“If you’re so innocent, Caren with a C, why don’t you let us see what’s in your locker?” Hannah said, an eyebrow cocked in confidence.
“I shouldn’t have to,” Caren whimpered.
Miss Clarke placed a hand on Caren’s shoulder and in a soft voice said, “I’m sure this is a big misunderstanding, but the only way to clear it up is to do what Hannah said. Let’s see what’s in your locker, and then we can put this business behind us.”
Hannah smirked. “Exactly.”
Miss Clarke pointed at a locker. “Is this one yours?”
The tip of a finger in her mouth, Caren nodded.
“What’s your combination?” Stepping aside, she said, “Never mind. You open it yourself to protect your privacy.”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Caren muttered as she opened her locker, her hands shaking.
Suddenly, I felt sorry for her. I wished we didn’t need to use other people to take down Hannah, but once Caren proved her innocence, Caren could continue her journey to greatness unscathed. Bridget gave me a timid smile as if reading my mind.
With the entry of the third number in the combination, the door of Caren’s locker slid open. Caren stuck her head inside and moved around the contents—her regular outfit, some textbooks, and her backpack. “See? Nothing.” With a pleading look at Miss Clarke, she said, “Can I go now?”
As Miss Clarke opened her mouth to respond, Hannah piped in. “Only an idiot would leave the ring in plain sight. Caren is no dummy. Shouldn’t she empty out the contents of her bag?”
All heads turned toward Miss Clarke. “Hannah makes a good point. Please empty your bag.”
While Hannah smiled in satisfaction, the knots in my stomach grew tighter and tighter.
When Caren dumped her bag on the closest bench, out came a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, a sanitary napkin, some loose change, and a pair of white socks, but no ring. Smiling smugly at Hannah, she said, “I told you so” and began returning things to her bag.
“Not so fast,” Hannah said, grabbing it out of Caren’s hands.
“Miss Clarke!” Caren said.
“I’m being thorough, is all. I have a bag just like this one. Mine is Dooney & Bourke. But it has a few zippered compartments. Like this one,” Hannah said, angling the bag so the inner pocket was visible to all of us. “Let’s see what we have here.” As Hannah slipped her fingers into the pocket, the color drained from her face and she said, “Oh my God.” She locked eyes with me for a moment and then turned to Caren. Unclenching her fist to reveal a gold band with a small diamond solitaire in the center, Hannah said, “You really did it.” Directing her attention to Miss Clarke, she queried, “Is this your ring?”
Miss Clarke’s face crumbled like coffee cake as she removed the ring from Hannah’s hand and slipped it onto her finger. Tears falling from her eyes, she leapt into Hannah’s arms and embraced her fiercely, chanting, “thank you” while Hannah stood still like Bambi in headlights. As confident as Hannah had seemed during her confrontation with Caren, she appeared to be as surprised as everyone else over Caren’s actual guilt.
Miss Clarke regained her bearings and separated from Hannah. She faced Caren, who was now sobbing. “Come to my office.”
Red-faced and shaking, Caren said, “I’m sorry. Please—”
“Save it. Come with me. Now.” Remembering she had an audience, Miss Clarke pointed to Bridget and me. “Girls, please get Mrs. Farmer and tell her I need her.” She skimmed her eyes around the locker room. “Everyone else, please go into the gym and start stretching.”
Bridget and I wordlessly grabbed our belongings and went to summon the principal as requested. I was too stunned to respond. Hannah had done the impossible—she turned a pretend thief into a real one. I opened the door and stepped out of the locker room as Miss Clarke said, “Hannah Marshak, my hero. How did you know?”
I had just enough time to hear Hannah respond, “I had a hunch. I’m so glad I was right” before the door closed behind me.
HANNAH
Some days, I really loved high school. Actually, that was an understatement. High school and Hannah Marshak melded together like hot apple pie and vanilla bean ice cream just about every day of the week, but today was especially spectacular. After my relentless pursuit of Caren Hobson-White revealed her to be guilty of stealing Jaimie’s ring, Mrs. Farmer and Jaimie invited me to the teachers’ lounge to publicly thank me for my efforts in front of the other teachers, and Jaimie even promised to take me and a special guest out to dinner with her and her fiancé to celebrate. Mrs. Farmer told me she was going to call my parents to personally express her gratitude for my sense of justice as soon as she dealt with Caren’s parents. She wouldn’t tell me the extent of Caren’s punishment, but I was fairly certain Jaimie would fill out a police report—my suggestion.
Maybe, rather than pursue a career in acting, I could be a private investigator—not the old lady kind like Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote, but the sexy kind like … I wracked my brain but couldn’t think of any fierce, female detectives in television history, and then it came to me—I could combine my talents by starring in the first-ever television show about a young, gorgeous female PI. Maybe it could be set in high school, and students would come to me—my character, rather—to solve their mysteries. Even the police would enlist me because of my stellar skills. It was brilliant. I was brilliant.
I was itching to share my genius idea with someone, and since Jonathan’s desk was closest to mine in social studies, he was the lucky beneficiary. “What do you think of …?” I clamped my lips together and turned around to see what—who—he was so focused on—Kim Long. Of course.
Her face was hidden by her long strands of straight, light-brown hair, but I could see she was writing in her notebook. Her pink-painted fingernails pressed against the pen as she wrote with such concentration, a riot could break out around her, and she might not even hear it.
I continued to observe her until her hand stopped moving. Kim lowered the pen to her desk and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “What?” she asked in a snotty tone.
“What are you working on? A retelling of the Bible?” I snickered.
Kim gave me a death stare. “Yes. I’m at the part where all of the phony liars are thrown in the river with their feet trapped in cement blocks so they die a long, slow, painful death.” She drew out the last four words.
What was her problem? “I don’t remember that part,” I said, shaking my head.
Kim smiled. “Exactly. It’s the part I’m retelling.” Then she glanced over my head, presumably at Jonathan, turned pink, and went back to writing.
She should have been thanking me for making the school a safe place to wear her sapphire bracelet, necklace, and tear-shaped earrings set. Her birthstone was pretty even if it was inferior to mine—diamonds—but I guessed it would take more to make Kim grateful for anything, like help her publish one of her dumb stories.
KIM
So much for Plan Bad Diary phase three being fail proof. Only one thing was for certain about Plan Bad Diary—it was over. I was officially out of the scheming business. If Hannah could turn our student body president and Ivy-League-university-fated student into a jewelry thief, she could do anything. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she could leap tall buildings in a single bound.
As I felt the eyes of “hers truly” boring a hole in the side of my head, I stopped writing my book and told her what I thought should come to phony liars like her. I came this close to knocking her upside the head until I caught Jonathan’s eye. He was studying my face with such concern, it was as if he could read my mind and knew how wretched I felt. But even Jonathan’s warm hazel eyes, messy brown locks, and plump pink lips couldn’t cheer me up today. Hannah had won. Again.
“Students, quiet down.” As my classmates continued to murmur amongst themselves incomprehensibly, Mrs. Lieberman raised her voice. “Hush. I have an announcement to make.”
Wh
en the room was quiet, Mrs. Lieberman addressed us with a smile. “I’m sure most of you have heard about our beloved Miss Clarke’s engagement ring going missing recently.”
The class collectively responded in the affirmative until Mrs. Lieberman continued. “I’m so very pleased to report the ring has been located and is now safely on Miss Clarke’s finger, where it belongs.”
The class cheered until Mrs. Lieberman raised her hand in a request for silence. “But wait, there’s more. It is thanks to one of your very own classmates, this cloud has been lifted from Miss Clarke and her fiancé’s engagement.” Beaming at Hannah, she said, “Hannah, please stand up, so we can applaud your bravery and your commitment to seeing justice done.” As Hannah stood up and took a bow, the class joined Mrs. Lieberman in a round of applause and a few whistles.
Unable to take it any longer, I whispered under my breath, but loud enough for Hannah to hear me, “Yes, what a commitment to honesty you have by stealing my diary.”
As the clapping winded down, Hannah took her seat and slid her chair closer to my desk. I willed myself not to look away as she stared me dead in the eyes. “It’s not stealing when you leave it behind for anyone to take, Miss Short, but for Jaimie’s sake, it’s a good thing you did, since I was the one who cared enough to confront Caren. If left to you, she’d have pawned it by now. So, you’re welcome.”
Usually quick to fire back, I was lost for a comeback, so Hannah kept going. “That’s the difference between us, besides our height, of course.”
“And our bra size,” I retorted, happy to have found my voice.
Ignoring my dig, Hannah continued. “You’re satisfied with reading and writing about other people’s lives while I prefer to live mine.”
I felt fire rush through my body as my heart beat rapidly. “I live my life.”
Hannah looked down her nose at me. “Yes, making pathetic moon eyes at Jonathan for months is living. If it were me, we’d be boyfriend and girlfriend by now.” She slid her chair back to her desk. “But we can’t all be me.” Sneering, she added, “Some of us have to be you.”
Becca took a deep breath to calm herself down before speaking. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, and the expression of sheer annoyance on Marnie’s face did nothing to inspire confidence. She cleared her throat. “Would you … would you want to come over my house on Friday night?”
Marnie’s blue eyes seemed to darken as she widened them in surprise. “Why would I want to do that?” She glanced over her shoulder and back at Becca before glancing at her watch.
“Well, my brother, Gabe, is on the football team, and he’s having some friends over, and I thought—”
“Hold up.” She leaned in closer to Becca. So close Becca could smell the watermelon flavor of her bubble gum. “Your brother is Gabe?”
As I chewed on my pen, contemplating my next words, there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was just as well. It was no use—this writing session was going nowhere fast since I kept picturing Marnie as Hannah, and the only plot development I could think of involved killing her off. If I didn’t watch myself, my young adult novel would morph into a murder mystery, but at least no one would ever guess the guilty party was the author. “Come in,” I said, not bothering to look up from my notebook as I remained stretched across my bed on my stomach.
“Scoot,” my mom said, patting me on the tush as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I brought you some food.”
Sliding to the left to give her room, I mumbled, “I’m not hungry.”
I heard her place the tray on my night table. “What’s wrong, sweetie? We’re all worried about you. Even Erin.” She chuckled.
I harrumphed. “I’m surprised Erin even noticed I wasn’t at dinner. Has she told you about Hannah’s bravery and sense of justice yet?”
“Surprisingly, no.” She tousled my hair. “What’s this about?”
I begrudgingly sat up next to my mom, my feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Staring straight ahead, I said, “Miss Clarke’s engagement ring went missing, and Hannah confronted the person who took it. Now she’s the hero of Liberty High.”
“Who took it?”
“Caren Hobson-White.”
My mom’s mouth opened in surprise. “Caren Hobson-White? Isn’t she president of the sophomore class?”
“That would be a yes.”
“Wow. She’s the last person I would have guessed.”
“Us, too. Precisely why we chose her.” I bit my bottom lip.
“Chose her?” My mom brought her hand to my chin, forcing me to look at her. “What did you girls do?”
I blinked back tears. “Created a monster—a school-play-starring, nerd-befriending, crime-stopping monster. And now she’s more popular than ever.” My mom’s silence beckoned me to spill all, and so I did. When I was finished, I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, took a much-needed deep breath, and awaited my mom’s reaction. I guessed she’d either be really angry Bridget and I resorted to such manipulation or equally frustrated our plan tanked. The last thing I expected her to do was throw her head back and laugh like I was a comedienne at the Comedy Cellar. “It’s not funny.” I sniffled.
My mom stopped laughing and faced me. “No, it’s …” She started laughing again, while holding up a finger. “Just give me a minute to gain my bearings.” She swallowed hard and pursed her lips. Smoothing my hair down, she frowned at me, but then her lips quivered, and she lost it again.
“Mom!” I shifted away from her. “Hannah lives to cut me down, but as long as it amuses you, it’s fine.” I curled up in the fetal position with my back to her.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m not amused by Hannah being mean to you. I hate anyone who isn’t nice to my little girl, and if I could lock her in a meat cellar without getting arrested, I would.” She wrapped herself around me and squeezed.
“So, why were you laughing?” I muttered into my pillow.
My mom sighed loudly. “It’s just so typical. The high school girl who seems to have the whole world in her hand, and no matter what you throw at her, it bounces right off. There’s one in every school and has been since the beginning of time.”
“You mean since you were in school?” I giggled despite myself.
My mom snorted. “I’m glad to see your sense of humor is intact.”
“How did you stand it—having a girl like that in your class?”
My mom kissed the top of my head. “I accepted it and carried on with my own life. I suspect she knows she rattles your cage. Girls like her thrive on attention. You stop giving it to her, she’ll move on to a more captive audience.”
I wiggled out of my mom’s embrace, and we both sat up. “I try, but she’s always there. Teasing me about reading and my crush on Jonathan.” I stopped talking, my face growing hot.
My mom raised an eyebrow but didn’t press for more information. “She does take quite an interest in you. Has it ever occurred to you she might be jealous?”
I snorted and opened my mouth to argue, but my mom raised her hand in protest. “I know you think Hannah has this larger-than-life existence, and I imagine her followers add to her image, but you have it pretty good, too—a loyal best friend you love, a passion for books, great parents, an adorable baby sister.”
I rolled my eyes, and my mom laughed, the faint lines around her eyes crinkling. “I know my life is great, but I wish Hannah wasn’t part of it, and I can’t seem to escape it, no matter what I do. And when I attempt to take her down, she just soars higher. It’s not fair.”
My mom nodded. “No, it’s not, but life isn’t always fair. But so what if Hannah takes an interest in acting? It’s not as if you want to be an actress and she stole your part. And her friendship with Fred doesn’t affect you, either. As long as she’s nice to him, let it go. And, yes, the entire school thinks Hannah is a hero for outing Caren as a thief, but she did. Were you planning to confront Caren?”
I shook my head and reached for the dinner tray my mom had del
ivered. The chicken parmigiana was probably cold, but thanks to my mom’s pep talk, my appetite had returned with a vengeance.
“Of course not, because as far as you and Bridget were concerned, there was nothing to confront since the diary entry was contrived. But at the end of the day, Miss Clarke got her ring back, so let Hannah bask in the glory. Your life—your friendship with Bridget, your awesome parents and precious baby sister, even your crush on Jonathan—hasn’t changed. So live it. Let Hannah be and live.”
PART FIVE
HANNAH
After tightening the belt on my tartan skirt, I twirled in front of my full-length mirror. I was wearing two different pairs of boots—ankle-length and knee-length—and couldn’t decide which went better with the outfit. We were going out to dinner tonight—all three of us—and I wanted to look nice in case the waiters sang to me. It wasn’t my birthday, but if my parents told the owners of Reds what happened at school, they might want to sing “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” or something, and I needed to look fashionable but not showy, proud but humble, surprised yet prepared.
I hadn’t overheard my parents fighting in several days and wondered if my act of heroism was all they needed to remind themselves what really mattered—being a family—a happy, attractive, well-dressed, upper-middle-class family.
“You almost ready, Hannah?” I heard my mom ask from the other side of my bedroom door.
“Two minutes,” I said, making a quick decision to wear the ankle boots.
The ride to the restaurant was quiet aside from U2 belting out “Where the Streets Have No Name” from the CD player in my dad’s Lexus. I wondered if they were actually throwing me a surprise party and didn’t want to speak for fear of ruining the secret. When I’d asked my friends what they were doing tonight—mostly so they would ask what I was doing—Plum said she was going to Frank’s house for dinner, Marla was babysitting her younger brother while her mom went on a date, and Fred was studying, but they could have been lying to throw me off the scent. As eager as I was to have my parents shine the spotlight on me at dinner, the attention of my folks and my classmates might be even better.
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