Nanny X Returns by Madelyn Rosenberg

Author:Madelyn Rosenberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Holiday House
Published: 2015-11-11T16:00:00+00:00

11. Alison

Nanny X Is Out of the Picture

I was running ahead of Stinky even though he had longer legs and even though it wasn’t supposed to be a race. Sometimes it felt like the only thing I was the best at was biting my fingernails. I wanted to be the best at something real and important, like solving our case so we could keep our jobs. Being faster than Stinky made me feel better.

But when I looked back over my shoulder and saw our nanny roller-skating in a blur of pink bunny slippers, I stopped running and started laughing.

“Are those bunny slippers?” Boris asked as Nanny X passed a line of people riding on Segways, which look like dollies, the kind the UPS man uses for moving heavy packages.

I nodded.

“State of the art!” he said. “This is the first time I’ve seen them in action.” I could tell he was wishing for bunny slippers, too. But he’d been assigned the case first. Maybe he didn’t need bunny slippers to get ahead.

“Why didn’t the Secret Service just release a photo of the fish statue when they got the threat?” I asked. “It should have been in the news.”

“That is exactly what The Angler wanted,” Boris said. “Publicity.”

Stinky added: “If The Angler’s fish was on the front page of the paper, everyone would be sending statues to the president.”

We started running again, a gentle jog this time, not a race (except that I was still in the lead). Soon we reached the Artsy Bartsy office.

I imagined Jake knocking on the door of the White House, but I wasn’t jealous; I’d been on a field trip there just before Christmas. Ms. Bertram had spent half the time yelling at us because we’d tried to whistle for the president’s dog.

I knocked on Artsy Bartsy’s blue door. I was still knocking when I heard an “Ahem” behind me. It came from a tall man with black hair that stood up a little. He wore the tweedy jacket professors wear when they want to look like professors. He also had small, rectangular glasses, which were perched on a nose that was longish and kind of skinny.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Are you Bartholomew Huffleberger?” asked Boris.

“I am.”

“We’d like to ask some questions about an art exhibit you reviewed six months ago.”

“Which one?” the critic said.

“It featured an artist named Ursula.”

His skinny nose wrinkled.

“Was her show really that bad?” asked Boris.

“It depends on what you mean by ‘bad,’ ” said the critic. “Did it make a statement? Perhaps. But what a disaster. It was as if she’d thrown her entire wardrobe of clothing onto the floor and said, ‘There. How do I look?’ Some of the pieces were okay, but was it groundbreaking? No. Was it truly art?”

“I thought everything counted as art,” said Stinky. Our art teacher, Mrs. Bonawali, told us that even a can of soup could be art.

“The woman paints realistic fish with sad eyes,” Mr. Huffleberger said. “Excuse me while I faint from excitement.”

“Your review mentioned a sculpture,” I said.

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