Solving Zoe (8 page)

On Thursday morning Zoe went to school determined to make up with Dara. Not that they'd had an actual fight, she reminded herself. But they hadn't spoken to each other since yesterday morning at the lockers, and Zoe couldn't bear to let things go on like this. She felt hollow inside, as if she hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours and no amount of chocolate ice cream would make her feel like Zoe. Even with everything else on her mind—Isaac's indifference, Owen's threat, the weirdness with Lucas, worry about Iguana #3—the most important thing was finding Dara, talking to her, getting everything back to normal. Or as close to normal as possible.

She hoped she could catch Dara first thing, maybe at the lockers just before homeroom. But when she got there, Dara was standing in front of Leg's locker. So were Paloma and Jake and Mackenzie, and so were Tyler and Calliope. Zoe tried to catch Dara's eye, but Dara seemed too engrossed in something Leg had in her hand.

“Let me see it,” Jake was saying. Zoe could see him
snatch a small white strip of paper from Leg. Zoe peeked over his shoulder and read the unnatural, almost-too-perfect handwriting:

“Okay, it's official,” Jake said, half-laughing. “Ezra Blecker has finally lost it.”

“How do you know it's Ezra?” Zoe asked.

Everyone turned to look at her. She could feel her cheeks start to burn, but she didn't care.

“You don't know it's Ezra,” she said, louder this time. “I mean, do you?”

“We don't know for sure,” Paloma snapped. “We haven't done DNA testing or anything.”

“Then you really shouldn't accuse him.”

“Okay, Zoe. Who do you think is doing this, then?”

“I don't know. It could be anyone, really.”

“
Anyone
wouldn't be obsessed with
The Art of War
. Who else reads stuff like that, besides Ezra?”

“Actually,” said Tyler, grinning, “that book's kind of
cool. We read it Non-Euro, and sometimes I use it when I'm gaming.”

“You read ancient Chinese philosophy when you're playing video games?” Calliope shreiked. She slapped his arm.

“It's not just philosophy. Or just about war. It's kind of like, I don't know, the world's first strategy guide.”

“Oh, sure. You're so pathetic, Tyler.”

Mackenzie shook her head impatiently. “Maybe Zoe's right,” she said. “I mean, about Ezra. Because really, I don't think Ezra even notices anyone else. Has he ever actually spoken to you, Leg?”

“No,” Leg admitted. “But who knows what he's thinking in that twisted little brain.”

“But you haven't been mean to him lately? Or teased him?”

Leg glared at Mackenzie. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Mackenzie continued. “Because sometimes, Leg, you can be slightly—”

“She's never even looked at Ezra,” Paloma interrupted. “Mackenzie, you're making it sound like this whole thing is Leg's fault!”

“I'm not,” Mackenzie replied firmly. “I'm just saying that if Leg and Ezra never had anything to do with each
other, then I don't think Ezra's writing these notes. He has no motive to, okay?”

“So who has one?” Jake demanded. “A motive, I mean.”

“Is anyone upset with you?” Mackenzie asked Leg, as if she were now conducting a police investigation.

Zoe glanced at Dara. For the briefest second Dara looked back.

“I don't think so,” Leg said.

“Good morning, friends!” Owen's voice boomed. He was walking toward them briskly. “Nowhere you have to be this fine September morning?”

“We'll talk about this at lunch,” Mackenzie murmured.

Three and a half hours later Zoe was filling her tray in the cafeteria. She looked at her usual choices—the tuna fish sandwich, the bag of potato chips, the pint of chocolate milk—and she suddenly realized that she couldn't bear to eat any of it. Not one bite. Not even if she were starving. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, she slipped the three familiar items back onto their familiar shelves. Then she helped herself to a large slice of veggie pizza and sat down next to Mackenzie.

Everyone from the morning was at the table, including Dara. Mackenzie was giving a speech about how the perpetrator—that was actually the word she used—had to
be someone who had access to the locker area when no one else was around. And since so many kids stayed at school every afternoon and evening for things like play rehearsals and music groups, it probably had to be someone who got to school early in the morning.

“Not necessarily,” Jake interrupted. “It's not like you need an hour to stick something into someone's locker. You could do it on your way to a class. Or to the bathroom.”

“Then someone would see you,” Mackenzie argued.

“Unless the person was a total freak who was never
around
other people,” said Paloma, who obviously still thought it was Ezra.

Zoe picked the limp veggies off her pizza and lined them up carefully on her tray. “You know, it doesn't have to be a sixth grader. Maybe it's not even someone in Middle Division.”

“Possibly,” Mackenzie said skeptically. Suddenly she pointed at Zoe's tray. “What's
that
?”

“It's called pizza. You've never seen pizza before?”

“I mean, what happened to your lunch?”

“The Zoe Special,” Jake said, grinning. “Tuna and Lay's.”

Zoe shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I got sick of it.”

“Just like that?” Mackenzie demanded. “After what? Six years?”

Zoe glanced around the table. Dara was staring at her with a funny look on her face. So was Mackenzie, and so was Leg.

“I wanted something else,” Zoe said lightly. “That's okay with you guys, right?”

Then she saw Leg lean over and whisper something into Dara's ear.

Dara shook her head. But for the rest of lunch she didn't look at Zoe once.

 

That afternoon Zoe stopped off at the pet store for crickets and bought some fresh greens at the corner grocery. All the lizards seemed grateful except for Iguana #3, who didn't eat anything or drink any water, or seem to notice she was there, even though Zoe had sat quietly watching for twenty-five minutes.

Finally Zoe took down the chart and wrote:

She thought about Isaac's e-mail yesterday: He'd definitely be annoyed with her for writing about her “feelings.”
Well, too bad. She wouldn't erase what she'd just written. Because it was true.

She tapped the glass to say good-bye to the small iguana, carefully replaced the chart on the clipboard, and then walked back home to her own apartment, worried.

On Friday morning everyone was crowded around Leg's locker, waiting for the next note.

Leg arrived with Paloma just two minutes before the start of homeroom. Leg smiled grimly at everyone, and Zoe noticed that her delicate fingers trembled a little when she opened her locker.

“Nothing,” Leg announced, obviously relieved. “No note!”

“Are you sure?” Paloma said. She looked inside Leg's locker, and even felt around the back, just in case the note had slipped behind some books. But finally she was convinced that Ezra-or-whoever had messed up this morning.

Then Paloma opened her own locker. “Omigod. Listen to this!” she shouted. She waited for everyone to gather around her, then read in an outraged voice:

“What is he, insane?” Leg demanded.

“Let me see that note,” Mackenzie said, taking it from Paloma. She studied it, frowning. “Same handwriting. Interesting that it's not from
The Art of War
.”

“Who cares
where
it's from, Mackenzie,” Paloma snapped. “It just matters
who
.”

“Also why,” Leg said. Paloma nodded.

Zoe noticed Dara quietly walk over to her own locker and open it. She saw Dara reach inside, pause, and then burst into tears.

Immediately Leg and Paloma swarmed her, but Zoe pushed through. “Dara, what's wrong?” she cried. “Did something—”

“She got a note,” Paloma said.

“Dara, you have to let us see it,” Leg pleaded. “It could be the same as ours.”

“It's not,” Dara said shakily.

She handed it to Leg, who read it aloud:

As soon as Leg finished, Dara began to sniffle again. Zoe tried to hug her, but she could feel Dara's body stiffen. So she took her arms back, letting them drop stupidly by her sides. Meanwhile her heart was banging in her chest.
Eye of the gecko,
she thought.

“Okay, now this is getting scary,” Mackenzie declared. “I think it's definitely time to tell Owen!”

“No,” Dara said, wiping her eyes. “I don't want to get anyone in trouble.”

“But we aren't. How can we? We don't even know who's doing this!”

“Just forget about Owen. I'm serious, Mackenzie.”

Leg and Paloma exchanged disbelieving looks.

“Dara, this could be a real psycho!” Paloma said. “He's not even quoting the Chinese guy anymore. ‘Eye of the gecko'—what's up with
that
?”

“I don't want to talk about it, Paloma,” Dara said. She shut her locker.

“So what's it doing there, then?” Mackenzie challenged her. “You think it's like a code?”

“A code?” Zoe repeated. “What sort of code?”

“You know. Like if you scramble the letters, or read it backward—”

“Why would you do that?” Zoe asked quickly.

“I bet it's Zoe,” Leg suddenly announced.

Zoe gaped at her. “Are you crazy?”

“No, Zoe. Are you?”

Zoe turned to Dara. “You really don't think I'd write something like that, do you?”

“I don't know what I think,” Dara replied. “I'm just incredibly…upset right now. I'll talk to you later, Zoe, all right?”

“No.”
She said it much too loudly, but so what. And she didn't care that everyone was staring at them, as if they were performing onstage under a giant spotlight. “We should talk
now
, Dara. In private.
Please
.”

“I can't,” Dara said, and then she hurried away.

For the rest of the morning no one talked to Zoe. No one looked at her either. It was the strangest feeling: She didn't want anyone making stupid comments or asking stupid questions, but the fact that nobody was even willing to make eye contact in the hallway was horrible. Scary, even. It was as if some alarm had gone off, silent to Zoe, and now everyone at Hubbard had one single thought:
Zoe Bennett? Anonymous note writer. Even to her best friend: How sick is that? Whatever you do, don't look at her—it could be contagious!

At lunch she sat next to Ezra, who nodded at her once
and spent the rest of the period reading. Right after lunch was Math. As Zoe walked toward Anya's room, she could see Jake and Mackenzie standing in front of the door, as if they were waiting.

Mackenzie was holding a legal pad and a pencil. “Oh, hello, Zoe,” she said somberly, in her police detective voice. “We'd like you to write ‘eye of the gecko' on this sheet of paper. Ten different times, please.”

“Why should I?”

“So we can do a handwriting analysis,” Jake said, folding his arms.

“No, thanks.”

“You're refusing?”

“You can't,” said Mackenzie, horrified. “If you do, that proves you're guilty!”

“It doesn't prove anything, Mackenzie,” Zoe said through her teeth. “Now leave me alone.”

She pushed open Anya's door and walked quickly to her seat. She was shaking; she couldn't help it. A handwriting analysis? Whose idea was that? And why did she have to say something as dorky as
No, thanks
? Isadora would have stood up straight and bellowed some dramatic line like
How dare you imply…?
Well, at least she'd refused to take their stupid test. And it wasn't like they could force her to, anyway.

She took her Math binder out of her backpack, and then grabbed a few Prismacolor pencils.
Just for a few minutes,
she promised herself.
Until I can think straight.

She let her hair fall over her face to form a sort of curtain. And then she began doodling geckoes.

And eyes.

And gecko eyes.

Everyone is completely blind,
she told herself. They spent all day staring at everybody, but they weren't actually seeing anything. Even Dara couldn't see the real Zoe right now, and how could she possibly fix that? Run up to her at dismissal and shout,
It's me, Zoe! Your best friend, remember? I haven't changed one subatomic bit!
But she knew it wouldn't work; somehow in Dara's eyes she just kept getting smaller and blurrier. Pretty soon Dara wouldn't be able to see her at all.

And then there was Lucas. He saw some things just brilliantly, but he hallucinated the rest. If she tried talking to him, would he even listen? Or would he just call her a brain-damaged pigpen, and then laugh dementedly about her losing her best friend?

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Zoe?” Anya was saying, frowning at Zoe's drawing. “Did you hear what I was just saying to the class?”

“I guess not.”

“All right. I'll repeat it, then. Clear everything from your desk. We're having a self-assessment.”

“That means a test,” Jake called out.

“I don't believe in tests,” Anya said patiently. “I just want to see your thought process.”

“So why can't we just
tell
you our thought process without having to clear our desks?”

“Will you please relax, Jake? And everybody else: This is a
self
-assessment. That means you guys do the grading, not me.”

“It's still being graded,” Jake complained.

“Can I hand out the self-assessments?” Paloma asked enthusiastically.

“Thanks, Paloma,” Anya said, “but I'll pass them out myself.”

“Oh, come on, Anya. Please.”

Anya laughed. “You guys are so hyper today! Okay, Paloma, if you really need some exercise, why not.” She handed a stack of pale yellow sheets to Paloma, who smilingly went around the room slapping them facedown on everyone's desk.

When she got to Zoe's desk, she slapped down a white sheet.

“What's this?” Zoe asked immediately.

“You heard. Self-assessment,” Paloma whispered back.

“If you have a sheet, just get started,” Anya called from her desk. “And show all work, please.”

Zoe turned over her white sheet.

Someone, obviously Paloma, had written: