“Sure,” I said. Hyperventilating from the thrill, I followed him to the blackboard. There were only nibs of chalk in the tray,
so Kevin headed back to Mrs. Jonas’s desk to find a new stick. Behind the comfy chair, I heard low murmurs. Whatever they
were doing back there, it wasn’t daily oral language.
“You go first.” Kevin handed me a chalk. As I prepared to draw my gallows, Kevin took my hand, opened it, and filled it with
M&M’s.
“Kevin.” My eyes grew wide. “Are these from Mrs. Jonas’s reward jar?”
He grinned. “She won’t notice. It was almost empty.”
I’d been eyeing that jar all year, drooling as the level of M&M’s decreased, no thanks to me.
A paper airplane whizzed by my cheek and Kevin launched it back over my shoulder. It sailed toward the door, where Mrs. Jonas
was standing, arms folded. The din took a sudden plunge. Mrs. Jonas’s eyes held mine. All she said was, “Thank you, Jenny.”
I choked on my M&M’s. Talk about feeling like a worm.
When we got back from lunch, there was a surprise waiting for us. Mr. Krupps was standing at the front of the room, scowling.
I think he was scowling; it’s hard to tell with principals. “Take your seats,” he ordered us. His tone of voice confirmed
his mood.
Mrs. Jonas hovered behind Mr. Krupps, her arms wrapped loosely around her waist. Mr. Krupps said, “Mrs. Jonas has just discovered
a sizable amount of money missing from her purse.”
A gasp of horror sucked up all the air. Wide eyes focused on Mrs. Jonas. Her chin fell to her chest.
“How much?” I asked without thinking.
“That doesn’t matter,” Mr. Krupps barked at me, making me shrivel. He went on, “The issue is, someone got into Mrs. Jonas’s
purse.”
Mrs. Jonas blinked up. “I don’t think it was any of you.” Glancing around the room, she added softly, “Was it?”
You could feel eyeballs squirming in their sockets. When no one spoke, Mr. Krupps said, “If anybody knows anything about this,
if you saw someone in here when they weren’t supposed to be, or heard anyone talking about it, speak up.”
I thought the silence was deafening until Mr. Krupps slammed his fist into the nearest desk. “I will
not
tolerate criminal activity here at Montrose. I run a clean school. Safe and secure, for students and teachers. No one leaves
this room until we clear this matter up.”
Geez, what did he expect? A public confession? Get real.
“Daddy?” Ashley raised a tentative hand.
Oh, figures, I thought. To the list of stuck-up, spoiled, and snotty, we were about to add snitch.
“I don’t know if it means anything,” she said in a sickly sweet voice, “but a bunch of people were hanging around Mrs. Jonas’s
desk this morning while she was out taking a phone call. Including Max.”
My head whipped around to catch Max’s reaction.
It was, in a word, nuclear. “I was handing in assignments,” Max snarled.
“Hey, I was there,” I volunteered. “She didn’t do anything—” I stopped short. Of course, I wasn’t focusing on anyone’s activities
besides Kevin’s.
“I just thought I’d mention it.” Ashley shrugged.
I’ll kill her, I thought. If Max doesn’t get to her first.
Lydia piped up, “Could it have happened before school?”
Mr. Krupps queried Mrs. Jonas. “It could have,” she admitted. “I cashed my check last night, and my purse was in my desk all
day.”
A slow smile spread across Lydia’s lips. “I was in the room before school and Ashley and Melanie were in here, supposedly
working on a project.”
Ashley twisted in her seat. She was so fat, her desk moved with her. “You were here, too.”
“Not as long as you,” Lydia shot back.
Melanie said, “Max was here when me and Ashley got here. Remember that, Ash?”
Ashley’s beady eyes gleamed. “Now that you mention it, I do.”
“I came in to feed the fish,” Max growled. “Like I always do.”
Always? She never told us that. I knew she got to school before my bus arrived, but I thought it was to check out a basketball
before the boys snagged them all.
“Maxine, to the office,” Mr. Krupps ordered.
She didn’t budge.
“Now!” he bellowed, aiming an index finger at the door.
“Hold on.” Mrs. Jonas stepped forward. “Max does have permission to feed…” At Mr. Krupps’s glare, her voice trailed off.
He said, “Everyone is a suspect until we get this cleared up. Maxine, I’ll talk to you first.” He wrenched open the door and
waited for Max.
She slammed her desk shut and stood. The floor trembled as she stomped past. At the front, she paused at Melanie’s desk. Deliberately,
she plopped her leg atop it and shoved her foot at Melanie. Melanie impaled herself against the seat slats.
“Get a good look,” Max said. “This is your face.”
“McFarland!” Mr. Krupps warned.
She flew past him out the door. He had to hustle to catch up. Mrs. Jonas stared out the windows past them. We all did. My
blood boiled. Everyone always assumes Max is guilty.
So why did I feel guilty? Maybe because if the theft occurred during the time I was room monitor, this whole fiasco was my
fault.
We stopped in the office after lunch to see Max, figuring she got in-school suspension just for being born, but she wasn’t
there. Which worried me.
As I was hustling to catch my bus after school, I just caught the tail end of a conversation Ashley and Melanie were having
on the front steps. Ashley, who was braiding Melanie’s hair, said, “Yeah, and my dad says anyone who carries around a lot
of cash deserves to be robbed.”
My jaw cracked the stoop. I thought, She did it. Ashley Krupps stole that money. A slow smile creased my lips. Well, well,
well. What would her father say when he found out his precious little angel was a thief? No way he could let something that
serious slide. Another thought barreled through my brain: Now all we have to do is prove it.
Dear Dopey Food Diary,
After school I ate three Oreo cookies. If I didn’t have to write it down, I would’ve eaten a whole row. But since I promised
to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, you’ll just have to trust me. I actually controlled myself
.
I paused, flicking my Bic in and out. Then I wrote,
Mrs. Jonas got robbed and Max got busted. Max didn’t do it—not this time. I know who did, though. When I called Max after
school to find out what happened with Mr. Krupps and tell her what I heard, she informed me she got a
real
suspension. Three whole days.
I asked her how Krupps could suspend her without proof and she didn’t answer. Then her brother needed to use the phone so
she had to hang up.
I paused. The question lingered. How could he suspend her without proof? Unless… no, forget it. Max didn’t do it.
Anyway, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. What do you care? Unless I eat my words.
“Jenny, shake your booty,” Dad hollered down the hall. “We’re going to be late.”
I closed my food diary and bounded over to the dresser to check for Oreo traces in my teeth. As I trundled to the living room
where the family unit was waiting, I asked casually, “Late for what?” Then I remembered: Mom had said not to make plans for
tonight. “Where are we going?”
Dad smiled slyly. “It’s a surprise.” Dad wiggled his eyebrows.
Vanessa rolled her eyes at me. I reciprocated. I hate surprises.
Mom had changed from her work clothes into jeans and a sweatshirt. At least I was dressed for the occasion in my baggy overalls.
Whatever the family togetherness activity was, I hoped it wouldn’t take long. I didn’t want to miss a call from Kevin.
It was just starting to sprinkle as Dad backed our old Subaru station wagon out of the garage. No one spoke the whole time,
which wasn’t unusual. I don’t know about Van, but I was trying to figure out where we were headed. It didn’t help that the
rain was turning into a monsoon and blurring all the street signs. After about twenty minutes, Dad slowed the car and said,
“Surprise! This is it.”
“This is what?” I leaned over the seat and squinted ahead. Through the downpour, a neon sign flashed:
BO L VA D OW ING.
“No.” Vanessa slithered down her seat belt. “I won’t go. You can’t make me.”
Believe it or not, my sister is fifteen.
“Go where?” I said.
Mom twisted around and answered, “Bowling.”
I just about lost my cookies. “You’re not serious.”
“Serious as sauerkraut,” Dad said.
Gag. I said what I was thinking: “No one goes bowling anymore,” adding to myself, Especially with their parents.
“You wanted to do more things together, so from now on Friday night is family night.” Dad yanked up the parking brake.
Mom said, “We’ll have to make a run for it. Ready? Go!” She opened her door and shot out.
Stomping through puddles with only our arms to cover our heads, Vanessa pulled up beside me and snarled, “This is all your
fault.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then I wondered if she was right. I mean, I wanted our family to be more of a family. I was in
favor of making dinnertime our family time. But it wasn’t my idea to spend every waking moment together, which seemed to be
Mom and Dad’s interpretation. We were starting to drive each other nuts. And I’m not talking lightly salted.
Standing, dripping, in the entryway, Mom hollered over the bowling alley racket, “Robert, why don’t you go get us a lane and
I’ll buy something to eat.” To us she said, “You two look for balls and shoes.”
“If anyone I know sees me here, I’ll die,” Vanessa muttered as she skulked down the alley. “This is like the ultimate humiliation.
It is so Neanderthal.”
My sister is overly dramatic. Unlike me. “Oh, my God!” I screeched to a stop. “You can’t be serious. These shoes are used.”
“Duh.” Vanessa curled a lip at me. “You act like you’ve never been bowling before.”
“I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have. We went once when you were like four years old.”
“Give me a break,” I said. “The only thing I remember from my early years is falling down the stairs and breaking my arm.”
Vanessa frowned at me. “That wasn’t you. That was me.”
“Really? Then I don’t remember anything.” Which was scary. Maybe I was abducted by aliens. My eyes strayed back to Dad, who
was eyeing the bowling lanes, smiling hypnotically. Maybe I’d never returned.
Vanessa pulled out a pair of shoes and sniffed them. Her nose puckered. She dug down deep into her bush bag and said, “Here,
use this.” She handed me a moist towelette. “I’d advise you to wipe out the finger holes on the bowling balls, too.”
Did I mention my sister is also obsessive/compulsive? Her condition has improved—she doesn’t zone out as often as she used
to—but only an obsessive/compulsive would carry a whole canister of moist towelettes. I wondered what else was in her two-ton
canvas bag. A new pair of shoes, perhaps? I could squeeze into a six if I had to.
I spotted Mom first, or maybe my nose did. She was carrying a tray of hamburgers and fries and drinks. No sign of cottage
cheese, thank goodness. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. I made a mental note: Dear Fatty Food Diary, know all the
dieting I did this week? Blow it off.
We trailed Mom over to our lane. Dad was sitting at the controls, cranking up the scoreboard, which was huge and lit-up. When
he wrote down my name, I freaked.
“Dad,” I said, wrenching down his writing arm, “everyone can see our scores. Don’t use our real names.”
He met my eyes and saw that I was serious. “Who do you want to be?” he asked.
I considered the question. “Ashley Krupps,” I replied.
He smiled and wrote,
Aslee Craps.
Close enough. Apparently Vanessa and I got our defective spelling genes from him.
Mom was up first. At the end of the lane, she poised with her ball, aimed, and threw. The ball thudded on the lane, bounced,
and rolled down the aisle. Straight toward the middle pin. Which toppled and set up a chain reaction. When the last pin dropped,
Mom shrieked and jumped for joy.
Beside me, Vanessa muttered, “I was switched at birth.”
“You’re up, Van,” Dad said.
“Do I have to?”
Mom gave Vanessa the look. You know the one: Life is short, especially yours if you keep this up. Vanessa exhaled in disgust.
She rose from her seat, stormed to the machine, grabbed her ball, and flung it. It rolled right into the gutter. She stormed
back.
“We’ll call that a practice shot,” Dad said.
“You can’t,” Mom told him. “It’s automatic scoring. No free balls.”
Vanessa grumbled, “Let’s call it a night.” She threw her second ball, also into the gutter, then slumped over in her seat.
Dad was next. He stood with his ball, gazing down the lane. Then he wiggled his hips, aimed, and threw. He was left with what
he called the dreaded seven-ten split, which apparently meant there were two pins still standing, one on each side.
I’m no physics whiz, but even I know you can’t hit two pins, a hundred feet apart, with one ball. And Dad missed both pins.
Then he said a really bad word.
“Robert!” Mom scolded him. “Really.”
I was next. My ball was heavier than I remembered, and the finger holes were smaller. The worst part was waddling up to the
line. Everyone who was bowling stopped to gawk. “Go ahead,” I said to the bowlers on either side of me. “I’m testing the wind.”
They both rolled strikes.
I studied their form. Tried to copy it. But as my arm swung back, my fingers lost their grip. The ball clunked behind me,
right after my arm popped out of its socket. Everyone in the universe watched my ball roll off the alley and under a seat.
Vanessa covered her mouth. Dad’s shoulders shook.
“Shut up.” I scowled at them.
Mom said, “Honey, I don’t think that’s your ball.”
Oh, gee. Is that why I blew a disk in my spine?
Dad retrieved the ball and took it back, while I tested the other balls. After picking out the lightest, I tried bowling again.
This time my ball found its mark—the gutter.