Free I So Don't Do Famous by Barrie Summy Page B

Santa Monica Boulevard, a warm California breeze and exhaust from other cars blasting across our faces. If Junie tightens her seat belt another notch, it’ll slice her in half.
    My dad looks over at me and winks. “This is the life.” He grinds into the next gear. “Wind in your hair. Doughnuts in your gut. And a car that hugs the road.”
    I should be following my dad’s lead—letting loose and living it up in Southern California.
    But the ugly poolside scene earlier shook me to the core. Mrs. Howard was furious. The most furious she’s ever been. She wants to kick me out of the Academy.
    Even though she’s angry with me too, my mother talked and pleaded and argued with Mrs. Howard. Bottom line: I’m on probation. My orders are to hand over the photos from the
Hollywood Girl
event to Detective Garcia. To lie low and not call attention to myself while the detective cracks the case. To make sure my behavior doesn’t land me on the World Wide Web for the Dead.
    My eyes fill up. I can’t be fired. I love working with my mom. I love solving mysteries for the Academy.
    His grin as wide as the road, Dad is zipping in andout of traffic. He pops in a Céline Dion CD. He’s so happy and carefree. Like a real person, not just a father.
    A siren wails.
    Lights flash behind us.
    It’s a police car!
    My dad pulls over to the curb, kills the engine and rolls down his window.
    â€œSir, do you realize how fast you were going?” says the police officer, his double chin bobbing.
    â€œNot exactly,” my dad says.
    â€œSixty-five miles per hour,” Junie says.
    I glare at her.
    â€œYep. Sixty-five is what I clocked you at. And you’re in a construction zone.”
    Dad groans.
    The officer reaches out a beefy hand. “Driver’s license.”
    Dad fumbles with his wallet, trying to slide his license out from where it’s stuck in a little plastic pocket. “Baked in by the sun,” he mutters. He’s frowning the whole time. Sixty-five miles per hour? In a construction zone, which means an added penalty. He’s an accountant and knows the value of money.
    The officer eyes the license. “Arizona?”
    â€œYes, Officer,” Dad says. “We’re here for five days. My daughter won a trip to Hollywood through—”
    â€œI’m gonna run this.” The officer waves the license in the air and lumbers back to his car.
    Dad rubs his forehead. He doesn’t look so happy and carefree now.
    Junie’s phone beeps with a text. She reads it and a smile plays around her lips. Must be Nick. She’s immediately thumbing in a response.
    The officer marches back. With his teeth, he pulls the cap off a pen and balances a thick pad on one palm.
    â€œYou know, Officer,” Dad says, his voice higher than usual, “we’re actually on our way over to your home away from home, the Beverly Hills PD. To fulfill our civic duty.”
    The officer raises a bushy eyebrow.
    â€œYes, that’s correct,” Dad continues. “We attended a fancy dinner last night at the Roosevelt Hotel. An evening put on by the
Hollywood Girl
people. These two”—Dad jerks a thumb at us—“figured out who stole the purse with the diamond clasp, and they have photos to show the detective in charge.”
    â€œIs that right?” the officer says. He couldn’t sound more bored without being asleep. “Half the country seems to think they can solve this case.” He scribbles out a ticket, then tears it off the pad and hands it to Dad. “Have a good day.”
    Like there’s a possibility of that happening.
    We crawl the remaining distance to the police station. Seriously, any slower and the engine will choke and die. A deep line creases Dad’s forehead. Probably he’s imagining sharing the details of this escapade with The Ruler.
    Junie loosens her seat belt and is a happy and relaxed passenger. She