And then it happened—in Professor Scribbish’s evidence class, which followed History of Detectives. Amanda was sitting next to the kid who had asked whether mystiques would be on the tests. He whispered to her while the teacher was talking.
“Who are you descended from?”
Amanda froze.
“I say, who are you descended from? How did you get into the school?”
“Sssssh,” she said, not looking at him.
“Don’t shush me,” said the boy. He leaned closer. “What are you hiding?”
“What are you hiding,” hissed Amanda, still refusing to look.
“I’m not hiding anything, you cow. I’m descended from Sir Bailiwick Wiffle. You?”
Now she turned and met his gaze, which was smarmy and smug. She wanted to deck him. “What difference does it make?”
“What difference does it make? I’ll tell you what difference it makes. Who you’re descended from is everything. Do you really think the point of going to this school is to recite detective history and analyze fingerprints? Anyone can do that. What matters is who you’re related to, and you’re obviously not related to anyone important.” He crossed his arms and gave her a challenging look.
“I’ll have you know I’m descended from Inspector G. Lestrade,” said Amanda without thinking.
OMG, it was out! Realizing what she’d done, she gasped so hard she almost cut off her wind. Now everyone would know. She’d never measure up to this aristocratic boy, for Sir Bailiwick Wiffle was an aristocrat, even if the kid was rude and a huge twit. Not that she wanted to be here—she still didn’t—but now everyone would know she didn’t belong. Even Ivy, who seemed to be the least judgmental person in the world, would be horrified.
She had to think. She couldn’t leave the school. Her parents would never let her. She couldn’t run away because she was twelve and where would she go? She couldn’t persuade her parents to let her transfer to a regular school where no one would care who her ancestors were. Think, think, Amanda. Act. Yes, that was it. Act.
“I’m sorry, but you’re obviously misinformed,” she said, her heart pounding. The whole class and the teacher were now staring at her. “Inspector Lestrade was a first-rate detective. I’m proud to be part of his family.”
“You’re joking,” said Wiffle’s alleged descendant.
“Certainly not,” said Amanda. “I never joke. Let me tell you some of the things my great ancestor did.”
“That will be enough,” interrupted Professor Scribbish, who along with the rest of the class was listening intently now. He was a bit of a dish, with dark curly hair and an affable manner, which had disappeared in a flash. It occurred to Amanda that he’d make a great actor, he so easily shifted his personality. “We do not disparage other people’s ancestors here at Legatum. If I see you failing to respect your classmates you will do two weeks’ detention. Mr. Wiffle, you will go to detention this afternoon after your classes are finished and you will return every day for the rest of the week. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Professor Scribbish,” said the boy, giving Amanda a piercing look.
Of course that was the answer. Whatever happened, she could act her way through it. She was surprised she hadn’t thought of that before. What kind of a filmmaker was she anyway?
Before her next class she made a little foray to the same ladies’ she’d used the previous evening. This time Ivy and Nigel were with her. She opened the stall she’d looked at before, and again she could swear there was something odd about the back wall. It had a funny color to it in one spot, as if something had bled over from the other side. She couldn’t ask Ivy to take a look, obviously. Maybe she could get Amphora to help later.
Suddenly Ivy said, “Something isn’t right in here.” She walked around and listened in various places.
“What do you mean?” said Amanda, who couldn’t hear anything.
“I mean something is off,” said Ivy.
“Off like what?” Amanda craned her ears but still didn’t hear anything unusual.
“I hear something. So does Nigel.” Sure enough Nigel’s ears were cocked and he was staring at the stall wall. Amanda hadn’t mentioned anything about the stall, so it was odd that the dog had found the exact same spot she’d thought looked weird.
“What do you hear?” she said.
“It sounds like scraping. From over there.” Ivy gestured toward the stall wall.
Amanda put her head to the wall and listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Well, I do, and Nigel does. There has to be something there. No, wait. It stopped.”
Amanda listened again. No difference.
“No, it’s gone,” said Ivy. Nigel obviously thought so too because he was looking at Amanda with his tongue hanging out.
“You know, I thought I saw something there last night but I don’t see anything now.”
“Probably nothing,” said Ivy. “But we can keep an eye on it, so to speak.” She broke into one of her grins.
“Yes,” said Amanda. “Probably nothing.”
Even if there had been something, so what? There was something about being around all these detectives that made you paranoid. It wasn’t like her and she wished it would stop.
Amanda Lester and the Pink Sugar Conspiracy Page 10
