Swiped (2 page)

Nick, Robyn and I started working through the nearest box. Most of the books were out-of-date textbooks or encyclopedias from the eighties.

“Why weren't these books given away ages ago?” Robyn wanted to know, brushing dust off her hands.

“Who knows?” I said. “Probably no one got around to it.”

“This box is hopeless,” Robyn said. “There's nothing in here we can use.” She flipped the pages of an ancient math text in disgust.

I reached into the box and pulled out a huge science book, noticing a second book wedged inside the tattered book jacket. “Hey, what's this?” I said. I pried the jacket loose and released a thin, hardcover book with a color picture of a hockey player on the cover. The book dropped onto my desk, falling open to a well-thumbed photo of a player wearing a blue and orange uniform. My jaw dropped.

“What is it?” Robyn wanted to know.

I hesitated. “It's a hockey book from 1980.”

“Oh.” Nick looked bored. He's not big on sports. “That's pretty old. Mrs. Pringle will probably want to chuck it out.” He slid his chair back and went to grab his lunch.

“I don't think so,” I said slowly. I recognized the player and the uniform right away. So did Cray. He stopped stacking books on the table and peered over my shoulder.

“That's Wayne Gretzky when he first played with the Oilers,” Cray said with interest.

“So what? Who asked you to butt in?” Robyn said.

“It's a free country, princess,” Cray informed her.

Robyn gritted her teeth. “And you're free to leave. Take a hike, Cray.”

Cray deliberately leaned against my desk and folded his arms across his chest, ignoring Robyn. “Gretzky is one of the best hockey players that ever skated in the NHL.” Cray said. “He won the Hart Memorial Trophy for MVP in his first season in the NHL.”

“Which makes this even more cool.” I pointed to the signature on the page.

“He signed it? That's awesome,” said Cray. “That book must be worth thousands.”

“How would you know?” Robyn said rudely.

“I've collected sports stuff for years,” Cray told me, still ignoring Robyn. “I've bought some hockey stuff on Internet auctions before, and anything to do with Gretzky is worth big money, especially if it's rare.”

Mrs. Pringle came to investigate. “Look what we found,” I said. I lifted the photo so she could see. “Cray thinks it's worth some serious cash.”

Mrs. Pringle picked the book up as though she were handling diamonds. “It might be,” she said. She checked the copyright date, then the photo. “This was signed after his first season with the Oilers. See the caption under the photo?” She showed us. “That's more than twenty-five years ago.”

“Wow.” Cray shook his head. “This is unbelievable.”

“It's a real piece of hockey history, all right,” Mrs. Pringle said.

“Do you think our school will be able to keep it?” Robyn asked.

“No, I'm sure it will go on display somewhere. But maybe we'll be allowed to keep it for a little while.” Mrs. Pringle smoothed the cover with her hand and glanced at the clock. “You kids are done. Go have your lunch.”

I got up in relief. My stomach was so empty, I thought it was going to cave in. A sudden cry erupted from the table where the lunches were piled. Nick's face was red and his hands were empty. “Someone,”
he yelled, “has ripped off my banana and marshmallow-fluff sandwich!”

Robyn sighed. “Not again!”

Cray was busy looking through a nearby stack of books. Robyn eyed him suspiciously as we walked out of the library. She took half of her pickle sandwich from her lunch bag and handed it to Nick in the hall. “I wonder,” she said, “why my lunch doesn't get stolen.”

“Because you bring such weird stuff,” Nick said, his mouth full. “Not that I'm not grateful,” he added, as Robyn glared at him. “But not many people like pickle sandwiches.”

“There really isn't any choice. You'll have to get rid of most of them,” Mrs. Pringle said.

Nick stopped to tie his shoelaces in the library doorway, dropping his overdue books on the ground. Robyn stopped so suddenly behind him that I collided with her, sending her stumbling into Nick.

“Trevor!” she said in a furious whisper.

“I couldn't help it. What's the matter, anyway?” I said. Mr. Kowalski and the rest of
our grade eight class should have been right behind us, but the hall was still empty.

“Shhh. I want to hear.” Robyn cocked her head toward the library interior.

Mrs. Pringle sighed. “I know. It was nice to get the donation, but most of these books are terribly out-of-date. We need new materials so badly. Building up a library takes time, but these kids need books
now
.”

I peered around the doorway and saw her talking to Ms. Thorsen, the new grade nine teacher. Unlike Mrs. Pringle, who was plump and wore her graying hair clipped back, Ms. Thorsen looked trendy with square black-rimmed glasses and short blond hair. I could almost imagine her as a DJ at a rock station.

Ms. Thorsen glanced into one of the boxes of books that was stacked on the floor. “There's no budget left?”

“Not much. A big chunk of it went to buying computer equipment. We'll need more money if we want books this year.”

Robyn burst into the library. “Mrs. Pringle, I know! We could have a fundraiser to buy books!”

Mrs. Pringle and Ms. Thorsen turned in surprise. Robyn's face turned pink. “We were just coming in and heard what you said,” she explained as Nick and I followed her in.

Robyn continued. “We could raise the money,” she said. “It wouldn't be hard. The school always has fundraisers.”

“Well, it's a great idea, Robyn, but that's just the problem. We do have a lot of fundraisers, and our parent council does most of them. I'm not sure we could get the support for another one.”

“Why couldn't we do it ourselves?” Robyn persisted. “Trevor, Nick and I could do most of the organizing if you're too busy.”

“We could?” Nick looked startled.

Robyn elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Yes, we could. I bet we could get other students to help. It would be fun.”

“Yeah, loads,” Nick muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

Mrs. Pringle hesitated. “I don't know, Robyn. It would be a lot of work to get it organized for this school year, and I'm not
sure I'll be here next year. It might be better to wait until September.”

“But we need books now. You said so,” Robyn pointed out. “What if we held a literacy fair? The whole school could help!” Her eyes lit up. “We could have a used book sale. We could sell all the donated books that the library can't use!”

“That's a great idea, Robyn!” Ms. Thorsen said enthusiastically.

“It would solve the problem of getting rid of these discards.” Mrs. Pringle glanced at the boxes full of books. “But there's still a lot of books no one will buy—old textbooks and things.”

“That's easy. We can donate those to charity.” Robyn gave an airy wave of her hand, then stopped. “But wait a minute, Mrs. Pringle. What do you mean, you won't be here next year?”

Mrs. Pringle frowned. “I shouldn't have said that. It slipped out before I thought. I don't really know for sure. But with more students coming in for fall, there may not be room in the budget for a librarian.”

“That's terrible!” Robyn cried.

Mrs. Pringle smiled, but her eyes looked worried. “That's the way it is, honey. There's only so much money, and teachers are necessities. The school can manage without a librarian.”

“I can't!” Robyn burst out. Anger made her swell up like a toad. “Librarians are important!”

Mr. Kowalski, his curly brown hair more disheveled than usual, strode through the library door with the students. “Sorry, kids,” he said to us. “I had a phone call. The rest of the class had to wait. Have they been any trouble?” he asked Mrs. Pringle.

“Not at all.” She smiled. “Quite the opposite. While we were waiting, Robyn, Nick and Trevor volunteered to spearhead a literacy fair to raise money for the library.”

Mr. Kowalski took a sip from his coffee cup and wiped his bushy mustache. “Really? That's sounds great. Let's see if they can put the same resourcefulness toward their social studies project.” He faced the class. “Find a computer, kids, and get
started. We only have twenty minutes left before lunch.”

I sat down at the nearest computer station and logged on. I only had time to type in my outline before Mr. Kowalski interrupted us.

“Everybody, stop and save, please. We have to pack up. It's almost time for lunch.” He glanced at the clock. “Sorry this session was so short. I'll see if I can book some extra time on the computers this afternoon with Mrs. Pringle.”

The bell sounded. Nick slammed his binder shut. “Let's go! I'm starving.”

Robyn caught up to us in the hall, just as we passed the school office. Her gaze fastened on a grade seven boy who was standing near the office door. He was shifting uneasily from foot to foot and hiding something behind his back.

“Look!” Robyn whispered. She gestured toward the boy.

I looked. “So?”

“So, he's up to something!” she hissed. “Can't you see what he's hiding?”

I stared. It was a lunch box—a pink lunch box with sparkly stars. The boy caught me looking, and his face turned red.

“He could be the lunch thief,” Robyn insisted. “Look at how he's acting. He's very nervous. That's suspicious, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, but...” I started to object, but Robyn took off like a shot.

She strode up to the boy and demanded, “Where did you get that?”

The boy gulped. “Get what?”

“That lunch box.”

“What lunch box?”

“The one behind your back!”

The hall was crowded with students, and people turned to see what was going on. “I...um—” The boy started to sweat. He looked around wildly, as if searching for escape.

Robyn glared at him. “You stole it, didn't you? You're the thief who's been ripping off lunches, aren't you?”

His face went blank. “I have no clue what you're talking about, but I didn't steal anything, so mind your own business!”

At that moment, a small, curly-haired girl wearing a pink denim jumper came up.

“Thanks, Connor,” she said, taking the lunch box from him.

“The next time you forget your lunch, get Mom to bring it. Okay, Holly?” The boy said through clenched teeth.

“Okay,” the girl chirped. She skipped back to her class.

Connor gave Robyn a baleful glance and took off down the hall. Robyn turned back to us, completely crestfallen.

“Don't worry, Robyn,” I said, fighting back laughter. “Even the best detectives make mistakes.” Nick kept his face turned carefully away and was making weird snuffling noises in an effort to control his own urge to laugh.

“Stop it, you morons,” Robyn scowled at us.

“You're calling
us
morons?” Nick sputtered, finally giving in to a fit of laughter. It was contagious, and I couldn't hold it in any longer. Loud guffaws erupted from both of us. The madder Robyn looked, the funnier
it seemed. Nick doubled over and had to lean one arm on the wall for support.

She glared at us, her hands on her hips. “So tell me, brainiacs. Why was he hiding the lunch box, if it belonged to his sister?”

Nick snorted. “Think about it, Robyn. No guy wants to stand in the hall holding a pink lunch box. That's like holding a sign that says, ‘I'm a dweeb.'”

“Oh.” Robyn paused. “I never thought of that.”

I managed to stop laughing. “You're a girl. Pink lunch boxes aren't a big deal to you.”

“Okay, so I was wrong.” Robyn shrugged. “I still think it's Cray, anyway, but a good detective has to investigate every possibility,” she said in a pompous voice. “Come on, let's go eat.”

“What's the next move, Sherlock?” I asked Robyn.

“Stick it up your nose, Trev,” she answered. We were back in the library working on our research project. “The guy with the pink lunch box looked suspicious, so I investigated. Which is better than
you
—sitting on your butt doing nothing. It's your lunch issue that I'm trying to solve, you know.”

“I'm not doing nothing,” I retorted.

“Yeah, you are,” Robyn said. “I'm doing all the work, and no one's swiping
m
y lunch.”

“That's because it's disgusting,” Nick interrupted. “And the next move is for someone to explain to me why I can't get this dumb Internet to work.”

“Need some help?” A grade nine boy from Ms. Thorsen's class stopped, his arms full of books. Their class was organizing the new books for Mrs. Pringle.

“Sure.” Nick gestured to the screen. “I can't get the search engine to work.”

“No problem.” The boy set down the books. Some old detective novels were on top of the pile. I have a weakness for high-action mystery-thrillers, even fifty-year-old ultra-cheesy ones. This one was titled,
Mac Dougall and the Case of the Monster From Mars
. I opened the cover, but the boy looked up. “Hey, don't mess with those.”

Surprised, I stopped. “I was just looking at it.”

“Sorry, but I just finished sorting them. I don't want them to get mixed up.”

I raised one eyebrow and caught Robyn's eye. She shrugged.

He turned back to Nick.

“Anyway, I think you're putting in the wrong keywords. Try something like this.” The boy typed rapidly for a moment.

“Blake, what are you doing?” Ms. Thorsen asked.

“Just helping this guy for a second on the Internet.”

Mrs. Pringle came over to see. “What's the problem?”