Chapter Twenty-one

Rock Bottom

The face peered in, its features twisted into a menacing squint. Not until I recognized the curves of its round cheeks did I catch my breath again. Relief poured over me.

But Grace had never met Trista before. She backed away slowly.

With Trista’s frown filling the window frame like a horror-movie close-up, it was no wonder Grace assumed we were done for. She drew in a sharp breath as Trista leaned back and revealed her full army camouflage. At least it appeared she was wearing full camouflage until I realized she’d just thrown on some green sweatpants and a turtleneck under a bulky green cargo jacket. Her many pockets bulged—with tools, I imagined.

Grace was reassured when she saw my expression. “Let me guess,” she said. “Trista Bottoms?”

“Yep.” I waved to Trista and gestured to our ridiculous Chinese slippers. “Shoes!” I said, pointing to the side door.

Trista rolled her eyes and displayed one of my Pumas. Of course she’d already snagged them. I wouldn’t have been that surprised if she’d commandeered a helicopter for our escape while she was at it.

She reached into one of her cavernous cargo pockets and pulled out several pieces of metal in various sizes. Centuries passed as she fumbled with the parts. What was she doing? I was about to point her to the wooden storm doors, but she had already slipped out of view. She must have headed for them.

Grace and I waited in silence.

“I can’t believe this,” Grace whispered. “We’re waiting for a seventh grader with hands like oven mitts to pick a lock.”

“If a certain someone hadn’t shut the basement door behind her, maybe—”

“The wind blew it! It could have just as easily been you.”

Something thudded upstairs. Agford. All she’d have to do was peer out her window and she’d see a twelve-year-old in camouflage breaking into her basement.

But the thudding hadn’t been from upstairs. It was Trista, tugging at one of the double doors. Within seconds they groaned open, sending in a shaft of dusty light that appeared like a direct portal to heaven.

Grace reluctantly accepted Trista’s offered hand. I hoisted myself out behind her.

“Run! I’ll catch up,” Trista said.

Grace had already sprinted away barefoot, her slippers in hand. I followed. Trista caught up to us halfway up the hill, her pockets jangling with tools. No sign of Agford yet.

“I ended up letting the air out of her tires after all,” Trista said, panting. “When you didn’t text back, I knew something had happened.”

She explained that she had ranted, raved, and sobbed during her therapy session, but Agford had ended it right on the hour. Fortunately Agford had shuttled off to advise an after-school S.M.I.L.E. meeting, probably to plan for their new “Look on the Bright Side” antidepression poster campaign while Agford probed them for an update on Operation Wig Retrieval. Marissa must have kept the dentist appointment mum. When Trista texted and didn’t get the confirmation signal we agreed on, she’d walked to her house nearby, improvised her army-camouflage getup, gathered her protractor, magnets, batteries, wire, and other tools in case they came in handy, then headed for the nearest bus stop. Fifteen minutes later she’d arrived at Agford’s. “I don’t do bikes,” she explained. I could just picture Trista in the bus’s front priority seating in her camouflage getup. She would have crossed her arms across her chest and frowned, daring the other passengers to so much as look at her the wrong way.

“Thank God you came. How’d you ever get that lock open?”

“Electromagnetic resistance. Like in our science lab this week? It’s perfect for combo locks. Wrap a battery-powered solenoid around a ferromagnetic core to create an electromagnet, then . . .” I understood only the gist of Trista’s explanation. Something about how when she twisted the dial of the combination lock, the magnet helped her feel resistance at the right numbers. Then she arranged the numbers into different sequences until one worked. “Piece of cake,” she said.

As we reached Grace’s patio, Grace was already slipping into her room.

“That’s it?” I said. “You’re just going to walk away?”

Grace ignored me and shut the patio door firmly behind her.

“You’re welcome!” Trista’s shout reverberated against the glass door. “Really, anytime!”

The patio door slid open again. Grace reemerged holding the yearbook in front of her like a tray. The wig and papers sat atop it.

“You’re still going to the cops, right?” I asked.

“Who, me? Superficial me? I’m sure you and the rocket scientist here can work it out.” Grace’s cheeks flushed red as she shoved the yearbook at me. “After all, everything was just fine before you met me.” Her braids flicked like whips as she pivoted on her heels and stormed back into her room.

Trista stared at the closed patio door, then back at me. She let her backpack fall with a thud. “Seriously?” she said. “An hour in a basement and you two fall apart?”

I sighed. The evidence bag containing Agford’s wig had ripped, leaking foul traces of her perfume, but that wasn’t why I felt nauseated. I turned to Trista.

“Oh, no.” She took a step back. “Haven’t I helped enough?”

I gazed back across the street. For a moment I thought I saw my reflection in one of Agford’s dark windows.

Standing alone in the shadow of towering trees, I looked like a tiny, little mouse.