Portia's Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship (10 page)

8:08
A.M.,
M
EDIA AND
T
ECHNOLOGY
FOR THE
M
ILLENNIUM
C
LASS
,
P
ALMVILLE
M
IDDLE
S
CHOOL

I
carefully place my essay number two at the center of Mr. Scuzzy's desk just as he walks into the classroom. He thanks me for giving more thought to the subject of twenty-first-century media and says that he looks forward to reading it. He adds, “I found your piece on second chances illuminating.” Handing me the ripped paper with essay number one on it, he winks. “Next time, one page will be just fine.”

“Sorry about that. Thanks, Mr. S.”

12:13
P.M.,
C
AFETERIA
, P
ALMVILLE
M
IDDLE
S
CHOOL

M
isty sips a pint-size container of milk while tapping her foot to an imaginary pop tune. When she sees me, she enthusiastically leaps up, spilling her drink over her mocha capris and polar bear hoodie. Wiping up the milk with a cafeteria napkin, Misty exclaims, “There's big news. Maxwell likes pomegranates! Just before I went to bed, I looked at the almost full moon and had the thought that Maxwell might like cake.
And he did! Your mom's special pomegranate cake has changed everything!”

I take out my PDA, pretending that I'm jotting down notes about Maxwell, but really I'm trying to determine the progress of my “real” case featuring Misty.

As I do this, Misty hands me a new piece of valuable evidence. “I can't remember the last time my mother baked anything for me. I would be shocked if she ever did anything special for me.”

Tipping my hat to the side just over my eye, I offer, “The way you do for your animal friends.”

Misty bursts out, “I just realized something monumental. I haven't rescued an animal or insect, not even a centipede, in forty-eight hours. It's all because of you!”

I input this flood of new data, careful not to raise suspicion about the true identity of the case's subject.

Right on cue, Amy C. interrupts our lunch with a red-carpet entrance. She sits down next to me. “Portia, you look stressed. You don't have a snakebite, do you?” She looks over at Misty. “What are you girls talking about? Anything to share?”

I tell her as delicately as I can, “It's about the case, and it's confidential.”

Sitting up as straight as a ruler, Amy narrows her eyes so her top and bottom eyelashes meet. “We've been friends forever, P. Avatar. And suddenly you stop spending time with me…and now you won't even have a simple conversation with me! I've just about had it. You
clearly don't understand the true and beautiful meaning of friendship.”

Misty steps in. “Portia is everything about friendship. She's kind, considerate, caring, and fun, too!”

Then it's my turn. “There's always room for a new friend in your life. That's true for everyone, including you, Amy.”

Amy smiles with an extra large plastic grin. “Thanks for reminding me about that mucho important facto. W.H. and I are meeting again for, I don't know, the thirty-fifth time this week.” Checking her heart-shaped watch, she says with a heavy Italian accent, “Ciao!” She stands up to leave the table, when Webster appears, carrying a heavy math textbook.

He hands the book to Amy. “Miss Clamdigger, you left this at our tutoring session yesterday.”

Amy responds with the agility of a NASCAR driver and the smile of a celebrity starlet, “You mean our rendezvous!”

I step in and ask Amy, “Is that why you were with Webster? Why didn't you just tell me? Why the big mystery? You can tell me the truth. We're friends.”

Amy stares at Misty when she asks me, “Are we?”

I respond, “Amy, just because Misty is a new friend
doesn't mean you're not my old friend anymore!”

She says with certainty, “There's a reason why people say three's a crowd.”

“According to my mathematical calculations, one plus one plus one equals a potentially amazing combination.”

Amy questions my logic. “Is that really possible?”

Before I can answer, Misty chimes in, “I think it's a great idea.”

Then I add, “Would you think about it, please?”

Amy looks Misty up and down. “But New Girl and I are total opposites. Look at her. I would never wear brown anything!”

I insist, “We're all different. That's what's so cool.”

Webster is getting noticeably antsy from all this girl talk. “I'll, uh, be getting back to my split pea soup.”

Neither Amy, nor Misty, nor I take notice. We all just look at one another without speaking for the remaining ten seconds of lunch until the bell rings.

3:16
P.M.,
O
UTSIDE
P
ALMVILLE
M
IDDLE
S
CHOOL

I
'm flying down the hill, fanning myself with my math quiz, which has the triangular-shaped letter A sketched across the front page and a personal note from Miss K. herself! It reads:

As the perfect accent to my sunshiny and flowery mood, the air smells fresh without a hint of wildfires. It's been weeks since the Palmville skies were this blue. Change is in the air…and everywhere. I feel a sudden surge of energy from the math quiz victory, and from having also talked things out with Amy.

3:38
P.M.,
C
ONTENTMENT
(T
HE
T
ENT
)

T
hrough the beaded entrance, I see Hap cleaning the grill, preparing for the approaching dinner
crowd. He spots me and asks if I would please pick a couple of avocados for a salad he's creating. I step back outside, choosing the ripest fruit I can find.

Back inside The Tent, I hand Hap the avocados, which he gratefully accepts with a bow. “Much thanks, milady.”

I play along and curtsy. “No problem.” Then, switching the subject, I ask, “Have you seen Indigo?”

Hap's face tenses up.

I answer for him. “She's with Rock?”

Buddhist monks decide to chant in unison over the speakers as Hap nods slowly. “They left together about an hour ago.”

I really wanted to talk more with Indigo about Vera's big deception and pursue my line of questioning about what both of them know (but aren't telling me) about Patch. I decide to see if Hap has any clues until Indigo returns to The Tent. “Would you mind if I asked you something?”

“As long as you don't mind if I cook while you talk.”

“I'm totally used to that. No problem.”

“I don't know where to begin.”

“Just tell me what's on your mind.”

“Hap, what's your opinion of friendship?”

He peels an avocado with grace and skill. “I'm allfor it!”

“I was wondering, why would a friend tell you only half the truth?”

Pouring out tomatoes from a wooden bowl onto another cutting board, Hap thinks hard about my question, then offers me a tomato slice. “Are you talking about a good friend?”

“I thought so.”

Sampling a bright red beet, he continues, “If she is a true friend, then she's probably got a good reason for being so secretive.”

Then my PDA flashes red. It's Misty with an emergency text message.

“Hap, Maxwell needs Indigo's pomegranate cake right away. He's starving!”

“Is Maxwell the friend you were telling me about?”

“I cannot disclose anything. It's for a case. And it's strictly confidential.”

Without hesitation, he says, “Got it. But we've been out of the pomegranate cake since this morning. And it sounds like you need it right away.”

With my detective sombrero firmly atop my head, I exclaim, “Cookies! Do you think we could make cookies instead?”

Hap already has the mixing bowl and industrial mixer revving up. “A spark of sheer brilliance.” Starry-eyed, he adds, “You remind me of someone we both know very well.”

Hap supervises as I mix, blend, create, and bake three batches of cookies. I decide to call them Pomegranate Perfections. As soon as they're out of the oven, I place them in a recycled tin and rush out of The Tent, straight to Misty's house for the rescue.

Halfway down the street, I turn and see Hap waving
to me outside The Tent's entrance. “You absolutely understand friendship. A friend in need…and so on!!”

“Thanks! You are one of the coolest older people I know!”

Hap laughs. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

Then I turn back toward my destination for another rescue mission.

5:18
P.M.,
M
ISTY'S
B
ACKYARD

W
hen I deliver the Pomegranate Perfections to Misty, she grabs the tin and runs off to attend to Maxwell. She promises to check in with any developments. My work is done for now, so I reverse my steps and find my way back home.

My focus will now be on following the latest lead in the Patch case. I am determined to track down Indigo and get her undivided attention without any more interruptions or excuses!

6:03
P.M.,
A
VATAR
K
ITCHEN

I
slip into the kitchen through the back door. Indigo stands over our retro stove with a large wooden spoon in her hand. She turns to me and casually says, “I'm taking your advice to heart. I promise this time there'll be no tang to the linguini. Dinner will be early tonight, okay?”

“Okay.”

She adds with a raised eyebrow, “I know about the Pomegranate Perfections.”

“Hap told you?”

Indigo reassures me, “Don't worry, he didn't reveal any more details than that.” She adjusts her single braid. “I tried one, and I think they're perfect! Would you consider letting me feature them on The Tent's new menu? They're just what I've been looking for.”

A hundred-watt lightbulb goes on in my head. “Of course, Mom. Under one condition.”

Indigo leans back slightly and takes a deep breath. “What would that be, Portia?”

Now it's me who takes a deep breath. “Please tell me the unabridged story of how Vera introduced you to Patch.” Building momentum, I continue, “And what it was like when you first set eyes on him.”

Indigo calmly squeezes a fresh lemon into two glasses of iced organic green tea. She hands me one of the glasses, and to my surprise, she begins the story of how Patch came into her life, as if the twelve years of waiting and wondering when I will meet my one and only father was never a subject of conversation at breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

As Indigo recounts “the story,” my ears suddenly go deaf. Then slowly I hear the words floating into space, twirling toward me. Indigo tells me, “Patch was visiting from northern California. We were both so young. I don't remember very much.”

I can't resist. “He wore a hat! I just know it!”

Indigo smiles with faraway eyes. “It was a cowboy hat.”

“Are you sure that's what he wore? Memory can play all sorts of tricks on you. Was it really a cowboy hat?”

Indigo laughs as she continues to paint me a portrait. “It was made of straw and there were dried flowers woven around the rim.”

“Patch wore flowers in his hair?” I wonder just how many details I can digest as I form a mental picture of him in my mind.

Indigo asks me, “What else can I tell you about him?”

I let out a big exhale. “How about everything!” A knock on our front door interrupts our delicate conversation. I know exactly who is standing on the other side of the door. “Why does Rock always have to get in the way of our lives? He's ruining this major life-will-never-be-the-same family breakthrough moment! I can't take him anymore!” I storm upstairs to my room.

A F
EW
M
INUTES
L
ATER
,
M
Y
B
EDROOM

T
here's a light tap on my door. I shout, “I'm not hungry!”

Then I hear, “It's Misty.”

In absolute disbelief, I call out, “Did you say ‘Misty'?”

“Portia, open the door!”

I hesitate at first, then walk over to the door and open it. There she is, Misty Longfellow, in my house, outside my room, standing there with all her creatures, too! Frederick races through her legs, jumping onto my bed, anxious to get a front-row seat. “Does your mom know you're here?”

“Of course not. I ran away from home. I wouldn't share something like that with her. Besides, she's too busy to listen to me anyway.” Misty steps inside my room and looks around like she's Dorothy just after she landed in Munchkinland. “It's positively perfect!”

Looking at Misty's pendant, her retainer case, and the old shoebox containing Maxwell, I ask, “You brought all your friends, too?”

Smiling, she says, “Of course! I can't think of a cooler place to run away to than the Avatar household.”

Frederick sits on my bed, studying Misty's traveling circus. Maxwell is wrapped in the torn and worn fleece
blanket that had previously served as his tent. Misty carefully takes him out of the shoebox and places him at the center of my throw rug. Frederick follows Maxwell's every move.

Indigo arrives with hot carob drinks topped with whipped soy cream for me and Misty and a bowl of mineral-enriched water for Maxwell. Carefully she slides the bowl next to Maxwell, who suddenly howls like an Alaskan wolf. Indigo quickly jumps into emergency mode, calmly handing out instructions to me and Misty. Within minutes, Maxwell is resting comfortably on one of my pillows in the far corner of my room (where Frederick has been sleeping), surrounded by bathroom towels.

Frederick cautiously approaches Maxwell, who hisses at anyone who tries to get close to him. Misty, Indigo, and I keep watch over Maxwell to determine exactly what's wrong, while Misty pleads, “It's my biggest wish in life that you'll let me and my animal friends live with you in your amazing home. I'm a highly cooperative person and I'm good with animals.” Frederick brushes up against her right leg affectionately on cue.

Then something happens. Maxwell's growling stops,
and the room is suddenly silent. I look over at him. He appears to be in a trance now. He starts panting like he's just run a marathon. Then he sticks out his tongue at us. A collection of high-pitched squeals fills the room. Indigo rushes over to him. With her hands in the air, she says urgently, “I've got to go to The Tent to pick up goat's milk and alfalfa. I'll be back in ten minutes!”

Misty gently strokes Maxwell, while Frederick and I watch in awe as we see eight baby bunnies squirm around Maxwell's belly.

I whisper to Misty, “I think we should rename Maxwell Maxine!”