Ella’s smile is warm—bright. It’s as beautiful as the gaseous outer layers of star glow. “Thank you, Angus,” she breathes.
“No problem,” I croak. And once again, I catch Shahid’s movements in the background. This time he’s simply shaking his head.
“So what do you think we should do first?” Ella asks.
“Uh…”
There’s a space of silence until Shahid says, “Maybe we should visit the scene of the crime.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “That’s definitely first.”
“Really?” Ella asks. “But I already searched the art room. It’s not there.”
“No. Of course not.” My mouth feels dry. “But it would be helpful for me to see the, uh, layout of the room.” This sounds lame, even to me. And then inspiration strikes. “Also, I’d like you to tell me who was in the room at the time. And where they were positioned.”
“Oh.” Ella nods. “That makes sense. But I’m not sure I can remember where everyone was.”
“That’s why we need to go there,” I say. “It’ll help jog your memory.”
“Right.” Ella glances down the hall. “Should we go now?”
“No time like the present, I always say. Ha ha.” I don’t always say that. I never say that.
Shahid rolls his eyes, but Ella just says, “Okay,” and starts walking.
I follow, and Shahid falls in beside me. I think he only does this so he can jab his pointy elbow into my ribs. I refuse to look at him. I don’t have time for his opinion right now. I know I’m an idiot. The question is, how can I prevent Ella discovering it too?
The answer is obvious. I must continue to avoid her. By the time we get to the art room, I’ve got an updated plan. If it was a computer program, it would be called Avoidance ~ Version 2.0. I barely pay attention when Ella points out the last known location of the sketchbook. That changes when she mentions the girl who shares her worktable.
“She’s really good at sculpting in clay. I let her borrow my sketches when she was working on her bust.”
Shahid and I make eye contact, and I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. “Um,” I begin. “She used your sketches to work on her bust?”
Ella’s forehead wrinkles. “Yeah. You know, like one of those?” She points. Sitting on a shelf is one of those disturbing statues of a head, neck and shoulders.
“Oh. Right.” I feel my face getting warm. It’s possible I may need to learn about art too. I shrug off my back-pack, reach in and fish around for a notebook and pen. When I turn back to Ella, I’m ready to ask, “So what is this girl’s name?”
“I don’t think she’d steal my book,” Ella says.
“Probably not.” I hold my pen ready to write. “But she has a motive. We need to consider all potential suspects.”
Ella sighs. “I guess. Her name is Rachel. Rachel Stone.”
I gape at Ella. I know Rachel Stone. Okay, know may be an exaggeration. But I know who she is. Everyone knows who she is. “The Gaga Girl.”
Behind her glasses, Ella’s eyes flash. “People shouldn’t be judged by what they wear.”
I hold up a hand. “Of course not. No. I just meant…”
“She’s got an artistic soul,” Ella says. “She can’t help expressing it.”
“Right.” I nod.
Shahid emits a sound. “Gack.”
“Huh?” I ask.
Then a new voice demands, “What are you people doing in here?”
We turn and see the art teacher, Mr. Wilder. Everyone knows who he is too. He stands with his arms folded across his chest. His long gray hair has partially escaped its ponytail. The trademark ponytail, bound with beaded leather and feathers, is one of the things that make him stand out. Another is his habit of wearing dresses. Shahid has told me they aren’t really dresses, they’re caftans or something. They still look like dresses.
His gaze rakes over us, and I notice his eyes are bloodshot. He doesn’t look friendly. More like a snake preparing to strike. When his beady eyes find Ella, he raises an eyebrow. “Ella? You know students aren’t permitted in here without supervision.”
Ella’s cheeks flush pink. “Sorry, Mr. Wilder. I forgot my favorite pencil.” She raises her hand and waves a pencil.
“Hmph,” Mr. Wilder says. There’s an edge to his voice as he adds, “Such dedication. Even on a Friday. On your way then. I need to lock up.”
We turn as one and leave. Once we’re out the door, I mutter, “Now he’s concerned about security? Seems like a case of too little, too late.”
Ella is still pink. “I guess.” She takes a deep breath and asks, “So what should we do next?”
Here’s where Avoidance ~ Version 2.0 comes in. “I have a few leads to follow,” I say. “But while I’m conducting the investigation, it’s best if you aren’t seen with me.”
Ella stops walking and stares. “Why not?”
I talk fast. “If people see us together, as in, if the culprit sees me with you, it will tip them off.”
Together, Ella and Shahid say, “Huh?”
I force myself to speak slowly and clearly. “Picture this. Let’s say I want to check out a suspect like Gaga…I mean, Rachel. I would observe her from a slight distance. I’d watch for clues, such as a glimpse of the sketchbook. Or her displaying guilty or furtive glances.” This sounds impressive, even to me.
I go on. “If the suspect noticed me lurking nearby, they’d think nothing of it. But if they saw you”—I nod at Ella—“they’d know we were after them. Therefore, we must split up at once.”
“Oh,” Ella says. Her lower lip quivers in a fascinating way, and she drops her gaze to the floor. “But…” She’s quiet for a moment, and then asks, “How will I know what’s happening?” She raises her eyes again. “Can we keep in touch on Facebook?”
Facebook, she says. I tried that. But I never got into it. My only “friends” on there were Shahid and my mother. It didn’t matter before, but it would be embarrassing if Ella saw how pathetic I am at social networking. Now that I think about it, that’s a cruel aspect of Facebook. Why should the number of “friends” we have be publicly displayed?
I shake my head. “That’s too risky,” I say. “Suspects could notice our connection there too. How about email?”
She smiles. “Okay. Do you want me to write down my address for you?”
“Sure.” I smile too and hand her my notebook. Ella writes her address in my notebook. Then she asks me for mine and she writes that down too, at the bottom of the page. She tears off the little strip of paper and tucks it into her pocket.