Free Camille McPhee Fell Under the Bus by Kristen Tracy Page A

part of my math lesson. This tank is eighty percent full. Which is the limit. You can only fill a propane tank to eighty percent. Gases can expand as temperatures change.”
    “I’m aware that gas expands,” I said. “When it comes to science, my teacher is very advanced.”
    Dustin took a deep breath and made more gulping sounds.
    “Well, this is a five-hundred-gallon tank. I know, because I had to calculate how many gallons it would take to fill it.”
    “You can do that in your head?” I asked.
    “No, I used a pencil and paper.”
    Wow. Maybe learning math at home was just as good as learning it at school, because that was a tough problem to solve. I couldn’t have done it.
    “Are you sure you don’t have a key?” I asked Samantha.
    “To make sure none of them got into the wrong hands, after Halloween I smeared the keys with pea nut butter and fed them to three different neighborhood dogs.”
    “What?” I cried. “You could have killed them!”
    “But I didn’t,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “Because they’re all still running around.”
    For a moment, I thought about searching for dog turds. But the ground was snow-covered and it was almost March. Even with three dogs out there, the odds that I could find a five-month-old, frozen dog turd with a handcuff key in it seemed pretty slim.
    I threw open my front door and cried for my mother. But the sound of my voice echoed through the empty house. I ran to the garage and the car was gone. On the kitchen table was a note.
    Had to teach ab blast class. It was an emergency. Be back soon—with veggie burgers. I’ll probably be back before you. But-you have my number just-in case.
    When I tried to call her cell phone, it said she was out of range. When I tried to call the gym, they put me on hold. And when I tried to call Mrs. Bratberg’s cell phone, all I got was her voice mail. I thought about calling Aunt Stella, but she lived in Modesto, and I knew she couldn’t help me. Besides that, she was probably working. In a perfect world, I could have called my very good friend Sally and she would’ve brought me a bobby pin and helped me pick the lock. Or I could have called my father. Problems like this were right up his alley. But I knew that I couldn’t. Being a mother’s helper was a secret. And babysitting? If I told my father the truth, he’d explode. First at me. Then at my mother.
    At this moment, I realized how unfair it was to live in a world where people could move to Japan, and perfectly normal kids could have exploding fathers, and mothers who turned forty and went to teach an ab blast class out of range. And aunts who lived in Modesto and worked day shifts at hospitals.
    Sweat rolled down my back. I ran my fingers through my hair. Then I bit my fingernails. From thekitchen window, I could see Samantha hopping around her handcuffed brother. This was a serious problem, and I didn’t have any answers. I tried to bite my fingernails some more, but they were pretty much all gone. So I picked up the telephone and called the one number I thought I’d never have to call. I, Camille McPhee, dialed 911.

Chapter 11
No Excuses
    I was waiting in the driveway when Officer Peacock rolled up in his squad car. He wasn’t flashing his lights, which was a big surprise to me, because this was a huge emergency. It was below zero. Dustin could get frostbite or hypothermia. If you get frostbite, your fingers, toes, and nose turn black and the doctor has to cut them off. And if you get hypothermia, you get so cold that you go crazy and then you die.
    I introduced myself to Officer Peacock as thebaby sitter. I told him everything, except the part about Samantha feeding the keys to dogs. I was sure that was against the law. That’s when he said, “So your butt was planted in front of the TV when this happened?”
    I was really surprised that a police officer would use that kind of language with a ten-year-old. I figured he was one of those people who hated