Nothing Special by Geoff Herbach Read Free Book Online

down the stairs (backward) and went to bed, not even thinking for a second about what the crap Andrew was doing working on his computer during the wee hours of the morning.
    I didn’t sleep a damn wink, Aleah. I heard Andrew walk around a little. At one point, I heard him go out the front door then come back in. Apparently he couldn’t sleep either.
    I was seriously spooked by that email, and my monkey brain totally took off with it. Our boy must go…Our boy must gooooo…What is Andrew’s problem? Do you know how I regulate my monkey brain in times of unease? Running. But I couldn’t run. Hamstring.
    Early the next morning (April Fools’ Day! Appropriate), me all dizzy and gross and totally mummified by the freaking sweaty sheets that were wrapped all around me, I opened my email to find another dispatch from Detective Randy Stone.
    Oh shit!
    Detective Randy Stone, the most brilliant child sleuth in America, hunts through the Yellow Pages of Fiddlesticks, Florida. He finds a business. The perfect business. A carpet-cleaning business that specializes in parrot poop, because he knows the dirt has been building up for too long.
    In Fiddlesticks, there’s a cleaning business, Happy Halpen Cleaners, that can restore this carpet to its most gigantic beauty, and maybe one day it will carpet the floor next to presidents or great tennis stars or old men sitting alone in their dens listening to music because they think there is nothing else left, but maybe a good, reasonable carpet can help. That’s what carpet does!
    The poor boy Randy Stone lights another cigarette, which flames up very high, and he totally chokes, because cigarettes are so dumb. After he is done hacking up his tender lungs and dousing the flames, he nods and says, “Mmm. Sweetie. Oh lord, yes. That’s good cigarette flavor.”
    What the hell?
    I read it twice. Heat rose in my face. My hands started to shake. Oh, yeah, I got incredibly mad. I knew exactly who was behind this crappy writing. I recognized the freakiness. No doubt Jerri was right. Gus . He was hell-bent on torturing me. Even though it was like 6:30 a.m., I called him five times. He didn’t answer.
    I waited ten minutes, then called again.
    He didn’t answer.
    I lay in bed staring at my ceiling, anger bolting like Jamaican Kangaroo Juice through my body.
    I called him again.
    He didn’t answer.
    I called again, then again.
    On my tenth or fifteenth call, he answered.
    â€œYou must stop buzzing my phone immediately.”
    â€œ Randy Stone! ” I shouted.
    â€œCease and desist.”
    â€œ Randy Stone! ”
    â€œFelton, Jesus. Somebody better be dead.”
    â€œWhatever, Randy Stone.”
    â€œIs this how you wish me a happy birthday a day late?”
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œMy birthday,” he said.
    â€œRandy Stone?” I asked.
    â€œAre you on drugs, Felton?”
    â€œRandy Stone might be.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDirty carpets, Randy Stone.”
    â€œShut the hell up, Felton.”
    â€œIt was your birthday yesterday,” I said.
    â€œI went to Steve’s with Maddie and Peter Yang.”
    â€œWhat about Randy Stone?” I asked.
    â€œWho?” he asked.
    â€œSorry,” I said.
    â€œIs there an emergency of some kind, Felton?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWorst April Fools’ joke ever?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?”
    â€œUm…”
    â€œIt’s like dawn on Sunday, man. It’s not enough that we’re not friends? You want to torture me too?”
    â€œThat’s not what I…”
    â€œScrew off.”
    Gus hung up the phone. He clearly hated me, which seemed reasonable since I’d just missed his birthday for the first time in our lives. But still, there was no doubt in my mind that he was Randy Stone, Aleah. I just didn’t know how to deal with it, so I tossed and turned in that stupid bed.
    Then