To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

  Victor asked if we would hang out here for an hour or so to distribute flyers, answer questions, and gather names of students who might be interested in the CSI summer camp. The response is crazy enthusiastic. We’re instantly engulfed in a chattering crowd of kids and parents wanting details all at once.

  The parents want to know how much and how long. Our friends are asking if we’ll be teaching our signature Cheater Check tricks.

  Lysa tries being cagey, since Cheater Checks is retired. But Spam, sassy as ever, promises Cheater Checks and more.

  The word’s out about the Bella, too. If anyone asks, Spam slaps a small card into the palm of their hand containing a QR code. If they scan the code with a smartphone it takes them to a YouTube video she made demonstrating how the Bella works, how much it costs, and how to order it.

  I’m just about out of flyers and my voice is shot when Spam grabs my arm. “Where’d he go?” she asks.

  I glance around. “Who?”

  “Him.” Her eyes are wide and insistent. Her pinch on my arm is urgent.

  When I don’t clue in right away she hisses in my ear. “The skateboarder. He was just here.”

  “Really?” I stand up and look around. Gratefully, the crush of people is thinning. But I don’t see anyone scooting away on a skateboard.

  “Kind of risky of him to show up on a skateboard two days later,” I say.

  “He wasn’t on a skateboard.” She steps up onto a chair and then up onto the table to continue scanning the area.

  Lysa joins us, talking low into her hand. “Are you sure it was him?”

  “Oh yeah, it was him. Tall, curly hair. He’s wearing glasses today, but still tons of plaid. An awesome amount of plaid, in fact.” She steps down off the table. “He looked straight into my eyes and said, ‘Hey, Shortcake’ … His eyes are blue, by the way.” She holds up a small flash drive. “And then he pressed this into my hand. I’m guessing it’s his view of the accident from his GoPro.”

  “Well, he’s gone now,” I say. “Everyone else is drifting to the parking lot.”

  Spam circles a finger over her head for us to follow. “Computer lab, stat.” Lysa and I grab our stuff and fall in behind her.

  At the computer lab Spam picks the most discreet computer possible, at the end of a row, in the corner. Lysa and I squeeze in behind her. She plugs in the flash drive and clicks to view its contents. It’s an .mov file.

  A video.

  She presses play. It opens with a view of the three of us standing out by the flagpole.

  Lysa squints at the screen. “Uck, that color makes me look washed out. I need to purge it from my closet.”

  “It does not,” I insist.

  The camera passes us, darts around a little. Then comes back to rest on us while Spam does her modeling routine.

  “Wow. This guy unleashed your inner Kendall Jenner.” I give Spam a friendly shoulder-nudge.

  “Shut it,” she says. “I was going for his attention, not yours.”

  The view switches suddenly to the incoming car. The woman is visible through the windshield and she’s steering the car with her forearms while doing something on her phone.

  “Bam!” Spam says.

  “She was texting,” Lysa gasps.

  A moment later, the video follows the car as it rams into the flagpole. There’s a shaky ending. After a few seconds, some makeshift credits roll:

  Starring:

  Sorry, Can’t Tell You That

  If you’d like to help:

  Tell them to focus on her cell phone usage instead of me.

  The video cuts abruptly to black.

  Spam removes the flash drive and clears the computer. We sit there stunned for a second.

  “Okay, you’re right,” I say. “That was him.”

  “I told you,” Spam says.

  “But we still don’t know who he is,” I say.

  “He said I can’t tell you that,” Lysa says. “Why can’t he tell us?”

  “Maybe he has a girlfriend,” I say.

  “She probably goes to our school.” Spam looks miserable at the thought.

  “That’s not it,” Lysa says, shaking her head.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Two reasons,” Lysa says. “One, if he had a girlfriend who went here she, or someone in her family, would recognize him, and two, he would’ve given her the video.”

  Spam raises her arms in a victory cheer. “Awesome. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

  “It still doesn’t make any sense,” Lysa says. “He and his parents could take this video to the police. Then he’d be cleared. Giving us the footage only complicates things.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t want to deal with the cops,” I say.

  “No one wants to deal with them. That’s why everyone is sending their videos, photos, and statements to us,” Lysa says.

  “Maybe he just wants to get to know me?” Spam says, smiling.

  “Introducing himself would be easier,” Lysa says. “Why all the secrecy?”

  “He’s a man of mystery. I like my theory the best,” she says. “So, I’m staying with that.”

  We pack up and head over to the new science lab to tell Victor his CSI camp is going to be a huge hit.

  As we step inside, he’s giving a tour to Coach Wilkins.

  “This is a huge space,” Coach Wilkins says. “I don’t know if you know this or not, but when the school was first built these two rooms down here were the boys’ and girls’ gyms.”

  “Huh,” Victor says. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yep. Boys’ and girls’ sports were separate back in those days. Then they built us the big gymnasium, which is beautiful. I’ll admit, I was kind of hoping my department could get this space back to use for my summer camp. But it’s cool, you beat me to it.”

  Coach Wilkins chuckles, but it’s a little hollow and I’m not sure that he really thinks it’s cool that Victor got his space.

  “It wasn’t me,” Victor says. “It was the bio teacher.”

  “Miss Peters.” The coach nods.

  “Anyway, this space isn’t all just for the camp. Only this part is classroom,” Victor says. “Over there will be crime lab.”

  “Like a CSI crime lab?” the coach asks.

  “Exactly,” Victor says.

  “Will this be a real one or a play school one?” Coach wonders.

  “Oh, it’s a real one,” Victor says. “Not like we have an abundance of crime in Iron Rain, but now at least when we do have one, there will be a lab to handle the evidence.”

  The coach looks amazed. “They mentioned this in the newspaper. But why put a CSI lab at a high school? That doesn’t sound very safe.”

  “Oh, it’s completely safe,” Victor says. “The lab will be off-limits to the students, but still available as a teaching tool. Plus, the school and the police department split the cost of hiring me to teach science and run the lab so it’s win/win.”

  “Fascinating,” Coach says. “I’ll have to stop by and check it out. Every now and then I catch one of those forensic shows on TV and I’m always amazed by the stuff they find.”

  “You’ll be able to stop in and see it firsthand, right here.” Victor slaps the center wall between the two rooms. “We’re cutting into this wall and installing a waist-high window all the way across for classroom viewing. There will be mic and sound, too.”

  “Wow. Full display.” Coach Wilkins indicates the extra-wide opening between the two rooms. “You’re going to need a door on here or something, especially with a wad of campers running around. I usually have about fifty kids sign up for my camp and keeping tabs on all of them is a chore, let me tell you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Victor says. “We’re installing a floor-to-ceiling, custom, tempered steel mesh material to seal off this opening. There will be a door, made from the same material, so we can go back and forth.”

  Clay Kirkland, the contractor, is on the floor making notes on his clipboard
. “I’m taking the measurements for that steel now,” he says. “We’ll have it up in plenty of time for the camp.”

  “Great,” Victor says. “The last thing we need is a bunch of teenagers traipsing through here.”

  Victor glances up in my direction and I get the point … vividly.

  The sting of Victor’s comment shrinks my insides. I cross my arms over my stomach and wander away from the group just to be able to breathe a little. There are a couple of police officers taking measurements in an alcove at the end of lab area.

  Victor follows me, leading the coach into the alcove. “This will be the evidence room. We’re enclosing this area here with the same steel mesh material. And I’ve ordered a bank of high-impact steel evidence lockers. Our evidence will be kept under double security. A breach will be impossible.”

  I notice the same strip of narrow windows along the ceiling of the alcove. “There’s easy access to those windows from the outside. How are you going to secure them?”

  “All the windows will be replaced with bulletproof glass,” he says. “It’s a requirement for crime labs, you don’t want people breaking in and stealing or destroying evidence.”

  “Roger that.” I pinch my lips together. It’s not just my imagination. He is aiming these comments at me.

  15

  Did you know there is virtually not a single thing you can do in this world without leaving behind a trace that you’ve been there?

  —PRINCIPAL BLANKENSHIP

  “You’ll want to check out the six o’clock news tonight,” Spam says as she drops into the seat across from me and begins unwrapping a sandwich.

  Lysa is only a few steps behind her. “Why? Are you going to be on it?”

  “No. But the skateboarder’s video is. I sent it to the tip line,” she says.

  “What?” Lysa says. “We said we didn’t have any videos. What if they ask us about it?”

  “They won’t. I sent it anonymously from the computer lab.” Spam plays with her napkin. “The important thing is he will know and I’m hoping he’ll find a way to come back to thank me for clearing his name.”

  “What about the other videos and statements I’ve been compiling?” Lysa asks.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Spam says. “I don’t think they’ll do the police much good. None of the photos were clear enough to identify him.”

  “His video was pretty definitive evidence that the driver was distracted by her cell phone,” I say. “They probably don’t even need the other statements.” I peel my orange—a food decision I made because I was feeling Miss P–ish today.

  * * *

  There’s a vibration against my wrist and a flash of red. The three of us turn toward the door, expecting Blankface to walk through at any second.

  “What are we looking at, ladies?”

  Instead, it’s as if she just popped up out of the floor on the other side of our table.

  “Whoa.” I’m surprised but try to conceal it. “I was just looking for the time,” I say.

  “The door,” Spam says.

  “I don’t know.” Lysa’s comment comes a moment behind mine and Spam’s.

  Blankenship shakes her head at Lysa. “Young lady, if your grades weren’t so good I would have real concern about this befuddlement issue you seem to struggle with.”

  Lysa opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.

  “Anyway,” Blankenship says. “I need to see all of you in my office.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “Now’s fine.” She abruptly turns and click clicks toward the door.

  We gather up our lunch stuff. “This can’t be good,” I say.

  Lysa shakes her head. “Not good at all.”

  * * *

  We file into Blankenship’s office. The only change from Principal Roberts’s office is that all the sports décor and photos are gone. Now, it’s just a big, bare office with old wooden furniture. She has a laptop open on her desk, but other than that, there isn’t a single personal item on display. Not a photo, personal coffee cup. Nothing.

  She motions for us to sit. As we take seats in a line in front of her, she studies each of us in her odd, almost clinical way.

  There’s a strong “bug under a microscope” vibe.

  “Was I unclear when I asked you to provide me with the identity of the skateboarder who caused that accident?” She’s not smiling, but her voice is syrup sweet. I’m pretty sure she has something on us. I’m just not sure what.

  I pause to process what she might or might not know about our activities. It’s my strategy to try to let the story unspool before commenting. I would rather not get caught in a straight-up lie.

  Lysa slides down a little lower in her seat and nervously chews on a ragged nail. Wise, considering how easily Blankface unravels her.

  “I wish we knew who he was,” Spam says, sitting forward in her seat. “But we don’t.”

  “And yet…” The principal spins a paper from her side of the desk to in front of us. “I’m guessing it was one of you who sent a video of the accident to a TV news reporter.”

  Spam’s eyes widen and she sucks in a breath.

  Lysa stares at her shoes.

  I’m scrambling for any diversion to take some of the heat off them. Like wouldn’t it be amazing if my hair could magically catch fire and then, when this was over, be normal again?

  When none of us speaks, she continues. “The email was sent through an anonymous link. But you girls know the drill probably better than most. Did you know there is almost nothing you can do without leaving behind a trace?”

  I wish she would just say it and get it over with. This toying with us is excruciating.

  As if she can read my mind, she sits up and reads off the piece of paper in her hand. “This is from an email I received about thirty minutes ago stating that a reporter, who incidentally recently interviewed the three of you, received a video of the accident a short while ago. The ISP it came from is here, at the school.”

  The three of us swallow hard.

  “My guess is it was sent from the computer lab, wouldn’t you agree, Samantha?”

  “That’s logical.” Spam nods and clears her throat. “But FYI, lots of people have access to that lab.”

  Blankenship calmly laces her fingers in front of her on the desk and it has the effect of a spider spinning a web completely around its prey. “They do. And it’s not like we could dust every keyboard on campus for fingerprints. And, even if we could, that wouldn’t tell us what we need to know. Would it, Erin?”

  I shrivel as she directs her gaze at me. I shake my head.

  “Are you familiar with forensic linguistics? It’s the study of how certain authors use words that stand out. Like here: FYI, on the first line.” She taps her finger on the page. “FYI isn’t really a high-school acronym. Not like LOL or TBH or FWIW. Or even YOLO. But one of you likes to say FYI a lot. When something stands out as different it can be tracked.”

  My cheeks burn with shame and a bit of shock. She has nailed us completely.

  “Are you wondering how I know about forensic linguistics?” she asks.

  Lysa and Spam sit completely still. But I can’t help it. I nod.

  “It’s those murder podcasts.” She leans in again, as if we’re best girlfriends or something. “I’m completely addicted to them and they have the best ideas for catching someone in a lie. Anyway, as I was saying, one of you is very fond of—”

  Spam holds up her hand. “I sent the video.”

  “Ahhh. Finally.” Blankenship actually smiles, which is maybe more unnerving than her scowl. “Thank you for that, Samantha.” She picks up a pencil. “So now, tell me his name. You might even be entitled to a reward, though I’m not sure that’s really fair, since you were also protecting him.”

  Spam gestures, palms up. “I told you. We. Don’t. Know.”

  “Then how—” Blankenship asks.

  There’s a light tap on the door and Detective Sydney
enters. She shakes her head as she recognizes us sitting in the principal’s office. “How am I not surprised?”

  My sinking feeling plunges to new depths. Not only will Victor know what I’ve been up to, but Rachel will get a full report as well.

  She speaks to Blankenship. “We paid a visit to the driver and showed her the video.” Detective Sydney scowls at us. “You understand that you were in that video and you’re minors and the TV station cannot run images of minors like that without permission.”

  Now I sink lower in my seat. What’s wrong with us? We should have thought of that.

  “This is how easily this stuff gets out of hand. The driver has changed her story. Now she says she was turning into the school driveway when a girl in the drive-up area used a mirror to temporarily blind her while her two friends laughed and she helplessly veered off course and plowed into the flagpole. She’s claiming the cause of the accident is that she was pranked by teenagers. And even though she appears to be texting and driving, this video could back up her claim of pranking, laughing teenagers.”

  “That’s a lie,” Spam blurts out. “We were laughing at the skateboarder, not her.”

  “You girls need to understand that this isn’t a game.” Miss Blankenship turns her laptop around, revealing that the chief has been on video conference this whole time.

  “Oh boy.” Lysa hides her eyes behind her hand.

  “We’re sorry, Chief.” I glance at Lysa and Spam.

  “I’m deeply disappointed in all of you, but especially you, Erin. I thought we had an understanding.”

  “We did … we still do.” I’m stammering.

  “Now I’m not so sure. And, after this stunt, I’m also not sure that it’s appropriate for you three to be camp counselors. This isn’t an example of the kind of role-modeling we expect,” he says.

  All three of us sit up.

  “No. Wait. Seriously, we are good role models. This is a fluke,” I say. “We honestly, really don’t know the skateboard guy. Not at all.”

  “But how—” Detective Sydney comes around to face us.

  “He just showed up yesterday, in the middle of a crowd, and gave me a flash drive with his video on it,” Spam says. “And then he disappeared again.”

  Detective Sydney rests her hip on the corner of the desk. “But you have been gathering statements from other witnesses. Correct?”