by Betsy Haynes
As the questions skittered through her mind, Mr. Snider came back into the center and sat down at his table.
Christie hung up the telephone and walked over to him. "Mr. Snider, can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Surely, Christie. What is it?"
She quickly filled him in about the two telephone calls. The pleasant smile that was usually on his lips faded. He stroked his curly gray beard as he concentrated on what she was saying.
"Do you have any idea at all who the caller is?" he asked when she was finished.
She bit her lip as she thought. "No, sir. It seems as if I may have heard his voice before, but I can't be sure."
"Could it be someone you know who's playing a trick on you personally?"
"I've thought and thought, but I don't know who it could be."
"Curtis Trowbridge and Jenni Linn each had calls from jokesters, but it was only silly stuff, and they seemed to have stopped," he said.
Christie wondered if she should tell him about her call from Clarence Marshall but decided not to. Clarence was only joking around.
"Did he give you any indication at all about what he meant when he said he was going to do something that all your friends would be able to see up close?"
"Nope."
Mr. Snider tapped his fingers on the table. "Hmm. Tell you what, Christie. I want to do some checking with Mr. Bell and some other people. This caller may or may not be doing what he says he's doing. He may just be taking credit for things that have already happened to shake you up. Either way, we don't want to encourage him."
"Okay, Mr. Snider. Thanks."
The teacher must have seen how worried she was. "You've handled it just right, Christie."
Christie walked back to her cubicle and sat down dejectedly. How was she supposed to know how not to encourage the caller? She hadn't encouraged him in the first place, but he still called a second time. She had done her best to let him know she didn't think much of what he was doing, if he was truly setting the fires and putting bubbles in the City Hall fountain. She looked at the phone and hoped it wouldn't ring again.
CHAPTER 6
Christie hurried down for breakfast the next morning. Her mother, who was principal of Mark Twain Elementary School, was sitting at the table dressed in a blue pin-striped suit with a loose matching bow at her neck, doing paperwork. Her father had his jacket off and was reading the business section of the morning newspaper. Christie thought he looked nice with his red paisley suspenders and matching tie. She dropped down into the chair between them and grabbed part of the paper her father wasn't reading.
"Well, don't you say 'good morning' anymore?" her mother asked.
"Sorry. Good morning," Christie said, her eyes racing across the pages searching for stories about fires, soap bubbles, or anything else a kid might think was funny and do to get attention. Nothing leapt out at her.
"There's an indoor tennis tournament for twelve- through fourteen-year-olds next month," her father said, looking over his cup of coffee at her. "Are you interested in entering?"
"I don't know if I'll have time," Christie answered. "I'd have to practice evenings to get ready, and I'm not sure I can, now that I'm on the homework hot-line team and have to keep up my own grades."
A look of disappointment flickered in his eyes. He loved to watch her play tennis, and she knew he hoped that someday she would turn pro. On the other hand, her mother wanted her to make all A's, go to college, and become a Rhodes Scholar. Christie had decided a while back that she couldn't satisfy everyone, and she was just going to do the best she could at what she wanted to do. Deep down she knew they would both love her, whatever she did.
She took a piece of toast from the stack in the center of the table and poured herself juice and milk. Mostly there was boring news in the paper. She knew the caller couldn't have caused the train wreck outside of town and couldn't have been the man that held up a bank in Elmsford. Besides, the description of the robber said he was six foot tall and wore a ski mask. A seventh-grade boy might wear a ski mask, but she didn't know of any that was six feet tall.
The mystery caller had claimed to be responsible for two fires plus the bubbles in the fountain. One of the fires was on Pleasant Hill and the other on Catherine Street. They were a long way from each other and City Hall. They must be ten or fifteen miles apart, anyway. Her friends were right. He had to be lying to her. If the caller was in the seventh grade, which she believed, he couldn't be out riding his bike those distances late at night.
"What are you grinning at?" her father asked.
"Oh, I just made up my mind about something that's been bothering me," Christie said happily.
"A way to improve your back stroke, maybe?" Mr. Winchell asked.
She shook her blond head, grabbed her books, and headed out the door. She'd have to see Mr. Snider and tell him.
"That's good thinking, Christie," the teacher said when she talked to him before algebra class that afternoon. "You're right, it would be difficult for a thirteen-year-old boy to go to locations that are so far apart in the evenings without his parents' wondering what he was up to. Maybe he lives near City Hall or Catherine or Pleasant streets, but it's unlikely he could have set both fires and put the soap in the fountain."
"He may have done one of them," Christie said, "but I don't think he did all three. And I don't think he's as bad as he wants me to think. I looked in the paper this morning and didn't see anything he might have done last night."
"I talked with Mrs. Brenner, the guidance counselor, this morning," said Mr. Snider. "We both think you handled the caller in just the right way. If he calls again, why don't you try to find out who he is without letting him think you're interested in his tricks. I'll ask the other seventh-graders on the team to do the same if he talks to one of them. That way we can try to help him, or who knows—maybe he'll even forget about his little game in a few more days."
While they were talking, the class had come into the room, and Christie went to her seat.
"How's the hot-line going?" asked Dekeisha. Liza and Kevin turned to listen to their conversation.
"Pretty good," answered Christie. "We're getting a lot of calls."
"Are you getting any prank calls?" asked Liza.
Christie remembered not to say anything about the mysterious caller. "There are a few kids who think they're funny. But I know who they are."
"What kinds of things do they say?" asked Dekeisha.
"Oh, things like, 'Do you have any hot lines to tell girls.' Dumb stuff like that."
"I'm glad I couldn't be on the team if that's the kind of calls you get," said Kevin.
"They're not all like that," Christie responded. "Most kids who call do need help."
As Mr. Snider called the class to order, Christie looked around the room at the boys. Was one of them the caller? She could eliminate Scott Daly, Joel Murphy, Matt Zeboski, and Curtis Trowbridge. She knew them too well and thought she would recognize their voices even if they were disguised. Besides, Curtis was on the team and was too serious. It could be anyone else in school, however. Somewhere in Wakeman Junior High was a boy who was either trying to make a fool of her or had problems.
"Christie!" called Beth and Melanie. "Wait up so we can walk with you."
"We had a cheerleaders' meeting," said Melanie, "and thought you'd already be at Bumpers."
"Miss Simone asked me to take some stuff to my mother, and I had to go to the office to get them."
"There's no way we'll get seats," said Beth. "If you don't get to Bumpers fifteen minutes after school lets out, forget it."
"There's always some boy's lap," said Melanie, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
Christie rolled her eyes in Melanie's direction and pretended to make a disgusted face. "Melanie Edwards, you're too much."
As they rounded the corner, Christie noticed a crowd gathered in front of Bumpers.
"What's that all about?" asked Beth.
The kids seemed to be lookin
g at the front of the fast-food restaurant. "I don't know," said Christie.
"Mr. Matson put up a new front door," said Melanie. "It's wooden."
Christie could see the door clearly now. "That's not a new door, it's a sheet of plywood. The glass must have been broken." Jana and Katie were standing with the others. Randy, Keith, and Scott were with them.
Melanie tapped Jana on the shoulder and asked, "What happened?"
"Mr. Matson said someone threw a rock through the glass in his door last night. He doesn't know who did it," Katie said.
The sight of the raw wood nailed to Bumpers' doorway made Christie's stomach do flip-flops. It gave her the same feeling she'd had when someone ran into her family's car in a parking lot and left without leaving a note. It was as if the place where she and her friends hung out after school had been violated.
"It's something you and all the friends you hang out with will get to see up close. You won't be able to miss it." The words echoed in Christie's ears. It looked as if the mystery caller had struck again.
CHAPTER 7
"What do you know about this kook?" Jana asked Christie. The Fabulous Five had left Bumpers and were gathered in Katie's living room. Beth had Libber, Katie's laid-back yellow cat, draped around her neck like a scarf. The rest of the girls were sprawled around on the floor or were sitting in chairs eating Corn Curls and drinking sodas.
"Not much. Both times he asked for help with algebra. We worked through the problems okay, and then he wanted to talk some more."
"He hasn't talked to anyone else?" asked Katie, running her fingers through her red hair.
"Mr. Snider says no."
Melanie frowned. "That must mean he's calling you on purpose. I wonder why he hasn't called Curtis, Whitney, or Melissa. They're working at the hot-line center on the other nights, aren't they?"
"Yes, they are, and I'm not sure why he hasn't called one of them. It gives me the shivers," said Christie.
"Obviously, he knows who you are," said Jana. "Everyone in the seventh grade knows you."
"Clarence is the class president so everyone knows him, too," responded Christie.
Melanie popped a Corn Curl in her mouth. "Yes, but you're a girl, and besides, how many people want to deliberately carry on a conversation with Curtis?"
"Whitney does," said Beth.
"Whitney's a brain," responded Melanie. "She understands him."
"Well if you were a boy, and had your choice of talking to Christie or Melissa McConnell, who would you choose?" asked Katie.
"Definitely Christie," said Beth, making a gagging sound at the mention of Melissa's name. Melissa was a member of The Fantastic Foursome, a rival clique at Wakeman whose leader was Laura McCall. Melissa was extremely meticulous and always had a frown on her face.
Christie raised her voice to get their attention. "This is not helping me, guys."
"Okay," said Jana, "he always asks for help with algebra. Does he really have a problem with it, or is it just an excuse to talk to you?"
"I think he could do the problems if he tried," Christie answered.
"There's just nothing else to go on," said Katie. "We need more clues . . . anything."
"I keep coming back to the fact that he only talks to Christie," said Jana. "Why would he only call her?"
"He's in love with her?" asked Melanie.
Melanie's remark startled Christie. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he call me and do all those dumb things if he liked me?"
"That's easy," answered Katie. "He wants to get your attention. Some boys do the dumbest things—like hitting—to let you know they like you. They're so immature. I don't know what they would do without us."
"I like 'em the way they are," said Melanie, rubbing her hands together and leering. Katie swung at her playfully.
"We still don't know for sure that he set the fires on Catherine Street and Pleasant Hill or put the soap in the fountain, and we're only speculating that he broke the door at Bumpers," said Jana.
Beth unwound Libber from her neck and handed her to Katie. "He said he did the first three, and breaking the window sounds like the kind of thing he was talking about."
"But they're so far apart," said Christie. "Look." She took a handful of Corn Curls and positioned them on the coffee table. "Catherine Street is here. Pleasant Hill is here. City Hall is here, and Bumpers is here. It's a long way between any of them. Like we were saying the other day, how could a thirteen-year-old boy, even on a bicycle, get to all those places in the evening without his parents' knowing?" The Fabulous Five stared in silence at the four Corn Curls on the table. "He probably couldn't get to all of the places he mentioned, but if he lived around York Street, maybe he could have put the soap in the fountain and broken the window at Bumpers."
Christie leaned back and stretched out her long legs. "Katie's right about one thing," she added. "We need clues. Let's make a list of things about him that would be helpful to know, if I can get him to tell me." She dug a pencil out of her purse and opened her notebook to a blank page.
"What classes does he have?" volunteered Katie.
"Who does he hang out with?" said Jana.
"Anything physical," added Beth. "What's the color of his hair? How tall is he?"
"Does he play sports?" interjected Melanie.
"Is he in band or any other school activities?" asked Katie.
Christie wrote down the suggestions as fast as she could, and with each one she felt better. At last she and her friends were doing something positive. She was beginning to think that, if she was careful and asked the questions in just the right way, she could find out who he was.
But what her friends had said about the caller's trying to get her attention was still troubling her. Who would want to get her attention that desperately? No one, she thought, except for Jon Smith. But it couldn't be Jon who was making the calls, Christie told herself stubbornly. He wasn't like that, and besides, she would have recognized Jon's voice easily.
Mr. Snider was waiting for Christie when she arrived at the homework hot-line center on Tuesday evening. "I'd like to see you, Christie, along with Pam and Tim for a minute before we start." He called the others to the table where he worked and told them about Christie's mystery caller.
"If any of you get a call similar to what Christie has been getting, I want you to signal me. I've had this phone installed," he said, placing his hand on the instrument, "and I can pick up your individual lines. I'll listen in, but I won't say anything. I don't want to scare him off, at least not vet. I really don't think this is as bad as our mystery caller would like us to believe, but we need to handle it carefully until we're sure."
"I've got these questions that I thought I'd try to ask when he calls again," said Christie, holding up the list she and her friends had made. They all agreed the questions were a good idea.
"Since you're the only one who has heard from him," Mr. Snider said, handing the list back to her, "I don't see any need for the others to have the list, but be careful. If you get too inquisitive, that might scare him off, too."
Christie sharpened her pencils and put her questions next to her ruled pad. Then she folded her hands to wait. Even though she had been anticipating it, she jumped at the first ring of her telephone. "This is Christie, how may I help you?"
"I need help with my algebra homework." Christie took a deep breath. He hadn't wasted any time getting to her.
"Algebra?" asked Christie. "Just a minute while I get my book," she said, turning in her chair to wave to Mr. Snider. The teacher nodded and gently took his phone from its cradle.
"Okay, I've got it," she said, turning back to her desk. "Who's your algebra teacher, anyway?"
"You didn't ask me who my teacher is when I called for help before."
"I just wondered if you've asked her for help." The line was quiet for an instant, and when he responded, his voice sounded a bit more muffled. He must have moved whatever it was he was using to disguise it. "That's pretty good. You know ther
e's one man and one woman algebra teacher for the seventh grade. If I said I asked her, you'd know I was in Ms. Gilchrist's class. If I said him, you'd know it was Mr. Snider's. I've asked my teacher, but I need more help. That's why you're on the hot-line team, isn't it? To help people."
Christie cringed. She had thought she was being so smart, but he had caught her on her very first attempt to trap him. "Yes, it is. Let's look at the first problem." She was disappointed, but she managed to control her voice.
After she had finished helping him with the problems, he said, "Did you and your friends notice what I did? Everyone was talking about it."
Christie fought back her rising anger. She wanted to hang up on him, but instead she looked back at Mr. Snider. He gave her a slight nod as if he wanted her to continue.
"Are you talking about the broken door at Bumpers?" she asked. "Did you do that?"
"I knew there was a good reason for your being on the hot-line team," the caller said triumphantly. "Let's see if you're smart enough to figure this one out. The next thing I'm going to do will involve all kinds of color. You'll like it. It's going to be a whammo trick."
"Wait a minute!" Christie protested. "Why don't you just stop all of this silly trick stuff? No one knows who you are right now, but if you keep it up, someone will find out, and you'll be in trouble."
"Don't you like games?" he asked. "As smart as you are, I thought you'd like a challenge. I do." Christie grabbed her list of questions. "Look, could we meet after school and talk about this? If you've got band practice or something, I could wait."
"HA! HA!" His laughter came so loudly over the phone she had to pull the instrument away from her ear. "You'd like to know more about me, wouldn't you? If I told you I was in band, that would still be a lot of kids, and you wouldn't know which one. But I'm not, and I don't want to meet you. Just remember what I'm going to do involves colors. If you're really smart, you should be able to figure out what it will be."
"Wait a min . . ." He hung up on her again.
