That evening, Smashie worked on her new Investigator Suit. She consulted her mother.

“What about the Choreographer Suit we were working on?” asked Mrs. McPerter, somewhat startled.

“I need that, too,” said Smashie. “But for tomorrow, I want something that makes me look ready for justice.”

“Why do you need to look ready for justice?” asked her mother.

“I just do,” said Smashie.

“Hmm,” said Mrs. McPerter. “This isn’t going to be like that Patches suit, is it? Because I remember a lot of hectic fallout from that one.”

“No,” Smashie said. “I just like justice.”

“Well, how about that old blue satin jacket I had in high school?” her mother offered. “That could kind of look like something an officer of the law would wear.”

“Great idea!” said Smashie. And although the jacket reached to her knees, it gave her the perfect investigator feeling she had been hoping for.

“I was going to try to find a flat cap,” she confided to Dontel at their cubbies the next morning. “But I thought that might be too police-looking and put people on guard again.”

And she took off her hoodie and placed it in her cubby. Over the satin jacket, Smashie had wrapped a tool belt belonging to her grandmother around her waist. She’d had to wrap it around twice, but it worked pretty okay. Her jeans were just jeans, but she thought they rounded out the blue of the jacket nicely.

“More like a policewoman,” she whispered to Dontel. “And I put lots of pockets for clues on the belt, just in case. With room for my notebook in one of the pouches.”

Dontel nodded tactfully.

“Now,” said Smashie, “let’s get to taxing.” But her relief was short-lived.

“Smashie,” called Ms. Early, “is that a suit?”

The double-wrapped tool belt made the jacket press uncomfortably into Smashie’s middle. “Sort of,” she said.

“It’s not some kind of disruptive suit, is it?” asked Ms. Early, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “One that might distract the class?”

“No,” said Smashie uncertainly. “It’s . . . it’s to help with the musicale.” It was technically true, but Smashie squirmed.

“Oh!” Ms. Early smiled. “Is it a Choreographer Suit?”

But before Smashie had time to answer, there was an interruption. Joyce appeared in the doorway. Her normally shy face was unhappy. And she was furious.

“You said your mom could do hair!” she shouted at Charlene. The rest of Room 11 tilted their heads to one side, staring at Joyce.

“Hmm,” said Siggie.

“It looks kind of like a hedge,” said Alonso.

“More like one of those bonsai trees Mr. Bloom clips into shapes in his storage room,” said Cyrus.

“Ugh!” cried Joyce. “All I wanted was a haircut!”

“In a good way, it looks like those things,” said Smashie hastily. She knew how it was to have an unruly head of hair. But she had to admit that even hers had never looked quite as terrible as Joyce’s did now. Still, she did not want hurt feelings to spread throughout the class.

“My hair heart looked so nice that my mother wanted to support Charlene’s mom and our class by bringing me to her for a haircut after my orthodontist appointment yesterday! She bought our class a jar of goop at the same time so we wouldn’t have to use our planetarium money,” Joyce explained. “And now look at me! My hair looks like a group of potatoes! Charlene, you are one of my best friends, and I want to support you, BUT YOUR MOM WRECKED MY HEAD!”

Joyce was near tears.

“You can borrow my balaclava helmet,” Alonso offered Joyce.

Charlene’s eyes brimmed, too. “My mom hasn’t really cut hair in a while,” she said with a gulp, “after doing sculpture at the salon where she used to work for so long. She’s kind of rusty. I’m sorry, Joyce! We will fix your hair for free!”

Joyce handed her the jar of goop. “Goop me up again instead, please,” she said. “As nice as yesterday’s hair heart. Nice enough to make me and my mom feel better about my wrecked-up hair.”

“And the rest of you, think long and hard before you go over there,” said Billy.

“Billy!” said Ms. Early sternly.

“None of us was really planning to,” said John.

But Charlene was already palming the goop onto Joyce’s hair. And there, poking up from Joyce’s head, were two darling little ponytails in the shape of roller-skate wheels. “Because you’re in the roller-skating number, too,” Charlene said.

“Hmm,” said Joyce. “Mirror.”

Siggie passed one over.

After a long moment, Joyce spoke. “Charlene, you are lucky that you have inherited your mom’s skill with hair sculpting.” She beamed, all thought of tears forgotten. “I’m adorable!”

“You are!”

“For real!”

“Charlene, we won’t doubt you again!”

“Speak for yourself,” John muttered. “I don’t think any amount of sculpture makes up for getting a crazy haircut.”

The class fell silent. Charlene’s eyes grew troubled once more.

“Charlene,” said Ms. Early, “don’t you worry. We’ll support your mother and help her get her business on its feet.” She put her arm around the sad-faced girl. “I know you’re anxious.” And she drew Charlene to one side to talk. Jacinda watched her friend with concerned eyes.

Smashie and Dontel looked at each other. It was time for taxing.

Glancing at the front of the room where Ms. Early was still speaking to Charlene, they turned to John. “So. You don’t want us to do it?”

“Do what?” John asked. “Get people’s heads mangled with awful haircuts?”

“No,” said Smashie. “The musicale.”

John cast his eyes down. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Smashie and Dontel looked at each other in triumph. An abashed John admitting he didn’t want Room 11 to do the musicale could only mean one thing! He wanted to shut the whole thing down. With a vengeance!

But they were wrong.

“But my dad says to face my fear,” said John. “And I’m going to. No musicale is going to lick me.”

He got up from his seat and moved to the front of the room. He tapped Ms. Early on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting,” he told her. “And I want to do a number. I want to sing a song called ‘Come On Over to My Place.’”

Dontel and Smashie were shocked into motionlessness.

“By Hyacinth Rooney?” exclaimed Ms. Early, her arm still around Charlene. “She’s one of my favorites! Do you have a backup track you can use?”

“No,” said John grimly. “I’ll accompany myself. On the piano.”

The class applauded. Smashie and Dontel looked at each other.

“I am proud of you, John,” said Ms. Early. “Very. And I am proud of Charlene as well for trying so hard to help with our Hair Extravaganza and Musicale.” She walked Charlene back to her seat. “Now, let’s get to work on our math again. We have some new ideas to explore.”

“We may like taxing people,” whispered Dontel, “but it doesn’t always go so well.”

“We barely even got to tax him!” Smashie whispered back, crestfallen. “Our best suspect — gone!”

Smashie’s tool belt came loose and clattered to the ground.