[Janitors 03] Curse of the Broomstaff (3 page)

“Twenty-four years I have driven this road to Welcher Elementary and I have never—
never
—seen such behavior!” The principal struggled to climb from the crashed car, his weight wedging him behind the steering wheel. He threw his bulk forward once, twice. Third time was the charm, and Poach rolled out onto the snowbank.

“Should have known it would be you.” The principal looked at Spencer as he rose, panting, to his feet. “Should have known you’d be standing in the middle of the road with your baby doll, trying to make me crash.”

“It’s not
my
doll,” Spencer said. “It’s Mrs. Natcher’s.”

The principal’s face, already a reddish hue from anger and exertion, turned a shade of purple as he pointed a hot-dog-shaped finger directly at Spencer. “Stealing Mrs. Natcher’s things, eh? Theft of school property!”

“We didn’t steal it,” Spencer said, holding out the doll. “It’s the hall pass.”

“Hahaha!” Principal Poach laughed. The creaking sounds of his wrecked car were working him into unhealthy hysteria. “Hall passes are for hallways, not for roads!”

“Sorry,” Daisy said. “We got lost.”

The big man rested a pudgy hand on the crumpled hood of his once-shiny vehicle. “It was new, you know.” He nodded, jowls quavering. “New car. Christmas gift from the missus.” A tear slipped down his ample cheek. “Now how am I supposed to explain the ketchup stain on the front seat?”

Spencer started backing away. He’d heard about people going into shock after a car crash. But this didn’t look like shock. Principal Poach was going crazy!

“Suspended!” Poach shouted. “Both of you are suspended for the rest of the month!”

“Wait a minute,” Spencer said. “What? You can’t suspend us like this!” Getting suspended was for kids like Dez, not hardworking students like Spencer and Daisy!

“Suspended!” He shooed them away, clearly wanting some time alone to grieve over his smashed Cadillac. Spencer tugged at Daisy’s arm and the two of them began a hesitant retreat.

“And when you come back . . .” Poach shouted. “No—
if
you come back . . . you better bring that stolen doll pass!”

B
y the time they reached the Gates home, Spencer had explained everything to Daisy. She might have been terrified by Mr. Clean’s visit to Leslie Sharmelle; she should have been upset by Leslie’s pending escape and the death sentence on Alan Zumbro. But Daisy Gates was hung up on one little detail.

“We just got suspended!” she said again, walking up her driveway.

“Don’t think of it like that,” Spencer said. He paused at the edge of the sidewalk, eyeing the big black dog chained to the front porch. “Maybe Principal Poach didn’t mean it . . .”

A head poked out of the garage beside the house. It was prematurely bald, with a ring of hair around the side that managed to hold its color. Daisy froze, making eye contact with her dad.

“Early release today?” Mr. Gates asked, strolling down the driveway. He had a greasy tool in one hand and a denim coat flung over his smudged coveralls.

“Bad news, Pops,” Daisy said. “We just got suspended!”

Mr. Gates stopped, his eyebrows meeting in confusion. “Suspended?” He whistled through his teeth. “That sounds horrid, Daisy. What happened?

Daisy took a deep breath. “We ran away from school and then Principal Poach crashed into a pole because Spencer was jaywalking.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. Daisy didn’t know how to sugarcoat the story. She was giving her dad the hard facts, and Spencer braced himself for the reaction.

“How long are you out for?” Mr. Gates asked.

“Rest of the month,” answered Daisy.

Mr. Gates nodded solemnly. “At least it’s February,” he said. “Shortest month of the year.” He absently wiped a bit of grease from the wrench in his hand. “Was it worth it? Leaving school. Did you have a good reason?”

Daisy pointed back to where Spencer stood at the edge of the sidewalk. “Spencer’s worried about his dad . . .”

“He’s out of town . . . again.” Spencer said the last word with a trace of bitterness. “I’m worried about the weather. Got to check on him.”

Mr. Gates turned to his daughter. “Your mother’s gonna turn the color of beet juice when she finds out you got suspended.” Daisy hung her head, and Mr. Gates glanced nervously toward the house. “I don’t like beet juice.” He dug in his pocket until he found a little ring of keys. “Quick!” he whispered. “To the truck!”

Spencer and Daisy clambered after him, ascending the red Ford pickup parked against the curb. Daisy claimed the hump as Spencer shook the snow off his feet and hoisted himself into the huge passenger seat. The cushion was worn thin, and a few springs rose uncomfortably against his backside, but Spencer didn’t complain.

The ignition cranked a few times before Mr. Gates managed to get the truck bouncing down the frosty road toward Spencer’s Hillside Estates neighborhood. The heater was on full blast, but the air hadn’t warmed yet.

“Why don’t you two stick together this afternoon?” Mr. Gates said. “Hide out at the Zumbros’ for a while.” He tapped Daisy’s knee with a greasy finger. “Mom’s all worked up about that storytime presentation she’s supposed to give at the library tonight. It would be best for everyone if she doesn’t find out you were suspended.” He rubbed a hand along the steering wheel. “At least till tomorrow.”

Daisy shivered without her coat, clutching Baybee close. “Thanks, Dad. For not being too mad,” she said. “We left for a reason. Spencer’s really worried about his dad.”

Mr. Gates nodded. “Can’t say I blame him.” He whistled through his teeth again. “Poor kid.”

Spencer sighed, letting his head rest against the window. Daisy and her dad had an obnoxious way of talking as if they were alone, regardless of who else was listening. It was most awkward in moments like these, when the subject of the conversation was sitting only inches away.

“You gotta help him through it, Daisy,” said Mr. Gates. “I mean, his dad came back almost three months ago, but I still haven’t seen them down at the baseball diamond together.”

Daisy pointed out at the crusted snowbanks whipping past the window. “Maybe ’cause it’s winter.”

“Baseball was a metaphor,” Mr. Gates said. “I’ve just noticed that his dad hasn’t been around much since he came back.”

“He’s a really busy guy,” Spencer finally cut in. He didn’t want to know where the conversation was headed. He didn’t want to compare Mr. Gates’s involvement in Daisy’s life to his own father’s absence. Alan Zumbro was alive. Spencer was supposed to be happy.

“My dad’s doing something important,” Spencer said. “And he’s in danger. That’s why we had to leave school.” He stared out the window, his breath fogging the glass. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Mr. Gates turned up the steep road toward the lavish mansions of Hillside Estates. “I might not get it,” said Mr. Gates. “But the two of you better have this sorted out before you go back to school next month.”

Daisy nodded. “That gives us . . .” she counted on her fingers, “ten days to find the package?”

Spencer tried to nudge her inconspicuously but only managed to elbow Baybee in the head. Why did Daisy have to mention the package in front of Mr. Gates? It was that mysterious parcel that kept Alan away, kept him searching across the country. Kept him from being a real dad.

Mr. Gates leaned forward, squinting out the windshield. “You guys get a new automobile?” he asked, a half-grin spreading across his face.

Spencer peered ahead to see a large blue garbage truck idling on the street in front of Aunt Avril’s house, exhaust pipe chugging diesel pollutants into the cold midmorning air.

The huge vehicle was completely blocking the Zumbro driveway, so Mr. Gates did a quick U-turn in the street to drop off the kids. They jumped out, Daisy nearly slipping on a patch of ice in the road. Mr. Gates waved a greasy hand, and his pickup rolled out of sight.

“Ooh, good timing.” Daisy turned her attention to the big blue garbage truck. “I always like to watch it dump the stuff.”

Spencer stepped toward the front of the garbage truck. Straining against the glint on the glass, he saw that the cab was empty. “That’s weird.”

“Not too weird,” Daisy said. “In my neighborhood it happens every Monday morning and I stand out on the front porch and watch. I’m usually not fast enough to see the part where the big metal claw grabs the trash can, but I get to see it all come tumbling out. And sometimes, if I look really close, I can even catch a glimpse of something that I threw away just a day or two before.”

“There’s no driver.” Spencer pointed to the empty cab. “And garbage pickup isn’t till tomorrow.” He looked around the truck to the front of Aunt Avril’s house. There was no movement in the windows, and the Zumbro SUV wasn’t parked in the driveway. That meant no one was home but the idling garbage truck.

“So what’s this guy doing here?” Daisy asked.

There was a crash, a bang, and the sound of shattered glass, momentarily rising above the monotonous purr of the garbage truck’s diesel engine. Spencer and Daisy dropped to their knees at the edge of the driveway, taking shelter behind an icy bank of dirty snow that had been pushed up by the plows.

“What was that?” Daisy whispered. “That crash! It was like someone breaking into the side of your house!”

Spencer dug in his pocket for the vac dust and Glopified latex glove. “I’m going to check it out,” he said. “You be my backup. Do you have any supplies?”

Daisy hoisted the hall pass. “Just Baybee,” she whispered. That would have to be good enough. Besides, Daisy had once used Baybee as a club against Dez. The doll could be quite deadly.

Pinching out a strong dose of vacuum dust, Spencer sprinted across his driveway. He paused momentarily at the corner of the house, just long enough to take two steadying breaths. Then he leapt around the frozen downspout and came face-to-face with a pile of garbage.

I
n truth, there were many piles of garbage littering the snow beside Aunt Avril’s house. They were heaped in tidy mounds, like a dozen multicolored molehills.

The big waste bins that were normally tucked against the side of the fence had been tipped over, their lids askew. A week’s worth of Zumbro trash and recycling had been recklessly dumped.

At first, Spencer thought it was an animal. Raccoons, skunks . . . any number of critters could have ventured into Hillside Estates and torn into the garbage. But that didn’t explain the sorted piles. Spencer didn’t know of a single creature that would ransack a recycle bin and then separate the plastics from the newspapers. . . .

Spencer saw a blur of movement as something rounded the corner from the back of the house. He leapt forward, hurling his vac dust in a widespread Palm Blast. The Glopified dust struck dead-on, sending the approaching figure toppling into the overturned garbage can. The lid flopped shut and the black can quivered, pivoting in the snow and grating against the side of the house.

Daisy appeared at Spencer’s side, Baybee raised aggressively in her hand. “Are you all right?” she asked Spencer as the vac dust subsided.

“Fine, actually!” shouted a response from the depths of the black trash can. “I’m . . . I’m fine!” The lid of the garbage can snapped back as someone kicked from within.

Spencer readied a second blast of vacuum dust, but the stranger who emerged from the trash can looked so peculiar that any sense of threat was momentarily forgotten.

He was a short man, Spencer could tell once he managed to get on his feet. His striped overalls were tucked into tall yellow rubber boots that squeaked underfoot as he righted himself in the snow.

The man tugged at his unbuttoned coat—a tan tweed jacket with patches sewn onto the elbows. It looked nice, like something a businessman might wear to a meeting. But the man’s long necktie, made entirely of duct tape, didn’t seem to match.

To round off the whole attire, the stranger was wearing a leather aviator cap, like an air force pilot from World War II. The brown cap was worn and weathered, the straps flapping against the man’s cheeks and the buckle jingling beneath his chin.

The man straightened his cap, twitched his pencil-thin mustache from side to side, and took a step toward Spencer and Daisy.

“I’m the first one here, then?” His voice had an unusual accent, but Spencer couldn’t place it. New York, maybe?

“Who are you?” Spencer asked, his fingers tightening on the vacuum dust.

“Who am
I?
” He looked around, his face long with mock astonishment that no one had recognized him. “The name is Bernard Weizmann.
Dr.
Bernard Weizmann.”

“Dr. Bernard Weizmann?” Daisy whispered.

“You know him?” Spencer glanced at his shivering classmate.

Daisy shook her head. “Never heard of him. But he sounds like a wise man.”

The man chuckled, smoothed his duct-tape tie, and took a bow. “Call me Bern, Bernie, Bernard. Whichever you prefer.”

“What are you doing at my house?” Spencer said.

“Ahh!” Bernard gave an overexaggerated wink. “But this isn’t your house, is it? The Zumbro family appears to be renting here—more likely tending, free of charge. No doubt a generous offer from Uncle Wyatt and Aunt Avril.”

Spencer swallowed a lump in his throat. He wasn’t cold, despite the frigid air. “Who sent you?” Was this common information among the BEM? “How do you know all this?”

“I just read the piles, kid.” Bernard pointed to the multicolored mounds of trash and recycling in the snow.

“Wow!” Daisy said. “You’re like some kind of garbagereading fortune-teller?”

Bernard shook his head, aviator straps flapping. “Garbologist,” he said. “I’m a garbologist.”

“Wait,” Spencer said. “Garbologist? Like someone who studies . . .
garbage?
”

Bernard held up a hand. “Don’t act so disgusted. The garbage is my friend.”

“What does it tell you?” Daisy asked.

A smile flashed across Bernard’s face. “Anything I want to know.” He took a knee in the snow, surrounded on all sides by organized piles of Zumbro trash. His eyes, stark blue in the bright reflection from the snow, danced from mound to mound.