Revealed (6 page)

Cornelia shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “There were lots of posts, but I don't remember one from anyone named Frieda. You can check if you want—maybe I missed it.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Thanks.”

I watched as she left the room, closing the door behind her, then spun slowly around in my chair, staring at the ceiling. Bennett, Cornelia. Bennett, Henry. Bennett, Katharine. Bennett, Edmund.

My whole family listed on Thornhill's file. Amanda's stuff showing up at Louise's. The box. Everything we'd discovered only seemed to make our way forward more confusing. Should I try to remember the names on Thornhill's computer? Or would it make more sense to try to track down Frieda? I could study the photos of Amanda's box that Callie had emailed me—maybe with a little patience, they'd reveal something.

As I dropped my head in exhaustion from thinking in circles, I saw my guitar leaning against the wall in its case. I'd convinced the band to play the Lowdowners' “Baby Get Aboard My Plane” for the talent show, and I could barely pick my way through the chords. My backpack was on my bed. In it was the bio lab due on Wednesday that I hadn't even started, not to mention the two-page history essay (“How was the Treaty of Versailles unfair to Germany?”) and I'd barely written the intro.

I half stood, about to grab my bag. But as I reached for it, I thought about my dad, standing all by himself even at his own parties. Before Amanda came along, I was on a track to be just like him—not necessarily lonely, but definitely alone. Now, thanks to Amanda, I had Callie and Nia. Amanda had . . . well, not to be melodramatic, but she saved me from a solitude that I could now see was a kind of life in death.

And now it was my turn to save her.

It was no contest. Dropping back down, I turned to my computer and logged on to theamandaproject.com, hoping somebody, somewhere, would know something about Amanda that could help us.

Seeing Callie and Nia leaning against the wall opposite the main office first thing the next morning gave me the feeling I wasn't the only one who'd spent the ride to school fantasizing about getting into Thornhill's office. Of course, Callie's prompt announcement confirmed it—no need to ponder this one.

“It's not like being closer to his
office
gets us closer to his
computer
,” she pointed out. There were dark circles under her eyes, and I wondered if she had slept as little as I had.

“Actually, it does. Literally,” Nia corrected her.

Callie shot Nia a look, then put her hands up in mock surrender. “Not to change the subject,” she said, changing the subject, “but I brought the box.” She indicated the bulging backpack slung over her shoulder.

“Not that we have any time to look at it,” Nia said.

“Okay! Enough with the pressure. I've still got a few hours to come up with a plan,” I reminded her. Talking about time made me think of Amanda's watch.

I know you (x2) know me.

Was there anything in my life that
wasn't
a mystery I was not equipped to solve?

The warning bell rang and Callie gave one last, longing glance in the direction of Thornhill's office. Her voice wistful, she said, “I seem to remember a time when my life didn't center around attempts to break into administrative offices here at good old Endeavor.”

“Yeah, but you weren't really happy back then,” I reminded her, smiling.

She smiled back. “So true,” she agreed.

And with that, the three of us headed off to our first- period classes.

At lunch, as Nia and I tried to think of a way to spend quality time together examining the box, she was kind enough not to remind me that my fifteen hours were almost up.

Desperate, I suggested the obvious. “What if we tell our parents we're going over to Callie's to study for . . . I don't know, a major ninth-grade, um, history . . . thing.”

Nia started shaking her head even before I finished. “My mom would just say we should study at my house. And”—she continued when I started to interrupt—“it would take her about one minute to figure out something was up, after which I could expect to be grounded for the rest of the year, if not my life. So, you know, if you want to risk it . . .” she finished with a shrug, and I figured I should take her word for it. Considering my mom would have my head on a platter if she got a whiff of what we were up to, I could only imagine what Nia's notoriously strict parents would do if they knew.

Then again, maybe I couldn't fathom it. I remembered how old-school they'd been the one time I was there. When Cisco Rivera, the most popular guy in the junior class (and possibly the entire school—if not the entire
town
), started to use his big fork on his salad, his mom clapped her hands twice and said, “Cisco!” and when Cisco saw what she was looking at, he changed forks so fast it was like the big one was on fire. I don't normally think of myself as rude, but that lunch was still the only time in my life I've actually uttered the words “No, sir” when someone's dad asked me a question.

“Look,” said Nia, “maybe we should each take it for a day or two, see what we find, then get together with it and compare notes.” She took a bite of her sandwich, and as if eating her mother's incredible food had reminded her of her mom in general, she added, “I'm sure I could hide it from my mom for a
day
.”

I actually wasn't so sure about my own mom—even when she's ostensibly not looking for them, my mom has a weird sixth sense when it comes to finding things I've hidden. For example, the time four years ago when she suddenly had the urge to do our family's seasonal wardrobe change the very day I'd secretly stashed Danny Martin's water gun (no guns allowed in the Bennett household) in my sweater drawer. Her contraband-related ESP was so keen that I always carried Amanda's watch with me. But it wasn't the reason I didn't like Nia's idea that we try to open the box alone.

“I feel like we need to be together to open it.” Shaking my head, I added, “I know that sounds crazy.”

Nia answered quickly. “No, it's fine.” Her response was so immediate I was positive she and Callie had talked privately about my “feelings” since the little incident at Play It Again, Sam. My theory that Amanda's name wasn't Valentino hung between us, but Nia didn't mention it and neither did I.

“Enough about the box for a second—we're beating our heads against a brick wall with that.” Nia seemed eager to change the subject. “Let's talk about Thornhill's list.”

I did my best to conjure the list for Nia. Since last night, I'd started to think I might have seen Frieda's name on it, but I couldn't be sure if my thinking about Frieda had just made me
imagine
I'd read her name there or if I really had. As I recited the names I was pretty sure I'd seen, I couldn't decide which was worse: trying and failing to remember who had been on Thornhill's list, or picturing Callie and Ryan sitting in the library, heads together, laughing over some difficult-to-solve math problem.
Callie, you've made everything so clear to me. I think I'm in love with you. Oh, Ryan, you're so impossibly dense. You obviously can't function without me. I think I'm in love with you, too.

Okay, this had to stop. With everything at stake, I had bigger things to worry about than Callie's peer-tutoring session. Still, ever since I'd seen her and Lee Forrest pass each other in the hallway without speaking, I couldn't help wondering if maybe I had a chance. . . .

* * *

The last place I would've expected to have my problem solved was art class, yet that was exactly where the solution appeared.

“Hey, Hal,” said Mr. Varma. He stood behind my shoulder and looked at my still life of a bottle of Heinz ketchup and a plate with a crumpled napkin and half-eaten pickle on it. I was working from a photo I'd taken when my mom, Cornelia, and I had gone to the Orion diner for dinner a couple of weeks—or was it a lifetime?—ago.

In spite of everything that was on my mind, I'd gotten totally into the painting. As I stood in front of the canvas, the familiar feel of the brush in my hand and the soft swish of the paint had put me in a trance that took me a million miles away from the rest of my life.

“Hey,” I answered. Back in September, I hadn't liked Mr. Varma as a teacher because he doesn't say much and I felt like I needed him to be more direct when he gave an assignment. By now, I'd come to see it was just a matter of listening closely to the few things he
does
say.

“I like this.” He pointed at the napkin I'd worked so hard to make look crumpled.

“Thanks. I feel like the pickle isn't right, though.” He looked at the misshapen object I'd drawn and frowned in concentration.

“Needs some work,” he agreed. “You might want to vary the color a bit.”

He was right. The shape wasn't the problem so much as its intense
greenness
. I nodded and he turned to leave, but before he could take a step away, he snapped his fingers and turned back to me.

“I have a favor to ask.”

The last time Mr. Varma had asked me for a favor, I'd ended up carting dozens of canvases to the art room from a supply closet on the other side of the school. I steeled myself to hear his request.

“Eleanor is a bit . . . concerned about some of the detail work on the
As You Like It
sets.”

It's so weird when teachers refer to each other by their first names; at first, I had no idea who Mr. Varma was talking about, and then I realized Eleanor must be Ms. Garner.

“Oh,” I said, not sure where this was going but anticipating carrying something extremely heavy to a galaxy far, far away.

“She asked if I knew someone who could help her with a leaf situation, and I immediately thought of you.”

“A
leaf
situation?” I asked.

“As in, things that do not currently look like leaves but need to be made to look like leaves in the very, very near future.” He smiled wryly.

“When does she want my help?”

“After school—now that we have this security issue, they're working on sets during play rehearsal. I gather it's a bit chaotic.”

I probably would have said yes to Mr. Varma anyway, but his next question guaranteed I'd be spending my afternoons happily repairing the foliage of the sets for the Forest of Arden.

“You don't happen to know anyone who could help with costumes, do you?” he added as an afterthought.

And suddenly, I knew that all our problems were over. “As a matter of fact, I totally do.”

“I hate to break it to you, Hal, but not all girls know how to sew.” Nia's arms were crossed, and her face was the picture of disdain.

I'd thought Nia would be thrilled at the news that I'd found a way for us all to hang together after school, but when I'd grabbed her at her locker, she hadn't looked especially pumped by my announcement that she and Callie were now on the
As You Like It
costume crew.

“Who said anything about sewing?” I asked, trying not to let my exasperation show as we made our way down the corridor toward Callie's locker.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I could have sworn you said the words ‘costume crew.'” Nia put air quotes around the phrase.

My irritation was impossible to hide. “This is a brilliant solution,” I snapped.

I spotted Callie ahead of us, and I had to call to her four or five times to be heard above the din of the crowded hallway. She waited for me and Nia to catch up. As we headed toward her, a delivery guy carrying what looked like a bouquet of flowers or maybe a plant entered through the main doors.

“Get ready to say, ‘Thank you, Hal,'” I said in response to Callie's questioning look.

Nia snorted.

“Ignore that,” I instructed. Callie fell into step beside me and Nia as we made our way across the lobby. “How would
you
like to have hours every day after school to sit with me and Nia and study Amanda's box?” I made my voice deep and enthusiastic, like a sports announcer's. Ahead of us, the flower delivery guy entered the main office.

“How would you like to spend hours every day
sewing
?” Nia corrected. “Isn't that right, Hal?”

We were across the hallway from the main office. Even though I hadn't been consciously heading there, I stopped walking. “Costume crew doesn't mean
sewing
!”

“I have no idea why you guys are even talking about costume crew,” Callie interjected, “but I'm pretty sure the whole point of it
is
sewing.”

Okay, why were they making this so impossible? “No, it's . . . you know, what you guys were doing at the store yesterday. You guys love that stuff. Like . . .” I mimed holding up a dress in front of myself.

Callie and Nia exchanged a look that clearly said: HAL IS IMPAIRED.

“I'm pretty sure it's more like . . .” Nia mimed pulling a piece of thread through a piece of fabric.

“Well, can't you . . .” I mimicked her sewing. “. . . for a couple of afternoons if it means we get some time alone together?”

Nia turned to Callie. “Hal's brilliant plan is that we join costume crew to work on Amanda's box during rehearsals.”

Callie looked to me to confirm what Nia had just said, and I nodded. Then she turned to Nia. “And you object?”

“Don't you?” Nia was indignant.

Callie shrugged. “I don't know. I mean, it's not like he's asking me to sew a button on his shirt or anything.”

“Oh, let me be the first to assure you both that no one would wear a shirt on which I'd sewn a button.” Nia gestured at the bright brass buttons that closed the short red sweater she was wearing. “Notice what you can accomplish by calling in a professional.”

“That's what my mom says about cooking!” I agreed, and just at that minute, Mrs. Leong poked her head out of the main office door.

She squinted at us, like she doubted we were who she thought we were. “I was sure I'd have to go looking for the three of you, and here you are.” Was this a bad thing? Had Officer Marciano made a return trip? I had a second to feel my neck tightening with anxiety before she announced, “Callie, Hal, Nia, I have a delivery here for the three of you.”

We looked at one another. What the—

“Amanda,” Nia whispered.

My heart hammering in my chest, I followed the girls into the main office. On the counter in front of Mrs. Leong's desk was the pink-wrapped package the delivery guy had been carrying. Stapled to it was a plain purple envelope with
HAL BENNETT, CALLIE LEARY, NIA RIVERA
written across the front in Amanda's distinctive capital letters.

The last message she'd given the three of us together had been the postcard she'd ripped into sections and slipped into our lockers two Saturdays ago while we were sitting in detention. It was all I could do not to grab the package, hug it to my chest, and sprint to safety.

Luckily, Callie got to the package first. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Leong,” she said, not reaching for it. Her voice was calm, as if there were nothing the least bit remarkable about our receiving a package at Endeavor.

Mrs. Leong was not so casual. Biting her lip, she put one hand on the package and the other on the counter. “Students don't normally receive deliveries at school. I'm not sure if . . .” She briefly glanced toward the vice principal's door, like she'd forgotten she couldn't ask Mr. Thornhill about the proper protocol in this situation.

Smiling from ear to ear, Callie leaned toward Mrs. Leong and whispered something in her ear. As she listened to Callie, Mrs. Leong broke out into a wide grin, something I'd never seen her do before.