Totally Toxic (15 page)

“Good morning, fellow citizens of Sweetbriar,” he said in a confident baritone voice. “It seems that we have something of a misunderstanding here. Ladies and gentlemen, let me assure you that I have done nothing to harm the environment. I operate this factory in strict accordance with all state and federal waste-management regulations.”

As Mr. Mitchell rattled off a list of codes and policies, smiling all the while, Howie and Josh joined Em and me.

“Did you bring the photos?” I whispered to Howie.

Howie's face went pale. “Oh, no! I left them in the pocket of my jacket in the basket of my bicycle … with the camera! I'd better go back and get it!”

“Don't worry,” said Josh. “No thief would bother with a jacket in a kid's bike basket. Besides, there are lots of police officers around. Your camera will be fine.”

Howie still looked a little panicked.

Mr. Mitchell's speech was interrupted by the sound of beeping behind him. A large Mitchell Enterprises truck was rumbling toward the gate. Mr. Mitchell stepped to one side and waved it through like he was doing the truck driver a huge favor. The
driver leaned out the window to nod to the factory owner. His shirt had the name
Charlie
embroidered above the pocket.

As he drove through the gate, he gave his horn another blast. “ 'Scuse me, folks!” he barked. “Outta the way, please.”

“Hey, Mitchell,” called out one of the protesters. “Why don't you show us what's in that truck, huh?”

“Now, why would you want to see what's in the truck?” Mitchell inquired calmly.

“Maybe you're hauling out toxic chemicals,” the protester replied. “Prove to us you're doing it by the rules.”

Several of the other protesters began to chant, “Show us! Show us!”

Mitchell turned his frozen smile toward Charlie. There was something about the look in the factory owner's eyes that made my breath catch in my lungs.

He gave the truck driver a nod. “Go ahead, Charlie.”

Charlie turned off the ignition, climbed out of the truck, and headed around to the back. Josh, Howie, Emily, and I elbowed our way toward the front of the crowd as the protesters gathered around.

Charlie reached for the handle on the door, twisted it, and slid up the back of the truck to reveal the dark interior.

“What is it?” called someone at the back of the group. “What's in there?”

I stared at the cargo. This was definitely not what I'd expected. Judging from the murmur that rippled through the crowd, it wasn't what anyone else was expecting, either.

“Cardboard,” someone replied in a tone of disbelief. “Just a bunch of broken-down shipping boxes.”

“Tell the people where you're going, Charlie,” Mitchell said.

Charlie removed his beat-up cap and spoke loudly. “I'm haulin' this cardboard to the recycling facility,” he answered. His tone was flat and automatic, like he was speaking from a script. “We do it every day. Once in the morning, and once right after the factory closes for the day. We at Mitchell Enterprises are very serious about takin' care of the environment.”

I frowned. Charlie's little speech sounded very rehearsed to me, and I was sure I wasn't the only one who noticed. My eyes shot to my dad. He was frowning, too. I'd have bet a million bucks he was thinking the same thing I was.

Charlie returned his cap to his head, hurried back to the cab, climbed up behind the wheel, and drove away.

For a long moment, the crowd didn't seem to know what to do. They were there to protest about the environment. But they'd just seen proof positive that Mitchell Enterprises followed at least some recycling guidelines. I could imagine what they were thinking: if the company went through all the bother of disposing of cardboard properly, didn't it seem logical that they'd be just as careful with toxic chemicals?

Mitchell gave the crowd an injured look. “As you can see, we are very conscientious. That vat over there”—he waved over his shoulder to indicate the hazmat container—“stores any toxic materials that the plant generates until such time as they can be transported to a proper disposal facility.”

Josh, Howie, and I exchanged meaningful glances. We knew he was lying!

“Is that so?” came a familiar voice.

I turned to see my mom making her way toward Mr. Mitchell. The protesters respectfully stepped aside to allow her to pass.

“My name is Maria Richards, and it just so happens that the
other day I saw a pipe emptying toxic gunk into the river!”

Something flickered across Mitchell's face—fury, maybe. Or fear? But he managed to keep smiling. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said in a patronizing tone.

“In that case,” said Mom, her voice tight, “let's all take a little walk over to the riverbank and I can show you what I mean.”

Mitchell's jaw flexed, and he seemed to grind out his next words, “fine, Ms. Richards. Lead the way.”

“It will be my pleasure!”

The crowd hesitated. They seemed to have lost some of their motivation since seeing the cardboard in the truck. But they followed my mother and Mr. Mitchell through the gates toward the meadow and the river. My dad and the other officers went along.

I could feel myself nearly bursting with pride. “Isn't my mom the coolest?”

“She's awesome,” Emily agreed. “She even wore practical shoes! High heels would have kept getting stuck in the grass.”

Josh, Emily, and I were falling into step with the protesters when I noticed that Howie was heading in the other direction, toward the parking lot.

“Where are you going?” I asked, darting after him (superspeed firmly set to Off).

“To get my camera from my bike basket. We
know
there hasn't been any waste in that vat for ages. I want to take a picture of the look on Mitchell's face when your mom proves that he's a lying snake.”

“Good idea,” I said.

Howie took off at a jog, and I hurried to catch up with Emily and Josh. Mitchell was probably about to be exposed as a liar anyway, when Mom showed everyone the pipe. Up ahead, I could see
my mother boldly leading the march, and I felt another rush of pride. I might have inherited my superpowers from Dad's side of the family, but I definitely got my guts from her!

There was no pipe.

No foam, no sludge. Nothing.

Just the grassy bank and the sparkle of sunshine on the river.

The play of sunlight on the water was so dazzling it looked as if someone had sprinkled handfuls of diamonds across the water's flowing surface.

But the protesters weren't noticing the beauty. They were too busy frowning at the water.

“As you can see,” Mitchell said smugly, “there is no waste pipe emptying anything into the river.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

“But it was here,” Mom insisted. “Just a few days ago. I saw it! And the water was bubbling. I saw it with my own eyes.”

I was about to shout out that I'd seen it, too, but I didn't figure anyone would believe me any more than they believed Mom.

Then I saw Howie running toward us.

“The pictures!” said Josh. “Howie can show everyone the pictures he took of the inside of the vat. That will prove that Mitchell's a liar.”

Howie was clutching his camera in one hand and waving the photos over his head with the other as he drew nearer. “I've got them!” he cried, running along the bank. “I've got—
Oops!”

He tripped! He managed to cling to the stack of pictures, but his camera went flying out of his grasp in a long, high arc. Josh
dove for it and caught it before it hit the ground. Howie, however, was not so lucky.

The crowd watched in horror as Howie staggered on the narrow edge of the bank, then stumbled and fell. He landed hard and rolled down the slope and into the river—photos and all!

“Howie!” cried Emily.

I felt the familiar Superpowered urge to save him, but Dad's officers were fast on their feet. Within seconds, two of them had hopped into the river and grabbed Howie, who came up sputtering. I watched helplessly as the pictures went floating away on the current. I considered jumping in to retrieve them, but I could see that the water had already caused them to run and bleed to the point of obscurity.

“Josh,” I said, “does Howie still have the pictures saved on his camera?”

Josh pressed a few buttons and frowned, watching the camera's tiny preview screen. “It doesn't look like it,” he said with a sigh. “He must have deleted them when he had the prints made.”

I groaned.

Mitchell pretended to look concerned for Howie as the police officers hauled him up the slope.

As soon as it was clear that Howie was nothing worse than wet, the factory owner turned to my mother with a sly grin on his face. “Satisfied, Ms. Richards?”

“Not at all, Mr. Mitchell,” she replied calmly. “I know what I saw. And I'm not giving up until I prove it.”

His reply was another snakelike smile. Without another word, he started back toward the gate.

The crowd moved like a herd of sheep, following Mitchell. My mom stood at the river's edge, shaking her head in confusion.

After checking to see that Howie was really all right, my dad came over, took Mom's hand, and gently pulled her away.

“I don't get it,” I said to Josh and Em. “There really was a pipe sticking out from the bank and spilling yucky gunk into the river.”

“Mitchell probably heard about the rally and had the pipe removed,” Josh reasoned. “The guy's got money and power. He could have gotten it done during the night and paid his workers extra to keep their mouths shut. No wonder he didn't argue when your mom suggested we all come over here.”

“Well, that's good, isn't it?” said Emily, frowning. “If the pipe has been removed, then he's not polluting the river anymore.”

She had a point. But that didn't undo the damage that had already been done. I looked around at the dry grass and dead flowers. Mitchell deserved to be punished. And what guarantee did we have that, after the fuss died down, he wouldn't start dumping waste into the river again?

I trudged with my friends toward the gate.

“Thank you all for coming,” Mitchell was saying, as though he'd just thrown himself a birthday party and we were his guests. “Don't forget to look for the fifty-cent coupon for my laundry detergent in tomorrow's newspaper.”

He waved as the crowd dispersed, then turned on his heel and went back into his big, stupid factory to savor his dishonest victory.

Mom looked angry and embarrassed at the same time.

Dad came up and put his hand on my shoulder. “Let's get going,” he said. I could tell he wanted to get Mom home so she could scream or cry or both.

“Actually, Mr. Richards,” said Emily, “I was wondering if maybe Zoe and I could go shopping downtown?”

Dad looked at me. I guess my expression told him that I could use a little fun.

“Go ahead,” he said. “But be careful. And don't be late.”

Dad turned to Howie, who was dripping wet and shivering. “How about I give you a ride home? We can put your bike in the trunk.”

My parents and Howie said good-bye and left. I watched them until they reached the gate… where I saw something that surprised me almost as much as the truck full of cardboard.

“Is that Caitlin? What's she doing here?”

Emily turned in the direction of the gate.

“I told her about the rally,” she replied.

Caitlin was closer now. She waved.

“I'm gonna get going,” said Josh. “My parents told me to be home for lunch. Bye, Emily. See ya later, Zoe.”

When he was gone, Emily gave me a knowing smile. “He said 'See ya later'!”

“So?”

“So that means you're practically going steady.”

I laughed. “It does not.”

“Well, it could. Someday.”

By now, Caitlin had reached us.

“Looks like I missed all the excitement,” she said. “My aunt's morning yoga class ran late.”

“Hey, why don't you come downtown with us?” Emily suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” Caitlin replied, smiling right at me.

I smiled back, but I couldn't help wishing it could just be me and Emily. Well, maybe this was exactly what I needed— maybe hanging out with Caitlin outside of school would help
us to bond. Maybe after this, we'd be really good friends.

Yeah, right. And maybe George Mitchell was one of the good guys.