“Yes. Hypatia is one of my favorites.” Again the Nazi-witch-queen of OMS attempted a smile. I wondered if I’d get detention for putting “Lynnet smiles” on an English quiz as an example of an oxymoron. Probably. “Doing Hypatia certainly would count.”
“Doing Hypatia” sounded like complicated needlework or a dance from the fifties. Maybe from 1956. My thoughts wandered back to the tin and the thirteen-year-old who’d put her mementos in it. Had she lived to the age of fourteen? Had Betsy killed her? If not, how old would she be now? Did the family move? Where?
“Miss St. Claire! Stop staring into space.” Ms. Lynnet whacked the board with her pointer and jarred me back to the present. “What volume did you get for number fourteen?”
Since I hadn’t gotten around to “solving practical problems involving the volume and surface area of prisms, cylinders, cones, and pyramids,” I decided to take a wild guess rather than admit I hadn’t done the homework. You could get a bad call home for being lazy but not for being stupid. I eyeballed the problem about volume.
“One hundred twenty-seven . . . cubic inches.” The number might be way off, but I knew the answer had to be inches cubed.
“Your units are correct, but double-check your calculations next time. Donabell?” The class Diva was waving wildly to get the teacher’s attention.
“One hundred forty-eight cubic inches.”
“Correct. Nice job. Number fifteen?” The teacher was scanning the other side of the room for potential victims, so I relaxed. I vowed to never again get so wrapped up in my investigation I let homework and choosing a person for my monologue slide.
Who would I choose? I ran through all the people I could remember that we’d studied about this year. It was a short list. Like measured in millimeters short.
Gabby, get a grip. If you can’t remember who you studied last week or the monologue assignment, how are you going to remember a whole monologue?
Normally I fantasized about being onstage, a rapt audience hanging on my every word, every gesture. I imagined the thunderous applause. I could feel the hot spotlight on my beaming face.
Only this time I imagined my face turning beet red as I froze, unable to recall a single word, while the audience rolled in the aisles laughing at me.
I vowed to turn over a new leaf. I would work on my memory.
***
Becca and I took our usual seats at our usual lunch table and continued the conversation we’d started en route to the noisy, overcrowded, and dingy room the military family kids referred to as the chow hall.
“I dunno.” Becca shrugged. “All Amy Snyder said was that the Diva wanted to talk to you about something important.”
Why would the Diva want to talk to me?
I bit into my PB-and-raspberry-jam sandwich and switched from feeling bewildered to bristling like a porcupine. Who did the Diva think she was to summon me like some lackey? I wasn’t a gopher, one of those fringe kids who ran errands for the so-called middle school elite. If she wanted to talk to me, she could come to me.
I took a second, fiercer bite.
I, Gabby St. Claire, am nobody’s toady.
I savored the sweet flavor of my sandwich as my emotion transitioned into a smug pleasure that the Diva would crave my opinion or advice. I glanced over my shoulder at the Cool Clique Table in the back of the lunchroom. The Diva was looking right at me. Expectant. Hopeful?
“It’s about time she realized I am a force to be reckoned with,” I told Becca, turning back around and wishing I’d taken a drink before trying to speak with sticky peanut butter distorting my words. I took a bite of apple so I could talk more coherently.
“So, you’re gonna talk to her?” A crease formed between Becca’s eyebrows.
I munched and quelled my self-satisfied, egotistical thought. I would not turn into a Diva. Nor was I going to be sucked into being a wannabe Devotee.
“I have to admit I almost didn’t get my acrostic poem finished in English wondering what she might want.” Becca’s eyebrows rose in expectation. “Have you turned in your book report yet?”
“No.” The Nancy Drew novel lay next to Watson on my night table. “What could she want?”
I polished off my sandwich as I mentally ran through some possibilities. I dismissed the academic angle. I was no brainiac whose class notes were in high demand. I doubted it had to do with drama club either.
One possibility kept nagging me. Did this have to do with a little run-in I had with the Diva’s ex-boyfriend, the one who no longer went to our school because of me?
Could this be about the Caveman?
In the end, curiosity won out. I found myself sauntering over to Donabell with Becca close on my heels. She was just as curious, and it never hurt to have backup, as her cop dad would say.
“Wassup?” I casually stuffed my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.
“As you know, my bike was stolen,” the Diva began, tilting her nose higher in the air. “The police think it might be at a pawnshop, and since you have experience with those sorts of places, I thought you wouldn’t mind checking around.”
The Diva flipped her perfectly highlighted hair, trying to come off as casual, but I detected a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
Good. The Diva recognizes that I, Gabby St. Claire, am not just another gopher.
I waited, despite the uncomfortable pocket of silence that formed around us. Every eye at her table fastened on me. Instead of blurting out “no” or laughing in her face, my first two gut reactions, I took my time to formulate just the right refusal.
As if she sensed how I was about to respond, the Diva added, “I would pay you a finder’s fee, of course. Say . . .” She scanned my face as if a dollar amount would appear in red marker across my forehead. “Ten dollars.”
I shook my head no.
“No can do. I’m pretty busy right now.” I smiled broadly, enjoying the shocked expressions around me.
Jaws dropped. Eyes grew as large as supersized servings of fast food fries. No one ever refused the Diva.
The Diva’s eyes narrowed and stayed locked on me as she leaned toward Amy Snyder and said, “Amy, find out the name of the lady who cleans your house. I think my parents are in the market for someone new.”
Now it was my turn to narrow my eyes. The Diva was fighting dirty. No way could we afford for my mom to lose that cleaning gig, and the Diva knew it. I wanted to leap across the table and throttle her scrawny neck. I was so angry I couldn’t think of something horrible enough to say to her.
I felt my BFF’s hand on my shoulder. “Gabby, if that finder’s fee had Andrew Jackson on it, could you just maybe free up a little time?”
I turned to stare at Becca, maybe throttle her too, when I caught her wink and realized what she had done: she’d turned this win-lose confrontation into a draw.
“Andrew Jackson? What does he have to do with stolen bikes?” asked Amy, clearly unaware that his face graced a twenty-dollar bill.
The Diva responded in an icy tone, knowing she didn’t quite have the upper hand she’d hoped for. “I’m sure my parents wouldn’t have a problem with a twenty-dollar reward.”
Her frosty glare made me wonder if “freezer burn” wasn’t an oxymoron at all.
“As long as you find my bike,” she continued.
“Gabby’s practically the next Sherlock Holmes, so that shouldn’t be a problem,” Becca assured her.
I glowed at the comparison and got in the last word. “I’ll need your registration number or a photo or a receipt, something to go on. Once you bring that to me, I’ll shuffle some stuff around on my schedule.”
I spun quickly and all but sprinted to our table before she could come up with a snappy retort.
I hadn’t gotten past the Troll Table before it hit me like a mondo wave that wipes a surfer off his board. I had gotten myself into a contract that I was unlikely to fulfill. If the police couldn’t find her bike, how would I?
Finding a stolen bike would
be harder than finding a needle in a haystack. At least with a needle, I could search with a magnet and eventually succeed. Finding one bike in a city of a hundred thousand people would be impossible.
I sighed. I didn’t have a choice. I had to succeed. My family’s economic well-being and my reputation were at stake.
CHAPTER 8
Back at our table, the rest of our BFFLs dined on the OMS version of chow mein, which resembled dried worms crawling across wallpaper paste dumped on a pile of rice. It smelled like glue spiked with chili powder. Days like these made me glad I brought my lunch.
“Becoming best buds with Booger-Breath?” Pete’s eyebrows arched into a question, but his smile revealed he was teasing. His short blond hair was gelled into spikes, and he sported a Spiderman T and black jeans.
“Can’t tell you,” I quipped back. “It’s a police matter.”
“The bike thefts? Dad reminded me fifty times to lock my bike because he read about a bunch of bikes being stolen.” Pete stared pointedly at Becca. “I tried to warn you, Gabby, but your phone was busy all night.”
I decided not to mention I had also tried to call him twice and gotten a busy signal both times. Becca had the grace to look sorry and ashamed for half a second before spilling my good news. Before I could.
“Gabby found some historical artifacts,” she said, beaming up at her crush, Brandon. She had it bad for the already taken green-eyed idol.
As she stole my spotlight, I compared the two guys. Brandon was long and lean compared to Pete’s more solid frame. Brandon was the youngest, while Pete was the middle child, a position he absolutely loathed because he felt his two sisters got more than their share of the attention. Both guys were athletic, but Brandon danced while Pete did more traditional sports.
Becca had managed to repeat nearly everything I had told her, right down to the number of seashells. She possessed an amazing memory and not just for tests.
I, Gabby St. Claire, need that sort of memory. Especially for the stage.
“Hey Brandon,” I interjected when Becca finally stopped yakking about my find. “Being the Broadway fan you are, have you ever heard of a show called Mr. Johnson?”
“Nah. Did it just open?”
“No, it was done in 1956.” I quickly filled in my BFFLs about the one thing Becca hadn’t blabbed: the covers of the other two magazines. She only knew about one, and therefore stole my thunder about the one featuring Dr. King on the cover.
“Did you find any old comics?” Pete asked. “A 1960 Spiderman is worth a quarter of a million dollars.”
Pete, the superhero junkie, got my mental wheels churning. If a Spidey comic was worth that much, could an even older magazine with Martin Luther King on the cover be worth even more?
I asked Pete’s opinion.
He shrugged. “Could be.”
“How would I find out?”
“Want to ride over to the comic store after school and ask?”
“Sure,” I said.
“So, do you guys have your characters picked out yet for the monologues?” Brandon shifted the conversation.
“I’m doing Hypatia.” Adoration shone from Becca’s eyes. If she adored Brandon any harder, we’d all go blind. “What about you? Fred Astaire?”
Brandon chuckled and shook his head. “You’re close. But I have to run it by Mrs. Baker first, so I can’t say for sure yet. Gabby, whatcha got?”
I shrugged. “I got sidetracked investigating the tin. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Wonder Woman,” Pete said. “Or Storm.”
“Has to be someone related to a school subject,” Becca reminded him.
“Comics should count for extra credit reading.” Pete emphasized each word by tapping the air with his fork.
Fortunately for me, the chunk of chow mein paste flew harmlessly past my ear. As he and Becca debated what constituted literature, I resolved to choose a person, get my rough draft together, and save my mom’s job at the Bullocks’.
All by Friday.
“Gabby, I know just the perfect person!” Becca thumped the table for emphasis. “It would be brilliant! It might even count for more than one subject.”
“So dish,” I said, impatient to hear her suggestion.
“You should track down the Hope who made the time capsule and do your monologue as her. You could even hold up each item and explain why she put it in.”
I started to balk that it would be way too much work when her brilliance hit me. Using the items to cue my lines would prevent the awkwardness of my mind going blank. It was pure genius!
“Great idea,” I said, high-fiving her.
“Another mystery, huh, Nancy Drew?” Pete said. “If you end up investigating the murder mentioned in that time capsule letter, count me in. You know you can’t do anything dangerous like that without me for backup.”
Pete’s help had been crucial to my last dilemma, and any excuse was a good one to spend time with him, since both of our parents had said we were too young to officially date.
“Glad to have you aboard, Captain Thor.” That was my not-too-private pet name for Pete. It combined the names of his two favorite superheroes: Captain America and Thor. Pete had a strong chin like Thor.
Pete smiled at me, and I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
“Meet me at the bike rack after I talk to Mrs. Baker about the monologue?”
“It’s a date.” Pete winked.
My tummy did a somersault. I glanced at the cafeteria clock. We’d been an item now for a record-breaking one month, three days, and three to five minutes.
How much longer would it grow?
CHAPTER 9
“Mr. C. will count it for history, and Ms. Shernick says if I use the scientific method to discover who Hope Q. is, she’ll count it too.” I shifted my weight back and forth from one foot to the other, hoping Mrs. Baker would green-light my strange request.
“So you only have a first name and last initial, but you think you can track her down by the contents of the time capsule? And you want me to allow you to turn in notes rather than a rough draft by Friday?” The lines running up and down between Mrs. Baker’s brows deepened as she cocked her head to one side to study me. “And I thought Brandon’s request would be the most . . . interesting.”
“Why? What is he doing?” I blurted, my curiosity about all things Brandon unleashing my tongue.
“Brandon not only wants to dance during his Alvin Ailey monologue, he wants to include backup dancers behind him onstage.” Mrs. Baker chuckled. “One day that boy will end up in or behind Broadway shows.”
I nodded in agreement. Bran the Man was the most amazing dancer I had ever seen or had the privilege to partner with. Of course, our partnership only lasted about ninety seconds during Oklahoma auditions, but it still counted.
“Tell you what, Gabby. I’m going to give you a qualified probably.” Mrs. Baker moved to the other side of her desk. “I’ll let you turn in a summary of what you have discovered by Thursday. Based on the amount of progress you have made, I’ll either say ‘no,’ in which case I’ll entertain a rough draft of your second choice, or I’ll say ‘probably’ and we’ll pick another checkpoint date. Sound okay to you?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what a checkpoint date was, but I agreed anyway and hurried to meet Pete.
Twice the normal number of people milled around the bike rack, and sounds of distress and anger made Pete and me exchange glances. The voice of Principal Black rose above the noisy crowd. The April sunshine glinted off his puzzled, perspiring face.
Squeezing through the throng, I noticed five ruined bike chains lying in the grass like ten dead snakes. Someone had cut them in half, plastic casing and metal chain included. A wave of relief passed through me as I spied both Pete’s and my bikes. I worked my way past the rubberneckers, unlocked mine, and slowly wormed my way past a knot of kids whispering about the Mocha Locos.
The Mocha Locos were more of a clique than a bona fide gang. The
ir ringleader, Rafael Valentini Diaz, more commonly referred to as Raff, was the only one with a real tattoo—a skull with flames erupting from its eye sockets, on the back of one hand. He had spent several months in a juvenile lockup. Consequently he was taller, bigger, and older by two years than the rest of the seventh graders at OMS.
If his cocky attitude, smart mouth, and calculating eyes hadn’t given him away as a problem child, his prized possession—an ankle monitoring bracelet—would have. Raff never wore socks, and stretched his leg into the classroom aisles every chance he got so that everyone knew he was bad news.
The rest of the Mocha Locos were probably just wannabe gangsters. They hung out together at and after school, sporting skull jewelry, black T-shirts, and temporary tattoos. They sometimes “borrowed” money and school supplies from the timid kids and spent more time in the office than the school secretary did.
“I bet it’s the Mocha Locos,” said a hushed voice.
“Yeah, my brother’s on the baseball team, but he’s been walking home from practice rather than risk his bike getting stolen.”
The baseball team! When they practiced after school, they had a perfect view of the bike racks. One of them might have seen when the Diva’s bike thief struck.
As Pete and I pedaled toward Page Turner’s Novel Ideas, a used bookstore of sorts, I vowed to track down someone from the team and ask about it. The store was situated on Birch Street between a dry cleaner’s and a Chinese take-out in an older strip mall. The spices floating out of the restaurant made my tummy growl. I could have eaten some of their chow mein. It smelled nothing like the stuff our cafeteria served.
Pete ran his bike chain through the front tires of both bikes and around a street sign. The ritual always warmed my heart—our bikes joined together seemed symbolic of us being locked together, even if we couldn’t actually date.
While he did that, I peered through the front window at the second- and thirdhand books, movies, magazines, and comics on display. Hand-lettered signs read “Collectible card games” and “Gaming room in the back.”
The Bungled Bike Burglaries (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries Book 3) Page 3
