Kristy Power! (3 page)

    We made plans to interview each other and vari- ous family members. We even talked a little about other sources we could use. Our conversation was surprisingly .. . normal.
    After we hung up, I pulled out the fiction list Ted had given us. I wanted to start thinking about which book I would read. The list looked interesting, and I marked several titles to check out further.
    Little did I know how much trouble that list was about to cause.
    Chapter 4.
    Over the weekend, I spent some time at the library looking at books from Ted's list. By Monday morning, I'd narrowed my choices down to two. I was going to read either The Outsiders, by S. E. Hinton (everybody I know has already read it and loved it), or The Red Pony, by John Steinbeck, which I've heard is really good but sad. I was hoping to have a moment to talk to Ted before class, to see if he could help me choose which one to read.
    I had also made up a list of questions for my first "interview" with Cary. We'd decided to meet after school that afternoon, and I wanted to be ready. Most of my questions were pretty basic. I had realized that I really didn't know much about Cary Retlin. And in a weird way, I was starting to feel interested in learning more.
    I was still thinking over my questions as I headed for English class. As I walked through the hall, I noticed clumps of kids talking excitedly and looking upset. I wondered what was up. Had somebody been suspended? Or was it news from outside the school, for instance, something about the space shuttle launch? I didn't have time to stop and find out, not if I was going to talk to Ted before class.
    I hurried along and arrived a few minutes before the bell rang. But Ted wasn't sitting alone at his desk as I'd hoped. Instead, he sat on the edge of it, surrounded by a group of students. The kids looked as upset as the ones out in the hall - and Ted looked even worse. What was happening? I approached the group, but I couldn't tell what they were talking about. I heard, "It's not fair" and "How can they do that?" but nothing that told me what was going on.
    Finally, Ted stood up. He looked tired and sad, and I couldn't begin to imagine what was wrong. "You kids had better head to your next class," he said. "Go on, now. We'll talk some more another time." The crowd broke up. One girl looked as if she were about to cry. "What is it?" I asked her. She just shook her head.
    By then other kids from my class were drifting in. There was a buzz of conversation. Everybody knew something was wrong.
    "Okay, folks," Ted's voice rose above the noise. "Let's all take a seat. I have a feeling there are lots of rumors floating around. Maybe I can clear things up a bit." "So it's true?" Jeremy asked.
    Ted held up his hands. "Hold on," he said. "Let's just wait until everybody's here and seated. Then I'll try to explain." Just then, Cary came in the door and headed for Ted. He stuck out his hand for a shake. "I'm behind you, man," I heard him say.
    Behind Ted? What did that mean?
    "Thanks," Ted replied. Then, as Cary took his seat, Ted moved to the front of the room and asked for our attention.
    Everybody fell silent instantly, and all eyes were on Ted.
    "I don't know how to say this," said Ted, "but I may not be your teacher for much longer." "What?" Logan sounded outraged. "Why not?" The buzz of conversation started all over again. Ted held up his hands. "I think some of you may have already heard that there has been a call for me to be suspended or fired or punished in some other way." "What are you talking about?" The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them.
    "I'm talking about the fact that some parents of kids in my classes do not like the book list I handed out on Friday. They object to some of the tides on it. In fact," Ted continued, "they're so angry about the books that they're making a point of asking the school administrators to make sure I can't hand out a list like that again." This was unbelievable. I mean, we were talking about books.
    "I want to say right away that I still stand behind these books." Ted held up the list he'd handed out. "If there are books on this list that you do not want to read, and that your parents do not want you to read, that's fine. That's your choice. All you have to do is find a book that you do want to read and that your parents consider appropriate. There is something for everyone on this list." "My parents don't tell me what to read and what not to read," said a girl named Jessica.
    Ted smiled at her. "That's great," he said. "Personally, I don't think parents should censor their kids' reading. But all I'm saying here is that you do have a choice. There are books on this list that nobody could possibly find objectionable." Ted sighed. "At least, I think there are." I glanced around the room. Whose parents had complained? I couldn't imagine. Then my glance fell on a girl named Merrie. Merrie Dow. She has long blonde hair that she wears in two little-girl braids, and a very serious face. Suddenly, I remembered that her mom, Bertha Dow, was once involved in trying to ban some books from the Stoneybrook Public Library. She had picketed the library and written letters to the editor of the Stoneybrook News.
    Merrie met my eyes. Then she lowered hers and blushed. Bingo! Bertha Dow must be behind this.
    I felt sorry for Merrie. She looked miserable, and I couldn't blame her. If her mother became responsible for destroying the career of one of the best teachers we'd ever had . . . well, let's just say it wasn't going to do much for Merrie's popularity.
    I glanced around and noticed a couple of other kids looking at Merrie. I guess I wasn't the only one who knew about her mom.
    "What are you going to do?" somebody asked Ted.
    He shrugged. "There's not much I can do. I've contacted a lawyer, and I've made my position clear to the SMS administration. It's up to them to make the next move." He frowned. "What that will be, I can't guess." Ted put the list back on his desk. "For now," he said, forcing a smile, "I'm going to go on teaching. So, how are you coming with your biography projects? Any questions?" We talked about interview techniques and other research methods for the rest of the class. But Ted's heart didn't seem to be in our discussion, and I couldn't blame him. I knew he must be feeling just terrible. I mean, he was facing the loss of his job. Over something ridiculous too. I told myself not to worry. They wouldn't really fire him - would they?
    As we left class that day, I noticed that Cary looked almost as glum as Ted had.
    "Come on," I said. "They can't really fire him for this." "Sure they can. Teachers are fired all the time for the wrong reasons." I realized then that Cary liked - and respected - Ted as much as I did. And I had to admit that made me respect Cary more.
    For a few hours, anyway. Until our interview.
    After school, Cary and I met in the library. We'd agreed to take turns interviewing each other that afternoon. He was waiting in one of the easy chairs near the window when I arrived. He watched, one eyebrow raised, as I sat down and pulled a reporter's notebook out of my backpack.
    "What?" I asked.
    "I didn't say anything," he replied, grinning.
    Cary was Cary again. That eyebrow, that maddening way of making you feel like a fool.
    "Don't you believe in taking notes?" I asked.
    He shrugged. "I have a pretty good memory. So do you want to go first or should I?" "Go ahead," I said. "Ask me anything." He didn't scare me.
    Cary leaned back in his seat, put his fingertips together, and closed his eyes. "Who is the real Kristy Thomas*" he mused. "And how do we plumb the depths of her being?" " 'Plumb the depths'? Where did you come up with that?" I asked.
    He just grinned. Then he started firing questions at me. "Who's your favorite Beatle? When you were six, what did you want to be when you grew up? What was the name of your first pet?" "What?" I asked. "Favorite Beatle? What does that have to do with anything?" "Just answer, please," he said. "I have my own methods." "Um, Paul, I guess. He wrote a lot of good songs, according to my mom. And she says he was always the cutest." Cary nodded, but he didn't write anything down. Then he asked me a whole bunch of other questions. I answered them as well as I could, even though some of them were pretty weird. Like the one about what I thought aliens looked like. I couldn't figure out how he was going to write my biography based on questions like that.
    Things went from bad to worse when I started asking him questions. Let me just say right now, for the record, that Cary Retlin never gives anything close to a straight answer. Check out some of the .responses he gave to questions I asked him: Ay-yi-yi. I'm sure you can imagine how I felt. Basically, I wanted to throw him out the window, even if we were only on the first floor.
    How was I ever going to put together a biography of this incredibly irritating human being?
    If I couldn't pry answers out of him, I was going to have to count on other sources. Starting with Cary's family.
    Chapter 5.
    The next day everybody at school was talking about what had happened to Ted. By then all the kids had heard about it. And man, were the rumors flying.
    "Did you know that some of those books are totally X-rated?" I overheard that on the lunch line. As if it weren't enough to have to face a plate of beef stew that looked like something your dog threw up, I had to listen to nonsense like that.
    "Mr. Morley's lawyer is going to pay off the school so they won't fire him," I heard in the hall near the gym.
    "Merrie Dow's mom doesn't let her read anything except the Bible." And, finally, "I heard Mr. Morley was in prison once.
    Oh, please. I have never seen a place where rumors pass around more quickly than at SMS. I guess some kids are just so bored that they have to make up stuff like that. I wish they'd get a life.
    I tried not to listen to or participate in too many discussions about Ted. At this point, we just had to wait and see what the school was going to do. There was nothing to be gained by talking it over endlessly.
    Cary seemed to agree with me. Neither of us brought up the subject as we walked to his house after school. It was the day we'd chosen for me to go home with him and interview his family. I had tried to prepare a list of good questions. Whether or not I'd have any good answers by the end of the day was still up in the air. Way up.
    Instead of talking about Ted, we talked about basketball (he thought the Knicks were looking great so far this season), current events (a flood in Arkansas, the latest news from Washington), and dogs (his family is looking for a new one). It was the most normal conversation I've ever had with Cary Retlin. Which felt very strange. It was hard to relax into it. I kept expecting him to lift that eyebrow and come out with some sarcastic remark. ' When we arrived at his house, nobody else was home. Great. I'd come to interview his family, but there wasn't another Retlin in sight.
    "My brothers will be home any minute," Cary said. "Ben usually stops by the elementary school to walk Stieg home." He opened a cupboard. "Are you hungry?" I was, but I said I wasn't. I'd thought about it and decided I probably wouldn't be able to trust any snack Cary whipped up.
    He made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it while I watched (feeling hungrier than ever). Just as he was putting his plate in the sink, his brothers burst through the door.
    "Hey, Ben. Hey, Stieg. You guys have met Kristy before, right?" ' Cary's brothers are cute. Ben (short for Benson) is eleven. Stieg is eight. Both of them seem smart and well adjusted. Neither of them seems to take after Cary in the sarcasm department.
    "Kristy would like to interview you," Cary told them. "Remember? For that project I told you about?" The boys nodded. "I'll go first," Stieg volunteered.
    "Great," I said.
    "You can talk in the den," said Cary, leading the way to a small room filled with shelves of books. I took a seat in a comfortable leather easy chair, and Stieg sat opposite me on a cushy-looking red couch. "Have fun," said Cary as he closed the door behind him. And I could have sworn I saw that eyebrow do its thing in the last glimpse I caught of his face. Uh-oh.
    Stieg looked at me expectantly.
    I cleared my throat. "Okay, let's see," I said, glancing down at the list of questions I'd prepared.
    "Do you want to hear about the time Cary stole something?" Stieg asked, a mischievous look in his eyes.
    "Uh, sure." I picked up my pencil. This sounded interesting. I hadn't known Cary had a criminal past.
    "It was back in Illinois," Stieg said. "We were at the supermarket with my mom. I was watching Cary, but he didn't know it. So I saw when he put a pack of gum into his pocket." A pack of gum! I'd been expecting something a little more unusual. Lots of kids have stolen packs of gum. "Did you tell on him?" I asked.
    "I didn't have to," Stieg replied. "My mom saw him too. She made him give the gum back and apologize. She was pretty embarrassed, I think. You know, because my dad used to be a policeman." I'd forgotten about that. Once, when we thought Cary might be a suspect in a local burglary, the BSC members had tried to learn a little bit about his background. We hadn't found out much, but we did discover that his father had been a police officer until Cary was about eight. Now Mr. Retlin is a locksmith. I scribbled a couple of notes. "Anything else?" I asked.
    "He always hogs the remote when we're watching TV," Stieg said. "And once, when we were little, he pinched me so hard I cried." Now that he'd started, Stieg couldn't seem to stop reporting Cary's misdeeds. "He cut all the hair off this girl's doll one time. And he broke my mom's favorite vase." I nodded. "Go on." I had actually stopped taking notes, but I was tickled by Stieg's recitation. I had the feeling he was trying to get back at his big brother for something. For what? Oh, probably just for being a big brother. I know how that is. You envy your older brothers for all the privileges they seem to have. And you store up grievances. It's only natural to try to even the score when you have a chance.
    Finally, when Stieg started to wind down, I tried to ask him some of the questions on my list. But he wasn't interested in answering. He'd had his own agenda for our interview, and he was satisfied now that he had revealed all of Cary's "crimes." Eventually I realized that I'd learned all I was going to learn from Stieg. I thanked him and asked him to find Ben for me.