I So Don't Do Mysteries by Barrie Summy Read Free Book Online Page B

real, dead one.

I bound out of bed way early the next morning. Our flight
isn’t until two, but I gotta get hold of my mother.
    First thing I do is grab my brand-new cell phone off my nightstand. The Ruler, Paula,
definitely knows how to choose a gift. I’ve wanted a cell forever. And this one is teeny and tiny
and cute and shiny with perfect little buttons and a few video games.
    Second thing I do is elbow on the bathroom light. I scream. The Ruler, Paula, whoever,
was so wrong. I don’t look cured enough to get on a plane. I look like I need to be abandoned
on a desert island, where I can’t freak out small children and pets.
    I grab a half-dried-up concealer stick. The whole time I’m coloring my face and
neck, I’m thinking Mom thoughts. Scary Mom thoughts. Like, what’s she going to say
when she finds out I broke a major Academy rule by blabbing to Junie? Color. Worry. Color.
Worry.
    All of a sudden, a brilliant idea zaps me like static shock. I won’t tell Mom that I
told Junie. I’m sure the Academy will never figure it out, because, with all their important
ghostly responsibilities, how much are they gonna stay on top of one lousy ghost, one little mystery
and me?
    One final swipe with the stick, and I’m ready to contact my mother. Hopefully
her special snitch gave her beaucoup details, like the suspect’s name, photo, address,
driver’s license, motive. And how about info like exactly when he plans to carry out his deadly
deed?
    In the kitchen, I haul down the can of French roast and the coffeemaker from the
cupboard. I set them side by side on the counter. Now what?
    A toilet flushes upstairs. Hurry. Hurry. Think. Think. I peel the lid off the can. Coffee
smell wafts throughout the room, and a lump as big as a Ping-Pong ball jams my throat. I shake my
head. No time for this. I partially fill the carafe with water, then dump in some grounds, which float
around like dead ants in a swimming pool. Gross. Why do people drink this stuff?
    â€œWhatcha doin’?”
    I shriek, jump, drop the carafe. In that order. Amazingly, the carafe doesn’t
break but spits water + grounds all over the tile. “Look what you did,” I say to Sam.
“Get cleaning.”
    â€œOkay.” Rubbing his eyes, he unrolls some paper towels.
    My brother must be sleepwalking; he never follows my orders.
    â€œFine,” I say. “Give me some too.”
    He tears off a bunch of sheets and hands them to me.
    I start mopping up puddles.
    â€œIt smells like Mom in here.” His voice cracks.
    I look over at him, with his sleep-messy eyebrows and drooping SpongeBob pajamas.
“Uh-huh.”
    He blinks, and a couple of tears roll down his cheeks. With a sob, he lunges at me and
hangs on, like some kind of four-foot-tall munchkin-parasite.
    I rub his back. “Things’ll get better.” Especially if I help Mom
so she gets to stay in the Academy. Maybe she’ll learn to contact Sam too. Mom can watch his
Little League games. And if she learns to cross thresholds, she can come to our school stuff, like plays
and citizen-of-the-month assemblies. We can hang together, tell her about our day, joke around, talk
about what’s bugging us. It could be great.
    Sam gives a big, wet, mucusy sniff, then untangles himself. “You wanna drink
coffee to help you remember Mom better?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    He pulls a package of filters out of the lazy Susan and pinches one off. Then he
expertly taps the filter gently into place, spoons in some French roast, rinses out the carafe, refills it and
pours the water into the machine. After pushing the On button, he says, “I made enough for me
too. Not to drink. Just to smell.”
    Standing next to each other, close but not touching, the two of us silently watch the
coffee drip down. When it’s done, I pour two mugs.
    â€œ
Scooby Doo
’s on.” Sam cradles the