The Tail of Emily Windsnap by Liz Kessler Page B

saucer to dry.
    “Saying?”
    “About our outing.”
    “Oh, of course — the little trip to the headland,” Mom smiled. “Lovely, wasn’t it?”
    “Not just the headland,” I said. “The rocks.”
    Mom looked at me blankly.
    “Rainbow Rocks . . .” The words caught in my throat as I held my breath.
    “Rainbow what?”
    “Mom — don’t tell me you’ve forgotten! The rocks, the rainbow colors when the sea washed over them, the way you felt when we were there. Love. And sadness and stuff?”
    Mom laughed. “You know, Mrs. Partington told me at our last parent-teacher conference that you had a good imagination. Now I know what she means.”
    I stared at her as she bustled around the galley, straightening the tablecloth and brushing crumbs off chairs with her hands.
    “What?” She looked up.
    “Mom, what do you think we were talking about before Mr. Beeston came around?”
    Mom shut one eye and rubbed her chin. “Heck — give me a minute.” She looked worried for a moment, then laughed. “You know — I can’t remember. Gone! Never mind. Now bring me the broom and dustpan. We can’t leave the carpet like this.”
    I continued to stare at her. She’d forgotten! He had drugged her, after all! But how? And when?
    “Come on, shake a leg. Or do I have to get them myself?”
    I fetched the broom and pan out of the cupboard and handed them to her.
    “Mom . . .” I tried again as she swept under the table. “Do you really not remem —”
    “Emily.” Mom sat up on her knees and spoke firmly. “A joke is a joke, and any joke is usually not funny after a while. Now, I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about multicolored rocks, if you don’t mind. I’ve got more important things to do than play along with your daydreams.”
    “But it’s not a —”
    “EMILY.”
    I knew that tone of voice. It meant it was time to shut up. I picked up the doughnut bags from the table and went to throw them away. Then I noticed some writing on one of the bags: MPW.
    “Why does this one have your initials on it?” I asked.
    “I don’t know. Probably so he knows which doughnuts are mine.”
    “What difference does it make?”
    “Come on, Emily, everbody knows I’ve got a sweet tooth. I always get the ones with more sugar.”
    “But can’t you tell which ones have more sugar just by looking at them?”
    “Emily, why are you being so difficult today? And what do you have against Mr. Beeston? I won’t have you talking about him like this. I’m not listening to another word.”
    “But I don’t understand! Why can’t he just look in the bag?”
    Mom ignored me. Then she started whistling and I gave up and went back to my cabin. I took the bags with me. They held some kind of answer, I was sure of it — if only I could figure out what it was.
    I stared so hard at her initials that my eyes started to water.
    And then, as the letters blurred under my gaze, it hit me so hard that I nearly fell over. Of course! The memory drug!
    He gave it to her in the doughnuts.

When I got home from school on Monday, I slumped on the sofa and threw my backpack on the floor. Mom was reading. “Did you have a nice day?” she asked, folding over the corner of the page and putting her book down.
    “Mm.” I got a glass of milk out of the fridge.
    I could hardly stand to look at her. How was I ever going to make her believe me? Somehow I had to make her see for herself what Mr. Beeston was up to. Plus I still had to find my father.
    A gentle rap on the roof startled me out of my thoughts. I clenched my fists. If that was Mr. Beeston, I’d —
    “Hello, Emily,” Millie said in a mysterious kind of way as she unwrapped herself from her large black cloak.
    “Are you going out tonight?” I asked Mom.
    “It’s the Bay Residents’ Council meeting. I told you last week.”
    “You did?”
    “Nice to see I’m not the only one around here with the memory of a goldfish.” She tweaked my cheek as she passed me.
    I checked my