Swiped (3 page)

“Nothing,” Blake answered. “I fixed it.” He explained to Nick what he'd done.

“This is majorly cool,” Nick enthused. He scrolled through several pages. “Look at how much stuff came up.”

Mrs. Pringle shook her head. “I can't keep up with all the technology.”

“That's what happens when you were born in the Dark Ages,” Blake said, grinning. “Right, Mom?”

Mrs. Pringle gave him a teasing frown. “Get back to class.” She moved away to finish packing a box of discards. Blake
scooped up his books and went over to help Ms. Thorsen.

“That's Mrs. Pringle's son,” Robyn hissed.

“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” Nick said, typing intently.

Robyn shot him a withering stare. “I just never knew that.”

“Me neither,” I said. “I wonder...,” I paused as Ms. Thorsen stopped at our table.

“Less talking, more working. Trevor, I think you need to be at a different computer station. Come with me.”

Reluctantly, I stood up and followed Ms. Thorsen. She wove around a table stacked with books in the far corner and turned on the computer stationed behind it.

“There you go,” she said.

Annoyed, I plunked myself into the chair and waited to log on. I was surrounded by a fortress of books that cut me off from Nick and Robyn. Some of the books were part of the series of Mac Dougall detective novels that Blake had been sorting. They were really ancient—the kind without a book jacket, just an illustrated hardcover.
I picked one up and flipped through the yellowed pages. A slip of paper fell out. It was a note covered with pencil-jotted numbers, but before I had a chance to look at them too closely, Mrs. Pringle appeared over one of the book towers.

“Trevor,” she said, “could you help me lift this box onto the trolley? It's too heavy for one person.”

“Sure.” I shoved the note into my jean pocket and heaved one end of the box. It was filled to the brim with books. We staggered under the weight and placed it carefully on the trolley.

“Thanks,” Mrs. Pringle said, brushing the dust from her hands. “I think I over-packed that one.”

She noticed the detective novel I'd been looking at and smiled. “I used to like that series. Mac Dougall and his friends always got themselves into terrible trouble. I'd have to read under the covers with a flashlight, because I couldn't wait to find out how they got out of it. It's a shame I have to discard them.”

“Why do you have to?” I asked.

“Well, the books are getting too old to be lent out—they'd start falling apart. I don't think many kids would be interested in them, anyway.”

“Do you...” I hesitated. “Do you think I could have one, then? If you're getting rid of them?”

Mrs. Pringle paused, then grinned. “Sure. But don't tell anyone, okay? If Robyn gets her way, these books will go into the used book sale. If everyone decides they want one, we won't have anything left to sell!”

“Okay.” I tucked the book—
Mac Dougall and the Secret of the Underwater Spy
—inside my binder.

“Now, you'd better get to work before class is over.” Mrs. Pringle took two stacks of books and walked away to pack them, leaving a hole in my wall of books. I could see Nick still typing at his computer, his eyes glued to the screen. Robyn was flipping the pages of a magazine.

I sighed and entered my password. Research projects were not my favorite
thing to do. Searching the Internet is fun, but writing up the report afterward is harder. I plugged a few keywords into the search engine and waited while the computer looked them up.

Ms. Thorsen was rummaging through stuff on the trolley, where Mrs. Pringle and I had loaded the heavy box of books. When I heard her gasp, I peeked around a book stack to see what the problem was.

She had her square glasses propped up on top of her head, and she was chewing on her bottom lip. “What's the matter?” Mrs. Pringle asked, coming over.

“The hockey book—the one with Gretzky's signature—it was here on the cart.”

“I know. I was going to put it in my office after I showed it to your class,” Mrs. Pringle said.

“It's gone!” Ms. Thorsen whispered.

“Gone!” Mrs. Pringle stared at her, wide-eyed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it's not here. Look.”

Mrs. Pringle rifled through the books on the cart. “Oh, no!” She looked at Ms. Thorsen
in dismay. “What are we going to do?”

Ms. Thorsen rubbed her forehead. “We start looking,” she said grimly.

“Hey!” Ms. Thorsen yelped. I dodged her at the last second.

The heavy box she was carrying teetered in her arms. I grabbed for it, but I must have done the wrong thing because the cardboard bottom collapsed and a cascade of books spilled onto the floor.

“No running in the halls, Trevor,” Ms. Thorsen said crossly, picking up scattered books.

“Sorry, Ms. Thorsen,” I said. I reassembled
the box and began stuffing books inside. I caught a glimpse of a hockey picture before Ms. Thorsen scooped up several books and pulled the box farther away from me.

She straightened her Oilers ball cap. She was dressed in running tights and a T-shirt, to exercise during the lunch hour.

“Oilers fan?” I said.

Ms. Thorsen grinned at the disapproval in my voice. “Is that a problem?”

“The Flames are way better,” I said.

Ms. Thorsen didn't argue. She just picked up the box. “Thanks for helping clean up.” The noon bell rang, and she headed for the door to the parking lot.

A stream of kids poured into the hall. I went to my locker to grab my lunch, trying to ignore the smell of putrid sneakers that burst out as I opened the door. Rachel Gibbons shared this locker with me, and her feet were brutal. Everything in this locker came out smelling horrible.

Our locker would not normally win awards for neatness, but today it might have qualified as the world's messiest. I
rummaged through the piles of crumpled worksheets, textbooks, gym clothes, gloves, and mountains of Rachel's stuff, but my lunch was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, I nearly passed out from the fumes.

“Trevor! You are such a
slob
.” Rachel stomped up behind me. “Look at this mess! I came early this morning and cleaned this locker, and now look at it. It's disgusting! And it stinks too. The Board of Health is going to close the school because your gym clothes are contaminating the air.”

“Oh, yeah? I don't think so. You should check your feet,” I retorted. “Your sneakers smell like toxic waste!”

Rachel put her hands on her hips, but before she could say anything else, I butted in. “Did you just say you cleaned the locker this morning?”

“Yes.” She eyed me coldly. “It took me twenty minutes before the bell just to shovel out all your junk,” she said.

“But, Rach,” I shook my head, “it was like this when I opened it.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, I'm serious.”

“Well, it was organized when I left it,” Rachel answered.

“That means,” I said slowly, “that someone's been in here. Did you lock it?”

Rachel looked a little shamefaced. “Well, I never do, actually. I just close the lock. I don't click it shut.”

“What!” I felt my eyes bug out. “Why not?”

“Because I can never get the lock open when I'm in a hurry. It always jams,” Rachel said defensively.

“Rachel, are you brain-dead?” I demanded. “That explains why my lunch is always missing, even when I leave it in my locker. And that explains this mess. But what I don't get is why? What were they looking for?”

“I don't know, but this means our locker has to be cleaned out all over again, and
I'm
not doing it this time.” Rachel elbowed past me, grabbed her lunch out of her backpack inside the locker and flounced off.

“What's going on?” Nick tapped my shoulder. Robyn was just behind him.

“Someone trashed my locker,” I said. “Rachel said she just cleaned it this morning, so someone's definitely been into it.”

Nick peered into the mess. “Anything missing?”

“Besides my lunch, I don't know yet.”

“My lunch is gone too. Someone swiped my pickle sandwich,” Robyn fumed. “I just know it's Cray. We'd better catch that bozo before the entire school starves. I bet he took that hockey book too. Mrs. Pringle told me it's still missing.”

“Come on, Robyn,” I said. “Just because you don't like the guy doesn't mean he's a thief.”

“Look at the facts, Trevor,” Robyn retorted. “He starts a food fight after he stockpiles lunches, he's totally into hockey, and when Mrs. Pringle showed us that book about Gretzky, he thought it was majorly cool. What more do you want?”

“Evidence, maybe?” Nick said.

“I don't understand why you guys don't believe me.” Robyn frowned. “He thinks it's fun to pick on other kids. He's probably
laughing every time one of us is stuck at lunch with nothing to eat.”

“I don't know, Robyn,” I said. “He's not really that bad.”

“Hah.” Robyn snorted. “That's what you think.”

“Robyn, you have to come up with facts, not opinions,” said Nick.

“Okay. It's a fact that Cray Simmons is a jerk. What more do you want?” Robyn answered.

Nick groaned.

“Shh.” I nudged Robyn. I'd spotted Cray coming down the hall.

“Hey, Trev,” he said. He noticed Nick and Robyn watching him. “What are you staring at?”

“We're just wondering whose lunch you'll rip off next,” Robyn said.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Princess.” But Cray's ears turned deep red.

“Oh, yeah. I think you do,” said Robyn. “And I'm sick of losing my lunch.”

“If throwing up is a problem,” Cray snickered, “maybe you shouldn't bring
those gross pickle sandwiches.”

“Ah-hah!” Robyn yelled, pointing her finger at him in triumph. “You
are
the thief. How else would you know I bring pickle sandwiches?”

Cray hesitated, and then he put on a sneer. “Everyone knows you bring gross sandwiches. It's a fact.”

“He's right, Robyn,” I said, ignoring her glare.

“Okay, well what about the missing library book? What did you do with the Gretzky book, Cray? Sell it on the black market?” Robyn demanded.

“What's your problem, anyway?” Cray's face turned a mottled purple, and his mouth was an angry line. “I didn't take any library book! So just shut up!” Cray pushed past us and stomped away.

“You see?” Robyn turned to us. “Guilty. He wouldn't be so mad if he wasn't.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, Robyn!” I threw my hands up in the air. “That doesn't mean anything. You'd be mad too, if someone accused you of something.”

“Not if I hadn't done it.”

“Especially if you hadn't done it,” Nick pointed out. “People don't like being called liars.”

Robyn looked stubborn. “I still think it's Cray who's behind all this.”

“I keep telling you, you need proof,” I said. “Without proof, you've got nothing.”

“There could be a lot of people in this school who would steal lunches,” Nick added. “Maybe it's one of the teachers. Maybe it's me...lunches didn't start disappearing until I showed up at this school.”

“That is so dumb,” Robyn said. “You were the first one to have your lunch stolen. Why would you starve to death, if you were swiping lunches?” Robyn shook her head. “I'm telling you, it's Cray. And if you guys don't think so, then prove it.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” I asked.

“You read all the detective novels,” Robyn challenged. “Think of something!”

“Yeah, Trev.” Nick grinned at me. “Think of something.”

“Hey, Robyn!” I called to her from the school office door, where she was doing lunch duty. Some students help out in the office over lunch, while the staff eats. Today it was Robyn's turn.

“Just a second. I have to get this call.” She answered the office phone. “Brookside School. Can I help you?” She scribbled something on a notepad. “Thank you for getting back to us. All right. I'll let her
know.” Robyn hung up, her face beaming. “Plans for the literacy fair are really taking off, Trev. That was one of the parents Mrs. Pringle contacted. They know a professional storyteller who might be able to come.”

“That's great,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

The secretary walked by, her keys still in her hand. She smiled. “Thanks, Robyn. I can take over now.” Robyn slid out from the chair behind the desk, just as a grade one girl pushed through the doorway.

“I don't feel good,” the girl announced. And then, with a retch that came from her toenails, she threw up all over the office floor.

“Oh!” Robyn jumped back to avoid getting splashed.

The secretary dropped her keys and coat on the nearest chair and took the little girl by the shoulder. “It's okay, honey. Let's take you into the nurse's office, and you can lie down til your mom or dad gets here.”

“Okay,” sobbed the girl, before she threw up again. The office phone buzzed insistently. The secretary looked harassed.

“Robyn, could you answer that, please?” She grabbed an empty wastebasket and held it in front of the girl as she led the way to the nurse's room.

I lifted the front of my T-shirt up over my nose. “I'll wait for you outside.”

“Thanks a lot!” Robyn said, annoyed. She picked her way around the puddle on the floor and reached for the phone. I stood in the hall where the fumes weren't so bad, and after a couple of minutes, Robyn hurried out.

“That was a really weird phone call,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the guy said he was just talking to someone who called from here. He got cut off, so he dialed the number on his call display and got the main office. He said if I could find out who had called him, to let the person know that his business doesn't handle items like that for resale, but an auction house might. Or Internet sales.”