Mom, There's a Dinosaur in Beeson's Lake Page 5

  So am I.

  CHAPTER

  8

  D-Day

  I’m very, very, very, very sorry about my . . . uh . . . prank last week.” I twist my towel into a knot. My entire swimming class is standing around me in a circle. “Thanks for letting me come back,” I say, digging my toe into a small hole in the cement. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

  I give Henry the same sad eyes Joe gives me when I leave for school. I really am sorry that Henry tripped in the stampede to escape my floating toe and had to get two stitches in his elbow. Henry grins. “I’m okay.”

  Juan, Emma, and most of the other kids are grinning too. Not Cloey. The only thing smiling on that girl are about two dozen yellow happy faces on her white swimsuit. Orange flip-flops are thumping against concrete.

  “Thank you, Scab,” says Ashlynn. She claps her hands twice. “Okay, Salmon, in the water, please. We’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

  Doyle bounces over to me while we are practicing the breaststroke arms. “So what are we going to do?”

  “Do?” I’m making smooth, flowing circles. Is Ashlynn watching?

  SCAB’S TIP #3

  WHEN SAYING YOU’RE SORRY, always use at least three very’s so people know you mean it, unless you are apologizing to a girl. She doesn’t care how many very’s you use ’cause she doesn’t want your apology anyway. She wants you to suffer. She wants you to get a gross, gooey, pulsating rash on your butt.

  “You know, about Beeson’s—”

  “Not now.”

  “Geez, Scab, we just discovered there’s a dinosaur living in the lake. How can you do nothing?”

  “Shhhh, will you?

  I never said I wasn’t going to do anything. I said, ‘Not now.’”

  “Then you do have a plan—?”

  “Of course.” Don’t I always?

  “Wouldn’t it be cool if you invented something for us to use to catch him?” He sees the look on my face. “You did! You did invent something! What is it? How does it work? Can I be in charge of the marshmallows?”

  “Who said anything about marshmallows?”

  “Most of your inventions lately have something to do with marshmallows.”

  I think about it and realize he is right.

  Doyle moves in. “So what are we going to do about Zenobia?”

  “Once my grounding is lifted we’ll—”

  “What’s a Zenobia?” Lewis is beside us.

  DID YOU EVER WONDER . . .

  HOW MANY MINI MARSHMALLOWS A KID CAN STUFF in his mouth at one time?

  Answer: twenty-four (twenty-eight when I had no front teeth)

  “Noth—” I don’t even get the word out before Doyle starts spilling his guts.

  “It’s this dinosaur we found in Beeson’s Lake.”

  “That’s a good one, Doyle,” I hoot. “Ha! He’s just joking.” I smack Doyle in the shoulder with my circling arm.

  Slowpoke finally gets it. “Um . . . yeah . . . I was only joking.”

  “A dinosaur, huh?” Lewis rubs his nose. “Beeson’s Lake? Maybe I’ll go out there this weekend and check it out for myself.”

  I snort. “It’s your time. Waste it if you want.”

  Bug spit! Thanks to my best friend, we’re going to have to put my plan into action right away. We’re going to catch that dinosaur, all right. But not in the way Doyle thinks. That’s all I can say right now.

  “Salmon out of the water, please,” calls Ashlynn. We still have ten minutes left in class. “Form a line on the pool deck,” she says, so I figure we are going to play a game. I figure wrong.

  Ashlynn tells Isabelle, who’s at the head of the line (naturally), to follow her. It takes me about a second to realize where we are going. And when I do, I stop cold.

  Doyle bashes into me. “The deep end!” He blasts. “Cooooool.” My best friend pushes me forward.

  Everybody starts chattering.

  “Do you think we’ll get to jump off the high dive?” Beth turns around to ask me.

  I just stare at her.

  “I hope so!” squeals Cloey from the back.

  As we walk, the water gets bluer and bluer. Deeper and deeper. My body starts to tingle. Bluer and bluer. Deeper and deeper. Before I know it, we are there. I want to run, but I can’t. I have no feeling from the dancing squirrels down.

  “Did everyone learn to do a kneeling dive in Guppy class?” Ashlynn asks. “Raise your hand if you did.”

  Isabelle’s hand shoots up. Henry, Doyle, Cloey, Juan, and Beth lift theirs, too. Lewis, Emma, and I slowly put ours in the air because we don’t want to look like idiots. My hand is lying. I’ve never dived before. I was in the Guppy class, but my teacher, Todd, wasn’t very strict. Or smart. He never caught on that every time we practiced kneeling dives, I had to race to the locker room to pee.

  THINGS I LEARNED

  IN GUPPY CLASS

  If your teacher says “dude” more than twenty-eight times a minute, you’re probably not going to learn much about swimming. You will, however, learn what a fakie is (Someone who pretends to know a lot about surfing but really doesn’t, dude!).

  Always hold your nose when doing an underwater back flip or a cannonball jump, or when following Lewis out of the locker room.

  It’s pretty easy to dive to the bottom of the shallow end and pick up a purple jawbreaker. It isn’t so easy getting the purple candy dye off your hands and arms and legs and feet.

  Always tell the lifeguard before you try to break the world record for holding your breath while floating facedown.

  Ashlynn is showing us how to do a kneeling dive. She is using Isabelle as an example. Naturally. Isabelle will do it perfectly.

  “Knees at the edge,” she says to my sister. “Arms above your head. Hands together with your palms flat. Right fingers over left to make a pointed triangle. Good. Now lock your thumb under your palm. Head down. Remember, you’re going to lead into the water with your fingertips, Isabelle. Imagine your fingers going in first, then your arms, head, and body. I’ll hold your waist and guide you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bend and relax. Take a breath. Go whenever you’re ready.”

  Isabelle leans forward and easily goes into the water. That didn’t look so hard. A second later, my sister’s head pops to the surface. “Can I do it again?”

  “One to a customer today. We’re almost out of time and I want everyone to have a chance. Salmon, each of you take your dive, then head for the showers. Henry, you’re up.”

  I count back. After Henry it’s Juan, Emma, Lewis, Beth, then me.

  What am I so worried about? I am, after all, the Mighty Maze king. I’ve done stuff that was a million trillion times scarier than this. All I have to do is stay close to the edge. Dive in, swim up, and reach out. The edge will be right there. A kneeling dive will be a snap. Not even that. Half a snap—a “sn.” That’s how simple it will be.

  Henry goes into the water doing an impression of an ironing board. Splat!

  “Belly flop,” announces Lewis.

  The class snickers. There are four people between the Deep End and me. Forget the snaps. My stomach aches. Juan kneels down for his dive. I step out of line. “You can go ahead,” I say to Doyle.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “Go ahead,” I say to Cloey.

  “No, thanks.”

  “What do you mean?” I make a move to go behind her.

  She blocks me. “I mean, ‘No, thanks.’”

  “W . . . why not?”

  “I want to go last.”

  “That’s stupid.” I try to step around her, but she keeps scooting back so I can’t.

  “If it’s so stupid, why do you want to go last?” Cloey sticks her elbow out.

  I push it down. “I just do.”

  “So do I. And I was here first. I mean, last.” She pushes her palm against my chest. I slap it away.

  Before I know it, we are two sumo wrestlers in a championship match—e
ach of us trying to shove the other toward the pool. For a stick figure in a happy-face suit, Cloey is awfully strong. Cloey twists my arm behind me, but I get away. I lock on to her wrists, but she gets away. Time is running out. Ashlynn is helping Beth set up for her dive.

  A pain tears through my calf. Cloey has kicked me! “Ow!” I yelp. I release my hold, which gives the Stick-Figure Gladiator time to get into a firm stance—legs out, knees bent, back arched. This time, she isn’t budging.

  Splash! Beth is in the pool. Doyle is next. Then me.

  If I don’t do something soon . . .

  I look at the water. It’s so blue. I have to look away.

  Do something! ANYTHING!

  I spin away from Cloey and start walking as fast as I can toward the boys’ locker room. I trot past the chipped sign that says no running. Okay, I confess. I am running.

  Someone is calling me.

  I don’t look back. I don’t stop. Instead, I shout, “GOT TO PEE.”

  It isn’t a lie. My bladder is about three seconds away from exploding—a new world record.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Isabelle Smells Something Fishy (Wuh-oh)

  I rip a long stem out of the dirt. I wonder if it is a weed. I smell it. It doesn’t stink. Yep, it’s a weed. I toss it into the bucket. Joe thinks it is something to play with and tips the bucket over trying to get at it. Silly dog.

  My mom likes to grow lavender, thyme, and lots of other smelly plants in her herb garden. I like the mints best—spearmint, orange mint, pineapple mint (it really smells like pineapple). Waldorf likes the mints too. His favorite is catmint, probably because he is a cat. Waldorf is a fluffy white-and-gray Maine coon. I’ve never been to Maine, but they must have huge cats. Waldorf weighs nineteen pounds. He belongs to the Dawbers next door.

  When Waldorf thinks no one is looking, he sneaks into our herb garden. He flops on his back in the catmint. My mom doesn’t know he does this. She blames Joe for squashing her catmint.

  BIG CAT, BIG LEGEND

  THE MAINE COON’S BUSHY TAIL AND RACCOONLIKE colors sparked the myth that the cat was a cross between a longhair cat and a raccoon. Not true. Can’t be done. More likely, the breed is a cross between American shorthair cats and Norwegian forest cats brought by the Vikings (the early peoples from Scandinavia, not the football team from Minnesota). Maine coons remain playful and kittenlike, even after they grow up to be big (VERY big) adults.

  Waldorf is hiding in the bushes. He’s waiting for Joe and me to leave. He’s not the only one watching us. My sister is supposed to be watering the tulips, but she has been spying on me for the last ten minutes. I hate to tell her, but she’s been watering our concrete patio for eight of those ten minutes. Joe circles me, sniffing all over the place like he’s on the trail of something good. He must smell Waldorf. Joe actually likes cats, especially Waldorf. He is always trying to get him to play. Joe takes off running through the yard, then turns to see if Waldorf is chasing him. He isn’t, of course. Waldorf is nineteen pounds. He isn’t chasing anything.

  “I don’t get you,” Isabelle finally says to me.

  I keep pulling weeds.

  “Something’s not right.”

  I keep pulling weeds. It’s not a good idea to encourage her. Not that keeping quiet will shut her up. Nothing does.

  “I keep wondering why you made that trick toe.”

  See?

  “I told you it was a prank,” I say.

  “That’s what I can’t figure out.” She turns off the water and walks over to me. “I always know what you’re up to, Scab, because you always give it away.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do so. When you’re pulling a practical joke, you do that bobbing thing with your eyebrows.”

  I grunt. I do not bob. Do I?

  “It’s true. You bob. You always bob.” Isabelle edges closer. So does Waldorf. “But on the day you wore your trick toe, your eyebrows didn’t move. Not once. I watched you. You actually looked—I don’t know—scared.”

  I dig out another weed. “I was not.”

  But she isn’t listening. “Then the other day when you apologized to the Salmon, you couldn’t stop squirming.”

  “So?”

  “So you only fidget when you’re lying, Scab.”

  I sit back on my heels. “I wasn’t lying. I was sorry about what happened to Henry and everybody—”

  “I know that.” She bends down. She peers at me over the bluish purple stalks of purple catmint. “I meant you were lying when you told the class it was a prank.”

  I start hacking at the ground with my weeder, even though I am at the end of the row and there are no weeds left.

  “It wasn’t a prank, was it, Scab?” Isabelle asks softly.

  There’s got to be a weed here somewhere.

  “You know what I think?” asks my sister. “I think you were trying to get out of class on purpose. I think you wanted people to think your toe was really hurt. I think—”

  I give her a ripper snort. “You’ve got to quit standing so close to the oven when you’re making those rock muffins of yours, ’cause your brain is fried.”

  She ignores me. “I also think you were trying to get out of diving the other day. That’s why you ran for the locker room like your squirrel buns were on fire.”

  Bug spit! I thought Isabelle was in the girls’ locker room when I made my escape.

  My sister breaks off a piece of orange mint and sticks it in her mouth. “What I can’t figure out is why. Why would you try to get out of swimming when you know it means you won’t get to go on Uncle Ant’s boat this summer?”

  I bang my weeder against the bucket.

  BEWARE OF ISABELLE’S

  ROCK MUFFINS!

  NEVER EAT MY SISTER’S CRANBERRY-CHERRY-peach-raisin-walnut-cinnamon muffins. Once, my dad broke a tooth on one. My sister’s rock muffins come in handy for other stuff besides taking your teeth out. You can use them as bowling pins, skipping stones (especially the burnt ones with the flat tops), rocket launch pads, car-wash sponges, baseballs, and dog toys (don’t worry; even Joe knows better than to eat them).

  She twists the mint in her mouth. “What’s going on, Scab?” It’s not a demand. For once, it’s just a question.

  I lift my head. We both have the same blue eyes sprinkled with gray dots. We both have a single dimple on the left side of our mouths. I want to tell her, but I don’t want to tell her. If I tell Isabelle the truth, she’ll tattle. If I don’t tell, I’ll have to keep carrying this secret around by myself. And it’s starting to get heavy. I don’t know what to do. For a minute I think it sure would be nice to tell someone, but . . .

  “There’s nothing going on,” I hear myself say. “Nothing.”

  I can’t do it.

  Isabelle flings her chewed-up mint into my bucket. She goes to wind up the hose. I pick up my bucket. I whistle for Joe. We head around the side of the house so I can dump my weeds in the compost bin. My shoulder hurts.

  I look down at my dog. “I did the right thing, didn’t I?”

  He looks up at me.

  “Yeah, but if I trusted her, she’d only go blabbing to everyone.”

  Joe butts his head against my leg.

  Maybe he’s right. What if Isabelle didn’t tattle? What if she could help? What if she could think of a way for me to stay out of the Deep End and still go fishing with my uncle?

  I drop my bucket. “Isabelle!” I race down the gravel path. Joe follows, then passes me on the straightaway. Four feet are so much faster than two! I take the corner, skidding all the way. “Isabelle, I changed my . . .”

  The backyard is empty. The hose is neatly coiled against the house. Everything is still, except for the drip-drip-drip of the leaky spigot. And my mother’s catmint. It is moving. I count one, two, three, four gray-and-white paws swaying with the feathery, purple stems. In the dirt a fluffy, white tummy wriggles. Joe is tearing full speed across the grass toward the catmint, eager to play. I pu
t my fingers in my mouth and let out a whistle. Joe pulls up and circles back to me. “Sit. Good boy. Now, if you’d only do that at the lake, we’d be set.”

  Waldorf is no longer wallowing happily in the mint. He has flipped over. He’s hunched down, his chin touching the dirt. Golden eyes stare into mine. He doesn’t trust us with his secret.

  “It’s all right, Waldorf,” I say. “We won’t tell.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  The Dino Hunters

  Inch by endless inch, I slide open my bedroom window.

  Eeeeeeeeak!

  I freeze. Miss Dolphin Ears is snoring up a thunderstorm next door, but it doesn’t take much to wake her. It’s five thirty on Saturday morning. I’m going out my escape hatch to meet Doyle and Will at Beeson’s Lake.

  I know, I know. I’m still grounded. But what choice do I have? We can’t let Lewis Pigford get there ahead of us. We can’t let him find Zenobia first.

  I climb out my window and gently push it closed. It doesn’t creak this time. I scoot on my butt down the sloping roof to the edge. Whoa! The house is spinning. Or is it the yard that’s twirling? Don’t look down. I reach out for the oak tree. I’ve got one foot on a branch and am bringing the other leg across when—

  Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip.

  This is not a sound you want to hear when you are twenty feet up. I keep going, only turning around to look when I am in the tree.

  Bug spit! Half of my back pocket is dangling from a nail sticking out of the gutter. Could I have left a bigger clue for Isabelle?

  There’s no time to go back. I scamper down the oak tree and snag my backpack from under the rhododendron bush (where I hid it last night). I flip up the hood of my sweatshirt to cover my head. Hunching over, I carefully, but quickly, pick my way across the yard. In my green sweatshirt I blend in with the grass.

  I am stealth. I look left.

  I am indestructible. I look right.

  I am—

  —being watched.

  Joe!

  Through the window of the back door, two dark brown eyes are begging me to let him come. I can tell by the way his mouth is half open he is whimpering. It’s killing me to leave him, but I have no choice. This isn’t our usual lazy day of fishing. I have to focus all of my energy on catching Zenobia. I won’t have time to toss a stick or run after him if he starts chasing ducks. I can’t take him. I just can’t. Not today. As I slip past the back door, I put my finger to my lips. “Shhhhh. Next time, okay? I promise.”