17

BLACKMAIL

The note was messy, with words crossed out and smudges of dirt here and there, like someone had gripped the paper with muddy hands and scribbled the message in the dark.

Cress read it three times before she sorted it out.

“You are guilty of trespassing,” she read as the bus pulled out of my subdivision. “Bring a six-pack of Kool-Aid Jammers or you will never see your bike again.” We were sitting far enough away from Diesel not to be over-heard, but close enough for me to shoot him dirty looks.

Cress chewed her lip, thinking. “That doesn’t sound like Diesel.”

“Of course it does. It’s blackmail!”

“Well, you did trespass on their property when you went in the trailer, right?”

I groaned. Sometimes Cress is too honest. This was the kind of situation where you took your best friend’s side, even if what she said was wrong.

“You should talk to him,” Cress said. “Maybe this is a mistake.”

“Diesel doesn’t listen to anybody. It’s like talking to a tree stump.”

Cress frowned. “He’s smart, you know. He helped his dad fix our garage when that tree fell on it over winter break. He’s actually kind of nice.”

That warm, sick feeling crawled over me again. “Do you like him or something?”

“No,” Cress said, but she wouldn’t look me in the eyes.

Instead, she opened the binder with our facts about Billy Holcomb. “I looked up that hair dye. It’s permanent. So they only need to do it again when the roots are growing out.” She’d copied this information onto neat Post-it notes in the binder. “It’s a good clue—”

“But it’s not proof,” I finished.

“No.” Cress ran her tongue over her new braces, making a weird sucking noise. “My cheeks feel like hamburger,” she said with a groan.

“Does it hurt?”

“It feels like my teeth are going to explode. And when I eat, all the food sticks in there. I have to floss every single tooth like three times and it takes forever.” She hung her head and I pressed my arm against hers. “Plus, I finally decided on Harriet Tubman, but Becky Thorpe already signed up for her, and she’s not even black!”

“Forget Becky. You’ll find someone else. And your project will be the best. It always is.”

Cress nodded, her lips pressed together to hide her braces, and I ignored the whisper of worry in my mind that said time was ticking down and I was no closer to figuring out who I was going to be, either.

On our way off the bus, Eric and Diesel caught up to us. Eric gave me a little wave while Diesel strolled by like he didn’t see me at all, much less like he was black-mailing me for parking my bike on his lawn. As they went down the steps, Diesel even had the nerve to glance back at Cress and smile.

My stomach sank when she smiled back.

“Maybe you should talk to Diesel,” I said.

Cress’s mouth popped open. “Why me?”

“You’re the one who likes him.”

As soon as I said it, I knew I shouldn’t have. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I’m being such a jerk.”

“It’s okay,” Cress said, even though I knew it wasn’t.

I’d watched the video of Billy Holcomb’s dad pleading for information enough times to know it by heart, but I watched it again when I got to the library. Mr. Holcomb stepped up to the microphones, his jaw tight, and read his speech from a paper in halting words.

“Whoever knows where Billy is, whoever may be with him—this is a plea for you to bring him home. The Fayetteville PD, the State Highway Patrol, and the FBI are all looking for you. You may have good intentions, but I’m sure you realize this situation is bigger than you anticipated. Turn Billy over and we will not pursue you. I’ll take him back with no questions asked. Please let this nightmare be over and bring my boy home.”

The whole time, his hands are shaking. He looks so sad. His face is tan and handsome, his beard a mix of black and gray. It must have been early in the morning because the sun is in his eyes. At the end of the video, he puts his sunglasses on and turns away. I watched the video again and thought about how scary it would be to be kidnapped. Was that what had happened? Had Billy been kidnapped? My brain sorted the pieces over and over, but I still didn’t have the answers. I still didn’t know how to help.

“Hello, Maddy,” Miss Rivera said from behind me, and I jumped half out of my chair. “Researching your Living Museum project, I hope?” She wore a green-and-white shirt that said Librarian, because Book Wizard isn’t an official title.

I laughed. “I like your shirt.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes went to my screen. “What’s this you’re watching?”

I started to say it was nothing, but Miss Rivera was too sharp to buy that. And besides, maybe she could help me—as long as she didn’t think I was freaking out over nothing. She was always so helpful, she might actually give me a chance.

“I’m trying to find more information about Billy Holcomb. He’s the boy who went missing last fall.”

“Oh, I remember that.”

“That’s his dad on the video.”

“The poor man,” she said. “What exactly are you looking for and why?”

I took a breath. “I’m trying to find out what happened.”

“Why?”

“To keep other kids safe?”

Miss Rivera’s eyes softened in sympathy. “That’s thoughtful of you. I can help you find some resources—as long as you promise to get me a name for the Living Museum this week?”

I nodded quickly.

“Okay. Well, I’d say your best bet is local newspapers. They are the ones most likely to have unique information, though they might be hard to find because their distribution will be limited. Most things are on the internet, but it takes skill to find accurate information.”

She slid the keyboard her way. “What matters most are your search terms. Then you need to make sure each source is legitimate.” She showed me the different catalogs and websites that would be good places to start. “Promise me you’ll get to work on your project? It’s so special when the students are all in costume and the families come to walk through the halls.”

I remembered the Living Museum packet mentioning something about giving a speech to guests. That wasn’t the part that bothered me, though.

“I’ll try,” I said.