The Mystery of the Missing Everything

^{Chapter 26} We’re Going to Need More Snacks

As soon as school ended on Wednesday, Chester met up with the rest of his team to bike to Tamarkin Reservoir, the big grassy field where they’d be shooting the main scenes of the video. They were all going over as a group: Chester, Rory, Marisol, Kevin, Braxton, Suzie, Todd, and Natasha, the whole team except Pamela, who insisted on walking. “If I’m late, you can shoot some other part first,” she said. “I am not mushing up my hair in a bike helmet before being filmed.”

Chester coasted at the front of the pack of cyclists, weaving back and forth, feeling the gentle breeze on his legs. “Oh, hey,” Rory said suddenly as they turned off Friedman to head toward the reservoir. “I keep meaning to tell you. I asked a couple people to help out. That cool?”

It took Chester a second to realize that Rory was talking to him—he kept forgetting that he was in charge. “Sure,” he said. “Of course.”

“Yeah, actually, I invited a couple people, too,” said Natasha.

“Me, too,” Marisol added quietly.

Chester shrugged. “That’s cool.”

What Chester didn’t yet know was that the couple people Rory had called had each called a couple people, and each of those people had called a couple of their own. The same was true for Natasha’s couple people, and Marisol’s, and Braxton’s… and though Ms. Fischler wasn’t on hand to explain how the total number of people had grown through exponential multiplication, the result was clear when they crested the final hill and kickstanded their bikes at the edge of Tamarkin Reservoir. In the low, green gully, dozens and dozens and dozens of kids were milling around. It was practically the entire eighth grade, along with tons of sixth and seventh graders, plus kids Chester didn’t even recognize, kids from other schools or something. Scanning the crowd, amazed, Chester spotted Kelly Deal and Peter Holsapple, both of whom had graduated last year and were at Pilverton High now.

And then, as Chester and his posse got off their bikes, the whole huge crowd burst into applause.

“Let’s do it!” shouted Ellis Walters, yelling through cupped hands from the back of the crowd. “Let’s save Taproot Valley!”

Chester couldn’t help but notice the one person who was not a part of this giant crowd—his best friend, Victor Glebe. Well, no time to worry about it now. Chester turned his mind to making fresh plans: Natasha would need to build more people into her choreography; Kevin could add more harmony parts to the song….

Chester turned to Todd Spolin, who happened to be standing beside him, and said, “We’re going to need more snacks.”

What Ida Finkleman should have been doing, at that moment, was writing quiz questions. Like every teacher in school, she had two weeks to prepare an entire week’s worth of questions, a massively time-consuming proposition. But here she was instead, watching thoughtfully through the chain-link fence that separated Patterson Lane from Tamarkin Reservoir. She watched as the kids unrolled the long, beautiful murals that Marisol and Lisa had painted and strung them carefully from the trees. She watched Braxton put on his grizzly bear costume, backward, then watched him take it off and put it on again correctly. She watched Tenny coach Todd on how to place his fingers on the guitar, to pretend to play the solo he’d recorded. She watched Chester set up the shots and cry “Action!” When the Save Taproot Valley song came blaring out of Shelly’s laptop, Ms. Finkleman noted the compositional virtuosity that Kevin had brought to the project and chuckled at Rory’s strained but charming rhyme of the words “bonfire” and “quagmire.”

Surely this video would be, if not brilliant, at least utterly unique. But whether it would raise enough money to send the kids on their outdoor education trip was a very different question. Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars was a lot of money, and the scheduled departure date was less than two weeks away.

Ms. Finkleman turned from the fence and walked back down Patterson Lane, toward the school, to get her car and drive home.

If only there was something she could do to help.

While all the other kids were at Tamarkin Reservoir, no doubt having the time of their lives, Bethesda Fielding biked home alone. No one besides Tenny had even told her about the Save Taproot Valley project, let alone invited her, and she was trying very hard not to be bummed about it. Bethesda loved fund-raising projects! When she was nine, she’d made almost a hundred dollars in four hours of selling lemonade, by having kids pay an extra dollar to squeeze the lemons themselves, using a shiny silver handheld juicer. Less work, more money!

Bethesda chastised herself sternly: Does Sherlock Holmes get jealous? What about Charlie Chan? Does Wellington Wolf, Jungle P.I., get all mopey because he can’t play with the other animals! Of course not! Why do you think they call them lone wolves?

Chortling at her own joke, Bethesda didn’t notice until the last second a garbage can that had tipped over and rolled out onto the sidewalk. She jerked the handlebars of her blue Schwinn, lurched hard, and almost hit another cyclist who was passing her on the right.

“Hey! Watch it!” said the other girl, glaring backward over her shoulder.

It was Reenie Maslow. Of course.

“Shoot. Sorry, Reenie.”

Bethesda pumped her legs a few times, giving herself a burst of speed to catch up. Her self–pep talk notwithstanding, Bethesda was psyched to have someone else to talk to. “So,” she said, pulling up to keep pace with Reenie, “you weren’t invited to do this video thing either, huh?”

“Of course I was. Everyone was. I just didn’t have time.”

Well, gee, Bethesda thought. Thanks for making me feel better.

They biked in silence for a couple minutes, Bethesda struggling the whole time to think of something else to say, Reenie just staring straight ahead, the sun gleaming off her silver helmet. When Bethesda turned off Friedman Street onto Dunwiddie, Reenie did too. Whoa, thought Bethesda. Two short, book-loving, glasses-wearing girls with reddish-tannish hair who live in the same neighborhood! And yet…

“So, what, are you, like, following me?” Reenie asked abruptly, shooting Bethesda an annoyed look.

“No! Reenie, I… I…”

Reenie stood up on her pedals, knapsack balanced high on her back like a soldier’s duffel, cranked her legs, and zoomed away. Bethesda rolled to a stop and watched her disappear over the horizon.

At home, Bethesda took a Snapple and a bowlful of graham crackers from the kitchen and went upstairs to do homework. Mr. Galloway was giving extra credit to anyone who memorized the Gettysburg Address. But try as she might, Bethesda couldn’t get past the “conceived in liberty” part.

Three little letters kept dancing through her mind: IOM.