The Mystery of the Missing Everything

^{Chapter 12} “1952 Vincent Black Lightning”

The next day was a perfect autumn Saturday, cool but not cold, where the whole world smells like crisp leaves and warm apple cider. It was the kind of day that says, “Hey! Kid! Grab a ball of some kind and get out here! Enjoy the day!”

But Tenny Boyer was in his windowless basement, playing guitar. He was trying to teach himself a song called “1952 Vincent Black Lightning,” by a British singer-songwriter named Richard Thompson, who Tenny had only just recently discovered. The song had lyrics, about this dude with a motorcycle and this girl he falls in love with. Or maybe the dude is in love with the motorcycle. Tenny wasn’t totally clear on that—what he dug was the guitar part on “1952 Vincent Black Lightning,” and for the last three hours he’d been sitting in the dimly lit unfinished basement, trying to nail it.

He sailed through the first sixteen bars and launched into the first verse. “Says Red Molly to James, that’s a fine motor bike…”

Usually the basement was where Tenny went when he felt like a jerk after getting in trouble at school—so he’d spent a lot of time down there over the years. Like in fourth grade, he’d forgotten to get off the school bus, and his dad had to go pick him up at the big parking lot where the buses go for the night. Or in sixth grade, when he’d spaced out and dropped a guitar pick in the turtle habitat in Ms. Kuramaswamy’s room, and apparently eating guitar picks is really bad for turtles. And of course there was last year, when he and Bethesda Fielding had cheated on Mr. Melville’s midterm. Now that was some serious trouble.

“…a girl could feel special on… a girl could feel special… shoot.” His fingers stumbled on the complex arpeggiation and he started over. Tenny wasn’t in trouble this afternoon. Today he was basically hiding, holed up in the basement with his guitar, trying to avoid hearing any more news. Lately, Tenny’s parents had had a lot of news.

“Hey. Tenny. I have some news for you,” his father had said the first time, about three weeks ago, right after the start of the school year.

A couple days later, it was his mother, calling from the kitchen, sounding anxious and upset: “Tennyson? I’m afraid I have some news I need to share with you.”

Stupid news.

“Says Red Molly to James, that’s a fine motor bike…,” he sang, and then bungled the pattern again, and was starting over when a voice bellowed from the top of the stairs.

“Tenny!”

“Uh… what?”

“I’ve been calling for ten minutes.”

“What? Oh, sorry, Dad. I was playing guitar.”

“No kidding. Wrap it up.”

Tenny ran his hands through his unkempt mass of thick brown hair, wishing he could just stay down here forever. Was that so much to ask?

“One sec, Dad. Lemme just—”

“No. Get up here, Ten. We’ve got some news for you.”

Like Tenny, Pamela Preston was indoors on this beautiful autumn day. Unlike him, however, she was enjoying an extraordinarily pleasant afternoon.

“You just order anything you like, now, children. Anything on the menu.”

“Thanks, Mom,” said Pamela, and smiled at her mother, who smiled back.

They were at Pirate Sam’s, a family restaurant at the mall, where her parents had insisted on taking her and her favorite fellow gymnast, Lisa Deckter, after that morning’s practice. After the difficult week Pamela had suffered, her parents had declared that she deserved a treat—or, rather, multiple treats. First, lunch with her teammate; then a special trip with her mom to go outlet shopping; then to the movies.

All week long, her parents had been extra-nice, and so had her teachers. Dr. Capshaw even excused her for not reading chapters five through eight of Animal Farm.

“After what you’ve been through,” he said. “It’s perfectly understandable.” (Actually, she’d foregone the reading to watch a marathon of You’re Going to Wear That?, a TV show where celebrities made fun of regular people’s clothes.)

Her father reached over and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to leave room for dessert, kids.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Lisa.

A girl could get used to this, Pamela thought, as their waiter hobbled over in an eye patch and fake peg leg. I should be a theft victim more often.

“Arrgh! I’m Cap’n Shark Breath. What can I be gettin’ ye lassies to drink?”

Pamela smiled and ordered a Shirley Temple. “Please don’t forget the little umbrella,” she told Cap’n Shark Breath. Pamela loved little umbrellas.

Lisa ordered a water. If Pamela had been in any mood to notice other people, she might have wondered why the usually talkative Lisa was being so quiet today. She would have been quite interested, indeed, to hear what was going on in Lisa’s head as she scanned the list of entrees, from X Marks the Spot Roast to Yo, Ho, Ho and a Basket of Chicken Fingers.

She’ll kill me, thought Lisa. If she ever finds out, she’ll kill me.