The Case of the Bug on the Run by Martha Freeman Read Free Book Online

explained before Tessa could ask.
    â€œThe news guys are gonna be there?” said Tessa. “That gives me an idea.”
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t worry, Cammie,” my sister said. “We could hardly be in any more trouble, right?”
    The South Lawn is as big as fourteen football fields, and the Kitchen Garden is at the far end. It was a long walk in air that felt like chicken soup. I was sweaty by the time we saw the garden and the news guys clustered around it. Soon after that, we saw something else—Bug Liberation Front protesters outside the fence on Executive Drive.
    So that was where the rest of them had gone!
    â€œHey, Fireball and Fussbudget—yo!” Charlotte caught up to us. “What happened to Fingers?”
    Everyone in our family has a Secret Service code name. Fireball is Tessa, and Fussbudget’s me. Nate is Fingers because, like I said—piano genius.
    â€œPracticing piano,” said Tessa.
    â€œOf course he is,” said Charlotte.
    Tessa, Nate and I are not allowed to be outside without Secret Service protection, and there are always agents posted on the lawn. Some of them wear suits, but some of them wear casual clothes so you’d think they’re just regular people hanging out.
    As we approached the garden, Mr. Bryant made a hard left to avoid the news guys. The White House pets did not need more publicity. We could meet up later. The Kitchen Garden is about the same size as a big bedroom, and its pattern of rows and squares reminds me of a quilt. Besides tomatoes, there are kale, peas, corn, eggplants, okra, Brussels sprouts and herbs. There areraspberry bushes, too, and off to the side, a couple of beehives.
    Ms. Major was waiting for us, along with a White House photographer and the White House head gardener.
    â€œWhat are the Bug Liberation Front protesters doing down here?” I asked Ms. Major.
    â€œThey must’ve got wind of Chef Amaro’s plan for a photo op, and now they’re hoping the press will pay attention to them, too,” Ms. Major said.
    â€œLook, here he comes!” Tessa pointed at an orange mini-tractor speeding toward us with Mr. Amaro driving. His sequined turquoise bandanna and wraparound glasses made him easy to recognize. Some of the protesters recognized him, too. One of them had a guitar and strummed it, waving and hooting at the same time.
    Mr. Amaro waved and hooted back.
    Then the protesters started another chant:
    â€œFish gotta swim, birds gotta fly
,
    Bugs gotta roam or else they die.”
    Instead of watching where he was going, Mr. Amaro was reading the signs—and soon the tractor was heading straight for us!
    Everybody ran for their lives.
    â€œLook out!” Charlotte yelled.
    Mr. Amaro turned his head, saw the crash-about-to-happen and yanked the wheel just in time. The tractorjerked to a halt at the very edge of the garden, its tires spinning up a messy spray of grass and dirt.
    Phew!
My heart was pounding. But Mr. Amaro didn’t seem to notice he’d almost taken out half a dozen news guys and a row of arugula. He just hopped off the tractor and grinned his famous grin. “Hey, everybody. Awesome to be here!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    As you’d expect from a pro-vegetable TV star, Mr. Amaro had no trouble being photographed and picking tomatoes at the same time. He even showed Tessa and me how. What you do is kneel in the dirt, hunt until you find a red one, grab gently and twist hard till it separates from the stem. Tomato stems, in case you don’t know, are smelly and covered with sticky, silvery hairs.
    Anyway, after that, if the tomato is round enough and pretty enough, you hold it beside your smiling face, look up at the photographer and try not to blink while the sweat drips in your eyes.
    â€œLovely, Tessa!” said the photographer. “Uh, Cameron? Wipe the dirt smudge off your nose and we’ll try it again.”
    After the photos were