The Make-Believe Mystery by Carolyn Keene Page B

on!”
    Nancy and her friends glanced up. Brenda was standing there. She flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder and smiled meanly at them.
    â€œThere’s no way you’re going to win the contest,” Brenda went on. “Because my team is going to win. We’re going to cream you guys!”

2
    Top Secret!
    Y ou’re going to cream us? Says who?” Phoebe snapped at Brenda.
    â€œSays me,” Brenda snapped back. “First of all, I’m the best writer in our class. Second of all, we came up with an awesome idea for our story. It’s going to blow you guys out of the water.”
    Bess stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Oh, yeah? I bet our idea is a million, billion times better. It’s about—”
    â€œBess!” George cried out, poking her cousin in the arm. “Shhhh, you’re not supposed to tell!”
    Bess’s hands flew to her lips. “Oh, yeah. Oops.”
    â€œYou are not the best writer in the class,” Phoebe told Brenda huffily. “And your team isn’t going to cream our team, because our team is going to cream your team instead!”
    Brenda narrowed her eyes at Phoebe. “You want to bet?”
    Phoebe looked startled. “Huh? Uh, sure.”
    Brenda smiled her mean smile again. “Okay, Phoebe. If my team wins, you have to sharpen my pencils for the rest of the year. If your team wins, I’ll sharpen yours.”
    The rest of the year! That was a long time, Nancy thought.
    Phoebe smiled uncertainly at Brenda. “Okay, uh, sure. You’ve got a bet.”
    â€œGreat,” Brenda said, turning to go. She glanced over her shoulder and added, “You’d better start practicing.”
    â€œPracticing what?” Phoebe asked her.
    â€œSharpening pencils,” Brenda replied nastily.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    That night after dinner, Nancy sat on the living room couch with her feettucked under her. The purple notebook was propped on her lap, and she had a freshly sharpened pencil in her hand.
    Her brown Labrador puppy, Chocolate Chip, was curled up in a ball next to her. Chip’s eyes were closed, and she was snoring quietly. Once in a while Nancy would reach out to scratch Chip’s ears. That made her tail thump rhythmically against the couch.
    Carson Drew walked into the living room. “Here you go, Pudding Pie,” he said, handing Nancy a fat book. “It’s the collection of Carl Sandburg’s poems and short stories you asked for. I got it at a used book store in Chicago years ago,” he added.
    â€œThanks, Daddy,” Nancy said eagerly.
    She took the book from her father. The cover was old and worn. When she opened it, a pleasant dusty smell—an old-book smell—wafted up from the pages.
    Carson sat down on the couch and pointed to the table of contents. “You might like the stories in this section. They’re called ‘Rootabaga Stories,’ andCarl Sandburg wrote them for children,” he told her.
    Nancy turned to the section with the “Rootabaga Stories.” The stories had really great titles: “How Gimme the Ax Found Out About the Zigzag Railroad and Who Made It Zigzag” and “The Story of Jason Squiff and Why He Had a Popcorn Hat, Popcorn Mittens, and Popcorn Shoes.”
    â€œWhen Carl Sandburg wrote these stories, most stories for children had to do with kings and queens and castles,” Carson explained. “He wanted to do something . . . well, a little different.”
    â€œI know!” Nancy said suddenly. “I could use some of Carl Sandburg’s titles and characters in our story! You know, maybe as clues or something.”
    Carson patted her on the shoulder. “That’s a terrific idea, Pudding Pie. See, you’re a brilliant writer as well as a brilliant detective.” His eyes twinkled as he rose. “I’ll leave you to do your work now. Writers need lots of peace and quiet to