A Recipe for Robbery by Marybeth Kelsey Page A

convertible’s backseat and flashed her most innocent smile. “These. We’re helping François distribute them for his breakfast tomorrow.”
    Cricket’s gaze flitted from me to Margaret, then back to me. Her eyes stayed squinted, doubtful, but all she said was, “Sounds like a plan.” And then she headed across the parking lot toward her car.
    â€œCome on,” I said to Margaret. “Let’s go translate this planner.”
    We made it to my house in ten minutes flat. The good news was that Henry and my parents weren’t around, so no one was using the computer. The bad news was that Margaret and I wouldn’t be using it either. Because it wouldn’t turn on. I pressed the “on” key at least fifty times. Nothing. Then I punched every single button on the keyboard. Still nothing.
    â€œLet’s go to your house,” I said.
    Margaret shook her head. “Can’t. My mom’s got company, and they’ll all be in the family room. Besides,she won’t allow me on it, anyway. I’m restricted to half an hour in the evening.”
    We sat on the sofa, listening to the tick, tick , tick of Mom’s grandfather clock in the hallway. Pixie purred on my lap. After silently counting along for thirty-six straight ticks, I took the phone from its cradle. I had to call Gus, no matter how awkward it felt. He’d been our partner from the very beginning, we needed him now, and it was my fault, not Margaret’s, he wasn’t here. I never should’ve said any of that to Angel. I should’ve stuck up for Gus. That’s what a real friend would do.
    I punched in the numbers, then put the phone to my ear.

Chapter 22
Translation = Suspicions Confirmed
    I held tight to the receiver, my hands slick with sweat. I’d almost rather have called Leonard Snout again.
    One ring: My knee bounced up and down, up and down.
    Two rings: The knot in my stomach felt tight and twisty, like a ball of rubber bands.
    Three rings: Come on, Gus. Where are you?
    He answered on the fourth.
    â€œHi,” I said, trying to sound as bubbly and friendly as Margaret. “Where’d you go today?”
    â€œNowhere.”
    Hmm…this wasn’t going so well. “You want to hear what happened after you took off?”
    Silence.
    â€œUh, well, Margaret and I found something.”
    I waited for him to ask what, but all I heard was a TV in the background.
    â€œFrançois’ daily planner,” I said.
    â€œSo?”
    So? Jeez. Couldn’t he at least give me more than a one-word answer?
    â€œSo,” I said, “it might have important information.”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘it might’? Haven’t you read it yet?”
    Aha. Now he sounded interested. I smiled and nodded at Margaret. She was chewing on her thumbnail, watching me.
    â€œWe can’t read it because it’s in French.”
    No answer.
    â€œWell?” I said.
    â€œWell what?”
    â€œWell, two things,” I said, taking a deep breath. “We need you to translate the French in the planner, and…the only reason I said all that to Angel is I was jealous because I didn’t get chosen for the trio. And I promise I didn’t mean any of it, especially about the squeaking. And I’m really, really sorry.”
    â€œOh, man,” he said, and right then, right there, I could feel his NSCCB vibrations pulsing through the telephone lines. “You’re brilliant! The daily planner? That’s a spectacular find. One hundred percent cool. I’ll meet you guys at the midway, by the bingo tent.”
    Â 
    We sat at a picnic table under the blazing afternoon sun. Gus was squished between Margaret and me like a pig in a blanket, and all three of us were munching kettle corn, slugging lemon shake-ups, and poring over François’ scribbles. Every ten seconds a man in the tent next to us would holler something like “Under the B ,