by Nora Price
By now, a curiosity of this notebook should be obvious to anybody who happens to read it (though I don’t expect such an event ever to occur): for all of my documentation of Twin Birch, not a single word has been written about the other girls’ bedrooms. Why not? Read the above paragraph, lifted verbatim from the section of the brochure that I assigned myself to read last night. With the exception of roommates and Devon, nobody is allowed to enter (read: snoop inside) anyone else’s bedroom.
The prohibition itself lends extra import to Brooke’s accusation, because wrapped up in that crime is included the additional crime of trespassing.
Not only is accusing somebody of theft a big deal, as Brooke had publicly accused me, Haley, and Victoria, but investigating the crime ourselves by, say, sneaking around to see if our belongings show up in somebody else’s suitcase is a logistical impossibility. Our whereabouts are always accounted for, even during Group Downtime. There are no opportunities to prowl.
Except, of course, at night. How else do you think I’ve been reading the all-important memo?
For the past four days, a scheme had been brewing in my mind. I had to be careful and meticulous in the planning. I couldn’t afford to mess up on this.
I mentioned the plan to Victoria and Haley yesterday but told them I needed twenty-four more hours in order to work out the details. They pleaded with me for ten minutes but ultimately agreed to the caveat, and I promised them that it would be worth it.
“Trust me,” I told them at last night’s dinner. “I need to sleep on it and work out the kinks. I’ll tell you tomorrow over breakfast.”
In truth, I didn’t need twenty-four hours. Or anything close to it. What I needed was ten minutes of uninterrupted reading time in the bathroom—but I could only accomplish this task at night, after everyone else was asleep. I was fairly certain that my memory was correct—that there was a loophole in the Twin Birch rules that we could exploit for our own purposes—but I needed to pore over the brochure one last time, checking the fine print and rereading the rules to ensure that I had them fully memorized.
Plus, I was nervous. I hadn’t asserted myself much at Twin Birch, and this would be asserting myself big-time. The longer I could put it off, the more time I had to get over my fears.
It wasn’t difficult to find an interval in which to sneak to the bathroom at lights-out, since I was wired enough to know that I wouldn’t be getting much sleep. Caroline was a minor problem; it took her a full hour to fall asleep, and I waited an additional hour for certainty’s sake, given that my ability to read her sleep patterns had been proven faulty on the night that she launched her surprise-attack interrogation. At half-past midnight, I slinked out of bed, locked myself in the bathroom, found what I needed to know, and proceeded to imprint the wording on my brain by a monotonous process of rote rereading.
Breakfast the next morning was a rainbow chard omelet with romesco sauce. Nobody had a clue what romesco sauce was, which gave Devon—who sat at the other table—ample opportunity to speechify on the subject while Victoria, Haley, and I got down to brass tacks.
“Here’s the idea,” I whispered, propping my elbows on the table. “We each have a roommate. Technically, searching our roommate’s stuff is against the rules, but it’s not a rule that’s strictly enforceable by anyone except your roommate. Got it?”
They nodded.
“Then you grind the almonds into a paste, so it’s like glue,” Devon was loudly explaining at the other table. The three of us reflexively looked down at the orangey-red sauce covering our omelets. There were nuts in this? Great.
“Anyway,” I went on. “Imaginary scenario: Let’s say Devon walks by your bedroom and catches you pawing through a suitcase. She’s gonna assume it’s your suitcase, not your roommate’s. Therefore, we can all search our roommate’s suitcases to make sure that the dress isn’t in there.”
“And your leggings,” Haley added.
“And my leggings. Exactly.”
“Hold on,” Victoria said. “Me and Haley are roommates.”
“Right. This is about process of elimination. I know you guys didn’t steal the stuff, but for thoroughness’s sake, do a search through each other’s suitcases. Just to be sure. I’ll search Caroline’s stuff when she’s out of the room.”
Victoria and Haley looked at each other, screwing up their noses. “That’s so weird!” Haley said. “Isn’t that awkward?”
“Not unless you have something to hide,” I said deviously.
“Oh my God, you’re like a trial lawyer,” Victoria said. “Okay, I’m game. Haley and I can search each other as soon as Gardening is over.”
“Perfect. I’ll do Caroline when she’s in therapy. We can report our results during lunch.”
“Wait,” Victoria said. “What about you?”
“What about what?”
“Your stuff. If we ask Caroline to search your suitcase, she’s gonna run straight to Devon and tattle on us. We can’t tell her.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why would I steal my own leggings?” I asked.
Haley and Victoria were silent for a moment. I tensed. Was it silly of me to think that they would take my innocence for granted?
But Victoria nodded at last. “You’re right,” she said.
Devon’s blaring voice carried over from the next table. “Then, when the bread is toasted,” she was saying, “you add it to the food processor with oil, vinegar, peppers, and the nuts from earlier.” Her enthusiasm was going over like a lead balloon—Caroline drew swirls in her romesco sauce, and Jane stared at the floor. Incredible. Sometimes I liked to observe Devon strictly for the spectacle of her unbreakable self-confidence.
“Thoroughness is essential,” I said, breaking my gaze from the bobbing blond ponytail to return to our strategy session. “Let’s meet on the lawn as soon as warm-up is finished. If all goes well, we can cross four names off our list.”
“Genius,” Victoria said. “And so simple, too.”
“Yep, process of elimination,” I shrugged. “Just think of it like a standardized test.”
Boogers.
That was the word that came to mind as Devon shoveled ricotta gnocchi on my plate. Giant boogers. Garden tomatoes, balsamic onions, and a confetti of pine nuts went on top of the gnocchi, which I carried back to my table like a prisoner dragging a ball and chain. At least I could find my way to the dining room on my own now.
It was lunchtime and Victoria and Haley awaited me, their plates already loaded and steaming. We were all eager to share our results.
“So,” I said, sitting down. “You two first.”
Haley pointed at Victoria. “All clear,” she said.
“Ditto,” Victoria replied.
“No dirty green dress? No leggings that smell like gazpacho?” (I’d spilled Devon’s disgusting gazpacho on my leggings the other day.)
They both shook their heads.
“Me neither,” I said. “There was nothing in Caroline’s suitcase but St. Agnes paraphernalia and Kate Spade headbands.”
“Huh,” Victoria said under her breath. “To be honest, I was kind of suspecting Caroline. There’s something maladjusted about her.”
“Agreed.”
“Well, what do we do now?” Haley asked, chasing a piece of gnocchi around her plate. “Our ploy didn’t work.”
“Hold your horses,” I said. “That was only half of the plan.”
“It was?”
We were interrupted by an enthusiastic noise at the other table. Devon was smacking herself on the forehead.
“KALE CHIPS!” Devon yelped. “I forgot the kale chips!” We watched her shoot up and run into the kitchen, returning with two baskets that contained the results of our earlier kitchen labor.
“Fabulous—more food,” Victoria muttered. “I was hoping she forgot.”
Each table got its own basket of kale chips. “You guys, I am so sorry,” Devon said.
She returned to the other table, her ponytail animated in flight
.
“As I was saying,” I continued. “We know for sure that none of us is the perp.”
“You did not just say ‘perp,’” Victoria said.
“I totally did. So listen, here’s what we do. When dinner rolls around, the three of us huddle together conspiratorially and talk in whispers. Why? Because we want Jane and Brooke to see us scheming. After all, we know that one of them is the thief—”
“But it was Brooke’s dress,” Haley interrupted.
“Please,” I rejoined. “Brooke is nuts. She easily could have stolen her own dress to get sympathy points. And if she was going to steal anyone else’s clothes along with it, she’d choose mine because she loathes me. So,” I went on. “Immediately following dinner, during warm-up, we three all stand up at my signal in the living room, and we make a little announcement.”
“A little announcement,” Victoria echoed.
“Correct. We say, ‘Listen up, ladies. We know what’s up. We know what’s missing and we also know who took it.”
“But we don’t,” Haley pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a bluff,” Victoria said, nodding. She was starting to understand what I was getting at.
“Oh,” said Haley.
“Right,” I continued. “We stand up in front of everyone and say some version of the following: The thief knows who she is. And so do we. Frankly, we’d like nothing more than to rat her out and see her gone from this place. But lucky for her, we have an ounce of empathy in our hearts. Therefore, we’re willing to strike a compromise. If we see the clothes returned to their proper places by bedtime tonight, we’ll consider the case closed. Finished. Understood?”
“That’s good,” Victoria said. “That’s genius.”
“I have goose bumps.” Haley shivered. “Do you think it will really work?”
“Haven’t you ever played poker?” I speared a gnocchi and held it up to the light. Haley reached into the basket of kale chips, selected the tiniest one, and put it in her mouth, wincing slightly. “What matters most,” I said, “is delivery. Without an impeccable delivery, this plan will fail. Like all bluffs.”
“This is actually good,” Haley said, crunching on her chip. “Eat one. I promise it’s good.”
I ate a kale chip. It was good. Salty and crunchy and vaguely satisfying. “This is the first thing we’ve made that I like,” I acknowledged.
“It tastes frizzly,” Haley said.
“Not a word,” Victoria mumbled, clearly not interested in proving Haley right.
“I know, but eat one. You’ll see what I mean.”
Victoria took a kale chip. “Huh,” she said. “I see what you mean.” She finished chewing and then held up a finger. “I hate to be a killjoy, Zoe, but there’s a glaring flaw in this plan.”
Crap. What had I forgotten?
“The flaw is this,” Victoria went on. “If we play this right, you’ll get your leggings back, but we still won’t know who took them in the first place. We still won’t know who we can and can’t trust.”
She was right. I’d recognized the flaw from the plan’s inception; I was just hoping no one else would notice.
I nibbled at a kale chip while I pretended to mull over her objection. “You’re right,” I said. “But it still seems like a small price to pay. The main thing is that it will curb any future thefts. If the person knows that she’s been caught or thinks that she’s been caught, she’s not going to risk doing it again. That would be suicide.”
“True,” Victoria said. “Okay. You’ve convinced me. I’m on board.”
“Me too,” Haley said. “This is fun. This is like a CSI episode.”
“Excellent,” I confirmed. As with any solid plan, the execution was a basic matter of rehearsing and carrying out the motions. Having settled on a course of action, we picked up our forks and started fiddling with the gnocchi, which were now cold and slimy (for extra booger-verisimilitude).
Somehow, the basket of kale chips had emptied out during the conversation without our even noticing it.
That, I thought cynically, was a first.
Crispy Kale Chips for Sleuths
1 bunch of kale
3 tbsp. olive or coconut oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
Pinch of salt
Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Tear kale into pieces about half the size of your fist. (Don’t sweat the technique—the size of the pieces doesn’t much matter.) In a big bowl, pour other ingredients on top. Squeeze, knead, and/or massage the whole thing with your hands until the kale is soft (about one minute). Spread on a baking sheet and cook six minutes in the oven, stirring once or twice. If the kale isn’t crispy after six minutes, keep cooking. Just don’t let your leaves burn!
Recipe produces a large batch, best shared with co-conspirators.
Having paved the road with Haley and Victoria for the rest of the day, I decided to strike out on my own for a pre-dinner walk around the grounds. The adrenaline stoked by our plan mingled with that peculiar heightened feeling that summer nights can have, and it seemed to me that the grass smelled grassier than usual. The feeling was anticipatory, like creeping downstairs to open your Christmas stocking or getting an e-mail that you’ve been tagged on Facebook. Except that this time, there was an added tinge of fear. After two laps around the shambling brick building—Twin Birch’s isolation means that we’re allowed to roam unsupervised, since there’s no possible route of escape—I found a thick spot on the lawn and lay down, staring upward. The tree leaves waved like tiny silk fans. I reached for my phone to take a picture and then stopped, remembering where I was. My phone was locked away.
Perhaps it is a predictable observation, but being without a cellphone makes me aware of how infrequently I actually have the chance to indulge in long thoughts without the possibility of interruption. I hadn’t noticed before, but every time a text popped up on my phone (or on Elise’s), it created a tiny, near-invisible distraction. And while tiny distractions are not in themselves harmful, they do add up into an implacable distance, and a distance that you eventually stop noticing because it so quickly becomes the norm. As I lay flat on my back, letting the breeze tickle my nose, I began to wonder how deep a conversation between two people can be if you’re both aware that you may be interrupted at a moment’s notice.
Maybe it makes no difference.
At quarter to seven I got up to wash my hands and prepare for dinner. Haley and Victoria were lingering by the door when I arrived at the dining room, waiting for Devon to choose her seat so that we could sit at the other table. Very strategic.
“It smells like a fart in here,” Haley observed.
“Roasted broccoli,” Victoria said. “A wild guess.”
She was right. Roasted broccoli, corn chowder with smoked cheddar, and sprouted flax bread. Dessert was a blackberry-fig cobbler that nobody but Devon partook of. If it is hard enough to choke down our meals on an ordinary day, today was even worse. There’s nothing like pre-performance jitters to flush your appetite down the toilet.
Although I was careful not to act unusual, I did make one small mistake while Devon was in the kitchen fetching dessert. I allowed my eyes to wander over to Caroline, Jane, and Brooke—in retrospect, I wonder if a sixth sense guided me to do so—and caught them bent forward at their table, taking advantage of Devon’s absence to whisper an urgent exchange. When Brooke caught my eye, she clamped her mouth shut and reeled back into her chair with a look of alarm, as though I’d been reading her lips.
If only.
Figs and blackberries were followed by herbal tea and warm-up period. The possibility of a movie was introduced. At that point, the mission unfolded exactly as I’d hoped.
On my signal, we stood up, shed our blankets, gathered at the front of the living room, and faced the group.
“What’s up, girls?” Devon asked, startled.
We didn’t reply. Instead, we delivered our announcement, as choreographed, with confidence and simplicity. As a postscr
ipt, I added the following:
“Victoria, Haley, and I will spend the next forty minutes outside on the lawn, star-gazing, in order to provide the thief enough time to return the garments to their original places without fear of being caught. All that matters,” I said, “is that the items are returned. That’s all. We have no interest in punishment, entrapment, or deception.”
Devon’s eyes bugged like a goldfish’s, but she was frozen, too stunned at our audacity to commandeer the situation. And why should she? Our plan was a good one. It was a fair and decent one. After concluding our statement, we filed out the door, down the stairs, and out to the lawn. The evening air was translucent; our bodies shook with excitement.
“That went well, right?” Haley blurted, as soon as we were a safe distance from the house.
“It did,” I said cautiously. “But we can’t celebrate yet.”
Victoria was quiet.
“What’s up?” I nudged her. We lay down on our stomachs, slapping away mosquitos.
“Nothin’,” she said unconvincingly. “That was good.”
“Spill,” I said. “You’re worried about something.”
Victoria rolled over onto her back. “I am,” she admitted. “It’s the fact that even if the plan works, we still won’t know who committed the crime. I know that we don’t have any other options, but it still bugs me. I’m still creeped out.”
I frowned in the dark. Her comment annoyed me. She hadn’t offered a better plan, had she? I’d stayed up hours in order to read the damn Twin Birch memo and iron out the intricacies of our action, and she wasn’t satisfied? God.
Victoria seemed to read my thoughts because she hurriedly amended her opinion. “Scratch that. Zoe, I’m being retarded.”
“I just don’t know what the alternative is.”
“I know. We’re taking the high-minded approach, and I’m being a baby about it. Forget it. Don’t listen to me.”
“I do see what you mean, though,” I said, feeling generous after she’d admitted being wrong.
“No, you’re right about it,” Victoria added. “It’s not about making someone feel bad. It’s about fixing a weird situation so we can bury it in the past and not let it bother us. Your plan is good. It’s really good.”
