The Case of the Barfy Birthday by Michele Torrey

I t was a perfectly lazy Sunday afternoon in the small town of Mossy Lake. Just the sort of day for a barbecue or a stroll in the park.
    Unless you happened to be Drake Doyle.
    Tucked away in his attic lab, surrounded by test tubes, Drake was up to his ears in experiments. Sometimes he said, “Aha!” if things went especially well. Or sometimes, if things didn’t go precisely so, he exclaimed, “Great Scott!” or even “Egads!”
    Drake’s cinnamon-colored hair stuck straight up, as if he’d seen a ghost. (Which he had, but that’s another story.) He looked quite spiffy in his lab coat, because it had his name on it. A pencil stuck out from behind his ear.
    Drake punched numbers into his calculator and peered at the results. He scribbled in his lab notebook:
    Incredible, but true.
Numbers crunch perfectly.
Analysis a success.
    But before he could call his partner, Nell Fossey, and tell her about his perfectly crunching numbers, the phone rang.
    “Doyle and Fossey,” he answered.
    You see, Drake never answered his phone in any other way. The reason was simple. Drake was a professional. In fact, he and Nell were the most professional amateur science detective team in the fifth grade. Whenever there was a nasty case to solve (or even a not-so-nasty case), Drake and Nell were the ones to call. Already they’d solved many cases involving ghosts, monsters, and kidnapped parrots, to name a few. Their business cards read:

    “Detective Doyle?” said the caller.
    Drake recognized Zoe Jackson’s voice. Zoe was in Drake and Nell’s class. Just yesterday, they had attended a birthday party for her and her twin sister, Chloe. Zoe was a nice girl, and a health nut besides.
    She jogged to school, drank her protein lunch, and ran an exercise program called “Fabulous Fitness for Flabby Folks” on rainy days during recess.
    “Oh, hi, Zoe. What seems to be the problem?”
    “Can you and Nell hurry to the emergency room at Mossy Lake Hospital?” asked Zoe.
    Drake nearly dropped the phone. The hospital! Great Scott! This had to be critical! Drake kept his voice calm. “You can count on us, Ms. Jackson. We’ll be there. ASAP.”
    He wasted no time before calling Nell. “I’ll pick you up, ASAP. Situation critical.”
    “Check.”
    Click.
    Drake sprang to his feet, grabbed some essential equipment, and hurried down the attic stairs. “Dad! Dad!”
    “What! What!” Mr. Sam Doyle met him at the bottom of the steps, looking very worried.
    “Situation critical! Nell and I need a ride to the ER, ASAP!”
    “Oh. Whew! For a second there, I thought you’d blown up the lab.”
    Together they hurried out to the car. Soon they were racing toward Nell’s house. You see, no one could speed around corners quite like Mr. Doyle. Plus, he owned a science equipment and supply company. If Drake needed anything for his lab, he only had to ask. Computers, beakers, lab coats with their names on them, test tubes—it didn’t matter so long as Drake didn’t blow up the lab. (He’d only blown up the lab three times so far, but who’s counting?)
    They screeched to a stop in front of Nell’s house. She was waiting for them on the sidewalk and looked ready to tackle anything. Hair the color of coffee was pulled into a tight ponytail, guaranteed to stay out of the way while speeding around corners. She slid into the backseat, buckled her seat belt, and gripped the armrest. “Step on it, Mr. Doyle.”
    “Check.”
    Va-room!
    They turned here. They turned there. Meanwhile, Drake told Nell about his phone conversation with Zoe. Finally, they screeched to a stop in front of the hospital. Screech!
    And off they rushed. (Unfortunately, Drake didn’t see the glass doors and ran right into them with a bonk! Nell had to rub his head until he stopped looking cross-eyed.)
    Nell opened the door for Drake, and they hurried inside. The emergency room was packed. Nurses hollered, “Code Purple!” Doctors said, “This won’t hurt a bit.”