The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lois Lowry
about a creepy-crawler. Her brother was a perfect example of a practically unchanged Coelophysis. Small, skinny, with a rat face and lousy posture. Little clawlike hands and a terrible disposition. And a carnivore, to boot. J.P. had gnawed into that second bologna sandwich as if there was no tomorrow, just the way a Coelophysis would. J.P. even ate eggplant.
And nowâCaroline thought about her Tate Theory againâthere was Frederick Fiske. Extremely tall. Big head, with a grin all the time. When she had first begun to notice Frederick Fiske, after he moved in upstairs, she had thought his grin was just the kind of indiscriminate friendliness that some adults display. Now she knew differently. Now she knew why that grin was familiar. It went with his tall body and his long strides. Probably concealed behind that grin was a whole mouthful of steak-knife teeth.
She recognized all of the symptoms. They belonged to the most terrible dinosaur of all, the one that a book she had read described as having a completely sinister pattern of life. It was the kind of life that she now knew Frederick Fiske was leading. The author had described it as: Hunt. Kill. Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Kill. Etc.
She was quite, quite sure now that her theory was correct, and that Frederick Fiske was, in truth, little more than an unevolved Tyrannosaurus Rex.
The Great Killer.
When the telephone rang, half an hour later, Caroline jumped up to answer it. Her mother had gone out to the grocery store, and J.P. was in his room, busily removing all the inside parts of Joanna Tate's clock-radio.
Stacy was breathless. "I jogged," she said, panting. "All the way there and all the way back. I stepped in one dog mess and almost got hit by a taxi. But I'm safe, except my left shoe stinks."
"What did you find out?"
"Let me get my breath." Stacy panted for a minute. "Yuck," she said, finally. "Now that I can breathe normally, I can really smell my shoe."
"Take it off."
"Hold on a minute." There was a very long silence while Caroline held the phone and waited. Finally Stacy came back.
"Okay," she said. "I scraped it off into the trash-masher. Now, Caroline, listen. This is really bigger than both of us."
"What do you mean? Come on, Stacy, tell me what you found out!"
"Your guy Frederick Fiske? He's not just your ordinary murderer. He's part of a
ring.
Probably international."
"Stacy. How do you know? What did you
find?
"
"Well, like you said, it wasn't an office called Poison, Limited, or anything. It was just an apartment house, with a doorman."
"Oh, rats. So you couldn't get in. Doormen are such snots."
"That's not true, Caroline. You just think that because you've never had one.
We
have a doorman, so I know how to deal with them."
"What did you do?" asked Caroline.
"First, after I saw that it was an apartment building with a doorman, I went back around the corner and wiped off all the Crimson Shadows lipstick. I didn't want him to think I was a hooker or anything."
"Then what?"
"Then I put on my most innocent face. You know that face I can do, with my eyes all wide and everything?"
"Yeah."
"I did that face. And I went right up to the doorman and in my innocent voiceâyou know the one?"
"Yeah. High and babyish."
"Right. And in that voice, I said, 'Please, could I have the correct spelling of Mr. Broderick's name? I have to write him a letter for a school project, and if I don't spell it correctly I won't get a good grade.'"
"Big deal, so he spelled it for you."
"Caroline," said Stacy patiently, "doormen don't spell. He opened the door and he watched me while I went over to the mailboxes and copied it. I had my investigative notebook with me, of course."
"Stacy, I could have spelled it for you. I have it right here on the letter."
Stacy sighed an exasperated sigh. "Caroline, you'll never be a great investigator. I didn't care about the spelling. I was looking for
clues.
"
"How on earth can you find clues on a mailbox?"
There was a
And nowâCaroline thought about her Tate Theory againâthere was Frederick Fiske. Extremely tall. Big head, with a grin all the time. When she had first begun to notice Frederick Fiske, after he moved in upstairs, she had thought his grin was just the kind of indiscriminate friendliness that some adults display. Now she knew differently. Now she knew why that grin was familiar. It went with his tall body and his long strides. Probably concealed behind that grin was a whole mouthful of steak-knife teeth.
She recognized all of the symptoms. They belonged to the most terrible dinosaur of all, the one that a book she had read described as having a completely sinister pattern of life. It was the kind of life that she now knew Frederick Fiske was leading. The author had described it as: Hunt. Kill. Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Kill. Etc.
She was quite, quite sure now that her theory was correct, and that Frederick Fiske was, in truth, little more than an unevolved Tyrannosaurus Rex.
The Great Killer.
When the telephone rang, half an hour later, Caroline jumped up to answer it. Her mother had gone out to the grocery store, and J.P. was in his room, busily removing all the inside parts of Joanna Tate's clock-radio.
Stacy was breathless. "I jogged," she said, panting. "All the way there and all the way back. I stepped in one dog mess and almost got hit by a taxi. But I'm safe, except my left shoe stinks."
"What did you find out?"
"Let me get my breath." Stacy panted for a minute. "Yuck," she said, finally. "Now that I can breathe normally, I can really smell my shoe."
"Take it off."
"Hold on a minute." There was a very long silence while Caroline held the phone and waited. Finally Stacy came back.
"Okay," she said. "I scraped it off into the trash-masher. Now, Caroline, listen. This is really bigger than both of us."
"What do you mean? Come on, Stacy, tell me what you found out!"
"Your guy Frederick Fiske? He's not just your ordinary murderer. He's part of a
ring.
Probably international."
"Stacy. How do you know? What did you
find?
"
"Well, like you said, it wasn't an office called Poison, Limited, or anything. It was just an apartment house, with a doorman."
"Oh, rats. So you couldn't get in. Doormen are such snots."
"That's not true, Caroline. You just think that because you've never had one.
We
have a doorman, so I know how to deal with them."
"What did you do?" asked Caroline.
"First, after I saw that it was an apartment building with a doorman, I went back around the corner and wiped off all the Crimson Shadows lipstick. I didn't want him to think I was a hooker or anything."
"Then what?"
"Then I put on my most innocent face. You know that face I can do, with my eyes all wide and everything?"
"Yeah."
"I did that face. And I went right up to the doorman and in my innocent voiceâyou know the one?"
"Yeah. High and babyish."
"Right. And in that voice, I said, 'Please, could I have the correct spelling of Mr. Broderick's name? I have to write him a letter for a school project, and if I don't spell it correctly I won't get a good grade.'"
"Big deal, so he spelled it for you."
"Caroline," said Stacy patiently, "doormen don't spell. He opened the door and he watched me while I went over to the mailboxes and copied it. I had my investigative notebook with me, of course."
"Stacy, I could have spelled it for you. I have it right here on the letter."
Stacy sighed an exasperated sigh. "Caroline, you'll never be a great investigator. I didn't care about the spelling. I was looking for
clues.
"
"How on earth can you find clues on a mailbox?"
There was a
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