by Robert Gray
Then I spotted McDougal. He inspected the parking lot with a deadpan stare, as if convinced of foul play, and he alone would determine where the punishments should begin and end. Or maybe he realized he didn’t have enough detention slips to hand out to everyone. What a shame. Either way, I finally scored a win, and it felt good to see McDougal so miserable.
I climbed back through the window and charged down the hall, trying, with little luck, to keep my shoes from chirping against the swirly waxed floor.
Once again, I forgot about the glass wall in front of the main office. I smashed into it head first, staggered backward, and then collapsed to the floor.
As my vision cleared, and the pain in my forehead dimmed to a dull throb, I noticed a complaint box next to Mrs. Nutley’s desk. HELP US HELP YOU the sticker on box read. I am so adding a note about this glass wall when this is over, I thought.
I spent the next fifteen minutes scouring McDougal’s office for clues. First, I checked the file cabinets lined up behind the desk, but every drawer was locked. Then, I rummaged through the desk itself, opening drawer after drawer. I found pens, blank notepads, a box of staples, a drawer loaded with sugar packets—of all things—more useless papers, and two entire drawers full of detention and suspension slips—Huh, turned out McDougal did have enough to hand out to every student—yet another stack of detention slips, and a drawer full of student folders listed in alphabetical order. I noted my file wasn’t in there, but at the bottom of the drawer, I fished out a set of keys. The hand-written label taped to the key ring read FILE CABINET. Score!
But before I could unlock the file cabinets, I heard footsteps heading toward me. Not good. I needed a place to hide. I dumped the keys back into the drawer and darted into McDougal’s private bathroom.
Two people entered the office just as I closed the bathroom door. I pressed my ear against the door and heard McDougal’s voice and some other guy named Harold Stringer, who, I learned, was the school’s Vice Principal.
“It was one of those kids, Harold. I knew I should’ve pushed the board harder for those tracking collars.”
“You heard the parents at the PTA meeting. They were ready to pull their kids out of school if you did such a thing.”
“What do they know? They only have to deal with their own kids. When they’re alone they act so harmless, but when they hoard together …” The chair farted. McDougal must’ve sat behind his desk. “All I know is I’m going to find out who pulled that alarm.”
“What’s that?” Harold asked.
“Black light. I had a spray added to all the alarms. Whoever pulled it is covered in ultraviolet ink. This black light will find them.”
If McDougal turns that light on, his whole office is gonna glow. I might as well have put a giant flashing arrow over my head—
“Mrs. Nutley, could you please knock first.”
“We need you in the cafeteria,” Mrs. Nutley said.
“Oh, what is it this time?” McDougal asked without the slightest attempt at masking his agitation.
“There’s been another fight.”
SIXTEEN
INSIDE MY STUDENT FOLDER
I waited until I could no longer hear McDougal’s shoes tap against the floor, and then I waited some more. When I was fairly certain the coast was clear, I eased open the bathroom door and grabbed the keys out of McDougal’s desk.
The file cabinets were arranged in alphabetical order, and I ran my finger along the drawers until I reached the F-L section. The key ring contained five keys. After my first two attempts, I began to fear these keys were for something else, but the fourth key I tried slipped into the lock and turned with a satisfying click. I rolled out the drawer and flipped through the files until I reached HALLOWS, EVELYN.
Let’s just see what information ol’ Principal McDougal has on me, I thought as I pulled out the folder.
As soon as I finished locking the file cabinet, I heard McDougal and what sounded like two girls arguing. I put the keys back into the desk drawer, stuffed the folder up my shirt, and scrambled back into the bathroom.
“She threw the first punch,” Stacey yelled.
“Is that true?” McDougal asked.
“I—No!—she started it. She called Carly Beth’s Mom—”
That other voice. It sounded so familiar. If my stupid heart would stop banging against my ears, I’d probably be able to—
“Did you throw the first punch?” McDougal asked.
“I—Yeah—I guess, but—”
“But nothing. In-school suspension. One week.”
And then I connected the face to the voice, and I almost called out, No way!, but I cupped my hand over my mouth before the words could escape. Lucy. She had gotten into the fight with Stacey Maxwell.
“What about her?” Lucy asked.
“Let me give you a bit of advice, Miss …?”
“Sanchez.”
“Yes, Miss Sanchez. The time to worry about someone else is before the fight, not after. You are excused, both of you.”
“You’re not even going to give her detention! After what she said to Carly Beth … and what she did to the new girl?”
“You are excused, Miss Sanchez!”
I felt bad for Lucy. She stood up for Carly Beth, and McDougal rewarded her with a week’s worth of in-school suspensions. (It seemed McDougal threw out whatever punishment struck his mood, because Lucy’s punishment differed from mine, and she had gotten into a fight with the same human I did.) It made me dislike McDougal and Stacey more than I thought possible. Especially Stacey. That girl got away with whatever she wanted. Why was that? I wondered.
But I didn’t have time to think too much about that, because the bathroom doorknob started to turn.
I did the only thing I could think of. I locked the door.
The doorknob rattled for a moment. Then stopped, leaving an overabundance of silence, in which I could almost hear McDougal thinking on the other side of the door.
The sound of keys jingling broke the silence in a big way. I glanced around the bathroom, trying to find an escape. I might as well have been locked in a prison cell.
“Darn it!” McDougal yelled.
Thank Jack! He must’ve had the wrong keys, because I heard him storm out of his office, huffing about how unorganized this school was.
I unlocked the door and peeked around. I needed to get out of this office fast. Behind McDougal’s desk I spotted a big frosted window, slightly cracked open. I couldn’t see out and had no idea where it might lead, but when I heard another, much bigger set of keys jingling … a man whistling … the whistling and keys getting closer, I decided anywhere was better than here.
With the folder still stuffed under my shirt, I opened the window and climbed through.
Brilliant sunlight blinded me, and I stumbled toward a tree for cover from that obnoxious sun. I found myself in a courtyard. A stone path led to a white gazebo framed by adorably colorful flowers swaying in a gentle breeze. It would have been a peaceful place, I supposed, if not for the school’s red brick walls and frosted windows that trapped me.
At the far end of the courtyard, I noticed a set of double doors. To get there, however, I’d have to walk past all those windows. Someone could easily spot me, but I had to take that chance. If I stayed here, sooner or later I’d get caught.
A green-and-white-checkered sack full of gardening tools rested next to the garden house, and it gave me an idea.
I grabbed a pair of shears, a spray bottle, a dusty old ball cap that smelled like dirt, and an equally smelly pair of gloves. I put on the gloves and pulled the hat down low over my eyes so no one could get a clear view of my face. I slowly worked my way to the other side of the courtyard, clipping a branch here, evening off a bush there. When I made it to the other side, I dumped the gardening stuff by the doors and headed for the nearest bathroom, where I could think about my next move.
I sat on the toilet, staring at the folder I stole from McDougal’s office. All
this trouble to find clues, and I grabbed information on the person I knew best, myself. Oh, how stupid I felt.
The first page contained my name, age, date of birth, address, phone number, emergency contacts, and something called a social security number, which I didn’t know I had and suspected was fake.
The next page, titled TRANSCRIPT, showed details about my previous school, Pumpkin Center in North Carolina. Another bit of forgery magic performed by URNS, I was sure.
My medical history followed next. I didn’t spend much time with that, because I couldn’t understand a word of it. Dad had filled out the next page, a list of emergency contacts. Nothing interesting here.
A girl entered the bathroom. I sat quietly and peered through the thin gap that separated the stall wall from the stall door. The girl redid her brown ponytail in the mirror, checked for food between her teeth, and left.
As I continued looking through my folder, a piece of paper dropped to the tiled floor. Huh? A newspaper clipping? I picked it up and read the title: GHOULICIOUS PIZZA HOME OF THE BEST AND BIGGEST STROMBOLI IN PENNSYLVANIA.
The article dubbed the stromboli “The Monster,” and the critic, who, unknown to us, had stopped by yesterday and ordered one with her family, said, Ghoulicious’s creepy atmosphere and Monster Stromboli makes this place frighteningly impossible to beat.
I couldn’t imagine why someone would put this article in my personal school folder, but I was going to find out. I committed the name of the food critic to memory—one Nancy Burnblum.
“Well, Burnblum, you just became my biggest clue.”
SEVENTEEN
I VISIT THE SOURCE … SORT OF
Over the next few days, the pizza place got super busy, thanks to the newspaper review. I used the opportunity to eavesdrop on the humans’ conversations, hoping that someone would slip up and mention The Source. What I learned, instead, was that humans have very boring conversations. I mean really, didn’t these people have anything better to talk about besides music, television, and the weather?
Okay, so maybe I misdirected some of my anger toward the humans. I was in an adorable mood lately. I didn’t have much time to work with, and so far I had zero information on the food critic, Nancy Burnblum. Even worse, I had to cut short my surveillance of McDougal. Of all things, the janitor had spotted me snooping around the school library yesterday. He didn’t get a good look at me, thank Jack, but he did scare me into rethinking my strategy. And so far, that strategy consisted of being mad at the humans for no good reason.
On Thursday morning, after Dad dutifully dropped me off a few blocks from school, I decided on a new strategy. I started for the school, glancing back every few moments until the Ghoulicious van turned the corner, and then I changed my heading. Since I didn’t get a chance to see what newspaper Nancy Burnblum worked at—thanks to the nosey janitor at the school—I figured I’d have a better shot at the nearest convenience store.
About three blocks away, at the intersection between Maple Street and Creek Road, I found a low-key store tucked behind a patchwork of trees. From the outside, the place seemed abandoned, but the sign on the entrance told me it was open. The bells above the door chimed when I entered, which made me cringe. They sounded just like the ones at Ghoulicious.
The old human behind the counter appeared kind enough, and he smiled and pushed his thin-framed glasses up his chubby, red nose as if to get a better look at me.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.
“I’m looking for a newspaper.”
He pointed over to stacks of papers next to the candy aisle, which, I noted, offered a laughable selection of candy compared to Treats N’ Treats back home.
“We got your Times, Wall Street Journal, USA Today, Observer, Source, Philadelphia Enquirer. Take your pick.”
I flipped through the newspapers, barely listening to the old man, but it sounded like he just said—
And then my brain caught up to my eyes.
The local newspaper was called The Source, and sure enough, when I opened the paper to the Out & About section, I found the mysterious food critic Nancy Burnblum did, indeed, work for this particular newspaper company, and she’d targeted another unsuspecting victim with a glowing review of a place called Miss Steaks.
I couldn’t believe it. The Source’s headquarters was located right here in town, not far from where Mom and I had gone shopping for school clothes the other day. The old human told me I could get there by bus, though I’d have to walk about a mile or so to reach the nearest bus stop. He also told me it would take about an hour each way, depending on how fast I could walk and assuming I didn’t get lost, of course. That gave me roughly five hours to find out everything I could about Nancy Burnblum. I needed to hurry. But first—
“I’ll take the newspaper and two chocolate bars.” I needed my candy fix and some extra energy for the long walk. “On second thought, better make it four bars … and a bag of sour gummy worms … and a carton of strawberry milk.”
I devoured three chocolate bars and half the container of strawberry milk before I arrived at the bus stop. Then, I waited forever for the bus, which gave me plenty of time to fill my belly with those chewy, sour worms.
During the ride, I passed the time by thinking about my speech for the award ceremony, you know, when I get crowned Protector of Gravesville for capturing the most heinous criminal organization of all time? And then I imagined myself lounging graveside with a pumpkin smoothie, mixed with vanilla ice cream, and loaded with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, and …
The bus hit a pothole, and I nearly fell out of my seat. I blinked. Where was I?
Oh, yeah. The bus dropped me off in front of a large brick building, which turned out to be a bunch of little buildings connected to each other. The sign out front read MUNICIPAL CENTER and listed all the different places: library, courthouse, police and fire departments, recreation center, and something called the zoning administrative office.
The old human at the store had said I would find the newspaper office not far from here. A few moments later, I stood in front of white-stoned behemoth with a glass-domed crown and glowered up at the big brushed-metal letters over the entranceway that read THE SOURCE.
I knew I might be walking right into a trap. Behind those doors might be a hundred humans clutching machine guns and swords in their grimy, blood-stained hands. But it was too late to worry about that now. I had a job to do. The survival of the entire monster race rested on my shoulders. I took a deep breath and entered into …
Huh? A reception area?
Regardless of how innocent the place appeared, I kept my guard up, trying to act casual as I weaved through the crowd of workers that surged in and out of the building. I arrived at a big island desk, where a woman sat and clicked away at her keyboard. She had black hair and lips so thin they looked like thread. A small brass sign next to her read MARTHA STIPPLE RECEPTIONIST. She seemed pleasant enough, that is, I didn’t think she wanted to stab me or eat me or burn me.
“Can I help you, dear?” Martha asked.
“I’m looking for Nancy Burnblum. Is she in?”
“One moment, please.” Martha turned to a monitor and began snapping at the keys again. Then she lifted a phone, dialed. “Uh-huh … Okay … Yes … I’ll let her know.
“I’m sorry, looks like Mrs. Burnblum is on vacation for a few weeks. I’d be happy to take a message for you.”
I felt my heart deflate and sputter around my chest.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll come back another day. Thanks.”
Strange as it might seem, part of me wanted this place to be a trap. At least that would’ve confirmed my suspicions. Now, I didn’t know what to think. And even if it turned out Nancy Burnblum did work for that other, more malicious Source, I couldn’t wait a few weeks to find out. My suspension ended in a couple of days!
Because the thought of finding nothing here sickened me, and because I didn’t want the day to be a total loss, I continued sn
ooping around the office. No one seemed to notice me anyway, so what did it matter?
Sunlight drenched the vast main floor, creating a peculiar prism-like effect, and when I craned my head up, I realized the glass dome was actually a bunch of smaller glass panels in a honeycomb pattern. At the center of the floor, where the light radiated the strongest, I maneuvered through a maze of walls and desks—cubicles I heard them called. They reminded me somewhat of the cages used for the freak show that passed through Gravesville every year during Halloween. Feast your eyes on the wild human in her office environment as she talks into the telephone. Gaze in wonder at the human male as he types away on his keyboard and stares blankly at his monitor.
Then, I overheard a human man say that the boss was burying this place into the ground. Hmm, that sounded a bit evil to me. Maybe I should find the person in charge.
“Excuse me?” I asked the human I’d just overheard. “Where can I find the person burying this place into the ground?”
For a moment, the man seemed puzzled, but then he shook his head and said, “Second floor. Executive Offices,” and hurried off, I guessed, to go be busy again.
I took a winding staircase to the second floor and immediately saw a bunch of humans hovering around one office, which I figured to be the boss’s lair.
“She’ll be here any moment … She wants that proposal on her desk when she gets back … She has a meeting with The Board at two … Take a lunch! Are you crazy? She’ll have your hide!”
The voices mixed together, and I couldn’t get a sense of much else except that whoever worked in this office was a) female, b) wasn’t here, and c) extremely adorable.
I couldn’t believe my bad luck. I must’ve just missed her. Frustration swept over me once again. I was so done with this place. But as I turned to storm off, I toppled headfirst into a cup of syrupy liquid. The thick, brown drink spilled onto a crisp bluish-gray suit and oozed down a once-vibrant white shirt.