We had now accomplished two important things.
First, thanks to Brooklyn the Allbright students were no longer ingesting three previously unknown compounds along with their daily brownies. We were already seeing some pretty interesting changes on campus.
And second, thanks to Prescott we now knew what those three compounds were—though I have to say I was sort of disappointed when he showed us the formulas. They had these totally weird, unpronounceable names that didn’t make sense to a normal person. I mean, if he’d told us there was arsenic in the brownies, say, or antifreeze, now that would mean something. But 2,4-dimethyloxy-5-ethoxyamatronase-doodly-doot? Who could make sense of that?
A biochemist could, Prescott said. We decided to take his word for it.
Since they were brand-new compounds, his new pal over at the Hopkins lab suggested that it might be interesting to see if anybody had applied for a patent on them. She promised to look into it but warned Prescott not to hold his breath—the patent office, like most government agencies, was notoriously slow. Still, if it turned out that there was an application and it had Dr. Gallow’s name on it, then that would be evidence with a capital E.
Meanwhile, we still had a long way to go. We needed stronger proof against Dr. Gallow, proof that he had personally and intentionally put those compounds into the brownie mix—that the wind hadn’t blown them in, for example, or his evil lab assistant wasn’t actually the culprit. We also had to find out who, if anyone, was helping Dr. Gallow. Was this a one-man deal or a huge conspiracy? Bottom line, we needed a whole lot more information.
Where better to find it than in Dr. Bodempfedder’s office?
The administration office was usually open till five, but on Thursdays Dr. Bodempfedder left early for her weekly four-fifteen appointment with her manicurist. Ms. Lollyheart had mentioned this to Cal one time, when she came by the infirmary to visit earlier than usual. It was a handy piece of information to have, and we took full advantage of it.
We planned our mission as carefully as a band of jewel thieves out to steal the Hope Diamond. At exactly four ten P.M.—when Dr. B was presumably pulling into the salon parking lot—we entered the building and headed straight for the headmistress’s office.
Cal was the first one through the door. She went over to Ms. Lollyheart, whose desk was in the middle of the reception area, and started up a conversation. As planned, she made a point of standing over on the far right-hand side of the desk. This meant that in order to talk to her, Ms. Lollyheart had to turn to her left. Sitting in this position, she couldn’t see the door to Dr. Bodempfedder’s office.
Brooklyn and Prescott came in ten seconds later, carefully staying close together, so as to form a visual barrier. This was important and had to be done just right (we had even practiced it in advance) because I was creeping in behind them, trying to be invisible. We took our assigned places on the opposite side of the desk from Cal, who was doing everything in her power to keep Ms. Lollyheart’s full attention. Cal was explaining, loudly and in infinite detail, this really neat idea for a community service project that we wanted to discuss with the headmistress. (Yeah, I know we’d already used that one, but there’s nothing wrong with recycling. And we completely changed the details this time.)
While Cal was chattering on about our project, Brooklyn and Prescott continued to stand quietly on the far side of Ms. Lollyheart’s desk, acting as human shields in case she unexpectedly turned around. “So,” Cal said, wrapping things up, “we just wanted to run it by Dr. B and see what she thinks. Would that be all right?”
“I’m sure it would, hon,” Ms. Lollyheart said, “but she’s already gone for the day.”
That was the signal. Now that we knew for sure that Dr. B wasn’t in there—that the manicurist hadn’t called in sick or something—my big moment had arrived. I tiptoed over to Dr. Bodempfedder’s office, quietly opened the door, and slipped inside.
“You want to come back tomorrow?” Ms. Lollyheart was saying.
“Sure,” I heard Cal say. “Do we need to make an appointment or anything?”
Ms. Lollyheart said if we came around four, that would be fine; she’d pencil us in. Cal and Brooklyn and Prescott all said good-bye. I heard the shuffling of feet and the closing of the entry door. Ms. Lollyheart began tappety-tapping on her keyboard. Apparently she never noticed that four kids had come in, but only three had gone out.
Now that I was in there, I had to find someplace to hide, just in case Ms. Lollyheart needed to come in there to check Dr. Bodempfedder’s schedule or get some paperwork out of a file or turn off the lights before locking up.
In the middle of the room on a large oriental rug sat a big antique desk with a keyboard and a flat-screen monitor on it. There was also a little sitting area over by the window with a couple of comfortable chairs and a small glass coffee table. That was it, furniture-wise. The rest of the office was pretty much bookshelves and filing cabinets, plus a couple of potted plants. Then I turned around and saw, to my huge relief, that there was a second door. It had to be either a closet or a bathroom.
It turned out to be a closet, a really small one, containing only a Burberry raincoat, an umbrella, a short tweed jacket, and a navy blue suit, complete with a crisp, white shirt to wear under it. (Dr. B, being a stylish lady, would naturally want to keep a change of clothes at the office, in case she spilled spaghetti sauce down the front of her jacket at lunch, or just had a really, really sweaty day.) I would have preferred a packed closet with lots of stuff to hide behind—winter coats, ski boots, tennis rackets—but any closet was better than the next-best hiding place, which was under the desk. I shut the door, scrunched down in the corner, leaned back against the wall, and waited.
A little after five I heard the door open. I heard Ms. Lollyheart come in and click off the desk lamp. Just then it occurred to me, for the first time, that the Burberry raincoat might be hers—and any minute she might open the door to get it. But I heard the reassuring jingle of keys as she locked the door, and I heaved a big sigh. Then all was silent.
Our plan was for me to wait till around six thirty, by which time it would be getting dark and everybody would be at dinner. I would then call Brooklyn on his cell phone to say that the coast was clear (he had a phone for the same reason I did—because his parents had insisted) and then tiptoe downstairs and unlock the main door.
But I realized that there was no reason for me to sit around waiting till the others got there. I could get a head start now, and it would be a lot easier, too, while there was still daylight to read by. I wouldn’t have to use the mini flashlight I had in my pocket.
The filing cabinets seemed like the obvious place to start. Unfortunately, they turned out to be locked. I pulled out the pencil drawer in the center of the desk and searched for keys. I found pens and pencils, a stapler, paper clips, a miniature Kleenex box, a tin of Altoids, reading glasses, Post-it notes, and a calculator—but no keys.
Next I checked the drawers on either side. They were remarkably neat and boring. (The only unusual item I found was a pair of fleece slippers. I guess those spike heels got to be a bit much by around three in the afternoon, even for Dr. B.) But there weren’t any keys in there, either. Maybe she kept them in her purse, on the ring with her car keys. Still, that seemed odd. I couldn’t picture her fishing into her purse every time she wanted to open a file. No, I had a strong feeling that she would have them somewhere handy, but not too obvious.
That’s when I thought of the Altoids tin. It might contain breath mints. On the other hand, it might contain something else. I opened the pencil drawer again, took out the box, and—yes! A set of tiny keys.
I didn’t know what was in the cabinets, but I figured most of them were students’ files. Since the drawers weren’t labeled on the outside, I opened one at random, pretty much in the middle of the room.
The tabs all had names and dates on them, none earlier than the late eighties. Graduation dates, probably. I picked one, mostly because I was intrigued by the name: Juniper Manly. I discovered that Juniper had graduated in 1991. She’d lived in Aster Cottage, had gone to the Rhode Island School of Design, and was now working for an advertising agency in New York. There was a computer printout, an e-mail from Juniper’s “alumni counselor” to Dr. B, saying that Juniper was “progressing nicely.” Below this, elegantly handwritten in blue ink, was the following: “a possible asset for TB’s campaign?”
I wondered if there was something special about Juniper, or if the school kept track of all its graduates. That was pretty hard to believe. There were so many—drawers and drawers of them! And what was that about TB’s campaign?
I flipped through more M files and noticed that one had blue tape on the tab—I figured that meant he was special in some way, so I pulled it out. Saul Missner had graduated in 1988, and once again, Allbright knew where he’d gone to college (Columbia), where he was working (at the Washington Post), and how he was doing (just fine). There was even a folder filled with clippings of his articles. A note was stapled to his alumni counselor’s e-mail, and it was in the same elegant script as before. It said that Saul should be considered for the alumni board, adding, “Saul is in a position of increasing influence and could use our guidance.”
Okay, so apparently they had an army of counselors at their beck and call. I put Saul’s file back, closed and locked the drawer, and made a wild guess as to which drawer contained the S’s. On the first try I got R, so I locked it and moved on to the next one.
And sure enough, there we all were, lined up together, in alphabetical order: Sharp, Frances Claire; Sharp, Joseph David; and Sharp, Zoë Elizabeth. I noted that Zoë’s file had red tape on the tab. This didn’t surprise me, since the school had been so anxious to get her. What did surprise me though, was that my folder was flagged too—in yellow. In that whole drawer there were only three others marked with colored tape—a blue one and two greens. Clearly, these were students they were especially interested in for some reason. But why me? I was the reject!
I took out our files and sat down on the floor by the filing cabinet. I opened mine first.
Inside I found a fat booklet with a beige cover. INVENTORY OF APTITUDES AND KNOWLEDGE, it said. My name was typed on the cover, along with the date and the name of the psychologist who had tested me. I flipped through and saw a list of all those tests I had taken. There were scores for visual perception, idea production, reasoning (inductive, analytical, and number series), spatial (structural visualization, wiggly block, paper folding), auditory (tonal memory, pitch discrimination, rhythm memory). As far as I could tell, I was average to superior in most things. That was good enough for me. I closed the book.
But the summary letter was far more interesting:
“Frances Sharp is a non-recruited applicant. (Note: her sister, Zoë Sharp, has been recruited by Dr. Martha Evergood.) Frances is above average in intelligence and generally does well in school with the exception of math, in which she is merely adequate. Her testing bears out a general strength in verbal as opposed to numerical skills. Her emotional profile suggests a child with a vivid imagination and only moderate impulse control. Though she tested quite well, she would still be in the bottom quartile of Allbright students. She is a generalist, and with the exception of her very advanced vocabulary (she is an avid reader), Franny displays no special talent.” That was it. My whole self boiled down to one paragraph.
I glanced at the heading at the top of the page. Under “Recommendation,” in the now familiar handwriting, it said: “Borderline. Do not admit,” below which was the following: “Accepted under special arrangement (See: Zoë Elizabeth Sharp, Joseph David Sharp).”
“Cyclamen: journalism.
Mentor: Janice Kline
College: Northwestern
PD goals: Work on impulsivity, appearance, and social skills.”
This didn’t tell me much that was new, other than the fact that they had decided I was going to be a journalist (I guess I should have guessed that when they’d given me Janice Kline as a mentor) and that they’d already decided what college I should go to. Though I was judged to be somewhat above average, I was not really Allbright material. They’d only accepted me so they could get Zoë. I had low impulse control, and apparently they had problems with my appearance. Thanks for noticing the imagination, though.
There was a second sheet stapled to the summary letter, so I checked it out:
Despite her borderline testing and admission under special circumstances, Frances Sharp surprised us with her performance in the Orientation exercise. Her assignment was to build the robot, and though the student doing the computer search failed to provide her with the instructions, Frances managed to complete her task perfectly. That makes her the only student, besides TB, ever to accomplish this.
In light of her achievement, it is likely that Frances’s test scores didn’t accurately reflect her full range of abilities, most likely due to an unusual and complex integration of scattered individual aptitudes. Clearly, she bears watching. Though it would be disruptive to move her to Violet Cottage at this point, I doubt the wisdom of too much mediation, since we don’t really understand her profile. Tag with yellow.
The letter was typed on a computer, but at the bottom, handwritten, were the initials K. B.
Well, that was satisfying: I not only had imagination, but I was also complicated! I was right up there with the famous TB, at least where building robots was concerned. Obviously, I was going to have to check out the tagged files in the B drawer for anyone with those initials—and he or she would definitely be tagged. They had their eyes on this kid, big-time.
But first I wanted to finish with the Sharp family.
Now, I swear I wasn’t snooping. It wasn’t like reading your sister’s diary or something. I just needed to know what they had in mind for us, in case it was something heinous. I closed my file and opened Zoë’s.
This time I skipped the beige booklet and went straight for the summary letter.
Zoë Sharp was recommended to us by Dr. Evergood, with high praise for her apparent intuitive interpersonal and leadership skills. Though her school transcript is not impressive (she is a B student overall), and her IQ is in the low superior range, her test scores in perception/subjectivity/socialization exceed our ability to measure them.
Personal interaction with Zoë supports our testing in this regard. She is a real standout, a beautiful child with an unstudied, natural warmth and sweetness and exceptional magnetic personal charm. Her pronounced natural leadership ability would make her an enormous asset both to the school and to our country. However, in our conversation she expressed a disinclination to attend Allbright without her siblings. We recommend they be accepted if necessary.
As before, the recommendation section was handwritten in ink. I had to assume that the testing psychologists wrote the summaries, and then someone—almost certainly Dr. Bodempfedder—later analyzed the data and decided what to recommend. In Zoë’s case it said, “Extraordinary perception/subjectivity/socialization scores. Primary candidate for advancement!!! Highest recommendation. Primrose, with specials at all levels. Tag with red.”
Mentor: Martha Evergood.
College: probably one of the Ivies, possibly Yale. Consider a top-tier Southern school, such as Duke, which might be an asset for her politically.
PD goals: Her posture could use some work; we might encourage a calmer demeanor; she should upgrade her wardrobe, though her taste is excellent. Don’t do too much, however. She’s quite wonderful the way she is.
I put Zoë’s paperwork back in the folder. I thought it was amazing that Allbright, the school for geniuses, valued Zoë’s sweetness. And how fascinating that they actually thought she could get into Duke or Yale (now, there was a stretch!). And they had her going into politics! As my dad would say, yowza!
I did kind of see what they meant, though. Zoë was always getting elected to things—class monitor, student council. That’s why she was at that leadership conference in the first place, the one in D.C. where she met Martha Evergood. I couldn’t quite imagine Zoë taking an interest in government policy and stuff like that, but I guess they could teach it to her (maybe that was what “specials at all levels” meant). Maybe they thought Zoë had what Bill Clinton had, that inborn talent for connecting to people. Actually, now that I thought about it, she did. Holy cow! Did they want her to run for president?
I opened J. D.’s file last. It was a lot like mine, of course, though it wasn’t tagged with colored tape. He too was “borderline” and not recommended for acceptance. And he too was “Accepted under special arrangement (See: Zoë Elizabeth Sharp, Frances Claire Sharp).” Below, where I had been assigned to Cyclamen and a future as a journalist, J. D.’s said the following: “Testing pattern is impossible to analyze. Definite visionary.”
No moderation advised: Violet Cottage
Mentor: Let’s wait till his inclinations develop more clearly
College: Wait to see what develops
PD goals: None
Visionaries, huh? So that’s what they called kids like J. D., different, original kids with no obvious talent in a particular subject, like art or math. You couldn’t predict how they’d turn out. They’d just wander along through life doing what interested them—until one day they’d decide to start Microsoft or invent an electric eyelash curler or write a book on the history of the buffalo nickel. No “moderation” was advised for them, because the school didn’t have a clue how to lead them. I was pondering all this when I heard the dreaded sound of keys in a lock.
I leaped up, banging my head on the open filing cabinet. Despite the jolt of pain, I thought fast. It would take a good four seconds for me to slip our files back in the drawer and probably another five to close and lock it. Then I still needed time to run over, slip the keys back into the Altoids tin, and hide in the closet. If, as I feared, this was either Ms. Lollyheart or Dr. Bodempfedder coming back to the office, there was no time to do all of those things.
I slid the drawer closed as quietly as I could, and with the Sharp family files under my arm and the keys in my fist, I dashed across the room and into the closet. I got there a mere two seconds before the door to the office opened and the light came on.