Who are the prime suspects?
Who had a motive to steal the trophy?
Who had an opportunity to take it?
Who doesn’t have an alibi for yesterday after school?
She looked up in time to see Dr. Capshaw toss his book down on his desk. “Okay, so we’re not in the mood to talk structure,” he said. “Let’s try theme. How does the idea of societal injustice play out in this gripping little drama?”
“Injustice?” said Todd Spolin from under the brim of his beat-up blue baseball cap. “This Taproot Valley thing is injustice!”
“That may be so,” said Dr. Capshaw, snatching off Todd’s (not-permitted-in-school) ball cap and tossing it on his desk. “Who can elaborate?”
“Well, it’s just lame that everyone has to suffer,” Bessie answered, “because one kid did something stupid!”
“Maybe it was more than one kid,” added Rory.
“Totally,” agreed Ezra McClellan, who always agreed with Rory.
“Or maybe it was a teacher,” said Bessie. “Maybe it was you, Dr. Capshaw!”
“It wasn’t.” Dr. Capshaw shot a quick look at the clock. “But we digress. Let’s get back to Napoleon and Snowball.”
“Wait. Who are they?” asked Natasha.
“Maybe they stole the trophy!” shouted Rory.
Dr. Capshaw winced and tugged on his beard. “Let’s start over.”
“So, okay, so today, today we’re… moving forward with weather systems!”
Mr. Darlington said “moving forward with weather systems” like he was saying “making cotton candy and riding ponies,” but nobody was buying it. The longer the day went on, the more the eighth graders had time to wallow in their collective misery, and by fourth period, they had zero interest in things like weather systems.
“Okay, so if I could—everyone? If I could… hello?”
It was useless. Lisa Deckter, who was on the gymnastics team with Pamela, sat with her head buried in her forearms. Bessie was back to naming kinds of animals they wouldn’t get to see. (“And egrets. And foxes. And…”) In the back of the room, Rory and Ezra were arguing over the wording of their Taproot Valley petition, and whether to send it to the school superintendent, or directly to the president.
Mr. Darlington finally requested they open their Earth Sciences workbooks and brainstorm what kind of weather event to research for their upcoming diorama project. Bethesda slid her workbook out onto her desk, but kept her full attention on her fellow students. One very promising suspect, she realized, was sitting right beside her: Guy Ficker leaned forward and directed a harsh whisper at Pamela Preston as soon as Mr. Darlington turned his back.
“This never would have happened if I had had the gym last week,” Guy said. Pamela twisted around and stared at him. “Oh, please,” she said.
“Um, children?” Mr. Darlington said, raising a long forefinger and placing it over his lips.
Bethesda knew exactly why Guy was so upset. Pamela and the rest of the gymnastics team had been given exclusive after-school use of the gym last week, to practice for their meet. Which meant that Guy hadn’t had anywhere to practice his archery, even though he was also preparing for a weekend competition.
“It’s not my fault gymnastics is a real, official sport,” Pamela whispered icily, “and that you’re the only person who does arching.”
“Children?” said Mr. Darlington. “We’re brainstorming? Yes?”
“It’s not ‘arching,’” said Guy. “It’s archery.”
“Children?”
“So, what’s the big deal?” Pamela said. “So you couldn’t practice your stupid bow and arrow?”
“What’s the big deal?” Guy was no longer even pretending to whisper. “I shot one of the judges in the leg!”
Bethesda stopped at her locker after Mr. Darlington’s class to drop off her science and English books, grab her lunch, and generally get organized for the afternoon. As she bent to tie her shoelace, Bethesda’s attention was distracted by sweet, shy Marisol Pierce, a few lockers down.
“It’s just so unfair,” Marisol said quietly to Chester, whose locker was next to hers. Marisol, who was kind of an art prodigy, had been looking forward to the beautiful sunsets and lush green landscapes of Taproot Valley, all of which she really wanted to paint.
Bethesda lingered, crouching down and fussing with the long laces of her Chuck Taylors. As she watched, Marisol shook her head and sniffled a little; Chester, in a touching if somewhat futile gesture, handed her a wadded-up piece of loose-leaf paper to blow her nose.
“Thanks,” Marisol whispered tearily, and honked into the crinkly mess.
Wow, thought Bethesda, straightening up. She’s really bummed.
Or… maybe she’s racked with guilt over what she’s done!
Bethesda whistled a snippet of ominous music and headed to lunch. Being a detective was awesome.
“You know what’ll take your mind off your troubles?” Coach Vasouvian bellowed as they filed into seventh-period gym, dropping the mesh bag of volleyballs he was lugging behind him. “Running laps!”
This was met with a chorus of groans, though it was hardly a shocking development: any time Coach Vasouvian asked a seemingly rhetorical question, you could be pretty sure that the answer would be “running laps.” Once, Ms. Zmuda had popped into the gym to ask if she could borrow a stopwatch and ended up running a quarter mile before Coach Vasouvian let her go.
As she proceeded at a decent clip around the track, her sneakers squeaking on the smudgy gym floor, Bethesda thought, It could have been anyone. It really could have been anyone.
Meanwhile Pamela Preston, her blond curls bobbling on her head, thought, Poor me… oh, poor, poor me…
…while Natasha Belinsky, huffing along beside Pamela, thought, Poor Pamela… oh, poor, poor Pamela…
…and Guy Ficker, way out at the front of the pack, running briskly and with perfect form, thought, Stupid gymnastics trophy… serves her right…
But it was Lisa Deckter, whose thoughts, if she could hear them, Bethesda the detective might have found most intriguing.
This is all my fault, Lisa thought fretfully. It’s all my fault…
Chapter 3
Wellington Wolf
Usually Tuesdays after school meant book club with Mrs. Howell until 3:45, followed by math-team practice in Ms. Zmuda’s room. Today, of course, extracurricular activities were canceled, so Bethesda biked straight home, pedaling hard despite the dull ache in her legs from Coach Vasouvian’s laps.
“Hey, Dad,” Bethesda shouted as she tossed her fall jacket on the sofa and opened the hall closet where she kept school supplies. She’d been thinking about it all day as she jotted random observations on spare scraps of paper and the backs of old assignment sheets: If she was going to solve this case, she needed a good notebook in which to get herself organized. She selected a weighty, three-subject orange spiral and settled at the dining-room table. Twisting the cap off a fat Sharpie, Bethesda carefully wrote across the top of the front cover in neat black letters, officially dubbing this the semi-official crime-solving notebook, or s.-o.c-s.no., or Sock-Snow for short.