After Bethesda’s father went upstairs, they sat quietly for a moment or two, Bethesda’s mom easing out of her pinchy black work shoes, Bethesda turning something over in her head.
“Mom? Was Dad’s really the best?”
Her mom shot a quick look at the stairs. “Well . . . let’s just say sometimes you have to bend the truth a little bit, if that’s what doing the right thing requires. Know what I mean, baby doll?”
When she was alone again, an image appeared in Bethesda’s mind, as vivid as if she were watching it on a 3-D screen: Chester Hu outside the Main Office, standing perfectly still with his hand at the doorknob, summoning the courage to stride in there and face Serious, Permanent-Record Big Trouble, just to save Taproot Valley for Marisol Pierce and the others. Chester, his head in a muddle but his heart swollen by a sense of nobility, preparing to sacrifice himself for the greater good.
Bethesda Fielding rose from the sofa. She knew what she had to do.
Meanwhile, in a house across town, a pair of eyes was once again staring deeply into a mirror in the upstairs bathroom. “I know what I’ve got to do.” The eyes peered searchingly at their reflected image, as if the mirrored glass could reveal not just a face, but a soul. “I know what I’ve got to do.”
“What? Did you say something in there, hon?”
“No! God!”
There was a third person who was up late that night with worry. Reenie Maslow, faced with the prospect of the Week of a Thousand Quizzes, was studying even more than usual these days—by herself, with her tutor, with her mother, with her older sister. All she did was study. Even now, long after the rest of the family had gone to sleep, she was studying, flipping again and again through her flashcards on binomials. But it was useless. Her mind kept replaying that afternoon, at the picnic benches. And that Friday afternoon, at the library . . . and the time on their bikes . . .
It wasn’t going to be fun. But Reenie knew what she had to do.
Chapter 37
A Confession to Make
“I have a confession to make.”
Bethesda stood at the mirror, practicing the words she would say in the principal’s office, and how she would say them.
“I have a confession to make.”
She tried saying it slowly and quietly, with head down and chin very slightly quivering, as if on the brink of tears. “I have . . . a . . . confession . . . to . . . to . . . make . . .”
She tried saying it really, really fast, the awful truth bursting forth like water from a dam. “Ihaveaconfessiontomake!”
She tried saying the words boldly and proudly, standing upright and squaring her shoulders, as if making not a shocking admission, but a valiant declaration. “I have a confession to make!”
Ultimately Bethesda decided to keep it simple. She would calmly explain to Principal Van Vreeland that it was she, Bethesda Fielding, who broke the trophy case and stole Pamela Preston’s trophy. And then she would suffer what would surely be a wide-ranging and diverse menu of consequences. Watching on Monday morning as everyone went off to Taproot Valley without her would be just the beginning.
Bethesda had sworn she’d catch the crook and save the trip. She had failed the first part, but she could come through on the second: she’d take the blame so the rest of the kids could go. She fixed her hair in black barrettes and smoothed her purple dress. (She’d decided to dress all in black, then discovered that her only black skirt was from an old witch costume, and decided purple was close enough).
“I have a confession to make,” she said, one last time, then trudged off to school and certain doom.
“Bethesda! Bethesda!”
She halted, mid-trudge. Who was that?
“I have a confession to make!”
She was at the corner of Friedman and Devonshire, T minus ten minutes from certain-doom time, when she heard the wild and desperate voice that was shouting her name. And saying her line.
“I have a confession to make!”
It was Victor Glebe, running toward her down Friedman Street in big, ungainly strides, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He caught up to Bethesda and stood panting at her side for a long moment, slightly hunched over, breathing hard.
“It was . . . it was me, Bethesda,” Victor managed at last. “I did it. I’m . . .” Victor took one last heaving breath and straightened up. “I’m so sorry.”
Bethesda rocked on the balls of her feet, her mind alight. Her purple dress rippled lightly in the gentle fall breeze.
Victor did it! I don’t have to fake-confess!
Taproot Valley is saved!
A last-minute coup from Master Detective Bethesda Fielding! And the crowd goes wild!
There was just one question. “Victor, why would you steal Pamela’s trophy?”
“Huh?” Victor squinted at Bethesda, confused. “No. No! I didn’t do that.”
Argle bargle.
“So, what are you confessing to?”
“I’m your inscrutable tormentor.” Bethesda looked back at him, confused. “Your unfathomable adversary? Wreathed in shadow?”
“What?”
Victor sighed. “I’m the one who filled your locker with Silly String, Bethesda. And I let the air out of your bicycle tires. I wrote those notes. I’m really sorry.” Victor produced a heavily dog-eared student-edition Roget’s Thesaurus from his backpack. “And remorseful. And contrite. And compunctious.”
“I get it!”
Bethesda snatched away the thesaurus, resisting the urge to toss it in the gutter. Bethesda had been friends, or at least friendly acquaintances, with Victor Glebe since they were seven years old, and had never known him to be anything but quiet, serious, and rigorously polite. She certainly didn’t think him the type to commit petty acts of vandalism, or go around threatening people. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m scared of the dark, Bethesda.”
“What?”
“And snakes. And horses. I really don’t like horses.”
“So, you mean . . . oh, Victor. Seriously?”
Bethesda’s irritation softened. She imagined what Victor must have been going through these last few weeks. What he must have been going through since they entered Mary Todd Lincoln as sixth graders, two years ago, and people started talking about Taproot Valley. What a relief it must have been for the long-dreaded week of outdoor education suddenly to be canceled. And here she was, trying to get it un-canceled!
“Oh, and bonfires,” Victor went on. “I really don’t like bonfires. One stray twig flies off, and poof, the whole forest is toast.”
“Hey, Victor, you know what?” said Bethesda. “It’s okay.” As annoying as Victor’s underhanded efforts had been, this morning she had bigger fish to fry. Bethesda resumed her trudge to school, with a remorseful Victor Glebe now trailing along beside her. Soon they reached the horseshoe driveway, just a few feet from the front doors. In the cool early-morning sun, Mary Todd Lincoln Middle School loomed massive and stark as a jail.
“Ah!” Suddenly, Victor tossed his hands up in front of his face and stumbled backward.
“What’s the matter?”
“That bird! It’ll peck our eyes out!”
It was the blue-green swallow, Natasha’s little buddy, chirping merrily in the arm of the fat oak. Bethesda sighed and patted Victor on the arm. This was one kid who did not need a week in the woods.
“I have a confession to make.”
Okay, Bethesda thought. Now this is getting ridiculous.
This time it was Reenie Maslow, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. She had stopped Bethesda right outside the Main Office, right where Bethesda had stopped Chester, four weeks and a lifetime ago.
Reenie stared uneasily at Bethesda, hands hanging nervously at her sides.
I was right! thought Bethesda with astonishment, turning away from the door. I was right all along!
“Don’t get all excited,” Reenie said pointedly. “I still didn’t steal Pamela’s stupid trophy.”
“Oh.”
Argle bargle. Again.
“But I do have a confession to make. Bethesda, I—”
“Ha! Ha!”
The booming laugh, echoing like cannon fire from the far end of the Front Hall, belonged to Coach Vasouvian, no doubt cracking up over some deeply sarcastic comment from Mr. Melville, who walked beside him. At the sound of it, Reenie jumped a little, and Bethesda instinctively reached out and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. Suddenly Reenie seemed very small and helpless, a baby bird lost in the vast hallway. Bethesda pictured the school as it would be in a few minutes, overflowing with rambunctious students and scowling teachers, kids banging against each other and trading insults, flitting in and out of their various cliques and clans, flicking rubber bands, shouting and teasing and flirting. Such an environment must be difficult for someone new, especially someone as inward and reserved as Reenie Maslow.
“Here. This way,” said Bethesda, grasping Reenie by the arms and pulling her into the safe harbor of the Achievement Alcove. They squatted together with their backs to the wall, in the rear left corner, right beneath Marisol Pierce’s prize-winning charcoal drawing.
“So, what’s going on, Reenie?”
Reenie stared at the floor of the Achievement Alcove and spoke very quickly, her words emerging in a mumbly rush. “You were right at lunch yesterday. I did dislike you. I’ve disliked you since we met.”
“Okay.” Bethesda leaned away from Reenie, pushing farther back against the wall of the alcove. “Why?”
“Because you’re smart. And people like you.”
“Are you kidding? Everyone hates me! I’m a walking disaster! I ruined the Taproot Valley trip, remember?”
“Yeah, but that’s just right this second. I’m talking all the time. You’re always running around, making jokes, trading lunches with people, raising your hand in class. You do every single extracurricular activity.”
“No I don’t. Just debate, yearbook, newspaper, math team, and peer tutoring.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Oh, and computer club. And swim.”
“I guess it’s like . . . you know.” Reenie shrugged. “I’m always scared that smart people are going to make me feel stupid.”
Bethesda groaned. “And then yesterday, that’s exactly what I did.” Her heart flooded with empathy for Reenie Maslow. This girl was so not her nefarious adversary.
“Well, you didn’t mean to, I don’t think.”
“No!” Bethesda said earnestly. “I really didn’t.”
Bethesda inched closer to Reenie on the grimy floor of the Achievement Alcove. They were making up! They could turn from bitterest enemies to friends! Maybe she could tutor Reenie after school, just like she had tutored Tenny last year. Hey, actually, maybe the three of them could form a band!
Bethesda reached forward with arms extended, and Reenie pulled away.
“Were you going to hug me?”
“What? No.” Bethesda’s face flared red. “I have this weird arm condition.”
“Oh. Well, anyway. I’m sorry I disliked you for no reason.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
Reenie heaved herself up from the floor of the Alcove, and offered a hand to Bethesda to pull her up, too. “There’s this thing my mom always says, about how life is a ladder, and other people are the rungs. If you don’t have other people, you’ll fall right back down. Cheesy, right?”
“Oh, please,” replied Bethesda, shaking her head, as the two girls emerged from the Achievement Alcove. “If you want cheesy, you should hear my dad. He . . .”
Bethesda stopped, her mouth hanging open.
“Bethesda?” said Reenie. “Uh, Bethesda?”
Life is a ladder, Reenie had said. “A ladder!”
Somewhere inside the mind of Bethesda Fielding, Master Detective, wheels were turning, slowly at first, and then faster and faster and faster. Gears were catching on gears, thoughts zinging to and fro, ideas blinking furiously like the lights on a pinball table.
“Our trophy thief would need something a lot harder than a fist to break the glass . . .” That was Tenny Observation #1. Something like the heavy foot of a custodian’s ladder.
But . . . why a ladder? Who needed a ladder? You need ladders to reach . . . to reach . . .
Bethesda cried out. “Up! Look up, Reenie! Help me find it.”
“Find what? Bethesda, are you okay?”
“The vent! There!”
Reenie craned her neck and saw what Bethesda saw. On the wall above the Achievement Alcove, a slotted metal plate, just a simple air-conditioner vent, but hanging slightly loose, with one tiny screw missing.
“Okay,” said Reenie. “So . . .”
“Hold on one sec.” Bethesda’s mind spun furiously. Why would someone open that vent? Who . . . who had been obsessed with the vents?
Janitor Steve! He had tapped his broom handle, tap-tap-tap, against the air ducts; he’d insisted to Tenny that a noisy spirit was in there, or had been until just before the trophy disappeared. But there was no such thing as ghosts, so what was really trapped up there? What really needed to be set free?
“Holy smoke,” Bethesda whispered.
“What?” Reenie said. “What?”
Into Bethesda’s mind flew the bird. The bird that had terrified poor Victor Glebe that morning. That bird she’d seen hopping along with a scrap of Ding Dong dangling from its beak. The sweet bird, tilting its little head and chittering politely, the morning of her seventh interrogation, as if to say . . . to say thank you.
The bird!
“Reenie. I know what happened to that trophy!”
Chapter 38
Simple Human Decency
After Bethesda gave her explanation to Reenie, they raced together to the Band and Chorus room. There they found both Ms. Finkleman and Tenny, as Bethesda had suspected they might.
“Whoa,” said Tenny, when Bethesda revealed who did it, and how. And then, although he was still mad at her about yesterday, Tenny helped her piece together the few details she was still missing—like the exact timing of the scrape, bang, and crash, and where the little red dots came from.
But it was Reenie who came up with the plan, and who convinced an extremely reluctant Band and Chorus teacher to play her part. By the time the first-period bell rang, and Ms. Finkleman’s sixth graders filed in, everyone knew what they had to do. By the end of the day, the mystery of the missing trophy would be all wrapped up—unless, of course, the whole thing fell to pieces.
Which, Bethesda warned herself as she trotted off toward Ms. Fischler’s room, there’s every chance it might.
“Silence!” proclaimed Principal Van Vreeland, raising her hands imperiously above her head as she took her place at the lectern.
The command was completely unnecessary. The auditorium was pin-drop silent, especially in the back, where the eighth graders sat, wide-eyed and frozen with tense anticipation. The word had been going around all day that the culprit had been found, and the all-school punishment was—potentially, possibly, hopefully—over. The eighth graders could practically feel the lumpy vinyl seats of the special field-trip bus beneath their butts; they could practically smell the scents of grass and skunk and pine awaiting them at Taproot Valley.
Please, thought Tucker and Ezra and Bessie. Please, thought Rory and Lindsey and Lisa. Please let it be true!
“Ms. Finkleman, if you would join me on the stage?”
The mousy Band and Chorus teacher walked swiftly up the short steps to the lectern, while a ripple of confused looks passed through the auditorium. What did Ms. Finkleman have to do with all this? Principal Van Vreeland stepped aside and surveyed the audience, literally licking her lips with anticipation of finding out who stole her trophy. Bethesda pushed back a lock of reddish-tannish hair and exchanged nervous glances with Tenny Boyer, slumped a few seats over, and with Reenie Maslow, who flashed her a quick, furtive thumbs-up. All right, Ms. Finkleman, Bethesda thought, turning
her eyes to the stage. You can do it.
“Ah, yes. Good afternoon. Principal Van Vreeland, everyone, I am—uh—I am very disappointed to report that the person who stole the gymnastics trophy is . . .”
Ms. Finkleman paused dramatically. A loud ker-clunk reverberated through the room; it was Coach Vasouvian, swinging closed the heavy auditorium door in case the criminal, once unmasked, decided to make a run for it. And then Ms. Finkleman finished her sentence, leveling a finger toward the back of the room:
“. . . Tennyson Boyer.”
The silence broke: everyone talking at once, everyone gasping and whispering, everyone straining and jostling to get a peek at the thief.
“Wait—Tenny?”
“That spacey kid?”
“Does he even go here anymore?”
“Tenny Boyer?”
Teachers shushed the kids, even as they themselves muttered and looked around for Tenny and mouthed “wow” at one another. Pamela Preston, who happened to be sitting right in front of Tenny, whipped around in her seat to glare at him, but Pamela’s fury was nothing compared with that of Principal Van Vreeland. Her lips curled as she spat out one short, sharp sentence. “Is that so?”
As for Tenny, Bethesda thought he did an admirable job of looking shocked by the accusation. He shot upright in his seat, blinking furiously, whipping his head this way and that, jabbing a finger into his chest. All in all, an Oscar-worthy pantomime of “Who, me?”
“That’s right,” Ms. Finkleman continued. “Though I wish it weren’t so, for young Tennyson is a student I have personally worked closely with, and have always liked. But facts are facts.” Ms. Finkleman paused here to shake her head sadly. “It seems he was kicked out of St. Francis Xavier for extreme misbehavior—”
“I told you guys!” shouted Tucker Wilson. “I told you it was true about the car in the lake!”
“—which he apparently continued at our school, even before being officially reenrolled.”
Here Ms. Finkleman paused and looked directly at Tenny, letting a note of grievous disappointment creep into her voice. “Oh, Tenny, how could you?”
From his seat, Tenny pretended to protest, and Ms. Finkleman pretended to cut him off.
The Mystery of the Missing Everything Page 14