Panic

This is dangerous, Dent thought. Very dangerous. He had no way of knowing who was friend or foe. Somehow, he’d lost the Green Forces. He felt like he had a headache, like he couldn’t see straight. Lights were blinking and everything was silent. Where was he? Had he somehow ended up outside of Globorz Galaxy?

“Damien, over here!” I snap my head around, heart racing. It’s Glenn, one of the Doomsday Geek kids. He waves at me. “You going to sit here?” he asks.

“Uh . . .” My eyes flash wildly back and forth. I study every face in the lunchroom, especially anyone who looks at me first. Is that girl leaning down to pick up a book she dropped? Did she drop it on purpose? Maybe she’s using it as a way to lean down and whisper something to the boy sitting next to her. Or what about the Sweets? They’re giggling. Typical. But aren’t they looking straight at me as they do it? Even Ms. Arple, the lunch monitor, seems to be watching me closely.

It’s clear someone has found my notebook, and everyone knows exactly what’s in it. I’m certain of it.

My plan is to sneak some food onto my tray and escape, but I can see that’s not going to happen. Glenn saying my name means that the whole Doomsday crew is now looking at me. Their eyes blink calmly at me behind their glasses. Samantha, who at first seemed to be lost in a sheet of homework, looks up.

“Did you lose something?” she asks me. Her face is completely smooth and unreadable. “I saw you at your locker and you looked really worried.”

“Oh, no . . . just homework. Lots of homework. Speaking of homework, um, I have, um, some of that . . . work . . . to do. Big work.” I reply. They all nod. They get work. They’re always doing work. But, big work? I think I just won the gold medal for awkward.

“Okay,” Glenn says. “I was just going to see if you wanted part of my sandwich. If you were going to sit here, I mean. Hey, also, nice job on that English poem last week! I liked how it was set in space. Pretty cool.”

Samantha looks interested. “Can I read it?” she asks.

“It’s . . . I don’t have it with me,” I reply. Because, of course, I’d stuffed it in my missing notebook.

“Oh, too bad.” There’s something in her face. If the other Geeks weren’t sitting there and if Samantha wouldn’t notice, I could take a moment to study her expression. She seems . . . suspicious.

What is going on?! The Doomsday Geeks never talk to me. Glenn never talks to me. I barely even knew Glenn existed. And now, he’s offering me half a sandwich?!

And giving me a compliment, too?

. . . That’s it: They feel sorry for me. This is like someone’s last meal before walking the plank. The thought of the Doomsday Geeks, the absolute un-coolest kids in school feeling sorry for me makes everything seem much worse. My heart, which has been pounding hard since the notebook went missing, begins thumping like the loud bass in a sports car.

And don’t get me started on Samantha. Her questions and suspicious expression tell me all I need to know. The gossip has already spread about everything I’ve written down . . . and there may have been some hearts around her name on some of the pages. The thought of her knowing is—for once, I can’t find the right word. Usually I can, but not today. My little cage full of words is now empty, replaced by my rapidly beating heart. That’s it. This is officially the worst day. Possibly, of all time.

“Last chance for half a sandwich!” Glenn says, waggling his cheddar on wheat in front of my face.

“No! I mean . . . no thanks, Glenn. I—I already ate.”

With that, I turn around and walk away, deciding not to go through the lunch line after all. In an emergency, Saramus Dent would say, you don’t need food.

Things just get worse in math class. Mrs. Pruggle calls on me before I’ve even gotten out my book or pencil.

“Damien Seeley.”

“Yes?”

“There’s something different about you today.”

“There . . . there is?”

“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Pruggle has a cuddly name, but she’s not cuddly at all. She’s tall, with sharp elbows and hair that pokes out every which way. If she’s explaining an especially hard math problem, she usually plays with the spikes in her hair. She’ll tuck one behind her ear and another one will spring up and she’ll have to do it all over again. Right now, I can’t help but picture all of that spiky hair as rows and rows of teeth.

“Yes, I’m trying to put my finger on it.” As she says this, Mrs. Pruggle strolls up and down the aisles of the classroom. Every three desks or so, she stops to drum her fingertips over the desktop. The other kids shift in their seats. Mrs. Pruggle scares everybody. Not just because she’s the hardest grader of any teacher, but also because of something else. I think it’s because she makes you feel like she can see through you. Which pretty much explains how I’m feeling at this exact second.

“Oh, I’ve got it!” she suddenly says, stopping in her tracks. She points at me with a long, pale finger. “You’re with us today. You’re present.”

What does she mean? I can’t help but feel a little annoyed. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever missed class.

“You’re present, and you’re not doodling through my whole class today. You don’t have your notebook with you.” I feel the other kids staring at me. If they didn’t know about the missing notebook before, they definitely do now. I feel a Fire Blush begin to heat the base of my neck. I’m pretty sure this is going to be a bad blush.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, like an idiot. “I left it at home?”

“You’re asking me that like it’s a question,” Mrs.

Pruggle says coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. “But the truth is, I’m glad to have your full attention today.” My Fire Blush is going strong now. I’m sure my face looks as red as one of the limp tomatoes Halsey School serves with its “salads.”

“Now,” she says, walking back to the whiteboard. “Let’s start solving for x, okay?”

I’m just glad to open my book and put my nose in it as far as it will go. At least this way, no one will be able to see my bright red face anymore. I’m not sure why Mrs. Pruggle decided that today was Make Damien Miserable in Front of Everyone Day. I know I’m not the best in math, but I’m not the worst. I never crack jokes in class or shout out the wrong answer. I just sit there, listening as much as I have to. With the rest of my brain, I usually add to Saramus Dent’s story. Sometimes I draw a maze along the edge of a notebook page. Anything to make the class go faster. I guess Mrs. Pruggle noticed.

As Mrs. Pruggle blabs on and on about equations, I can feel my blush finally start to fade. I take out a sheet of plain printer paper from home. I begin to make a list.

Suspects

1. Glenn (Why else would he act so nice?)

2. Samantha Cho :(

3. Ms. Arple (She was staring at me pretty
hard today.)

4. A stranger

5. Mrs. Pruggle?

I scratch my head, trying to think of another name to add to the list. Just then, I feel a soft tap on the back of my right shoulder. A small, crumpled piece of paper drops onto the desk. I unwrap it. Written in small capital letters, it says, WHO “TOOK YOUR NOTEBOOK?

I’ve read enough mystery books to know a ransom note when I see one. I don’t recognize the handwriting, though, and I’m too afraid to turn around. Mrs. Pruggle is looking over towards me again. She must have heard the rustling paper. Man, I hate this class. I know it can’t be the guy who always sits behind me. He wouldn’t care. Someone passed it to him, and he passed it to me. As slowly as I can, I take the note off the desk and stuff it in my jeans.

When the bell finally rings, I stand up as fast as I can to look around. Everyone has their heads down and no one looks in my direction. Whoever passed the note is playing it cool. Nobody acts guilty. I’m so lost in thought looking around that I almost don’t realize Mrs. Pruggle is calling my name for the second time that day.

“Damien Seeley!” she says, almost yelling.

“What?”

She crosses her arms again, and one of her spikes of hair tilts to one side. “Sometimes losing one of our shields is the best thing that can happen to us,” she says.

Shield? I think, racing over today’s lesson in my head. Was there something in the equation called a shield?

But with that, she just pats my arm. The next moment, she’s cleaning off the whiteboard. It’s like she doesn’t even know I’m there. Of course, now the class is completely cleared out. There’s no way to be a detective and get to the bottom of the note. I head to my next class, my heart nervously thumping again.

Out there is my notebook, and somewhere out there, someone is reading it.

Later that day when I’m home from school, I sit in the TV room with Hildy instead of going upstairs to my room. I don’t feel much like writing anyway. It doesn’t feel right, somehow, without the notebook. It’s almost like I’m missing the part of my hand that helps me to curve my fingers around a pencil. Saramus Dent will have to wait.

Hildy is surprised when I sit down on the chair across from her. She’s watching her regular show about a group of people that rescue dogs. There are always sirens going off and lots of close-ups of dog snouts. Whenever a new dog comes on screen, Hildy sighs, “Oh, that one. That one is my dog. I love that dog.” She knows there’s NO WAY Mom and Dad will let us have a dog.

“I believe in responsibility,” Mom always says. Hildy and I know that’s just a cop-out. Mom is always repeating smart-sounding words from her job as a school psychologist. Mostly, they translate to mean, “That is not going to happen.”

“Since when do you like my show?” Hildy asks, crunching on a Cheetoh. Cheetohs are another thing we are definitely not allowed to have.

“I like dogs.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t like anything I like. Because it’s not dramatic enough for you.” Even though this is her favorite show, Hildy is also playing with her phone during commercials. Her attention is always bouncing this way and that. It bounces almost as much as her hair. “Look at this,” she laughs, shoving her phone in my face. “Look at what my friend just texted me.”

“R U there?” the text says, “i think the first dog looks like mr. diavolo.” Hildy chuckles at the joke.

“Your friend spelled ‘their’ wrong,” I say.

“Gosh, Damien, do you have no sense of humor?”

“I do. But I’m just saying. It should be T-H-E-R-E.” Hildy rolls her eyes at me and throws herself back against the couch. “I give up!” she says loudly. “Damien, you have killed me with your nerdiness.” Her eyes squint as she looks at me. “No, but seriously. Shouldn’t you be, like, writing or something?”

When I think of everything that’s happened today— the missing notebook, the mysterious ransom note, Mrs. Pruggle, the Doomsday Geeks—my head starts to spin.

“I lost it,” I lie.

“Well, Dad’ll be mad. He’s the one who bought it,” Hildy says. “I just hope you didn’t put anything embarrassing in there.”

“Like what?”

“Like love notes to a certain someone.” Oh, great. This again.

“Hildy,” I say, in the coldest voice I can muster. “You are the dumbest person I know.”

Just then, the commercial break ends and a close-up of a new dog comes on screen. This one is an orange color and has pointy ears like a little fox. “Awww, that’s my dog,” Hildy says in a quiet voice. She doesn’t look at me. I think I might have actually hurt her feelings with that insult.

Even that night at dinnertime, I’m not off the hook about the missing notebook.

“How’s your book coming along?” Mom asks. “What’s new in the galaxy?” One time I was stupid enough to explain the world of Saramus Dent to Mom and Dad. Now, they always ask embarrassing questions about the “galaxy.”

“It’s fine,” I lie again. I glance over at Hildy to see if she’s going to spill the beans. Normally, that’s basically her favorite thing to do, but she’s just quietly cutting her piece of chicken in half. She doesn’t look at me.

Before bed, I pull out my list of suspects one last time and add this to the bottom of it: 6. Anyone in Mrs Pruggle’s fifth period math class