There is legal innocence and factual innocence. Legal innocence means a person could actually still be guilty, but found not guilty due to a technicality.
—PRINCIPAL BLANKENSHIP
As Spam and Lysa cross the cafeteria toward me I get a text from Journey saying he has to run an errand for Victor at lunch.
“It’s just us today,” I say as they take their seats across from me. “Journey’s running an errand for Victor.”
“Working through lunch,” Spam says. “This must be the butt monkey part of his job.”
“We shouldn’t make fun of him,” I say. “It’s a big deal to be Victor’s intern.”
“And snitch,” Spam adds.
“Come on, I wouldn’t let Journey talk about you guys like that.”
“How are things going with you and Journey?” Lysa asks. “Will this new connection with Victor change anything?”
I sigh. “Well, it’s only been a couple of days.” The truth is I do feel like things are changing. Journey’s graduating, going to college. He has this new job with Victor. Victor could be my dad. But I’m not ready to talk about any of this yet. Not even with Spam and Lysa. “I think everything’s okay.”
Lysa takes the top off her salad and pours on some dressing. Spam has two cookies and a hard-boiled egg. I brought leftover meatloaf.
“The skateboarder case is getting weird,” Lysa says. “He still hasn’t come forward and now someone has put up a one-thousand-dollar reward for anyone who can identify him.”
“Who would do that?” I ask.
“The driver?” Spam says.
Lysa shakes her head. “It’s some organization. But the mystery is why isn’t he coming forward?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know they’re looking for him.” I say.
“He’d have to be living under a rock,” Lysa says.
“Does anyone have any photos of him yet?” I ask.
“Not yet.” Spam grins. “I think we have them all.”
There’s a buzz against my wrist. The spot inside the volcano on my Bella glows red. I slide my hand off the table.
Spam ditches her phone into her sleeve and we all sit up a little straighter.
A few seconds later, Blankface strolls up. She pauses, eyeing each of us in turn with a sinister, stoic glee.
“Hello, Ms. Blankenship,” Spam says, offering her most adorable, friendly puppy smile.
Blankface responds by swiveling her customary alien blankface in Spam’s direction. “It’s Miss.” She’s cradling her ever-present notebook, which still has the same fat purple highlighter clipped to the top of the binder. She slips it off and lays it on the table in front of Spam.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” she says, “this belongs to you.”
We sit in stunned silence, collectively holding our breath and waiting for Blankface to drop the hammer on Spam. I’m convinced she’s figured out what Spam is up to and now we’re all going to be pressed to explain our way out of it.
But Spam is way ahead of us and much smoother than I thought possible. She picks up the highlighter and hugs it to her chest. “Thank you. It was my favorite.”
“Hmpf. Well, it’s dry.” Even Blankenship’s comments are devoid of emotion.
“Miss Blankenship, I have something for you, too.” Spam pulls out a laminated bookmark with a volcano logo at the top and Go ’Canoes down the center. “It’s a bookmark. I made it on my 3D printer.”
Blankenship takes the bookmark and inspects it like it’s a bug under a microscope. “Go canoes?” she says. “Like little boats?”
“It’s go kay-noes, like Volcanoes,” Spam says. “The school mascot.”
Blankenship continues to inspect the offering, first one side and then the other. She tests its flexibility by bending it a little. She even runs it under her nose, giving it a sniff. Finally, she tucks it in between the pages of her ever-present notebook.
“Thank you,” she says. “Now, please give me the name of that skateboarder involved in the accident on Monday. Because I’m new I didn’t recognize him. But I’m sure you did. Right?”
She’s being somewhat casual and offhand, but there’s a definite whiff of danger. Sort of like when a cobra raises its head to eye level.
Spam and I shake our heads.
“He’s not a student here,” Lysa says, trying to be helpful.
Blankenship’s gaze snaps onto her. “You know that because…?”
“Ohh. You’re right. I guess I don’t actually know that,” Lysa says. “Because…” She fails at having a reason and tries to blow it off. “Yeah, I don’t know why I even said that.”
Blankenship leans in over our table. “I don’t know why you said it either.”
Lysa clamps her mouth shut and sinks a little lower in her chair.
Blankenship pauses and looks each one of us straight in the eyes. “But if you suddenly decide that he does go here and you know his name, you’ll come tell me. Right?”
She turns her gaze on each of us and waits until we nod.
“I was reading something today that you might find interesting.” Her tone is suspiciously conversational. “Did you know there are such things as legal innocence and factual innocence? Legal innocence means a person could actually be guilty, but found not guilty due to a technicality.”
I don’t know where she’s going with this and apparently neither do Lysa or Spam. We shake our heads.
“I didn’t know that either, and I found it interesting,” she says. After a moment of silence, she turns and stalks off.
Once she’s gone we all breathe again.
“Oh my gosh.” Lysa shudders. “Usually, I’m the one who can stretch the truth, but that woman totally unnerves me. And, Spam, you can’t lie for anything. But you handled her like a boss.”
“Because I wasn’t lying,” Spam says. “I really did make these bookmarks on my printer and Volcanos really are our school mascot.”
“That’s your secret? You can lie if you’re not lying?” I ask.
“Something like that,” Spam says.
I check out my wrist. The red dot is still there. I glance at Spam.
“No worries,” she says. “I just have to reprogram it to track the bookmark.”
“But what if she ditches the bookmark?” I ask.
Spam opens a pocket on her backpack. “Then I have the school pride pin … the Volcano carabiner key ring … a bendy straw, she might not go for that, but I have one … oh, and I have a hair clip, too. Though I think her hair is actually painted on her head.”
“Wow,” Lysa and I say at the same time.
The lunch bell rings, and we dutifully gather up our stuff, dump our trash, and head off to our next class.