CHAPTER ONE
True Fact: Hundreds of years ago, a wooden ship with square sails and a cargo of gold sank near a tiny island off New York. It’s still there today. (From True Facts, a journal by Blue Broen)
A long tongue licked my cheek. I smooshed my face into my pillow, simultaneously drying the slime and hiding from another lick. Foiled. The long tongue swiped my ear.
“Go away, Otis. School’s out.”
But Otis didn’t go away. I knew because I could feel him panting on my neck.
I rolled over and patted the blanket, which is my way of hitting the snooze button, and eighty pounds of German shepherd catapulted onto the bed. Otis draped his entire self across me, his chin strategically positioned on my shoulder so I could scratch behind his ears with both hands.
“Five more minutes…,” I mumbled.
I finger-combed Otis’s super-soft ear fur, lost in the orange glow of the insides of my eyelids and the dream I’d been having about an octopus that couldn’t hide because its ink was gold instead of black and—
Poof! Morning brain fog evaporated. I bolted upright and four hairy dog limbs scrambled to the floor.
“The hunt, Otis! The hunt begins today!”
Otis barked.
“Breakfast!”
Wake-up mission accomplished, Otis retrieved the little pouch of diabetes supplies from my desk and dropped it on my lap before trotting out of the room. By the time I finished testing my blood sugar and entering the number of carbs I was about to eat into my pump so it would know how much insulin to give me, Otis was back, carrying a low-carb bagel with cream cheese and a mini milk carton in the basket that my mom leaves for us in the mornings. Otis and I are big fans of breakfast in bed.
I unscrewed the bagel top and offered Otis a piece, which he refused.
“Go on,” I said. “You love bagels.”
Otis waited.
“Fine.”
I scooped a big glob of cream cheese off my side and spread it on his so he’d have double. He gulped it down whole.
“Get excited, Oats Magoats. We’re about to change the course of history, you and me.”
Otis was already excited. I could tell by the thwack of his tail and the lift of his nose. And it wasn’t just because today was the first day of vacation. This summer we had big plans.
This summer, we were going treasure hunting.
I scarfed down the rest of the bagel as fast as I could.
“Clothes, please, Otis. Underwear, T-shirt, shorts.”
Otis went to my closet, pulled what I was going to wear today off the shelves, and brought the whole clump back to me. Yes, my dog picks my outfits for me. It’s not that I’m lazy or anything; it’s that Otis loves having a job to do. Plus, okay, I’m kind of lazy, especially in the mornings. But as long as I don’t care about always having to wear whichever clothes are on top of the stacks, the system works for both of us.
Dressed, bagel scarfed, and ready to go, we headed downstairs. I could smell peonies—Mom’s second-favorite flower—before I got to the kitchen. While they’re in season she puts vases of them everywhere: on the counter, the table, even on top of the fridge. I grabbed the supplies I needed from various drawers and stuffed them into a backpack: water bottle for me, water dish for Otis, phone for me, bone for Otis, notebook, pen, sunscreen, diabetes kit, underwater-view bucket.
“Towel, Otis.”
Otis loped off to the laundry / Mom’s gardening supply / Dad’s tool / my old baby gear room.
“Why do you need a towel?” Mom said, coming in while I was emptying a box of individually wrapped packs of cashews into my bag. She opened the freezer and took out a chilled water bottle, her “outdoor AC.”
“Science project. Why are you still home?”
Summer is my parents’ busy season, and they’re usually out of the house by seven in the morning, seven days a week. My dad builds houses, and my mom is a gardener. But because we live in Sag Harbor, which is part of the Hamptons (yes, those Hamptons, the New York beach resorts where rich people and celebrities go for summer vacations but also where regular families like mine live and have jobs and go to school), my dad is a “general contractor” and my mom is a “landscape designer.”
The reason I had homework even though it was summer was because I got an Incomplete in school this year and had to do a makeup project. Turns out when you read The Treasure Hunter’s Bible and Scouring the Seas instead of filling out Blah Blah Weather Data worksheets, it’s hard to pass Earth Science. My project involved collecting water samples all around the harbor to show how the ocean affects the weather. Or possibly how the weather affects the ocean, I couldn’t remember which. My parents knew about the makeup project, which worked as an excellent cover-up, because they didn’t know about the treasure hunt. Nobody—especially my parents—knew about the hunt except Otis and my best friend, Nora.
Nora. Who was leaving tomorrow for seven weeks at theater camp. Which I was trying very hard not to think about.
Mom grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and stuck it in her tote bag. “We’re going to Edward Buttersby’s house, remember? For the planning meeting?”
Aha. Now I understood the floaty tunic-y thing Mom had on over her faded work jeans and T-shirt and why she had sent Otis to wake me up when I didn’t have school. And, yes, she meant that Edward Buttersby, the movie star, a.k.a. Command Pilot Jasper Jones from Space Voyager. He also happened to be this year’s host for the annual Cure Juvenile Diabetes Foundation fund-raiser. Since I was the poster child (literally) for the local CJDF chapter, I had to go to the party and give a speech.
You might think it would be super exciting to hang out with someone like Edward Buttersby at his house, but I’ve been doing these fund-raisers for a long time, and I’ve learned otherwise.
“That meeting’s not for another week,” I insisted, willing it to be true.
Otis dropped a beach towel at my feet, and I started cramming it into the backpack.
“It’s this morning.” Mom sighed. “I told you about it a week ago.”
It’s possible she was right about that. I crammed faster so I could make my escape.
“I’m sorry. I can’t go. I have plans.”
Mom checked her watch. “Get in the truck, Blue.”
“You don’t need me there anyway. Why do I have to go?”
“You’re thirteen. Thirteen is plenty old enough to get more involved in community service, which is what this is.”
I gave up on the towel and swung the backpack over my shoulder. “Mom, my science project is important. It’s homework.”
“Get in the truck, Blue.” Mom put her hand on the small of my back and gently steered me toward the front door.
“Otis hates boring meetings. He’ll throw up.”
“Get in the truck, Blue.” She grabbed her floppy sun hat from the hall table.
“But—”
“Come, Otis…,” Mom said.
We got in the truck.
CHAPTER TWO
True Fact: Famous people, when you meet them in person, turn out one of two ways: Either they’re completely normal, like they could be someone’s mom or dad, or they’re completely weird and full of themselves, and you’re glad they can’t remember your name and you’ll never see them again after the party.