The Case of the Rock 'n' Roll Dog Page 2

  This is a pretty gross job, though, and sometimes by mistake we both forget.

  Even the good parts of life in the White House come with problems. Like with The Song Boys. I couldn’t wait for their concert! But I was also worried about Courtney. She was going to be so mad if she wasn’t invited.

  Then on Tuesday, I found out I should have been even more worried. By the time I got to school, everyone in my class knew The Song Boys were coming.

  And guess what? They expected to be invited, too!

  I told Granny after school, and she said, “There’s only one thing to do. Talk to Aunt Jen.”

  Granny is Aunt Jen’s mom, but even Granny is a little afraid of her. It’s not that Aunt Jen’s mean. It’s just that she’s not exactly cozy.

  Aunt Jen’s office is in the East Wing. Nate and Tessa and I are allowed to go anywhere in the family part of the White House by ourselves. But if we want to go to the office part, someone has to come with us. Today it was Charlotte. She is my favorite Secret Service agent.

  To get to the East Wing, you go down two floors and then through a long hallway past a fancy library and a real movie theater with red velvet seats and paintings of First Ladies from a long time ago. The best one is named Mamie Eisenhower. She has bangs and a kind smile. She is wearing a beautiful light pink dress.

  While we walked, I told Charlotte why I had to see Aunt Jen.

  “I feel your pain, kid,” she said. “My friends ask me for White House favors, too.”

  “What favors?” I asked.

  She grinned. “Well, one of my nieces wanted a signed picture of you and Tessa, just for example.”

  “I probably have a picture someplace,” I said.

  Charlotte shook her head. “You know your family’s not into that, Cameron. They want you to act like kids, not movie stars. Here we are.”

  Aunt Jen’s secretary, Mrs. Crowe, smiled and said we could go right in.

  In Aunt Jen’s office, I explained, and she sighed. “How many people do you want to invite?” she asked.

  I looked at my shoes.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Your whole class?”

  I nodded.

  “Including Courtney Lozana?”

  “Especially Courtney Lozana,” I said.

  Aunt Jen shook her head. “It’s awfully tight for the security clearances,” she said, “but I’ll talk to Mrs. Silver, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Mrs. Silver is the White House social secretary. She works for my aunt, and her job is planning parties and events like The Song Boys.

  I told Aunt Jen thank you, and I would have given her a hug, but she doesn’t like to get wrinkled.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. Then, as I was walking out the door, she asked me to hold on a minute. “Just do me one favor, Cameron. We’ll let the class know all at once, and as soon as we can. In the meantime, please don’t pester me about it. Do we have a deal?”

  “We have a deal,” I said.

  Going back upstairs, I heard music from the state floor. Not random music either. A song I totally knew by heart, “Shake it Up!” from The Song Boys’ second album. I felt a thump in my chest.

  Were The Song Boys here already?!

  “Not yet, kid,” Charlotte said. “That’s the Marine Band. They’re going to play with the Boys on Saturday. Usually they’d rehearse at the barracks, but today they’re trying out sound equipment.”

  When we got back upstairs, Granny, Nate and Tessa were in the West Sitting Hall. So was Hooligan—in his bed. When he saw me, he raised his head and thumped his tail, but he didn’t get up.

  “Hooligan’s had a busy day,” Granny said.

  “Who did he knock over this time?” Nate asked.

  “Very funny,” said Granny, “and no one, I hope. But he did go AWOL for a while.”

  Even from up here, we could hear the music. Granny had already explained to Tessa and Nate about the band. Tessa tugged on Granny’s sleeve. “Can we go watch?”

  Granny considered. “How much homework do you have?”

  Tessa and I answered together: “Hardly any.”

  Nate said, “Cameron should study spelling.”

  My turn to stick my tongue out—and luckily Granny didn’t see. She had closed her eyes to listen to the music—and next thing you know, she was rocking out!

  Tessa and I high-fived and rocked out, too. Nate just stood there like a lump.

  Still bouncing, Granny said, “It’s catchy. Tell you what. We’ll all go down and listen.”

  Nate crossed his arms. “Not me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FIVE minutes later we were standing in the East Room—Granny, Tessa, me and Nate. He should know it’s no use arguing with Granny.

  The East Room is on the state floor. It’s as big as a basketball court—the biggest room in the White House. It’s gold and white with three giant, sparkling chandeliers and four fireplaces. Sometimes, like now when there’s going to be an event, it’s mostly empty of furniture. Once a long time ago a kid named Amy Carter lived in the White House, and she even got to roller-skate in the East Room.

  When we walked in, the musicians were between songs. Colonel Michaels, the director, looked up and saw us. “Good afternoon, children. Good afternoon, Judge Maclaren.”

  Granny is “Granny” to us, but she used to be a judge in California and before that a police officer.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel Michaels,” said Granny. “We’ve come to listen if you don’t mind.”

  “Happy to have you.” Colonel Michaels turned to face the band and raised his hands. But then he dropped them and looked around. A trumpet player held up a smooth, shiny wooden stick and handed it to Colonel Michaels.

  “That’s it,” Nate whispered to me, “the Sousa baton!”

  “It doesn’t look that special,” Tessa said.

  “It’s historic!” Nate said.

  Colonel Michaels raised the baton and smiled. “I can’t very well direct without this, can I?”

  Nate nudged me. “See?”

  Then the musicians raised their instruments, and . . . “A-one, anna two, anna one-two-three-four . . .”

  The trumpets blared the first notes of another big Song Boys hit: “Praise a Ruckus.”

  The band’s official name is the President’s Own Marine Band. It has 160 members—men and women—but most of the time they don’t all play together. For The Song Boys, it was going to be their chamber orchestra along with guitars and a drum set. This was a rehearsal, so the musicians wore plain brown uniforms and shiny black shoes.

  I will never get to roller-skate in the East Room. But Granny does believe in dancing. She, Tessa and I had formed a conga line when Hooligan showed up in the doorway. Where did he come from anyway?

  Of course, he should’ve been on a leash. But we were having too much fun to go upstairs and get it. Tessa even grabbed his front paws so the two of them could dance together.

  The musicians took a short break, and then they played Hooligan’s favorite, “Rock’n’Roll Dog.”

  How could he help but howl?

  Granny looked at me and raised her eyebrows, the universal sign for: Control your dog, Cameron.

  I bent down and lifted Hooligan’s ear. “Shhh!”

  Unfortunately, Hooligan misunderstood. He thought I said: “Part-y-y-y!” because he tensed his muscles, blinked twice, and did the frenzy—lunged, thumped, sprang and spun. Back on the ground for an instant, he looked left, looked right and took off like he had a squirrel to catch.

  Next thing we knew, he was bounding toward the band and yipping in time with the music. At first, I thought everything would be all right. In fact, the way the Marines stepped and sidestepped to avoid him looked like MTV.

  But then Hooligan’s too-long tail brushed a music stand that hit the one next to it, and the next and the next, and then the cymbals on the drum set. . . .

  The clatter was so terrible it even scared Hooligan, who jumped like he’d heard a sta
rter’s pistol. Next thing you know, people were running in from every direction to see what was the matter: Mr. Ross, the head usher; Mr. Baney, the florist; Mr. Patel, the handsome steward; a maid named Mrs. Hedges; and Mr. Kane, one of the chefs.

  Mr. Ross is from Texas, and when he saw our rampaging dog, he must’ve thought of a rampaging cow because he hollered, “Round-up!”

  Unfortunately, Hooligan is quicker than any cow, and anyway we didn’t have lassos. Three times we had him surrounded, and three times he busted free.

  That’s when Granny’s police training kicked in.

  “Tessa,” she ordered, “you go right. Cameron, take the door, and Nathan—you’ve got my back.” As we scurried to position ourselves, Granny strode into the path of the oncoming Hooligan, raised her right hand and said, “Halt!”

  Face to face with Granny, even a getaway car would stop.

  But not my wild and crazy dog.

  He scooted by on her right and almost took out Nate. That left me as the last defender between Hooligan and escape!

  Have I mentioned the state floor of the White House is full of rare, historic and breakable antiques?

  Hooligan was poised to take a mighty leap across the East Room threshold when I hurled my body forward and . . . crash! We collided, then . . . ow! I hit the floor hard.

  So did my dog.

  After all the clattering, yelling and stomping, the room went suddenly still. Then in the silence I heard Tessa’s voice: “Puppy! Poor puppy! Are you okay?”

  And Colonel Michaels said, “I think that will conclude today’s rehearsal.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT’S amazing how much damage one too-large dog can do—even in a room that’s mostly empty.

  The next few minutes were a whirlwind of activity as the staff tried to put the East Room back in order and the band packed up. I sat with Tessa in the middle of it all, holding Hooligan firmly by the collar.

  “Judge Maclaren, you don’t have to help,” Mr. Ross told Granny. She was on her knees, tugging the corner of a rug to flatten it out.

  “Oh, yes I do.” She explained she felt responsible because she should have insisted on getting Hooligan’s leash.

  Finally, the band was ready to leave, and Granny said, “I’ll take the dog, girls. You go and apologize to Colonel Michaels.”

  “What about Nate?” Tessa asked.

  Granny looked around. “I don’t know where he’s got to, but it doesn’t matter. Hooligan is your dog.”

  Colonel Michaels is tall and serious with perfect posture and a spotless uniform. Even though Tessa is only seven, I was glad she was standing next to me. I wouldn’t have wanted to apologize alone.

  “We’re sorry about Hooligan,” I said.

  “He has too much energy,” Tessa said.

  “And it was his favorite song,” I said.

  “This is Hooligan’s home, not ours,” Colonel Michaels said. “But I do wish we’d been able to complete the rehearsal.” He looked at his watch. “And now I’m afraid we’re running late. See you on Saturday?”

  “Yes, sir,” we said at the same time.

  “I look forward to it,” said Colonel Michaels.

  “Cammie?” Tessa said a minute later when we were walking up the stairs. “He didn’t exactly forgive us, did he?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  Upstairs, Hooligan flopped onto his bed and fell instantly asleep.

  Then Nate appeared from the kitchen.

  “Where did you go?” Granny asked him.

  “Who me?” Nate said. “No place! Uh . . . I mean, I came back up here is all. . . .”

  Granny cocked her head, then she looked at Tessa and me. “You still have some time before dinner. I think all three of you had better set yourselves down and do some schoolwork.”

  “Mine would be done except I had to listen to stupid music,” Nate said.

  Granny shut her eyes. “It will be in your best interest, Nathan, if I pretend I did not hear that last comment.”

  “Besides, I saw you tapping your feet!” Tessa said. “You just don’t want to admit you like The Song Boys ’cause you think they’re for kids. Well, you’re a kid! Get over it!”

  Nate crossed his arms. “I hate The Song Boys,” he said, “and you know what else? I hope something bad happens, and they can’t even play on Saturday.”

  Granny put her hands on her hips. “That is too much, Nathan. Apologize to your cousins.”

  “Sorry, cousins,” Nate said—but in a robot voice so we would know he didn’t mean it.

  There are eleven bedrooms in the White House—plenty to go around—but Tessa and I still share. We were afraid it would be spooky to sleep alone in an old house. Our room is big, with two beds and two bookcases. My bookcase is full of books. Tessa’s is full of Barbies.

  That night, it was Mom who came in to say good night. Usually, we eat dinner with Granny because Mom is so busy being president. When she’s in town, though, Mom always comes in to kiss us good night.

  “I understand there was some uproar with Hooligan today.” Mom was sitting on the edge of Tessa’s bed. She wore gray sweats and a gray Stanford sweatshirt. In our family, it’s Tessa and Aunt Jen who are into fashion. Mom and me—not so much.

  “Hooligan is not the problem,” Tessa told her. “Nate is the problem.”

  “Why do we have to live with him, Mom?” I asked.

  “Shall I send him back to San Diego?” Mom asked.

  “Yes!” Tessa and I said.

  “What about Aunt Jen?” Mom said.

  “She can stay,” I said.

  “Then who will Nate live with in San Diego?” Mom asked.

  This was a problem. Aunt Jen’s husband died in a war. It was later she adopted Nate. He was born in Korea. “Doesn’t he have friends in San Diego?” I asked.

  Mom nodded. “That’s an idea. Or what about this? You girls could go live with friends, and Nate can stay here.”

  Tessa knew Mom didn’t mean it. But she likes to be dramatic. “No-o-o-o!” She waved her hands. “We want to live with you—with our family!”

  Mom smiled and gave her a kiss and a snuggle. Then she came over and gave me a kiss and a snuggle. Mom smelled like roses.

  “You know what, muffins,” she said. “I bet Nate feels the same way. I bet he wants to live with his family.”

  I was going to answer her. But I was sleepy. And when I’m sleepy, my mom is too smart for me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE next day was Wednesday, and before the first bell rang, Nate’s and my teacher called me to her desk.

  “There are a lot of rumors going around about The Song Boys, Cameron,” she said. “Would you like a chance to address them?”

  I said that depended on what “address them” meant.

  Ms. Nicols smiled. “It means, would you like to tell everybody once and for all whether they are going to be invited?”

  “But I don’t know yet!” I said. “All Aunt Jen told me is she’s doing her best.”

  “I see,” Ms. Nicols said. “Well, it’s up to you. But I’m afraid it’s going to become a distraction if you don’t say something.”

  I looked at my toes. “I guess I could say something.”

  “Good,” Ms. Nicols said. “I’ll call on you after the bulletin.”

  At first when I found out The Song Boys were coming, I thought it was the best thing that ever happened. Now it was more like the worst thing. I hate to talk in front of the class. And it doesn’t help that people expect me to be good at it.

  Just because my mom is good at something, does it mean I have to be?

  I listened to the bulletin, wishing it would go on forever. But like always it ended after the cafeteria menu.

  “And now, class,” Ms. Nicols said, “Cameron wishes to address us. Cameron?”

  Standing up, I heard a rude noise from a desk in back. Nate. At least I hoped so.

  “Uh . . . so I know everybody’s hoping they can come to the Whi
te House to see The Song Boys on Saturday . . .,” I started.

  Nate interrupted: “Not me! I hate The Song Boys.”

  “Nathan?” Ms. Nicols said. “Could you let your cousin have her say, please?”

  Now I was even more nervous. “Uh . . . but the thing is there’s something called security clearances, and that’s why—”

  “Cameron?” Now Ms. Nicols interrupted. “Could you explain that, please? Not everyone has had the experience of living in the White House.”

  A couple of people giggled.

  I took a deep breath, and then I said how a security clearance means the Secret Service makes sure people visiting the White House aren’t planning to hurt anything.

  “And it takes a while for the Secret Service to do that, and then if there’s a problem, uh . . . well, that person can’t come,” I said. And then I sat down.

  “Wait just a moment, Cameron. Is there a problem?”

  Unhappily, I stood back up. At this rate Saturday would come and go with me still standing in front of the class. “I don’t think so,” I said. “But Aunt Jen told me not to bug her about it. She and Mrs. Silver will let everyone know at the same time—and she promises that will be as soon as possible.”

  Ms. Nicols thanked me and said—finally—I could sit back down. “So now I hope everyone’s questions about Saturday are answered,” she said brightly, “and we can move along with our day!”

  Ms. Nicols may be the education professional, and I may be the ten-year-old. But even I knew “move-along-with-our-day” was not going to happen.

  And it didn’t.

  I won’t torture you with details. But maybe you have had a birthday party and your mom let you invite five people, and everybody was talking about who wasn’t going? Or maybe you got the lunchbox or the music player or the bicycle everybody wanted, and now they’re saying you’re spoiled? Or maybe a friend decided he didn’t like you anymore, and now his friends won’t sit with you at lunch?

  Well, pretend all those things happened on the same day, multiply that times a hundred, and add in one cousin who spends the whole day insulting your friends’ taste in music. That’s what Wednesday was like for me.