by Julie Mata
“That’s true,” I say, thinking fast. “But what if Jake’s the one who dropped it? Maybe he meant to give it to Alyssa.”
Margaret purses her lips. “You’re right.” She picks up the note.
I let loose a huge sigh of relief. Back on track.
“We should give it to Jake,” Margaret says.
Wha-a-a? Not good. And then, who strolls down the hall toward us but Jake Knowles and his buddies? If I didn’t know better, I’d say the hens were behind this.
“There he is,” Margaret says brightly.
I’m desperate now. What would Tim Burton do? “He’s with his friends,” I blurt. “Don’t you think he’ll be embarrassed if we hand it to him in front of them? You know, since it’s a note to a girl? They’ll probably give him such a hard time.”
Margaret turns and gazes at me, and I wonder if she’s starting to suspect. The sweat on my face could be a clue.
“That is very thoughtful,” she says, sounding like my mother.
I feel a twinge of shame that Margaret has such a high opinion of me. I remind myself that I’m doing this for her as well. “I don’t want to do anything nice for Alyssa, either,” I babble, “but I suppose for Jake’s sake we should just give it to her.” I hold my breath. Will she go for it?
Margaret shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll give it to her in gym class.”
Bingo. We’re back on script. I wipe my face and hope that’s the end of the ad-libbing.
The note handoff goes just as I expected. Alyssa looks surprised but does a good job of covering up after she reads the note. She stuffs it into her backpack, trying hard not to look excited. Alyssa has been waiting so long for Jake Knowles to notice her, and now she thinks he has. Well, the Beautiful Dame is in for a big letdown.
I’m finding it’s a lot easier to carry out my plan if I think of Alyssa as the bad-to-the-bone Beautiful Dame. Not Alyssa, the girl with a secret crush, the climber of water towers. I don’t really like calling her Beautiful Dame, either. It’s too much like a compliment. I’ll call her BD.
I shut my gym locker and turn away. BD has taken the bait, I tell myself. On to the next scene.
Halfway through fifth period I raise my hand and ask Mrs. Liebowitz, my Spanish teacher, if I can go to the nurse’s office because I’m not feeling well.
She frowns. “No.”
No? I sink back into my seat, stunned. What kind of heartless teacher keeps a sick kid in class? And why does a Spanish teacher have a name like Liebowitz, anyway? I’m starting to suspect the chickens have written their own script and sent it out into the cosmos, because nothing is going according to plan.
“Yo no te entiendo,” Mrs. Liebowitz says, overemphasizing each syllable. She’s spent so many years enunciating each vowel that she talks this way in English, too.
I sigh and rack my brain. “Yo me siento bien,” I finally manage. I don’t feel well.
Mrs. Liebowitz beams at me. “Muy bien, Katerina.” She nods at the door and I shoot out of class.
I hurry to the nurse’s office and announce I have a major headache and can I lie down? Mrs. Stickney barely looks up as she waves me toward the cot. I wait ten minutes, then bounce up and announce I’m all better.
“Can I have a pass to get back to class?”
Mrs. Stickney, pleased at my quick recovery, hands me a pass.
I’m starting to feel a little like I’m in the middle of a Mission: Impossible plotline, but without all the fancy gadgets. And without Tom Cruise. I return to Spanish class. When the bell rings, instead of going to my sixth-period class, I trail behind Alyssa as she hurries to the music classroom. Once she disappears inside, I quickly plant my second prop, and then I say a prayer. Mr. Cantrell has sixth period free. He usually stays in his office nearby, but he could decide to go to the teacher’s lounge or even to the men’s room. Considering how long my dad can camp out in the bathroom, this is a bleak thought.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief when I pass Mr. Cantrell’s door. He’s inside, humming to himself and conducting an invisible symphony. He looks so happy I feel sorry for him. He probably dreamed of being a world-famous conductor, and now he’s stuck teaching pimply preteens in a suburban middle school. I make a note to myself to be nicer to Mr. Cantrell. Of course, if my plan backfires, I’ll be at the top of his Most Hated Student list. A nasty case of doubt hits me like a bad bellyache. It’s still not too late to ditch the plan. I suck in a deep breath and try to steady my nerves.
If I just picture what I’m doing as a movie shoot, it makes everything easier. After all, didn’t Shakespeare say we’re all just actors on a stage? Or maybe it was Jim Carrey. I try to ignore a nagging question, but it worms its way into my brain—does Alyssa really deserve this? I’m afraid of what the answer might be if I think about it too long. I’ve spent hours dreaming of this moment, and now it’s already been set in motion. I think of Alyssa and Lydia laughing at their squiggle of Margaret and grit my teeth. I duck into the nearby bathroom and ease open the door so I can monitor the music room.
This next part is the trickiest. I have to guess how long Alyssa will wait for Jake before she gives up and goes to class. Five minutes feels like five hours. Suddenly, Miss Chell walks into the bathroom. I’m so startled I jump back and let out a hiccupy squeak.
Miss Chell teaches family and consumer education. Everyone calls her Miss Chill because she never smiles. Sure enough, she gives me a frosty look. “Do you have a pass?”
I quickly hold out the pass the nurse gave me. If Chilly reads it, my goose is cooked because the nurse wrote the time on it and that was half an hour ago. I’ve noticed, though, that most teachers don’t bother to actually read the green slip. They just want to make sure you have one. Sure enough, Miss Chell purses her lips, then nods curtly and waves away the pass. I practically run out of the bathroom. What if Alyssa left while I wasn’t looking?
She’s still in the music room, rereading the note and looking fidgety. I race to Mr. Cantrell’s office and burst through the door. “Mr. Cantrell, I’ve lost my mother’s heirloom ring! I think I left it in the choir room this morning; have you seen it?”
He looks concerned. “Why, no, Kate, I haven’t.”
“She’s going to kill me,” I say in a choking voice. “It’s really valuable. She’ll be so upset if someone’s taken it.”
“Have you looked in the room yet?” he asks.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, pretending to mishear him. “That would be so nice if you’d help me look. It’s a pearl ring, a real pearl. She let me borrow it, and it must have slipped off my finger....”
“I’m sure we’ll find it.” Mr. Cantrell stands up and we move into the hallway. No sign of Alyssa, which means she’s still waiting for Jake.
“Wait!” I cry. “Wait, I think...maybe it wasn’t the choir room after all. Maybe it was during gym class. I can’t remember now.”
“Well, it can’t hurt to search the room, Kate. If we don’t find it, you can go look in the gym.”
“I don’t want to waste your time.”
“You’re not wasting my time,” Mr. Cantrell assures me.
Actually, I’m trying to buy time. I need to keep Mr. Cantrell in the hallway. Alyssa is in the music classroom. If we duck into the choir room two doors down, he won’t see her leave. The little voice in my head has grown bigger and louder, and it’s got lots more questions. What happened to that nice girl, Kate Walden? How did I ever think I was going to pull this off? Just because silly ideas succeed in movies doesn’t mean they work in real life....
And then, fate gives me a break. Alyssa bursts out of the music room. She stops short when she sees Mr. Cantrell.
“Why, Alyssa,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing in there? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”
“Uh, yes, I was looking for something, but I couldn’t find it,” she blur
ts. Her face is turning ten shades of red. Only I know she’s blushing because she was waiting for Jake Knowles and he stood her up. And the result is she looks guilty as sin as she hurries away, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.
“It seems everyone has lost something today,” Mr. Cantrell muses. “Shall we look for your ring, Kate?”
“Oh my gosh, look, there it is!” I scoop up the ring I planted underneath the drinking fountain and wave it in front of Mr. Cantrell. It’s a cheap dime store ring with a plastic pearl, so I’m hoping he won’t look too closely.
He looks vaguely puzzled. “That was lucky. Be more careful next time.”
“I will. Thanks, Mr. Cantrell!”
I duck into the bathroom until he goes back in his office. A part of me feels like crying and another part of me is completely amped, like I drank three Frappuccinos in a row. I take a deep breath and wipe my face. If that was the trickiest part, this next is the hardest.
I slip into the music room. It’s so quiet I can hear the clock tick to the next minute. A fly buzzes along the window like a mini chain saw. I make my way over to the counter beneath the big windows. My heart is pounding in my ears like a cheesy sound effect from a second-rate horror flick. I swallow hard and glance nervously at the door. I’ve never taken school property before. If I’m caught, I’ll be in big trouble.
I tell myself I’m only borrowing it, but my hand shakes as I grab the Cute Red Wig off its plastic head and stuff it into my backpack. I hurry outside and breathe a shaky sigh of relief. The hall is empty. I’m late to class and I get a tardy, but I don’t even care. Relief washes over me as I slide into my seat. The deed is done. Excitement mixes with terror as I try not to look at my backpack. The trap is set. Now it’s time for BD to take the fall.
The news spreads fast the next morning—the Cute Red Wig has been stolen. By the time Mr. Cantrell tells us in choir class, everybody already knows. He looks paler than normal, and I notice he gives Alyssa an extralong look. I was afraid Mr. Cantrell’s music-soaked brain might not do the math, but it looks like he’s put two and two together.
“Yes, it’s true,” he tells us. “Someone has taken the red wig for our Annie production. If anyone has information, I hope you will come to me. Otherwise, let’s hope the thief comes to his—or her—senses and puts the wig back.”
Everyone is glum, even Lydia. “This bites,” she says loudly.
“Yeah,” Alyssa agrees. “Who would want to steal the wig?”
“Who indeed?” Mr. Cantrell says quietly.
I wait for him to quiz Alyssa, but he doesn’t say another word. Instead, he reaches for his songbook. Then it hits me. He’ll probably question her in private. I feel like shaking him. Is this how Tim Burton feels when actors flub their lines? It looks like I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.
“Hey, Alyssa, weren’t you in the music room during sixth period yesterday?” I say, like it just occurred to me. “Remember, Mr. Cantrell? We were looking for my ring and we saw Alyssa. Did you see anything suspicious?” I ask innocently.
The entire room goes quiet. I almost hear the whirring brains as some of the kids remember that Alyssa hurried in late to English class, probably looking flustered.
Mr. Cantrell removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Yes, that’s right. What were you doing in the room, Alyssa?”
Alyssa’s face turns a sickly color. In a single second, she knows and I know and everyone else knows that she’s become suspect numero uno, as Mrs. Liebowitz would say. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she stammers. “I was looking for a book I left.”
“What book?” Mr. Cantrell asks.
And then, poor Alyssa’s brain freezes. She gulps and hems and haws. All she needs to do is blurt out a title, any title, but she can’t do it. “My English book,” she finally manages.
“You had your English book in class yesterday,” Jennifer Adams, our straight-A eager beaver pipes up. “We shared it, remember?”
“Yeah, I found it in the music room,” Alyssa quickly covers. “The wig was still there when I left the room—I’m sure of it. I remember looking at it and thinking, ‘Oh, the Cute Red Wig!’” She says it in a funny way and some of the girls chuckle. Alyssa’s breathing easier now. She grins at Lydia, who says:
“Dang, you could have caught the criminal red-handed! You should have hid in the closet!”
Everyone laughs and settles into their chairs. Crisis averted.
I hold my breath. Mr. Cantrell is one of those old guys whose age is hard to figure out because he still has hair and he’s still slender. He has to be in his forties, though. Does he have enough brain cells left to remember all the way back to yesterday, or has middle-age memory rot already kicked in? The clock ticks to the next minute.
Mr. Cantrell frowns and holds up a finger. Hallelujah. It’s pointed at the ceiling, but an adjustment of a few degrees and it would be pointing at Alyssa. “You said yesterday that you didn’t find what you were looking for in the music room.”
You can almost feel the air get sucked out of the room. It’s like we’ve suddenly been thrust into the middle of an old Perry Mason rerun, and Perry has just outfoxed the criminal at the eleventh hour. As Alyssa looks like she’s about to cry, a part of me feels sorry for her. I remind myself of the last week of torture, until Crapkate rings in my ears. I can’t let my resolve crumble now.
“I didn’t take it!” Alyssa babbles. “I swear I didn’t!”
To a jury of adults, that sounds like a denial. A jury of seventh graders has way sharper ears. We know a clear admission of guilt when we hear one. Our legal reasoning goes something like this: people don’t bother to deny something unless they’ve actually done it and therefore need to deny doing it.
This is where my superior scripting kicks in. Alyssa grabs her backpack and opens it. “See, I don’t have it!”
Of course, no one expects her to be carrying the wig around in her backpack. Who would be that stupid? That’s why I haven’t bothered to plant the wig there. What I did plant on top of her backpack, as I passed behind her at the start of class, was a tiny curl of red hair that I yanked from the wig. To be honest, I didn’t really expect a payoff from this, because Alyssa’s backpack is dark and stuck under her chair. It wasn’t likely anyone would notice, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.
As Alyssa lifts her backpack to show everyone, the bright red curl slips onto the white linoleum like a bloody, crooked finger pointing right at Alyssa. Sometimes life does a better job scripting than I ever could.
“What is that?” Lydia shrieks. She picks up the curl and holds it up. Even she is struck speechless. She finally flicks it at Alyssa. “Dude, just give the frickin’ wig back.”
The supreme court justice of seventh grade has spoken! The verdict: Guilty. Alyssa’s goose is cooked.
“I didn’t take it!” Alyssa insists again, but no one is listening.
Mr. Cantrell carefully picks up the red curl of hair, then motions for Alyssa to follow him. Her face is absolutely white and her lower lip trembles. She stands up and slowly follows him. Mr. Cantrell pauses at the door. “Jennifer, please lead the class in ‘Oh My Heart’ until I get back.” He turns and Alyssa trails after him like a scolded puppy.
A good script has to be believable. Each plot development should make sense, like it could really happen. Alyssa dumping the wig in her locker just wasn’t believable. Who’s stupid enough to steal something and then put it in their locker, which can be searched? A lock of hair that accidentally ripped from the wig and stuck to her backpack—that was more believable. Plus, this way the wig is still missing. Therefore, people are still mad at Alyssa. Of course, I’ll return the wig long before Annie is ready to hit the stage. I just want to let the resentment simmer a bit.
I find out later that the principal and Mr. Cantrell questioned Alyssa but she denied taking the wig. She had no idea
how the lock of red hair got on her backpack. They asked to see her locker, but of course the wig wasn’t there. There’s really no proof that she took it, so they finally let her go back to class. By then, almost the entire school has heard that Alyssa Jensen took the Cute Red Wig and won’t admit it. All her denials only make it worse. Lydia pronounces her totally lame. She’s toast.
And then it hits me: I’ve succeeded. Bogie has outwitted the Beautiful Dame. I go over and over the script in my head, amazed my crazy plan actually worked. Even the chickens couldn’t mess it up. I spend the rest of the school day floating on a cloud. Lydia even comes up to me in the hallway and says, “Can you believe it? What is up with that chick?”
I guess she says it to me because I’ve been Alyssa’s friend for so long. I notice Lydia already has a new BFF, Tina Turlick, who was her best friend for a while last year. At least Lydia recycles. Tina is one of her more rabid followers. She cut and colored her hair to look like Lydia’s and she shops at all the same stores.
Tina makes a disgusted face. “She was probably just jealous because she knew you were going to get the part of Annie, Lydia. Mr. Cantrell practically said so. She couldn’t handle it, so she took the stupid wig.”
“Yeah, pretty lame,” I agree. “She wasn’t like that when we were friends.” She isn’t like that now. I squelch the tiny voice, but my stomach starts to hurt. I ignore it.
“It blows,” Lydia says cheerfully. “So how’s the zombie movie coming, Mrs. Movie Director? When do I get to see my big scene?”
I freeze. Did I really throw the footage from Lydia’s scenes into the trash? I rack my brain, trying to remember if I emptied the trash can on my desktop. I’m almost positive I didn’t, which means I can still recover her scenes. Of course, there was hardly any useable footage, but maybe if I make it a really short scene...
“It looks great,” I say, trying for enthusiasm. I feel a small thrill. Lydia isn’t calling me Crapkate. She suddenly thinks my movie is cool enough to mention.