Kristy Power! (4 page)

    A few minutes later, Ben was sitting on the red couch. He wasn't nearly as open as Stieg had been, but he wasn't as evasive as Cary had been the day before either. He answered my questions straightforwardly without adding any extra comments.
    When I asked about the town they'd lived in back in Illinois (it was called Oak Hill), he told me its population and principal industries. He explained why his dad had left the police force (the work was too dangerous) and said that Cary had been a star on his Little League team when he was younger.
    His answers were complete but not very interesting. Except for one. When I asked why his family had moved away from Illinois, Ben clammed up. "Ben," I asked again. "Why did you leave Oak Hill?" "I can't tell you that," he answered, folding his arms across his chest.
    It was clear that there was no changing his mind, so I moved on to another subject. But that answer - or nonanswer - nagged at me. I wondered if there were some big family secret about the move.
    When I'd finished with Ben, I asked him where the bathroom was. He sent me upstairs. When I was done there, I walked down the hall, peeking into the Retlins' bedrooms.
    I know, I know. It's not nice to snoop. But hey, I was on a mission. Some biographers go through the trash their subjects throw out! Talk about snooping. Compared to that, glancing into a bedroom or two was nothing.
    One room had bunk beds. That must be Ben and Stieg's. The room across from it had one big bed and two closets. That must belong to Cary's parents.
    The room at the end of the hall had to be Cary's. I walked quietly toward it. I thought I'd stand at the open door and peek in, just to get a sense of what Cary's room would be like. But then something came over me - a terrible urge. I went back down the hall and glanced out a window. Cary was outside, filling a birdfeeder in the backyard. Yes! He was busy. I hurried into his room and eased the door shut behind me. I think you can tell a lot about a person from his room, and I wasn't about to pass up the chance to check out Cary's. In the back of my mind I knew it was wrong. But I couldn't resist.
    Oh, yeah. This was Cary's room all right. Who else would have a poster of the universe with a little YOU ARE HERE arrow pointing to Earth? Who else would have a weird painting of clocks melting all over the place? (Claudia told me later that it was probably by a guy named Salvador Dali, who was famous for "surreal" paintings.) Or one of a man with a big green apple for a head? (That was by Magritte, according to Claudia. Also a surrealist.) A bulletin board over his desk was covered with funny postcards, bizarre newspaper headlines ("Goat Responsible for Power Outage," said one), and cutout pictures of movie monsters. It was quite a display.
    I turned around slowly, taking in the room. His green plaid bedspread and curtains looked relatively normal, but the lamp on his bedside table was pure Cary. It was a miniature skeleton with a lightbulb held high in one hand.
    I looked back at the bulletin board. I had to admit that it was pretty cool. Then my glanced dropped to his desk. On top was an open notebook. I figured Cary must have started his homework while I interviewed his brothers. I bent over to look at it, wondering if he'd figured out how to do the math problems we'd been assigned that day.
    It wasn't his homework.
    It was more like a journal.
    And once I started reading, I couldn't stop.
    I felt a chill run through my body.
    Okay, spare me the lecture. I know it was wrong to read Cary's private thoughts. And I knew it then. Still, all I wanted to do at that moment was to read more. But I was scared to turn the page. Would Cary know I'd been snooping?
    Just then, I heard footsteps in the hall. They were coming toward the room I was in. I froze.
    The footsteps came closer.
    And I couldn't make myself move.
    Chapter 6.
    "Kristy?" I was speechless. I couldn't answer. It had taken all my presence of mind to jump away from the desk just before Cary walked into the room. When he appeared, I was staring at a poster that showed two hands, each in the act of drawing the other. If that sounds strange, it was. But it was actually kind of neat. According to the caption on it, the artist's name was M. C. Escher.
    Cary looked puzzled. "What are you doing in here?" he asked.
    I stared back at him blankly. What could I say? I didn't really have any good reason for being in his room.
    "What?" I asked, stalling for time.
    Cary glared at me. "Kristy, why are you in my room?" "This is your room?" He rolled his eyes. "No, it's Spider-Man's. Of course it's my room." "Oh." "I know I may be in danger of repeating myself." Cary took a step closer to me. "But why are you in my room?" "This is a really cool poster," I said desperately, gesturing toward the picture of the hands.
    "M. C. Escher." Cary spoke as if he knew the artist. "He was Dutch, born in eighteen ninety-eight. He had some wild ideas." "I noticed," I said.
    "I have a book of his drawings," said Cary. "Want to see?" "Sure." Somehow, my diversionary tactic had worked. Cary seemed to have forgotten that he'd caught me snooping in his room.
    I glanced at the desk and the open notebook. I shuddered, thinking of the words I'd read.
    I'd always known Cary was different. He was too smart for his own good, he was arrogant, he was sly, and he was tricky. But I'd never imagined him to be a dangerous hacker. A criminal. (Well, once I did imagine that he might have stolen those jewels. But only briefly.) My head was spinning. Had Cary really been kicked out of his last school?
    "Yo, Thomas!" I blinked. Cary was staring at me, that eyebrow lifted in a quizzical way. He was holding an oversized book in one hand and waving the other in front of my face.
    "Are you in there?" he asked. "Or have aliens sucked out your brain again?" "Aliens," I answered with a weak smile.
    "Do you want to see the book?" "Sure." We sat down on the floor and Cary opened the book.
    "This is one of my favorites," he said, turning pages until he found a picture that showed, at first glance, ^a bunch of white birds. "See, when you look closer, you see that the tircls' shadows - the dark spaces between the birds - are actually other birds, black ones," Cary said. He was gazing at the picture, running his finger over some of the details.
    I stared at his profile. He didn't look like a criminal. Other than the eyebrow and the smirk, he looked like your ordinary, everyday eighth-grade boy. And, more than anything, I wished I could still think of him that way. I glanced at his desk again and felt my stomach turn over. How could I have read his personal journal?
    I hadn't meant to. I really hadn't. But it had been lying open, right under my nose. Who wouldn't have taken a peek? I wouldn't have started reading if I'd known it was his journal. I swear. But I didn't know what it was until it was too late.
    "This one is really cool," Cary continued, flipping pages. "See how the stairs go all around the building? You think you're looking at a 'down' staircase, and then suddenly it turns into an 'up' staircase." He shook his head. "This guy amazes me," he said. "Can you imagine what kind of mind he must have had to think of these things?" What about Cary's mind? What kind of warped, twisted mind was lurking underneath that dirty-blond hair? Sure, lots of kids joke about causing chaos with their computers. But how many of them actually do it?
    I gasped.
    Suddenly I realized something.
    My biography project had just become a lot more interesting.
    I was probably the only student in any of Ted's classes who was going to turn in a biography like this. The story of someone kicked out of school because of a secret past! "Don't you think?" Cary was staring at me again.
    "Urn?" I said alertly.
    "I said, don't you think this is cool?" Cary asked, showing me a picture of a bunch of weird little lizards that moved by curling themselves up and rolling along.
    "Way cool," I agreed. "Coolest thing I ever saw." Cary looked satisfied. "Not everybody appreciates Escher," he told me. "Maybe I've underestimated you." I managed to smile. "Maybe you have," I said. Maybe everybody had. But when they saw the biography I was going to turn in - Screeech! Put on the brakes, Kristy.
    Turn in? Biography? It hit me like a ton of bricks. There was no way I could write about what I'd just discovered. How could I? I wasn't supposed to know the things I knew. They were private. Confidential. Cary wouldn't tell me about them, not in a million years. And - I remembered the way Ben had clammed up - nobody else in his family was going to either. Which meant I had to act as if I'd never read those words. Sometimes I still regret the things I did that got me kicked out of school. . . .
    Aaughh! Here I was, sitting on the biggest secret in SMS history, and I had to keep it to myself.
    "Something wrong, Kristy?" Cary was giving me a strange look.
    I glanced down and noticed that my fists were clenched tight. Had I groaned out loud?
    I shook out my hands, "Not a thing," I said. "Not a thing." "You're acting kind of weird," Cary remarked. "But maybe that's normal for you. I guess I'll find out more when I interview your family." He raised the eyebrow.
    "Could be," I said. Suddenly I didn't have the energy for any more banter.
    Cary gave me a closer look. "No, you really are acting weird. What's up?" "Nothing." I shook my head, resisting a powerful urge to Ibok at his desk. I had to get out of that room before I gave myself away. "Urn, I'm just a little distracted by all the other homework I have to do. I think I should head home." "If you say so." Cary shrugged. He closed the Escher book and stood up to replace it on his shelf.
    "Sorry," I said. I didn't know exactly what I was apologizing for. Maybe it was for reading his private journal and learning his innermost secrets. Or maybe it was just for leaving early.
    "No problem," said Cary. He looked a little bewildered. "So, then, we'll go to your house next time?" "Oh, right," I said. "Sure. How's Thursday?" "Works for me, I think." Cary walked to his desk as if he was going to check his schedule. I held my breath. Would he notice that his journal was lying out in plain sight? Would he guess that I had seen it, read those incredible few sentences?
    If he did, he didn't show it. He just made a little note on his calendar and turned away from his desk.
    I let out my breath. "Okay, then," I said.
    "Okay," he echoed.
    "So, I'll see you." "Not if I see you first," Cary replied, sounding more like himself.
    "Right," I said, inching my way out the door. " 'Bye!" I ran down the stairs. Suddenly I couldn't wait to leave that house. I blasted past Ben and Stieg, who were coming out of the kitchen, grabbed my backpack, and fled out the front door.
    I walked home quickly, thinking hard. What a ridiculous situation! How had this happened? I didn't even want to know the things I knew. On the other hand, as long as I knew them, I sure would like to be able to write about them. But I couldn't write about them, because I wasn't supposed to know about them. Cary didn't know I knew, and if he found out, he might go berserk. Maybe he'd try to hack into my own computer. He might be capable of anything.
    It wasn't easy to act casual at dinner that evening, but I did my best. I think Watson noticed something was up when I passed him the ketchup. "I asked for the salt," he commented, giving me a puzzled look. "But thanks anyway." I don't know what we talked about over our hamburgers and salad, but I'm pretty sure I didn't contribute anything too meaningful. Afterward, I helped clear the table, then left Sam and Charlie to the dishes, since it was their turn. I took the portable phone into my room and dialed Mary Anne's number.
    "Hello?" "It's me," I said. "I, um, had some ideas about my Christmas party. Do you think it would be too much to decorate the punch bowl with lights?" I didn't really have any interest in talking about my party - not at the moment, anyway. I had other things on my mind. But how could I bring up the real issue?
    Finally, I presented it as a hypothetical case. "Mary Anne," I blurted out, interrupting her, "what if you accidentally found out something private about someone? Something that person didn't want you to know? Do you tell him you know?" Good old Mary Anne didn't seem fazed by my sudden switch in subjects. "Depends," she said. "Do you have a reason for saying something? Or could you maybe forget the thing you found out?" "Forget it?" I asked slowly. "I don't think so." "In that case, honesty is probably the best policy." Mary Anne is usually right about these things. But I wasn't convinced. Honesty may be the best policy where most people are concerned, but I was dealing with Cary Retlin. And Cary Retlin is definitely not like "most people." Chapter 7.
    The next day I spent the morning avoiding Cary. I had the feeling seeing him at school was going to be awkward after what I'd read in his journal. How could I face him?
    For everybody else, it was an ordinary Wednesday. For me, it was something else. I was the only person at SMS who knew that we had a criminal in our midst. As I walked around the halls, I reflected on how I would feel if I were booted from our school. I mean, it's not my favorite place in the universe. Maybe I'd want to celebrate if I were told to go somewhere else.
    But I didn't think so.
    I'd miss it. I would miss the front hall, with its display cases full of trophies. I would miss the main bulletin board, all covered in notices and posters. I'd miss the auditorium, my locker, and yes, even the cafeteria.
    After all, I'd spent an awful lot of time in that building over the last few years. In a way, it was like another home to me.
    Yikes. If any of my friends had known what I was thinking, they'd have thought I had gone nuts. And maybe I had. I felt tense and stressed out, like a cat on its way to the vet.
    Mary Anne noticed. Mary Anne always notices things like that.) "Are you okay?" she asked when we were at our lockers between classes.
    "Sure." I gave her a false smile just as the bell rang.
    "We'll talk later," she said. I hadn't fooled her for a minute.
    My next class was English. It was time to face Cary. I ran into him around the corner from my locker. "H-hi!" I said brightly.
    "Hello to you," he said in an amused tone. "Feeling all right?" "Feeling excellent. And you?" "Fine, thanks." I think he noticed that I was a little nervous around him. Especially when I almost walked into the door of our classroom.