Swiped (4 page)

“What items?”

“He didn't tell me.”

“And he didn't say who the message was for?”

“He didn't get a name. So I wrote down the message, but I have no clue who it's for. It was just weird.”

“Never mind. The teachers will figure it out. Come on, we're late.”

Mr. Kowalski was letting Nick, Robyn and me skip science to have a literacy fair planning session in the library. Mrs. Pringle was supposed to help us get started.

Nick was already there, working at a computer station. I sat down next to him. Robyn flipped open her binder and ripped out a fresh sheet of paper.

“Okay,” she said. “Besides the used book sale, what ideas do we have so far? Do you think a poet's corner would work? Or should we focus on fiction?”

“Sure,” I said, bored.

“Which one? Sure isn't an answer that applies to my question, Trevor,” Robyn said.

“Whatever.”

Robyn threw her eraser at me. “I mean it, doofus. This is serious.”

“Did you guys know how many search engines are on the Net?” Nick interrupted. “I have about a million hits for the keyword hockey.”

“Why are you looking up hockey?” I asked. “You hate hockey.”

Mrs. Pringle pushed the library cart past us. “I'll be with you kids in a minute,” she said and began shelving books in the picturebook section.

“What if she gets fired?” Robyn said, abruptly changing the subject.

“Who?” I glanced up, startled.

Robyn nodded toward the librarian. “Mrs. Pringle.”

I put my pen down. “What are you talking about?” I said in exasperation.

“Open your eyes, Trev,” Robyn answered. “She's really upset about losing that book. She was responsible for it. Gretzky's signature on that old hockey book makes it really rare. Maybe it's worth so much money that she might lose her job.”

“I doubt it,” I said, but I felt a twinge of uncertainty. Mrs. Pringle was already worried
about whether she would still have her job next year. What if this was reason enough to fire her? “That can't happen. We need her.”

Robyn shrugged. “I know. But that means someone's got to find that book.”

Nick and I shared a look.

“Haven't we got enough to do, trying to find the lunch thief and organizing the literacy fair?” Nick asked.

“Do you want Mrs. Pringle gone forever, her reputation tarnished? She'd never get another job if she's charged with theft. She'll end up with no money, no house, stuffing old newspapers into her boots to keep her feet warm in the winter!” Robyn's voice rose. She sniffed.

I rolled my eyes. “Robyn, get a grip! No one's talking about a crime, here.”

“How do you know? Maybe someone took that book and tried to sell it,” Robyn retorted.

“And how would a person sell something like that, Robyn? A garage sale?” I shook my head.

Nick broke in. “Actually, Trev, Robyn's on to something. People sell stuff over the
Internet all the time. There are cyber stores and auctions just for selling used junk. I'll bet you could sell antiques or a collector's item for a lot of money online.”

Robyn stared. “That guy who called the office mentioned Internet sales.”

“That could be anything, Robyn. A teacher selling a car maybe. It doesn't mean someone is trying to unload the Gretzky book for big money.”

Robyn was unconvinced. “It's too much of a coincidence, Trev,” she argued.

“Mrs. Pringle's son showed me how you do all these advanced searches. Let's find out,” Nick broke in. He began punching the computer keyboard. The machine whirred softly for a few seconds. He frowned. “Nothing there. Let's try hockey collectibles.”

It took Nick five or six tries with different keywords before a cyber bookstore came up with a match.

“Look.” He swiveled the screen so we could see. The bookstore had a listing for the same hockey book we had.

“Out of print. What does that mean?” Robyn wanted to know.

“They don't publish it anymore,” I said. “That's why it's worth more.”

“No kidding,” Nick said, scrolling down the screen. His eyes bugged out at the total. “This book is worth almost four hundred dollars!”

“No,” I said slowly. “I don't think so.”

“Yeah. Look!” He pointed to the screen.

“It's worth more,” I said. “Ours is signed, so that makes it even more valuable. I'll bet that stolen hockey book is worth at least twice as much that—probably about eight hundred bucks!”

After school, I held my knapsack upside down and shook it. A few forgotten school notices fluttered out, but that was all. I dropped it on the hallway floor and began pulling stuff out of my locker, piling it around my feet.

“What is going on?” Robyn and Nick walked up behind me.

I couldn't speak—I was holding my breath against the fumes. I held Rachel's sneakers
by the shoelaces and dropped them a safe distance away.

“Fumigating,” I said at last. I began searching the locker again. “I can't find the book Mrs. Pringle gave me.”

“What book?” asked Nick.

“An old detective novel that she was going to discard. She had a whole series of them, and she said I could keep one.”

“Maybe you took it home,” Robyn suggested.

“No, I'm sure I didn't. I already checked.”

“Left it in class?” she asked.

“Nope. It was here, Robyn. I remember leaving it in here.”

“Maybe Rachel has it.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “She isn't exactly into that type of reading. Someone's taken it.”

“Why?” Robyn asked.

I shrugged. “Who knows? But Rachel leaves the lock undone on our locker a lot. Anyone could have gotten into it.”

“Like Cray,” Robyn said.

I shook my head. “Robyn, lay off the guy, will you? We have no proof.”

“No, but we're about to,” said Nick. “I have a plan.”

“But I had a plan,” Robyn said.

“Well, I said I had a plan first, so get in line,” Nick said.

“Hmmph,” Robyn grumped. “It had better be good.”

“It is,” Nick said. “And, it's foolproof.”

“Nick, look out!” Robyn yelled. We were in my kitchen, putting Nick's idea into place. Robyn jumped back as Nick squeezed the container. Blue food dye splattered down the front of her jeans and left bright blue splotches on the kitchen linoleum.

“Oh, that's just great.” She surveyed her jeans. “It looks like I've been attacked by a blueberry bush, and this stuff doesn't wash out.”

“Well, if you'd held the eyedropper steady, I wouldn't have spilled it. Besides, I did you a favor. The blue dye covers up all those bleach marks on your pants.”

“They're supposed to be there, you doofus!” Robyn yelled.

“My mom will kill me if she sees this floor,” I said, grabbing some cleanser from under the sink. I began to scrub the stains on the linoleum. The blue marks disappeared, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Nick picked up the eyedropper. “I'll hold it this time. You pour,” he said to Robyn.

Robyn tipped the plastic bottle, letting the food dye drip slowly into the eyedropper. When it was full, she capped the bottle and picked up the package of Twinkies on the counter. “Now what?” she asked.

“Now,” Nick said, “we rig the Twinkie.” He slit the edge of the package, slid out one of the small cakes and hollowed out some of the cream filling with a toothpick. Then he inserted the eyedropper and gently squeezed the blue food coloring into the middle. Nick dabbed a bit of the extra cream filling to cover the hole, then replaced the Twinkie in the package and glued it shut. “There!” he said. “The lunch bag bandit will never be able to resist this—and then, we have him, red-handed.”

I grinned. “You mean, blue-lipped.”

“You hope,” Robyn said doubtfully.

“Okay, this is it,” Nick whispered. The booby-trapped Twinkie had disappeared, along with the rest of my lunch, right on schedule. Nick was pumped that his plan might actually work.

I was almost able to ignore my hunger pangs and choke down part of Robyn's pickle sandwich. It might not have been so bad, if she hadn't run out of cheese and used ketchup instead.

“This is totally gross, Robyn,” I said, gagging.

“Think of it as a hamburger, without the meat.” Robyn took a bite.

“Somehow, that doesn't help,” I said. I surveyed the green and red filling inside the bun, and put it down in disgust. I looked around the lunchroom. In a lot of schools, different age groups eat at separate times, but our school has enough room to let everyone eat together. So far, I hadn't seen any Twinkies, but junk food is inhaled so fast around here, it's hard to tell who's eating what.

“You know,” Robyn said. “There's no guarantee that Cray—I mean, whoever took Trevor's lunch—is going to eat it at school. They could eat it outside, or toss it in the garbage or something.”

Nick looked worried. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Or what if the blue dye doesn't squirt out of the Twinkie? We'll have to check inside everyone's mouth,” Robyn continued. “We'll be like the mouth police. Open up! Lemme see your teeth!”

Nick frowned at her, but at that moment, a commotion erupted at one of the elementary tables. We all rushed over, but Robyn got there first.

A freckle-faced grade four boy sat there, his face frozen with shock. His lips and chin were stained blue, and the tampered Twinkie lay half eaten on the table, oozing blue filling.

Robyn glared at Cray, who was watching the scene from close by. I could see she was stunned that he wasn't the culprit, but she pulled herself together.

“Where did you get that Twinkie?” she asked the boy.

“I don't know!” the boy wailed.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” Robyn demanded. “It doesn't belong to you, does it?”

“Someone gave it to me!” The boy tried to wipe the blue off his face, but only smeared it more. His chin wobbled, and I could tell he was trying hard not to cry. Everyone in the lunchroom was staring at us now.

“Oh, get real!” Robyn said.

“Take it easy, Robyn,” I murmured.

Cray could keep quiet no longer. “Back off, rich girl. You're bothering the kid.”

“Quit calling me that!” Robyn snapped. “I'm
not
rich. And this kid is in possession of a stolen Twinkie.”

Cray snorted at that, which only made Robyn madder.

“Who asked you to butt in, anyway?” she yelled.

“I don't sit back and do nothing while someone bullies younger kids, Robyn,” Cray shot back.

“I'm not bullying him. He's been stealing lunches, and I want to know why,” Robyn said fiercely.

“No, I haven't!” the boy wailed.

“Quit picking on him!” Cray clenched his fists. “He didn't take anything!”

Robyn turned. “How would you know?”

“Because, rich girl.” Cray met her stare. “
I
did it.”

“So you
are
the lunch bandit! I knew it!” Robyn said. She'd been right, and I knew we'd never hear the last of it.

“Yeah, so what?“ Cray answered belligerently.

“So, you owe us about fifty lunches, that's what!” Robyn yelled.

“What's going on?” Ms. Thorsen, who was doing lunchroom supervision, strode over. Then she saw the tearful grade four
boy with bright blue lips. “What happened to you? Is that ink? Did you swallow any of that?” she asked, beginning to panic. The boy nodded.

“Oh, no!” She began to propel the boy toward the door.

“Wait! Wait, Ms. Thorsen!” Robyn hollered. “It's okay. It's only food coloring!”

Ms. Thorsen stopped dead in her tracks. “What?”

“It's food coloring.”

“Why does he have food coloring all over his face?” Ms. Thorsen asked ominously.

“He ate a booby-trapped Twinkie,” Nick explained.

Ms. Thorsen blinked. “What—?” She stopped, studied Cray's angry face and Robyn's triumphant expression, then glanced at the now-silent lunchroom. All the kids had stopped eating and were waiting to see what would happen.

“I want all of you...” she eyed me, Robyn, Nick, Cray and the boy with blue lips, “...to explain this in my classroom.
Now
.”

We followed her out the lunchroom door.
I carried the stolen Twinkie.

Once we were inside Ms. Thorsen's classroom, she pointed to the desks. “Sit,” she said angrily.

We sat.

“Who's responsible for this?” demanded Ms. Thorsen, pointing at the Twinkie, which was now oozing bright blue icing. It looked pretty disgusting, actually.

“We are,” Robyn said. “Trevor, Nick and I.”

Ms. Thorsen fixed us with a stare that could sear flesh from bone. “Playing practical jokes that humiliate younger students will not be tolerated,” Ms. Thorsen's voice was tight with outrage. “I am very disappointed in you kids.”

“It wasn't a practical joke!” protested Robyn.

“Then explain,” Ms. Thorsen snapped.

Robyn and Cray spoke at once, but between them all that came out was gibberish.

Ms. Thorsen held up her hand. “You first.” She pointed at Robyn.

“Someone's been stealing our lunches. Trevor even had his locker broken into. So,
we decided to catch whoever was taking our food. We put blue food coloring inside a Twinkie so that when the thief bit into it, we'd have proof.”

“I see,” said Ms. Thorsen. “So why are you saying Cray is the thief?”

“Because he gave the Twinkie to this boy,” Robyn said. “Cray admitted it.”

“Is that true?” Ms. Thorsen asked Cray.

“Yeah,” Cray said, glaring at Robyn.

“Why?”

“Because.”

Ms. Thorsen crossed her arms. “You must have a reason, Cray, and no one leaves this room until we hear it.”