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  Lowell joined me behind the desk as I slyly pushed the magazines to the floor again.

  “Are you spastic or something?” he snipped.

  “So, so sorry,” I apologized. I picked up a small pile as I saw Jesse bend down and slip out the front door. “I have to go,” I sang out and dashed through the door.

  “I’m gonna go give Eight some crap now,” Lowell called after me. “Ta-ta.”

  It must have been a full minute before we heard him screaming for “Security!”

  We raced to the van and found Gabe leaning against it, talking to a stoner-looking dude who was eating out of a giant jar of pickle relish marked PROPERTY OF WORTHINGTON-FLAX CATERING.

  “Did you know this contains all three food groups—green, red, and yellow?” he was saying as Jesse and I pulled up.

  “Go! Go! Go!” I ordered Gabe as Jesse and I slid open the doors and jumped inside.

  He backed up as the stoner pulled out ahead of us in his truck.

  “We are so screwed,” I told them. “The files only go back to 1998. They must have stored the rest somewhere else.”

  “So that means we’re shut out, right?” said Jesse.

  “Maybe not,” Gabe announced.

  He pointed to the writing on the back of the stoner’s truck: ACME RECORD STORAGE.

  “Poor guy had the munchies, and I found a jar of pickle relish in the back of the van for him. I think he might be grateful.”

  Ten minutes later we were waiting outside Acme Record Storage, watching Gabe exchange a cool handshake with the stoner, who still held the relish jar. Under Gabe’s arm was a folder marked “Donor 908-1992.” Who knew “the nerd” could be so deliciously devious?

  chapter eight

  Gabe parked the van so we could concentrate on reading the computer printout that was in the folder. When Jesse and I started fighting about who would get to read it out loud and grabbing the folder out of each other’s hands, Gabe announced that he would do it. He opened it slowly and waited for us to give him our complete attention. “His name,” he stated solemnly, “is Willard Pinchekus.”

  “Willard Pinchekus,” I breathed. “Our biological father, Willard.”

  “We’re the Pinchekus kids,” said Jesse in wonder.

  “His occupation is or was ‘student.’ His hobbies were origami, working out, reading, linguistics, and music,” Gabe went on.

  “I knew he’d be musical,” I said. “That’s why my mom probably picked him. She was president of the Michael Bolton Fan Club.”

  “I wouldn’t call what that dude sings music,” Jesse commented, probably just to piss me off.

  “I’ll have you know that dude started out singing lead in a cool, hard-rock band called Blackjack. He used his real name back then, Michael Bolotin. But I have to admit I kind of agree with you, Swimmy,” I conceded. “Once he changed his name, he got kinda cheesy.”

  “Origami would have hooked my moms,” Jessie continued, with a slight smirk to acknowledge the fact that he had scored a point by getting me to agree. “They’re both big on napkin folding. And ‘working out’ probably means he was a great athlete but he was too cool to say it.”

  “He went to Harvard. He’s got two degrees,” Gabe continued. “So he was definitely super smart.”

  “Do they list his blood type?” I asked in a shaky voice.

  “They do,” Gabe answered. Then, while we held our breath, he exploded into a sneezing fit. “I think I’m allergic to the paper or the print,” he panted.

  “Whatever!” I shouted. “What’s his blood type?”

  “It’s A!” Gabe yelled triumphantly.

  We all screamed “Yes!” and pumped the air.

  “Is his phone number listed?” I asked, pulling out my cell. “Yes, it is,” said Gabe.

  “Are we ready?” I asked. “Should I do it?”

  “Wait,” Jessie said, holding up his hand. “When you get him, put him on speaker phone.”

  “Of course I will,” I barked.

  “I’m kinda scared,” Gabe whispered hoarsely. “I’m scared he’ll be pissed at us for finding him.”

  “I’m scared he’ll think I’m just a dumb jock,” Jesse mumbled. “I won’t let that happen, trust me,” Gabe offered, giving Jess a manly pat on the shoulder. “You okay, KT?”

  “As okay as someone whose dream may be shattered at any moment can be,” I cracked, feeling terrified.

  “Let’s just do it before we chicken out,” Gabe announced.

  He read the numbers as I dialed and then held the phone up, on speaker, so we could all hear 908’s voice. After a few rings, we heard instead the voice of a recorded operator saying, “That number has been disconnected.”

  “Let’s try going to his address,” Gabe suggested. “Maybe he still lives there, and he just changed his phone number.” He read off the street and number, and Jesse and I kept repeating it like a chant so we’d be sure to get it right. Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of it. “It” was a Starbucks. We’d struck out again.

  We sat there for a minute or two, not knowing what to say. I felt my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach. Now it was really over. Then Gabe piped up with, “I bet Harvard keeps a record of all their alumni. Maybe we should try calling them.”

  “Not a bad thought,” I said. “Let me see the printout.”

  He handed it over and my eyes lit up with hope. “The number for Harvard is right here,” I told them. “But wait a minute. He spelled it wrong. Didn’t you notice, Gabe, he spelled it ‘Horvard’?”

  “It’s probably just his handwriting,” Jesse offered. “I have lousy handwriting. Sometimes my ‘a’ looks like an ‘o’.”

  I dialed the number and held up the phone again. It rang about ten times before someone picked it up. In the background I could hear cats meowing, little dogs yapping, and what sounded like a television set tuned to The Jerry Springer Show. Then a voice with a weird English accent said, “Horvard University. This is Dr. Cedric Pidgeon. How can I help you?”

  “I would like to get the address and phone number of one of your alumni,” I answered, trying to sound older. “A Willard Pinchekus.”

  “Of course,” the dude answered. “Doctor Pinchekus is one of our most illustrious graduates. He has completed two degrees and currently is working on another one in . . .” We heard the rustling of paper, a cat meowing angrily, and the sound of little cat nails hitting the floor. “Kinesiology.”

  “That sounds impressive.”

  “Would you be interested in a degree?” the dude asked. “We offer a veritable cornucopia of courses from the ‘Artistry of Auras: Viewing, Identifying, and Understanding’ to ‘Working with Your Animal Allies, Teachers, and Totems.’”

  “I don’t think I’m interested in a course right now,” I said. “I’d just like to get Doctor Pinchekus’s address and phone number, please.”

  “I don’t have his phone number, but we forward his documents and alumni quarterly to 1699 Mountain Top Road, Sedona, Arizona,” he responded. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like a brochure, perhaps for the future?”

  “No thanks, but thank you for the address,” I said.

  “That was not Harvard,” Jesse announced.

  “Duh! So he’s a Horvard grad, not a Harvard grad. It’s not his fault everybody read it wrong. He’s still our bio dad, and I’m gonna get his number and call him,” I continued.

  “I’m with you. Go for it, KT,” Gabe said encouragingly. “I don’t care where he went to school. My dad almost didn’t graduate from high school, and he’s really, really smart.”

  “Yeah, whatever. The Harvard thing scared me a little,” Jesse chimed in. “It gave me a lot to live up to.”

  I called information only to find that Willard Pinchekus’s phone was unlisted. It was a bummer, but it made our next decision easy. We looked at each other and actually smiled. No one had to say a word. We still had major issues with each other, but we all knew exactly where we were going.

 
; chapter nine

  When I got home, Kim was cuddling in front of the TV with Ben, her latest squeeze. She jumped up to greet me, checked out my candy striper threads, and shot me a puzzled look.

  “It’s for the band,” I explained. “We’re called ‘Krash Kart’ now. It’s spelled with two Ks.”

  “You look nice, Katie,” Kim said. “Very wholesome. Where did you . . . were you in my closet?”

  Ben cleared his throat.

  “You remember . . .”

  “Ben. Yeah, hi.”

  “It’s Ken,” he mumbled. “I brought my blender over.”

  “That was very thoughtful, Ken. Thanks. By the way, Mom, I’m going to Sasha’s tomorrow and staying over for the whole week so we can rehearse. I’ve got my cell and my charger.”

  “Okay, honey. Check in with me, though, will you? Sometimes when I call you there, you can’t hear the phone over the music. Give my regards to Sasha’s mom and dad and don’t forget to thank them when you leave.”

  “I won’t forget,” I said.

  She and Ken smiled at me and watched me walk away, but they were locking lips before I even opened the door to my room. How annoying was that?

  I called Sasha right away and filled her in on my sad sib situation, the Willard discovery, and the expedition to Sedona in search of our dad.

  “Where are the moms and the Butcherellis?” she wanted to know.

  “The moms are gone for two weeks catering a wedding in the Bahamas. Then when they come back, they’re gonna divide the spatulas and split up.”

  “Somebody got a new somebody?”

  “Not according to Jesse. They’ve lost the heat. Maybe they need mama drama. Whatever it is, it isn’t a good thing.”

  “And the Butchies?”

  “They won a cruise in a ballroom dancing contest. They’ll be sambaing up a storm for ten days, so if you’ll say I’m with you, we’re all in the clear.”

  “I’ll cover for you, K,” Sasha assured me. “But how are you getting to Arizona?”

  “Jesse has his moms’ wheels while they’re away, so we’re driving. That’s the only reason I’m hanging with them. Seems I’m stuck with them if I want to hook up with Willard.”

  “KT Pinchekus, it does have a ring to it,” Sasha mused.

  “We’re leaving in the morning, so you have to answer your phone every time it rings. If it’s my mom, tell her I’m out getting a pizza or a guitar string or something, and text or call me immediately, if not sooner.”

  “I can figure out the drill,” Sasha told me. “Hey, I’m really excited for you. Willard’s gonna be very cool, and it’s all gonna be good.”

  I wanted to believe her. But I just said, “Did you have a salad at McDonald’s?”

  “Of course, I did,” she answered, too enthusiastically. “And my dad liked the Kings. Caleb was amazing.”

  I didn’t believe her for a minute about the salad, but she was covering for me. I figured I’d work on her eating habits when I got back.

  “Thanks, Sash,” I said.

  “Good luck, K,” she answered. “Check in, will ya?”

  I agreed to, and with that out of the way, I lay down on my bed and daydreamed about Willard and what he would be like. I said a little prayer (even though I’m not religious) that he’d be glad we found him and not slam the door in our faces. And then I realized that I was really lucky to have brothers instead of sisters because I’d be his only “little girl” and probably his favorite. Then I picked up my guitar and wrote a song called “My Little Girl.” It was kind of country rock, about how this dad was always going to be there for his daughter even after he gave her away at her wedding. It was mushier than most of my stuff, but it came from my heart. I felt like, all in all, this had been a really good day until about ten o’clock. I was in my pjs, packing my backpack, when I heard a guitar and a voice outside my window. It was Dylan, singing:

  “I’m addicted to you,

  You make my head spin.

  You’re the reason

  For the crazy state my heart is in.

  Nobody loves you like me, KT.

  Nobody loves you like me.”

  I opened my window and there he was, leaning against a tree, looking as if being there at ten o’clock at night was the most natural thing in the world. When he saw me, his face lit up. If he’d had a tail, he would have wagged it.

  “You gotta get over me already, Dylan, like now,” I told him. “There must be some kind of love rehab place you can go to.”

  “But I like the way I feel about you,” he said. “It feels warm and good. I don’t want to get over it.”

  “You have to, and you’re gonna have to go cold turkey,” I answered. “My brothers and I are going to Sedona.”

  “You’re going to Sedona with Butcherelli and Jesse the jock? Why?”

  “Number 806 wasn’t our dad. Our dad lives in Sedona, and we’re going to find him. So goodbye, Dylan. Please go home now.”

  I slammed the window shut and pulled down the shade. Then I threw my phone and charger into my backpack and zipped it closed, but something told me that I wasn’t in the clear. I listened quietly for a few seconds. “You’re still out there, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes, I am,” I heard through the window. “I’m just going to sit here for a while being happy for you. You can go to sleep.”

  I let out a silent scream, turned out the light, jumped into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. I hoped I would fall asleep right away because I couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

  chapter ten

  When Gabe and I got to Jesse’s at nine in the morning, he was totally torqued off and manic. I didn’t know that laidback Swimmy had that much fire in him. It seems his moms had taken off for the Bahamas on a 7:00 a.m. flight while he was sleeping. They’d left him a note saying that they were parking the car at the airport and had taken the van in for servicing while they were away. They’d left him home-cooked frozen dinners for every night they’d be gone, in addition to extra money for taxis and buses, and said that he should stay close to home. We were all packed, and now we were without wheels. I guess Jesse knew he was on the hook because he looked like he was about to go postal.

  “Let’s rent a car,” I suggested. Somehow the nuttier he got, the calmer I got, even though I wanted to kill him and his moms.

  “You have to be at least twenty-one to rent a car,” he snapped. “I thought you knew everything.”

  “Whoa, Big Feller,” I said, “If we can’t rent one, then how ’bout we steal one?”

  “Like you’d know how,” Jesse said scornfully.

  “We could borrow one,” the Wimpy One volunteered.

  “From who?” Jesse asked.

  “From my dad,” said Gabe. “He’s got a car repair shop. He and my mom are on their cruise, and they gave me the key to the lot so I can check on things.”

  “Good thinking, Batman,” I said. “I didn’t think you harbored even a speck of larceny in your skinny little soul.”

  “You’re at the bottom of the learning curve when it comes to me,” Gabe said. That line was pretty impressive for him.

  “Ding dong!” I said. “The witch is dead . . . for now. So tell me, Houdini, how do we pull off this caper?”

  “Just follow me,” he directed, picking up his ratty overnight bag.

  I slung my backpack over my shoulder and picked up my guitar case as Jesse pulled out a suitcase with initials all over it. I’ve always wondered why people wanted stuff with other people’s initials on it. He saw the way I was looking at it.

  “My moms got it for me. I didn’t ask them for it. I didn’t want it. It’s all I’ve got.”

  “My sympathies,” I said, and we headed for the door.

  We took the bus, and on the way, we pooled our money. Jesse’s moms had left him two hundred dollars. I had $70 of birthday and babysitting money, and Gabe had $87.50. I had already stocked up on NoDoz, so we had plenty of cash for gas and food until we got to Sedona
. Then I read them the driving schedule I had worked out.

  Jesse, of course, told me that we didn’t need a schedule, which made no sense at all since we couldn’t agree on almost anything. So I told him since no one else had bothered to organize the trip, this schedule trumped no schedule, so my schedule was it.

  We got off the bus and walked three blocks to Butcherelli Muffler and Auto Repair. It was a neat little operation with two hoists, a bunch of cars parked outside in a gated area, and a small office that looked like a little house.

  Gabe let us in with the key, and we checked out everything on the lot. There were oversized SUVs (I wouldn’t be caught dead in one), vans, sedans, and sports cars. We finally picked a cherry-red Prius that looked almost new. Then we went into the office to get the key.

  There was a case with a glass front. All the car keys were hanging inside it on little hooks with numbers. Gabe tried to open it with the key we used to get into the lot, but it wouldn’t turn. We jiggled and tried forcing it, but it wasn’t the right key. There was no way we could make it be the right key, and I was beginning to panic.

  “Don’t freak yet, KT,” Gabe said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “I hope it’s better than this one,” I said.

  “Just go out and count the cars in the lot,” he directed me. “Why me?” I asked. “Don’t you think Jesse can count?”

  “It was random, KT. You can stay here, and Jesse can count the cars.”

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  It took all of twenty seconds to walk out, count, and come back.

  “Thirteen cars,” I told him.

  “Bingo!” said Jesse. “There are twelve keys in the case. That means one of the cars has the keys in it.”

  “I sure underestimated you, Mr. Hawking,” I quipped.

  “Not funny, KT,” Gabe whispered through clenched teeth.

  We ran out and started jiggling door handles. Nothing opened, and then we spotted it. Over in the corner, looking as if it had been put there to die, was a Jeep Wrangler, ten years old at least, the kind with the plastic windows. It must have been green once, but it was so dilapidated and scratched that you couldn’t really call it any color. The soft top was shredded, and the door creaked open the minute I tried it. The key was on the floor, not even under the mat. Who would have wanted to steal this wreck?