Michael

Dewey’s older sister, Stephanie, had all the real brains in the family, and she must have been OK looking. Dewey noticed boys were always hanging around her. His sister was too busy studying and getting As to even care about them, or him.

She had won the PEAP (that’s the Presidential Educational Awards Program) last year. He wasn’t sure what she’d go for after that. There was probably someone important to impress after the president though, like the Prime Minister of the Universe or something, and she’d go for that.

Stephanie was sitting on Dewey, trying to help him with his math homework. That’s right, she was sitting on him. Because he hated math problems when they were long. And he hated when his mother had her help him even more.

Phanie, as he’d taken to calling her these days, had him face down in the carpet and she sat on his butt. She was riding him like one of those big tortoises, but he didn’t have a thick shell. Plus, the fuzz from the carpet was getting squashed into and tickling his nostrils and burning his cheek.

Dewey’s dad knocked on the door.

“Everything OK in there?” he called as he opened the door and saw Stephanie, her hair pulled back in a smooth brown ponytail, sitting atop Dewey.

“Yeah, just helping Dewey with his math,” she said, as if sitting on his bottom and squishing his face was the general way people helped with homework.

“Oh! I want to help, Dewey! Can I help?” asked Dewey’s dad as he knelt.

“I don’t need anybody’s help!” protested Dewey.

“Suit yourself, genius,” and she was off like a swimsuit cover up on a sunny day at the beach.

“Darn it,” Dewey grumbled into the carpet. All signs now pointed to him doing his math with his dad for at least an hour. His dad loved to do homework with him, and seemed to make math take twice as long just to relish the experience together.

Dewey stood up and put the paper on his desk. “That’s OK, Dad. I got it. I’ll let you know if I need help later. I’ve got some other stuff I want to do.”

“You sure? I have time now.” His dad was already settling in at Dewey’s desk. “You never let me do math with you anymore. Come on! It’ll be fun. Or I can do it for you! Don’t tell Mom. It’ll be our secret.”

“Maybe later, Dad. OK?”

“Oh, sure, the Cheshire cat smile,” Dewey’s dad smiled back as he got up from the desk. “I can take a hint.” He patted Dewey on the head and left him to his own devices.

When Dewey made his way into the attic, he found Clara under a pile of papers searching for something and looking a bit harried.

“Clara?”

“Oh, Boss! Thank goodness. We’ve got a total backlog of cases here, and I can’t put my finger on the one that came in last night when you went home for dinner.”

Clara rummaged around the pile of papers some more, blowing hard at a piece of wispy grey hair that kept landing in her eyes as they darted and scanned the desk like they were chasing a fly. Wolfie cocked his head sideways, watching her.

“That’s all very nice, Wolfie, dear, but why the kitty whiskers don’t you do something to help me?”

Wolfie gave a sneeze. Ahptttoooo! Then another. Ahptttoooo. He sneezed to get someone to throw his favorite pet skunk toy or to pet him. Dewey grabbed his skunk, which looked like a miniature version of Wolfie himself, and threw it across the room. Wolfie ran off to go fetch it, but rather than bringing it back, he settled down in his cushioned bed with it and a sigh.

Clara let out a sigh of her own, though hers was really more of a huff.

“It was a memo from Michael de la Cruz . . . said something about needing your expertise, immedia—Merlin’s pants! Where is it?!” she exploded as she dumped the recycle basket over and began going through it page by page.

“Are you sure it came in as a faxed memo? Michael likes to text,” offered Dewey.

“TEXT! Yes, text! That’s it. Cheese Whiz! Just look at this place. I’m sorry, Mr. Fairchild. I’ll have it cleaned up in no time. Now, where is that phone?” she muttered, digging under her piles and piles of papers.

Dewey shot a smiling glance toward Wolfie who would have rolled his eyes if he could have, but instead wiggled his behind deeper into the cushion and rested his chin on the edge.

“Got it, sir.”

It read more like Morse code than a text.

To Whom It May Concern Colon

[stop]

My mother is going to kill me with hygiene.

[stop]

I’m sure the irony is not missed.

[stop]

I have herd you have a way with people’s mothers and the ways they are their children’s undoing

Herd not herd

Herd not herd!!

HEARD

[stop]

[end]

Please advise

*Sent from my mobile phone while speaking and walking into stuff. Typos a given.*

Dewey remembered Michael de la Cruz from Franklin last year. He was your basic middle school girl’s prince charming. Handsome, astute, skin as clear as Silly Putty when you first open the egg.

Dewey had those little red eggs of Silly Putty squirreled away all over his house and office. Silly Putty didn’t have that great smell that made you almost want to eat it like Play-Doh, but he got incredible satisfaction rolling it in a perfect ball in his hands. He liked to roll it and roll it until it was one hundred percent smooth and round, like a large marble.

Dewey realized some people enjoyed the stretch of it—a quick pull of Silly Putty and it snapped—a long, slow pull and it would string like gum. But Dewey always found that strategy messy and not nearly as satisfying. He did have to agree with one aspect of the Silly Putty stretch camp . . . the intense satisfaction that one got squeezing it back together after stringing it out and those little air bubbles like a miniature cap-gun going off. They made the tiniest little snap, the kind his mother and aunt made while they sat chatting and chewing their gum.

Dewey would bet that Michael de la Cruz didn’t have Silly Putty around his house. But, handsome, talented, older, and clear-skinned as he was, he had a problem and was coming to Dewey for help. This was a big day, indeed. Even his sister would have to be impressed.

When Michael slid into the office, Wolfie seemed to know he was in the presence of a godlike creature, and he rolled over and offered his belly for a rub.

“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” said Clara. “He never does that for strangers.” She offered Michael some cookies, but he declined, saying he’d had more than his delicious fill on his way through the air ducts.

AHPTTOO. AHPTTOO. Wolfie, on the other hand, gave two short quick sneezes, and looked expectantly.

“Cute dog,” smiled Michael warmly.

“Here,” offered Clara, “give him this. He’ll be yours for life.” Michael popped an oatmeal cookie in Wolfie’s mouth.

Wolfie took the cookie, stored it in his cheek like a chipmunk, and went off to his cushion to eat it.

“Huh. Cute dog,” he said again. “So, is Dewey around? I’m eager to get this started.”

On cue, Dewey walked in making himself look just a little busier than he really was by finishing up a pretend phone call.

“Right. Got it. Thank you so much. Mm, bye bye.”

“Oh, hey, Michael. Good to see you,” he said, extending his hand and shaking Michael’s. “I’ve got your paperwork. I like that PDF app you have on your phone. Very nice.”

“Yeah, thanks. So—”

“Right. Let’s get started,” said Dewey as he took a seat and ushered Michael into one of his own. “So, this has been going on since you were three years old, you say?”

“Oh, well, I’m sure it’s been going on always. It’s just that I can’t really remember too much before that. But, for as long as I can remember, my mom has been crazy about germs. During flu season she carries a bottle of bleach with her to the grocery store and won’t take the cookies or cereal off the shelf without spraying them down first. She won’t let me push a traffic light or elevator button without using sanitizer on my hands afterwards. When I go to the doctor’s office, we have to wait in the car before she sneaks me into a room . . . even when I’m the one sick! It never ends.

“What does your mom do when you throw up, Dewey?” continued Michael.

“I guess she holds my forehead and my hair out of the way if I make it to the toilet. Otherwise, she grabs a bowl, and same drill.”

“My mom waits for me to finish, pushes me out of the bathroom with one hand and sprays the Lysol with the other.”

“Oh. I see. Is she generally a person lacking in compassion and so unkind?” Dewey inquired. He was starting to take some notes. This case was shaping up to be a bit more complicated than some of his others.

“No, that’s the thing. She’s really nice and loving. Until she gets all freaked out about germs. Then she’s like some Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Two nights ago, I was out on the porch with Sally Frones, and I give her an innocent kiss on her cheek good night, and Mr. Hyde comes springing out on us, like some crazy electrocuted cat with her hair all on end and a washcloth in her hands, and starts scrubbing our cheeks and lips. I seriously wanted to die.

“Sally ran home, of course. I don’t even know what to tell her. I’m just going to say my mom has a mentally ill twin. Anyway. You can help, right?”

“Right,” Dewey nodded with confidence even though he was feeling, for the first time in his long career, a bit of doubt.

“Let’s talk tomorrow.” Dewey ushered Michael back out the way he came and sat down. He stuck a cookie in his mouth and chewed slowly.

“Clara, this one is going to take some thought. Hold all my calls.”