The Case of the Rock 'n' Roll Dog (4 page)

There are eleven bedrooms in the White House—plenty to go around—but Tessa and I still share. We were afraid it would be spooky to sleep alone in an old house. Our room is big, with two beds and two bookcases. My bookcase is full of books. Tessa's is full of Barbies.

That night, it was Mom who came in to say good night. Usually, we eat dinner with Granny because Mom is so busy being president. When she's in town, though, Mom always comes in to kiss us good night.

“I understand there was some uproar with Hooligan today.” Mom was sitting on the edge of Tessa's
bed. She wore gray sweats and a gray Stanford sweatshirt. In our family, it's Tessa and Aunt Jen who are into fashion. Mom and me—not so much.

“Hooligan is not the problem,” Tessa told her. “Nate is the problem.”

“Why do we have to live with him, Mom?” I asked.

“Shall I send him back to San Diego?” Mom asked.

“Yes!” Tessa and I said.

“What about Aunt Jen?” Mom said.

“She can stay,” I said.

“Then who will Nate live with in San Diego?” Mom asked.

This was a problem. Aunt Jen's husband died in a war. It was later she adopted Nate. He was born in Korea. “Doesn't he have friends in San Diego?” I asked.

Mom nodded. “That's an idea. Or what about this? You girls could go live with friends, and Nate can stay here.”

Tessa knew Mom didn't mean it. But she likes to be dramatic. “
No-o-o-o!
” She waved her hands. “We want to live with
you
—with our
family
!”

Mom smiled and gave her a kiss and a snuggle. Then she came over and gave me a kiss and a snuggle. Mom smelled like roses.

“You know what, muffins,” she said. “I bet Nate feels the same way. I bet he wants to live with
his
family.”

I was going to answer her. But I was sleepy. And when I'm sleepy, my mom is too smart for me.

THE next day was Wednesday, and before the first bell rang, Nate's and my teacher called me to her desk.

“There are a lot of rumors going around about The Song Boys, Cameron,” she said. “Would you like a chance to address them?”

I said that depended on what “address them” meant.

Ms. Nicols smiled. “It means, would you like to tell everybody once and for all whether they are going to be invited?”

“But I don't know yet!” I said. “All Aunt Jen told me is she's doing her best.”

“I see,” Ms. Nicols said. “Well, it's up to you. But I'm afraid it's going to become a distraction if you don't say something.”

I looked at my toes. “I guess I could say
something
.”

“Good,” Ms. Nicols said. “I'll call on you after the bulletin.”

At first when I found out The Song Boys were coming, I thought it was the best thing that ever happened. Now it was more like the worst thing. I hate to talk in front of the class. And it doesn't help that people expect me to be good at it.

Just because my mom is good at something, does it mean I have to be?

I listened to the bulletin, wishing it would go on forever. But like always it ended after the cafeteria menu.

“And now, class,” Ms. Nicols said, “Cameron wishes to address us. Cameron?”

Standing up, I heard a rude noise from a desk in back. Nate. At least I hoped so.

“Uh . . . so I know everybody's hoping they can come to the White House to see The Song Boys on Saturday . . .,” I started.

Nate interrupted: “Not me! I hate The Song Boys.”

“Nathan?” Ms. Nicols said. “Could you let your cousin have her say, please?”

Now I was even more nervous. “Uh . . . but the thing is there's something called security clearances, and that's why—”

“Cameron?” Now Ms. Nicols interrupted. “Could you explain that, please? Not everyone has had the experience of living in the White House.”

A couple of people giggled.

I took a deep breath, and then I said how a security clearance means the Secret Service makes sure
people visiting the White House aren't planning to hurt anything.

“And it takes a while for the Secret Service to do that, and then if there's a problem, uh . . . well, that person can't come,” I said. And then I sat down.

“Wait just a moment, Cameron. Is there a problem?”

Unhappily, I stood back up. At this rate Saturday would come and go with me still standing in front of the class. “I don't think so,” I said. “But Aunt Jen told me not to bug her about it. She and Mrs. Silver will let everyone know at the same time—and she promises that will be as soon as possible.”

Ms. Nicols thanked me and said—finally—I could sit back down. “So now I hope everyone's questions about Saturday are answered,” she said brightly, “and we can move along with our day!”

Ms. Nicols may be the education professional, and I may be the ten-year-old. But even I knew “move-along-with-our-day” was not going to happen.

And it didn't.

I won't torture you with details. But maybe you have had a birthday party and your mom let you invite five people, and everybody was talking about who wasn't going? Or maybe you got the lunchbox or the music player or the bicycle everybody wanted, and now they're saying you're spoiled? Or maybe a friend decided he didn't like you anymore, and now his friends won't sit with you at lunch?

Well, pretend all those things happened on the same day, multiply that times a hundred, and add in one cousin who spends the whole day insulting your friends' taste in music. That's what Wednesday was like for me.

At three ten when we were packing our backpacks to go home, Courtney tried to make me feel better.

“I still like you, Cammie,” she said. “And even if I don't get invited, I will still still like you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“But,” she added, “I'll like you better if I do get invited.”

I wasn't looking forward to being trapped in the van with Nate all the way home. But it turned out not to matter. The second our seat belts were buckled, Granny said, “Hooligan is AWOL again, and Mr. Ross is not happy.”

Like I said, Mr. Ross is the head usher. I know that sounds like a job in a theater, but actually he's in charge of the whole White House. The job got the name in the 1800s when the main thing that person had to do was usher people in to see the president.

“So this time,” Granny continued, “I think we should apprehend the fugitive ourselves—if you don't have too much homework, that is.”

“We don't!” we all said at the same time. And we spent the rest of the drive discussing what Granny
calls logistics. In the end, we decided to search from top to bottom. So, after eating our single solitary cookies along with a bunch of grapes and some celery sticks, we deployed to the solarium.

The ground and state floors of the White House are the public parts. The family part is mostly on the second and third floors. Mom and Dad, and Tessa and I have our bedrooms on the second, while Aunt Jen and Nate's rooms are on the third. From the third floor, there is a ramp that leads up to the solarium.

“All right, troops,” Granny said when we reached the top of the ramp. “It is now—” she looked at her watch “—sixteen fifteen hours. Cammie, you take the rooms north of the hall. Tessa, you're going south. Nathan—your job is to search up here in the kitchen and storage rooms. We reconvene at sixteen twenty-five. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am!” we said.

“A-a-a-a-a-and
fan out
!”

The three of us ran back toward the hall. Nate went straight ahead. “Hoo-hoo-
hooligan
!” we yodeled. But the only answer was an echoing “Hoo-
hooligan
!”

Ten minutes later, we had looked under beds and tables and behind curtains and toilets, but there was not a snuffle or a whimper or a
scritch-scratch
.

“We now know for sure where Hooligan is
not
,” Granny said. “I've done a pretty good search of the second floor myself, so let's go downstairs.”

In the morning, the public can tour the state floor of the White House, so we stay out of the way. But
in the afternoon there aren't tours, so we can come down if we want. I was looking under a sofa in the Blue Room when Tessa came running.

Something was wrong. Was Hooligan hurt?

“No, no, not
Hooligan
!” Tessa was out of breath. “The baton—the historic Who-za one Nate knows about? It's
missing
!”

“NOT Who-za—
Sousa!
” I said.

Tessa waved her arms. “What
ever
.”

Then she explained.

She had gone into the East Room looking for Hooligan and found Colonel Michaels. “He told me the baton is missing,” Tessa said.

I said, “That's too bad,” because I could see she was upset. But really, I was relieved nothing bad had happened to Hooligan.

Tessa shook her head. “You still don't get it, Cammie. It's not too bad. It's
really
bad! Without the baton, there's no Song Boys!”

“Why not?” I asked.

“The Marine Band can't play unless they have it. Nate said so. No band—no Song Boys.”

Was this true? Or was this Tessa drama?

“Come on,” I said. “We better talk to Colonel Michaels.”

We found him in the East Room. Remembering
how he hadn't exactly forgiven us, I was extra polite. “Good afternoon, Colonel Michaels.”

“Good afternoon, Cameron. I suppose your sister has explained?”

“It's becoming a real mystery!” Tessa said. “Cammie and I are good at solving mysteries. Dad asks us to find his missing glasses all the time.”

“They are usually on his head,” I said.

“Plus detecting skills run in our family,” Tessa went on. “Granny used to be a cop.”

“Police officer,” I said.

“Well, I could certainly use the help of skilled detectives,” said Colonel Michaels. “It's important that I get the baton back before Saturday. Otherwise, how will I keep the beat for The Song Boys?”

“We know all about your baton,” Tessa said. “Nate wrote a report on John Philip—”

“—Sousa,” I said before she could get it wrong.

“Did he now?” said Colonel Michaels. “And he mentioned the Sousa baton?”

Tessa nodded. “And how the band can't play without it.”

Colonel Michaels shook his head. “Oh dear. That old myth.”

“It isn't true?” I said.

“No, it's not,” said Colonel Michaels. “Somewhere some author wrote that the Sousa baton is in regular use. And from there someone got the idea we don't perform without it. But the fact is the Sousa baton is so valuable it's only used for ceremonial occasions.”

Ha!
I thought. For once our
so superior
cousin got something wrong!

“Then what baton is it that's missing?” Tessa asked.