“Yes, ma’am.”
“It is the fault of the fun little wager I made with Principal Cohn, requiring me to wear this preposterous headgear for the entire school day.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In point of fact, under the terms of the wager Principal Van Vreeland was required not only to wear the silly hat, but to photograph herself wearing it and send the photograph via email to Principal Cohn. And it was Principal Cohn’s one-word, all-caps reply to that photograph (“OLÉ!”) that Principal Van Vreeland had been reading over and over, causing her to lose her appetite for egg salad.
This was only the most recent in a string of similar humiliations. Every year Mary Todd Lincoln competed with Grover Cleveland in dozens of activities, from debate to chess to lacrosse, and every year they lost in all of them. But Principal Van Vreeland could not resist betting against Principal Cohn over and over, on every single competition. Such was her deeply held belief in the inherent superiority of Mary Todd Lincoln’s assorted teams, squads, and societies. As a result, over the course of her tenure at Mary Todd Lincoln, Principal Van Vreeland had been obligated on various occasions to go to school in a fake handlebar mustache, in a bright red wig, and (after a punishing six-nothing loss in the boys’ hockey semifinals) dressed as a penguin.
“Jasper,” she said now, “I have a question.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Are there any events left on the county calendar in which we compete against Grover Cleveland?” The principal paused, and then added, “Perhaps a non-sporting event? ”
“Well, there is the Choral Corral, ma’am.” “Ah! Yes! The Corral!”
The All-County Choral Corral was an annual musical competition. Every band and chorus teacher in the county selected one seventh-grade class to compete, and the classes could do any kind of musical presentation they wanted: marching bands, barbershop quartets, chamber quartets, anything. Principal Van Vreeland had never placed a bet on the Choral Corral before—the Corral was …
“Perfect!” shouted Principal Van Vreeland, jumping to her feet. “Who’s our music teacher again? The mousy little brown-haired lady? ”
“Ms. Finkleman, ma’am.”
“Ah! Yes!” Principal Van Vreeland was pacing with excitement, tapping her perfectly manicured forefinger against the bridge of her nose. “And what kind of astonishing performance is Ms. Finkleman preparing to wow the judges and ensure our victory over Grover Cleveland this year? ”
“Traditional English folk ballads from the sixteenth century,” Jasper said.
Principal Van Vreeland stopped and stared at him. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? ”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jasper replied. “Traditional English folk ballads from the sixteenth century. They’re, um … they’re …”
Jasper was going to say that they were quite lovely, but there was something in Principal Van Vreeland’s facial expression that made him think that if he said that, she would throw her stapler at him. She had done so once before, when he suggested that her plan for a giant trophy case at the school entrance might be rejected by the county appropriations committee, since Mary Todd Lincoln never won any trophies.
Instead, Principal Van Vreeland sat down, took off her sombrero, and lowered her head down onto her desk. “You know what I should do, Jasper?” She sighed. “I should just give up. I should go live on a farm and raise sheep and goats.”
Jasper’s eyes lit up. “Ooh! Can I have your desk?”
“Get out, Jasper.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jasper shut the door gingerly behind him as Principal Van Vreeland stared at Principal Cohn’s email, still flashing back at her from the screen.
“OLÉ!” said the email.
What the devil was she going to do?
4
SPDSTAMF
There is no sound in the world quite like that of a middle school emptying of its student body on a Friday afternoon. First there is the high, shrill clang of the seventh-period bell, followed immediately by a tremendous echoing BANG! as the classroom doors burst open like dozens of dams breaking at once. Then comes the rubbery squeak of a couple hundred pairs of sneakers all rushing over dirty linoleum, followed by and interspersing with the metallic clatter of a couple hundred lockers hurriedly being thrown open. Loudest of all is the din of the children themselves: the boys, ramming into the walls as they try to get around one another in a great ungainly race for the doors; the girls, squealing giddily and shrieking out plans to meet later at the mall, or Shira’s house, or Sheila’s house, but is it Sheila’s mom’s house or Sheila’s dad’s house? And on and on, the voices getting louder and louder, reaching higher and higher pitches of excitement, until the last kid flies out and the big double doors shut at last. Then silence.
It was in that silence, after all her fellow students had fled, that Bethesda Fielding stood at her locker, carefully labeling a fresh blue spiral notebook.
THE SPECIAL PROJECT TO DISCOVER THE SECRET TRUTH ABOUT MS. FINKLEMAN, Bethesda wrote, in her careful all-caps handwriting, which was never as neat as she wanted it to be. And then, underneath it, SPDSTAMF. Bethesda loved to give everything titles or elaborate nicknames. Her favorite stuffed animal, for example, which sat proudly in the corner of her room in an old rocking chair, was named Teddy Who Replaced the One Whose Head Fell Off in the Washing Machine, or Teddy WROWHFOWM, or just Ted-Wo for short.
On page one of the SPDSTAMF, she wrote PART ONE: TEACHERS. Her plan was to make a thorough survey of the Mary Todd Lincoln Middle School faculty, interrogating each of Ms. Finkleman’s colleagues to find out what they knew. She paused before her locker mirror to compose herself into a serious no-nonsense detective: hair pulled back, eyes narrowed into piercing slits, lips pursed and businesslike.
Bethesda Fielding, Mystery Solver! Hmm, she thought. The pink butterfly barrette kind of ruins it.
She tossed the barrette in her locker and set off down Hallway B.
“Goodness gracious! Look who’s come to call! ”
Ms. Aarndini was a cheerful, industrious woman with a bob haircut and a collection of brightly colored cardigan sweaters. As Bethesda came in, she was busily readying her Home Economics room for the weekend, carefully tucking each Singer sewing machine under its regulation sewing-machine cozy.
“I’d offer you a snack,” piped Ms. Aarndini, “but all I’ve got is bread the sixth graders made, and, well, you don’t want bread a sixth grader made. Are you having trouble seeing, honey? ”
Bethesda relaxed her Mystery Solver squint a little and said, “Ms. Aarndini, I need information.”
“Oh? Is it about the beanbags?” (Ms. Aarndini’s seventh graders were making beanbags that week.) “Be sure to use uncooked beans, m’dear. Uncooked. I can’t stress that enough.”
“Noted,” said Bethesda. “But I actually need to know about Ms. Finkleman.”
“The music teacher? What do you need to know about her?”
“To be honest? Anything, really. Her friends, her family, her life. Anything you know.”
“Well, gee, hon,” said Ms. Aarndini, and paused at the closet with a small basket full of pincushions. “I know she’s the music teacher.”
Bethesda smiled. “All right, then.”
“Sorry not to be more help. But I’m pretty new around here. Other folks will know more.”
Bethesda called, “Thanks! ” over her shoulder, checked Ms. Aarndini off her list, and moved swiftly down the hall.
But Bethesda soon discovered that Ms. Aarndini was wrong: Other folks didn’t know more. In fact, they knew nothing. All that she learned, after an hour weaving her way up and down the halls, from the arts annex to the library, was that there’s a lot of ways to say “Nothing.”
“Ms. Finkleman? Nope. Not a thing,” said Ms. Beaumont.
“Zilch,” said Mr. Darlington.
“Nada,” said Mrs. Farouk.
“Zip,” said Mr. Lavasinda.
“Not a jot,” said Ms. Pinn
-Darvish. “Not a tittle.”
“Never heard of her,” grumbled Mr. Vasouvian, stuffing dodgeballs into a giant sack.
“Yo no sé nada,” said Senorita Tutwiler with an apologetic shrug.
Even gentle old Mrs. Howell, who had been at the school forever and generally knew everything about everyone, was no help. She was, however, kind enough to offer Bethesda a brownie, which Bethesda nibbled as she headed for the last stop on her list. SPDSTAMF, she reflected, might be the tiniest bit harder than she’d anticipated.
Ms. Zmuda taught Pre-algebra and coached the math team, on which Bethesda was a star. Bethesda found her grading papers with her feet up on her desk, her chair tilted back at a relaxed angle.
“Bethesda!” Ms. Zmuda said, startled, as the front legs of her chair returned to the floor with a loud clunk. “Do we have math practice today? ” Ms. Zmuda threw open a desk drawer, digging frantically for her graphing calculator and flash cards. “Give me one second, will ya?”
“It’s not that,” said Bethesda. “I’m working on a Special Project.”
“Ah! Melville, eh? ” laughed Ms. Zmuda, and she did a quick little Melville impression, her eyebrows wiggling with comic menace.
“Exactly. So, anyway, I’m looking for some information. But to tell you the truth, I’ve already asked every other teacher and no one knew much, so I sort of doubt you’ll be able to help either.”
“Well, gee whiz, Bethesda. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Ms. Finkleman. Band and Chorus,” said Bethesda quickly, not even bothering to open her spiral notebook. “Know anything about her? ”
“Huh,” replied Ms. Zmuda. “Okay, well, I guess you were right this time. I can’t say I know much about Ms. Finkleman. Nice enough, but she kind of keeps herself to herself, know what I’m saying?”
“That’s what I figured.” Bethesda sighed, heading for the door. “Have a great weekend, Ms. Zmuda.”
“I mean, I’m sure you’ve already heard about the tattoo.”
Bethesda stopped walking.
5
THE GOLDBERG VARIATIONS
Bethesda paused at the door to the Band and Chorus room and looked up and down Hallway C to make sure the coast was clear. She was 99 percent sure that Ms. Finkleman would already have left for the weekend, and that no one else would be around—it was now 4:27, and there was never anyone left at school, kids or teachers, after four o’clock on a Friday afternoon. But checking to make sure the coast was clear seemed like a nice, solid Mystery Solver kind of thing to do.
Bethesda felt just the slightest bit ooky about rooting around in a teacher’s desk, but there was no helping it. She needed this Special Project to be a big ridiculous slice of awesomeness with a cherry on top (as her dad would say), especially after her display of bravado in the lunchroom this afternoon. She took a breath and cracked the door….
And heard music. Soft, lovely music. Piano.
Argle bargle, Bethesda thought. The Piano Kid.
Bethesda pushed the door the rest of the way open and there he was, hunched over the piano bench, his back to Bethesda, tinkling away.
Kevin McKelvey was a tall, thin boy with green eyes and a splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Bethesda didn’t know him that well. In class and at lunch and stuff he kept pretty quiet, and otherwise nobody saw much of him. He was always busy doing what he was doing right now: Practicing the piano.
Kevin’s father was the concert pianist Walter “Walt” McKelvey, the only real, live celebrity in the Mary Todd Lincoln parent community. The second famous fact about Kevin was that he practiced the piano four hours a day, and was therefore known as the Piano Kid—although some people called him the Suit Kid, because he wore a navy blue blazer and tie to school every day. Once an obnoxious substitute teacher named Mr. Beshelov, who thought he was funny, had kidded Kevin about it. He asked Kevin if he had a date after school, and Kevin mumbled no, but Mr. Beshelov kept needling him until finally Kevin stood up and gave this whole little speech about how his father said you had to have respect for the instrument, which meant having respect for yourself, and he would appreciate very much not being teased about it by a so-called grown-up.
How could Bethesda look through Ms. Finkleman’s desk with the Piano Kid hanging around? She cleared her throat. “Hey, Kevin.”
The Piano Kid stopped playing and twisted around on the bench. “Oh, hello, Bethesda. What are you doing here? ”
“I, um, I just need to …” Bethesda suddenly figured out how she could make this happen. “Kevin, what’s that you’re playing? ”
“Oh, um, it’s a piano.”
“I know. I meant, what song are you playing? ”
“Right. Duh.” Kevin blushed bright red. “It’s Bach. The Goldberg Variations.”
“I really like it! ” said Bethesda, twisting a tannish reddish lock with her forefinger. “I liked the part that you were doing just then.”
“This part?”
Kevin turned back to the piano and started to plunk out the notes again.
“Yeah, that part,” she said encouragingly. “It’s totally clamfoodle.”
“It’s totally what?”
“Clamfoodle. Meaning, just, like, really good. My dad makes up words sometimes,” she added, strolling nonchalantly toward Ms. Finkleman’s desk. “He’s a total goof. Anyway, keep playing. I love it.”
Kevin kept playing, totally focused on the Goldberg Variations, as Bethesda sat down at Ms. Finkleman’s desk.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t much help.
There were no pictures of family members (like Mr. Melville had on his desk) or pets (like Mrs. Howell had on hers); no coffee mug with a jokey slogan about golf (like Mr. Carlsbad’s). Just a pencil sharpener, a bowl of those little clementine oranges, and the teacher’s edition of Greensleeves and Other Traditional English Folk Ballads.
Yeesh, Bethesda thought.
Ms. Finkleman had been teaching at Mary Todd Lincoln for eight years. Was it really possible that she had sat at this desk for all that time and not done anything to make it personal? There was no hint of the individual who sat here—just a perfectly neat desk and a sad little bowl of fruit.
Bethesda slid open the top drawer, and it banged against her knee. “Ow! ” she hollered, and Kevin stopped playing. She quickly straightened up, laced her hands in front of her, and leaned her chin on them as if lost in concentration. “Wow,” Bethesda murmured. “That part was really great.”
“Oh, thanks,” Kevin said. “Um, what are you doing?”
“Just listening.” Bethesda smiled. “Just enjoying. Is there more? ”
“What? Oh, sure. Yeah. That was just the first three variations, sort of. There are thirty of them.”
“Perfect!” said Bethesda. “I mean, I’d love to hear the rest. If you don’t mind.”
Kevin’s fingers returned to the keys, and Bethesda returned to her investigation. The top drawer was no help either: a pile of ungraded sixth-grade music-theory quizzes, a stack of neatly folded handkerchiefs. Yawn.
Then Bethesda opened the bottom drawer, and stopped cold.
“Huh,” murmured Bethesda quietly—too quietly for Kevin to hear over the gentle strains of the Goldberg Variations. She leaned in closer and said it again. “Huh.”
Her mind racing, Bethesda flipped open her SPDSTAMF notebook and copied down this intriguing new piece of evidence, checking and double-checking the strange jumble of letters to make sure that she got the whole thing. Then she gently shut the drawer, stood up, and slipped out the door, leaving Kevin McKelvey to his Bach.
She was about to sprint down Hallway C when she paused, her hand still on the doorknob, the door not yet shut all the way. The music drifted out of the Band and Chorus room, and for the first time Bethesda really listened to what Kevin was playing.
Wow, she thought enviously. He is so good. I wish I was that good at something.
Clamfoodle, Kevin thought meanwhile, as he sat at the piano, practi
cing, practicing, forever practicing. Wow. I wish my dad was a total goof.
6
BETHESDA’S DAD
On Saturday morning, Bethesda wolfed down a waffle and biked furiously back to school, standing up on the pedals and pumping her legs, her purple knit scarf whipping behind her in the late February wind. She banged on the front doors and told a scowling Janitor Steve that she had left her lunch bag in her locker. Bethesda actually had left her lunch bag in her locker so she wouldn’t have to lie to Janitor Steve to get back into the school. Bethesda secretly admired the hardworking Janitor Steve, pushing his mop up and down the empty hallways long after everyone else had gone home, his big belly straining against the elastic waistband of his sweatpants. He wasn’t particularly friendly, but he clearly believed in a job done right.
Now that she thought of it, Bethesda wondered where Janitor Steve came from. Hmm. That might make a good Special Project.
Bethesda! she chastised herself, as she turned down Hallway D toward the school library. Focus!
For the next hour and a half, her face firmly set in Mystery Solver mode, Bethesda worked her way through stacks of old yearbooks and archived school newspapers, looking for anything at all about Ms. Finkleman. What she found was … nothing. Not a jot, as Ms. Pinn-Darvish would say. Not a tittle. When she turned up in the paper at all, Ida Finkleman appeared only in classroom snapshots, baton in hand, performing her official school duties. There were no candid yearbook pics of, say, Ms. Finkleman and her three adorable kids on Family Day. There were no quotes from her in the Gazetteer comparing life at Mary Todd Lincoln to another school she had once worked at, long ago, back in Boise or Sacramento or Alberta.
By noon Bethesda was across town, at the Wilkersholm Memorial Public Library, where she scoured the archives of the local newspaper—week by week, day by day, month by month—in search of any mention of Ida Finkleman. Again, nothing. Eight years of town history, eight years of Laundromat openings, shopping-mall closings, Fourth of July parades, zoo escapes and recapturings, and no Ms. Finkleman in sight. Hmm.
The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman Page 2