By Monday morning, I’m eager to go back to school. The trap has been set. The email has been sent. So far, there’s been no response but I’m not discouraged. I know it’s only a matter of time before the culprit responds with directions on where to leave the money. Then I’ll set up the sting. I’ve already ordered one of those nanny cam things online. It arrives tomorrow.
This will work.
I will catch Dylan Parker red-handed.
In the meantime, I’ve typed up all my notes in a document on my laptop, so I can keep them organized and searchable when I need to quickly reference anything.
And now it’s time to see if Madame Bovary can offer me any leads.
During our first Student Mastery Hour, I tell Sequoia I’m going to work alone in the library again. She gives me an almost-hurt look, like she’s offended that I don’t want to study with her, but eventually she brushes it off.
I head straight for the fiction section and make a beeline for the Fs. Gustave Flaubert is the famous French author of Madame Bovary and the Sanderson-Ruiz Library has five copies. I check each one, surreptitiously flipping through the pages, but I find nothing. I do the same with all three copies of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, but those pages are empty, too.
Maybe the test thief only chooses books by French authors. Maybe that’s the connection.
I move through the fiction section, checking every French author I can think of from Balzac to Proust, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary in any of the books.
There has to be a pattern. There’s always a pattern. If you think about all the great journalists in the world and all the epic stories they’ve broken, it was because they found the pattern. They linked things together. They connected dots.
But I only have two dots. Yet I know there’s some connection between the titles. I can feel it.
I check my new anonymous email account on my phone. Still no response from [email protected]
Frustrated, I find a table near the back and sit down. I open my laptop and review the notes I typed up over the weekend.
Facts That I Know for Certain:
• Lucinda Wallace was asked to leave money in copies of Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo
Questions:
• Were other test purchasers asked to leave money in other books? Or other places around school?
• What’s the connection between Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo?
“Whatcha doing?” a voice says, startling me out of my thoughts. I look up to see Dylan leaning on the table, trying to peek at my screen.
I angle it away from him. “None of your business.”
“Still playing detective?”
“If by detective you mean still trying to prove you’re guilty? Then, yes.”
He grins. “Maybe I can help.”
“Doubtful.” I roll my eyes and focus back on my notes, hoping eventually he’ll take the hint, go back to his sacred little corner, and mind his own business. Why is he always in here when I’m trying to work anyway? Does he live in the library or something?
My head pops up, an idea suddenly forming.
He’s always in the library.
Is he working in here? Or is he doing more than working? Is he possibly conducting some other kind of business in here?
“Did you know,” I begin, trying to sound conversational, “that Lucinda Wallace was asked to put the money for her stolen tests in copies of Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo?”
I study his face, hoping again to catch one of those micro-expressions. A flicker of guilt. A momentary glimpse of surprise. But Dylan’s face is blank. He’s either somehow learned how to hide his micro-expressions, or I’m still not quick enough to identify them.
All he says is “Huh.”
I’m about to return to my notes when, a second later, I see something. It’s just a flash of a reaction. But it’s there.
Except it doesn’t look like guilt or shame. At least not to my novice eyes. It looks more like confusion. As though he’s trying to piece his own mystery together.
“So,” he continues after a moment, “the school is totally okay with you doing this? Snooping around trying to catch this person?”
I hesitate, averting my gaze. “Um, not exactly.”
He lets out an overdramatic gasp. “What? Unsanctioned investigative work? Going against the almighty Windsor authority? What kind of zombie are you?”
“I’m trying to convince Mr. Fitz to let me start a school newspaper,” I retort in exasperation. “He said no, but I know he’ll come around if I can break this story.”
“No, he won’t.”
I glance up at him. “How do you know?”
“Because it’s too out of the box. It requires too much free thinking. They don’t like free thinking. Free thinking leads to questioning which leads to anarchy. Trust me, I know. I have to fight with them over every single issue of Writer’s Block. They don’t want the content to be too ‘edgy.’ They just want us all to keep our heads down, study on our little computers, join their sanctioned clubs, and maintain the 89 percent Ivy League acceptance rate. Anything beyond that is a waste of time.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s absolutely true.”
“That’s not why Mr. Fitz said no to my request to start a newspaper. He told me it was because he thought I was overextended and—” I stop. Why am I explaining all of this to him? He’s my primary suspect. I shouldn’t even be conversing with him. Unless it pertains to the story. “Never mind,” I mumble, focusing back on my laptop. “Can you please leave me alone now?”
He sighs. “Sorry. No can do. If the Zombie Queen is doing something unsanctioned by the school, I can’t walk away. I’m an interested party now.” He pulls out the chair across from me and sits.
“Excuse me,” I protest, horrified. “I was sitting here.”
“Yeah, yeah, you were here first. I know.” He grabs my laptop and spins it around so he can read the document on my screen.
I stare at him in stunned silence for a few seconds before brusquely snatching back my computer. “Um, hello? What do you think you’re doing?”
“San Francisco Chronicle ‘25 Books to Read Before College.’” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, looking mighty pleased with himself.
I scrunch my nose. “What?”
“Madame Bovary and The Count of Monte Cristo. The connection. The test thief is using books taken from that list.”
My mouth falls open. “How do you know that?”
“The Chronicle is my favorite newspaper.”
I do my best to conceal my shock, but I’m certain my micro-expressions give me away instantly. In fact, mine are probably more like macro-expressions.
“What?” he asks, smirking. “You don’t think I read newspapers? Newspapers are the last great journalistic art form. Too bad they’re dying. Nothing quite compares to the tactile feel of newsprint in your hand.”
“I-I—” I try to say something but only stunted syllables come out.
Dylan Parker reads the San Francisco Chronicle?
Dylan Parker and I have something in common?
Actually, come to think of it, I do remember that he was reading a newspaper during the school assembly last week. I was just too infuriated with him to think anything of it.
“B-b-but,” I try again for words, this time managing to get out a whole sentence. “How do you know about that list?”
“Because I read it. And all the books on it.”
This might come as more of a surprise than his previous statement, momentarily distracting me from my investigation. “What?”
He gives me that patronizing smirk again. “I may not be a Windsor Zombie but I still care about going to college.”
“Where did you apply?”
He glances away, like the question makes him uncomfortable. “Columbia. Among others.”
“Columbia?” I spit, my throat constricting.
He snickers. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I … I’m sorry. That’s not why I … that’s where I applied, too.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? What do you want to study?”
I think back to the application on Watts’s coffee table. The one that said “economics” on it. I cast my gaze to the floor. “It’s … I’m still deciding.”
“Well, I applied for their writing program. They have one of the best in the country for undergrads.”
I swallow hard. “You want to be a writer?”
“A novelist. Yeah.” He gets a far-off look in his eyes for a moment and then mumbles, “But I probably won’t get in, so it doesn’t really matter.”
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He gives his head a shake, like he’s coming out of a disturbing dream. “Never mind. Anyway. The San Francisco Chronicle’s ‘25 Books to Read Before College.’ I would check other books on that list.”
He switches subjects so quickly, it takes me a moment to keep up. “Right,” I say, refocusing on my notes. “So what makes you so sure the books are coming from that list?”
“Because the other day I found two hundred dollars stuffed into a copy of Robinson Crusoe, which is also on the list.”
I lean forward excitedly. “You found two hundred dollars in a copy of Robinson Crusoe?”
“Yeah. And until this conversation, I thought it was just some kid who had left his lunch money in his book. I mean, it is the Windsor Academy, after all.”
I stifle a laugh. “What did you do with the money?”
He shrugs. “I took it. Obviously.”
“You took it?” I screech, a little too loudly. I glance around to see if anyone heard me and then lower my voice. “You can’t just take that. It’s evidence. You messed with a crime scene.”
He laughs. “Slow down there, Columbo. It was money in a book. Not a dead body.”
“But why do you think it’s that list? Those three books are classics. I’m sure they’re on a lot of reading lists together.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Just a hunch.”
I shoot him a suspicious look. “A hunch, huh?”
He shrugs. “Check it out. Maybe I’m wrong.”
I close my laptop, rocket out of my seat, and dash back to the fiction section. I can feel Dylan on my heels as I round the corner to the Ds.
If he’s right, this could be it. The connection I’ve been looking for.
When I locate Daniel Defoe, I find three copies of Robinson Crusoe on the shelf. This was the book I’d been trying to get from the Southwest High library for the past few months but it was always missing.
I quickly flip through all three copies, finding nothing. My shoulders slump in disappointment. “When did you say you found the money?”
“Right before Thanksgiving break.”
“And there’s still no test here,” I think aloud. “Lucinda said the test appeared in the book forty-eight hours later, in a sealed envelope.”
“Yeah,” Dylan says condescendingly, like I’m a little slow on the uptake. “Because I took the money. Why would the culprit leave the test if there was no money?”
Dang it. He’s right. I should have thought of that myself.
I point at him. “Unless you’re the culprit. And that’s why you took the money.”
“Yeah,” he says again with the same annoying inflection. “And that’s why I’m helping you. Because I’m the world’s stupidest criminal.”
I bite my lip in frustration. He makes a good point. Why would he help me if he was guilty? To throw me off? To lead me in the wrong direction?
There’s only one way to find out.
I hurry back to my laptop and Google “25 Books to Read Before College—San Francisco Chronicle.”
The result pops up right away, and all at once the article comes rushing back to me. I remember reading this list for the first time when I was twelve. I found it right after I decided I wanted to go to Columbia University and figured I better start preparing now. I did all the research, read article after article about college prep.
I scour the list of titles that I’ve been slowly working my way through since middle school.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
Emma by Jane Austen.
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
Then I’m out of my seat again, running back to the fiction section. Somewhere behind me, I hear Dylan whine, “This is a lot more physical activity than I was anticipating.”
I ignore him and reach for a copy of Emma on the shelf, right as the bell signaling the end of Student Mastery Hour chimes.
I hastily flip through the book, stopping when a chill runs up my arms.
There, nestled between pages 84 and 85, right at the part where Emma says, “You must be the best judge of your own happiness,” are two crisp hundred-dollar bills.