by Ali Standish
“These jewels could be worth a lot of money,” I say. “We don’t know what someone might do to get them back. We have to tell someone. The police, or your mom. Or maybe Grandpa Ike.”
Coralee takes a big gulp of air and submerges herself underwater. She stays under for at least a minute. Long enough that I would be worrying if her fingers weren’t still grasping the pool ledge. Finally she shoots up with a gasping breath.
She looks at me, little beads of water streaming down her face. With her braids limp and wet, she looks even younger than usual. “You’re right,” she says finally. “But we have to be careful about it. We could get into big trouble that way too. Let me think about it tonight, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say reluctantly. “Yeah, okay.”
The Evening News
CORALEE AND I LEAVE the party as soon as we can politely excuse ourselves. I try to take the lunch box home with me, but she holds on to it with an iron grip. “I’m the one who took the jewelry from that house,” she says. “I got us into this mess, so it’s my job to get us out.”
Finally, I let her take it, once she promises she’ll call me if she senses anything out of the ordinary.
On my way home from the party, I cycle extra fast past the Blackwood house and keep my eyes on the gravel beneath my tires.
When I get home, Roddie’s out in the driveway, snapping pictures of his newly restored truck with his phone from every angle. I think I see him glance up at me just as I wheel my bike into the garage.
I hear voices shouting before I even get through the door.
“—have to tell him.”
“It won’t do any good. We don’t know anything yet, so—”
Mom pauses when she hears the door click shut behind me. “Ethan?” she calls. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” I take off my shoes and walk through the kitchen into the living room, where I see Dad sitting on the sofa and Mom standing beside the coffee table. Grandpa Ike sits in his new chair, staring at the Weather Channel, which is forecasting hurricane models. He doesn’t look at me when I come in. Neither does Dad, whose cheeks are flushed and whose hair sticks up in the back like he’s been running his hands through it. His fingers are tapping at a furious pace on the couch arm.
Mom looks flustered too, but she quickly slaps on a smile. “How was your party?”
“It was okay. What are you guys talking about?”
I’m not sure I really want to know, but the words are out before I can stop them.
Dad shoots a dark glance at Mom.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, sweetie,” she says. “It’s just something about Roddie. That’s all. Nothing to do with you.”
I look at Dad and then at Grandpa Ike to see if I can read the truth in their expressions, but their faces are frozen with discomfort, like ice sculptures on a hot day.
“Why don’t you go take a shower,” Mom suggests. “And then dinner will be ready.”
I do as she says, trying to push the raised voices from my mind as the lukewarm water washes over me. Maybe they really were talking about Roddie. Maybe they’ve been fighting about whether they can afford to send him to Boston College if he doesn’t get a scholarship.
Except: why would they be yelling about Roddie when he could probably hear them from out in the driveway?
My stomach twists like a wet dishcloth being wrung out. I’m worried about Coralee. Maybe I should have fought harder to make her let me take the jewelry.
I comfort myself with the thought that even if Mack did lie to us, I still trust one thing she said. She won’t let anything happen to Coralee.
We eat our grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches in front of the TV that night. Mom insists that we watch the evening news so we can see the updated hurricane coverage. Of course, we have to sit through all the boring local stories, too. These include:
1.A used car salesman being investigated for fraud.
2.A red wolf that escaped from the local preserve (which, okay, is not that boring a story).
3.And the results of a city council vote on whether to expand a local highway (not enough traffic to justify an expansion at this time).
Then the pretty newscaster (“This is Maria Olivas reporting for Channel Eight”) shows satellite pictures of the storm, which is still in the Caribbean, and asks an older man about the odds it will hit locally (“Jason, your thoughts?”).
Jason’s thoughts are that chances are high the storm will hit us later in the week, but it’s uncertain if it will turn into a major hurricane. “At this time, no one is talking about an evacuation, but coastal residents should prepare for flooding and widespread power outages. Although it’s early in the season for a large storm system, it’s still too soon to rule out the chance that this could be a major event.”
“Cool,” Roddie murmurs.
“I should get to the grocery store early tomorrow,” Mom mutters to herself. “Before they sell out of everything. And we need to make sure we’ve got supplies to prepare the house for a storm.”
“Maybe we should take a trip inland,” Dad says nervously.
“The only storm you need to worry about is the one you’re huffing up over there,” Grandpa Ike says. “It’ll blow over like they almost all do. Or it won’t, and we’ll ride it out. This house has been through worse.”
“Did you know hurricane winds can blow faster than a cheetah can run?” Roddie asks, surprising everyone by joining the conversation. We all turn and stare at him.
“What?” he asks. “It’s true. I learned it in school.”
When the news ends, Mom claps her hands together. “Time for bed,” she says to me, even though it’s still really early. “You have your math test tomorrow, so you need to get a good night’s sleep.”
I think about calling Coralee from my room, just to make sure she’s okay, but I’m afraid I’ll hear Kacey’s dad on the other end of the line again, so I read Ms. Silva’s time-travel book until I fall asleep.
Testing Day
I GET TO SCHOOL early on Monday morning. The teachers are cooking us a special pretesting breakfast in the cafeteria. I know because Mr. Beasley must have announced it twenty times last week. Coralee told me it’s the best breakfast I’ll get all year.
And at lunch, we get to have pizza delivered.
Mr. Beasley doesn’t want anyone absent on testing day.
It’s only seven thirty when I arrive, but by the time I put my bike in the rack and make my way into the cafeteria, it seems like the whole school is already there. Ms. Silva is passing around a tray with homemade biscuits and jam, while Mr. Charles serves bacon. Mr. Beasley and Coach Sluggs are flipping pancakes at a griddle that’s been set up in the corner. The sixth grade teachers, who are wearing T-shirts with peppy slogans, are handing their students plates and cups of orange juice.
I search the sea of kids for Coralee, but there’s no sign of her. So I take a seat next to Herman, who immediately begins thanking me again for his birthday present.
“Don’t worry about it, Herman, seriously,” I say. “Have you seen Coralee this morning?”
He shakes his head woefully, as if he’s afraid that his answer might make me mad.
“Okay. Did you have a good birthday?”
Herman starts in about the cannonball contest and the new Xbox games he got from his mom and dad. I try to nod my head like I’m listening. But I can’t. I’m too worried about Coralee.
What if something happened? What if the jewelry thief followed her from the pool yesterday and kidnapped her before she made it home? Or while she was on her way to school this morning? Coralee wouldn’t miss the best breakfast of the year because she had a tickle in her throat or a sprained ankle. And Adina wouldn’t keep her home on testing day. No one’s mom keeps them home on testing day.
As I pick at my biscuit and eggs, I curse myself for not calling to make sure she got home okay last night. For not insisting that we tell someone yesterday about everything that’s happened. For not
taking that box home myself.
Next to me, Herman is making his best attempt at conversation.
“Are you nervous about the test?” he asks. “I am. I’m terrible at math. Not like tomorrow will be any better. I’m even worse at English.”
“I’ll be right back, Herman.”
When I approach her, Ms. Silva is wiping her forehead off with the bottom of her apron, which she must have forgotten is covered in flour.
“Ms. Silva?”
“Good morning, Ethan,” she sings. I mean she actually sings it. “Are you ready for your test?”
“Yeah. Kind of. I wanted to ask a favor?”
She cocks her head. “Go on.”
“Coralee isn’t here, and I’m worried that something might have—that she might not be okay. Can I go to the office and call her?”
Ms. Silva frowns. “What makes you think that?”
Just then, the morning bell trills, and Mr. Beasley starts bellowing out orders to get to our homerooms.
“I can’t explain right now,” I say. “But I need to get in touch with her.”
Ms. Silva puts her finger to her mouth and taps it thoughtfully against her lips. “You need to get to class,” she says. “You can’t be late for the test. But Mr. Beasley is calling the families of any students who aren’t here yet, so we’ll find out what’s going on. Okay?”
“Thanks, Ms. Silva,” I say, trying to let her soothing voice calm me down. “Um, one more thing?”
“What is it? We need to hurry.” She’s already started toward the door.
“It’s just—your forehead? You have some flour.”
Ms. Silva laughs and wipes her forehead again, this time with the underside of her apron. “Thank you, Ethan.”
No Answer
I JUST HAVE TIME to slide through Ms. Silva’s door before the test proctor closes it.
“You must be Ethan Truitt. Tha-aat’s everyone!” he calls. “Except—is there a Jessup here? Coralee Jessup?”
I take my seat and look at him blankly. I can’t bring myself to say the words “She’s not here.” He adjusts his glasses and makes a mark on his roster.
We’re halfway through bubbling our names when Ms. Silva comes in. I stare at her, willing her to give me some signal as to whether she’s heard any news of Coralee. But she doesn’t. She just writes the start and end times of each test section on the whiteboard.
My knee jiggles up and down, and I realize I’ve written my old Boston address on my test instead of Grandpa Ike’s. I erase it and start over.
Where is Coralee? Why won’t Ms. Silva look at me?
I jump, startled, from my seat, when the test proctor lays a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to disturb the other students,” he says, frowning at my knee, which is still jiggling up and down.
“And your hand,” he says, sighing like he thinks I’m making trouble on purpose.
I’ve been tapping the fingers of my left hand against the desk while I’ve been bubbling in my social security number.
Great. On top of everything, I am turning into my dad.
Ms. Silva tells us to open our test books and begin.
Just as we’re finishing the first section, the door opens, and Mr. Beasley struts in. He takes his suit jacket off when he comes into the classroom, and I see a thick glaze of sweat on his forehead and two dark patches blooming under his arms. Jacket in one hand, clipboard in the other, he surveys the classroom and writes something down.
Ms. Silva weaves on tiptoe among the desks and meets him at the front of the room. He whispers something in her ear, and she shoots me an almost unnoticeable glance before turning her back to the class.
It doesn’t matter that she only looked at me for half a second. I had time to read the unease written in her eyes.
Mr. Beasley leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him. I stare down at my test. The numbers don’t make any sense. It’s like looking at random scribbles made by a three-year-old.
I put my pencil down.
Halfway through, we get a break. While all the other students file quickly out of the classroom, eager for their three minutes of free time, I sit at my desk as if I’ve been glued there. Once my classmates are gone, Ms. Silva kneels beside me.
“Ethan? It looks like you haven’t answered very many test questions.”
I bite back a retort. I like Ms. Silva a lot, but her priorities are way out of order here. “Did you hear anything about Coralee?” I ask. My voice cracks, but I don’t even care.
She bites her lip and adjusts her headband. “There was no answer at her house,” she says gently. “But I really wouldn’t worry, Ethan. I’m sure everything is fine. Do your best on your test, and we’ll try again later.”
Explanations for Why Coralee Is Not at School (and Why No One Is Answering Her Phone)
1. The jewelry thief kidnapped her while she was riding her bike home yesterday. She’s still got Coralee and has told her mom not to talk to anyone or Coralee will be killed.
2. She was kidnapped on the way to school today. In which case her mom probably doesn’t even know she’s missing yet.
3. Her mom didn’t cook dinner all the way through, and now all the Jessups are too busy puking to come to the phone.
4. Someone reported the missing jewelry, and the police somehow found out that Coralee has it. They’ve taken her to the station and are threatening her with jail time unless she gives up her partner in crime.
5. She forgot to eat her saltwater taffy last night, and her mom had to take her to the hospital to treat her low blood sugar.
6. The boarding school in Atlanta called and offered Coralee her spot back, but only if she would agree to start today.
7. Coralee is too scared to come out of her house. And her mom forgot to pay the phone bill, so it’s disconnected.
Skipping School
I HAVE TO GET to Coralee.
Is the only thought in my head.
When the test is over, I jostle with the other kids toward the cafeteria. I have a plan. I grab a slice of pizza from the lunch line and sit down at a random table.
I don’t touch the pizza, though. Instead, I wait just a couple of minutes, until all the kids are in the cafeteria. Then I drop my plate, pizza uneaten, into the trash can and walk toward the doors. I’m lucky. All the teachers are busy turning in their testing materials, so it’s just a volunteer monitor who’s guarding the exit.
“Bathroom,” I mumble, pointing toward the restroom.
She arches her gray eyebrows. “Is that allowed?”
“It’s an emergency.”
I even bounce back and forth a little for good measure. She moves aside, and I head toward the bathroom, the opposite direction from the front doors and my bike and freedom and Coralee. But as soon as she turns back toward the cafeteria, I make my move, sprinting the other way.
As I burst through the double glass doors, I think I hear someone yell my name, but I keep going.
I can’t lose another friend.
I can’t lose Coralee.
I’m pedaling out of the parking lot before the heavy door even shuts behind me. I don’t look back to see if anyone is coming after me.
My bike seems to propel me forward with supernatural speed, like it understands that this is an emergency. I fly down Main Street, past the Fish House and the Pink Palm and Mack’s—where I think about stopping first, to confront Mack, but decide it’s better to go straight to Coralee’s house.
Finally, I skid to a halt in Coralee’s driveway. I trip in my haste to get off, and end up falling on my side into the gravel, pinned down by my bike. I push it off me, ignoring my stinging knee and throbbing arm.
There’s a black van with tinted windows parked in the driveway. A police van? I fling myself up the stairs and onto the porch. My hand hits the door with more force than I mean it to, and I can’t stop pounding.
Adina opens the door. She’s not wearing her scrubs. Today she’s in sweatpants and a tank top. Her face i
s puffy, and her eyebrows crease when she sees me.
“Ethan? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
I haven’t yet caught my breath from the biking and the running and the pounding.
“I was worried,” I pant. “Coralee isn’t at school. Do you know she isn’t at school?”
Adina casts a furtive glance behind her and steps out onto the porch, closing the door. In the daylight, she looks even worse than she did standing in the house. Her shoulders slump, and her eyes are rimmed in red.
“Of course I know.”
“Oh. Is she okay?” Adina stares at me like I’m in worse shape than she is. I swipe some of the sweat from my face and hastily try to tuck my shirt in. I look down at my knee and realize it’s dripping blood onto my sneaker.
“Coralee had to stay home to deal with a family matter, Ethan.”
“Can I see her?”
“I’m sure when she’s ready to talk about it, she’ll call you.” Adina says. “In the meantime, you need to wash that cut out and put some Neosporin on it. You got some at home, right?”
“Yeah, probably. But—Coralee isn’t—she’s okay?” I ask, my frustration mounting.
“She’s fine,” Adina replies. “I’m going to call the school and your parents and let them know you’re okay. I suggest you go straight home, and don’t let me catch you skipping class again.”
She says it firmly, but in a way that makes me think she’s not trying to scold me. I suddenly feel stupid, ditching school and riding all the way here and pounding on the door. Obviously Coralee doesn’t want my help, doesn’t even want me to know what’s going on.
“Okay,” I agree defeatedly.
Adina waits to go back inside until I am on my bike again, pedaling away.
The Battle
I KNOW IT’S GOING to be bad when I see Mom and Dad standing on the porch, arms crossed, waiting. They stare me down as I trudge up the stairs toward them. Dad shakes his head back and forth. Mom says, “In,” and opens the door for me.
