The Mystery of the Missing Everything

^{Chapter 23} Week of a Thousand Quizzes

Cruising down Hallway C on Monday morning, Ida Finkleman hummed brightly to herself from the overture to the 1786 opera The Marriage of Figaro, her hands conducting an invisible orchestra. For all her newfound love of rock and roll, Mozart would always be her heart’s darling, and the Figaro overture her favorite melody to hum when she found herself in a cheery mood.

It was a new week, and Ms. Finkleman had a feeling that everything at Mary Todd Lincoln was returning, ever so slowly, to normal. She looked forward to a nice, calm week, during which she would focus entirely on her educational responsibilities, with no special projects or awkward student conversations to distract her. She pushed open the door of the Band and Chorus room, singing a snatch of Figaro’s delightful opening duet, expecting to find her classroom as she had left it on Friday afternoon: blinds drawn, instruments in their cases, three rows of music stands arranged on the risers.

What she saw instead was this: Todd Spolin in the back of the room, making a heavy metal face and straddling an electric guitar like a witch on a broomstick; Natasha Belinsky guiding Marisol Pierce and Pamela Preston through some sort of complicated three-step dance; Kevin McKelvey at the piano and Rory Daas on the piano, scribbling in a notebook; and Chester Hu circulating among them all with a clipboard, making notes and grinning. Oh, and there was Braxton Lashey, standing on the top riser, balancing precariously on one foot, wearing the body, but not the head, of a bear costume.

A nice, calm week, Ms. Finkleman thought, shaking her head. Everything back to normal. Right.

“Excuse me?” she said, cupping her hands together and speaking loudly over Kevin’s piano playing. “Anyone?”

Kevin stopped and pushed back the bench. “Oh, hi. Good morning. Hello. We’re using your room to work on this sort of project-type thing.” Ms. Finkleman crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow, and Kevin hastily added, “It was Chester’s idea.”

Chester Hu approached sheepishly. “We’re just working out a few details. Hope you don’t mind.”

Don’t ask, said the little voice in Ms. Finkleman’s head as the other kids filed out, Braxton lugging his bear head awkwardly under one arm. For the love of mike, don’t ask.

But she couldn’t help herself. “The details of what, Chester?”

Speaking quickly, bouncing on his toes, Chester explained the whole project to Ms. Finkleman—the song, the video, the website, the fund-raising campaign. As he spoke, Ms. Finkleman smiled more and more, deeply impressed by the enterprising spirit and creativity on display. “And this was your idea, Chester?”

“Oh, you know,” said Chester, shrugging and looking away, embarrassed. “Kind of a group effort.”

Chester left—but any hope Ms. Finkleman might have had that the rest of her day would be relatively normal was dispelled a few minutes later.

“Good morning, people of Mary Todd Lincoln.”

The P.A. crackled to life just as the school day began, when Ms. Finkleman’s first-period sixth graders were still filing in, finding their seats, tossing down their backpacks, and scarfing their last bites of Pop-Tart.

“This is your principal. So listen up.”

As she listened to the hard, cold voice of Principal Van Vreeland over the P.A., Bethesda Fielding gritted her teeth and looked at the ceiling.

“It has been two weeks since our trophy was stolen, and the responsible party has yet to come forward. Apparently a further inducement is required.”

Already, the other kids in Ms. Fischler’s class were glancing over at Bethesda, ready to hold her accountable for whatever new punishment their principal had dreamed up.

“I will be instructing every teacher in this school, in every subject, to begin writing questions. Because two weeks from today, all students will be having a test or a quiz, in every subject, every day, for one whole week.”

Bethesda groaned.

The students around her groaned.

Ms. Fischler, frozen at the front of the room with chalk in hand, also groaned.

“Unless, that is,” the principal continued, “the trophy is returned first.” The groaning grew in volume and intensity. “Now. Some of you will have noticed that this Week of a Thousand Quizzes will be taking place the third week in October, the same week our eighth-grade friends would have been on their outdoor education trip. That week, of course, is wide open at present.”

Bethesda closed her eyes, but she could still feel the stares—a classroom full of angry math students, craning their necks, pivoting their chairs to glare at her, everyone thinking the same thing:

All your fault… this is all your fault!

Meanwhile, in the Band and Chorus room, Ms. Finkleman did some quiet, restrained groaning of her own. A week’s worth of quiz questions? For music students? Plus, her fellow teachers would be hounding her to give it another shot, to return to the Main Office to beg Principal Van Vreeland for mercy all over again.

She sighed and tapped her baton for quiet. A nice, normal week…

Chester, in his seat in Dr. Capshaw’s room, exhaled and shook his head. Principal Vreeland had it backward. There was no way whoever stole that stupid trophy would come forward now.

This video better work, he thought. Man oh man, it better work.