Chapter 11
Explosion!
Bombed! Amanda didn’t know if she was more scared or outraged. She was terrified at the thought that someone might be dead, that there might be more bombs set to go off, and that she might be the next victim. On the other hand, how dare someone bomb her school? Who did they think they were anyway? Unless, of course, it was an accident. Maybe some gasoline exploded or something. Yes, that was it. Of course. She was being silly.
Where had the explosion occurred and who had been hurt? She had to know at once. She couldn’t go out the main door to look or she might be seen, so she left the foyer and made her way to the Van Helden House common room, which was located under the boys’ dorm. There she opened the much smaller and less conspicuous exterior door and ventured out.
Now she saw that it wasn’t an ambulance at all, but a fire engine, and there were several firemen with hoses aimed at the school’s garage, which had recently been built and was a rarity for UK public schools (which was what private schools were called over here, for some bizarre reason), but was deemed a necessary security measure at Legatum. Unfortunately the rarity was on fire. The flames were shooting high into the early morning sky, illuminating the school buildings, grounds, and woods beyond. The scene was very dramatic.
If there was no ambulance, chances were that no one was hurt. That was a good thing. And if the damage was confined to the garage and its contents, everyone was safe. That was another good thing. But she was only guessing. If she was wrong she wouldn’t be able to warn people properly, so she had to be thorough. She re-entered the building and snuck into the Legal Issues classroom, which gave her better cover and a clearer view.
Headmaster Thrillkill and Professors Stegelmeyer, Scribbish, and Ducey were all outside waving their arms and shouting directions at the firemen, who did not look amused. Thrillkill seemed to be holding a hair dryer, which Amanda thought particularly odd. But what really stood out was Professor Bill Pickle, the textual analysis teacher. Amanda had heard the older students describe him as an annoying, Latin-spouting, bow tie-wearing, grammar-correcting ponce, whatever that was. He seemed to be moaning and wailing and wringing his hands. Could he have been injured? She couldn’t see how. He looked perfectly fine. There were no paramedics at the scene and no one was paying any attention to him. Perhaps something important to him had been damaged. Of course. His car.
Everyone knew about Professor Pickle’s car. You couldn’t get within a mile of the school and not hear about Professor Pickle’s car. It was a classic Triumph Roadster that he treated like a Michelangelo sculpture. You’d swear he polished the thing as if it were the Hubble Telescope mirror just so he could admire himself in its reflection and take selfies in its light. It was even said that the man sterilized the engine as if he were administering a high colonic. And he’d given it some sort of silly name. Gorky? Girly? No, Gherkin. It was definitely Gherkin. Well, of course. The man’s name was Pickle.
What was really neat about the car wasn’t all that flash though. It had a way cool rumble seat. Amanda had wanted to ride in a rumble seat ever since she’d read the early Nancy Drew books, in which the girl sleuth had driven a blue rumble-seated roadster. It was said that Professor Pickle took his car out for a long drive every Sunday wearing a jaunty cap and special driving gloves, with his golf clubs ensconced in the rumble seat.
Amanda didn’t know anything else about the man. The students didn’t take Textual Analysis until their third year, so she wouldn’t be in his class for quite some time. He did seem to cut a ridiculous figure, but she didn’t want to jump to any conclusions about him or his car. She should be methodical about this investigation and let the evidence speak for itself, just as Professor Scribbish had instructed.
Investigation? Yes, that was what it was now, wasn’t it? She was conducting an investigation. Well, if that was the case, she’d better do it right. Examine all the evidence, document everything carefully, and keep an open mind. Since there were too many people around and because she didn’t have her phone, she wouldn’t be able to do a proper job right now, but she could certainly come back later. Perhaps she could get Ivy and Amphora to accompany her.
Then it hit her. There was no way this could be the class project, was there? No, it couldn’t be. It was way too dangerous. The school would never put the students, teachers, staff, and property in danger like that, would they? The parents would never let them.
But what if it was the class project? They said it would be obvious, and it was certainly that. The explosion or whatever it was was way more likely to be the project than some pink dust. What could she have been thinking? Wow, if this was the kind of project they gave you at Legatum, maybe it was a good school. They didn’t fool around.
Amanda thought she’d better get away before one of the teachers saw her. It was a shame she didn’t have her phone so she could take pictures of the fire, but she wasn’t about to go back to her room to retrieve it. She’d never get out of there again. Anyway, she’d seen enough for now. She made detailed mental notes and started back. It was time to tell the others what was going on so they wouldn’t worry.
As she left the classroom, she heard a noise in the hall and jumped into an alcove, where there was a marble statue of the goddess Athena she hadn’t seen before. She scrunched herself up as much as she could and hugged the wall behind her. She could hear footsteps coming in her direction—slow and quiet, as if whoever it was didn’t want to be seen either. Slowly, slowly they approached until—
“OMG, what are you doing out here?” she said, leaping out of the niche. It was Nick. He was so surprised he almost fell over.
“Amanda! You scared me half to death. You too?”
“Mm hm. I wasn’t about to be left out of whatever’s going on.” She pulled her parka close around her to try to stop the shaking.
“Me either,” he said, rubbing his hands together. It was freezing in the hall. “So you know?”
“About the garage? Yes, I know.”
“The garage, yes, but the other thing too.”
“What other thing?” she said, hopping on one foot, which didn’t warm her at all.
He drew close to her and lowered his voice. “Professor Pickle is missing.”
Amanda Lester and the Pink Sugar Conspiracy Page 32
