I So Don't Do Mysteries by Barrie Summy

you won’t.”
    Before he answers, I take off, zigzagging around the tables until I reach the exit. Then I
crouch and creep down the steps. When I get to the bottom, I sit, leaning into the fence and the thick
honeysuckle growing up it. What a sickly-sweet smell.
    Through a gap in the green leaves and yellow flowers, I focus on a figure kneeling in the
shadow of the tennis net. He’s short, with messy orange hair and freakishly long arms. All rigid,
he’s holding binoculars up to his eyes. The binoculars are trained on the group on the
beach.
    I turn my attention to the people standing and chatting on the sand just beyond the
cement walkway. Damon Walker’s there!
    What are they saying? Crawling next to the fence, I’m shaky and wobbly. Like
the first time you roll out of bed after the flu. This PI lifestyle is stressful.
    A swift peek back at the courts tells me Monkey Man’s still glued to his
binoculars.
    Damon barks out, “Where’s Kendra? Why isn’t she chilling
with the rest of us?”
    Silence. Everyone examines their feet.
    It’s at this very intense moment that my cell phone chooses to ring.

Ring. Ring. Ring.
    All eyes in the group shift to me.
    Ring. Ring. Ring.
    Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.
    How long before my voice mail picks up? What did The Ruler set it at? July?
    I jerk my mini-backpack off and try to unzip it to get to the phone. The zipper is stuck.
I yank and pull on it. Nada.
    Ring. Ring. Ring.
    Then I try feeling for the phone through the canvas material so I can push the
disconnect button. My backpack is full of nothing but phonelike lumps. I jab, jab, jab on
everything.
    Finally, the ringing stops.
    All eyes are still staring at me. Time feels stretched out like a rubber band.
    On the tennis courts, Monkey Man lowers his binoculars and focuses on me like
he’s memorizing my face. Then, with his apelike arms, he shoves open the gate to the courts
and bolts off down the beach, clouds of sand kicking up behind him.
    Damon watches, frowning and stroking his chin. If this were a comic book, Damon
would have a question-mark bubble above his head. It looks like a thousand thoughts are fighting for
space in his brain. And I don’t mean nice, pleasant thoughts.
    Damon turns and aims his famous pistachio green eyes at me, probably trying to figure
out where I fit into the mysterious-guy-with-binoculars puzzle. And I know in my churning gut that I
don’t want Damon to associate me with Monkey Man.
    I twirl a bunch of hair around my finger. Then suddenly—and who knows where
the brilliant idea pops in from—I say, “Can I have your autograph?”
    There’s more silence, like he needs time to switch gears. Then, smiling with
perfect, pearly teeth, he stretches out a hand. “Sure.”
    Huh? Oh, I get it. I dig in the outside pocket of my backpack and come up with a pen
and my boarding pass. I hand them over.
    Damon leans against his thigh to write. He doesn’t even ask my name. And in
the middle of scrawling “Walker,” he glances back at his friends. “Come on,
guys. We have a big day tomorrow.”
    After they’re gone, I unhook the latch on the gate to the courts. Maybe Monkey
Man left behind a clue. I shuffle over to where he was kneeling. What am I stepping on? I bend down
and grab up . . . I don’t know what, exactly. Some weird mixture of seeds and pellets.
There’s a small pile and then a thin trail leading to the gate. Looks like Monkey Man has a hole
in his pocket.
    Is he carrying around a healthy California snack? I sniff. I cough. Yuckerama. It stinks
like cat food. No way I’m tasting that. Then a bizarre, way-out-there thought hits me. Could
this strange, smelly stuff possibly be poison? Rhino poison? I push a handful of it down into my
pocket. I’ll show it to my mother. If she shows up.
    I jog back up the steps. All this physical exercise must be toning me for the