The Snake Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll

She’s a flight attendant, away on another of her three-day jaunts. This call could be the only chance I get to talk to her.

      I pick up.

      “Hi, Stephen.” It is my mom. “This is an emergency. Have to talk fast.”

      Answering the phone turns out to be my first mistake of the day. I wanted a story from her. Something funny. Maybe about how rare lightning strikes are. Funny stories are what she usually gives me when I am anxious, and then we laugh together. I miss her laugh when she’s away.

      Mom continues. “Flights are delayed due to extreme weather conditions and a passenger is hysterical here.”

      I so don’t need an emergency to deal with right now. Dad’s out there somewhere in this storm. There’s no power and I shouldn’t even be holding anything connected by wire to a source of electricity.

      Mom’s still talking: “Coincidentally, she’s the neighbour who moved into that corner house on Overton and Cavendish a couple months ago. The house flipper with the big dumpster in her driveway. She needs someone to check on her pet.”

      Crackle, crackle.

      I take a deep breath. In … out …

      Unless I get electrocuted, answering the phone may be just a tiny boo-boo, after all. Dad tells me all the time that mistakes are literally “missed takes,” sort of little rehearsals that don’t go quite right. If you practise enough, some of the misses actually do “take.” So I count mine and live in hope.

      “The address is —”

      Crackle, crackle.

      “Overton. The key is under the second pot from the front door. She’s worried about King eating —”

      Mom seems almost finished when —

      CRACK!

      I drop the phone.

      DAY ONE, MISTAKE TWO

      “Did you get burnt?” Renée asks.

      “No. I let go just in case.”

      “’Cause when Attila put his tongue to the bug zapper, he said it felt like burning.”

      “No burning.” I don’t even ask about why her brother licked a bug zapper. It’s just the kind of thing he would do, probably for an art experience. Instead, I pick up the phone and listen, but, of course, Mom is gone. “I need to go back out.”

      A siren warbles in the distance. A fire? An accident? Or maybe someone else wasn’t so lucky answering the phone when lightning struck.

      Renée peers through the kitchen window. It’s a charcoal-grey square. Thunder rumbles and she runs to the door, presses her back against it, and throws her arms and legs out in a jumping jack to block the way. “You’re not leaving us alone!”

      Renée has a thing about being by herself in a house, even in good weather.

      “I’m supposed to make sure King is fed. You can come, too.” I step closer but she doesn’t budge.

      “Whoever King is, he can wait till the storm ends.”

      “A new customer.” She knows how badly we need those. Dad makes dog treats, and lately he’s even been knitting dog sweaters to help boost business.

      “So what!” Renée rolls her eyes. “You won’t be able to feed the dog if you’re zapped to a crisp on the way.”

      Another rumble and crack shakes the house. I shudder. “You’re right. Ping? Pong?” I call out. “Where’d they disappear to?”

      “I don’t know. But I have to go to the bathroom. Do you have a flashlight?”

      “Downstairs, plugged in near Dad’s workbench.”

      The door to the basement is open and we both peer down the dark tunnel that is, of course, windowless.

      “Fine,” she says. “Might as well use the bathroom down there as well.” Renée gropes blindly down the stairs to the bathroom, which will be even darker.

      After I hear Renée shout, “Found the flashlight,” I head for the large picture window in the family room. Exactly where you’re not supposed to stand during a bad storm. Imagine if the glass shatters. I watch mesmerized. Leaves must be blocking the sewer drains, ’cause a river runs along the curb. The rain punches little pockmarks on the water.

      A narrow white panel truck whooshes through, making waves like a motorboat. The truck has a tall cab. Weird looking but I’ve seen it before. Diamond Drywall. Seems like lots of houses around here need new walls.

      Renée screams.

      “What! What?” I dash down in the darkness.

      The bathroom door flings open. “I found Ping.” In the dull flashlight beam, I can barely make out her silhouette. Something wriggles in her arms. “Behind the toilet.” She snorts. “Thought he was a rat.”

      I giggle. Renée sneezes.

      “Gesundheit,” I say.

      “Thanks. Do you have a sweatshirt I can borrow?”

      “Sure.” I take the flashlight and lead her to the laundry room next door where I sort through some old clothes in the cupboard, shining the beam on each top till I find the one I want. It’s probably the only one small enough, a red shirt that Grandma bought me four years ago. Boy Genius it reads across the front. Never could part with it. I toss it to her.

      Ping follows Renée back into the bathroom, where she changes. Meanwhile, I switch from my wet shirt to another favourite, this time from the clean basket, the only one there that’s mine. It’s a navy-blue sweatshirt with the words Keep Calm and Walk the Dog across it.

      “Do they have this in Girl?” Renée asks as she steps out.

      “They should. I know there’s one that says Little Princess.”

      “Princess Genius, that’s what I’d like.”

      “Fits, anyway.” Princess Genius would be perfect for Renée, too. In her spare time, she studies Wikipedia.

      Ping at our heels, we head up to the family room to watch the storm. When the world lights up with another crack, I see a familiar figure in a hood heading up the walkway. Finally! Dad’s home.

      But instead of feet, he appears to have a sea of wet rats moving him along. I gulp, and Ping leaps out of Renée’s arms. He lands running and barking.

      The door opens and Dad appears. “I brought the Yorkies.”

      Raff, raff, raff, raff, raff!

      The sea of wet rats rushes in, barking. Suddenly, the room fills with that certain smell, musty yet sweet, with a tang of dirt to it. Wet dog. I love it. “I didn’t think they could stay alone in the storm,” Dad says.

      “Great minds think alike.” Renée nods as Ping sniffs one of the gang.

      This could be a mistake — number two — and a big one. The Yorkies don’t even get along with each other, never mind with Ping and Pong.

      “Where’s Pong?” Dad asks.

      I shrug. “Somewhere in the house.”

      The wet dogs begin shaking the water from their fur. Dad sighs. “Can you help me towel these guys off?”

      “Sure.” I head to the kitchen broom closet where we keep our rags, Renée following so close that I swear I can feel her breath against my back. The door hangs wide open. Odd. I hand her the flashlight so I can reach for the rags on the top shelf.

      Suddenly, something flaps against me from below. I leap back, knocking Renée over. “Pong!” I cry and his tail slaps the floor harder.

      Renée scrambles up. “I’m okay.” She shines the flashlight so we can see the skinny