Grit Feldman: Candy Detective P2

    Grit Feldman: Candy Detective P1
I got really into creating a child misfit who wants to turn his life around by starting a Candy Detective Agency about a year ago, but writing for kids is hard. After about 3000 words into Grit's storyline I thought I'd read it to my son right off the bat the fact that Grit went to Juvenile Hall really freaked him out.  He didn't know there was a jail for children.


 I knew starting my own detective agency was going to be a lot of work, but I had a lot of time to think about it during my community service putting together puzzles at the Goodwill. As I placed the last black and grey piece on the snout of a puppy in a basket on a 440 piece puzzle, I knew life was about to take a turn for the better and I knew it was time to take the first step - telling my mom.
    On the way home from my last day of community service at the Goodwill, I broke the news. “Mom,” I said. She sighed. She sighs a lot. My teachers sigh a lot. Once when I flooded the bathroom at my school with a soda and Mentos bomb spraying everywhere, I heard the school custodian sigh deep and long.
    “Yeah dear,” she answered after taking a silent breath.
    “I’ve decided I’m not going to be bad anymore. It’s time to change.”
    “I certainly hope Greyton.”
    “Now mom,” I said. “part of the new me is gonna be a new name.”
    She sighed again, deep and long.
    “From now on you’ll have to call me: Grit Feldman,” I stopped talking and stared out the minivan window for effect so she’d know I was serious. Then I whispered, “Candy Detective.”
    She sighed again. I’ve seen my mom cry plenty of times. When I was five years old I made a wig for her out of bubblegum and chewed up Payday candy bars. I put it on her when she was sleeping. Believe me - that woman can cry! But this was the first time I ever saw her cry from being so happy. But she still had a lot of questions. Mainly she just kept asking “Why?” over and over.
    As happy as she was she still needed a push to let me open up my own private detective agency, and that’s where my dad comes in. He’s not the kind of dad who yells and screams and pounds his fist. He’s more of the quiet type who whenever he’s mad just shakes his head then finds a reason to go for a walk. I’ll give him credit though - he knows a good idea when he hears one. After I told him about the detective agency they put me to bed and I snuck out to listen to him convince my mom.
    “Dear,” he said, “I think we should support him. I think it’s good he wants to help other kids. Maybe,” he started waving his long arms, “maybe this candy detective phase is what he needs to stop lashing out.”
    I hear my dad use these words all the time. He says I’m “going through a phase,” or “lashing out,” or “acting up.” It makes me feel sorry for him. He doesn’t seem to understand it’s in my nature. My sweet tooth has made me rotten. Being a candy detective isn’t some kind of phase - it’s my new way of life.
    “But do we have to call him Grit?” My mom asked.
    “I don’t see the harm in it,” my dad wrapped his long skinny arms around my mom and patted her back. “It’s okay - he’s just...creative.”
    When my mom let out a long, low sigh for the third time that day I knew my future was sealed and it only be a matter of time before The Grit Feldman Candy Detective Agency would be fully operational.