Bethesda’s theory about Pamela Preston had been simmering in her head for over two weeks now, bubbling away quietly like a pot of her father’s chili. There was nothing left to do but confront her and see what happens. The worse thing she can do is laugh at me, Bethesda thought. Which, as it turned out, was exactly what happened.
“Oh my god, Pam, that is so cute on you!”
“You’re right. It is.”
Pamela was modeling a pink-and-black bracelet, studying her own arm in the mirror while Natasha oohed and aahed appreciatively. Bethesda muttered argle bargle under her breath—she would have preferred to talk to this particular suspect alone. Of course Bethesda had to interrogate Natasha, too, but one thing at a time, right? At least Todd Spolin, who usually traveled with Pamela and Natasha in a little pack, was nowhere to be seen.
“Ah. Detective Fielding,” said Pamela, her voice lightly glazed with sarcasm, as she worked the pink-and-black bracelet over her hand and replaced it with something jangly and silver. “How can I help you?”
Pamela smirked, and Natasha shifted uncomfortably, looking like she wished she were somewhere else.
“Well, okay,” Bethesda began. “Pam, do you remember when we were on the Hustlin’ Pancakes?”
“Of course.”
When they were six and seven, and still close friends, Bethesda and Pamela had both been star defensemen on the soccer team sponsored by a popular local diner. “And do you remember the time I twisted my ankle and they had to call off the whole game because I was so hurt? And do you remember how, afterward, my dad took us all out for root beer floats, to make me feel better?”
“I love root beer,” Natasha said softly, and smiled awkwardly.
“The truth is—” Bethesda continued, but Pamela cut her off.
“Ooh… the truth is, the great Bethesda Fielding faked it! Tsk, tsk.” Bethesda winced. Pamela was too smart—she could already see where Bethesda was going. “So, what, you think I stole my own trophy? To get attention?”
“Um… that’s not exactly what I’m saying.” In fact, it was. That was exactly what she was saying. “I just mean—”
That’s when Pamela laughed at Bethesda, tilting her head back to let out a long, pretty laugh, like a tinkle of sleigh bells. “You caught me!” she cried out between giggles. “I did it! Oh, have mercy on me!”
“Pamela.”
But she kept right on laughing. Natasha laughed, too, but falteringly, like she didn’t really understand what they were laughing about. Bethesda just stood there, looking around the store as the waves of mocking laughter washed over her. This unpleasant interlude was at last interrupted by the high school junior who worked at the store.
“Excuse me? Aren’t you that girl who got her trophy stolen?”
Pamela nodded, immediately dropping the laughter and putting back on the tearful, vulnerable expression she’d been wearing for three weeks.
“Oh, wow. I’m so sorry. That bracelet is totally on the house.”
“Aw, thank you so much.”
Pamela winked brazenly at Bethesda, took Natasha by the arm, and swept out of the store in a cloud of lilac perfume, her new bracelet glittering on her arm. Bethesda sighed, toying idly with the racks of bracelets. Did Pamela really think her theory was as stupid as she acted? Or did she want Bethesda to feel foolish, because she really did steal her own trophy?
“Hey. You.” The high school girl crossed her arms and scowled. “You gonna buy something or what?”
Chapter 30
World Premiere
“Napkin? Napkin? Has everyone got a napkin?”
Melvin Schwartz, Shelly and Suzie’s dad, bustled around the room, trying desperately to keep things as tidy as possible. It was Monday night, and they were all there, the whole original “Save Taproot Valley” crew plus Shelly, all crowded into Mr. Schwartz’s home office while Suzie futzed with the big desktop computer. They stood in a loose semicircle, five feet back from the desk, because Mr. Schwartz allowed absolutely, positively no snacking near the computer, and there were, naturally, a ton of snacks on hand for the world premiere of “Save Taproot Valley.” Not only had Mrs. Schwartz baked snickerdoodles, but Chester, ever mindful of Cousin Ilene’s advice, had brought three boxes of Entenmann’s apple pies and a dozen Capri Suns.
So the kids stood around talking about the video, about camp, about the five-day nightmare of test-taking they faced in a week—if their video didn’t do its job. They munched their snacks at the Mr. Schwartz–enforced distance, while Suzie, her face pursed with concentration behind the neon-pink frames of her glasses, made the final tweaks on their masterpiece.
“This is going to be so cool, Chester,” said Marisol quietly.
“We’ll see,” he said, nervous, wiping bits of apple pie off his chin.
Chester just wished Victor Glebe was there to share the moment. But after walking out on the first meeting at the picnic benches, Victor had never returned. He hadn’t taken part in the songwriting sessions, nor the days of rehearsal on Saturday and Sunday, not even the video shoot itself.
“All right,” said Suzie at last, pushing back from the desk. “Are we ready?”
The video started with a close-up of Pamela. She sang Kevin and Rory’s heartfelt opening couplet, about the dream “as sweet and delicious as peach ice cream,” and then the second one, about “the cruel and wicked principal / who stole our dreams away, who tore them to pieces and burned them up / like a great big pile of hay.”
“Still not crazy about ‘great big pile of hay,’” muttered Kevin, and Rory shrugged. Meanwhile, on the screen, the shot widened to reveal a long line of kids, arrayed behind Pamela, singing “ooh” and “aah” and fluttering their fingers like flames. Behind them was the giant woodsy mural, strung between two trees; behind the mural was the lush green field of Tamarkin Reservoir.
“Awesome,” said Shelly.
“So awesome!” Braxton whooped. Suzie shushed them both.
Then the music really kicked in. First, driving drums (which Chester had contributed himself), then a fierce guitar part, complete with a shot of Todd, standing on a desk in the middle of the field, pretending to play what Tenny had recorded. Then there was a second close-up of Pamela, pouting and contemplating a tree. Then the song jumped into the second section, more driving and rhythmic, with lots of different kids taking turns, singing about what they’d be missing at Taproot Valley:
“Trust falls!”
“Bird calls!”
“Hot dog roastin’!”
“Marshmallow toastin’!”
Ezra popped into the shot upside down, descending from the top of the frame (he was in fact hanging by his knees from a tree branch) to sing Rory’s favorite lyric: “And fire ants, crawling in our pants!”
“That is so funny, Rory,” said Pamela, laughing. This was a significant compliment for a part of the video in which she didn’t appear. Rory said, “Thanks,” grinned, and ran a hand through his perfect hair.
While the song modulated and dipped in and out of a minor key (Kevin nodding with satisfaction at his compositional cleverness), there was a quick close-up of Pamela. She sang, “Without our trip, we’re sad as trolls/ lost in the lonesome valley of our souls!” accompanied by a sweeping shot of the sandbox at Remsen Playground, meant to represent the lonesome valley of their souls. Then there was a shot of a huge group of students down on their knees, begging, their cheeks wet with tears—actually seltzer, daubed on each cheek by Chester with a turkey baster. Then came another close-up of Pamela. Then a bear appeared, for some reason, at the top of a flight of stairs, got angry about something off camera, and fell down the steps.