Spotted Dog Last Seen Read Online Free PDF Page A

to admit that between the two of us, Pascal and I had become pretty good with symbols.
    But Creelman was not the type to hand out gold stars. He barely nodded with each right answer before immediately striding to the next gravestone, determined to trip us up. Finally, Wooster warned Creelman about the time by pointing to his pocket watch. It was getting late.
    â€œFine,” Creelman said, glaring at us as if it was our fault.
    We made our way back to the iron gate.
    â€œSee you boys next week,” Creelman said grudgingly.
    The Brigade marched one way down the street. Pascal vamoosed in the opposite direction.
    I lingered at the gate for a few minutes, expecting to see Merrilee pop out of the library any minute, now that the coast was clear.
    Instead, a busload of seniors pulled up to the curb, blocking my view. I watched as they climbed off the bus, while Loyola charged down the library steps to greet them. I could hear her laughter even from where I stood.
    I turned back to look at the rows of markers. From this distance, all the symbols we had carefully memorized had disappeared. The gravestones now looked the same, an endless gray sea, patiently marking time. It was only up close that the stones could whisper their stories to anyone who’d listen.
    And then I remembered the grave marker that had given me such a shock — the one with the carved lamb. I scanned the cemetery to see if I could spot its location, but that marker remained hidden among the silent stony crowd.
    What was it about the lamb? What did it mean? Where had I seen it before? My stomach lurched. There could only be one place — the cemetery at Ferndale.
    Ferndale was the nearby town where we had lived when I was little. It was where the accident with the orange rubber ball had happened, the accident that had been giving me nightmares ever since then, the accident that had ended just like all the stories ended at Twillingate Cemetery.
    My mouth went dry.

Three
    _____
    Mapping Plots
    HERE’S HOW I get by. I bury thoughts I don’t want to deal with deep inside and store them in a place that I pretend looks like my dad’s garage workshop. It’s a real mess in there — half-finished projects abandoned and piled in the corners, workbenches covered in assorted hand tools that rarely make it back to the toolbox, overflowing garbage cans, and bent nails scattered across the floor. But my dad believes that the mess magically disappears whenever he shuts the garage door.
    That’s what I have — a garage door. I just have to remember to keep it shut.
    Only every once in a while, I accidentally leave the door open. When that happens, nothing is hidden.
    Last night, I had the nightmare again. It started and ended the exact same way, no matter how much I wanted to change it.
    I am sitting on the front steps eating a popsicle, checking out a scab on my knee. The cement is warm beneath me. I can smell fresh grass. The lawn has just been cut, and my dad rolls his mower to the backyard. A screen door squeaks, and it is Dennis from the brick house beside us. I wave. He has an orange rubber ball.
    No!
    I’m not going to do this now.
    I pull on the garage door with all my might and it slams shut.
    This time.
    It was Wednesday afternoon again. Another blue-sky day. Merrilee stood waiting by the iron gate in her red plastic bunnies-and-carrots jacket, and as soon as she spotted me, she rifled through her knapsack to show me something.
    â€œHere,” she said, handing me a book.
    â€œHello, Merrilee,” I replied. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
    â€œNo time for that,” she said. “Check this out before the Brigade gets here.”
    I read the title of her book. To Catch a Bicycle Thief .
    â€œLet me guess. There’s a secret code handwritten on the dedication page.”
    â€œHurry up and look,” Merrilee said.
    Sure enough, there was a penciled list of seven words in the margin. Same