Free Minerva Clark Goes to the Dogs by Karen Karbo Page B

flowers.
    All her dresser drawers were hanging open. I tried not to look shocked, or like I cared much. It was obvious that I’d interrupted him in the process of turning the apartment upside down. The rest of the apartment was so neat because he’d just started when I’d walked in.
    Shark saw me notice this and took two big steps and pulled open the door. He wanted me out of there.
    â€œI’ll tell Tonio you stopped by, Suzanne. I’m sure he’ll be sad he missed you.”

7
    I was so glad to be home I offered to make Minerva’s Special Deviled Eggs. Mark Clark had broken out the barbecue, in celebration of the arrival of summer. He was going to grill some ribs and chicken and corn on the cob. Morgan was in the kitchen chopping carrots for Morgan’s Special Chopped Salad. Have you noticed how everything we cook has a name, and usually includes the word “special”? In truth, it’s just regular food, but we like it.
    I put on a dozen eggs to boil in a big pot, then fetched myself a cold Mountain Dew from the fridge. I put ice in a glass anyway. Sometimes, when I have to think, I like chewing on ice. It’s supposed to be bad for your teeth, but I don’t care.
    It was warm in the kitchen. The late-afternoon sunbeat through the row of dining room windows and through the door leading into the kitchen. We live on a slight hill, so we don’t have any curtains there. I’d let Jupiter out of his cage so he could stretch his legs. “Stretch his legs” was Clark code for allowing Jupiter to crawl inside the small hole beneath the cupboard and romp around. We could hear the thumps and bumps of him galloping in the dark among the pans and plates.
    â€œI see you survived your electronics class,” said Mark Clark. He was standing in front of the sink shucking corn, dropping the pale green husks into a brown paper garbage bag beside him.
    â€œIt was actually pretty cool. I mean, boring in a lot of ways, and the teacher, Mr. Lawndale, is a complete loon, but we got to blow up these things called capacitors.”
    â€œYeah, baby,” said Morgan, doing his Austin Powers impersonation. “Could this by chance be because your prof didn’t have your undivided attention?”
    â€œI guess,” I said.
    â€œIt’s an old trick to get kids to take electricity seriously.”
    â€œI take electricity seriously!” I said.
    There was a moment of silence in which I imagined that my brothers and I all contemplated the electric shock that had basically made me more confident, but also more stubborn.
    To break the silence I told about the breadboards and sticking the wire legs of capacitors, which looked like alien bugs, into the positive and negative holes, and not knowing—because we weren’t listening—that if you stick the long leg into the negative you’ll wind up with an explosion.
    â€œThe little ones are fun, but if you get a huge capacitor—like say from a computer power supply or something—you could blow the roof off.” Mark Clark chuckled. I added “the love of blowing stuff up” to skateboarding on my mental list of things boys never outgrow.
    The eggs finished boiling and I plucked out the yolks and mashed them in a bowl with a fork. Morgan and Mark Clark started trading stories, first about various capacitor explosions and then about other cool things they’ve blown up over the years. They forgot all about me, which was fine, because it gave me a chance to think.
    As far as I could tell, Sylvia had returned to her apartment with Chelsea’s ring, but then hadn’t been home since. My main clue was the mail sitting on the table, still unopened. Everyone opened their mail when they got home, didn’t they? Maybe she bought the ring, came home and pried the red diamond from the center, got in her car, and took off. If she had a car. It wasn’t like you could take MAX to the Mexican