The Art of Secrets (11 page)

Meanwhile, across the library, sitting on a hard vinyl sofa,

Kendra Spoon, sophomore,

speaks quietly with the police detective.

When I think about it going missing . . . No joke, last Friday I thought my head was gonna explode.

It was the last period of the day, English with Ms. Ames. My brother, Kevin, caught my attention, waving like a maniac through the little window in the classroom door. He was gesturing for me to come out to him, and I remember sitting up, like,
Seriously?
I knew something must be up because my brother and I hardly ever see each other during the day.

When I got into the hall, the first thing I noticed was that Kevin didn't look right. Ordinarily my brother is Mr. Unflappable, Mr. Easy-Breezy. I had never seen his face like this—so freaked out and full of panic. He was running the palms of his hands on his khakis like he was rubbing off sweat.

“Um, hey,” he whispered, with the weakest, fakest smile I've ever seen on him.

I asked him what's up, and he goes, “So, like, the artwork is missing from the gym office. By any chance, did you take it?”

“What?” I said. “No. Why would I take it?”

We stared at each other. It seemed unbelievable. All that planning, all the work on the auction. Our reputation was, like,
on the line
because of this thing.

I kept saying, “No, no, no,” and the walls around us seemed to fall away. I leaned against a locker to steady myself. If Kevin is usually Mr. Easy-Breezy, I am often Miss Rudderless Boat in a Whirlpool. That's why I'm lucky he's my brother.

He told me to chill. He was like, “Security's been searching lockers. They'll find it. Some knucklehead demo probably thought he could sell those pictures at a pawn shop.” Kevin said to meet him after school in the main office.

All during that period, they kept the students in the rooms while they finished searching the lockers. No passes to anywhere, no excuse to leave for any reason. I kept waiting for Kevin to come back to my room, so he could tell me they found it and everything was okay—but he never did. After the bell rang, I went straight to the main office and found Kevin there, slowly spinning in a leather chair. He seemed as freaked out as me, which only freaked me out more. Principal Stickman told us that since the artwork “technically” was still ours, Kevin and I needed to report it stolen. Two of your guys showed up and we filled out a police report. I felt better knowing the police were around, but even then it seemed pretty hopeless.

Do I think a student took the artwork? I thought so, at first. Everybody did. But security would have found it Friday, when they searched the lockers. Teachers have more freedom. This is a closed campus for students, but teachers can come and go. Any teacher could have moved the art to a car, or anyplace off campus. But not students—not during the day.

After school Friday, Dr. Stickman gave us her keys, and Kevin and I searched all the classrooms ourselves. I mean, it was better than doing nothing, and it felt awesome that the principal trusted us with her keys. We even searched teacher closets and supply cabinets! We found plenty of cigarette packs and bags of half-melted candy bars, lottery tickets . . . I mean, hey, whatever gets you through the day, right?

We stayed really late, climbing a million stairs and opening doors until we thought we'd pass out. Obviously, we didn't find the artwork. Whoever took it was able to walk straight out of the building with it. That's something only a grown-up could do.

I hate to suspect the teachers. I actually like most of mine.

If I had to pick one? Hmm . . . well, but any name I give you will be my opinion. Only a gut feeling, which isn't fair . . .

[Lowers voice even further.]

Okay, so in English we've been reading
Th
e Great Gatsby
. And on the day we're talking about, the teacher, Ms. Ames, was . . . noticeably irritated with us. She had assigned the last few chapters, and a lot of us weren't connecting with the end of the book. In our defense, that “borne back ceaselessly into the past” stuff? Most fifteen-year-olds aren't exactly stuck in the past. We're thinking about this week. We're thinking about
today.

Ms. Ames said something like, “Can't you identify with someone who was willing to do
anything
to make a secret dream come true?”

The thing is, I got what she was saying. I think of myself as a dreamer, too. But around me everybody had these bored, slow-blinking eyes, like she was talking about politics or laundry or something.

So that was when my brother showed up, pulled me into the hallway, and told me what happened to the paintings.

The reason I'm telling you this is—okay, when I was out of the room, Ms. Ames wrote a long sentence on the overhead. It's from the first page of the book: “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one . . . just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.” Out of context, it seemed a little defensive. I mean, who's criticizing anyone? What advantages? I stared at that sentence for a long time.

Ms. Ames is so much younger than the rest of the faculty. Her salary is probably tiny. She doesn't seem happy at this school. Not that I think she's a dishonest person. But her point seemed to be that we're all desperate dreamers like Jay Gatsby.

I mean, the defensiveness and the timing, and her being so irritated—it all seemed weird to me. It
registered
, you know? And even now I keep wondering: What are her secret dreams? And how far would she be willing to go to make those dreams come true?

Early that evening, while reviewing copious notes at the station,
the police detective receives a visit from none other than

Ariel Ames, Department of English.

I'd like to speak with you privately, detective—if that's okay?

I suspect . . . I mean, what I know may be helpful. At the same time, I really hope it won't be. Maybe that sounds nuts.

I've worked at Highsmith for three years. My first job out of college. I always wanted to teach. I used to
play
teacher in my bedroom when I was little. My dolls and stuffed toys were my students, and I taught them about Rumpelstiltskin and the Three Little Pigs. Those were my lesson plans.

The school? I'd say it's a strange place. The campus, obviously, is gorgeous. I love the old architecture. And they spend a fortune on the gardens. Do you know who designed them? Frederick Law Olmsted Jr. Probably the most famous landscape architect of his time. He worked on the National Mall and the White House grounds in DC, the US parks system—and our very own Highsmith campus.

Plus a million other projects, but don't mention that to Dr. Stickman. She'll tell you Highsmith was his
crowning achievement
as an artist. That woman lives in a fantasy world. Or she lives in the past, I don't know.

Sure, the gardens may look perfect, but the buildings are in sad shape. Leaks everywhere in the roof, cracks in the foundation, and broken, outdated equipment in classrooms. Think about it: If we had some security cameras in the building, maybe we could have protected those watercolor paintings.

The enrollment is down. We have too many empty classrooms. For a lot of students, the school is a family tradition. You often hear, “Dad went here, Granddad went here, Great-Granddad went here. That's why I'm
stuck
here.”

That's mostly who we get. The legacies. If you look at the old black-and-white photos in the main lobby, you see the same faces we have here today. It can feel clannish at times. The kids all have names that sound like platform stops on the ‘L.' “
Hello,
so nice to meet you. These are my boys, Clark and Wellington. And these are my girls, Addison, Damen, and Kimball.”

Anyway, because of this dynamic, newer families like the Khans and the Spoons may have a harder time. It's not the friendliest community.

Same goes for teachers. When I first got hired, I was so excited. It turned out I was the only new teacher they hired that year. So it was a little lonely. Nobody ever took time to get to know me.

I replaced a guy named Mr. Bunder. Glen Bunder taught at Highsmith for forty years. He was a legend, and I was a twenty-two-year-old with no experience. That was a rough year.

The next year, they didn't hire any new faculty—not in any department. So I was still the “new” teacher. Same thing happened this year. No new faculty hires. Last week, I heard a teacher from the Science Department refer to me as “the new girl.” After three years! And “girl”? Please.

If there's a paper jam in the copier, they blame me. If someone leaves a coffee mug on a counter in the main office, the secretary will call my classroom: “Ariel, did you forget to take your coffee mug to the kitchen again?” Meanwhile, I don't even drink coffee.

At faculty meetings, when Dr. Stickman repeats her speeches about rules and procedures, it's always “for Ariel's benefit.”

My point is, if any members of the faculty want to suggest I stole the artwork . . . well, I wouldn't be surprised. I'm an easy target. I'm still the mysterious stranger in town.

But you can check the attendance: I was out of the building all morning on a field trip, and by the time I got back, the artwork was gone. For once, we can't blame “the new girl.”

Besides, I don't have a car. And that book of watercolors would definitely not fit in my milk crate.

Who do I think took it? The thing to remember is, most of the dinosaurs who teach at Highsmith are too old and set in their ways to realize that a painting doesn't have to look like a Rembrandt to be valuable.

It has to be someone who would know what to do with the art. It's not like fencing a TV, right? You'd need to find a way to sell it on the black market.

Well, who knows the most about art in the school?

I don't mean to point a finger at Jean. Jean Delacroix is probably the nicest guy at Highsmith. He gives me rides on bad-weather days. Generally I take the ‘L' and it's not a problem, except for really cold days. Last year, on one brutally freezing day, I was desperate, so I asked Jean if he could give me a lift home. I mean, I barely knew him. But I knew we lived near each other, so I thought, Why not? What did I have to lose? Now it's a regular thing. Whenever I need a ride home, I just email him or call first. He's not much for conversation in the car. He likes NPR.

No, it's nothing romantic.

[Smiles hesitantly.]

That's funny—I mean, because Jean's gay. I don't suppose it's relevant to your investigation. He's totally out with the staff, but maybe not with the students. You know how some teenagers can be.

Jean's a wonderful artist. Did you know that? He makes these amazing quilts. Not like the quilts you see on beds, but art to hang on the wall. Incredible landscapes and portraits, things that take him months to complete. He's like a painter with cloth and a sewing machine. I always love to see what he's working on when I stop by after school to wait for a ride. His talent is really something.

Anyway . . . I hate to tell you this, but I'm going to, for the sake of those kids. And it's God's honest truth. I'll sign anything you need me to.

As you know, we had a snowstorm on Friday. The first big snow of the season. I'd seen how bad it was getting during the field trip, but later it was even worse. Taking the ‘L' sounded awful. So naturally I went to find Jean.

Even though Jean is the only art teacher at Highsmith, the art annex is massive. Like I say, the enrollment used to be bigger. There's the main studio, a sewing room, kiln, and so on. Jean's got a nice office of his own, just as big as Regina's, to be sure. And private.

Anyway, I was waiting for him, not sure where he was. There weren't any students around. I saw that Jean had some new quilt projects on a table, three or four of them, all folded neatly and stacked. I was curious. I mean, I'd looked before and Jean never seemed to mind. In fact, he always was proud of the work, glad to have someone notice his creative efforts.

I opened the first one, a late summer cornfield shown in these blazing, orange-gold colors. No kidding, I felt warmer just looking at it. I refolded the fabric and set it aside. I was about to unfold a second quilt—I actually had it in my hands—when I heard Jean's voice behind me.

He said, “Ariel, put that down.”

I turned and saw him standing in the doorway. I said, “Hi, Jean! Bet you know why I'm here . . .”

He looked furious, the way he'd look at a student who was being insubordinate. He repeated, “Put that down now, please.”

I realized the quilt I held was folded around something. At the time, I thought:
Why is there a book in this blanket?
I really thought that! I pictured an atlas. I figured it must be some technique for storing his quilts—folding them around an atlas to avoid wrinkles, or something. The funny thing is, I wouldn't have noticed anything if I hadn't picked it up.

I apologized, of course, and gently placed the folded quilt back on the pile. “I didn't mean to be nosy. It's just that I love looking at your quilt—”

“I can't give you a ride today,” he told me. “You didn't call or email.”

I felt horribly embarrassed. “I know!” I said. “It's just that with all the snow . . . well, I was hoping—”

And he interrupted me, sort of gruffly, and said, “Can't help you today, Ariel.”

“I understand,” I said. “It's fine, Jean. You're always so generous.”

I was really confused. He'd never been angry with me—
moody
maybe, but not angry or unfriendly. I picked up my backpack and buttoned my coat, feeling so embarrassed. I looked out his office window at the darkness and snow. I remember thinking vaguely about my CTA fare card and where I had left it, did I have any money on me, all that.

I told him goodnight and turned for the door.

“Wait. Ariel.”

I turned back. His face had softened, more like the Jean I know.

He told me, “It is awful outside. Of course I can drive you home.”

I said I didn't want to be trouble. And he said, “Listen, I was going to run an errand tonight. But with the roads all snowy and slow, it will be better if I do it tomorrow. I can give you a ride.”

He did give me a ride. I was so relieved and so grateful. Like I said, he's generally a thoughtful guy.

But what I never figured out was: Why was he acting so strangely?

And it was weird, because the very next day, Saturday, I was at home, doing some planning for this week. Obviously I also was thinking about all the drama at school, the Darger artwork being stolen, and how awful that situation is, in different ways, for two of the girls I teach, Saba and Kendra. I was reading
Th
e Great Gatsby
, and—hold on a second. . . .

[She removes a copy of the novel from her bag and opens to a bookmarked page.]

I was reading, and I came to these lines about Gatsby: “He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire and freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.”

When I read this, detective, it seemed like a sign. I couldn't help but remember that beautiful folded quilt of Jean's. And I wondered again what he might have been hiding inside of it.

So you see why I thought I better tell you, why I thought this information might be helpful. But like I said, I sure hope it's not.