A Crime Story

A CRIME STORY

"April, would you care to join us here on Planet Earth?" Mr. Grant's deep voice cut through my thoughts.

The class laughed. My cheeks burned. I fixed him with my best gimlet stare and set down my pencil, which I had been using to draw a picture of a cute little dog with big ears, a papillon, they're called.

My birthday was a week away. I'll be turning ten and I was getting a puppy (!) And Mr. Grant expected me to concentrate on math? Honestly. I put it all into my stare.

Mr. Grant matched me glare for glare.

The class held its breath.

"One hundred times ninety-three. Do you have any idea where to start?"

I blew out a breath. He was good.

"No, Mr. Grant, I don't."

"Then pay attention, please."

I suffered mightily, although I did learn how to use boxes to move tens around. I think.

At the end of the day, Mr. Grant called me over to his desk. He handed me back the files I'd written describing me and Gran's recent cases. Only he called them 'stories'. He'd given me A++'s on both.

"You're a wonderful writer, April, with a fabulous imagination. . ."

I stopped him right there.

"They're true," I said. "These are case files, not stories."

Mr. Grant eyed me thoughtfully for a bit. "Uh huh," he said finally. "Maybe you could dream up a detective who solves cases using grade four math?"

I don't think he believed me. His loss. "I'm glad you enjoyed them," I said. Gran tells me I should always be polite even if I don't feel like it. I ran to catch up with my best-friend, Pam.

Her mom picked us up. I was staying for dinner at Pam's house because Gran was stepping out with the gentleman from her aqua-fitness class (again!) and my Mom would be home late from her new job as Director of the art restoration department. I wrote up how she ended up with the job of Director in case file #2.

Pam's mom had to pick up some groceries and she let us go to the pet store in the same strip mall as the grocery store while she shopped. I swear Pam was as excited as me, almost, about the new puppy. I was looking at a collar, red with yellow daisies on it. I liked the name "Daisy", if she was a girl. Pam preferred "Rosie" and thought a collar that was white with red flowers on it was better. She was wrong. The red flowers weren't even roses. I was explaining this to Pam, and we were getting a little heated, when I saw Mr. Grant.

The strip mall was shaped like a 'U'. He was coming out of a dance studio, 'Step by Step' it was called, that was across the parking lot from the pet store. He looked real upset. I'd never seen Mr. Grant upset before. He never loses his cool. It set my radar off.

That would be my detecting radar. I didn't know yet if I wanted to be a real detective, like Detective Brown, my mom's new beau (I wrote about how they met in case file #1), or be a writer of detective stories like the ones I sneak from my Gran's bookcase. Gran tells me I have lots of time to make that kind of decision and that I should focus on my school work. She's one to talk! Me and Gran are a team. A detecting team.

I nudged Pam and pointed out Mr. Grant through the window of the pet store.

"Does he look upset to you?" I asked.

Her eyes narrowed, taking in his clenched fists and wide eyes, so wide the whites showed all the way across the parking lot.

Then a girl, about our age, busted out the door after him, threw herself into his arms and burst into tears. Mr. Grant patted her back and looked close to tears himself.

Pam and I shared a raised-eyebrow glance.

"He has a daughter?" she said, at the same time as I said, "I think he's going to cry!"

Well, this was news. It almost, almost, pushed the puppy out of our heads. We talked about what could be bothering Mr. Grant all through dinner.

Pam's mom thought we should mind our own business. I informed her that detecting doesn't work like that. She fixed me with the same kind of look Mr. Grant had when I told him my case files were true.

Mr. Grant was still some upset the next day. He never once told me to pay attention, he didn't even tell Matt the Dingbat to stop pulling on Pam's ponytail and Pam had to swat Matt and Mr. Grant didn't even notice. He spent most of the day staring at his phone.

After school, I took the bus to Gran's like normal. And, as usual, she'd set out milk and cookies on the kitchen table for me. She made herself a mug of tea while I told her all about Mr. Grant.

Gran sat down, blowing on her tea.

"Well now, April May." She calls me that for short, even though it's longer. "You realize that there's a fine line between detecting and plain meddling, I hope."

"Would you call it meddling when we caught the guy who caused Gramp's death?" I demanded. "Or when we stopped Dr. Slim from murdering his wife?"

Gran harrumphed, her ample bosom heaving. "They certainly would," she said. "Besides, those were crimes so it's detecting. If you go poking into someone's private business for no cause, that's meddling."

"But he's my teacher. And there's something wrong. . . "

Gran held up a hand. "Stop right there, April May. Now you promise me you won't go looking into Mr. Grant's private business."

Gran knew me too well. I had to think fast to make a promise I could keep.

"I promise I won't look into Mr. Grant," I said.

"Mr. Grant's private business." Gran eyed me and I can tell you her cold-eyed stare beats Mr. Grant's or mine.

I sighed. "Mr. Grant's private business," I agreed.

She dipped a cookie into her tea and I dipped one into my milk and we tapped drippy cookies to seal the deal.

My Gran's a tough one, all right. Maybe she's slipping a bit. Because, see, I never promised nothing about not looking into Mr. Grant's daughter's business.

So the next time I was headed to Pam's after school 'cause Gran was out for dinner (again!) and Mom was also going out for dinner with Detective Brown (I don't think they were all going together), me and Pam went over to the dance studio, instead of into the pet store.

Mr. Grant still wasn't back to himself. I figured he was upset because his daughter was. That's what good parents are supposed to do. I know my Mom and Gran would be upset if I was and I bet my Dad would be, too. Not that I know that for sure. He's been gone so long, I don't recall him at all.

Pam was a little nervous. She didn't care for the idea of spying on the dance school girls.

"It's not spying," I insisted. "It's detecting. We're not making them talk. We're just listening."

Pam was firm. "Eavesdropping is spying. I don't like it."

She refused to hear the voice of reason and finally huffed off back to the grocery store to help her mother. I didn't need her anyway.

The lobby of the dance school was painted a light purple. Chairs lined the walls and were occupied by sleepy looking parents, mostly mothers, waiting for their kids. I tried to look unobtrusive. I picked up a brochure of classes and leaned against the wall, pretending to read. No one was talking. The parents read or stared at their phones, barely blinking. Asleep with their eyes open. Music played from behind a closed door, stopping and starting over and over again.

Loud, exasperated shouts broke the peace. The waiting parents blinked and shifted in their seats. They didn't seem surprised, though. More than a few exchanged knowing glances, even a couple rolled their eyes.

I inched along the wall toward the commotion. Down a short hallway were two doors: one to a bathroom on the right and one to an office at the end. I kept the brochure in front of my face and peered over the top to see a woman with a very severe bun shouting into a phone. She glanced up at me, then got up from her desk and shut the office door. The door was glass so I could still see her. At one point she banged down the phone, then rested her head in her hands. Upset. Like a lot of folks seemed to be around this dance school.

The music stopped and the door to the studio opened. Girls my age piled out, wearing black body suits and pink tights, all of them with their hair in tight buns.

"Nice work, Annie," a woman in work-out gear told the last girl out. I recognized Mr. Grant's daughter. So her name was Annie. I was getting somewhere.

I was surprised that Annie didn't look at the teacher or acknowledge her in anyway. She marched out with her head held high, like she was determined to keep her dignity. She looked neither right nor left, changed her shoes, packed her little pink bag that said "Dance Queen" in pink shiny sequins on it, and marched right on out the door.

I waited. Because if you want to hear the gossip, most people will do so behind the person's back, or so says my Gran.

She was right. As soon as the door closed behind Annie, the mothers turned to each other.

"What a shame," muttered one.

"That poor girl," agreed another.

One girl sat off by herself, changing her shoes. All the girls chatted to each other and ignored her. Her eyes were blotchy, like she'd been crying.

The office door opened and the woman inside barked, "Kendra, in here."

The ignored girl, obviously Kendra, headed down the short hallway, went into the office and closed the door behind her. The woman at the desk didn't even look at her.

Then the gossip started for real.

One girl turned to her mother and said, "It's not fair! Annie's the best dancer and everyone knows it."

Another girl announced to all the mothers,"We're starting a petition to get Annie the solo she deserves. Will you all sign?"

There was a sudden awkward silence.

"Mom!" the girls chorused in unison.

Some mothers nodded, some said "Yes," and a lot of them looked uncomfortable.

"It's not really our job to decide these things," one mother started to say.

Her daughter interrupted her. "Mom, it's so clearly racism and that's a crime!"

My ears perked up at that word. A crime, eh? And then my own mom walked through the door. Her face lit up when she saw me.

"I didn't know you were interested in dance classes!"

I folded the brochure and tucked it into my pocket. 'What are you doing here, Mom? I thought you were going for dinner." I headed for the door, steering Mom along until we were outside.

"Detective Brown was called in to work. Pam told me you were over here. April, what are you doing?"

I'd ducked down behind Mom, pretending to tie my shoelace, as Mr. Grant drove out of the parking lot with Annie beside him. She was crying.

Mom yahooed to Pam and her mom who were loading their car with groceries and we had to go over and talk. Pam was giving me raised eyebrows, trying to get me to say what I'd heard. I knew Mom would have her suspicions about what I was up to, and even though she was yakking with Pam's mom she'd have one ear on me, so I couldn't tell Pam that I'd learned all I needed to solve the case. I just didn't know what I was going to do about it.

I thought Mom had let the whole dance lessons fiasco slide. She never mentioned it to me that night. But she must have told Gran on her usual late-night April's-supposed-to-be-asleep phone call. And no way was Gran gonna let anything slide.

I didn't sleep much. I was thinking about what to do. I had decided to confront the boss lady at the dance studio with my plan to make her fess up to racism (which is a crime!). The problem I couldn't see my way around and that kept me awake was, it would be Annie and the other dancers word against hers. If she said she'd picked the best dancer, well, that was her choice, right? It seemed to me, though, that if you were accused of racism it would be a bad thing, especially if you run a business. I figured I'd let her know I have the resources, Tiktok and Twitter and Facebook (or I would anyway, when Mom let me), to reveal the corruption at the heart of her dance school to the whole town if she didn't give Annie what she deserved. And then Mr. Grant would be happy again and back to normal.

I always say me and Gran are a team. Sure enough, she had the same idea as me. 'Cause there I was back in the dance studio the very next day. I told Gran in the morning that I was going to Pam's after school then I took the city bus to the mall. At the dance studio, I pretended I was interested in classes and tapped on the glass door of Mrs. MacDonald's office. I knew her name was Mrs. MacDonald because I read the brochure and I'd looked on line. The studio had a reputation of winning the city-wide competition every year with the best dancers of all ages. There were enough trophies and ribbons on display in her office to show the web site wasn't kidding.

"Can I help you?" Mrs. MacDonald opened the door and gave me an icy stare.

"I'm interested in taking classes. . . ," I started.

"We're just finishing our season. Come back in the fall." And she closed the door in my face. Honestly, is that any way to run a business?

I opened the door, marched in and sat on the chair facing the desk. She stood behind the desk and glared at me. With her fierce bun and perfect posture, she was scary.

I gathered my courage and blurted out my spiel. I would publicize the racism evident in her studio. I wouldn't be the only one; there were rumours, I said, of a petition being circulated by the other dancers.

She plopped into her chair. I felt a heavy hand grip my shoulder. Mrs. MacDonald looked behind me, as did I. Gran stood there, a thunderous look on her face. I knew she would back my play!

"And who are you?" asked Mrs. MacDonald.

"I'm with her," Gran said. "And we're just leaving."

"But, Gran," I said, "Racism is a crime."

"It is, April May. But this is none of our business." And she grabbed me by the ear! Up near the top, at the part that gets sore when you sleep on it wrong. It hurt. I yelped. Gran pulled me out of the chair.

"Stop," Mrs. MacDonald said, holding up her hands. "Racism is a crime. So is nepotism. Kendra is my niece and you have no idea what a living hell my sister can make of my life."

She sank her head into her hands. "Would you believe I never even considered people would construe this as racism?"

"I'm sure you know what the right thing to do is," Gran said. "Unlike some." She gave my ear another good tug, hauling me out of the office.

Gran didn't say a word to me all the way to the car. Not on the way home either.

She didn't set out milk and cookies. She didn't make tea. She didn't sit down. Her arms were crossed and she stared at me. I can't rightly describe the look on her face; I just know I never want to see it again.

"April May," she said, "you sat here, at this very table, and promised you would not look into Mr. Grant's business."

"You said if it was a crime it wasn't just meddling. . ."

Gran raised a finger. I shut it.

"The crime here is that you prevaricated, April."

I nodded wisely. "Good word." I wondered what it meant.

Gran's scowl deepened. "It means deliberately mislead or lie. I am very disappointed in you. I feel like I can't trust you any more."

That hurt worse than anything. "But we're a team, Gran!"

"Not if I can't trust you to do as you promised."

I was crying. Me and Gran have to be a team! "I'll do whatever it takes to make it right."

"What you'll do is write up what you did and turn it in to Mr. Grant. We'll let him decide on your punishment."

Uh oh. The thought of Mr. Grant knowing what I did made my stomach queasy.

It took me a couple of days to wrestle with the story. I kept trying to find a way to make me look good and finally wrote it the way it happened. Gran asked to double-check it before I turned it in.

"Because I don't know if I can trust you," she said.

That made my chin wobble again.

I made sure I placed my story under a pile of other papers on Mr. Grant's desk. At first recess I told Pam all about it. All she said was "I told you so." Which wasn't helpful. I didn't sit with her at lunch. And then she sat with Matt the Dingbat!

After lunch, Mr. Grant announced he wanted to read something to the class. He read my story to where I ended it with "Uh oh." He didn't mention my name, or his own name, or anyone else's from the story. I appreciated that. Everyone was quiet when he finished. Pam shot me a covert look. I ignored her.

"Does anyone want to comment?"

No one put their hand up.

"Do you think it's right to interfere in someone's business if you see a wrong being done?"

Hands shot up. Mr. Grant picked out Matt.

"Do you mean, like, if someone's being bullied in front of you?"

"Yes, like that."

"I would stop it," Matt announced.

"Would you?" Mr. Grant eyed him. "Or do you like to think you would?"

"Like Superman or Batman saving the day," Rob called out.

"Hands, please," said Mr. Grant. "And, yes, like Superman or any super hero swooping in to save the day."

We had a long discussion in class that afternoon about when to get involved in other people's business. Mr. Grant assigned us a project. We had to read through news articles and decide when it would be appropriate or not, taking into account if it would be dangerous. We worked off the computers in the classroom.

While everyone was busy discussing, I sidled up to Mr. Grant's desk. "What happened with the dancer?" I whispered.

"Both girls were given solos," he answered, sotto voce too.

I pretended to use the pencil sharpener on his desk. "And the girl's, I mean the detective's, punishment?"

Mr. Grant shuffled papers around. "I do appreciate the attempt to right wrongs," he said. "However, I think it would be appropriate to ask first if someone wants help." He sighed. "I believe the girl's grandmother's disappointment is punishment enough."

He was right. That was a wrong I didn't know how to right, but I was going to have to try my best. Me and Gran have to be a team. It would be a crime if we weren't.