Grit Feldman: Candy Detective P4

This is the last installment of Grit Feldman where he begins his first case. It's national novel writing month (NANO) and I thought it be fun to post these four parts of a kids book I started a long time ago.

Check out parts 1-3

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3



  Normally my dad was a patient man, but after hosing me off in the backyard for almost an hour, he’d gone redder than a Hot Tamale melting in the fire. “Greyton,” he said soft and slow, “where did you get the hats for your little experiment.”
    I sat silent for a while and then looked behind me. “I’m sorry,” I said, “are you talking to me?”
    “Yes. I’m talking to you Greyton.”
    “I’m not sure who Greyton is. My name is Grit,” I corrected him. I was surprised to see how quickly he’d forgotten.
    My mom snapped her hand up over her mouth to quiet her whip crack laugh. “Remember dear,” she said with her lips peeking over the palm of her hand, “he just creative.”
    “Greyt-” my dad stopped to correct himself, “Grit?”
    “Yes?” I replied right away.
    “Where did you get the hats?”
    “Don’t worry dad, I used the old ones on the bookshelf in your office. The old ones next to the baseballs with all the scribbling on them.”
    My mom gasped. It looked like she was trying to keep something from getting out. My dad put his hand onto his temples and rubbed  in circles. “Why don’t you go outside while I talk to your mom? Okay?”
    “No problem. I’ll be back for dinner,” I said. From the front stoop I could hear the conversation, but I’m sure why they asked me to leave. They weren’t talking about me, they just kept going on about and asking themselves what in the world was wrong with some kid named Greyton.
    Down the road from our house it hit me like a ton of  Lego bricks.  Standing on the edge of his lawn, staring at me with those big  wet eyes of his was Jimmy the Flute.

Jimmy the Flute was a sad sack of a kid. His eyes always had crust in the corner and he got his name because his nose was so packed full of boogers he whistled when he talked. He was a year younger than me and about to dive into the empty swimming pool known as the fourth grade. It didn’t treat me very well and I sure hoped Jimmy would have a better run at it than I did.

He didn’t know it yet, but Jimmy was about to launch my detective agency with its first case.