Stacey and the Stolen Hearts

by Ann M. Martin

  I saw plaids.

  I saw lots of black.

  I saw tie-dye.

  I even saw one shirt that was printed all over with Yorkshire terriers. (Don’t ask.)

  But I didn’t see a single stripe.

  Until, suddenly, my field of vision was filled with them. Blue and black ones, to be exact. My heart skipped a beat.

  “Stacey?”

  I looked up slowly, dying to see who was wearing the striped shirt. Finally, the culprit was about to be unveiled.

  “Is something wrong?” It was Mrs. Downey, the principal’s secretary.

  My heart resumed its normal rhythm. “I’m fine,” I answered, hoping my disappointment wasn’t evident in my voice. Then I took a second look at her. This woman had easy access to a copy machine. Could she have —? “No way.”

  “What?” asked Mrs. Downey.

  Oops. “I mean, no, nothing’s wrong,” I said, trying to cover for myself. I hadn’t meant to speak out loud. I backed away from her and continued down the hall, ignoring her bewildered look.

  Mrs. Downey was a hard-working, mature adult. She was not the valentine-gram thief. It had to be a student. Who else would pull the kind of pranks we’d been seeing?

  I went over the list of possible suspects in my head. There were Cokie and Brent and Rose Marie. I’d cleared Cary, Pete, and Robert. Clarence King was still under suspicion, though, and so was Jacqui. I couldn’t forget Austin.

  And how could I possibly check each SMS student for stripes, before they all went home and changed? For that matter, what if someone had made that copy the day before, and wasn’t even wearing stripes today? Or what if the stripes had been on a jacket? My head was spinning.

  Suddenly, I felt a little tired. The fact was, time was running out. I’d hardly narrowed down the suspect list at all. And the list didn’t even include dozens of other kids who could easily have stolen the valentine-grams.

  “What’s the matter, Stacey?”

  I looked up to see Rose Marie. She was not wearing stripes. (In fact, she was wearing a very nice olive-green sweater with a denim miniskirt. Mentally, I gave her an A+ for fashion.)

  “You look bummed,” she said.

  “I am,” I confessed. “I just can’t figure out who stole the valentine-grams. Who would pull all these pranks?”

  I figured Rose Marie would still be feeling angry at whoever posted those valentine-grams she wrote to Clarence King. But instead, she seemed angry at me.

  “It was just a joke,” she said. “Why are you making such a big deal about it?”

  “Huh? You took it as a joke when your valentine-grams to King were plastered all over the walls?”

  “Oh,” she said. Now she looked confused. “I thought you were talking about something else.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Nothing, really,” she said. “Nice blouse,” she added quickly.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But go on. What did you think I was talking about?”

  She looked embarrassed. “I thought you found the prank valentine-grams I sent.”

  “You sent some too?” I asked. What was going on here? Had the whole school gone crazy? “But who —” I began. I was about to ask her who she’d sent prank valentine-grams to when Claudia came running toward me. She pulled me aside.

  “Cary!” she whispered, trying to catch her breath.

  “What about him?” I asked. After I’d checked out Cary’s alibi, I’d forgotten about him.

  “He’s wearing stripes!” Claudia cried. “I just remembered. I saw him right after homeroom.”

  Suddenly, an image of Cary came into my mind. I’d spoken to him only a couple of hours earlier. As soon as I thought about it, I remembered too. He’d been wearing a green-and-yellow-striped turtleneck. “But I cleared him,” I said. “He really was at the dentist that day.”

  Claudia shook her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, still gasping for air. “I thought about it while I was looking for you. Don’t you remember, when we first confronted him? Before we’d even told him any details about the theft, he said he was at the dentist after school.”

  “And this proves —?” I asked.

  “How did he know what time the valentine-grams were stolen?” Claudia crossed her arms, looking triumphant.

  I gulped. Claudia was right. Cary had given me a good alibi: too good.

  “Hey, Stacey, I have to go,” called Rose Marie. “See you later!” She walked off, waving.

  “Okay, see you,” I called back distractedly. I could hardly even remember what we’d been talking about. I only had one thought on my mind. “Let’s go,” I told Claudia. “We have to catch a thief.”

  Claudia glanced around wildly. “Where do we start?” she asked. She was still flushed from running to find me. “He could be anywhere.”

  “We need to split up,” I said. I checked my watch. We had thirteen minutes before our lunch period was over.

  “You take the cafeteria,” I told Claud. “He could have arrived after we left. And check every hallway and corner between here and there. I’ll take everything in the other direction.”

  “Check,” said Claudia. “Should we syncopate our watches?”

  “Should we what?” I asked.

  “Maybe that’s not quite the word,” Claudia said. “But you know what I mean. Should we make sure we both have the same time, the way they always do in spy movies?”

  “Oh, synchronize,” I said. “Sure.” I showed her my watch.

  “New Swatch?” asked Claudia. “Cool. When did you buy that?”

  “Last time I was in New York. Like it? I was thinking about the blue one, but I thought this one would go with more outfits.” Then I caught myself. “What are we doing? Now we only have ten minutes.”

  Claudia checked her watch. “Right,” she answered. “Let’s go!” She dashed off toward the cafeteria.

  I sprinted in the opposite direction, scanning the halls for green and yellow stripes.

  Cary was nowhere in sight.

  I checked the science lab, the music room, the auditorium. I even poked my head into the principal’s office.

  No Cary.

  Where could he be? I glanced at my watch again. The minutes were ticking away. If I didn’t find him soon, I was going to have to head for math class. How could I sit there answering questions about x and y when I knew the valentine-gram thief was on the loose?

  “Thinking deep thoughts?”

  I turned to see Alan Gray grinning at me.

  “Alan!” I said. “Am I glad to see you.”

  “You are?” he asked, looking shocked.

  I laughed. I’m not usually quite so thrilled to come across him. “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “Uh, why?” asked Alan suspiciously.

  “I thought you might be able to tell me where to find Cary Retlin.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding strangely relieved. “That’s easy. Have you checked the basement?”

  “The basement? Why would I check there?”

  “Because you want to find Cary, and that’s where he hangs out,” explained Alan, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “The basement,” I repeated, still not believing Alan.

  “Yup. Just take those stairs near the library. The ones marked ‘No Entry.’ ”

  I knew about those stairs. I’d been down them once before, with my friends. We’d been on the trail of another mystery, and Logan had led us into the basement to search through some old school records. As I remembered, the trip down was dark and gloomy and more than a little scary. I looked at Alan. Should I ask him to come with me?

  He grinned at me, that irritating Alan Gray grin.

  There was my answer. If it was a choice between going with Alan — who would probably do Dracula laughs and Freddy Krueger imitations the whole way down those dark stairs — and going alone, the verdict was clear.

  “Thanks, Alan,” I said as I headed off.

  “Have a gr
eat time,” he said. “Don’t forget to write.” He was probably grinning again, but I didn’t turn around to check. There were seven minutes left, and I didn’t have a second to spare.

  The trip to the basement was exactly as I’d remembered it. My footsteps echoed as I carefully picked my way down the dimly lit stairs. The heavy steel door at the bottom slammed shut behind me with a crash that made my heart thump. And a dank smell rose to meet me as I felt my way along the darkened hallway, checking for the doors I knew opened off of it.

  I opened the first door and peered inside. The room was dark, but when my eyes adjusted I made out a pile of abandoned desks and chairs. There were no humans in sight, and by the look of the thick layer of dust on the desk closest to me, no one had been there for quite some time.

  The next door opened into a mop closet that smelled of pine cleaner and floor wax. It was packed with brooms and buckets. There wasn’t room for a person as well.

  The third door looked familiar. Sure enough, when I peeked inside I saw the room my friends and I had entered during that trip into the “deepest mysteries of SMS,” as Logan called the basement.

  I looked around at the disorder, which was lit by two small windows high up in the walls. I saw the same cardboard boxes full of old school records, covered with the same dust and cobwebs. Apparently, Cary was not interested in the ancient history of SMS.

  Suddenly, I heard a faraway thump.

  Was it one of the custodians?

  Was it Cary?

  Was it that big steel door, closing and locking this time, trapping me in this dark prison of a basement?

  I tried not to panic.

  Then I heard another sound, a whooshing noise. It was familiar, somehow. I tried to think where I’d heard it before. Then I remembered. It was the noise our furnace makes at home when it cycles into heating mode. A thump, followed by a whoosh. The furnace room must be nearby.

  I left the records room and tried the next door. Sure enough, through the gloom, I could see a network of pipes leading to a huge structure that I knew must be the furnace. I saw the glow of a light coming from behind it. I tiptoed closer and, taking cover behind the furnace, peered around it.

  Sitting in an ancient, shabby, overstuffed armchair, reading quietly by the light of a single bare bulb that hung down from a wire, was Cary Retlin. He seemed totally at home.

  I swear I didn’t make a sound. I wasn’t even breathing! But somehow, he knew I was there. “Hi, Stacey,” he said, without looking up. “Welcome to my personal library.” He shut his book and stood up. He did not seem the least bit surprised to see me.

  “What — how —?” I began.

  “I have an arrangement with Mr. Halprin,” said Cary. “He understands my need for solitude.” He pulled an old packing crate up next to his chair. “Have a seat,” he offered politely.

  I sat. Somehow, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I stared at his striped shirt, as if I’d been hypnotized.

  “Was there something you wanted to ask me?” he prompted.

  “Oh, right,” I said. Suddenly, it all came flooding back. “Why did you steal the valentine-grams? That’s what I wanted to ask you.” My voice sounded loud to me.

  Cary laughed. “I didn’t steal them,” he said.

  “You did,” I insisted. “And I have proof.” I was still holding the copy, and I showed it to him. “Are those your stripes or not?” I asked.

  He just smiled.

  Then he began to talk. “Stacey, let me ask you to imagine something,” he said, settling back in his chair and putting his fingertips together. “Imagine you’re a boy. An eighth-grader at SMS. You make jokes a lot, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings. It doesn’t mean you like it when jokes are made about you.” He paused.

  “Go on,” I said. I heard the distant ring of a bell from upstairs, but I ignored it. Math class seemed a galaxy away.

  “Okay, imagine you’re this boy,” Cary continued. “Valentine’s Day is arriving. You like a girl, but you’re not sure if she likes you. Maybe you should send her a note to see what she thinks. Nah, too scary. Then you find out your class is sponsoring valentine-grams. Ah! The perfect solution. You write her a valentine-gram. You hand it in.” He paused again and looked at me.

  I was on the edge of my seat. “Then what?” I asked.

  “The next day, you overhear the girl talking to her friends. She’s telling them about this great prank. A whole bunch of eighth-graders are going to be sending prank valentines to this boy who annoys them. You.”

  I gasped.

  He nodded and went on. “Imagine you overhear this. How would you feel? You hover near the valentine-gram table, and you see that it’s true. People who can’t possibly like you are sending you valentine-grams. It’s a big joke. And when one of them in particular finds out that you sent them a genuine valentine-gram, it will be an even bigger joke. So, what do you do? Do you sit there and take it? Or do you try to turn the tables? The choice is clear.”

  “So you did steal the valentine-grams?” I asked.

  Cary sighed. “No,” he said. “You haven’t been listening. And besides, I told you I didn’t steal them. I was at the dentist, remember?”

  “But you just said you’d try to turn the tables,” I said, confused.

  “I wasn’t talking about myself,” said Cary.

  Suddenly, I saw that he was telling the truth. I knew he’d been at the dentist. And, as far as I knew, he hadn’t sent any valentine-grams. “So it wasn’t you?” I said.

  Cary smiled and shook his head. “I just helped afterward.”

  That explained the copied stripes. Again, I knew he wasn’t lying. So who was the thief? Who else was still a suspect? Who fit Cary’s description? Mentally, I ran through the possibilities. Brent? Clarence? Austin? Alan Gray?

  Alan Gray!

  Mary Anne’s entry in the BSC notebook went on to describe our Valentine’s Day festival in detail, but personally, I think that quote from Archie says it all.

  Every single kid there, and every sitter, had an absolutely terrific time that afternoon. Including me. I still hadn’t quite wrapped up the valentine-gram mystery, but I had some ideas about what I was going to do next. I had a pretty good hunch that I was closing in on solving the mystery — in time for Valentine’s Day no less! Meanwhile, I felt ready to take a couple of hours off and enjoy the fun along with my friends. I hadn’t been in on much of the planning, so the event was as much of a surprise to me as it was to our charges. And I think my friends did a fabulous job putting the celebration together.

  We arrived a little early at the library, to make sure everything was set.

  “Wow!” said Mary Anne. “This place looks gorgeous.”

  “Ms. Feld wasn’t kidding when she said she’d take care of decorations. She really went to town,” said Abby.

  It was true. The children’s room had been transformed. It’s always a welcoming place, but today it looked especially cheerful. In the main room Ms. Feld had posted huge pink, red, and white hearts everywhere, each one with a book title inscribed in its center. “Those are all my personal best-loved books,” she told us. She’d strung chains of hearts — dozens of them — across the room. She’d set up tables and covered them in red paper. And in the smaller, second room she’d made a special display of books, each one about different kinds of love or friendship, for kids of all ages.

  “Oh, look, it’s Shiloh,” said Mal, pulling one book to her chest. “I love this book. It’s so, so sad.”

  “This one’s great too,” said Claudia, picking up The Great Gilly Hopkins.

  “And A Chair for My Mother. That’s one of the best picture books ever,” cried Abby.

  “Um, girls?” Ms. Feld was smiling. “I’m glad you like the books. But we still have a few things to do before the children arrive.”

  Kristy, who had just reached for Romeo and Juliet, put it back and swung into action. “Right,” she said. “Where should we put the food? And which tabl
e were you thinking of for crafts?”

  With Ms. Feld’s direction, we pulled everything together within fifteen minutes — just in time, as it turned out. About two seconds after we’d finished setting up the card-making table, kids began to arrive.

  The Braddocks were first, and the Hobart boys were right behind them. Then Jake and Laurel Kuhn arrived, followed by Carolyn and Marilyn Arnold (identical twins — they’re eight years old). The entire Barrett/DeWitt clan showed up: Buddy, Suzi, and Marnie and their stepsiblings — Lindsey, Taylor, Madeleine, and Ryan. Since Ryan and Marnie are only two, Mary Anne offered to take them under her wing.

  The Pike kids arrived next, adding considerably to the racket in the room. The triplets were mostly concerned with what time the cupcakes would be served, Claire was eager to start on Valentine making, and Vanessa wanted to know where to set up her free poetry booth.

  “I brought my rhyming dictionary,” she said, holding it up to show us. “And plenty of nice paper and my fanciest pens.”

  “You’re writing poems for people?” asked Sara Hill, who’d just arrived with her brother, Norman. “Can you make one for me to send my mom?”

  “No problem,” said Vanessa. “What’s her first name?”

  “Michelle,” answered Sara.

  “Oh, excellent,” cried Vanessa. “I don’t even need my rhyming dictionary for that. Bell, tell, well …”

  Kristy herded them into the smaller room and toward the puppet theater, which Ms. Feld had converted into a poetry booth for the day. She could see that Vanessa’s booth was going to be majorly popular.

  Meanwhile, kids were still arriving. Becca Ramsey and Charlotte Johanssen came, with the Rodowsky boys (Shea, Jackie, and Archie who are nine, seven, and four) right behind them.

  “Watch out for that pile of books,” Abby called as Jackie walked in.

  “What b —” Jackie jumped back as he banged into a carefully arranged display, creating a small avalanche. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said quickly, as Abby ran to help him pick up the fallen volumes.