by S. C. Davis
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Get Book Two!
Chapter One - The Yellow Sticky Notes
Chapter Two - First Notice of Failure
Chapter Three - Little in Common
Chapter Four - "Just Jenna"
Chapter Five - How to Make Something Disappear
Chapter Six - "Project Crack Ethan"
Chapter Seven - Aliens and Pianos
Chapter Eight - The Gloomy Pizza Party
Chapter Nine - The Physicist
Chapter Ten - An Invisibility Cloak
Chapter Eleven - Dodging the Mom Bullet
Chapter Twelve - Jenna the Jerk
Chapter Thirteen - Herding Cats at Jenna's House
Chapter Fourteen - Solar Panels and Strange Smells
Chapter Fifteen - The Disappearing Glass
Chapter Sixteen - The Super–Secret Science Club
Chapter Seventeen - The Rosalind Group
Chapter Eighteen - Our Mission, Should We Choose to Accept
Chapter Nineteen - The Accusation
Chapter Twenty - Jenna's Theory
Chapter Twenty-One - The Grand Underground Room
Chapter Twenty-Two - The Midnight Break-In
Chapter Twenty-Three - Dr. Wyatt Improvises
Chapter Twenty-Four - The Strange Note
Chapter Twenty-Five - The Missing Oil
Chapter Twenty-Six - Mr. Gregory's False Confession
Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Reprimand
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Got a Bad Feeling About This
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Alma's Confrontation
Chapter Thirty - Jenna's Secret Sidekick
Book 2: The Secrets of Rosalind
At-Home Refraction Experiment
About the Author
Note from the Author
The Super-Secret Science Club: Case of the Disappearing Glass
Copyright © 2016 by S.C. Davis.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, contact the publisher online at:
http://www.brightmindpublications.com/
If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
Cover design by Jeanine Henning
ISBN 978-0-9971905-1-9
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The Super-Secret Science Club: The Secrets of Rosalind
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Chapter 1
The Yellow Sticky Notes
Jenna: Please see me after class today, regarding your grade. — Mr. Gregory
THAT’S ALL IT SAID. One tiny yellow sticky note, nine little words, and my stomach twisted into knots. It was only a month into the school year. How could I be failing science already? Do you know how long an hour can feel when you're waiting to find out something like that? Not surprisingly, for the entire class I felt a gnawing sense of anxiety that kept me from focusing.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not one of those obsessive kids who cry over an A-minus. And my parents aren't cracking a whip at my heels while they fill out my college applications five years early or anything. I'm really just kind of a regular girl. Above average grades, sure. But I don't exactly lose sleep if a pop quiz doesn't end up being my finest moment.
So why did that letter from Mr. Gregory freak me out so much? Well like I said, it was only a month into the school year. We had only had one quiz and a handful of homework assignments so far. We still had five weeks to go before our first test at the end of the nine-week period. It just didn't make any sense.
I started to imagine all sorts of scenarios; my homework got lost, or I had been accused of cheating, or Mr. Gregory had accidentally used the wrong key to grade my quiz, or…something.
I avoided eye contact with Mr. Gregory for most of the class, instead staring down into my lap as I tied a piece of string hanging off the hem of my hoodie into a billion knots. My face burned hot with confused shame.
I tried to snap out of it and pay attention, but halfway through class I caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye. To my right and one row ahead, Chase Ortiz angrily rolled a small piece of yellow paper into a ball. Then, two rows ahead of him, I noticed Britta Schwarz nervously folding the same color yellow paper into a dozen tiny squares.
Odd. I took a quick scan of the rest of the class. In the front row to the far right sat Alexandra Carmichael, who had a yellow sticky note hidden inside the cover of her science textbook. I only saw it because every few seconds she opened the book to steal another glance at it. Maybe she was hoping it would disappear in there.
To Alexandra's left, also in the front row, Ethan Webb had his sticky note stuck right on top of his science book, out for the world to see. One more glance around the room, and I noticed Wesley Nguyen, all the way in the back. He sat slouched back in his chair, no books in sight, but with a single yellow sticky note smack in the middle of his desk. He simply sat with crossed arms and stared at it.
So what? The voice of reason in my head said. Yellow is totally the most common color of sticky notes. Those could be anything.
Occasionally, a girl just knows something is up, no matter how loud their voice of reason is. That was the case with these yellow notes.
Something was definitely up.
Chapter 2
First Notice of Failure
AFTER WHAT FELT LIKE hours the bell finally rang, and my classmates jumped to their feet and clambered through the door. It was lunchtime. Feeling slightly jealous, I watched them all leave, and my stomach growled as I thought about the thermos of leftover spaghetti in my lunch box.
I stood and slowly stuffed books into my lime green backpack, not wanting it to seem obvious that I was staying after class. I pretended to fiddle with one of the dozens of buttons that decorated the bag, and then I casually glanced around the room. Sure enough, the other five yellow-sticky-note-holders were still lingering as well.
The others must not have noticed all the other notes like I had, because they each looked quite confused when they saw each other, and me, all staying behind. Before anyone could say a word, Mr. Gregory appeared in the middle of the puzzled circle of students, pulled a chair out from under a desk and swung it around to sit on it backwards.
He propped his arms up on the back of the chair, sleeves half rolled-up, and thoughtfully stroked his thin red beard. Mr. Gregory is really a pretty cool and relaxed teacher. Younger than most of the other teachers, he seems to prefer acting like our friend rather than an authority figure. But now, he simply looked disappointed.
“I'm sure you're all wondering why I've kept you after class,” said Mr. Gregory. “So I'll cut right to the chase.”
Chase smirked. I wondered if he did that every time he heard the expression, and I found myself involuntarily rolling my eyes.
“I know it's early in the ye
ar,” Mr. Gregory continued. “But based on your grade patterns so far, it's looking like each of you isn't doing so well.”
Six different reactions followed. Britta looked sheepish, Chase looked angry, Alexandra appeared dejected, Wes remained stone-faced, and Ethan just looked surprisingly smug. I felt embarrassed. Though I had spent the entire class period imagining the worst, hearing Mr. Gregory confirm my fears left me mortified.
“Now, this is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. You're all very bright students, and I know you each have a knack for science in one way or another. I talked to Miss Lawson about your science grades from last year and she said you all did great.
“So, I'm thinking the reasons for your slipping grades aren't because you struggle with the material, but because of other personal stuff going on outside the classroom. I don't need anyone to explain,” he said, holding his hands up to halt us as we all began to open our mouths in explanation, mistakenly thinking he was giving us an out. “But let's just say I'm willing to give you a chance to turn it around.”
At the mention of “other personal stuff going on outside the classroom”, I began to reconsider whether or not it was so inconceivable that I might be failing. After all, I had spent the first few weeks of seventh grade sort of...distracted.
I wasn't sure why, but I had taken to daydreaming at the most inappropriate times. In class, at the dinner table, at lunch in the cafeteria, you name it (much to the annoyance of my family and friends, by the way).
Mom thought there was something wrong with me, and started talking about getting me evaluated for various conditions she read about on the internet.
“It's probably attention deficit disorder. Gosh, I hope it's nothing worse!” I overheard her saying to my dad one night.
Dad just started laughing. “June, relax!” he said. “She's a twelve-year-old girl! She'll be a teenager soon; did you think of that? She's too smart for her own good, anyway. She's probably just bored.”
I decided to make an effort to reign in the daydreaming when I caught myself doing it, especially now that there was an apparent consequence. As for the other five, I had no idea what their alibis were, but I didn't really care. All I cared about was working out my own stuff and getting myself out of the “Fail Club”. I might not be a grade freak, but failing a class is a totally different ballgame; and I didn’t want to play.
Chapter 3
Little in Common
AFTER REVEALING THE PURPOSE of our meeting, Mr. Gregory stood up and gestured for us to have a seat at the front of the room. He moved to the white board and began to write something.
“As I said, I'm willing to give you a shot at fixing it. I'd like to see your grades come up by the end of the nine-week period, which is in five weeks. I'm going to give you a special project to work on, as a group.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes, as did the others. It’s not that I had anything against any of them, but we weren’t what you’d call friends. I wasn't even entirely certain I had ever had a conversation with each of them.
From where I stood, we had very little in common besides the fact that we all lived in Bradbury and attended Brisby Middle School. I cringed as I mentally added “failing science class” to the list of things in common. Other than that, there wasn’t much else.
First of all, there’s me; average as can be. Well, besides being a self-proclaimed child prodigy food connoisseur. I could talk you under the table about herbs, spices, sauces and stews. I’ve made nearly every recipe in Julia Child’s books, and I’m told my béchamel is better than what’s made in France itself. But don’t take my word for it; ask my trusted board of taste-testers, especially my best friend Alma.
I've known Alma Rossetti since the third grade, when she moved to our town from New York. She was born in the Bronx, and it was immediately obvious how feisty she was, compared to us small-towners.
She walked into the classroom on her first day, escorted by the principal, and sat right down at an empty desk next to me. The desk was actually assigned to Timmy Gladwell, but he was absent that day. The fact that a large sticker with his name on it was stuck right on top of the desk didn’t seem to matter much to Alma.
“Class, we have a new student. This is Alma,” the teacher, Miss Mason, had said. “Alma, I actually have your desk right over here,” she said with a timid smile, as she gestured at another empty desk in the front. Alma’s name was already written on a big bright sticker on top of it.
Most students, myself included, would have picked up their bag and shuffled over to their assigned desk at that point. But not Alma. She had made her selection.
“Oh, no thanks, that’s okay,” she said to Miss Mason, as if her instructions for Alma to move had actually been an optional favor. Alma flashed a mischievous smile, as if to dare Miss Mason to ask again.
I giggled, then immediately clasped a hand over my mouth, surprised by my own reaction. Alma kept her eyes on our teacher. Miss Mason, still young and new to teaching, hadn’t quite gotten the hang of authority just yet. The next day, the name stickers had been switched on the desks, and Miss Mason led a confused Timmy to his new seat.
I was entertained, intrigued, and more than a little intimidated by Alma, so later that week when she suggested that we be study partners, I wasn’t about to decline.
In the following weeks, I was very careful to correct her as gently as possible when she kept messing up multiplication problems, but though she eventually improved on most of them, there was one she just could never seem to remember: twelve times twelve.
One day, I snapped.
“One hundred and forty-four! One hundred and forty-four, Alma!” I said, slapping my palms onto the desk in exasperation. She sat and stared at me wide-eyed for what seemed like an eternity.
I stared back. I had seen her punch a kid on the playground a few days before, and I knew the punch was coming my way any second. I closed my eyes and braced myself for it, hoping it would be over quickly.
Suddenly Alma started to laugh. She cracked up, in fact. She gripped her stomach and rolled back in her chair, eyes watering. I opened my eyes, unsure of what was happening. Did she think I had been joking? Was this the evil laugh that came right before ripping me to shreds?
When she finally composed herself, she reached out her hand and grabbed my shoulder. I flinched, but her grip was light and friendly. She smiled at me, still hiccupping from laughter.
“Jenna, I think you’re my new best friend,” she said. It was settled. We were from that day forward.
Not long after, she invited me over to her house to watch football one Sunday. Even at the tender age of eight she was a hardcore Jets fan like the rest of her family. I remember being pretty terrified the first time I watched a game with them. My dad grew up in New Orleans, and we had always rooted for the Saints in my house.
I remember being afraid to tell Alma’s family that. I thought her big brothers might beat me up. But when my dad picked me up from her house after that first game wearing a Saints jersey, the cat was out of the bag.
Since then, it’s been a tradition that I go to her house every Sunday. Usually I bring some new culinary experiment to test on her and her family. I’ve learned the way into a Rossetti’s heart is through their stomachs, so they’ve come to love me as one of their own. I’ve even picked up a few Italian cooking tricks from her dad, including his secret recipe for “Rossetti’s Risotto”, never before shared with a non-family member.
Alma and I are people-watchers. It’s our thing. We spend our weekends sitting on the bay beach, or walking around the town and dipping in and out of coffee shops, ice cream parlors, and the occasional antique shop.
We rarely buy anything; we just sit and observe, often adding our own commentary on the exchanges between other people in the store, or making up elaborate stories about their secret lives as spies or bounty hunters or underground black-market traders.
Some evenings after school we sit on the hill above the athletic fi
elds and watch the high school teams play football, baseball, soccer; whatever is in season. Sometimes the youth sports leagues play, and we get to watch our own classmates compete.
Alexandra Carmichael is always one of them. If there’s a youth league for it, she’s in it. Track, cross-country, soccer, softball; she does it all. In the winter, she’s in the gym for volleyball, basketball, and gymnastics.
Not surprisingly Alexandra is one of the more popular girls. She’s got the looks to go with her superb athletic record, and it also doesn’t hurt that her dad is our math teacher. Kids must assume Mr. Carmichael will hand out good grades to all of his daughter’s friends, so they cling to her like Velcro when he’s around.
He's okay, but seems a little superficial and overbearing. He virtually ignores her in class, but is intensely engaged when she’s competing at sports. Alexandra has four older sisters. They’re all high achievers and star athletes. One is even the starting center on the women’s basketball team at her university. It's no secret that Mr. Carmichael expects Alexandra to be just like them.
“You’ll thank me one day when all the college scholarships start rolling in,” I overheard him say to her at a basketball game once, as he sent her limping back onto the court with a twisted ankle.
Alma says that Alexandra overdoes everything to try to hide her insecurities of not being good enough. Alma has a terrible habit of trying to psychoanalyze everyone, but I have to be honest; she’s usually right.
“Trust me on this one,” she said the first time she made the observation. “It comes with the territory when you have a bunch of siblings.” This was something I couldn’t argue with. Being an only child, I would never understand what it was like.
