Kid vs. Squid Read Online Free

from her backpack.
    This wasn’t just any flashlight. Black steel witha textured barrel, it was a serious instrument. She switched it on and a sharp white beam lit the tunnel.
    â€œC’mon,” she said.
    I sloshed after her through the entrance. The ceiling of jagged rock dipped so low we had to bend over double to avoid scraping our heads. Mussels lined the walls, like thousands of crusty blackbird beaks. The moist air reeked of fish.
    The tunnel veered right and continued on, farther than I’d hoped, stretching beyond the reach of Trudy’s flashlight.
    â€œWhat are we looking for, exactly?” I asked her. “The girl’s secret thief headquarters?”
    â€œIndications,” Trudy said. “Signs.”
    A wave came in and pushed seawater into my face. I wondered how many unanswered postcards it would take for my parents to learn I’d drowned. With brine draining from my nose, I kept going.
    The tunnel ended in a slit between two rocks, just wide enough for Trudy and me to squeeze through one at a time. We came out in a cove surrounded by sandstone cliffs. On a lip of sand before us, a boat the size of a convenience store lay on its side. It might have been white once, but now it was mottled with rust and green algae.
    â€œSo would you call that a boat or a ship?” I asked Trudy.
    â€œI’d call it awfully suspicious. Those cliffs are too steep and crumbly to climb, and anyone who tries to swim out of this cove is asking to get dashed against the rocks. Conclusion: there’s a good chance our thief is hiding inside.”
    I thought there was a good chance Trudy was the weirdest person I’d met in Los Huesos so far. And that included Griswald and the BMX guys.
    On the other hand, there was a chance she was right, and if I wasn’t going to have a bikini-girls kind of summer, I’d need some kind of adventure to make up for it.
    We splashed through pooled water and peered through a gap in the ship’s hull into the dark interior. Trudy shined her flashlight beam inside. I’d expected to see a jumble of nets and boaty things, all tossed about on their sides. But everything had been cleared off and neatly stacked against the interior hull. A set of sandy footprints, smaller than my own, led off deeper into the ship. We were on the right track.
    â€œCome on,” Trudy said, squeezing through the gap into the boat.
    The trail of footprints took us through what I guessed was the engine room, filled with pipes and machinery that had to be crawled over or ducked under, or, sometimes, knocked with my head. A lotof it was green with ocean muck and encrusted with barnacles.
    Trudy shoved her flashlight in her pocket and took a disposable camera from her backpack. As I poked the walls with my finger, she snapped off shots.
    â€œCareful where you aim that,” I said, blinking bright spots from my eyes. “What are you doing, anyway?”
    â€œDocumenting for later analysis.”
    â€œDocumenting for … ?”
    â€œSorry. Me take pictures so me can look at later. Better?”
    â€œYes, a little bit. How long do you think the wreck’s been here?”
    â€œIt shouldn’t be here at all,” said Trudy. “A wreck this size ought to be listed in the historical records, and this one isn’t.”
    â€œYou’re a history buff.” I’d heard of such people, but had never met one.
    â€œMy mom owns the secondhand bookstore on Main Street. She bought it last year, complete with stock. The old owner left behind boxes of old maps and books about Los Huesos history. I’ve at least paged through most of them.”
    â€œHistory buff,” I said again, this time with more conviction.
    She peered at the wall with a powerful littlemagnifying glass. “History is a weapon that helps me understand Los Huesos. And I will use every weapon in my arsenal.”
    I actually liked the way Trudy talked. She reminded me of