The Missing Chancleta and Other Top-Secret Cases / La chancleta perdida y otros casos secretos Read online

Match Status: Creepy … but negative

  The next day, I was in class waiting for the dismissal bell to ring. I had finished my spelling test early, as usual. Spelling was one of my best skills. Every good detective needs to be an excellent speller. If I ever had to bring my top secret case files into a court, which could happen at any moment, a spelling mistake would be pretty embarrassing in front of a judge.

  During my wait for the bell, my teacher handed out last week’s spelling test. Under my predictable “100%”, there was a little note.

  Keep up the good work

  Match Status: OH YEAH!

  It looked like I’d be staying late after school for a student-teacher conference. There was business to be taken care of. My enemy must have read my mind because she said, “Flaca, please stay after class. I’d like a word with you.”

  I was planning on it, Mrs. Assassin.

  Once the bell rang, all the students rushed faster than ever. It was as if they were trying to escape the storm on its way to the classroom. I stood by the door, in case I needed to make a quick, unexpected exit.

  “Have a seat,” said the failed assassin.

  “No, thanks,” I answered. “I work best when I’m on my feet.”

  “Okay. I heard you were upset about a fruit cup you found in your lunch bag the other day. Would you like to talk about it?” she asked.

  “Sure, if you’d like to talk to me about this,” I said as I put the original evidence note on her desk. I always walk around with my evidence. Leaving it in my house or backpack was too risky.

  “Do you recognize this?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s the note I put in your lunch bag,” answered the slayer.

  “So, it was you!” I exclaimed. “I knew it!”

  Handwriting analysis never lies. My enemy’s face didn’t change. Not a smile. Not a frown. She was a stone cold professional.

  “What was it?” I asked. “Was I getting too good in all my subjects? Was my intelligence making your job harder? Tell me why you did it!”

  “Why I did what?” she asked. Now she was acting.

  “Oh, come on! We both know what’s really going on here. Just come out with it already. What were your reasons for this assassination attempt?!” I demanded.

  “Assassination attempt? Flaca, I put the fruit cup in everyone’s lunch box. It was the treat I promised the class for all your excellent test scores,” she explained.

  “A treat?! Have you lost your pencils? You can’t just go around sticking food in students’ lunch boxes. People have allergies, you know!” I said.

  “Yes, I know. I’m very aware of all my students’ allergies,” she admitted.

  “So you WERE trying to poison me!” I yelled.

  “Flaca, what on earth are you talking about?!” asked my would-be assassin.

  This was my moment to show her I knew exactly what she was up to. “You knew I was allergic to oranges, and you put the orange-laced fruit cup in my lunch box on purpose!”

  “There are no oranges in this fruit cup!” she said, picking up the poison and waving it in the air. She went to the cabinet and took out a package of fruit cups.

  “Read the ingredients label. There are no oranges. What you saw were clementines,” she said.

  I read the ingredients label, but I wished I would have had Abuelo’s glasses handy. It was possible she could have changed or damaged the label in some way. There was no telling without the glasses. Either way, I saw where she was going with this.

  “If someone were allergic to eggs, would you give them cake? Citrus fruit is citrus fruit. One poison is as good as another!” I said.

  I got up and walked toward the door.

  “I’m on to you,” I pointed out. “And next time, I won’t let you off the hook so easily.”

  While walking down the empty school hall, I passed Mrs. Caradura’s office. I saw her typing away at the computer again.

  “It was my teacher,” I said, from the doorway. “Totally sloppy. Keep an eye on the refrigerator in the teacher’s lounge. I bet she steals other people’s lunches.”

  She nodded. We were officially silent partners of justice.

  Case of the Deadly China: CLOSED

  I continued my stroll out of the building. Thanks to my creative crime-solving skills, I had ruined an assassination attempt. First stop: The smoothie shop for a drink. Next stop: FBI Training Academy.

  Case # 103ish

  Name: The Case of the Lost Salsa

  Date: On and about the time of La Bruja’s 15th birthday

  Status: In Progress

  It was the worst evening I have ever had. My older sister, tormenter that she is, decided to ruin my life at the dinner table. She was turning fifteen soon and was talking to our parents about her idea for a quinceañera. Boring.

  “Flaca, aren’t you excited about your sister’s party?” asked my mother.

  “I guess,” I said, pushing gandules around my plate. I was not a fan of those little green pea imposters. They were just a fancy way of making beans with dinner again.

  “Well, if it’s not a big deal to you, then maybe you shouldn’t have a quinceañera,” snapped my sister.

  “I don’t plan to,” I answered. “It’s pretty ridiculous. You wear a big white dress with a crown. Your friends wear matching gowns and their partners wear hideous tuxedos with colored ties. It’s supposed to be a fifteenth birthday party, not a wedding.”

  “That’s enough, girls,” interrupted my dad. “Flaca, you don’t have to have a traditional quinceañera when you turn fifteen, but this is your sister’s special day. It’s a way to celebrate her becoming a young lady. She can plan it however she likes.”

  “Thank you, Papi,” smirked La Bruja.

  A twisted smile came across her face. I knew it was a bad sign. Then she said the painful words.

  “I have an idea,” she explained. “Instead of my friends and I doing a choreographed dance for my guests, I think it would be great if all the younger children in the family did a dance in front of the whole party! Including you, my dear hermanita.”

  Oh no. That was NOT going to happen. Dancing was not my thing. I had seen my family dance to Latino music around the house and at family parties, but it wasn’t something I had ever actually done. Sure, I could probably be a master dancer because of my natural talent, but I was a detective not a ballerina. At that moment, I knew my sister’s purpose in life was to make me miserable. Why was she so … evil? Obviously, she must have been switched at birth.

  “That’s a great idea!” exclaimed my mother. “Flaca, you would look wonderful all dressed up and dancing. I’ll make a list of partners for the performance and find a dance instructor.”

  I stood up from my chair in protest. “I am NOT going to dance at your party! I’m not even a young child. I’m practically a preteen for goodness sake!” I yelled.

  “Now, Flaca, don’t get so upset,” said my father, between bites of his dinner. “You have never even tried dancing before. You might like it. Give it a chance.”

  “But I don’t want to give it a chance!” I said. “She’s trying to embarrass me in front of everyone. If I have to dance, then I’m not going to that stupid party!”

  “Flaca, you WILL go to your sister’s party and you WILL dance. End of discussion!” said my father.

  I glared at La Bruja as she raised her eyebrows at me with her arms crossed. “You might want to consider getting your eyebrows tweezed for your special party,” I suggested before storming off to my room. “You’re supposed to have two of them. You only have one.”

  The next week was the first dance rehearsal at a local dance studio. My mother had found a salsa dance instructor named Juan Camarón who had choreographed a dance for the quinceañera. I knew my worst nightmare was about to begin, and no amount of detective skills could help me. Or so I thought.

  It was an awful rainy day. The skies were dumping tons of water on the Earth. I knew the clouds were crying for me and the terrible tortu
re waiting for me at rehearsal. I wore a black dress and black rain boots to share the pain.

  When I got to dance class all the other kids in my family were there: cousins, cousins of cousins, friends of the family, anyone with two legs under the age of twelve. They almost seemed excited about the dance as they talked and laughed together. Weird.

  “Okay, everyone!” yelled Juan. “Put on your dancing shoes and stand in front of the mirror!”

  My mother dragged me by the arm to introduce me to the instructor.

  “Hi, Juan,” she said. “This is my daughter, Flaca. She’ll be part of the dance as well.”

  “Hello, Flaca,” said Juan, with a smile.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Why don’t you put on your dance shoes and get ready for rehearsal,” he suggested.

  “These ARE my dancing shoes,” I explained, looking at my rain boots.

  Juan looked at my mother in confusion.

  “You didn’t bring shoes?” she asked in surprise.

  “Why would I bring another pair of shoes?” I answered. “You didn’t tell me I needed special shoes.”

  “It’s a DANCE CLASS, Flaca! Of course you need shoes! Why in the world would you think you could dance in rain boots?” she asked.

  “You dance salsa in the kitchen with your chinelas on,” I said. “Why can’t I dance in rain boots?”

  “I dance in slippers in my HOUSE. This is a dance class!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s okay if you forgot your shoes, Flaca,” interrupted Juan. “You can dance in your socks for today. Just make sure you stay on the balls of your feet. Bring your shoes next time.”

  “My feet don’t have balls,” I said, looking at my socks.

  Juan pointed to the bottom of my foot below my toes.

  “Those are the balls of your feet. Keep your heels off the ground,” he said. “Come on.”

  Normally, I would put up a fight about dancing in socks. But this guy had just managed to stop my mother from rambling on and on in the middle of an argument. I had never seen that before. Nobody ever manages to keep her quiet when she’s angry. That was a talent I needed to learn. I would be studying him closely.

  After an hour of endless standing, stepping, twisting and turning, my legs were killing me. Next time, I would definitely not be wearing rain boots.

  At the next class, my mother brought me a pair of dance shoes … with a heel.

  “Here are your tacones, Flaca,” she said. “These will help you dance.”

  “Aren’t there dance sneakers or something else I can wear instead of high heels?” I asked Juan.

  “There are,” he said, “but at the party you will be wearing this kind of shoe. So, you should practice dancing in them.”

  Even with tacones, the dance wasn’t getting any easier. In fact, it was getting harder. I could barely walk in heels, let alone dance in them. I couldn’t do it. Where was my rhythm? Where were my shaking hips? Where was my salsa?!

  When I got home I started a full investigation. I needed to find out where my salsa had gone. I gathered my detective gear and began interviews with the usual suspects. My salsa was lost, and I had to get it back before the party.

  The first person I spoke to was La Bruja. If anyone would take my salsa it would be her.

  “Do you know of any place my salsa might be?” I asked.

  “You can’t lose something you don’t have, Flaca,” she answered, as she filed her nails. “You’re more of a marcher than a dancer. I have all the rhythm in the family.”

  “So, you took my rhythm?” I questioned.

  “It’s in my genes,” she said. “Maybe you have different genes. Maybe you’re adopted or something.”

  “Well, that would explain why I’m so much more awesome than you,” I said. “You’re excused.”

  I would question my mother next. I always saw her dancing around the house. She had to know where I could find my salsa.

  “If you want to find out where your lost salsa is, ask your father. It has to be a missing trait from his side of the family, because salsa is in my blood. It comes naturally,” she explained.

  The last suspect I could talk to was my dad. Were there other people in his family that didn’t have salsa?

  “I heard your family has a long line of missing salsa,” I said. “Can you tell me more about this?”

  “I don’t know who told you that,” he said. “I can salsa. See?”

  He began singing the wrong lyrics to an old salsa song and stomped around the living room with his arms bent and flapping at his sides. He looked more like a crowing rooster than a dancer.

  “Please, please, just stop,” I begged. “I’ve seen enough. Thank you.”

  My mother was right. If I had lost my salsa, it was definitely my father’s fault. But so far no one in my family was of much help.

  At the next dance rehearsal, I arrived with my detective supplies in hand and sat in the back of the class where I could see everyone clearly.

  “Let’s go, Flaca” ordered Juan. “Rehearsal is starting.”

  “I won’t be rehearsing today, Mr. Camarón. Today I am observing,” I explained.

  He looked at me with a puzzled face. I had to give him details.

  “In other words, I’m here, but I’m not here. Get it?” I asked.

  Juan glanced over at my mother. She gave him a nod of approval.

  “Okay, Flaca. But next week you’re dancing. No excuses,” he said.

  “Since I’m here on official business, I would really appreciate it if you called me ‘Detective Flaca,’” I demanded.

  “You got it, DETECTIVE,” he said.

  “Thanks. You’re free to go now,” I said as I motioned him away with my hand.

  While all my cousins danced, I studied them and sketched their footwork on my notepad. It was kind of like a crime scene. Dancers have some similarities with criminals. The good ones have precise movements, and they usually work in patterns. I was going to get my salsa back in no time.

  That night, I went home and got to work. I cut out shoe prints and taped them to the floor. I followed them in the same pattern I had drawn. It was like walking in the shoes of a criminal, and I was good. I had to be careful, though. It’s really easy to cross over to the other side. There’s a thin line between detective and criminal mastermind.

  The next class, I had the steps, the shoes, and I was ready for action.

  When the music started I began my moves.

  My partner yelled, “Ouch!” You stepped on me!”

  “You’re not supposed to have your foot there! We’re on the sixth step. Learn the choreography,” I corrected.

  After class, Juan asked me to stay.

  “Flaca, I can tell you have been practicing the dance at home, but I think we need to work on it together,” he said.

  I decided to practice with him. I would prove my investigation had led me to the missing salsa. I got in starting position. My left hand was on his shoulder and my right hand was holding his in the air. All of a sudden he made an unexpected move. He began to wiggle my arms around.

  “Spaghetti arms,” he said.

  “What?” I asked, confused. “I thought we were making salsa, not pasta!”

  “When you dance salsa, you need strong posture. Pretend you are a car and you are driving the song. Your arms and hands are the steering wheel. The car is guided by the steering wheel. If your steering wheel is moving all over the place, your car won’t know which way it’s supposed to go. You’ll get in an accident,” he explained.

  “So, I’m not supposed to move my arms when I dance?” I asked.

  “Not unless my arms tell them to,” he said.

  Looks like my family knew very little about salsa after all. They always dance with their arms flailing around. I tried the dance again. This time, no spaghetti arms.

  “Flaca, what are you doing?” asked Juan. “You’re marching. You can’t dance if you’re stomping around.”

  Marching?! Ju
an must have been talking to La Bruja behind my back. This was sabotage.

  “I am salsa-ing, not marching! I am doing everything you do!” I explained.

  I drove my car over to my bag and got my road map out for Señor Juan the Driver.

  “You see?” I showed him my sketch of the dance. “This is what you did. This is what I’m doing! THIS IS SALSA!”

  It was silent for a second. I guess I had finally learned Juan’s talent of making a person quiet.

  “Ay, ay, ay, Flaca. You think that is salsa?” he asked.

  He sounded kind of disappointed, but I wasn’t budging. I stared at him with the look of a person who meant business.

  Juan turned up the music and asked me to close my eyes.

  “Close my eyes?” I protested. “How can I see what I’m doing if I close my eyes?”

  “You’re not supposed to see what you’re doing. You’re supposed to feel it,” he said. “Listen to the beat. Listen to the song. Listen to the different sounds the instruments are making and how they all come together. There is no party. There is no crowd. It’s just you, the song and the steering wheel.”

  What was this guy thinking? Dancing with my eyes closed? Steering wheels?

  “Now follow my lead,” he said. “Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow.”

  Before I even knew what I was doing, my feet were following the pattern.

  “Now open your eyes,” he said.

  “I’m doing it!” I yelled. “I thought I’d lost my salsa, but here it is!”

  “You never lost your salsa, Flaca. You just hadn’t found it yet,” he said.

  I finished the class with my salsa, a smile and the best investigation yet. I had proved to myself that if I focused enough on clues and patterns, I could crack any case. Now, it was time to show the world what my professional detective skills had found.

  It was the day of the quinceañera and my mother had hired a team of beauty experts to prepare us and my sister’s friends for the party. Ugh. My hair was being sprayed with flying chemicals, my scalp was being stabbed by vicious pins and my face was drowning in a sea of powders and paint.

  I went to the bathroom to put on the hideous peach-colored dress La Bruja had picked “just for me” and the itchy stockings that choked my legs. I looked like a clown. All that was missing was the red nose. When I came out of the bathroom my mother was way too excited.