1
Saturday. Marlowe Middle School drop-off zone. 7:08 p.m.
Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near school on a perfectly good Saturday night. But right now, there’s no place I’d rather be. I push open the passenger-side door of my mom’s Hyundai Sonata, but her voice stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t forget your sleeping bag!” she says from the driver’s side. I know there’s a ton more she wants to tell me. Mainly that she loves me and that I should be careful and make good decisions and call her if I get homesick and am I sure I packed my night guard? (Teeth grinding is par for the course when it comes to a detective’s lifestyle.) But on account of how fast I’m moving, she knows she’s gotta keep her messaging short and sweet.
“Got it!” I say, reaching between us to grab the bag in the back seat. I give Mom a kiss on the cheek, but before I can run off, she’s got her fingers in my hair, combing the unruly strands. “Hey, Maya,” she says. “I don’t want any calls from Principal Spade tonight.”
My eyebrows crawl toward each other like twin caterpillars bracing for a fight. “Why would Spade call you?”
Mom doesn’t use words to answer me—the look on her face says it all. She knows that I know exactly why Spade might call her tonight.
“I won’t get into any trouble,” I promise her. I’m not sure if she believes me, and frankly, I’m not sure if I believe myself. But I grin at her, and a car honks behind us, and Mom has no choice but to let me go and hope for the best.
She tousles my hair with affection, or maybe she shakes her hand because it’s the only way to free it from my tangle of thick, dark waves. “Okay, go have fun, Maya Mayhem.”
It’s her special nickname for me. I swear, I would’ve been the coolest person alive if she had actually put that nickname on my birth certificate, but me and cool have never been on the same page.
I slam the car door shut, and before I know it, the soles of my Chuck Taylors are slapping the asphalt, bounding straight for the school’s double doors.
“Maya!”
I know who’s calling my name before I even set eyes on her. Jordan Freedman. My best friend. My partner in crime. And for one night only, pretty much my twin. She comes to stand next to me and it’s like looking in a mirror. Well, except she’s already over five feet tall and I’m waiting on a growth spurt, she’s got her hair up in a neat bun and mine’s wild and loose, and she’s Black and I’m Latina. So really, we look nothing alike. But we’re both sporting the exact same thing.
“You wore the fuzzy corgi pj’s!” Jordan beams.
We got matching onesies a couple months back at the American Dream Mall. Light brown jumpsuits with a white oval down the front and a cute puppy dog head on the hoodie, the dog’s mouth wide and framing our faces. There’s really no way to tell if we look like corgis or if we look like we’re being eaten by corgis. But Jordan and I both agreed: We loved that it posed the question.
I nod appreciatively. “Great minds.”
“Hey, guys!”
Jordan and I turn to find our friend Ava Agarwal hopping down from her mom’s minivan. She tugs a piece of luggage behind her that looks about double her size and weight. Which isn’t saying much, given how small Ava is.
“Hey, Ava,” Jordan says. “You’re not wearing pajamas.”
Ava looks down, confused. “Yes, I am.”
“Pretty sure that’s a pantsuit,” I tell her. She’s got on a blue pair of pants and a matching top with white piping on the lapels. Sure, I guess it’s the type of thing you can wear to sleep, but it also wouldn’t look out of place at the Democratic National Convention.
“It’s from the Hillary Clinton sleepwear line,” Ava explains.
“Looks like I’m not the only one wearing a blouse,” Clementine announces, appraising Ava’s pj set.
Our other friend, and the final member of the Bubblegum Shoes, has shown up out of nowhere, looking and sounding like she just woke up from a hundred-year sleep. Strange, considering our night hasn’t even begun yet. Call it a hunch, but given that Clementine’s biggest dream is Broadway, something tells me she’s Method acting.
“Okay, now that’s definitely not pajamas,” Jordan says, looking Clem over.
Clementine’s strawberry-blond hair falls loose around her shoulders, tucked beneath a turquoise-blue sleep mask that she wears like a tiara over her forehead. The sleep mask fits the setting, but I really can’t explain the rest of the getup, which is just a long white blouse on top of a pair of leggings.
Clementine’s eyes go wide, shedding the sleepy act. “Of course these are pajamas!” she exclaims. “It’s a near-exact replica of what Audrey Hepburn wore to sleep in Breakfast at Tiffany’s!”
For about the fifteen billionth time since knowing her, I can’t make heads or tails of the words coming out of Clem’s mouth. She pouts and stomps a foot, dejected. “My mom insisted I wear the leggings,” she says. “I knew it would ruin the costume’s authenticity.”
“Why does your voice sound like that?” Ava asks.
What she means is, why does Clementine’s voice sound like she put it through a wood chipper? It’s hoarse and gravelly, and somehow both loud and quiet at the same time.
Clementine sighs and it sounds like a bullhorn. “I lost my voice practicing for Battle of the Bands.”
“Oh,” Ava says. “So you won’t be performing tonight?” She’s shocked, and I guess we all are. The contest is the only thing Clementine has been talking about for weeks. Musical theater is her passion, and she had a good chance of taking home the big prize. But she shakes her head.
“First I lose my voice, and now nobody understands my pajamas,” Clem croaks. “This is the worst night ever.”
Jordan puts a reassuring hand on Clementine’s shoulder. “Hey,” she says softly, “you absolutely look like Audrey Hepburn in Lunch at Brittney’s.”
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Clementine mutters.
“Whatever,” I say gently, and skip to the real important topic of the night. Clem and Ava only started at Marlowe Middle School this year, so they can’t possibly understand how absolutely ridiculous it is that Clementine is declaring tonight the worst night ever. Tonight is the best night of the year.
I put a hand on Clementine’s shoulder and use my other arm to gather Ava close too. Jordan gives a little hip bump, squeezing us all together. Look at the four of us and we may seem like an unlikely team. First off, there’s Clementine Steffin-Paller, the new girl in town who thinks every situation calls for a spotlight and a script. Then there’s Ava Agarwal, pint-size brainiac who skipped two grades. You can always rely on her to leave no stone unturned and no book unread. There’s Jordan Freedman, the surest friend a kid could have, even if the one thing she’s not sure of is who she wants to be yet. And me, Maya Mendoza, the best detective in all of Hillside, New Jersey—and that includes the suits at the local precinct.
“Gals, I want you to look at the school before us and think about this,” I say. “There’s not much good that Marlowe Middle has to offer us. But every year there is this: One night that makes going here worth it. One night where we get the run of the school. Where there’s no learning, no mystery meat Wednesdays, and no detention. Where we get to rough it in sleeping bags and scarf down all the candy we can smuggle inside, and there are no parents to tell us to stop. Secrets will be told, friendships will be forged, bonds will be broken on this one night where we—”
“—hopefully don’t have to solve crimes,” Jordan interjects.
I sigh. Three months ago, fate brought the four of us together in detention and we decided to join up to solve the biggest mystery to ever hit Marlowe Middle School: uncovering the culprit who stole a treasure trove of goodies from the school’s Contraband Closet. Ever since then, we’ve been working cases together all the time. Adults know us as the Happy Helpers—an enterprising group of youngsters with an innocent after-school business. But the kids who need us know that’s just a front for who we really are: the Bubblegum Shoes Detective Agency. Solving crimes and mysteries. We’ll take on any case, no matter how seedy, ugly, or downright dangerous. Sure, it’s usually small-time stuff, like missing diaries and stolen lunch money. But there’s also the occasional big case, too—and we have been stretched a little thin as of late.
“Sure,” I say. “Tonight, we’re not the Bubblegum Shoes. Tonight, we get the night off. Because you know what tonight is?”
My three friends nod, and I can see it dawning on them, how the night is full of potential. A sly smile spreads over my lips, then to those of Clementine, Ava, and Jordan. We say it at the same time.
“THE BIG SLEEPOVER!”
That’s right. For one night every year, the administration ignores its better judgment and lets us have an overnight sleepover in the school. This isn’t just a regular old sleepover. It’s bigger.
Anything could happen.
Together, we head for the school entrance, about to embark on the most epic night of school ever.
Copyright © 2026 by Goldy Moldavsky. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
