Front Page Face-Off (17 page)

“The Friday before the fire, her hair was longer than yours,” he explained, marking a spot halfway down his back, “but the following Monday”—he held his hand up by his ears—“suddenly she was one of the guys.”

I tapped the yearbook with my finger. “She also used to wear T-shirts like in that other picture. But she
never
wears them anymore.”

Henry shivered. “You don't want her to. After the fire she wore these heavy bandages on her arms for weeks and told everybody it was because she had had an allergic reaction to something.”

“But she burned them in the fire.” I smacked myself on the forehead. That explained her obsession with keeping her
arms covered. She didn't want anyone to see the scars.

Henry nodded. “Her hair too.”

Katie's little quirks were starting to make more sense, but I still wasn't sure how the fire extinguisher came into play and why she'd allowed herself to get burned. People who started fires usually didn't get caught in them.

I turned to Henry. “Is it possible she set the place on fire by accident?”

He gave me a thumbs-down. “The police never told the papers, but they found an accelerant in the chem lab.”

“A what?”

“You know, something to make the fire spread faster.”

“Then … whoever set the fire did it on purpose.” I frowned and told him about the extinguisher in Katie's locker.

“Maybe she's afraid of fire now,” he said, “and keeps it in her locker just in case.”

I mulled this over and shook my head. “She was sitting by a bonfire on the beach last week, and her new clique is called Hot Stuff. Does that sound like someone who's afraid?”

Henry narrowed his eyes and gazed off into the distance. “What are her new friends like? Bad girls?”

“They're rude, shallow—pretty much any snob stereotype you can think of. But definitely not bad. Katie made it
clear she doesn't hang out with people like that.”

He took the yearbook back from me and turned to the student portrait section. “These were her best friends, the Harper twins.” He pointed to side-by-side pictures of scowling sisters, both with wrinkled blouses, one sporting a black eye. “
They
were bad girls.”

The more I learned about the old Katie, the more I realized she was trying very hard to be the complete opposite of who she once had been. She seemed to be ashamed of her past, but I didn't understand the sudden change of heart.

“Listen.” Henry shifted in his chair. “I hate to say this, but I really have some stories to prep.”

“Sure.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for all your help.”

He smiled. “I just hope you can get a confession out of her.
That
would make a great story.”

I felt a thrill go up my spine. “It would, wouldn't it?”

“Totally.” He nodded confidently and winked. “We're talking Junior Global Journalist–worthy.”

“Yeah …” I wandered out the door and down the hall, already envisioning the article in my head. It was too late to make it into the debut edition of the paper, but I could definitely have it ready for next week if I could just get Katie to tell me the story herself. Hopefully, after the article on Marcus, she'd be convinced
and
I could include pictures of the damage from the original fire.

“Excuse me, miss!” a man's voice called out.

This
was why I never daydreamed. Startled, I stumbled a little over the carpet. Patting my head to make sure my wig was secure, I turned toward him, smiling.

“Yes, sir?”

He crossed one arm over his chest and held out the other, palm up. “Hall pass, please.”

“Oh! Um … I think it's here somewhere.” I checked the pockets of my mom's skirt thoroughly. The man looked fairly old. If I stood there long enough, he might forget why he stopped me or fall asleep. It happened to my grandparents all the time.

Sadly, the man wasn't as elderly as his white hair implied. He stood there, alert and watching me with hawklike eyes. “Well?”

“I must have dropped it.” I giggled and shrugged. “Back to class I go.”

The man pointed down the hall, and for a second, I thought I was in the clear. Then I realized he was pointing at the headmaster's office. “Nice try.”

I tried a different approach. “You know, the headmaster said that if I got in trouble one more time, he'd send me home. Why don't I just go there now and you can tell him I'm sorry?” I made a move toward the courtyard, but the man clamped a hand on my shoulder.

“Sweetheart, I
am
the headmaster.”

I blushed and faced him. “Oh! Then … I can tell you in person.”

The headmaster scratched his chin. “The funny thing is, I've never told a student I would send them home.”

“Well”—I cleared my throat—“there's always a first time.”

He squinted at me. “And I've never met a student who didn't recognize me.”

I looked him up and down. “Well, you've … uh … changed since the last time I saw you. Have you been losing weight?”

“Let's go, funny girl.” The headmaster steered me toward his office and snatched the book bag out of my hand before I could stop him. “Brighton Junior Academy. I wonder if they've missed you.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Or if they're even aware you're gone.”

“Oh, they know.” I opened the door and stepped into his office. “They just don't know I came here.”

The headmaster handed the bag back. “What's your name?”

Now I faced a dilemma.

If I told the truth, I'd be in serious trouble with my headmaster and Major.

If I lied, I'd have to use the name of a real Brighton
student, and when the Sheldon headmaster found out I was lying, I'd be in serious trouble with him,
my
headmaster, Major, and whatever kid I pretended to be.

If I didn't say anything, the Sheldon headmaster would be forced to keep me in his office, going over the list of absent students with my headmaster. With the blond wig they'd never come to the conclusion it was me, which would buy me time to come up with an escape plan … unless the Sheldon headmaster got fed up and drove me back to Brighton. Then I would be back where I started.

My options were bleak, but staying silent seemed the most promising, so when the Sheldon headmaster asked my name a second time, I just blinked up at him.

He sighed and directed me to sit in a chair opposite his desk. “You know I'll figure out who you are sooner or later.”

“I'm hoping later,” I answered.

He shook his head and turned to his computer, while I settled back with my hands in my pockets. With as little movement as possible, I opened my cell phone and cupped it in my palm. Since I'd had the phone for two years, I knew the buttons blindfolded, so I sent a 911 text message to Jenner. Then I started squirming in my seat. “Uh-oh.”

The headmaster glanced at me. “What seems to be the problem?”

I held my stomach and bent forward. “I think I'm gonna be sick.”

He looked at me suspiciously, but the moment my hand flew up to my mouth, he pointed to a side door. “Please!
Go … uh … use the faculty restroom.”

Nodding, I got to my feet and hurried through the door with my bag hidden under one arm. It led to a hallway that branched into the teacher's lounge. My phone buzzed in my hand, and I ducked into the restroom, locking the door behind me.

“Okay, it can't be that bad,” said Jenner. “You answered your phone.”

“I got sent to the headmaster's office!” I whispered back. “At a school I don't even go to.”

She sucked in her breath. “That
is
bad. How tight are the shackles?”

I glanced around the restroom. “The … huh?”

“They've got you chained up somewhere, right? Some secret room behind the janitor's closet, where all the bad children are sent?”

I slapped my hand to my forehead in frustration. “I should have texted Paige.”

“Hey!” Jenner squealed in protest. “Would you rather have help from someone who remembers the escape scenes from hundreds of horror movies or someone who'd
recommend you reapply your makeup while you wait to die?”

She had a point. “So, how do I get out of here? I'm trapped in the bathroom right now.”

The phone went quiet for a moment. “I have a brilliant plan. Are there any windows?”

“No.”

“Get someplace with windows,” she said, “and then climb out.”

“That's your brilliant plan?” I hissed. “Go out the window?” Nevertheless, I slowly opened the bathroom door and peeked into the hall. The door to the headmaster's office was still closed, so I crept toward the teacher's lounge. It was empty and brightly lit by sunshine pouring through several windows.

“I'm in escape heaven,” I told Jenner. “Hang on.” I cradled the phone against my shoulder and unlocked the first window. Just as I started to ease it open, Jenner cried, “No, wait! There—”

An ear-splitting siren drowned out her last words as an alarm above the window announced my escape.

“No!” I lifted the window the rest of the way and shoved my bag through before hoisting myself up.

“Go!” cried Jenner. “Go, go, go!”

Pocketing my phone, I scrambled up and out over the
hedges surrounding the school, feeling my wig tear away from my head in the process.

With the biggest part of my disguise gone, I tugged the sweater over my real hair so just my face peeked out. I could only imagine what I looked like—a headless girl tearing across the school lawn in a business skirt.

As soon as I reached the faculty parking lot, I pulled the phone out of my pocked and dialed Jenner.

“Did you get away?” she asked.

“Barely,” I panted into the phone. “Do you have any extra clothes I can borrow when I get back to school? I have a feeling the headmaster will try to ID me by my outfit.”

I turned to glance back at the school. Nobody was following me, but I couldn't risk someone chasing after me in their car. I kept running.

“I have the clothes I wear for gym,” said Jenner. “But I can't guarantee they smell so great.”

“That's fine.”The entrance to the school opened onto a busy street. On the opposite side was a bus stop. “I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Meet me by the gym.”

I spent the entire bus ride fidgeting with the sleeves of Marcus's sweater and glancing out the window, like a convicted felon on the run. Thankfully, no police cars tailed
the bus, and when I reached Brighton, no headmaster waited on the front lawn to drag me inside and shackle me in a secret room.

Down at the gym, Jenner handed me a pair of ripped brown cargo shorts and a purple T-shirt with a massive bleach stain on the shoulder. While I changed, I filled her in on what I'd learned.

“Wow. That should definitely be enough to take down Hot Stuff,” she said. “When are you going to tell Paige?”

“After I have one more talk with Katie. I'd like to get a good story out of this if I can.” I studied my reflection in the mirror. “I'm not a fashion snob, but shouldn't you have thrown these clothes out by now?”

She shrugged. “If I'd known you'd need them to double as a disguise one day, I would have chosen better.” She handed me a pair of Converses that were two sizes too big and the perfect finishing touch for my clown costume.

“How do I look?” I struck a few poses.

“Like you could give Paige a heart attack.” Jenner grabbed my hand. “Come on. The paper's already out.”

“It is?” I gave a little squeal and sped my walk, dragging her behind me. “Why didn't you bring me a copy?”

Jenner grinned. “I wanted you to grab one off the
news rack
yourself.”

I gasped and gripped her arms. “There's a news rack?”

“Mrs. Bradford wanted it to be a surprise. It's outside the journalism room.”

For a moment, I forgot all about Sheldon and Katie and the heaps of trouble I'd be in if anyone could trace the blond wig back to me. I let go of Jenner's hand and half galloped, half ran to the gleaming metal box piled high with neatly folded papers.

I opened the box, grabbed the top copy, and took a deep inhale of fresh ink. My heart beat a little faster as I snapped the paper open and scanned the page for my stories.

And right at the very top, there it was. My first headline of the year.

“‘Marcus Taylor,'” I read aloud to Jenner, grinning. “‘The
Boy Behind the Bandit,
by
Ava Pi—'”

My stomach dropped into the toes of Jenner's old Converses. My throat locked up and refused to produce any more sound, leaving my mouth to flap open and closed like a dying fish.

“By
who
?” Jenner snatched the paper from me and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Delilah, no!”

My body started to tremble, first in my knees and continuing upward until I reached a shaking hand out to take the paper back from Jenner.

Maybe Ava had written an article about him too. Maybe she'd only taken my title and attached it to her own work. I
read the first few lines, but they blurred before my eyes as my hand shook even harder and tears clouded my vision.

The story was mine.

“She stole my work,” I whispered.