Something told me that even in New York, nobody talked to diapers. Maybe Nanny X was just smelling the diaper to make sure it was clean. And her lips were moving because . . . that helped her smell better? But I heard her voice.
“Yes,” she told the diaper. “I quite agree. It’s started. Right. I’m on it.” She crumpled up the diaper and started back toward us.
“Should we call Mom?” Jake asked. He didn’t bother to whisper, and I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that when the grown-up who’s supposed to be taking care of you starts talking to diapers, it’s time to go find another grown-up.
But even with her strange clothes, and even with her definitely knowing about Yeti’s fleas and her probably knowing about Ms. Bertram and the gum—even with her general spookiness—Nanny X seemed like she was only partly nuts. Not totally.
“May I join your conversation?” she said.
“I thought you were already having your own conversation.” I knew that wasn’t exactly the way to talk to a grown-up. But I thought it might be the way to talk to a grown-up who talked to diapers. Besides, somebody had to be in charge; I was the oldest.
Nanny X moved her glasses down her nose and looked at me over the rims. I looked back, not quite as pleasantly.
“Fine,” Nanny X said. “Though I must say I was rather counting on your cooperation. This is a disappointment.”
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when grown-ups tell you they’re “disappointed.” I decided to put everything out in the open. “Did we just see you talking to a diaper?” I didn’t add “weirdo” at the end of my question. See? I can be polite.
“No,” said Nanny X. “You did not.”
“Uh, excuse me,” I said, polite again. “But yes we did.”
“Ah,” Nanny X said. “You thought you did. But you see, children, I was not talking to the diaper. I was talking through it. I’ll ex—”
“We’ve found the culprit,” Police Chief Grummel announced from the stage. Everyone stopped talking.
“Let me repeat,” said the chief, even though we all heard him the first time. “We have found the culprit.”
Two more police officers rushed to the platform. They had their “culprit” by the collar. He was skinny, with longish dark hair, and he was holding a Slides Are Cool sign. It only took us two seconds to realize that who they had was Stinky Malloy. That seemed even crazier than Nanny X talking to diapers.
The mayor, who was lying on a stretcher about to be carried away, looked up at Stinky. “Book him,” he said.
Stinky Malloy! He turned in quarters when he found them on the playground. It’s true, he was concerned about the environment, and there were probably a lot of things he’d do to keep a factory from being plunked in the middle of Lovett. But he wouldn’t hurt anybody. I was sure about that.
“I didn’t do it!” yelled Stinky.
“My head!” yelled the mayor.
“I didn’t do it!” Stinky told the police officers, who completely ignored him. Then Stinky saw us.
“Ali! Jake!” he said. “Tell them it wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t him,” I said, moving forward. “You’ve got to listen. Please. It wasn’t him.”
“If it wasn’t you,” said Chief Grummel, who was listening now that Stinky was talking to somebody else, “then what’s this?” He held up a round rock, about the size of a potato—the boiled kind, not the baking kind.
“I didn’t throw that,” Stinky said. “I was just holding it. You found it in my hand.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” the chief said. “Get me a stick; I want to roast a hot dog.”
“But it’s true,” Stinky said. “I picked it up because I thought it might be a geode.”
“Throwing rocks at the mayor is a criminal offense,” said the chief. “You have the right to remain silent, and we have the right to take you to the police station.”
“My mother’s going to kill me,” said Stinky Malloy.
“You see,” said the chief. “Even his mother thinks he’s guilty.”
“You’ve made a mistake,” I said. “You can’t arrest a kid.”
“Watch me,” said Chief Grummel. He started to lead Stinky away.
“Stinky didn’t do it,” I told Nanny X. “I know he didn’t.”
“Tell me about him,” she said.
I looked at Nanny X again, the nanny who had known us for only a few hours but who knew about Ms. Bertram and gum and a billion other things she shouldn’t know. The nanny who was ready to save the park. The nanny who dressed funny and talked to diapers. She wasn’t my first choice, but there was no one else to tell. So I told her.
Stinky Malloy lived over on Hummel Street. He was in my grade at Watson Elementary, but he looked older because he kept having growth spurts. Sometimes you couldn’t see his eyes because his bangs needed cutting.
I told her that everyone in our school knew Stinky because when he was in third grade he signed up our class to collect litter along Main Street. Only none of the parents wanted their children picking up litter along Main Street because of the traffic. So then the parents had to pick up all of the litter themselves.
The other reason Stinky Malloy was famous was because last summer he was walking his dog, Edgar, when Edgar discovered a skunk. The skunk got mad and sprayed like crazy. Edgar got out of the way, but Stinky didn’t. He was so stinky after that skunk, even his freckles smelled bad. Everyone kept calling him “Stinky” even after he’d had three baths and washed his hair with tomato juice. His real name was Daniel. That was the name the police officers would probably book him under. Also he was the most honest kid I knew.
“He has a nanny named Boris,” I told Nanny X. Boris. He could fix things. I looked around, but I didn’t see him anywhere, and Boris is hard to miss; he’s at least six foot three. “They eat a lot of lentils,” I added.
“Ali!” Stinky called as Chief Grummel opened the door to the squad car. “Find Boris and tell him where I am. Please?” I looked at Nanny X. She nodded, just once.
“Don’t worry,” I called. “We’ll help you.”
Now we were supposed to save more than the park. Now we were supposed to save Stinky Malloy.