The Case of the Rock 'n' Roll Dog (3 page)

Charlotte shook her head. “You know your family's not into that, Cameron. They want you to act like kids, not movie stars. Here we are.”

Aunt Jen's secretary, Mrs. Crowe, smiled and said we could go right in.

In Aunt Jen's office, I explained, and she sighed. “How many people do you want to invite?” she asked.

I looked at my shoes.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Your whole class?”

I nodded.

“Including Courtney Lozana?”

“Especially Courtney Lozana,” I said.

Aunt Jen shook her head. “It's awfully tight for the security clearances,” she said, “but I'll talk to Mrs. Silver, and we'll see what we can do.”

Mrs. Silver is the White House social secretary. She works for my aunt, and her job is planning parties and events like The Song Boys.

I told Aunt Jen thank you, and I would have given her a hug, but she doesn't like to get wrinkled.

“You're welcome,” she said. Then, as I was walking out the door, she asked me to hold on a minute. “Just do me one favor, Cameron. We'll let the class know all at once, and as soon as we can. In the meantime, please don't pester me about it. Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal,” I said.

Going back upstairs, I heard music from the state floor. Not random music either. A song I totally knew by heart, “Shake it Up!” from The Song Boys' second album. I felt a thump in my chest.

Were The Song Boys here already?!

“Not yet, kid,” Charlotte said. “That's the Marine Band. They're going to play with the Boys on Saturday. Usually they'd rehearse at the barracks, but today they're trying out sound equipment.”

When we got back upstairs, Granny, Nate and Tessa were in the West Sitting Hall. So was Hooligan—in his bed. When he saw me, he raised his head and thumped his tail, but he didn't get up.

“Hooligan's had a busy day,” Granny said.

“Who did he knock over this time?” Nate asked.

“Very funny,” said Granny, “and no one, I hope. But he did go AWOL for a while.”

Even from up here, we could hear the music.
Granny had already explained to Tessa and Nate about the band. Tessa tugged on Granny's sleeve. “Can we go watch?”

Granny considered. “How much homework do you have?”

Tessa and I answered together: “Hardly any.”

Nate said, “Cameron should study spelling.”

My turn to stick my tongue out—and luckily Granny didn't see. She had closed her eyes to listen to the music—and next thing you know, she was rocking out!

Tessa and I high-fived and rocked out, too. Nate just stood there like a lump.

Still bouncing, Granny said, “It's catchy. Tell you what. We'll all go down and listen.”

Nate crossed his arms. “Not me.”

FIVE minutes later we were standing in the East Room—Granny, Tessa, me and Nate. He should know it's no use arguing with Granny.

The East Room is on the state floor. It's as big as a basketball court—the biggest room in the White House. It's gold and white with three giant, sparkling chandeliers and four fireplaces. Sometimes, like now when there's going to be an event, it's mostly empty of furniture. Once a long time ago a kid named Amy Carter lived in the White House, and she even got to roller-skate in the East Room.

When we walked in, the musicians were between songs. Colonel Michaels, the director, looked up and saw us. “Good afternoon, children. Good afternoon, Judge Maclaren.”

Granny is “Granny” to us, but she used to be a judge in California and before that a police officer.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Michaels,” said Granny. “We've come to listen if you don't mind.”

“Happy to have you.” Colonel Michaels turned to face the band and raised his hands. But then he dropped them and looked around. A trumpet player held up a smooth, shiny wooden stick and handed it to Colonel Michaels.

“That's it,” Nate whispered to me, “the Sousa baton!”

“It doesn't look that special,” Tessa said.

“It's historic!” Nate said.

Colonel Michaels raised the baton and smiled. “I can't very well direct without this, can I?”

Nate nudged me. “See?”

Then the musicians raised their instruments, and . . . “A-
one
, anna
two
, anna one-two-three-
four . . .”

The trumpets blared the first notes of another big Song Boys hit: “Praise a Ruckus.”

The band's official name is the President's Own Marine Band. It has 160 members—men and women—but most of the time they don't all play together. For The Song Boys, it was going to be their chamber orchestra along with guitars and a drum set. This was a rehearsal, so the musicians wore plain brown uniforms and shiny black shoes.

I will never get to roller-skate in the East Room. But Granny does believe in dancing. She, Tessa and I had formed a conga line when Hooligan showed up in the doorway. Where did he come from anyway?

Of course, he should've been on a leash. But we were having too much fun to go upstairs and get it. Tessa even grabbed his front paws so the two of them could dance together.

The musicians took a short break, and then they played Hooligan's favorite, “Rock'n'Roll Dog.”

How could he help but howl?

Granny looked at me and raised her eyebrows, the universal sign for:
Control your dog, Cameron
.

I bent down and lifted Hooligan's ear. “
Shhh!
”

Unfortunately, Hooligan misunderstood. He thought I said:
“Part-y-y-y!”
because he tensed his muscles, blinked twice, and did the frenzy—lunged, thumped, sprang and spun. Back on the ground for an instant, he looked left, looked right and took off like he had a squirrel to catch.

Next thing we knew, he was bounding toward the band and yipping in time with the music. At first, I thought everything would be all right. In fact, the way the Marines stepped and sidestepped to avoid him looked like MTV.

But then Hooligan's too-long tail brushed a music stand that hit the one next to it, and the next and the next, and then the cymbals on the drum set. . . .

The clatter was so terrible it even scared Hooligan, who jumped like he'd heard a starter's pistol. Next thing you know, people were running in from every direction to see what was the matter: Mr. Ross, the head usher; Mr. Baney, the florist; Mr. Patel, the handsome steward; a maid named Mrs. Hedges; and Mr. Kane, one of the chefs.

Mr. Ross is from Texas, and when he saw our rampaging dog, he must've thought of a rampaging cow because he hollered, “Round-up!”

Unfortunately, Hooligan is quicker than any cow, and anyway we didn't have lassos. Three times we had him surrounded, and three times he busted free.

That's when Granny's police training kicked in.

“Tessa,” she ordered, “you go right. Cameron, take the door, and Nathan—you've got my back.” As we scurried to position ourselves, Granny strode into the path of the oncoming Hooligan, raised her right hand and said, “Halt!”

Face to face with Granny, even a getaway car would stop.

But not my wild and crazy dog.

He scooted by on her right and almost took out Nate. That left me as the last defender between Hooligan and escape!

Have I mentioned the state floor of the White House is full of rare, historic and breakable antiques?

Hooligan was poised to take a mighty leap across the East Room threshold when I hurled my body forward and . . . 
crash!
We collided, then . . . 
ow!
I hit the floor hard.

So did my dog.

After all the clattering, yelling and stomping, the room went suddenly still. Then in the silence I heard Tessa's voice: “Puppy! Poor puppy! Are you okay?”

And Colonel Michaels said, “I think that will conclude today's rehearsal.”

IT'S amazing how much damage one too-large dog can do—even in a room that's mostly empty.

The next few minutes were a whirlwind of activity as the staff tried to put the East Room back in order and the band packed up. I sat with Tessa in the middle of it all, holding Hooligan firmly by the collar.

“Judge Maclaren, you don't have to help,” Mr. Ross told Granny. She was on her knees, tugging the corner of a rug to flatten it out.

“Oh, yes I do.” She explained she felt responsible because she should have insisted on getting Hooligan's leash.

Finally, the band was ready to leave, and Granny said, “I'll take the dog, girls. You go and apologize to Colonel Michaels.”

“What about Nate?” Tessa asked.

Granny looked around. “I don't know where he's got to, but it doesn't matter. Hooligan is
your
dog.”

Colonel Michaels is tall and serious with perfect
posture and a spotless uniform. Even though Tessa is only seven, I was glad she was standing next to me. I wouldn't have wanted to apologize alone.

“We're sorry about Hooligan,” I said.

“He has too much energy,” Tessa said.

“And it was his favorite song,” I said.

“This is Hooligan's home, not ours,” Colonel Michaels said. “But I do wish we'd been able to complete the rehearsal.” He looked at his watch. “And now I'm afraid we're running late. See you on Saturday?”

“Yes, sir,” we said at the same time.

“I look forward to it,” said Colonel Michaels.

“Cammie?” Tessa said a minute later when we were walking up the stairs. “He didn't exactly forgive us, did he?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

Upstairs, Hooligan flopped onto his bed and fell instantly asleep.

Then Nate appeared from the kitchen.

“Where did you go?” Granny asked him.

“Who me?” Nate said. “No place! Uh . . . I mean, I came back up here is all. . . .”

Granny cocked her head, then she looked at Tessa and me. “You still have some time before dinner. I think all three of you had better set yourselves down and do some schoolwork.”

“Mine would be done except I had to listen to stupid music,” Nate said.

Granny shut her eyes. “It will be in your best interest, Nathan, if I pretend I did not hear that last comment.”

“Besides, I saw you tapping your feet!” Tessa said. “You just don't want to admit you like The Song Boys 'cause you think they're for kids. Well,
you're
a kid! Get over it!”

Nate crossed his arms. “I hate The Song Boys,” he said, “and you know what else? I hope something bad happens, and they can't even play on Saturday.”

Granny put her hands on her hips. “That is too much, Nathan. Apologize to your cousins.”

“Sorry, cousins,” Nate said—but in a robot voice so we would know he didn't mean it.