“I really hope I don’t!” Ms. Wright said, turning and walking out of the cafeteria.
Emma-Jean found this conversation disturbing. Whether or not Will Keeler had the makings of a knight, it was clear to her that he was an unlikely thief. In fact, she very much doubted that any of her fellow seventh graders would commit such a crime. Emma-Jean had a hunch, and she decided she needed to stay after school to investigate.
She waited until after the last bus had rumbled out of the parking lot and the hallways were quiet before knocking on the door of the teachers’ lounge. When nobody replied, she opened the door, closing it carefully behind her. The lounge was small, with a sink against the back wall, a worn black leather couch on the right, and a row of lockers running the entire length of the left-hand wall. Unlike the metal student lockers that lined the carpeted hallways of William Gladstone, the teachers’ lockers were made of wood and were joined together as one long cabinet.
Emma-Jean went to the couch first. She lifted up one of the cushions and wrinkled her lip in distaste at what she saw: crumbs from many varieties of chips, cookies, and crackers. She lifted the other cushions. As she had predicted, there was a mini Snickers bar, still in its wrapper. Mindful of germs, Emma-Jean took a tissue from her pocket and used it to pick up the bar. She inspected it. The wrapper was gnawed at the corner. Emma-Jean wrapped it in the tissue and placed it in the pocket of her cardigan sweater.
Emma-Jean found the locker with a rectangular metal tab engraved
P. Petrowski.
She then walked to the back of the room and tugged on the row of cabinets with both hands. It slid easily away from the wall. She walked slowly behind the cabinets, her eyes scanning the floor. And there it was, the proof she had been seeking. The floor was covered with hundreds of tiny brown beads, which Emma-Jean unmistakably identified as mouse droppings. The wood that backed Mr. Petrowski’s cabinet was marred by a hole, chewed around the edges. Emma-Jean judged that the size of the hole would enable a mouse to enter quite easily, and then exit carrying a fun-size Milky Way in his whiskered mouth.
Emma-Jean came out from behind the cabinets. Just then, the door to the teachers’ lounge swung open. Emma-Jean froze, knowing that despite her honorable intentions, she was currently trespassing in the teachers’ lounge, a serious breech of school rules.
It was thus a relief when the doorway filled with the large figure of Mr. Johannsen, the school custodian. He was, in Emma-Jean’s mind, one of the most important members of the William Gladstone Middle School staff. Emma-Jean disliked messes, and appreciated the care with which Mr. Johannsen mopped the cafeteria floor and swept the sidewalks in front of the school.
Emma-Jean tried to make his job easier by picking up the candy wrappers and empty chip bags she often found in the school parking lot. She picked up lunch trays her fellow seventh graders left behind in the cafeteria and pushed in their chairs.
“Well hello there, missy,” said Mr. Johannsen. “Can I help you?”
“I’m aware that I am in violation of school rules, Mr. Johannsen,” Emma-Jean said. “However, I am currently working to solve the problem of Mr. Petrowski’s missing candy.”
“You are, are you?”
“Yes. Are you aware of this situation?”
“I am,” said Mr. Johannsen, smoothing down what was left of his fluffy white hair. “Crime of the century, you’d think, the way Petrowski’s carrying on. You’d think there were diamonds inside those candy bars.”
“Diamonds are not edible, Mr. Johannsen. You must know that.”
Mr. Johannsen chuckled. “You got me there, Emma-Jean.”
“In any event, the candy was not taken by a student, ” Emma-Jean informed him. “It was taken by a mouse.”
“A mouse?” he said, stepping forward.
“Yes. We once had mice in our home, and I’m familiar with their behavior. When I heard about Mr. Petrowski’s candy, I suspected it was a mouse.”
“You did, did you?” said Mr. Johannsen.
“I found their droppings behind the lockers. I was going to sweep them up.”
“You know how I appreciate all of your help.”
Mr. Johannsen had once informed her that in all his thirty-four years working as a custodian, he’d never encountered a student as mindful of cleanliness as Emma-Jean.
Emma-Jean motioned for Mr. Johannsen to inspect behind the lockers.
“There’s a hole in Mr. Petrowski’s locker.”
“A hole?”
“May I borrow your flashlight?” she said, pointing to the one that hung from his belt, partially hidden by his large stomach. Mr. Johannsen unclipped his flashlight, turned it on, and handed it to Emma-Jean.
Emma-Jean illuminated the area behind Mr. Petrowski’s locker.
“Well, look at that,” Mr. Johannsen said.
“And you should also see this,” Emma-Jean said, taking the candy bar from her cardigan pocket. “See how this is gnawed?” she said, holding it out to Mr. Johannsen. “I found it in the couch. Mice often move food from one location to another.”
“They do, do they?” said Mr. Johannsen.
“Yes,” Emma-Jean said. “In my experience they do.”
“Well, my dear, you’ve got a grade-A brain inside that head of yours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johannsen,” Emma-Jean said, turning off the flashlight and handing it back to him.
“And a good heart there too,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Johannsen,” Emma-Jean said. “Will you please tell Mr. Petrowski that no student has been stealing his candy?”
“Will do.”
“Will you tell him in particular that Will Keeler has not been stealing his candy?”
“I certainly will,” Mr. Johannsen said, clipping his flashlight back onto his belt. “And you’d better be heading home.”
“Yes,” Emma-Jean agreed. “Good-bye, Mr. Johannsen.”
“Good-bye, Emma-Jean,” he said. “Hey, kids aren’t causing you any trouble, now, are they?”
“Of course not,” Emma-Jean replied, as usual. She didn’t understand why Mr. Johannsen often asked her this odd question. In what way might her fellow seventh graders be any trouble to her? They did not pester her to borrow money for lunch or for answers to the math homework. Occasionally they were loud and rambunctious, and some of the girls did not wash their hands after using the bathroom. But none of this was terribly troubling to Emma-Jean.
“Good. You’ll let me know if anyone’s causing you trouble, because then they’ll have to contend with the likes of me.”
Emma-Jean certainly admired Mr. Johannsen, though at times he said perplexing things.
Chapter 8
The following Monday was bright and sunny and many seventh graders rushed through their sandwiches and fish sticks so they could have extra time outside. Emma-Jean took only a few sips of her soup before packing up and seeking her favorite outdoor spot: a bench on the edge of the soccer field. This location placed her out of the range of errant basketballs and beneath the branches of her favorite oak tree. Emma-Jean admired the oak, which had thick twisting branches that reached up into the blue sky. Despite her grounding in modern scientific principles, it was not hard for Emma-Jean to understand how ancient peoples would regard such a creation as a benevolent beast, a guardian of souls.
Emma-Jean saw Colleen Pomerantz on the blacktop. She was with Kaitlin Vogel and her other close friends: an intelligent and high-spirited brunette named Valerie Rosen, and Michele Peters, a tall girl who wore small round glasses and had a fine singing voice. These four girls spent much of their free time in one another’s company, and together made up the informal dance troupe led by Laura Gilroy. Emma-Jean was gratified to see that Colleen was smiling, and that her freckled skin had a healthy glow, no doubt a result of her weekend in the mountains.
“Hey, Emma-Jean!” Colleen shouted, waving in her usual animated fashion. “Your hair looks so gorgeous today!”
Emma-Jean nodded in agreement. Due to her well-balanced diet, her hair was thick and glossy and resembled the coat of a Labrador retriever.
The four girls made halfhearted attempts to run through the dance routine they’d been practicing, collapsing into screeching giggles when one of them missed a step. Emma-Jean could not recall any such laughter when Laura was leading them. Usually Laura Gilroy forced them to warm up before dancing, ordering them to twist and stretch their bodies into positions that caused them to grimace and moan.
“Where’s Laura?” Valerie asked, echoing Emma-Jean’s own thoughts. “She’ll kill us for starting without her.”
“She wasn’t at lunch,” Michele said.
“I think I saw her mom at the office,” Kaitlin said.
Moments later, Laura appeared, storming across the asphalt.
“I told you guys to wait for me!” she shouted. “You’re not supposed to start until I get here!”
“Where were you?” Kaitlin said.
Laura took her usual drill-sergeant stance, feet planted on the ground, hands on her hips.
“You are NOT going to believe this,” she announced. “Somebody in this school must think I am a complete moron. They have no IDEA who they are dealing with! You know how I cancelled the ski trip? Well the reason was that I got this letter . . .”
She reached into her back pocket and produced a piece of paper, which she unfolded and held out in front of her. The girls leaned in for a better look. Even from a distance Emma-Jean recognized that it was the letter she had created on falsified William Gladstone Middle School stationery.
“That’s so cool!” Colleen said. “No wonder you couldn’t go skiing. That’s such an honor, to be recognized for your talent—”
“Shut up!” Laura said. “It’s a total fake. There were no dancers at the banquet. This whole thing is a fake! I showed up at the rehearsal and you know who was there? That load Johannsen and his mop. The school was empty. So my mom got on the phone and called the basketball coach, and he knew NOTHING about this letter. He said it had to be a mistake. Well, my mom got completely POed. You know how she gets. So she called Tucci, AT HOME.”
“Your mom called the principal! On the weekend? ” Valerie said.
“Oh my God!” Michele said.
“She wants answers,” Laura said. “And so do I. Tucci said it was a prank. That someone FORGED school stationery and wrote the note as a practical joke.”
“Who would do that?” Kaitlin said.
Emma-Jean sat perfectly motionless.
Laura looked over her shoulder at the blacktop. “Take your pick,” she said. “There are so many pathetic people who have it out for me.”
“Why?” Colleen said.
“They’re jealous!” Laura said.
The girls moaned in agreement.
“What a dumb joke,” Colleen said.
“It’s not a joke! You think this is FUNNY, Colleen? ” Laura said.
“No!” Colleen said.
“What if something had happened to me at school? What if I’d been attacked or something? And hello? I missed going skiing.”
“That’s really horrible,” Colleen said.
“Not for you,” Laura said. “You got to take my place, didn’t you? You’re one of my prime suspects. ”
Laura narrowed her eyes at Colleen, whose head appeared to sink between her shoulders. “So was it you, Colleen? Did you write that letter? Come on, fess up.”
Colleen smiled and made a noise that approximated a laugh, though Emma-Jean thought it sounded more like the whimper of a dog whose tail had been stepped on.
“Colleen would never do that,” Kaitlin said.
“No way,” said Michele, shaking her head gravely.
“She would never!” said Valerie.
Laura rolled her eyes and then smirked. “Actually I realized you couldn’t have because you’re a total airhead on the computer.”
“I know! I know!” Colleen squeaked. “I totally am!”
“My mother and I just met with Tucci,” Laura said. “He said he’d find out who did it.”
“That’s good,” Colleen said.
“No it’s not. He’s so lame. He won’t do anything. But don’t worry. You guys know me. I’ll figure this out. And you better believe heads are gonna roll.”
Emma-Jean blinked and put her hand up to her neck. Just then the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch period. As the noisy crowd receded, Emma-Jean reflected on what she had just heard. Perhaps Laura had not rebounded quite as quickly from her anger as Emma-Jean had predicted. But she did not believe these recent events would significantly alter the positive outcome of the problem. Emma-Jean did not believe that Laura Gilroy possessed either the reasoning skills or intellectual focus to trace the letter back to its source.
As for Laura’s threat to decapitate the responsible party, Emma-Jean was confident she was exaggerating.
Chapter 9
Emma-Jean considered herself fortunate to have so many friends. Her mother was her friend. Her father was her friend, though of course their communion was, by now, purely spiritual. Mr. Johannsen was her friend. Henri was a delightful companion. And there was Vikram, her newest friend, whose arrival six months ago had caused some notable changes in the atmosphere of Stanton Drive.
It had been Emma-Jean’s mother’s idea to convert the large third floor of their house into a separate apartment. Their house was a bit frayed around the edges, like Emma-Jean’s favorite cardigan sweaters. But its rooms were sunny, and unlike many hundred-year-old houses, it smelled good, even on rainy days. The house was just three blocks from the university. Emma-Jean’s mother believed, quite justifiably, that they could charge a good rent for the two large rooms and high-ceilinged bathroom on the third floor.
Emma-Jean had written and designed a detailed advertisement, which her mother posted on the bulletin board in the university’s housing office. Vikram Adwani had been the first person to call. He had come over one rainy evening for an interview, which had lasted for more than two hours. He made an excellent impression on both Emma-Jean and her mother. He had a serene manner. Judging from his spotless clothing, well-polished boots, and clean fingernails, he practiced excellent hygiene. He maintained a busy schedule of classes and study, which made it unlikely that he would host late-night parties. He moved in three days after their meeting and very quickly assumed responsibility for preparing the evening meal for the entire household.