To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

  “What’s wrong with that?” Lysa says.

  Spam rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. It’s annoying. We’re practically adults. Who has time for that?” She looks from me to Lysa and back again. Realizing no sympathy is coming, she says, “Seriously?”

  I order the drinks for the three of us.

  “You make her sound so nosy and intrusive.” Lysa laughs.

  “Exactly,” Spam says.

  “In my house that’s called parents,” Lysa says.

  “Mine too. You know Rachel is the hover queen. It’s just we’ve all been friends for so long that no one questions us hanging out together anymore. Didn’t you say Lyman just moved here?”

  “I don’t know how long he’s been here,” Spam says. “I’m just used to my dad being semi-clueless about what goes on in my life, but maybe that’s because he’s got the littles he has to keep up with.”

  “Your dad is amazing,” I say. “Trust me, getting Rachel to let me date Journey wasn’t easy.”

  “See, that’s what’s funny.” Spam laughs. “My dad thinks I should be dating. He gets ecstatic when I tell him I’m going to interact with actual people and not just spend the night screaming bad words at game avatars.”

  We exit the shop with our coffees and discover Lyman leaning against the hood of Spam’s car with a skateboard tucked under his arm. His smile radiates happiness.

  “You? Screaming bad words at game avatars?” he teases. “I’m trying to picture that.”

  She literally dances over the walkway and presses her coffee into his hand. “Here. Share. It’s an Americano.”

  She pecks him on the cheek, giving Lysa and me reason for yet another shared look of surprise. Apparently, Spam and Lyman have had some in-person time, too.

  “These are my friends.” Spam gestures to us. “Friends, this is Lyman.”

  Lysa and I make silly faces … because that’s what we do.

  Spam just waves us off. “Don’t mind them. They’re insane. Are you coming with us?”

  He gives her a soft look. “I want to … but I have some stuff to do today.” He hands her back her coffee and looks like he’s about to give her a kiss but stops and glances over at us. Instead he goes in for the hug. “I’ll come tomorrow.” Then he heads off across the parking lot. When he reaches the sidewalk, he drops his skateboard, hops on, and rides off. “See ya,” he calls back.

  “Not if I see you first.” She’s joking but stands frozen in place, eyes never wavering, until he’s gone from view. With a sigh, she gets back into the car.

  I don’t want to tease, but for Spam, this is momentous. “You really like him, don’t you?”

  From the backseat, Lysa worries. “How do we know he’s safe? He didn’t come forward after the accident. He could be a crazed serial killer, or worse.”

  Spam scowls. “Oh my god. You always say that. You saw him. He’s like a kitten with Bambi eyes and the soul of a puppy. He’s smart and deep and sketchy all at the same time.”

  Lysa nudges my arm from the backseat. “We used to think sketchy meant not good.”

  “I don’t mean sketchy like creepy,” Spam says. “I just mean that his facts are sometimes fluid.”

  “What do you mean by facts and fluid?” I ask.

  “I think they change sometimes. He’ll say things, like where he’s lived or things he’s done, then later I think he says different things. But maybe it’s because we’re also playing games while we’re talking.” She backs out of the parking place and prepares to make a right turn onto the street to take us to school.

  “So is this a boyfriend thing?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” she says. “I hope it is. We spend a lot of time together online. And made it through that phase where we’ve told each other our life stories and still want to hang out. You know how that is.”

  “Wait,” Lysa says. “It’s only been two weeks. You can’t have spent that much time together.”

  Spam gives us an exasperated look. “Dude, we hang out online every night and have since before Memorial Day. I just didn’t know the guy I was hanging out with was the skateboarder until after Memorial Day.”

  Lysa pinches her lips to the side, a sign she doesn’t believe Spam’s story. I take a direct approach. “But that’s still only been a few weeks,” I say.

  Spam rolls her head dreamily. “Yeah, but hanging out online is more intense and personal. There are almost no distractions, it’s just him and me. My voice, his voice. You get to know someone much quicker that way. And it’s a deeper kind of know. You know?”

  Lysa and I clearly don’t get this. “No!”

  Spam waves us off. She pulls into the empty school parking lot and is presented with her choice of parking spaces since summer classes haven’t started yet. Typical Spam, she swings her PT Cruiser straight into the first space.

  The one assigned to Principal Blankface.

  She shuts off the engine and hops out. But Lysa and I stay put.

  “Spam,” we both yell at the same time. We refuse to get out of the car.

  “What? School’s out. She’s not even supposed to be here,” Spam says.

  “That’s not the point,” Lysa argues. “Besides, I’m sure she’ll be here prepping for summer school, which also starts next week.”

  “What’s the big deal? All these other spaces aren’t going to fill up. If she shows I’ll move,” Spam argues.

  “Except that the actual reason to have a reserved parking space is so that it’s always available and you don’t have to track down the scofflaw who parked there and make them move,” Lysa says.

  “Really? That’s what that’s for?” Spam asks, adding an extra-wide blink. “I never would have guessed. And, by the way, I’ve been called a lot of things but never a scofflaw. You’re reaching for that one, Lysa.”

  “If the shoe fits—“Lysa snaps.

  I need to get between these two on this or we won’t get anything done all day. “C’mon, Spam. Antagonizing the principal will only get us on her bad side. And it could screw things up with the camp. Don’t forget, we’re on probation.”

  “You believe that woman has a good side?” Spam flops back into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and moves it over one space. She hops out again. “Happy now?”

  Personally, I’d rather we stayed farther away from Blankenship’s radar by parking where she wouldn’t even notice. But I’m not ready to take this up with Spam now.

  Before we head up to Miss P’s old classroom, we decide to swing through the basement to check out the progress.

  The viewing window between the classroom and lab has been installed. And the glass enclosure for the lab is nearly complete. Standing up next to the window between the classroom and the lab, I’m close enough to the work area that I can read the measurements on the beakers. I can see the numbers on the gram scale. “Wow. This is a ringside seat to everything that goes on in there.” I’m in awe.

  The storage room door opens and the contractor, Clay, sticks his head out.

  “Hey, girls.” He’s holding a paintbrush in one hand and wearing a white disposable fume mask over his face and nose.

  “Hi,” Lysa says.

  He pushes the mask up onto his head. “If you’re looking for the boss man, he was here to let me in but I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “We know what we’re supposed to do. We’re going to pack up the other classroom and move that stuff down here.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Clay says. “No problem then. I’ll be here most of the day too. I’m just working through my list on the board.” He nods toward the glass partition and now I notice Victor’s to-do list written in dry-erase marker.

  “How long will it take for the paint to dry? Because some of the stuff we’re moving is supposed to go in there.”

  “It won’t take long,” Clay says. “I’ll prop the door open to give it more air and hurry it along.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Spam checks
out the reinforced steel mesh security grid that separates the classroom from the crime lab. She laces her fingers through the metal grate. “Which of us is in the cage, them or us?” she jokes. Catching sight of my scowl, she adds soft monkey sounds. “We’ll just say it’s them. How’s that?”

  “Honestly, I don’t even care about the lab anymore,” I say. “Because the camp is going to freakin’ rock.” I am looking forward to the camp, but it doesn’t hurt to ramp it up a little.

  “I hope you kids know how lucky you are.” Clay comes out with a bucket of paint and the brush. “If I had had a class like this when I was in high school, I might have made it to college.”

  We smile and thank him. He’s not wrong.

  We are lucky … and we know it.

  28

  Forensic evidence reveals more than you think. For example, a footprint isn’t just the re-creation of the bottom of a shoe. Science teaches us that the length of the foot is roughly fifteen percent of a person’s height, which means a shoe print can also indicate size.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Our footsteps echo in the empty hall as we approach room 304, Miss Peters’s science classroom and lab.

  We’re here to dismantle the last memories of her.

  My chest is tight. I didn’t anticipate this, but suddenly I’m expecting everything she ever touched to look like the last time I saw her. Splashed with blood. Broken. Dead.

  Instead, her room looks exactly the same.

  And as grateful as I am for that, it’s equally unnerving.

  There’s a large stack of boxes and packing material waiting for us, along with a note from the Facilities Department to give them a call when everything is ready to go.

  “I’ve got the computers,” Spam says.

  “I’ll tackle all of the glass beakers, test tubes, and delicate lab equipment,” Lysa offers.

  I shrug. “Okay. That puts me on Miss P’s desk.”

  Her grades, class records, and privileged information have already been transferred to the office, along with anything valuable or personal. But that doesn’t mean that what remains in and around Laura Peters’s desk is devoid of her personality. The drawers are full of handouts featuring her spidery scrawl along the margins. I gather a fistful of half-chewed pencils that she used to stick into a twist of curly blond hair to hold it in place, even though wispy curls always escaped in all directions. I even find a small, shriveled pile of orange peels, wrapped in a napkin and stuffed in her center drawer. I press a few of them to my nose and inhale the concentrated citrus scent. Finding these things warms my insides and makes me happy.

  Until I stumble over the liquor globe.

  We all remember Miss P’s liquor globe. It’s about the size of a basketball, but hinged in the middle, allowing the top part to flip open. It’s typically used to store liquor, but this was her stash place that she kept stocked with stubby pencils and extra reading glasses. There were also lollipops and fruit, generally apples or oranges, for handing out to hungry students in need of a reward.

  This silly globe reminds me of her more than just about any other thing I’m likely to find in this room or anywhere else. I sink to the floor and curve my body around it. Suddenly, it’s like I’m two years old all over again. It hurts that she’s gone, and even though I’m going on seventeen now, I don’t understand any of this.

  There aren’t enough orange peels in the universe to fill this bottomless pit of empty.

  Spam and Lysa quietly join me on the floor, one on either side.

  “Look.” My voice is raw with emotion.

  The three of us place our hands on the globe at the same time.

  “What are we going to do with it?” Lysa asks.

  “We’re keeping it,” I announce. “Victor said we could set up a tribute to Miss P in the new classroom. So this will be our tribute.”

  “I love Victor,” Spam says with amazement.

  “How will the globe become a tribute?” Lysa wonders.

  “Think time capsule,” I say. “We’ll gather up all the stuff in here that isn’t about teaching. Like this stuff.” I stand up and start removing photos from her bulletin board. Some are memes, but others are photos of Miss P with people we don’t know. Whoever packed up her other personal items managed to overlook these.

  I open the liquor globe and carefully slide the photos into one of the compartments. “We can add other stuff, too, from home. Things that remind us of her. Everything will stay inside, but we can take them out and look at them when we’re really missing her.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Lysa says. “I have things to bring in.”

  “Me too.” Knowing we have a plan for Miss P’s tribute brightens up the rest of our task. “What’s left?”

  “The computers are ready,” Spam says. “I updated all the software, cleaned the cache, and labeled and coded all the cords.”

  “The lab is mostly packed too,” Lysa says. “I’ve done the supply cabinet and most of the beakers and test tubes. Two more boxes should cover it.”

  “We’ll help you,” I say. “On our way out to lunch we can stop by facilities and tell them everything’s ready to move.”

  After we finish packing the lab, I put the liquor globe and the treasures I gathered from Miss P’s desk into a box and carry them with me. It just feels wrong to leave this stuff behind now that this room has been stripped of everything she put into it.

  We head for Battery Burger, our favorite restaurant at the mall, and manage to score a table out on the patio. Miss P’s liquor globe gets a prominent seat at the table.

  Brianna and her friends stroll by. They stop and gasp. “Is that Miss P’s globe?” Brianna says. When we nod, she places her hands on it. “We miss you, Miss P.”

  This attracts some attention, and at least ten other kids from school trickle over and place their hands on the globe in tribute to Miss P.

  The globe is becoming an actual memorial.

  * * *

  When we arrive back at school after lunch, Principal Blankface’s car is in her parking space and Journey’s van is parked a few spaces away.

  We enter the classroom to find Journey and Clay talking.

  “Hey, Erin.” Journey breaks into a smile. “Clay didn’t know we were the kids from the news.”

  “I had no idea I was hanging out with celebrities,” he says.

  I smile. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  “Your old principal might disagree,” Clay says. “Now that he’s cooling his heels in the slammer.”

  “Anyway, Victor will be back this afternoon to go over the locks and other safety stuff. Be prepared,” Journey says. “He’s going to be intense because we can’t get the permit to open the camp without those two things.”

  “No problem, Chief.” Clay adds a brisk salute. “I’m here all day, every day until this is done to his specifications.” Then he turns to us. “I left a little something for you ladies, too, over on that desk.”

  Laid out on the desk are three of the paper fume masks. But he’s drawn cute animal noses on them.

  “The fumes are still pretty heavy in the storage room. So you should wear these if you’re going to be in there today.” Clay hands one that looks like a cat to Lysa, and another that looks like a sweet puppy to Spam. The last one, with the sharp black nose, he gives to me. “I figured you for a fox because you’re the sly, crafty one. Right?”

  I laugh and pull the fume mask over my face. “I don’t know about that.”

  “They’re cute,” Lysa says.

  Clay shrugs. “I’m a sucker for animals.”

  Journey carefully secures the door between the lab and the class with a padlock.

  Spam bounds over to him. “Hey. Hold up. We want a look-see in there before you go.” She glances back and gives me an exaggerated wink.

  “Can’t do that, Spam.” Journey gives her a firm look.

  “No one’ll know.” She looks around at all of us, including Clay. “Okay. We’
ll know but we won’t say anything. Right, guys? What happens at camp, stays at camp.”

  “Spam.” Journey’s voice takes on a warning tone.

  “There’s not even any evidence in there yet. Is there?” She gives Journey her best one-raised-eyebrow look and then tries to cajole him with an adorable pout. It’s not working, and I could’ve told her it wouldn’t. He snaps the padlock closed and, just like a good warden, tugs to make sure it’s locked.

  He shuffles up to me and slides his arm around my waist while depositing a peck on the top of my head. “Don’t be mad,” he says.

  “I’m not mad.” I raise my hands in the air. And I really mean it. I’m cool with it now.

  “And don’t ask me to let you in.” He leans around me, addressing both Spam and Lysa. “Because I can’t and you all know why.”

  Lysa waves. “I got you.”

  “I got you too,” I say.

  “They got you.” Spam moves away from the door. “But, for the record, I could pick that lock in five seconds. It’s pretty wimpy. Just saying.”

  Journey starts to protest. I press my fingers over his lips. “Don’t worry, she won’t do that. We won’t do anything to get you—or any of us—in trouble with Victor. And we’ll never jeopardize your father’s case. I promise.”

  29

  The science of ballistics is as detailed and sophisticated as the study of fingerprints. Maybe even more so.

  —ERIN BLAKE

  There’s a display cabinet behind the teacher’s desk and Miss P’s liquor globe will look perfect here. The three of us are quietly working, but I can tell I’m not the only one struggling with the empty spot Miss P left behind.

  Science was Spam’s least favorite class, and yet I’m watching her unpacking the microscopes and lining them up in the cabinet with an attention to detail that would have delighted Miss P.

  Meanwhile, Lysa is finding a place for all the stuff that came from her desk.

  When she’s finished unpacking the microscopes, Spam angles her arm around my neck and gives me a rough hug. “I need to take off,” she says. “I have a delivery and setup for my father. Do you need a ride?”