Harper Madigan: Junior High Private Eye (2 page)

She puts a hand on her hip, unfazed by my outburst, or maybe she’s just so desperate that she can’t afford to back down. “You’re all I’ve got, Harper. The evidence points right at me, the PTA is pushing for the Board to say I’m guilty, and given my record these past few months… No one thinks I could be innocent, not for a moment. Not even Oliver. Oliver! He won’t say it out loud, but I can see it in his eyes, how he’s contemplating how much I’ve changed, how he isn’t really sure how far I’d go. But to have him think I did
this
after what happened to him?”

A tear slides down her cheek. She blinks her eyes shut and a couple more follow. “I could live with being expelled,” she says, and I remember how only last year all she could talk about was the tours she took of Princeton and NYU during her family vacation and how she’d give anything to go to colleges like that someday. Getting in seemed so far away—who knew ruining her chances of getting in could be so close? “But I can’t live with Oliver thinking that about me.”

I should help her. I really should, but I don’t know if I can. “It’s the PTA. What even makes you think I could get you off the hook?”

“Nothing. But you’re the only shot I’ve got.”

“If the PTA got a whiff of me on their trail, they’d have me shut down. Just like that.” I snap my fingers, indicating how fast it would be. “And if they didn’t, Dodge would.” And then how would I find redemption? How would I ever set things right? Maybe Oliver thinks Danigail’s guilty, but he
knows
I am. And I can’t live with that any more than she can.

She’s staring at me with big, hopeful eyes, and for a second I see the old Danigail looking back at me. But things have changed and even though it hurts—and it
does
hurt—there’s no way I can do this. “I’m sorry,” I say. “The answer is no.”

I have a class called “Sitting Still” first period, part of a series of mandatory behavioral classes instituted by the PTA. Either they actually believe these classes improve us somehow, or they just like watching us squirm. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was that second one. The PTA’s all about control, and ordering around a school full of kids who can’t fight back is their idea of a good time. Maybe controlling everyone else is the only way they can feel like they’ve got any power over their lives, or maybe it’s just their favorite type of entertainment. But whichever one it is, it doesn’t sit right with me.

Last semester was the first part of the series, Being Quiet, where basically thirty kids sit in a room and try to be absolutely silent for forty-five minutes. Sitting Still is the next step. It should be an easy class, because there’s no homework and only a couple of rules—eyes forward, hands folded on desk, no moving, no talking—but word on the street is it’s the most failed class at Bright Oaks.

Every time someone fidgets, even just to scratch their ear or something, our teacher, Mr. Grieves, has to put a mark by their name on a piece of paper. If you get too many marks, you have to retake the class during
summer
. Every day of vacation, you have to come to school in the sweltering heat—and Bright Oaks does
not
have air conditioning—and sit perfectly still and not make any noise if you want to pass seventh grade.

I don’t know where I stand in the class because I’m never around to get marks. Today, like a lot of days, I raise my hand only ten minutes in—ten minutes of sitting still is more than enough—and tell Mr. Grieves I’m going to the bathroom.

He groans. “Harper, you know the rules.” He takes a deep breath and makes eye contact with me, begging me to just stay quiet and play along for once. It doesn’t help that having a student leave class on a regular basis could put him in a sticky situation with the PTA, even if it’s not exactly his fault. “Going to the bathroom isn’t part of sitting still.”

I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, even though no one dares move their head to look directly at me. That would earn them a mark, and then what happens if they sneeze one too many times the rest of the semester? It’d put them on a direct path to summer torture, that’s what.

Technically, it’s against the rules for Mr. Grieves to let anyone leave the room during behavior class. If we got to leave, it wouldn’t be sitting still. But the
carte blanche
hall pass around my neck is my get out of jail free card, and as long as I’ve got it, the rules don’t apply. I point to it, reminding Mr. Grieves what he’s up against, and, grudgingly, he nods. He’ll be filing a complaint against me later, I’m sure of it, just so everyone knows who’s at fault, but right now there’s nothing he can do.

I say I’m going to the bathroom, but it’s an obvious lie, since I take my backpack with me as I make my escape into the hall. Everyone stares at me, jaws clenched in jealousy, as I move down the aisle and cross over to the door. There are twenty-seven other kids in this class besides me, and every one of them hates my guts right now, and I can’t really blame them. They’ve still got half an hour of not moving to suffer through.

Ten minutes later I climb onto a counter stool down at Maximum Shakery, a little place I go to when I need some space to think things over. It’s not even nine o’clock and everything’s already gone wrong. First Dodge pushes some stuffed shirt wannabe-journalist on me and calls him my partner, and then Danigail shows up out of nowhere. We haven’t even spoken since last summer. Last summer, when she had perfect grades and decent attendance records. Last summer, when she wasn’t on the school’s most wanted list. Now she needs my help. Figures.

We used to come here together and split a sundae. Half strawberry, half hot fudge, extra sprinkles. We were the only people who ordered it like that. But Danigail doesn’t come here anymore, and I don’t order desserts for two. I miss the taste of hot fudge and strawberry mixing together on my tongue, with a crunch of sprinkles, but eating it again without her would be worse than missing it. Then I might start thinking about other things I miss—other
people
I miss, one in particular—and that’s not a road I want to go down.

“What’ll it be?” Henry, the guy behind the counter, asks. He’s older than me, a senior in high school, and he’s wearing a white apron with thin blue stripes and a paper hat to match. It gives the place an old fashioned feel. There’s a jukebox in the corner that was supposed to do that, too, but I’ve been coming here for years and it’s never worked.

“The usual,” I tell him. “Chocolate malt with whipped cream, the works. There’s a twenty-five cent tip in it for you if you put in extra sprinkles.” So maybe I haven’t given up on all our traditions. Some habits are hard to break.

“Oh, boy. A whole twenty-five cents, just for me?” He scowls and leans across the counter. “Come on, Harper. A kid like you? You’re what, thirteen?”

“Twelve.” Like Austin so helpfully pointed out, my birthday’s not until July. I narrow my eyes at Henry. “Last I checked, my money was just as good at twelve as at thirteen.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school or something?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

“I got a free period in the morning, so I can work an extra shift. Perfectly legit, unlike you. You know I can’t serve some kid skipping class. It’s against policy.”

“Store policy?”

He grits his teeth. “You know whose policy, Harper. I’ve only got a couple more months to go, just until June, and then I can get out of here. They say the PTA’s got a finger in every pot in this town, but there’s a whole world out there beyond Bright Oaks, places they don’t have a hold on. I’ve got
two months
, and then I can graduate and get out of this place. You know what that means, so don’t you come in here trying to order when I can’t serve you.”

I sigh. “Fine, then I’ll just have water.”

Henry holds up his hands. “I don’t think you heard me. I can’t serve you
at all
. I’m supposed to be kicking you out right now. But…” He glances out the storefront windows, then over his shoulder. I can hear Max, the owner, humming to himself in the back while he takes inventory. “As long as no one’s around, a quick cup of tap water isn’t going to hurt anybody. But you’ve got to drink it fast and get out of here.”

“I’ll still give you the quarter for the extra sprinkles.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious.” He fills a plastic cup behind the counter and slides it across to me. “Drink up, kid. You look like you could use the refreshment. I remember seventh grade. Seventh grade was tough.”

“Right now I’m supposed to be practicing sitting still. PTA requirement.” That’s not exactly the biggest thing on my mind right now, but I decide to keep things simple.

He shakes his head. “You know, sometimes I wish I was an untouchable. But my mom, she lives in Canada. What about yours?”

I grin. “My mom petitions to join the PTA every year.” She’s not stupid or anything. She knows they’re never going to let her in—the PTA’s a pretty tight circle, and the new member sign-up each year is just for show. People sign up, but nobody gets in. They say they don’t need new members after all, and all the positions are currently filled. My mom says the sign-up’s a sham, that you have to be born into the PTA, so it’s not like she doesn’t know they’re not going to accept her. And it’s not like she wants to be like them. She just likes to shake things up a little. Runs in the family. That’s why she looks the other way on my investigations. The way she figures it, the more thorns in the PTA’s side, the better, plus a person could go crazy in this town if they always followed the rules. Mom sees the agency as my way of staying sane, and she’s not about to take that away from me.

Henry nods. “Good for her.” He goes to wipe down one end of the counter with a rag, and then freezes. He stares at something out on the street, his eyes widening in panic. “Harper,” he hisses, not taking his eyes off the window behind me, “don’t turn around. Get off the stool and get behind the counter.”

I don’t look behind me—I don’t have to to know what must be scaring him so badly—but I don’t get down, either. The door chimes open and high heels click across the floor.

A middle-aged woman in a gray suit struts in like she owns the place, pursing her lips as she glances around, taking it all in. Then she takes a look at the ice cream counter, examining all the flavors they’ve got for sale, and something she sees must not agree with her, because her mouth puckers up like she’s just been sucking on a lemon.

She glares at Henry, whose hands are already shaking, and points at the plastic over the ice cream flavors. “Where is it?”

Henry swallows and pretends he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but it’s obvious he’s lying. “Where… where is what?”

The woman grits her teeth. Then a sinister grin spreads across her mouth. “Why should I waste my time with a worthless kid like you? You’re wearing a
paper
hat. Get me Max.
Now
.”

Henry’s got this look on his face, like every second that goes by, he’s regretting taking late arrival at school, but it’s too late now. He makes eye contact with me that says
Get out while you can
. ’Cause this woman, who’s got to be from the PTA, hasn’t noticed me yet. Or if she has, it hasn’t clicked yet that I’m not supposed to be here right now.

Henry doesn’t even have to call for Max before he comes running in from the back. “Ah! Mrs. Galverston, it’s so… good to see you.” A bead of sweat drips down the side of Max’s head. Seeing someone from the PTA is never a good sign. Having one march into your store with some kind of complaint?

I shudder and consider getting out of there, but Henry and Max’s fear is contagious, and I can’t move.

“Max,” Mrs. Galverston says. “What did we discuss last time?”

“You, um, you requested a favor,” Max mutters, keeping his head down.

“That’s right.” Mrs. Galverston taps her finger against the plastic. “I requested a simple, friendly favor. All I asked was that you keep my nephew’s new ice cream line in stock. But I’m looking around and I’m not seeing any Spaghetti Swirl or Fettuccine Chicken-Chunk. No Vanilla Garlic Crunch or Pepperoni Cheese Blast.”

Those are ice cream flavors? That she expects Max to
sell
?

Max shoots a worried glance at the counter, then at her. “Changing that much of my stock… when the customers are so used to my regular flavors… It might hurt business.”

Mrs. Galverston’s hands clench so hard her fists shake and her knuckles turn white. Her voice comes out fake and sugary sweet, trying to mask her rage. “Surely a store as
popular
as this one can handle a few new flavors.”

Her knuckles crack and Henry’s still giving me the look, like I should run while I can. Max is cowering in front of this woman, the apology for not selling her nephew’s awful sounding ice cream already on his lips. And I’m not proud of myself or anything, but I take Henry’s silent advice and get out of there. My knees are shaking as I hop down from the stool and hurry for the door.

I hear a, “Who was that?” from Mrs. Galverston as the door chimes closed. Outside, my heart still pounds like it’s going to fly away, but I feel like I can breathe again. And I can’t help thinking,
this
is what Danigail wanted me to go up against.

I think of Max, just a nice guy who owns an ice cream shop, cowering in there behind his own counter. I think of Henry and how he’s only got two months left until he can get out of this place, and how he might have risked it all just by giving a thirsty kid a cup of water.

Right now the PTA doesn’t care about me or my business, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’ve got the agency to think of. And the more I picture Max and Henry shaking in terror because of some woman from the PTA, the more my stomach hurts and the more I know I made the right decision, because there’s no way I could have taken Danigail’s case.