army to victory. And David was fourteen when he killed Goliath.” I opened my notebook. “The only thing holding us back from saving the planet is right up here.” I tapped my temple with the pen. “And grown-ups—they’re kind of a bummer, too.”
He leaned into me, looking over my shoulder at the Sleuth Chronicle. It was an aquamarine leather-bound journal where I recorded all the objective facts, deductions, and clues on current cases. I flipped past the Fourth-Grade Lunch-Box Thief, the Raffle-Ticket Conspiracy, and the PE Teacher Shapeshifter Rumor to land on Denver Dognappings.
I stopped on a page labeled Suspects, wrote down Mrs. Fitzman’s name, and then crossed her out, since she had been both suspected and cleared that same morning.
Also crossed out: Eugene the garbage collector, March’s fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Hildebrandt, and the animal control lady who took Genki thirteen months ago when he jumped the fence to chase a couple of squirrels who had it out for him. He’s a sucker for squirrels.
I snapped the notebook shut and wrapped it with a red rubber band from the paper route. Folded newspaper articles about Denver’s Dognapping Ring were stuffed inside and ruffled beneath the band.
“I can’t believe your mom’s still letting you do the paper route by yourself.”
“With Genki, she never cared before. But after this morning, she might start driving me again. And not to protect us from the dognapper, but to protect the neighborhood from me.” Disappointing Mom seemed to be another of my natural reflexes.
March nodded, hugging a thick binder to his chest. I was sure all of his homework was neat and complete inside. “It’s picture day today.” He cocked his head, examining me. “Are you ready?”
I smoothed my hair with flat palms. In all the commotion of the morning, Mom must have forgotten. I looked at my jeans, the knees split wide, and my oversize gray T-shirt with a stain on the chest. “Um…My sentence may be longer than one week once this outfit is documented.”
March shook his head and sighed. Then he held out his hand, an invitation to a thumb war, and we finger-wrestled the rest of the drive to school, March winning every time. That kid had freakishly strong thumbs.
Mrs. Hewitt bounced on her heels behind the music stand as she told us the story of Oliver!, her all-time favorite musical. The first song she wanted us to learn was called “Food, Glorious Food.” Apparently, it was about a bunch of starving orphans who had a hankering for sausage-based dishes.
Mrs. Hewitt was suspiciously enthusiastic about this year’s Thanksgiving concert, insisting we prepare early so that we could be Broadway-ready. She paced like a solider in front of the room, reciting the lyrics. But as she got more into it, she began to sing, her white hair bobbing to the beat. She belted out the ending, and some of the girls covered their ears as she shrieked, “FOOD, glorious food, glorious foooooooooooood!”
Silence filled the room for a moment before cackling erupted from pockets in the choral risers. Madeleine Brown, the only other Asian girl in the fifth grade, led a group in giggling fits followed by whispering and then more giggling.
Madeleine was a whole head taller than me and her hair was long and wavy, while mine was straight, barely dipping below my shoulders. She was a soccer star who always wore athletic gear to school, including, sometimes, cleats. Today she had on a team hoodie and running capris. Even without spiked shoes, kids avoided her in the hallways; getting elbowed by Madeleine Brown could take you out for an entire recess.
While we had talked a bunch of times, all I really knew about Madeleine was that she was Korean and had been adopted as a baby. And she didn’t like me. In fact, I was pretty sure she hated me.
In second grade her mom invited me to her princess unicorn birthday party because she wanted Madeleine to have an Asian friend. “I’ll have to talk to your mom about more playdates,” she had said, leading me into their bonus room, where all the girls twirled in tulle princess skirts made especially for the party.
Her mother left us to ourselves as we started to play. Everyone knelt around the birthday girl, seated on a golden metal folding chair, the taffeta from her Princess Celestia headband getting caught on the backrest. I had joined in, used to taking charge of imaginary games, and found myself calling out instructions to Madeleine Brown’s guests. When I asked everyone to name a magical unicorn of their own, Madeleine took over and called on the girls one by one. I had started the game because I had the perfect unicorn name: Sunshine Lilly Buttercup, but when it was my turn, Madeleine skipped right over me.
One of the girls noticed and called out, “You forgot Kazu.” Madeleine cut her eyes at the girl before turning toward me.
“She doesn’t ride a magical unicorn,” Madeleine snapped. “She has a donkey.” The other girls laughed nervously.
“I do not,” I had said as I slouched in my spot, concentrating on the sandy carpet strands so that I wouldn’t cry. I stayed like that for the rest of the party, and Madeleine continued to ignore me.
When it was time to leave, Madeleine called after me, her voice sour and mean. “See you later, Bossy Jones.”
On the risers, Madeleine stood above the group of sporty girls surrounding her. They all wore some combination of red and black: Lincoln Elementary School colors. As she leaned over to whisper into her neighbor’s ear, she met my eyes and snapped straight up, like a skittish cat seeing a bulldog. I scrunched my eyebrows together, wondering what Madeleine Brown had to be afraid of.
The girls around her paused and then followed her gaze to where I stood in the middle of the first riser. Madeleine had a look like she was working out a story problem in her head. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and called out, “Hey, Detective Jones! What are you looking at?” Kids around her snickered, and a prickly heat climbed my neck.
Most kids knew me as Detective Girl, and up through fourth grade everyone seemed to think it was cool that I liked unraveling mysteries. I carried the Sleuth Chronicle everywhere and asked probing questions when I thought someone might have information I needed for a case. But fifth grade was different from fourth grade. The same kids who thought it was cool last year were starting to roll their eyes at me this year. It all felt very shaky, like a towering Jenga bridge I had to cross. But no one had ever made fun of me about it out loud.
I searched for March and found him a couple rows above Madeleine Brown. He had heard, and his eyes were so wide I thought his eyeballs might plop from his head. I reached deep into my pockets and found the Jolly Rancher Ms. Packer had given us for quiet reading that day. With newspaper aim, I pulled my arm back and went to throw the candy at Madeleine Brown, whispering to myself, “Block this, soccer head!” as Mrs. Hewitt tapped her baton on the music stand, silencing the room. The sound distracted me, and I released the candy way too soon, launching it toward Mrs. Hewitt and hitting her on the cheek. As if on cue, the entire class gasped and turned to look at me.
Mrs. Hewitt pressed a hand to her cheek and spun toward my riser. “Ms. Jones?”
I opened my mouth to apologize, to explain, but it felt like my lungs were empty, and I had forgotten how to breathe.
Mrs. Hewitt scanned the room, her gaze landing on Madeleine, who was shaking with laughter. “I would like you and Ms. Brown to stay after school today. I have a special assignment for you both.”
Madeleine pivoted to me again, her eyes blazing.
I smirked back and let myself enjoy the moment, because I knew that every second that followed was sure to be miserable.