My Own Worst Frenemy (13 page)

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Authors: Kimberly Reid

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy
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Chapter 17
W
hen I walk into Smythe's office, she looks as though she's been expecting me.
“I'm glad you've decided to come and see me, Chantal. This will be kept in confidence; the others need not know it was you who confessed.”
“I'm not here to confess. I could have proven yesterday I had nothing to do with it, but I wanted to find out who the real thief is.”
“And you know who the real thief is, then?”
“First I want to make sure you know why it couldn't possibly be me. The first day of school, from the moment we arrived, someone was with us. First you took us on the tour of the school, followed by the immersion workshop. At lunch, every kid in the place was watching us. Then we went to the registrar's office to build our schedules. The only time we were anywhere near Percy Hall was when we stood in front of it during your tour. There was never a moment for us to have stolen anything from Percy Hall that day.”
“But the thefts have been occurring for nearly two weeks now, and I know for a fact that all of you have at least one class in Percy Hall.”
“Yeah, along with two hundred other kids. The important clue here is that you told us the thefts began on the first day of school.”
“Well, that may well be an isolated incident. Perhaps that first student
thinks
her property was stolen and it was really lost, but the rest of the missing items are truly stolen.”
Even Smythe must know that explanation is weak, because she adds, “What about my pen? That was stolen the first day, when I left it in the classroom during lunch. You'd been in there just minutes before. Alone.”
“Bethanie found it in the library, remember?”
“She found someone's pen, but it wasn't mine.”
So that's why Smythe was giving the pen such a hard look the day Bethanie said she found it. She knew then that it wasn't hers, but let us go on thinking we were off the hook for it.
“In fact, I don't even think it was found. It appeared brand new to me, as though someone bought one just like mine.”
“Why would Bethanie do that?”
“To end my suspicions that it was stolen, perhaps to protect a friend.”
“I'm telling you it wasn't me. Just like the Percy Hall thefts weren't me, and now I have proof.”
In spite of herself, Mrs. Smythe moves forward in her chair and lays her palms flat on her mahogany desk.
“It's a teacher.”
“A teacher committing the thefts? That's ridiculous.”
Little does she know that until a few minutes ago, Smythe herself was on my suspect list, even if Lana thought the idea of Smythe setting us up to get us out of Langdon was farfetched.
“No, that's a fact,” I say. “But you won't know if you don't check it out before sixth period ends and she has a chance to get rid of the evidence.”
“You've got some imagination, and you know all the police lingo, don't you?”
This isn't a question. She says it as though she's insinuating something.
“I'm well-acquainted with all of our teachers, and there is no way one of them is the thief. Why should I believe you over any of our faculty?”
“Because I have proof. And you probably don't know this teacher very well at all. She's new to Langdon.”
I'm about to remind her she's also the teacher who wants to replace her precious garden with gravel and ragweed, but I don't need to. Smythe's eyes grow wide.
“Mrs. Smythe, I promise if you go down to Ms. Reeves's room right this minute, you'll find a box under her desk with a PlayStation game in it that belongs to a boy in study hall who probably doesn't even know it's missing yet.”
“I'm going to look into this. I want you to stay right here, because we're going to have a discussion about this if you're wrong.”
When Smythe turns to leave, I roll my eyes at the back of her dyed-auburn head and give her thirty seconds, then follow her down to Ms. Reeves's room. There's no way I'm going to trust her to do the right thing. Even when she finds the PSP, I wouldn't put it past her to deny it. As much as she wants to save her garden, she may want to kick me out of Langdon even more. Or she might figure out a way to do both.
I feel like I'm in a bad detective movie, dodging behind a bush as we cross the quad to Percy Hall, and once there, walking softly so Smythe doesn't hear my shoes against the floor, ready to duck into a bathroom if she should turn around. But I guess Smythe is so confident in her command for me to stay put that she doesn't notice I'm following her. She goes into Ms. Reeves's room and I wait outside the door to watch through the window. I want to crack the door a bit so I can hear, but I'm afraid Smythe will notice. She looks down at Ms. Reeves—which she does to everyone she talks to whether they're sitting or at eye level—and says something. Ms. Reeves suddenly looks terrified. Now Smythe moves to look under the desk. She takes the box and nods her head toward the door, motioning Ms. Reeves to follow.
I consider running, but why would I punk out when I've come this far?
“Chantal, I thought I asked you to stay in my office.”
“Did you? I must have misunderstood.”
“I bet you did. Well, both of you follow me.”
We do, into an empty classroom next door. Ms. Reeves looks like a woman on her way to the gallows. She doesn't look at me, and I'm glad because I feel like a snitch, which everyone knows is the lowest kind of low. But I had no choice. Better her than me. Smythe puts the box on a desk.
“What's this box for, Ms. Reeves?”
“Recycling . . . I ask the students to recycle paper. We're ruining the rain forests.”
Smythe opens the box and looks surprised and disappointed at the same time—disappointed in Ms. Reeves or because she can't expel me now, I don't know.
“So why is this video game in here?”
“They just have so much, these brats.” Ms. Reeves caves like they have her on surveillance tape. “You wouldn't let me do the fundraiser for the orphans in Africa, and they're running out of time. I needed to find a way to make money. These Langdon kids—it's just disgusting how much they have that they don't appreciate. They don't even notice when they lose things. Mommy and Daddy will just go out and buy another, doesn't matter if a seven-year-old's fingers are bleeding in some Chinese sweatshop!”
“I thought the orphans were in Africa,” I say, because I really am trying to follow along.
“Oh, shut up! You're just as bad as they are, polluting Mother Earth, and you of all people should know better.”
I want to ask her why, because broke people pollute, too. But I don't because that might just send her over the edge.
“Chantal, who does this game belong too?” Smythe asks.
“Brad somebody . . .”
“You're in on this?” Ms. Reeves yells at me. “You should understand better than anyone in this school about the tyranny of oppression. I never thought you'd be the one to help the man.”
“Uh, I never thought the man would accuse me of stealing the stuff you've been stealing, and threaten to have me arrested.”
“I never threatened that,” Smythe says.
“Whatever.”
Now Ms. Reeves looks like she's about to cry. “Oh, Chanti, I never thought they'd blame this on you. I should have known. And now I'm as unjust as the rest. I'm an unjust! I'm one of the unjust!”
This chick has lost it.
“Chantal, get the owner of this game and bring him here.”
Smythe didn't finish her sentence before I was out of there. Anything not to see Ms. Reeves reveal another personality. By the time I return with Brad, my teacher is in full-on tears, the kind that make you snot your nose.
“Hey, how'd that get in here?” the boy says. As if to prove Ms. Reeves's point, he hadn't noticed it missing.
This time, it's my turn to be smug when I look at the headmistress, but I can't pull it off with the sobbing Ms. Reeves standing between us. Turns out she's crazy for real.
Chapter 18
I
t's the second morning in a row since I started Langdon that I didn't dread what waited for me at the end of my long walk from the bus stop. Knowing Marco would be there always made it better, but until today, I felt like I was walking around with a scarlet letter on my blazer—a big red
O
for
Outsider
. I still feel like that, but at least now I'm a victorious outsider, and I won't have Smythe on my back.
It all makes sense now. When I was looking into Ms. Reeves as a suspect, I found out her planning period was the same period as my PE class. That means she had an opportunity to take the tennis bracelet from that girl's locker. Zoë wasn't in any of Ms. Reeves's classes, but she could have easily cruised the bracelet during lunch, or maybe during a day when she had hall duty. Those diamonds have a whole lot of sparkle; you can't miss 'em. She could have easily walked into the immersion workshop room during her lunch break, especially if she was scoping out stuff to steal. What she expected to steal from the scholarship kids I don't know. But then she
is
crazy.
Today is a good day. Not only am I free, but I proved to Lana that I've got detective skills of my own and can handle my business. I'm a minor hero at school because I got Ms. Reeves, confiscator of all things good, ousted from Langdon. I may have even scored points with Smythe—with Ms. Reeves gone, her botanical garden may live to see another season. So I'm feeling pretty sweet about the whole thing.
“We should celebrate,” Bethanie says when I find her at her locker. “Let's do something after school.”
“As happy as I am to be out of Smythe's grip, maybe I should just go home and get as far away from Langdon as I can for a couple of days.”
“Come on. It's Friday. You solved the case and the good guys won. Isn't that reason to celebrate?”
“I suppose,” I say, trying to think of a way out. “But I have to drop by my job and finish some paperwork. The boss says I have to do it today.”
It isn't a complete lie—I really do owe Paulette a copy of my nonexistent driver's license, but I plan on delaying that conversation with Paulette for as long as possible, or until I actually turn sixteen, whichever comes first.
“We could ask Marco to come with,” she says. I guess Bethanie has caught on to my secret Marco-lust. I don't even try to play it off.
“We
should
celebrate. What'll we do?”
“Leave that to me. I'll think of something. I probably won't see you at lunch—I've got cheerleading tryouts. But you and Marco meet me here at my locker after school.”
 
Over lunch, Marco tells me he can't go out tonight, and I have to act all calm like he hasn't just ruined my entire weekend, and possibly my life because, you know, we're just friends.
“That's cool, it was kind of last minute, anyway,” I say, grateful I'm such an excellent liar when I need to be.
“I'd really like to hang out with you. But I've got this thing.”
Oh, no. I'm getting the generic, can't-even-think-up-a-halfway-decent-excuse
I've got this thing
excuse.
“Seriously Marco, it's no big deal. I might not even go myself.”
“It's a very big deal. You just saved me from a lot of trouble without ever involving my parents and I owe you big time. It's just that I have this family thing. I wish I could get out of it, but I can't.”
He looks at me that way he does and I believe him. I can tell he'd really rather hang out, but family comes first. Which makes me that much more crazy about him.
“But I want another chance. Maybe one day when Bethanie has something else to do.”
Did he just sort of ask me out? I don't need food, water, or chocolate—I'm pretty sure I can live on just those words for the rest of the weekend.
 
I completely forgot the lie I told Bethanie this morning until we pull into the Mitchell Moving parking lot, the first stop she makes after school. Now I have to keep up the pretense since I made out like my job depended on filling out the paperwork.
“It won't take but a second,” I tell her before I jump out of the car so she won't follow me. Bethanie will take any chance she can to get closer to the Mitchells or anything Mitchell-related.
My plan is to stand around just inside the lobby for a few minutes and then go back to the car, but then I hear a voice behind me. A scary voice.
“What are you doing hanging around here?” Malcolm asks. “Thought you don't work until tomorrow.”
I'm wondering the same thing about him since he's sitting at the receptionist desk. Mr. Mitchell is going to lose a lot of business if the first person prospective clients meet is Malcolm.
“I thought I left something here last week,” I say, looking around the lobby like the missing thing is going to magically appear—a week later. “I'm always losing stuff.”
Malcolm clearly doesn't believe my story, just stares at me. I wouldn't believe me either. The lobby is sparsely decorated and it's obvious nothing is out of place. I feel committed to carrying this lie through, especially with Malcolm acting as though if he stares long enough, I'll crack. So I kneel down and look under the lobby sofa, even behind a potted plant. As if to bolster my lie, when I stand up, my cell phone falls out of my bag.
“See what I mean,” I say, holding up the phone as proof.
Just then the receptionist arrives.
“Thanks for covering for me, Malcolm,” she says, patting her round belly. “Junior doesn't always want to wait for my break.”
“Glad I was passing through,” Malcolm says, giving me a mean look.
I don't waste any time getting out of there because that dude just creeps me out.
 
“This time you can wait in the car. I won't be long,” Bethanie says when we pull up in front of her house so she can change for the party and redo her makeup. After school, we grabbed something to eat and the whole time she obsessed over what to wear, even though I reminded her it was just us, and I sure didn't care what she was wearing. Then she decided she needed to go shopping so we had to spend two hours at the mall. I ignored her when she told me there was no way I could go out celebrating still wearing my uniform and that I needed to buy something, even when she offered to pay.
I'm disappointed about having to wait in the car because I really want to find out what she's hiding. Turns out she doesn't live near Cherry Creek like she told Lissa that day she gave her a ride. She lives smack in the middle of the neighborhood. It was a stretch to think she might have stolen the car, but I'm pretty sure you can't steal a house, so Bethanie really does have Langdon money. After fixing my run-in with the birdfeeder and giving up her pen to keep Smythe off my tail, I really do believe Bethanie is almost a friend. Everyone needs a few secrets, but I get the feeling she's hiding a big one. We can't be true-blue until I know what it is.
Whatever it is she doesn't want me to see inside her house—her parents, her family's bad taste in interior design, I don't know—must be bad. So far, all I know is the house matches the extravagance of her car. So I'm sitting in the car dreaming up a dark family secret for Bethanie when her mother comes out of the house before Bethanie is halfway up the drive. Bethanie stops in her tracks, like the fear of what her mother might do or say freezes her to the spot. I know the feeling of mother embarrassment, so I pretend to look away down the street, as if something interesting has caught my eye. But here comes her mother anyway, off the front porch and into the yard, her hand over her eyes so she can get a good look at me. Then she waves and motions me to come in. Bethanie looks terrified and I wonder what she's so afraid of. I give up trying to pretend I don't see her mother over there waving me in like she's the guy on the airport tarmac with the big orange sticks.
“You must be Chanti.” Bethanie's mother gushes all southern accent, and then she grabs me in a bear hug, nearly knocking me over, which is hard to do because I am not what you'd call waifish. She's dressed head to toe in animal print, and sadly, not one animal but at least three different species are represented. And I'm serious about head to toe: from the kitten-heel mules in leopard to the long flowing (giraffe?) scarf around her hair, which I believe is paying homage to one of those eighties bands. Is this what Bethanie's trying to hide from me, that her mother is a fashion victim?
“Bethanie talks about you so, and I've been wanting to meet you. Y'all come on in here and sit a while so we can meet proper.”
If I hadn't spent my early years and most summers in the South, I'd almost think she was faking that accent because she's laying it on so thick. No doubt it's the real thing, the twang of it right as peaches in August. But it seems too heavy for someone who's been here awhile, which I assume they have since Bethanie got agitated when I asked if she'd just moved to Denver. Maybe Mrs. Larsen is like Headmistress Smythe—a fake, hiding something just like Bethanie.
Soon as I walk in the house, I see money can't buy style. The décor is nothing like those houses I saw last weekend when I was working with Paulette. It's like a jungle in here with all the plants, not a single one of them real. Everything is either white or gilded gold. The water-spouting cherub in the fountain at the entryway is both. It reminds me of some of the houses on
MTV Cribs
. You can tell which celebrity has had money long enough to know they should hire a professional designer, and the ones who just got rich last week and let their mother or girlfriend do the decorating.
A woman in a maid uniform appears and Bethanie's mom sends her off for some tea. I'm beginning to see why Bethanie wants to hang out with Lissa. It seems they have more in common than we do, right down to the housekeeper.
“Why don't you get comfortable, Chantal, and we can have a nice visit.”
“Mama, it's eighty-five degrees out. No one wants hot tea.”
“That's what air-conditioning is for. We adore high tea around here, don't we, Bethanie? Some days it's the only time we can all get together.”
“When you say
we
, are you including Daddy in that? He's almost never home for high tea.”
Mrs. Larsen makes a face like Bethanie has said more than she should, but like any good hostess, hides it behind a quick and easy smile. Anyone else may not have noticed it, but I notice everything.
“Bethanie's father travels quite often.”
“Yeah, right,” Bethanie says.
“Bethanie never talks about what her father does,” I say.
“He's in oil,” Mrs. Larsen says, except she says it like there's no
I
in the word. “It's very lucrative. What do your parents do?”
“Well, it's just my mom, and she's a paralegal.”
“There isn't much money in paralegal work, is there?”
No true Southern belle would talk about how much people make, but I'm pretty sure this woman's no Southern belle, no matter how much she's pretending to be.
“Not very much, but enough.”
“Then how can you afford to go to Langdon?”
“I got in the same way Bethanie did,” I say, looking at Bethanie. She's shaking her head, hoping I understand that she wants me to shut it. Now.
“We're rich, honey. That's how Bethanie got in.”
“I meant to say, I got in on a scholarship.”
“Well, that's just wonderful.”
“Mom, Chanti and I have to get ready to go out, so . . .”
“We have plenty of time,” I say, because there is no way I'm passing up this chance to get Bethanie's real story.
I already know they haven't had their money very long because no one who's used to money talks about it the way Mrs. Larsen does. And Bethanie is lying about how long she's been in Colorado because her mother's accent is fresh off the Bible Belt. Then there are the lotto scratch-off tickets I noticed on the foyer table. People who can't really afford the lottery are usually the ones who play. Obviously the Larsens don't need to play, but I'm sure they once did. It's a habit hard to break.
All of a sudden, I hear a man's voice coming from what I'm guessing is the kitchen, since that's the direction the housekeeper had gone for the tea. I can hear him easily because he's yelling.
“Who bought this new dinette set? Y'all been shopping again?”
Bethanie and her mother look terrified, and Mrs. Larsen goes racing into the kitchen to run interference. She comes out a second later with the oil man.
“This is Bethanie's father,” she says to me. To her husband, she says, “We were just entertaining Bethanie's friend. You probably scared her with all that fussing.”

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