Dedication
For my mom
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
There’s no sound in the world quite like the sound of a cat getting stuck to an ice cream truck.
Most kids would have missed it. But after six weeks without Abby, six weeks of being almost completely on my own, six weeks where going out to get the mail was becoming the best part of my day, my senses were on high alert for anything even halfway interesting while I was out there.
It went down blink by blink. In perfect. Slow. Motion.
Plink-plink-doop-doodle-doo-plink! went the ice cream truck parked innocently across the street, its music filling the summer afternoon.
Mrreow! went Samson, Abby’s huge black-and-white cat, launching himself at something small and buzzy near the back of the truck.
Kschkt! went Samson’s snagglepaw, the one with the claws he couldn’t pull back, latching with a plasticky crinkle onto the vinyl banner advertising Robo Pops and Chocolate Swirl Bars and Fun-Fun Rainbow Crispys.
Slam! went Caitlin, the high school senior across the street, who always stopped to use her own bathroom when she was out on her ice cream route, leaving her house with her eyes glued to her phone.
Mrreow! went Samson again, tugging forlornly at his paw. The banner shook, but the cat stayed stuck.
Caitlin was laughing at something happening on her screen. She didn’t see Samson. She climbed into the driver’s seat. She turned on the engine.
Hey, no, wait! went my heart.
If Caitlin drove away, Samson could get hurt. He could lose his claws for good.
Or worse, Caitlin might back up and Samson could be killed.
Or Caitlin might start driving, see Samson in her side mirror, panic-drive into a utility pole, and then Caitlin could be killed.
Or she might slam on the brakes, making a truck that could possibly be behind her by then veer out of the way to avoid her, jump the curb, and hit me instead, and then I could be killed.
Or a truck could be coming from one way and a school bus from the other, and Caitlin might still be laughing at her phone, and in the confusion all of us could be killed.
This was a potential disaster on an epic scale. This was the Titanic pulling away with every kitten on Earth napping in the cargo hold. No! This was the space shuttle counting down to liftoff with an entire kindergarten class hiding under its booster rockets!
I had to do something. Options, Maggie, options . . .
Got it. Get the shuttle operator’s attention.
“Caitlin!” I yelled.
No response. My call was lost in the plinking roar of the musical liftoff engines. I stepped forward to cross the spaceport tarmac, but a lunar cargo supply truck zoomed by from the other direction and I flinched back. I couldn’t get out there in time—it was too dangerous.
Mrreow! cried the cornered kindergarten class. Through the waffle cone decals on the shuttle window I saw the pilot strap herself in and snap her visor down. I had seconds to act.
I stared around desperately, then looked down at my hands and smiled. They were full of flares, charged and ready for use. Of course! I’d planned for this! I always planned ahead, because something could always go wrong.
I planted my feet right on the edge of the tarmac, took a deep breath, threw both hands up and out and forward, and shouted again, giving it everything I’d got just as the shuttle began to move.
“Hey!” My voice rang around the space depot, echoing off the shining chrome buildings, rising to a roar as the flares exploded into thousands of shining white sparks flying through the air in all directions. The wind blew my hair back, and I laughed in triumph and relief as the driver looked up and the shuttle slammed to a halt.
The fire in its engine died.
“Hey,” Caitlin called, rolling down her window. “You dropped your mail.”
I blinked and looked around. She was right. The mail I’d just collected was scattered on the hot street between us: five or six envelopes and a catalog for discount wrapping paper.
“You caught a cat,” I said, pointing. Caitlin quirked an eyebrow. I looked both ways and jogged across the road. Caitlin turned off the engine and got out.
“Oh, hey,” she said as I unhooked Samson from her truck. “That’s not good at all.” She scratched Samson’s ears. “Sorry I almost dragged you off, buddy. Lucky you were out here to see him, Maggie.”
Luck had nothing to do with it, I thought. A special agent–rescue specialist trained in the use of flares always knows where and when she’ll be needed.
The wind blew through my hair.
“Sure,” I said, gathering Samson up into my arms. He was already purring. “Thanks for stopping.”
Caitlin laughed. “Like I had a choice. I’ve seen people do a lot of weird things to flag down an ice cream truck, but no one’s ever thrown their mail at me before.”
I looked up and down the street. There were no cars coming, but if I didn’t get the remains of those flares picked up quick, I’d have to explain to my mom why her catalog had tire tracks on it. “Hey, do you think . . . ?” I said, shrugging Samson to show that my hands were full.
“Course,” said Caitlin. “You saved the day.”
I repeated that phrase to myself, picturing a glorious victory parade for me going down our street as Caitlin gathered the mail and tucked it under my arm.
“Was this yours too?” she asked, holding up a cheap plastic pen. I squinted at it. Ah, yes, the hypno-raygun I’d been flipping through my fingers when I approached the mailbox. You never know when those things will come in handy.
“You keep it,” I said generously. “I’ve got plenty more.”
“Um, okay, thanks.” Caitlin slipped the pen into her pocket. “Here, hang on a second.” She opened the back of the truck and rummaged around, emerging with a wrapped Mega Ultra Caramel Swizzle Cone. “On me,” she said, setting it in my elbow beside Samson.
“Wow, thanks!
