Kristy and the Middle School Vandal Read online

  “That’s got to be it,” I agreed. “But it’s too late to go back into the school.”

  “Too bad,” said Claudia with obvious relief. “We’ll just have to do it tomorrow morning.”

  Unlike Claudia, I was ready and willing to bolt back into the school and make my way to the boiler room. But it was too late. The next clue would have to wait until the following morning.

  “Everybody who wants to help find the clue in the boiler room be here tomorrow early,” I ordered. “We’re going to win this Mystery War before it even begins!”

  * * *

  I was still thinking about the clues, and therefore more or less about Cary Retlin and the Mischief Knights, that evening. The topic was as good as any, since I was sitting in the high school auditorium while the members of the board of education were being introduced.

  I’d decided to go along with Watson and Mom to the big meeting. Don’t ask me why. It’s not the way most kids would choose to spend a school night. But it interested me. I mean, here are all these adults making all these decisions about the education of the kids, and what do the kids get to say about it all?

  Not much.

  I guess I wasn’t the only student who felt that way. I saw some high school kids sprinkled in among the crowd, plus a fair number of younger kids whose parents had brought them along. I also saw Mary Anne with her father, stepmother, and Logan; Mal and Jessi with Jessi’s family; and Abby and Anna by themselves, which I guess meant that their mother hadn’t arrived home from work yet. I figured she would join them later.

  Proving that I was a brilliant detective and had guessed correctly, Abby and Anna sat down, carefully saving a seat between them.

  I saw Mr. and Mrs. Kishi and Janine, but not Claudia. This did not surprise me. Claudia’s idea of fun would not include a board of ed meeting. Stacey wasn’t there, either. I wondered whether they were doing homework together? Or shopping? I was pretty sure neither of them had baby-sitting assignments that night.

  The introductions ended and Sarah Karush, the president of the BOE, reclaimed the lectern. She looked calm and in control. I think that is important in a president. And when she spoke about her regret that the teacher-BOE negotiations had still not ended, she sounded sincere.

  Another good quality in a president. Sincerity. Of course, lots of politicians are good at seeming sincere. But Ms. Karush sounded as if she really meant what she said. I decided I believed her.

  When Ms. Karush finished, she stepped aside for Raymond Oates. Mr. Oates looked sort of like a cartoon politician: he had red cheeks and a red nose, a round stomach and perfectly combed hair. And he was not even-tempered, I could tell.

  “I’m the chairman of the board’s negotiating committee,” he said aggressively, as if he expected someone to challenge him. Of course, no one did. “As the chairman” — another pause, another glare around the room — “I would be derelict in my duties if I didn’t mention the day’s events at Stoneybrook Middle School. As many of you may not yet be aware, we had a nasty incident of car vandalism, in which a student, or students, wrote on a teacher’s car in permanent marker and with a sharp object, and left a threatening message in chalk in front of that teacher’s car.”

  I frowned. I hadn’t thought of the message as threatening. I’d been too busy being outraged by the stupid, senseless vandalism. And worrying that it was Cary Retlin who’d done it, prompted by my taunt that the vice-principal was on to him.

  “Discipline,” Mr. Oates growled, pounding the lectern with one pudgy, white-knuckled fist. “The students are running amok. The teachers have lost control. We have to take back our schools, and that means a return to basics. Reading, writing, arithmetic. Homework. And DISCIPLINE.”

  Some of the crowd broke into applause.

  Mr. Oates smiled a thin little smile. Then he said, “Unless and until such acts of violent disrespect stop, until the teachers show that they are capable of disciplining the students in their charge, the board will not budge in its negotiating stance.”

  More applause as he sat down. The teachers I saw, however, were not applauding.

  I was trying to think of whether I had seen any students at SMS running amok. I wasn’t even sure of what someone running amok looked like.

  Mr. Zizmore, who was the teachers’ representative, walked up to the lectern and Mr. Oates stepped back, giving Mr. Zizmore a challenging look. Sort of like a dog meeting another dog it wanted to fight with, I decided.

  Mr. Zizmore didn’t seem to notice. He smiled at everyone and waited for the noise to die down. His friendly smile and calm appearance gave no hint of what he was about to say, making his words doubly shocking. “I have a sad announcement to make. If a compromise cannot be reached within the next week, the teachers of Stoneybrook will be forced to strike. We —”

  Mr. Oates leaped up. “Then the school year will be prolonged! And it will be the teachers’ fault.”

  Looking angry, Mr. Zizmore said, “I disagree. As do the rest of the teachers.”

  I stopped listening for a moment to shudder deeply. School prolonged. It was too horrible to think about. A lot of plans would be ruined. The perfect days of summer would go by outside, and we’d be stuck inside.

  Good thing Claudia wasn’t there, I thought. She would have fainted.

  From the murmur that was rising in the auditorium, I realized that I wasn’t the only one unhappy with this announcement.

  Several teachers, a few parents, and every single member of the board of education managed to get their opinions in. Right before Ms. Karush returned to the lectern, even one of SMS’s custodians, Mr. Milhaus, said a few words to the effect that the teachers and the board both seemed to have forgotten about the importance of a clean school, because they supported the idea of cuts for the janitorial staff. “Ach,” he said with his German accent, “a clean school is important. Students can’t learn amid filth.”

  “I’m sure no one wants to see that happen,” said Ms. Karush, finally taking back the mike. It took her several minutes longer to create order in the auditorium. Everyone was pretty steamed up.

  I looked over my shoulder as the meeting ended and saw that Mrs. Stevenson hadn’t arrived. I signaled to Abby, making gestures to ask if she and Anna wanted a ride home with us, and Abby nodded. I pointed toward the exit doors in the back and Abby nodded again. “Meet you outside,” I said to Watson, and jumped up to zigzag through the crowds.

  People were not leaving in a hurry. And everyone seemed to be talking angrily, at the tops of their lungs. The atmosphere reminded me a little of the time that a group of parents had tried to censor a Thanksgiving play Claud’s class had written for some third-graders at the elementary school.

  I’d almost reached the exit when two voices behind me caught my attention. I recognized them: a high school teacher (and one-time BSC client), Mrs. Martinez, and Ms. Karush.

  “Believe me, the teachers have my sympathy and support,” Ms. Karush said. “But the majority of the board is, I am afraid, behind Mr. Oates.”

  “Mr. Oates!” said Mrs. Martinez indignantly, but in a tone as low as Ms. Karush’s. “What does he know! He’s independently wealthy. He doesn’t have to work for a living. He’s just using this to make a name for himself. You know he’s talking about running for mayor.”

  “I know. And I think some of the other board members know that, too. Nobody likes to be used, and we’re aware that Mr. Oates could be using the board, rather than genuinely trying to help further the cause of education. But this act of vandalism has thrown everybody off balance.”

  “It’s very unusual for something like this to happen,” said Mrs. Martinez. “He made it sound as if the schools are completely out of control. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Ms. Karush sighed. “I know. But unless the board can be made to see that, and Mr. Oates can be proven wrong, I’m afraid we’re looking at school in July.”

  The next morning, riding the bus to school with Abby, I was out of m
y mind with impatience. What if the bus were late, and there wasn’t time to check out the boiler room? What if one of the school custodians saw us and decided we were up to no good, and wouldn’t let us look for the clue in the boiler room?

  Come to think of it, even saying “The Clue in the Boiler Room” didn’t sound real or believable. It sounded like one of Claudia’s Nancy Drew mysteries.

  “I like this,” commented Abby. “I’m the calm one and you’re the one who’s over the top with worry.”

  I sank down in my seat. The bus was going more slowly than usual. I was convinced of that.

  My next thought wasn’t any more optimistic. It wouldn’t be surprising, I realized, for a school custodian or a teacher to think we were up to no good, after yesterday’s vandalism.

  Abby and I had already talked about the disgusting possibility of school being extended into summer. And about how much we disliked Mr. Oates (Abby kept calling him Mr. Votes). On the ride home from the meeting the night before, I’d told Abby and Anna and Watson and Mom all about the conversation between the school board president and Mrs. Martinez, the one I’d overheard as I left the building.

  But in spite of my worries, the bus reached SMS in plenty of time for Abby and me to join the other BSC members, and for us to make a mad dash (in an innocent-looking way, of course) for the boiler room in the basement. And not a single person stopped us on our way there.

  The boiler room was not a creepy, dark place filled with spiderwebs. It was a little dim and dusty, but otherwise neat and clean. The next clue, in a white envelope labeled “Le Clue,” was pretty easy to find. It was wedged behind a pipe.

  I unfolded the white paper and read aloud: “Toasted gloves or barbecued bats, anyone?”

  “Well, I don’t think he’s talking about the school lunches,” said Stacey after a minute.

  “It’s a baseball clue,” I said, not very brilliantly. I looked at Abby, who as a fellow sports fan, knew something about baseball.

  Abby shrugged. “A cook-out at a baseball game?”

  “Who’s doing that?” Claudia wondered.

  “There aren’t any baseball games this week,” said Mary Anne. “At least, not at SMS, so the clue can’t be at a baseball game because you only have six school days to figure this out, five now, so …”

  “So it wouldn’t be fair if we had to wait until after time runs out to find the next clue.” I nodded. Then I froze. Barbecued bats. I had a sudden vision of the athletic supply shack that had burned down not long ago, a sudden unpleasant vision. Because it was something I had sort of been involved in.

  But how had Cary known about that? He couldn’t have, I reassured myself. He didn’t go to SMS, back when that happened.

  “I know where the next clue is,” I said flatly. “He’s talking about that supply shack that burned down, the one they just finished rebuilding.”

  “Oooh,” Abby said. “A supply shed burned down on the school ground? I’m surprised Mr. Votes didn’t mention that last night, too.”

  Come to think of it, I was a little surprised myself. But then, the culprits had been caught, so maybe it wasn’t all that surprising.

  No one else said anything. They knew what had happened when the supply shed had burned down, and what my role had been. But Abby didn’t.

  I wasn’t going to explain it to her. Maybe another day.

  “I’ll check the shed out during phys ed,” I said.

  “I could do it,” Abby offered. “I always finish my warm-up laps before anybody else, so I’d have plenty of time.”

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  Again Abby shrugged, unfazed by my brusque tone.

  Mary Anne asked, a little anxiously, “Kristy, are you sure?”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem.” I made myself grin. “We’ll have the next clue by lunch.”

  But before my phys ed class, before lunch, and almost before homeroom had let out, something happened that made me forget the Mystery War altogether for a little while.

  The SMS vandal struck again. At first I thought it was just another fire drill. Then, as we waited out in the parking lot, I noticed the teachers looking worried.

  Then the fire trucks arrived, and suddenly I felt scared, and weirdly excited. Was Stoneybrook Middle School on fire? Had everybody gotten out safely?

  The BSC members drifted together like a bunch of magnets to metal.

  “No math today,” said Claudia happily.

  I didn’t answer. “Look,” I said. “There’s Troy Parker.”

  Abby said, “Oh, yeah. The suspended kid who did a really bad deed. What’s he doing here?”

  Stacey wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. But someone should tell him grunge is old news. Look at those jeans.”

  “I like the jeans,” said Claudia. “But the shirt has got to go — or at least, go with something else.”

  “Maybe he found it at a fire sale,” said Abby.

  We all stared at her.

  Abby has a weird sense of humor sometimes.

  As usual, Abby didn’t seem to notice. Instead she said, “Whoa, look. There’s Brad Simon, with some teacher. Who is she?”

  We looked over at Brad, who was looking down at his watch. “I’ve never seen that teacher before,” I said, puzzled. “I don’t think she is a teacher.”

  Jessi slipped through the crowd to join us. “Guess what,” she said breathlessly. “I just saw Mr. Oates —” She looked at Abby and grinned. “No, Mr. Votes, talking to Mr. Kingbridge. Mr. K. asked Mr. Votes what he was doing at SMS, and Mr. Votes started talking about teachers ‘failing in their security duties by allowing this preposterous false alarm.’ ”

  “It’s a false alarm?” asked Claudia. (I don’t think she really wanted SMS to burn down, especially once she realized that we’d probably have to spend half the summer making up all the lost school days.)

  As if in answer, the firefighters emerged from the building and headed back to their trucks.

  Jessi nodded. “And you know what else I heard? It was the Mischief Knights. They left a green MK in chalk by the fire alarm that was pulled.”

  I gasped. “Cary! Was anybody in class with him when the alarm was pulled?”

  No one was. He had no alibis, at least from us.

  The teachers began rounding up the students to go back inside. I hardly noticed where I was when I got into line. I went up the stairs, thinking hard, and almost fell over a janitor’s mop and bucket by a wet spot in the hall. I actually walked right past the door of my classroom. The teacher had to call me back.

  Embarrassing. Especially since I couldn’t figure it all out. But I was sure of one thing — Cary Retlin was behind it all.

  Wasn’t he?

  * * *

  “You,” I said, stopping outside the shed, where I headed just before lunch, since I hadn’t been able to make it during phys ed.

  Cary Retlin turned, an envelope in his hand. He almost looked surprised.

  “Kristy.”

  Not only was he holding the envelope, he still had my watch on his wrist.

  “What’s wrong? You weren’t expecting us to figure out the last clue so quickly?” I felt smug, sure I was right.

  Of course Cary didn’t answer. He just looked down at the envelope and smiled.

  I held out my hand.

  “But then, you’ve had a busy morning, haven’t you?” I went on, when he didn’t give me the envelope right away. “False alarms. Who knows what else, what other vandalism.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cary asked. “Don’t forget to look beyond the obvious, Kristy.”

  That was good enough for me. If someone accused me of something I didn’t do, I’d tell them how wrong they were, loud and clear. The fact that Cary didn’t deny a thing made me more certain than ever that he was guilty.

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. I thrust my hand, palm up, toward him again.

  He laid the envelope in it. “Best of luck to you and the baby-sitting detecti
ves,” he said, making it sound like a challenge.

  “Keep your luck,” I shot back. “You’re going to need it.”

  I headed for the lunchroom.

  By the time I’d put my tray on the table where everyone else was eating lunch, the warning bell was ringing.

  “Did you get it?” asked Abby. I nodded, chewing rapidly, and patted my pocket. “Cary etlin’s’erk,” I said with my mouth full.

  I swallowed. “He was still at the shed, holding the envelope. I don’t think he expected us to solve the last clue so quickly.”

  “Ha,” Stacey scoffed.

  “We’re going to be late,” said Mary Anne. “Maybe we should save the clue for the BSC meeting.”

  I nodded, continuing to chew.

  I barely made it to my next class on time.

  But not to worry. We’d hardly settled in our seats when the fire alarm began to shriek.

  Here we go again, I thought. I was right. It turned out to be another false alarm. The fire department appeared before the last of us made it outside. Just as quickly, they were gone.

  Another alarm. Another MK signature in green chalk. And this time Cary, who had English with Stacey during that period, had not been in class, according to Stacey’s between-class, mid-hall debriefing with me.

  Hmmmmm.

  * * *

  That afternoon, our bus was late.

  “Have you ever noticed,” said Abby, who was waiting for the bus with me, “that the bus is always on time or early on the way to school? It’s only when you’re trying to leave that the Wheeze Wagon goes off the track.” (Abby calls our bus the Wheeze Wagon because it sounds like a car with asthma, she says.)

  “True,” agreed Stacey, who was standing with us. She was waiting for Mallory. They were on their way to the first BSC scavenger hunt.

  “You think Cary did it? The Mischief Knights?” I asked abruptly.

  Neither Abby nor Stacey had to ask what I meant.

  “I think those are pretty radical stunts to pull, even for the MKs,” said Abby. “Not that I know Cary all that well.”

  “I don’t think anybody does,” I said.