Queen of Likes (10 page)

I study the black-and-white photo. Well, it's more brownish. Ivan has big, blond curls and a mischievous grin. “There're no details here to tell you where this was taken,” I point out.

“Exactly,” says Karen.

Dorina's smile now grows extra big. “So I looked at the organizational index and saw that the old orphanage was knocked down. And low and behold, I checked my listing file, and the address matched. Ivan was born in the orphanage!”

It's sort of amazing, but all those files and boxes mean something. They work.

“Good job, ladies.” Anna claps her hands. “A perfect end to a crazy day.”

“Wow,” I say. “You used all of that”—I wave my hands at all the collected pieces of the past—“to solve a mystery.”

“Exactly,” says Karen. “That's why I love this place.”

I peer at the photo of the orphanage. “Hey, it looks like the photographer cut off part of the building.”

Anna takes a closer look. “You're right. You've got good eyes, Karma.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Glancing up from the photo, Anna smiles at me. “Have you ever taken a photography class?”

I shake my head. Why is everyone around here asking me that?

“You should. There's a volunteer, Katherine, who works here. She was just telling me her son is teaching one at the community rec center. You should sign up.”

“Is it for”—I pause—“kids?” I'm afraid of Neda overhearing. If she thought there was a bona fide kid in here, she'd probably have a fit.

“Teens, I think. But if you're twelve you can do it.”

It's weird thinking of myself as old enough to take a class for teens, but then again, I'm almost thirteen and ready to be bat mitzvahed.

“From what I understand,” says Dorina, “he's a really great instructor. He teaches one for older adults as well.”

Anna looks back at me as she strolls to her desk. “I think you'd enjoy it.”

“Maybe,” I say.

The first thing I do when I get home is take Dad's camera out of the cabinet in the family room. What would it be like to take a photography class? How different can it be? I pull the camera out of the case. It feels so much heavier than Floyd. It's got a big lens that looks professional.

I take out the little instruction booklet and flip through it, reading the names of all the parts. Shutter release. Hot shoe for flash. Red-eye reduction light. Optical viewfinder. Lens barrel. So much stuff and that's not even half of it. When I turn on the camera, it makes a satisfying whirring noise as if it's happy. I push down on the button you use to take a picture, which I now know is called the shutter release.

Click.
I take a photo of my hand.

Click.
And the floor.

Click.
And my dresser.

The camera works.

I pick up the instructions to read more when Mom calls my name. With the camera slung over my shoulder, I pad over to the kitchen. Mom is chopping up romaine lettuce for the salad. She asks me how it went at the historical society.

“It's weird,” I confess, “but the time went superfast.”

“That's great, Karma.” She rinses the leaves in the spinner. Toby's in the next room building his LEGOs. Her eyes graze my shoulder. “I see you've discovered Dad's camera.”

“Yup,” I say.

“Hey,” calls out Toby, “I heard you say something was weird.”

“I thought the historical society would be full of spiderwebs, but it was actually kind of cool.” I explain how together Karen and Dorina solved a family mystery.

Later I go into Dad's office and look up the word
ephemera
. It means something fleeting. Something enjoyed for a little while. Ephemera are also collected items, usually printed, that were supposed to be useful for a short time. I think about the boxes in the historical society. They preserve something that was supposed to be temporary, and it makes me think:
If I could only pick a few items to box up and preserve forever, what would they be?

And then something hits me.

Something really bad.

I completely forgot about the Spirit Week meeting. Immediately I reach for my phone. Of course I can't text on my poor Flippie. I'll have to call. I hope nobody is too mad. Somehow, with all the excitement of finding out about the orphan guy, I lost track of the time. What is happening to me?

My Stats:

2 volunteers who solved a mystery

1 notebook for writing down stuff I don't completely understand

0 balloons above Neda's desk

1 camera with lots of buttons

1 photography class I might take

1 kind of cool community project that still might be temporary

Mood: Baffled that I forgot about the Spirit Week meeting and guilty that I abandoned Ella.

As I hustle to science, I am still feeling awful about missing the Spirit Week meeting. Ella promises me that not that much happened at the meeting, but it sure sounded like a lot. They decided on a theme for the dance, along with colors, and made up some kind of seventh-grade cheer.

My backpack is extra heavy because I have Dad's camera in there. Auggie, Graeme, and Justin are a little ways ahead of me in the crowded hall. When I squint my eyes, their shoes blur together. I wonder if there's a way to capture that with the camera.

Milton P. shuffles toward me, various airliner tags on his backpack flapping up and down. As he's about to pass the boys, he clutches his shoe box tightly.

Auggie smiles at Milton P., now only an arm's length away by the trophy case. I hate how cute Auggie looks when he smiles. I do not want to think Auggie is cute.

“Snollygoster,” he asks Milton P. in a light, happy voice, “bring an extra pair of Nikes for me?”

“Yeah, dude,” Justin says. “But I need a larger size. Do you have it in a ten?”

“No!” Face reddening, Milton P. freezes in front of Auggie. “There are no shoes in here. I have told you that for the one thousandth time!”

I start to speed up when I remember I have a test in science. Did I leave my prep sheet back in my locker? We're allowed one page of notes when we take the test.

I sit down on the bench and unzip my backpack to see if my prep sheet is inside, and I hear Graeme say, “What's in the box, Snollygoster? Something top secret? Keeping it from the government?”

I try to focus, pawing through my backpack and pulling out my big binder. Please. Please let my notes for the test be in there.

“Tell us, Snollygoster,” says Justin.

Milton P. squeezes his cauliflower-white hands. “Never.”

Seven minutes to get to science class. Whew. Okay. I did put my notes for the test into my binder.

I stand to go when Graeme dashes up to Milton P. and grabs his arm. I freeze in place. “Hang on, buddy,” he says in a syrupy voice. “We just want to talk.”

“Yeah, your shirt coordinates nicely with your shoe box.” Justin smiles. Graeme doesn't let go of his hold on Milton, who's red-faced and desperately trying to pull away. I frown at what I'm hearing.

“Let go of me. Get off!” Milton P. cries.

I open my mouth but hesitate.

Auggie whispers something to Justin and Graeme. They're shaking their heads and laughing. My stomach burns with anger. Okay, I've had enough of them. Really.

I cross my arms. “What are you guys doing?”

Auggie looks at Graeme, who looks at Justin. “Just being friendly,” says Auggie, shrugging as a few kids thread around them.

Milton shakes out of Graeme's grasp, then backs away and continues down the hall.

That's when Justin sticks out his red basketball shoe.

Milton tumbles to the floor. His hands smack the tiles. I gasp along with kids passing by who slow down or stop walking altogether to stare.

He rolls like a log. The shoe box catapults out of his hands, skids across the floor five feet in front of him, and spins upside down. Somehow the lid stays on. A water bottle rolls toward the trophy case. I race over to Milton P.

From the other kids I hear, “That must have hurt” and “Ow.”

I crouch next to Milton P. My backpack slumps to the floor. His eyes are closed. I wish I knew CPR because he's not moving. Auggie and his buddies shove forward to look.

I shake his arm gently. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” says Auggie. He's come up behind us.

Milton P.'s eyes open and his apple-red cheeks turn even redder. Breathing hard, he sits up. He blinks. “I am fine,” he barks. But his eyes glisten.

I glare at Auggie and Justin and Graeme. Now that Milton P. is sitting up and seems okay enough, people continue on their way to the next class.

“You all right?” I ask Milton P. again.

He peers at me in a way I don't understand. Milton P. scrambles for his shoe box, but some kid in a baseball cap strolling past accidentally stumbles over it. The box skids farther from him.

“Sorry,” the kid mutters, and continues down the hall.

Milton P. curls his hands into fists.

“Dude, I'm so sorry,” says Auggie. He sprints over to the shoe box and grabs it. He jogs over to hand it to Milton P., but Justin swipes it from Auggie.

“Looky looky what I got.” Justin shakes the box.

Milton P. scrambles down the hall. He grabs at the shoe box.

But Justin clutches it over his head. “What could be inside?” He juggles the box.

“Stop it!” I stand and yell as Milton P. claws at Justin, who lifts it higher over his head. “Money, candy, or Pokémon cards?” muses Justin.

The warning bell rings. Five more minutes to get to class.

Justin begins to lift a corner of the lid. My heart thuds in my chest. Auggie and Graeme look at each other with surprised expressions.

“NOOOOOOO!” screams Milton P. so loudly that I think the trophy case in the hallway has begun to shake. Justin holds the box out in front of him as if it's a bomb that might explode.

One of the secretaries, Mrs. Ozer, rushes out of the office. Justin drops the box. Something rattles inside.

Milton P. screams again.

“What's going on?” Mrs. Ozer's eyebrows furrow as she sweeps her graying, hippie-long hair off her shoulder.

“It's okay,” says Auggie, nodding at Justin. “He didn't look. The lid's still on.”

She glares at Justin. “Give that back to Milton P. right now.” Everyone knows about Milton P.'s shoe box.

Justin grabs the box and pushes it at Milton P.  Then he backs up with his hands raised. “I was just messing around.”

“Are you okay, dear?” Mrs. Ozer asks Milton P.

His eyes dart around everywhere as if looking for an escape. “Yeah.” Milton P. checks inside the box to see if the contents are okay. His glasses steam up so that his eyes appear as blurry bits of blue. There are only three minutes until class now.

“Justin grabbed it away from him,” I say, fuming, my heart pounding. “He tripped him.”

“It was an accident,” protests Justin.

Mrs. Ozer glares at Justin. “If I hear another word from you boys, I'm going to bring you in for a little chat with Principal Wallace.”

“We're sorry,” gushes Auggie. “Really.”

Milton P. continues to stare at the contents of the box. His face twists as if whatever is inside may be dying. He looks as if he wants to bolt, but probably the secretary standing there makes him stay in his spot.

I glance nervously up at the clock. I've got to get to class.

“Sorry, Milton P.” Justin smiles sheepishly. “We were just playing.”

“We're supersorry,” adds Auggie. Staring at his feet, Graeme nods.

“Okay, get to third period,” says Mrs. Ozer as she makes a shooing motion. She glances around at the few kids still left hurrying to class. To everyone she announces, “You've got three minutes until the last bell.” Then she scurries back inside the office.

Milton P. picks up his backpack. Beads of sweat dot his forehead. Auggie grabs the water bottle that skidded out of Milton P.'s lunch bag. Wow. Maybe Auggie feels badly about what happened.

Milton P. stares down Auggie. “Do. Not. Help. Me!” His eyes fix on the water bottle that Auggie holds out to him. “Put it down.”

Auggie sets the water bottle on the ground. Scooping it up, Milton P. plods away down the hall. I want to cheer for Milton P.

“Wow, Justin,” Auggie says. Only he doesn't say
wow
. He says a word much worse than
wow
. “Why did you do that?” he whispers, and glances at the door to the office. Justin fidgets. “You shouldn't have tried to look in his box, dude,” says Auggie.

Justin throws up his hands. “You told me to trip him.” Folding his arms over his chest, he harrumphs.

“Is that true?” I stare down the hall where Milton P. disappeared and think about catching up with him. But first I whirl around and face Auggie. “You guys are such jerks. I can't believe you'd be so mean.”