March and I dangled our feet through the railing of his tree house. It spanned two oak trees in his family’s backyard with a shelter the size of a rich person’s shed on one tree and a catwalk connecting it to a smaller shed on the next. His dad had spent Maggie’s entire childhood building it, and it still wasn’t finished—the platform around the second tree was missing half a safety railing.
“When can we raid Geezer’s garbage?” I asked.
“I don’t know about this, Kazu,” March said, clutching his metal Christmas safe like it would roll off his lap. “We could get in big trouble if anyone catches us. Or worse—maybe they’d kidnap us and put us in dog kennels with the rest of their stolen animals.”
I had ridden my bike to March’s house before dinner to plan Mission: Geezer’s Garbage Raid. March’s bedroom door had been open, and he jumped when I knocked on it. He claimed he was engrossed in a tutorial on coding, but I knew he was nervous about the mission.
“Maybe I can convince Mom to let me do the paper route with you one day,” I said. “I could tell her you’ve finally agreed to train as a sub, and we’ll ride our bikes. No one will see us then.” The hardest thing about having a paper route was finding a substitute when we went out of town; Mom would be so excited about having a backup sub she wouldn’t suspect a thing.
“But it’ll be dark, and quiet,” he said. “What if someone hears us?”
Something took flight in my chest, but I ignored it.
“You’d be surprised how deeply everyone sleeps,” I said. “Once, I crashed my bike into two garbage cans on Summer Glen Drive and no one heard me.”
He looked at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Seriously. The other day I hit your front door with the paper and no one woke up—not even you.”
March studied the top of his safe with the operation documents locked inside. He shrugged.
“I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but Barkley’s been missing for over a week. If we don’t hurry, there will be no information for Geezer to toss.”
March sighed, setting the safe down next to him. “What are you going to be for Halloween?”
He was trying to change the subject, and his question stung a bit as I remembered Mom telling me I couldn’t be Velma. “A zombie.” I tried not to let my disappointment distract me. “And you’re going to be Steve Jobs for the second year in a row—”
“Actually,” he interrupted, “it’s currently a toss-up between Steve Jobs and Payback, an obscure Marvel vigilante that used to work with the Punisher….”
“So,” I said, “it’s a geek-off.”
“You’re not going to be a detective?” he asked.
I sighed. I was hoping mom would be horrified by the idea and would finally agree to let me dress up as a detective. Instead, she had looked at me with her perfect Moker Face—Mom Poker Face—and said, “That sounds wonderful. Just remember the no-gore rule for school.”
I answered March, “Mom won’t let me be a detective anymore. Not even for pretend.” I tried to get our conversation back on track. “When are we going to do the garbage raid?”
“Did you not just hear yourself? About your mom forbidding detective work, real or pretend?”
I glared at him, and I could swear it made my eyes burn. “Barkley’s gone because of me. I’ve got to get her back.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “When?”
“Monday morning. The garbage will be on the curb. We should wear black.”
March’s shoulders slumped, and his chin nearly touched his chest.
“It’ll be fun.” I patted his knee. “You’ll see.”
I pushed my fear deep into my stomach, where it weighed me down like an anchor.
The next couple days dragged. Mom continued to drive me on my route. March spent afternoons overachieving on his homework while I avoided mine. And Dad ordered me green face paint and a plastic brain as a prop for my Halloween costume.
My anxiety about our next mission grew until Friday morning when Geezer finally left me a tip. I sat in the car after the route and studied the note he had taped to his door while Mom put away the rubber bands and gathered all the newspaper garbage.
Kazuko Jones,
I contacted the Denver Chronicle, and they gave me your full name and recommended I leave any personalized gifts for you at my door. Thank you for bagging my newspapers to prevent the Colorado frost from dampening them. I appreciate all your hard work delivering my papers very early in the morning. Also, I asked the paper when I could expect to receive “electronic notifications” and they didn’t know what I was talking about. That’s strange, now, isn’t it?
Thanks again for all your hard work,
James Crowley
Along with the note he had attached an orange newspaper bag to his door holding a single PAYDAY candy bar.