The Mystery of the Missing Everything

^{Chapter 15} Another Day, Another Awkward Conversation

Here we go again, Ms. Finkleman thought, as she pulled the door of the music room closed behind her. Another day, another awkward conversation.

“Have you children had a chance to eat lunch yet?”

They had not, nor had Tenny brought his lunch, so they pulled up chairs around Ms. Finkleman’s desk and Bethesda gave him half of her pasta primavera, the latest of her father’s elaborate lunchtime concoctions. Ms. Finkleman additionally offered him a small container of seaweed salad, which Tenny politely but unambiguously declined.

“Dude, it’s just like old times. Like a reunion,” Tenny announced through a big messy bite of pasta. “Like when the Beatles played on that rooftop.”

Ms. Finkleman smiled. She knew exactly what he meant. Here was Tenny Boyer, his cheeks chipmunk-stuffed with pasta, slapping the flats of his hands on his thighs, air-drumming to music only he could hear; and here was Bethesda Fielding, uncapping a Snapple and peering around the Band and Chorus room with that unremitting, intense curiosity of hers.

It was kind of nice to be reunited with this particular pair of goofballs.

Enjoy the camaraderie while you can, Ida.

Ms. Finkleman swallowed her first bite of sushi and gave Bethesda the bad news.

“You did it?”

“Let me be clear. I did not steal Pamela Preston’s gymnastics trophy.”

“But you erased the initials?”

“Yes. I did.”

Bethesda was flabbergasted. “Why would you do that?”

Ms. Finkleman ignored the question. “Furthermore, Bethesda, I need you to keep the information about the initials to yourself.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it has to be.”

Bethesda pushed back a lock of red-brown hair that had fallen over her eyes. “I seriously don’t understand,” she protested. “I’m trying to solve a mystery here!”

“I know. And all I ask is that you proceed in your investigation as if those initials never existed. The same goes for you, Tennyson.”

“Huh? Sure,” he said. “I mean, I barely know what you guys are talking about.”

Bethesda’s confusion, meanwhile, was quickly turning to outrage. This was her investigation! What right did Ms. Finkleman have to order her around? “Hold on a sec. Wait, wait. This is an extremely significant clue.” She leaned forward, whispering urgently, trying to make her music teacher see the injustice of her request. “There is only one person in this school with the initials IOM.”

“I am aware,” Ms. Finkleman replied quietly, rolling slightly forward on the little wheels of her desk chair. “And that’s exactly why you’re going to ignore them. Reenie Maslow had nothing to do with this crime.”

“How do you know that?”

Ms. Finkleman sighed. “I’m sorry, Bethesda. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

The music teacher put a piece of California roll in her mouth and looked away. Bethesda huffed and crossed her arms, shooting Tenny a scowling, “can you believe this?” look. But Tenny sat chewing a piece of garlic bread, gazing out the window with a glazed expression that Bethesda knew well; her friend was off in space somewhere, playing a guitar solo at Madison Square Garden or writing lyrics in his head.

Except, when Tenny swallowed his bite and broke his silence, it turned out he was paying attention after all—although what he said irritated Bethesda even further. “Huh. You know, Ms. Finkleman’s probably right.”

“What?”

“Wait. Just like, think about it. Why would somebody steal something and then sign their name to the crime scene? Don’t people who do bad stuff try not to get caught?”

“Well yeah, but…” But what?

“And, I mean, I don’t know this Reenie girl,” Tenny continued. “But why would she steal someone else’s trophy in the first place?”

“Excellent point,” said Ms. Finkleman. Bethesda felt outnumbered and a little betrayed. Tenny was supposed to be her mystery-solving right-hand man, not Ms. Finkleman’s!

“Here’s the thing, Bethesda,” Ms. Finkleman said softly, laying down her chopsticks in the empty plastic container. “Reenie is new at this school, and my impression is she’s not having such an easy time of it.”

Bethesda thought of Reenie by herself at lunch with a book propped in her lap; of Reenie sitting perfectly still when Dr. Capshaw announced a group project, while the other kids formed themselves into chatty little teams; of Reenie at the library on Friday, flushed and uncomfortable, overreacting and upset.

“The last thing such a student needs is to be made the subject of a potentially devastating rumor.” Ms. Finkleman laid a small but unmistakable emphasis on the word “rumor,” and Bethesda blushed. That was one road they’d been down together. “She doesn’t need people imagining she’s a thief, or the person who single-handedly ruined the eighth-grade class trip.”

For all her outrage, Bethesda recognized the soundness of Ms. Finkleman’s reasoning. If Reenie didn’t do it, accusing her would be disastrous. But … but …

“But Ms. Finkleman. How can you be so sure Reenie Maslow is innocent?”

The Band and Chorus teacher looked Bethesda right in the eye, and for the first time in this whole annoying conversation, Bethesda felt like she was sitting across from the Ms. Finkleman she knew and loved, the sort-of-rock-star Ms. Finkleman, the one who was a human being and treated her students like they were human beings, too.

“Because she told me, Bethesda. And I believe her.”

“Well, that was weird,” Bethesda said, casting a look back at the music room as she and Tenny headed down Hallway C. Tenny didn’t answer. He surveyed the halls, a little uncertainly, like an astronaut who’d just arrived on an alien planet.

“This way, Tenny.”

“Huh?”

“Our lockers are upstairs this year.”

“Oh. Cool.”

As they went up Stairway Four, he trailed his fingers on the banister, whistling softly to himself.

“So, it must be kind of fun to be back, huh?” Bethesda asked.

“What? Uh, yeah. I don’t know. I guess.”

“Speaking of which, I still want to know the story with that,” Bethesda said, guiding him to the eighth-grade locker bank. “I mean, what happened at St. Francis Xavier?”

“Well, you know…,” Tenny began. “Oh, wait. Here.” He glanced at the locker number Mrs. Gingertee had written for him on a note card. “Twenty-one twelve. Just like the Rush album. Sweet.”

“Whatever you say,” said Bethesda. She left him wrestling with his combination and sailed off down the hallway toward her own locker.

It was only later, as Bethesda was pulling up her stool at Table Six in the art room for Slide Day, that she realized something: When she came upon them in the Achievement Alcove, Ms. Finkleman had not seemed surprised to see Tenny Boyer. Bethesda hadn’t known Tenny was returning to Mary Todd Lincoln, but it sure seemed like Ms. Finkleman had.

Boy, she said to herself, as Ms. Pinn-Darvish lit her ginger candles and cued up the first slide. This place is just full of mysteries lately.