High and Dry (14 page)

The bus never took you where you really wanted to go. The bus never took you anywhere at all. What it did was take you in circles, from home to school and school to home. At least in your car, there was a chance you could escape the loop, veer off the track, head to Vegas. You'd never do it, but there was a chance.

For the first time since my sentence was handed out, I full-on hustled to the library. My hustling was all the more interesting considering I wasn't scheduled to be there. I had to work fast before Mr. Minnow, the long-faced part-time librarian, arrived.

I was supposed to have familiarized myself with the library layout by now, as part of my punishment, so I could be a better font of information, but I still needed the crib sheet. I pulled out the laminated map and studied it. History. Literature. Science. Math. English. Spanish. And then, in tiny, smudged letters in the corner, nearest to Bridget's supposed location at the time of the theft, the Chekhov section.

The “section” was nothing more than a small glass case in the back of the library, completely unobtrusive, not even remotely tempting. I figured it'd at least have a sign up saying “Do Not Touch! Part of living museum!” or something. There were about ten books, some duplicates, including plays and short-story anthologies by Chekhov, all under lock and key, like the high-end liquor aisle at Vons.

I darted back to the info desk and fumbled through the drawers, looking for the key. Mr. Minnow walked in and asked what I was doing. Librarians were among the first casualties of the budget wars, so he only came in three times a week. I think he subsidized his lack of pay by stealing truckloads of coffee and croissants from the teachers' lounge; he always had two huge thermoses with him.

“Extra-credit project. I'm researching Chekhov,” I replied.

He squinted at me, scanning me like a bar code. “Okay, I'll go with you.”

The last thing I needed was him standing over my shoulder, but I didn't have a choice. He had a strung-together key chain in his pocket. He flicked through it and located the right one, then opened the cabinet.

I knelt down and quickly read the titles. I didn't remember if “The Lady with the Dog” was a play, a novel, or a short story, so I grabbed a collection of selected shorts first, and opened to the table of contents.

The Confession

Surgery

A Cure for Drinking
(might be useful)

In Spring

Three Years

In Exile

The Darling

The Kiss

“In Exile”? “The Kiss”? Maria Salvador hadn't been speaking gibberish, or talking about herself when I'd seen her in the hospital. She'd been listing Chekhov titles. What was the connection?

“Gently, gently,” Mr. Minnow drawled, as I hurried through the next collection. And there it was …

“The Lady with the Dog.” I flipped through the pages, looking for highlighted words, underlined passages, anything to tell me why it
was a clue. Nothing. I turned the book over, checked the front and back flaps, even the stamped pocket where library tickets used to go in the 1970s.

“
What
are you doing?” demanded Mr. Minnow.

I rotated the book in my hands, feeling it up like we were alone in the back of a car. The binding on the book was loose; the spine had shifted away from the pages, exposing a gap.

The gap was the exact shape and size of a flash drive.

But if the flash drive had been hidden there, it was gone now, just like Maria Salvador's mind. Someone had beaten me to it.

Jane Thomas (a.k.a. Thomas' English Muffin) sat at her computer in the journalism room, clicking through images for next week's issue of the
Palm Valley High Recorder
. She was our cute British transplant who'd taken over the school newspaper and turned it into a must-read tabloid. She was Rupert Murdoch in a jean skirt and loafers, presumably minus the phone hacking. Our paper may have been respectable before, but it sure was boring. And actually it had never been respectable.

She jumped when I strolled in; the bell hadn't rung yet and she clearly wasn't expecting visitors. In fact, her hand clicked and shifted the mouse in such a way that if those sites weren't blocked, I might've thought she was closing out of a porn site.

I pretended I hadn't seen, and I reminded her who I was. I was on a mission, but I couldn't ignore protocol. As fellow seniors, we could interact as long as there had been a previous introduction.

“Hi, Jane, we met through my dad, he writes a column for the
Press
and teaches over at Lambert College?”

She looked up. “Right. You're a footballer. What's on your mind?”

“We prefer beckhams.”

“And
we
prefer if you leave that sport to those who know how to play it. FYI, Becks is retired.”

“Beckham's the only soccer player everyone knows.”

“Pelé was voted footballer of the century. Why not call yourself the pelés?”

I shrugged. “I just play the game, I don't follow it.”

“You Americans think soccer is nothing but a sport for children.”

“You and I both know it's the opposite,” I teased.

“Cheeky.”

“You don't really say words like ‘cheeky.'”

“Guv'nor,” she said.

“You're totally mocking. You just think that's what I think you talk like.”

“And why would I bother putting on a show?”

“To distract me from the reason I'm here. Someone left a message in your paper yesterday and I can't figure out who it's from,” I said.

She gave me a lengthy once-over. “Lovelorn girl?”

“Not exactly. Well—maybe.” It was a good point. Maybe BM wasn't a he. And playing the part of a thwarted lover might endear me to Jane. “Can you help me out?”

“What was the message?”

“‘To ChD, if you find it, don't give it to her. I'll pay more. IM 10 2nite.'”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Hmm, yes. Bartering for goods and services is extremely romantic.”

“So I jump online at the designated time and—”

“Pull a Craigslist Killer. We all do it.”

“I'm … pretty sure we don't,” I said.

“It's just an expression.”

“I'm pretty sure it's not.”

She grinned. “Lifetime movie. Means you used false pretenses to get information from someone.”

“Can you help me out? Tell me who sent the message?”

“Absolutely not. Journalistic ethics.”

“I have a secret for you. I'd hardly call this place a hotbed of journalism,” I stage-whispered behind my hand. “And I'd hardly call the gossip pages solid reporting.”

“It gets the paper read,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don't mind if people pick it up for the gossip; it means they might also read my exposé on the cafeteria contracts. Besides, if people know their identities will be leaked, they won't use the service. I can't tell you who placed the call.”

I straightened up. “You deserve better than this. Why not work for the
Palm Valley Register
? I'm sure my dad could put in a good word,” I said. “
If
you help out his one and only darling son, Charlie.” I clasped my hands together and did my best impersonation of a puppy dog with a bow around its neck.

“You being the darling in question?”

“I love your accent. It's like you're insulting me, but I barely notice.”

She folded her arms. “And what does my posture tell you?”

I sighed. “A sentry at the gate.”

I acted like I was about to leave, and she turned back to her computer. Then I slipped behind her desk and looked over her shoulder at the screen.

“What are you doing?” she cried, trying to cover the monitor with her hands. She managed to X out of the site, but not before I'd seen a list of ID numbers scrolling by.

“You're Bridget's source, aren't you?” I said.

“I have literally no idea what you're talking about.”

“You're the one who matches the ID numbers to the student names. Did you hack into the registration office, or did you get someone else to do your dirty work?”

Her face went red, but she stuck to her denials. “It's not what you think.”

“So much for journalistic ethics,” I scoffed.

“I'm compiling a story for the paper about college. How many people applied to which schools, what percent are Ivy League, what percent are local, that sort of thing. I got
permission
from Principal Jeffries to use the information, so long as I keep all the names out. It's part of their initiative to prove the impact of Fresh Start, and, by the way, it directly impacts your mother's job security. No student names will be revealed.”

“How can you tell where people applied?” I asked.

“It's all there in their student profile. Electronic receipts showing where transcripts, recommendation letters, and applications have been e-mailed.”

I felt ill.

Five minutes alone with that list and I could find out where Ellie had applied, once and for all. Had she sent materials to Lambert, or was she lying about that? Had she ever loved me, or was this her exit strategy from day one: string Charlie along, pretend you might stay together after high school, but always remember he's not good enough to plan a real future with. If she
had
applied, there was still a good chance for us. If not … maybe I didn't want to know.

“You're good,” I said. “You and Bridget should go into business.”

Jane looked insulted. “I'm not
profiting
from it. It's for an article.”

“Everything's for sale,” I told her. “What's the going rate to look at another student's transcript file?”

“I'm going to forget you asked me that,” she said, and shut down her computer.

During third period, I was scheduled to meet with Palm Valley High's guidance counselor to follow up on my plans for college. It was a pointless exercise and I treated it as such.

Ms. Gerard had pushed her desk to the wall and set up a cozy “we're all friends here” couch and chair, with a snack-covered coffee table between us. I sat down across from her.

“Lambert's my first choice, my backup, and my safety. Cool, huh? See you at graduation.”

I stood up.

“Sounds like you think everything's set in stone,” Ms. Gerard said. She was a serious-looking blonde in an argyle sweater vest and glasses, just one makeover and hair toss away from being voted Hottest Faculty Member. The sweater vest and glasses were a feeble attempt at staving off that title. “How do you feel about that?”

I reluctantly sat again, stretching out on the couch. “Are you a guidance counselor or a failed psychiatrist?” I said.

She looked at me for a second, and then laughed. Barely. It was one of those laughs that tells you to back off. “You don't seem very enthusiastic. Is there someplace else you'd like to go? Plenty of places have rolling admissions policies.”

“It just makes sense. Why spend a fortune when I can get a perfectly good education almost for free?”

“Just because something makes sense isn't reason enough to do it.”

“Does Lambert know you're actively discouraging students from attending? Should I alert the chancellor?”

She set her pencil down. I pictured it sticking upright in the table like a thrown knife. “Okay, Charlie. Are you going to take this seriously or shall I call in the next student?”

“Look, I appreciate what you're doing, but it's settled. I was going to live at my granddad's, get some space from my parents,
but now he's selling the place. So yeah, I'm bummed about that, but the thing is, I don't have any money. My parents are footing the bill, so they should have a say, don't you think?”

“Could they foot the bill someplace else?”

“For ten times the price?” I said sarcastically. “Right now they've set aside forty grand in a money market account for me. With my dad's discount, and no room or board, that's four years at Lambert including classes, supplies, and textbooks. Or I could spend a
month
at some other school.”

“What about scholarships?”

“You really don't want me to go to Lambert,” I remarked. “You're obsessed.”

“It's not about what I want. It's about what you want. If you could go anywhere on the planet, forget about cost or logistics or what ‘makes sense,' where would you go?”

“Wherever Ellie is,” I said without thinking.

If Ms. Gerard
were
a failed psychiatrist, it was only because she'd dropped out a week before graduation to follow Phish on tour or something. I'd walked right into her trap. Sneaky.

“Who's Ellie?”

“Ellie Chen. Drop-dead gorgeous Chinese girl. Did you meet with her yet?”

“We met on Tuesday,” Ms. Gerard said guardedly.