Revealed

by Amanda Valentino

  NAR1010: yeah the flash kinda makes everything look washed out.

  x0x0callicatx0x0: theres a pattern, for sure. & these little buttons or something.

  NAR1010: you try pushing them?

  x0x0callicatx0x0: ya think?

  Nobody typed anything for a minute, and I stared at the photo, trying to make out the buttons Callie had described. When my phone rang, I was still staring at the washed-out picture on my screen.

  It was Callie. “I’ve got Nia on the line, too. We think we should post a picture of the box on the website.”

  “I don’t know.” I thought about Louise’s warning. “What if the people who Louise is trying to keep the box from are monitoring the site?”

  “What if they are? What are they going to do, break into one of our houses and steal the box?” Nia laughed at the preposterousness of her own suggestion.

  Callie’s voice was less amused. “Nia, these people may have attacked Thornhill in his office. Do you seriously think they’d hesitate to break into one of our houses?”

  I’d learned enough in the time I’d known her not to push Nia when she was thinking about something. And sure enough, after a brief pause, she said, “Okay, you’ve got a point.”

  There was the squeak of my door opening and I spun around in my chair; obviously our discussion of break-ins was giving me the heebie-jeebies.

  But it was just Cornelia, carrying a bowl of chocolate ice cream. “According to our mother, you only kind of deserve this.”

  I nodded my thanks and reached for the bowl. Cornelia let me take it, then stepped forward to study the picture of the box on my computer screen. “Mom’s gonna go postal if she finds out you’re online.”

  “Then we’re agreed,” I said, ignoring Cornelia. “We won’t post a photo on the website, but we’ll try to figure out together how the box works.”

  Nia snorted. “When, exactly, do you propose we do that? According to my mom, I’ve got twenty minutes after the last bell rings to get home or I’m grounded.”

  My mother had basically said the same thing to me over dinner. “Lunch?” I offered.

  “I could do that,” Nia said.

  “Not me,” Callie sighed. “Mrs. Watson just assigned me to give Ryan Lewis extra math help at lunch all week.”

  I’d never had any strong feelings about Ryan Lewis, who’s in my bio class and who I ran track with last year. But at the thought that he was going to be getting forty-five minutes alone with Callie every day for a week, I suddenly found myself hating the guy for no good reason.

  “What’s that picture?” asked Cornelia, who doesn’t wait for you to get off the phone before she asks you a question. She was pointing at the screen.

  I held up a finger to ask her to give me a second. “Look, I’ll think of something, okay? Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “How’s twelve?” Nia countered.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Done,” Nia capitulated. There was a voice in the background and Nia said, “Gotta go.”

  “Bye, guys,” said Callie.

  “Bye,” I said, and we all hung up.

  Cornelia was bent over my desk, her nose practically touching the computer screen. “Why don’t you want to post this?”

  I hesitated. Was I really going to tell her that Callie, Nia, and I were in possession of a box that a group of dangerous, possibly violent people might be after? But it wasn’t like she didn’t know what we were up against. Like I said, Cornelia’s basically a computer genius—we’d relied on her to set up theamandaproject.com, to deal with all the snags we’d hit when people logged on to tell us their Amanda stories. So she was in pretty deep already. Was the situation with the box really going to freak her out?

  “We went to Play It Again, Sam,” I started, and I explained everything that had happened since that morning. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about seeing our family on Thornhill’s computer, though. Instead, I just finished by asking as casually as I could, “Hey, it’s no big deal, but if I needed to log on to Thornhill’s laptop, you couldn’t help me with that by any chance, could you?”

  Cornelia didn’t crack a smile, but it was clear she found my attempt to be nonchalant tremendously amusing. “No big deal? You just ‘happen’ to want access to Vice Principal Thornhill’s computer? The guy in a coma in the ICU? The guy whose office is a crime scene?”

  I forced a smile. “Just a little practical joke involving a password and his Facebook account.”

  She raised her eyebrow at me, glanced at the computer screen one last time, then turned to go.

  “Hey,” I called. “There hasn’t been any post on the site from a woman named Frieda, has there?” Frieda Levinson was the artist Amanda had taken me to meet in Baltimore, the reason she’d insisted our cutting school was educational enough to be called a field trip. Ever since Callie, Nia, and I had followed up on the stories Amanda had told us about her family life only to discover that Amanda might not even have any parents, the few adults we did know existed had taken on extra importance. I’d left messages on Frieda’s voice mail, but she hadn’t called me back, and the phone number for the studio where Amanda had taken me to see Frieda’s art had been disconnected. I’d hoped she would get in touch with us via the website.

  Cornelia shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “There were lots of posts, but I don’t remember one from anyone named Frieda. You can check if you want—maybe I missed it.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I watched as she left the room, closing the door behind her, then spun slowly around in my chair, staring at the ceiling. Bennett, Cornelia. Bennett, Henry. Bennett, Katharine. Bennett, Edmund.

  My whole family listed on Thornhill’s file. Amanda’s stuff showing up at Louise’s. The box. Everything we’d discovered only seemed to make our way forward more confusing. Should I try to remember the names on Thornhill’s computer? Or would it make more sense to try to track down Frieda? I could study the photos of Amanda’s box that Callie had emailed me—maybe with a little patience, they’d reveal something.

  As I dropped my head in exhaustion from thinking in circles, I saw my guitar leaning against the wall in its case. I’d convinced the band to play the Lowdowners’ “Baby Get Aboard My Plane” for the talent show, and I could barely pick my way through the chords. My backpack was on my bed. In it was the bio lab due on Wednesday that I hadn’t even started, not to mention the two-page history essay (“How was the Treaty of Versailles unfair to Germany?”) and I’d barely written the intro.

  I half stood, about to grab my bag. But as I reached for it, I thought about my dad, standing all by himself even at his own parties. Before Amanda came along, I was on a track to be just like him—not necessarily lonely, but definitely alone. Now, thanks to Amanda, I had Callie and Nia. Amanda had . . . well, not to be melodramatic, but she saved me from a solitude that I could now see was a kind of life in death.

  And now it was my turn to save her.

  It was no contest. Dropping back down, I turned to my computer and logged on to theamandaproject.com, hoping somebody, somewhere, would know something about Amanda that could help us.

  Chapter 7

  Seeing Callie and Nia leaning against the wall opposite the main office first thing the next morning gave me the feeling I wasn’t the only one who’d spent the ride to school fantasizing about getting into Thornhill’s office. Of course, Callie’s prompt announcement confirmed it—no need to ponder this one.

  “It’s not like being closer to his office gets us closer to his computer,” she pointed out. There were dark circles under her eyes, and I wondered if she had slept as little as I had.

  “Actually, it does. Literally,” Nia corrected her.

  Callie shot Nia a look, then put her hands up in mock surrender. “Not to change the subject,” she said, changing the subject, “but I brought the box.” She indicated the bulging backpack slung over her shoulder.

  “Not that we have any time to look at it,”
Nia said.

  “Okay! Enough with the pressure. I’ve still got a few hours to come up with a plan,” I reminded her. Talking about time made me think of Amanda’s watch.

  I know you (x2) know me.

  Was there anything in my life that wasn’t a mystery I was not equipped to solve?

  The warning bell rang and Callie gave one last, longing glance in the direction of Thornhill’s office. Her voice wistful, she said, “I seem to remember a time when my life didn’t center around attempts to break into administrative offices here at good old Endeavor.”

  “Yeah, but you weren’t really happy back then,” I reminded her, smiling.

  She smiled back. “So true,” she agreed.

  And with that, the three of us headed off to our first- period classes.

  At lunch, as Nia and I tried to think of a way to spend quality time together examining the box, she was kind enough not to remind me that my fifteen hours were almost up.

  Desperate, I suggested the obvious. “What if we tell our parents we’re going over to Callie’s to study for . . . I don’t know, a major ninth-grade, um, history . . . thing.”

  Nia started shaking her head even before I finished. “My mom would just say we should study at my house. And”—she continued when I started to interrupt—“it would take her about one minute to figure out something was up, after which I could expect to be grounded for the rest of the year, if not my life. So, you know, if you want to risk it . . .” she finished with a shrug, and I figured I should take her word for it. Considering my mom would have my head on a platter if she got a whiff of what we were up to, I could only imagine what Nia’s notoriously strict parents would do if they knew.

  Then again, maybe I couldn’t fathom it. I remembered how old-school they’d been the one time I was there. When Cisco Rivera, the most popular guy in the junior class (and possibly the entire school—if not the entire town), started to use his big fork on his salad, his mom clapped her hands twice and said, “Cisco!” and when Cisco saw what she was looking at, he changed forks so fast it was like the big one was on fire. I don’t normally think of myself as rude, but that lunch was still the only time in my life I’ve actually uttered the words “No, sir” when someone’s dad asked me a question.

  “Look,” said Nia, “maybe we should each take it for a day or two, see what we find, then get together with it and compare notes.” She took a bite of her sandwich, and as if eating her mother’s incredible food had reminded her of her mom in general, she added, “I’m sure I could hide it from my mom for a day.”

  I actually wasn’t so sure about my own mom—even when she’s ostensibly not looking for them, my mom has a weird sixth sense when it comes to finding things I’ve hidden. For example, the time four years ago when she suddenly had the urge to do our family’s seasonal wardrobe change the very day I’d secretly stashed Danny Martin’s water gun (no guns allowed in the Bennett household) in my sweater drawer. Her contraband-related ESP was so keen that I always carried Amanda’s watch with me. But it wasn’t the reason I didn’t like Nia’s idea that we try to open the box alone.

  “I feel like we need to be together to open it.” Shaking my head, I added, “I know that sounds crazy.”

  Nia answered quickly. “No, it’s fine.” Her response was so immediate I was positive she and Callie had talked privately about my “feelings” since the little incident at Play It Again, Sam. My theory that Amanda’s name wasn’t Valentino hung between us, but Nia didn’t mention it and neither did I.

  “Enough about the box for a second—we’re beating our heads against a brick wall with that.” Nia seemed eager to change the subject. “Let’s talk about Thornhill’s list.”

  I did my best to conjure the list for Nia. Since last night, I’d started to think I might have seen Frieda’s name on it, but I couldn’t be sure if my thinking about Frieda had just made me imagine I’d read her name there or if I really had. As I recited the names I was pretty sure I’d seen, I couldn’t decide which was worse: trying and failing to remember who had been on Thornhill’s list, or picturing Callie and Ryan sitting in the library, heads together, laughing over some difficult-to-solve math problem. Callie, you’ve made everything so clear to me. I think I’m in love with you. Oh, Ryan, you’re so impossibly dense. You obviously can’t function without me. I think I’m in love with you, too.

  Okay, this had to stop. With everything at stake, I had bigger things to worry about than Callie’s peer-tutoring session. Still, ever since I’d seen her and Lee Forrest pass each other in the hallway without speaking, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe I had a chance. . . .

  * * *

  The last place I would’ve expected to have my problem solved was art class, yet that was exactly where the solution appeared.

  “Hey, Hal,” said Mr. Varma. He stood behind my shoulder and looked at my still life of a bottle of Heinz ketchup and a plate with a crumpled napkin and half-eaten pickle on it. I was working from a photo I’d taken when my mom, Cornelia, and I had gone to the Orion diner for dinner a couple of weeks—or was it a lifetime?—ago.

  In spite of everything that was on my mind, I’d gotten totally into the painting. As I stood in front of the canvas, the familiar feel of the brush in my hand and the soft swish of the paint had put me in a trance that took me a million miles away from the rest of my life.

  “Hey,” I answered. Back in September, I hadn’t liked Mr. Varma as a teacher because he doesn’t say much and I felt like I needed him to be more direct when he gave an assignment. By now, I’d come to see it was just a matter of listening closely to the few things he does say.

  “I like this.” He pointed at the napkin I’d worked so hard to make look crumpled.

  “Thanks. I feel like the pickle isn’t right, though.” He looked at the misshapen object I’d drawn and frowned in concentration.

  “Needs some work,” he agreed. “You might want to vary the color a bit.”

  He was right. The shape wasn’t the problem so much as its intense greenness. I nodded and he turned to leave, but before he could take a step away, he snapped his fingers and turned back to me.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  The last time Mr. Varma had asked me for a favor, I’d ended up carting dozens of canvases to the art room from a supply closet on the other side of the school. I steeled myself to hear his request.

  “Eleanor is a bit . . . concerned about some of the detail work on the As You Like It sets.”

  It’s so weird when teachers refer to each other by their first names; at first, I had no idea who Mr. Varma was talking about, and then I realized Eleanor must be Ms. Garner.

  “Oh,” I said, not sure where this was going but anticipating carrying something extremely heavy to a galaxy far, far away.

  “She asked if I knew someone who could help her with a leaf situation, and I immediately thought of you.”

  “A leaf situation?” I asked.

  “As in, things that do not currently look like leaves but need to be made to look like leaves in the very, very near future.” He smiled wryly.

  “When does she want my help?”

  “After school—now that we have this security issue, they’re working on sets during play rehearsal. I gather it’s a bit chaotic.”

  I probably would have said yes to Mr. Varma anyway, but his next question guaranteed I’d be spending my afternoons happily repairing the foliage of the sets for the Forest of Arden.

  “You don’t happen to know anyone who could help with costumes, do you?” he added as an afterthought.

  And suddenly, I knew that all our problems were over. “As a matter of fact, I totally do.”

  “I hate to break it to you, Hal, but not all girls know how to sew.” Nia’s arms were crossed, and her face was the picture of disdain.

  I’d thought Nia would be thrilled at the news that I’d found a way for us all to hang together after school, but when I’d grabbed her at her locker, she hadn’t looked esp
ecially pumped by my announcement that she and Callie were now on the As You Like It costume crew.

  “Who said anything about sewing?” I asked, trying not to let my exasperation show as we made our way down the corridor toward Callie’s locker.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I could have sworn you said the words ‘costume crew.’” Nia put air quotes around the phrase.

  My irritation was impossible to hide. “This is a brilliant solution,” I snapped.

  I spotted Callie ahead of us, and I had to call to her four or five times to be heard above the din of the crowded hallway. She waited for me and Nia to catch up. As we headed toward her, a delivery guy carrying what looked like a bouquet of flowers or maybe a plant entered through the main doors.

  “Get ready to say, ‘Thank you, Hal,’” I said in response to Callie’s questioning look.

  Nia snorted.

  “Ignore that,” I instructed. Callie fell into step beside me and Nia as we made our way across the lobby. “How would you like to have hours every day after school to sit with me and Nia and study Amanda’s box?” I made my voice deep and enthusiastic, like a sports announcer’s. Ahead of us, the flower delivery guy entered the main office.

  “How would you like to spend hours every day sewing?” Nia corrected. “Isn’t that right, Hal?”

  We were across the hallway from the main office. Even though I hadn’t been consciously heading there, I stopped walking. “Costume crew doesn’t mean sewing!”

  “I have no idea why you guys are even talking about costume crew,” Callie interjected, “but I’m pretty sure the whole point of it is sewing.”

  Okay, why were they making this so impossible? “No, it’s . . . you know, what you guys were doing at the store yesterday. You guys love that stuff. Like . . .” I mimed holding up a dress in front of myself.

  Callie and Nia exchanged a look that clearly said: HAL IS IMPAIRED.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s more like . . .” Nia mimed pulling a piece of thread through a piece of fabric.

  “Well, can’t you . . .” I mimicked her sewing. “. . . for a couple of afternoons if it means we get some time alone together?”