The Underdogs

by Sara Hammel

  I raised my eyebrows. Really? How were we going to do that?

  “Annabel’s necklace,” Evie said, taking her favorite purple pen from the notebook’s spine. “That’s the key. I’m sure of it. We’ve heard nothing about the dog with the pink sapphire eyes since she died, and yet that charm was her most cherished posession. It has to be the missing item. I’m sure of it, Chelsea.” I guess writing helped Evie think, because she was scribbling away, à la Ted Ashlock. “When your mom was talking about the pink coat, it made me think about the necklace. Annabel was always wearing it. Remember?”

  I did remember. Annabel was always fiddling with that dog charm, the one she’d never take off.

  “I bet you if we can find that necklace,” Evie said, “it will have fingerprints or maybe even DNA on it that leads to the killer. I bet you anything. But where is it? And who sent those evil notes?”

  I looked over Evie’s shoulder and saw she was doodling now. She’d drawn a face in the P for Patrick’s name, and put hearts over the i in “Lisa.” “That note to Annabel was so awful,” Evie said. “Patrick added to it, but Lisa has to be the prime suspect for the person who actually wrote it in the first place—before Patrick slipped it into Annabel’s locker.”

  Bingo, I thought. Who else was threatened by Annabel, just because she was Annabel? Evie was staring at her names and doodles, brow furrowed, as determined as I’d ever seen her. “Now, we know Patrick never actually broke into Annabel’s locker, but other people did—the cops,” she continued. “They also searched the garbage, of course, and they tore apart the men’s and women’s locker rooms. There’s no way the necklace was in Annabel’s locker. So is it in Lisa’s? Patrick’s? The killer’s?”

  I was as stumped as she was.

  “Wait a minute,” Evie said, her eyes wide now. “Oh my. Now I remember. Annabel’s locker was searched, and probably some staff’s were, too, but the cops couldn’t search other members’ lockers, right? How could they? It would be a clear violation of their rights.”

  Yep. That was her cop shows talking, I knew. Probaby Law & Order: SVU, in this case. Annabel’s locker remained double locked and taped up, but hers was the only one.

  “Which means I bet you a million bucks I know where that necklace is. Remember the night she drove me home? She was using the mirror in her locker to brush her hair, but she was also using Portia’s locker to borrow her perfume and stuff. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but if the killer really was someone she knew, it follows that they might know her locker combination—and maybe Portia’s. Annabel’s locker is right above hers, and Portia’s been in Europe all summer. Oh. My. God,” she said. “That’s it. I can feel it. If you wanted to hide something in plain sight, put it in the locker of the girl who was a continent away the night Annabel was killed.”

  I shivered. Her theory had promise. What if we could help Ashlock? What if we could help Nicholas and the rest of us start healing, finally? This could be huge.

  Except one problem. “We need to think about how to get into Portia’s locker. It may be impossible,” Evie pointed out.

  We thought about that. But then, a minute later, it came to me—and to Evie, too, I guess, because we leapt to our feet at the same time.

  “Duh,” Evie yelled. Duh was right. It should have been obvious to us from the get-go. The master key to the club’s lockers was accessible to anyone with enterprise and necessity. And right now, that was us.

  After

  We had to wait for the perfect moment, which presented itself the very day Evie concocted the Great Locker Caper. It was a carefully planned operation, with Evie arranging to hang out with me at the front desk during my mom’s evening shift.

  The club grew quiet around nine. My mom picked her cuticles and yawned. Evie was tapping her foot. I was starting to feel jumpy when, thankfully, it happened. “Hold the fort, girls. I gotta go powder my nose,” Mom said, sliding off her stool.

  Evie instituted phase one. We ran to Gene’s office tucked behind the reception desk. There, nailed to his wall, was an unlocked steel key cabinet. I acted as lookout as Evie found the key we needed, which opened a closet in Gene’s office. (I know, I know. It isn’t exactly Fort Knox.) Evie unlocked the closet and flipped on the light, revealing a tower of Gene’s old rackets, tennis balls, and Tennis Monthly magazines. She put the first key back in the steel cabinet. There was yet another steel box, inside the closet, that held the key we needed. Eavesdropping was one thing, but this was breaking and entering and my heart pounded as Evie rattled around. She must’ve knocked something loose, because a bunch of files and tennis rackets crashed out of the closet.

  As she scrambled to shove the stuff back in, I heard my mom calling us. Oh, crap. I gave Evie the red alert, which involved jumping and gesturing. She had to hurry or we were dead meat. I heard footsteps padding along the worn carpeting, then a clunk. I turned back to see Evie frantically scooping up a handful of Gene’s old rackets. I quickly turned back and there she was. My mom.

  “What in the name of everything that is good and holy are you two getting up to this time?” She narrowed her eyes and blocked the doorway to Gene’s office.

  Evie came out of the closet and slammed the door behind her. “Oh, hey, Beth,” she said, sweet as could be. I thought, forget tennis: this girl should get into acting. “I was looking for a racket for Mr. Biederman. He wasn’t happy with the ones in the loaner bin.”

  Good one. Mr. Biederman was always complaining, and the front desk staff had a running mandate from Gene to keep him happy—no matter what.

  “All right,” Beth said wearily. “But let’s come out of the boss’s office now, shall we?”

  * * *

  Phase two involved sitting in the lobby facing the women’s locker room entrance until after the pool closed to be sure the last woman had wrung out her bathing suit and headed home. When the clock struck ten thirty, phase three kicked in, and we scooted into the changing room; we only had a small window of time because Mom would start making her pre-closing rounds in ten minutes. Evie and I made sure there was no one left in the stalls or the showers, and then we zeroed in on Portia’s locker. I sat next to Evie, our shoulders touching. She stuck the key in and it made a jarringly loud grating sound. I flinched as she turned the key and pulled at the door. It opened immediately.

  And voilà—we were in.

  After

  Evie sat on her knees in front of that locker, staring. We were faced with the totally boring contents of Portia’s locker: A neatly stacked pile of fashion magazines shoved against the back wall. You had your basic Glamours and a smattering of Vogues. It was so quiet, and the smell of chlorine, smelly feet, and baby powder was pungent.

  “I was so sure,” she said. “I had that feeling, Chelsea. You know?”

  I did know, because I had the same feeling. And since this was our only shot, I wasn’t going to back off so easily. I stuck my head in to see for myself, and in the process I knocked down the pile of magazines. Those slippery magazines collapsed and spilled onto the floor.

  But my clumsy move turned out to be a good thing—I got a close look, and then Evie leaned in and saw something shiny. It was delicate, small, and unmistakable. She squealed with excitement and dropped back to her knees. “I can’t believe it, Chels. We did it. Now, don’t touch anything. We better leave it here. I’ll tell Detective Ashlock tomorrow,” she said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  I saw it dawn on Evie then that it wasn’t just an exciting find. It was a serious, perhaps dangerous piece of evidence we’d found: it was the dog charm with the pink sapphire eyes.

  “I guess,” she whispered, “no one thought to check Portia’s locker because she was a continent away in Europe when Annabel died.” Evie gently put the magazines back in and quickly secured the lock, and we plodded to the front desk to face our next hurdle: returning the key.

  As closing time approached, only a few of us were left in the club. Joe Marbury and Lisa Denessen were chattin
g at the far end of the front desk. They both smelled of chlorine, so I assumed they’d been hot-tubbing. Nicholas, who’d been lifeguarding that night, walked by us after closing the pool, head down, lost in thought as always lately, and threw us a smile and a “G’night.” Evie and I smiled back, but it was hard because we were riddled with guilt; we’d found a major piece of evidence in his sister’s case and we couldn’t tell him. My mom took off to do her closing rounds, and I kept watch at the desk while Evie snuck into Gene’s office. She came back ten seconds later with good news. The key was safe in its home, and we’d gotten away with it. Phew.

  Before

  Evie and I were hanging in the lobby when the elites came off the court for a break a few days after Will ordered Evie to get her own racket. She stared at Serene, who was chugging grape juice. “How much do you think Serene’s Volcano X costs? Or even Celia’s Prince?” Evie whispered to me. I didn’t have a clue. A hundred million bucks? Ten bucks? It didn’t matter—Evie didn’t have a cent to her name. Serene got one of the first Xs ever made because she, like Goran, was sponsored by Volcano.

  “Will’s going to dump me if I don’t get a new racket soon,” Evie moaned. “What am I going to do?” She rose from the couch to get a better look, pausing outside the women’s locker room and eyeing Serene’s racket. Out of nowhere, the girl caught Evie’s eye and said, “It’s pretty awesome, right?”

  Evie flinched, but then seemed to realize Serene was being genuinely nice to her. “It’s so cool,” Evie replied.

  Serene held out the racket. “Here. See for yourself.”

  The Volcano X was the prettiest baby pink you’d ever seen. It was made of a new shiny material that apparently gave you amazing control and power. Evie held the grip and felt the racket’s smooth, glossy neck. She handed it to Serene with a smile and came back to sit with me. We had to think of something, or Evie might be in trouble. She told me she’d have more thoughts to share with me the next day, after she went home and slept on it.

  After

  Detective Ashlock raced over as soon as Evie called. At precisely nine forty-five a.m., he entered the club. He ignored my mom at the front desk (resulting in a glare behind his back) and strode to the lobby where Evie and I were waiting.

  “You did the right thing by calling me,” he said. “But you have to stop your amateur sleuthing—now. You’re going to get hurt. Do you understand?”

  We understood. Evie relayed our locker story to him in a whisper, told him how we’d snagged the key that night and again this morning so we could show him Portia’s locker. For the first time ever, I saw Detective Ashlock startle. This man did not startle. But now his eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead.

  “I figured you never searched her best friend’s locker,” Evie explained. “Since she was in Europe. You couldn’t have known how much everyone shares around here.”

  “You’re right. But I do now,” he said as if fascinated by our way of life. He adjusted his hat and said, “Show me.”

  Evie and I led him to the women’s locker room. She issued the club’s standard cry of “man in the house,” and hearing nothing, we gave Ashlock the all-clear sign and he entered. When Evie pointed to Portia’s locker, he pulled out two latex gloves and snapped them on, and a little powder flew up and made me sneeze.

  “Stay back,” he said. “And don’t touch anything.”

  When he opened the door, a cascade of magazines poured out onto the floor in front of us. Evie and I exchanged glances. This was odd; we’d left them stacked perfectly last night. Ashlock pawed through the magazines and felt the back of that locker, the sides, the front. There was no sign of any solid-gold necklace or sapphire eyes.

  Evie was scouting around frantically, knowing our credibility was on the line.

  “Well,” Ashlock said, rocking back on his haunches and reaching up to his head to make sure his hat was firmly on. “I’m afraid that whatever was here isn’t here anymore.”

  He pursed his lips and turned to look at Evie.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I swear, Mr. Ashlock. I mean, Detective. I swear it was there last night.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Ashlock said, shoving the magazines back into the locker and slamming the door shut. We got to our feet, and Ashlock motioned for us to leave via the poolside exit, because we heard female voices coming in from the lobby end. “Life is a series of peaks and valleys,” he expounded as we entered the pool hallway, that place where we had first laid eyes on him. “This is one more challenge we’ll have to overcome.”

  “I guess you probably don’t believe us,” Evie said when we exited the locker room.

  “Of course I believe you,” the detective said. “Every word.”

  “You do?” She looked up in surprise. Her eyes, greener than ever, were popping more dramatically the healthier she got, and those rosy-apple cheeks were positively adorable.

  “You know what I think?” There was a warning in his eyes. “I think you’re not the only ones who’ve been spying where you don’t belong. I think someone’s been snooping on you. I think you’ve made someone very nervous. Any number of people could be aware of your movements over the past few weeks.”

  Uh-oh. The eavesdroppers, eavesdropped on? Ouch. Beaten at our own game.

  “But if we hadn’t left the necklace there, you might’ve solved the case—” Evie shot me a guilty look, the same one I’m sure I had plastered on my face.

  “If you’d moved anything, it would have compromised our investigation,” Ashlock assured us. “Our forensics team will examine that locker. Plus,” he said conspiratorially, “you rattled someone. And a rattled bad guy is a sloppy bad guy.” He corrected himself. “Or girl.”

  I wondered whose fingerprints would be all over that locker. Who had been spying on us?

  Before

  Evie was pacing around the lobby at six in the morning before her lesson with Will, her mouth set in a worried frown. The girl was convinced he was going to quit on her. My mom had no idea what Evie was doing, and paid her very little attention. She was lost in her own world, fiddling with the radio, grumbling about the heat and about Lisa leaving the desk a mess last night when she’d closed up, pencils and scrap paper everywhere, God.

  At precisely seven twenty-nine, Evie came back behind the desk, sighed, and reached for the dinky old Slazenger.

  She walked toward the outdoor courts, racket in hand, to wait for Will. She knew she was in for it, but she wasn’t going to let her new coach spill the beans to Lucky under any circumstances. For starters, there was the practical consideration that Lucky might not like Will teaching her, because Lucky himself was an excellent teacher and might wonder why his daughter hadn’t asked him to train her. But more likely in Evie’s mind, I’d gathered, was the prospect of the put-downs Lucky might throw at her while claiming he “didn’t mean anything by it.” Like the time he “didn’t mean” to make her feel bad about not having many friends: Ha-ha, you must be doing something wrong, kid. Back in my day only losers didn’t have friends. The worst, of course, was how he kept leaving her behind at the club and how he refused to apologize for it.

  I walked alongside Evie as she made her way to Court 9, the outdoor court farthest from the club. She preferred to be as far away from people’s prying eyes as possible, and Will had honored that, even though the outdoor courts—and their viewing patio—were 100 percent empty at that time of day. It was another hazy morning, the air thick with heat and humidity.

  Will came out five minutes later. “Morning,” he said. He smiled at me and then at Evie, his bulging racket bag on his shoulder and a ball hopper in his hand. He unzipped his racket bag and laid it on one of the two chairs that were on every court for tired match players to take a load off between games.

  “We’re going to practice some rallies today,” he said.

  Ooh. This was exciting. Rallies were for advanced kids only. Evie waited for further instructions and kept the Slazenger behind her back.

&nb
sp; Will stood up, his Head graphite in hand, and did some trunk twists. “Whatcha got there?” he inquired, nodding to Evie’s right hand.

  Her smile faded, and she reluctantly brought the racket out from behind her.

  Will stopped stretching and reached his hand out. “Give it here.”

  She did. I stayed quiet, but tense, sitting on the sideline. He examined it as if it were a weird object from outer space and said, “You can’t play this game with a piece of junk. It’s not a racket for a serious tennis player. Are you a serious tennis player, Evie?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  Evie had tried everything and there was no way out. She hung her head, so she didn’t see what I saw: Will removed two extra rackets from his bag and was holding one in each hand.

  “I think you are a serious player,” he said. Evie looked up. “And you need a serious racket. So.” He waved the rackets in her general direction. “Choose.”

  In his left hand was a rugged silver graphite Prince just like Celia’s, and in his right was a Volcano X like the one Serene used, pretty and pink but also powerful and special.

  “What?” Evie seemed stunned.

  I practically leapt up and started jumping around. Oh my God oh my God oh my God.

  Will couldn’t keep up the stern act. He broke into a smile, his eyes twinkling.

  “Come on, Evie. Pick the one you want, and it’s yours.” Evie was still confused. “Personally, I think this one’s a better fit for you.”

  Will handed her the Volcano X. Evie took it, and never looked twice at the Prince. She felt the grip of her new racket in her hands, tested its weight, hit the strings against her left palm. The face was huge with a juicy sweet spot; this weapon looked like it could slay dragons. I wasn’t fooled by the pretty color.