Chapter Thirty

Walking Tall

After school on Monday, I stood at my booth in the gym as the science fair wound down. It was hard to believe that just days ago I’d been sitting in the gym bleachers surrounded by the same sweaty smell of old gym mats and varnish as Agford clip-clopped across those hardwood floors and leveled her cold stare at me. I wondered what sound her prison-issue shoes would make when she paced her Texas jail cell.

Though I hadn’t gotten to the bottom of sugar’s effect on teeth, people had been stopping by my booth in a steady stream to congratulate me on that other hypothesis I’d nearly died proving. My poster board left a lot to be desired, but it looked gorgeous compared to Marissa’s disaster. She stood glumly a few booths down from me, her bangs looking as wilted as the houseplants around her that cowered in the roar of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. “Do Plants Like Music?” her otherwise plain poster read in black marker. Then, underneath it, she’d written simply: “No.”

S.M.I.L.E. had been devastated when they had learned the truth about Agford. If it all hadn’t been bad enough, they’d discovered that the money they’d raised over the past two years had never been donated. Even the knitted Peshawar scarves were found stashed in the back of a closet in Agford’s office. They apologized to me for everything and were shocked when I apologized back. I was truly sorry. I had never seen them as anything but extensions of Charlotte Agford—a single beast of rolling backpacks and fake smiles. In reality, they were victims.

We had all been victims. That much was clear, even if we were still learning some of the details of the case. The police suspected that Bain had come to Luna Vista to wait until her brother was free, falsifying her résumé to secure a position in a school so that she might be able to pull a similar scam again.

I folded up my poster board. It had been quite a first day back. High fives during passing periods. Ms. Gant coming up to praise me for my logic. Madame Tarrateau, her poodle curls bouncing, had spent half of French performing elaborate charades to teach us words like fugitive and private investigator. And Rod. I’d never forget how Rod looked when he asked if he and Peter could sit with Trista and me at lunch—nor, for that matter, the smile Trista gave me when she kicked me under the table. She finally got it.

The crowd had thinned, except for a throng of people clustered around a booth at the end of the row. Trista’s. I smiled. I should go congratulate her on her first prize. I finished packing up, chuckling when I almost forgot the gift Mr. Katz had given me.

Trista bent over her solar panel as she animatedly explained its features to the crowd of kids and parents grouped around her, appearing oblivious to the big blue ribbon pinned to the display. I’d never seen her surrounded by so many people, let alone look so at ease among them. Someone’s mom, who must have worked at AmStar, asked a technical question. As Trista rattled off an answer, I turned to look at the large white screen displaying captioned PowerPoint slides of her building process. I nearly fell over when I saw who stood there.

“Grace?” I asked.

Grace smiled at the crowd and clicked to the next slide, then gave me an open-palmed shrug. Her outfit was impeccably put together, from her tights and funky shoes to her cute skirt and updo. A single silver vintage watch graced her wrist.

“Trista needed a little help,” she explained sheepishly as I approached. “She knew you were busy with your project. So . . .”

“Trista needed help?” I repeated.

“Happens more often than you think,” Trista interrupted, stepping away from her crowd of admirers for a moment. “My slide themes were awful. And the place needed a little dressing up.” She gestured to her booth, which was very stylishly decorated in earth tones and orbs suggesting suns.

Grace looked over at Trista’s plain black T-shirt and jeans. “I made some fashion suggestions, too. But . . .”

Trista held up her hand. “This is my dress T-shirt.”

I laughed. “Want to wear it out on the town? Let’s all go to the Seashell.”

Trista jerked her head toward the crowd. The AmStar mom was waiting for more details. “I need to stick around here a little bit. You two go ahead. But”—she pointed to the cardboard poster tube I held in my hand—“make sure you tell Grace all about that.”

As Trista wheeled around to answer a question on semiconductor materials, Grace looked at me expectantly.

“Oh, you’re going to love this.” I slid the poster out of the tube and unfurled it. Grace gasped and covered her mouth. It showed a mountain climber scaling the face of a snow-covered peak. COURAGE was printed in large, bold purple letters underneath. “Mr. Katz presented it to me at a Special Assembly today. You know, for my heroism and all,” I explained.

“It’s going to look awesome in your life-path gua,” Grace joked as we headed for the exit. “Oh my God, you have to tell me everything. Trista gave me, like, zero details.”

As we walked through the outdoor halls to my locker, I explained how Mr. Katz had practically gotten down on his knees in front of the whole school—as well as a group of angry parents who’d shown up—to apologize for not checking Agford’s background. I did tell her everything, from S.M.I.L.E.’s apologies to Ms. Gant’s congratulations and Madame Tarrateau’s charades. Grace smiled but looked around apprehensively, no doubt remembering the last time she’d passed the same classrooms. When a couple of kids waved to me and she looked away shyly, I was startled to realize that she was nervous to be at school with me at all.

“Trent Spinner actually high-fived you?” Grace asked, trying to hide her unease. “He was probably thanking you for his three-day vacation from school.”

“Probably. He did still call me Ay-nus, though.” I shut the rest of my stuff in my locker and waved my new blue Lightning iFlash at Grace. “Then there’s this.”

“Full data plan and unlimited texting?” Grace asked, beaming.

“Not quite. But close enough. And look who emailed.” I handed it over. Grace read aloud as we headed out the doors, trying her best to imitate Louise Ralston’s drawl:

Dear Young and Yang,

How can I ever thank you? You’d think there’d be a Texas expression up to the job, but I’m at a loss.

I hope that someday you will find it in your hearts to forgive me for not trusting you with the truth. I should have known better than to sell you short. Sometimes, on the way to find justice, we can lose sight of what’s really important. I bet you two understand that better than anyone.

You’re fine investigators—finer than hair on a frog’s legs, as we like to say here. Steer clear of trouble. And be sure to stay in touch. Maybe one of these days I’ll take a real vacation and come see you. I’ll leave the blue car at home . . .

Yours Truly,

Louise Ralston

“I’d forgiven her a thousand times already,” I said as Grace finished. We stood outside school, about to make our way up the hill toward town. The sun shone low behind us, as always. Pink clouds looked raked across the sky.

“Me, too.” Grace grinned. “Except for that hairy-frog-leg comment. I’m holding that against her.” She fiddled with my iFlash. “Wait. Rod texted you?” She turned my phone sideways and squinted at it. “A code?”

My cheeks turned red.

“Oh, I hope this is really from him,” Grace joked. “You break it yet?”

“It’s a Caesar substitution code. ‘Madame Tarantula is finally interesting again. Glad you are back safe.’”

“Aww . . . ,” Grace said. “He totally likes you.” As she handed back my phone, I saw something glimmer on her neck in the sunlight.

“Hey . . . ,” I said. “You’re wearing it!”

It was the little white teardrop pendant with a circle of black in it—the yang part of the split yin/yang charms that Mrs. Dr. Yang had given to us last year.

Grace broke into a smile. “You don’t know what I had to go through to make it look right with this outfit.”

I tried to keep it together. I really did. But I couldn’t hold it back. I burst into laughter. Uncontrollable, hiccupping laughter—with maybe even a few snorts tossed in à la Charlotte Agford.

Grace shook her head at me, then flicked me on the shoulder—hard. “Watch it, shorty,” she said.

“Hey, I’m four foot—”

“Four foot six. I know, I know. You’re actually looking pretty tall these days.” Grace grinned and took my arm. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” I hooked my arm around hers.

We headed up the hill and turned down Luna Vista Drive, walking in silence past the clean-swept driveways and manicured front yards, past Mr. Valdez watering his lawn and Mrs. Stenwall calling for her cat.

All seemed peaceful in Luna Vista, California. Boring, even.

And for once we didn’t mind.