“Whenever you’re ready,” Mrs. Baker said in her typical kindly, encouraging voice.
A beat went by.
A second.
Becca raised her eyes and kept raising them until she stared at the ceiling. She pointed. Every eye followed.
“Look to the heavens. What do we see? The moon and the stars.” Becca swept her arm from one side to the other. “They move, they revolve in precision. With mathematics, we can understand them.”
For the remainder of her performance, she read from her paper, but her opening had cinched her playing Hypatia. She’d had us all staring at nothing but seeing the night sky.
“Amy Snyder,” Mrs. Baker called.
Brandon high-fived Becca as she crumpled into her seat. “Inspired opening,” he whispered enthusiastically.
My friend perked up at the praise.
“You rocked, girlfriend,” I added.
Amy’s monologue was pretty dull, and not just because her topic was Edna St. Vincent somebody or the other. I squinched my eyes shut and prayed I’d do better.
“Donabell Bullock as Jackie Kennedy,” Mrs. Baker called.
The Diva arose, adjusting her black wig and hat. It was the best part of her performance. Her fake southern drawl droned on and on about the “class and refinement” she brought to the White House as President Kennedy’s wife.
Boring with a capital B.
“Jackie Kennedy was a New Yorker, not some southern belle,” Becca scoffed. “I guess her idea of preparing two pieces flopped, because she confused her accents.”
I nodded in agreement but couldn’t really enjoy the Diva’s downfall. I was too keyed up, too on edge.
The Diva’s performance merited a rousing display of applause from her Devotees, and Amy Snyder looked absolutely ridiculous giving her a standing ovation.
“Gabby St. Claire.”
My derision evaporated as a sense of panic enveloped me. My knees shook as I sidled into the aisle. I stopped, took a deep breath, and desperately tried to channel all my nervousness into what Brandon called “butterflies of bodaciousness.”
I, Gabby St. Claire, am an actress. I can do this. I’ve done the research. Hope deserves to have her story told.
I reached center stage without tripping. I took another deep breath in and dropped my eyes to the floor to focus.
“Whenever you’re ready.” I could hear the smile in Mrs. Baker’s voice even though I couldn’t see it.
Just as I was raising my head, I heard a snicker. I may not have had a bat’s echolocation skills, but I knew exactly where in the auditorium it had originated.
The Diva.
The one who always went out of her way to make me feel out of place, awkward, unwanted, and like an outsider. The one who’d threatened my mom’s job.
Just like others had done to Hope Q.’s folks, trying to crush their dreams.
It hadn’t worked then.
It didn’t work now.
The Diva’s plan backfired big-time, a blow-up-in-your-face-like-a-nuclear-bomb-over-Hiroshima backfire. All the years of her put-downs, snide remarks, and snooty looks coalesced into a red-hot ball. It fired me up. It connected me to the other thirteen-year-old in a way I never could have imagined.
I wanted justice—not only for Hope, but for everyone who’d been walked on or snubbed because they were different. For those who felt like they’d drawn the short straw. For the kids who’d been victimized by the bike burglaries.
When I finished my delivery, you could have heard a pin drop. I smiled in triumph, more for Hope than myself, and proudly strode back to my seat. When I was halfway there, the Diva had recovered enough to run her mouth.
“Nice piece, Gabby. Such a shame it has no factual basis.”
My head jerked in her direction, and if I could have, I’d have melted her into a puddle of goo with my eyes.
“Like your accent!” Brandon called over.
I shot Bran the Man a look of pure thanks. But the Diva was determined to have the last word. She shot to her feet, one hand on her hip and the other jabbing at Brandon.
“Like you’d know. At least I followed directions and picked people who actually tie in with academics, not unknowns that never should have been allowed in the first place.” She alternated her mean-girl look between Brandon and Mrs. Baker.
Our director calmly rose and motioned for silence and for the Diva to be seated. She paused, drew a slip, and read it aloud. “Brandon Coe.”
How ironic.
Brandon spun onto the stage without a script. His words, moves, and voice were smoother than peach ice cream in July. Even a couple of the Devotees clapped before the Diva’s icy stare froze their hands back in their laps.
He headed our way, and Becca gushed about what a great job he’d done.
“Wow! Stupendous! Completely terrific. Wow!”
The rest of auditions blurred. I lost count of competition, but after each piece I’d grown less and less sure that my rendition was good enough. After the final monologue, Mrs. Baker took the stage again.
“Good work, everyone. I’ll post the list outside my room Wednesday. If you’re on it, start putting together a costume, props, and any tech requests.”
An ear-piercing shriek from backstage grabbed everyone’s attention. Paulette Zollin burst through the curtains, a look of pure panic marring her otherwise perfect features.
“Mrs. Baker! Mrs. Baker! The back door is open and all the stuff is gone!”
Mrs. Baker dropped her clipboard and headed backstage. I sprinted ahead of her.
Where the six Atlas boxes had been, only one remained, and it was empty. The doors to the loading dock yawned open. I headed through them, hoping to catch sight of the thieves.
Nothing and no one was in sight.
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday I had to choke down my PB&J amid the chaos of the cafeteria. The suspense of the bike mysteries, monologue results, and time capsule questions stretched my nerves way too tight to enjoy eating, even if I had been with my BFFLs instead of the crew of miscreants at the silent lunch table.
Just as I took a swig of pineapple punch, a snippet of conversation from the Jock Table behind me caught my attention.
“Raff never rides a bike to school, but if he did, it sure wouldn’t be a pink one.”
“He’d ride a Harley.”
Pink bike! Clues! Is this proof positive who is stealing the bikes?
I turned around to see who was talking.
“Gabby! Face front. You know the rules.”
Gritting my teeth, I turned back around to face the glowering Miss Dietz, the aide stuck monitoring the silent lunch detainees. She ruled her domain like a dictator and could have been my mean math teacher’s even more evil twin, except that Ms. Lynnet dressed in drab, severe clothing, and Miss Dietz gravitated to the flamboyant and ridiculous. Today she wore a hideous, tent-style dress in a shade I could only describe as a cross between hunter and prison-jumpsuit oranges.
I stuffed the remainder of my apple in my mouth and strained my ears to recognize one of the voices behind me.
“Or maybe one like Ghost Rider with flaming skulls and streaks of fire.”
Skulls? Like the stickers on the bikes?
Who said that? One of the baseball players? Had he seen something during practice?
I mentally kicked myself for forgetting to follow up on talking to guys on the baseball team. I glanced at Miss Dietz. She’d turned her attention back to her newspaper sale ads.
I slowly turned in my seat, like one of those cheetahs stalking prey. I’d made it three-quarters of the way when I was busted.
“Turn around! You do that again and I’ll add some days,” barked the hawk-eyed aide, snapping her paper closed.
“But, I just want—”
“Talking at the silent lunch table earns you an extra day. Want to make it two?” She narrowed her eyes at me, one overly made-up eyebrow arching.
My mouth started to open, but for once my b
rain moved faster, and I clamped it shut. I nearly burst into a bazillion pieces from frustration. I had to know who was talking. But how? If I turned around again, I’d be sitting here until I was forty years old. But I had to know who was talking.
My mirror!
I carefully eased one hand into my backpack and groped for the palm-sized mirror I carried. Bingo! I slid it between the pages of The Secret in the Old Lace and brought out the book. There was no rule against reading while sentenced to silence. Miss Dietz would assume I was doing schoolwork, not investigating. Holding the mirror against the book with my right thumb, I opened the novel with my left hand.
I glanced at Miss Dietz. Her beady eyes glared over her reading glasses at me. I smiled weakly and pretended to read, adjusting the angle of the book so I could catch the reflection of the kids behind me.
“His gophers do it for him.” A red-haired kid was talking around a mouthful of something dull beige.
Gross.
I forced myself to watch, desperate to figure out if they were still talking about Raff and the bikes.
“Yeah. I bet he only does the major-league, really dangerous stuff, like breaking into people’s houses or stealing cars. His gophers do the minor-league stuff.” Ian Dooley, a kid on the OMS baseball team, was talking now. “Like scoping out our stuff while we’re at practice.”
Ian must know something. I’d catch him after school and find out what.
A hand fell on my shoulder as my mirror filled with a sickly sunrise color.
“We’ll be seeing you here all week, Little Miss I’m-too-clever-for-my-own-good.”
I looked up and changed my mind. It wasn’t my math teacher’s evil twin who had it in for me. No, Miss Dietz’s smile matched a newly crowned but malicious Miss America taking her regal stroll down the fifty-foot runway.
***
I caught up with Becca after school at the bike rack. As we unlocked and pushed our wheels homeward, I gave her the short version of what I’d found out from Ian.
“Ian said some of the baseball players have noticed a couple of Mocha Loco kids, Little Chuck Chuck and Gonzo namely, hanging around the bike rack after school. Then after practice Friday, the relief pitcher, Joey McNeil, found his lock busted and a skull sticker stuck to the underside of his bike.”
“You think they’re involved with the missing bikes?” my BFF asked.
“Yes. Little Chuck Chuck could have been the kid I saw on my stakeout. He’s got short dark hair and he’s in the sixth grade,” I explained. “I think one kid ices and tags the bikes to be stolen with a skull sticker, but someone else actually breaks the locks and carts them off.” In my head, I visualized College Guy driving a battered old pickup with a laughing skull on the side panels. “Gonzo could be the lookout.”
“Makes sense,” Becca agreed as we started pedaling down the street. “But how did you know it was Ian if your back was to the Jock Table?”
I filled her in about my mirror trick.
“Pretty slick,” Becca said, with amazed admiration. “But I still can’t believe the Orange Blob gave you a whole week of silent lunch for being smart.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Hey, did you know Mrs. Baker has decided not to charge admission for the show? You know what that means.”
I shrugged, not following her train of thought.
“That means the auditorium will be packed,” Becca declared as she turned down Glen Avenue to head home.
I stayed straight but nearly flew over the handlebars when her words sank in.
The auditorium held 530 people.
If my name was on the list tomorrow, I’d be onstage in less than two weeks.
By myself.
In front of 530 people.
CHAPTER 27
“Gabby, stop fidgeting and finish your assignment!” My Family and Consumer Science teacher shook her head and bent to help another student. It was Wednesday, forty-two hours and twenty-seven minutes after auditions, the day Mrs. Baker would post the cast list.
But what time? Was it up already? Was I on it?
I glanced at the clock and willed the minute hand to speed up. It stayed still. I sighed and tried to focus, but all those weird vitamin names and percentages on the nutrition label in front of me kept morphing into other kinds of lists.
I pushed the cast list out of my mind only to have my list of suspects behind the bike burglaries pop into its place. The Mocha Locos topped it, but which ones? Little Chuck Chuck? Raff? Gonzo? All of them? No matter how hard I tried, Ian’s information refused to yield a clear-cut culprit.
The bell ending first period finally rang, but I couldn’t risk swinging by Mrs. Baker’s in the eighth-grade hall before going to math. Even without a detour, I sometimes didn’t make it from FACS to math on time because the classrooms were on the opposite ends of the school, at least thirty miles apart. If I was tardy one more time, the Nazi-witch-queen would give me detention. And I already had racked up more than my share.
Despite the fact that I practically sprinted the whole way, the tardy bell rang as I ducked into math. As I hurried to my seat, Brandon gave me a thumbs-up.
Is it about The List? Has he seen it? Am I on it?
I squirmed in my seat as Ms. Lynnet scrawled a quadratic equation on the board. The suspense was killing me. I wanted to know so badly I could taste it. I tried to focus on the problem on the board. A note slid onto my desk so furtively I barely perceived its arrival.
I looked back up, checking to see if Ms. Lynnet had noticed. She hadn’t, as she still faced the board. The note was folded once, so I slowly eased it opened, eyes riveted on the teacher’s back. A quick glance down. Three words.
We’re all in!
I wanted to rocket from my seat and zoom around the room cheering. I slid my eyes toward Becca, a row behind and to my right. She was looking at me expectantly, eyes bouncing down to the note and back to my face faster than an electron circles a nucleus.
Did I dare pass it on?
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the Diva staring at us. Her hand shot into the air, but her eyes narrowed and locked onto the note on my desk.
She was going to tell!
If the teacher found it, I’d get detention and so would Brandon. She might insist we serve after school and not at lunch. No way could I let that happen now that I knew I’d made it into the show and would have rehearsals and the performance next Friday.
The only thing worse than not being cast would be getting the role and losing it.
Gabby! Do something! Quick!
I couldn’t hide the note with Donabell eagle eyeing it. She’d see where I put it and rat me out.
Becca looked back and forth between us, realization dawning on her face.
Her hand shot up. I smiled as I got it. If the teacher called on her first, it would buy me some time.
But time to do what? Eat it? Lick the ink off?
In an instant, I knew what to do. I quickly copied the problem from the board onto my paper, incorporating Brandon’s words where possible, scribbling over them when I couldn’t. Ms. Lynnet turned, faced the class, and asked for questions.
The Diva started waving wildly like a drowning person trying to draw a lifeguard’s attention. I bent over the paper, working at a frantic pace.
“Yes, Becca?”
I didn’t look up. I wrote faster, searching my brain for everything I’d ever learned about 4x2 + 3y − 3 = 46.
“Could you repeat just the last part?”
4x2 + 3y = 46 + 3
“The name quadratic comes from ‘quad,’ meaning ‘square,’ because the first variable gets squared.”
“Thanks,” Becca said.
4x2 = 3y = 48
“Donabell?” Ms. Lynnet asked.
“People are passing notes and I can’t concentrate.”
“Who?” If Ms. Lynnet’s voice had been any colder or harder, she’d have cracked all the bike locks in a fifty-mile radius.
“Gabby,”
the Diva said way too smugly.
I looked up to see Ms. Lynnet steaming my way. In one fell swoop, the teacher snatched the note off my desk. I held my breath as she scanned it.
“Check your addition.” The paper plopped to my desk.
I exhaled.
It had worked!
“Donabell, see me after class.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud. The Diva’s plan had backfired big-time! As Ian Dooley and the baseball team would say, she was zero for three, the strikeout queen. I considered this a victory for anyone who’d ever been walked on by snotty people who thought they were better than everyone around them.
After class, Brandon thanked me with a huge hug. “You saved us, Gabby.”
“Better give Becca a hug too because if she hadn’t stalled, we’d be getting the third degree instead of the Diva.”
He wrapped his arms around my BFF, and her face lit up like Macy’s at Christmas. I think the hug thrilled her more than knowing she’d be playing Hypatia. I wondered if she’d ever wash the outfit she was wearing again.
“See you guys at rehearsals.” Brandon grinned ear to ear.
Becca waved weakly in his direction.
My initial elation at making the cut was replaced by panic as I recalled Becca’s prediction the auditorium would be packed due to free admission.
As I headed to English, my mind scrambled to figure out the flaw in her logic. No way would 530 people, the capacity of the auditorium, show up.
Would they?
Could I stand up, all by myself, in front of all those people and remember my lines?
I had no idea.
And what did it mean that I wasn’t nervous at all about tracking down criminals, but crazy worried about being onstage?
CHAPTER 28
“Don’t you have silent lunch?” Becca asked when I plunked my lunch sack down across from her on Thursday.
“Miss Dietz is out sick,” I explained. I dropped my voice. “Keep us on safe topics. I don’t want Pete to—”
I broke into a big fake smile as my BF and Brandon neared the table. Becca nodded ever so slightly. Message received.
The Bungled Bike Burglaries (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries Book 3) Page 9
