Poisoned (4 page)

As Jeri photographed Dallas, she couldn’t help wishing she’d worn a bigger pair of jeans. She had to stretch to take the photos, and every time she reached up to snap a picture, she felt a breeze on her bare stomach. At least Dallas was too busy to watch her.

Jeri’s heart leapt as Dallas and Show Stopper sailed over one barrier and hedge after another. If she didn’t know better, she’d guess Dallas had been riding Show Stopper for years instead of an hour. Nikki could relax. Her horse was in good hands.

Rosa climbed on the bottom fence board beside her and hung her arms over the top. “Getting some good pictures?”

“I think so.” Jeri shaded her eyes against the setting sun.

“Do you like Dallas?” Rosa asked. “I could help you get him.” She gave Jeri’s outfit a once-over. “It wouldn’t be that hard if you dressed like that every day.”

“I don’t want to
get
him!” Jeri concentrated on taking more photos, glad for an excuse not to look at Rosa, but she felt the heat crawling up her neck.

“Playing hard to get?” Rosa wrinkled her nose. “That’s not my style, but it might work on Dallas.”

“Oh stop it, Rosa,” Jeri said. “Dallas is friends with me, like he is with every girl.”

“It wouldn’t have to stay that way.” When Jeri didn’t respond, Rosa shrugged. “Suit yourself. See ya later.” Rosa wandered over to a group of girls.

Jeri watched her go and then turned to take more pictures. Across the exercise ring, several small groups of people had lined up along the fence to watch. Jeri ignored them and kept taking pictures until Dallas finished the last exercise.

Later, while Dallas brushed Show Stopper’s glistening coat, Jeri carried buckets of water to the stall. In the corner by the hay bag, she noticed a dark cloth and bent to get it. It was a blue bandana. “Is this yours?”

“Nope.” Dallas pulled one from his back pocket. “Mine’s right here.”

Jeri hung the dusty bandana over the stall door and then got an apple from the bucket that Sam, the stable hand, always left by the tack room.

“Here.” She handed it to Dallas.

“Thanks.” He glanced at her stomach, then away. “Show Stopper earned it.”

“So did you!” Self-consciously, Jeri tugged her shirt

down. “Nikki was so worried earlier today. Thank you for doing this.”

Dallas grinned. “I enjoyed it. We can’t afford to board my horse at school, so this has been fun for me.”

“I know Nikki’s grateful too.”

Suddenly tongue-tied, she turned quickly and bent to brush dust from her jeans. She liked being Dallas’s friend, but she’d lied to Rosa earlier. She
didn’t
want to just be friends with him. But would a boy as nice as Dallas Chandler ever notice a girl as uncool as Jeri McKane?

She let out a big sigh. Talk about wishful thinking.

Monday after school Nikki was waiting for Jeri when she got back to the dorm. Under her wild and uncombed hair, her face was a mottled red, but Jeri couldn’t tell if she was sick again—or mad.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, hanging her jacket on the hall tree.

“Your friend Dallas is a dumb cowboy!” she snapped. “Show Stopper’s sick today. Sam called from the horse barn.”

“Sick?” Jeri frowned. “A fever? What?”

“He won’t eat! Dallas must have fed him the wrong food! I bet he didn’t cool him down after his workout either.”

“He did just what you told him to,” Jeri said. Nikki had a lot of nerve, even if she
was
worried.

“Well, Show Stopper’s totally off his feed and really sluggish. Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Sam should call the vet.”

“He did.” Nikki plopped down on the bottom step of the staircase. “He couldn’t find anything wrong.”

Jeri sat beside her. “Show Stopper probably just misses
you
as much as you miss him,” she said.

“You think so?” Nikki gave a lopsided grin. “Maybe you’re right. Sorry.”

Jeri grinned back.

Late that night Jeri read her murder mystery in bed long after Rosa fell asleep. At the end of her chapter, her bedside clock read 11:21. She yawned so wide her jaws popped. If she didn’t get to sleep soon, she’d snooze through her classes tomorrow.

She headed to the restroom, her feet padding quietly in the empty hall. She’d finished and was washing her hands when she heard running footsteps. Brooke pushed open the restroom door and dashed to a stall. She was sick to her stomach once, then again.

And again.

The toilet flushed, but Brooke didn’t come out. Jeri finally swung open the stall door. Overhead lights were bright, shining down on Brooke where she sat on the tile floor, eyes closed.

Jeri knelt beside her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Brooke clutched her stomach.
“Now
anyway.”

Jeri felt Brooke’s forehead like her mom always did when Jeri had the flu. “You don’t feel feverish.”

“I think it was something I ate. I got hungry while I was doing homework, so I went downstairs for a piece of cold pizza.” She wrinkled her nose. “It didn’t stay down.”

“Was the pizza yours?” Each girl had her own small cupboard and a small labeled plastic container in the huge fridge for their own special food.

“Yeah, it was mine.” Brooke stared at Jeri. “Why?”

“Nothing.” Jeri took Brooke’s arm and helped her to her feet. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a rash on her hands. “Maybe you have chicken pox or measles.”

“I don’t. It’s allergies, that’s all.”

“Can you make it back to your room alone? I’ll go get Ms. Carter.”

“No
. Don’t do that.” Brooke leaned against the wall.

“But what if it’s not allergies? Let Ms. Carter make sure you’re okay.”

“No. She’ll make a big deal out of nothing. I don’t want her hauling me off to the infirmary like she did Nikki. I’ve got too much to do before the science fair on Friday.”

“You might need some medicine. Otherwise, you could be so sick by Friday that you’d
still
miss the science fair.”

“I won’t be. I
won’t.”

Jeri rubbed the back of her neck. What was wrong with Brooke? “All right. I hope you feel better.”

One bedroom door opened down the hall, and then another one. “What’s going on out here?”

“Quiet out there! Some people are trying to sleep!”

“Sorry,” Brooke said.

“You couldn’t help it,” Jeri said, then raised her voice. “She’s sick!”

“I’m okay now.” Brooke headed back to her room. “I feel better already.”

When Jeri returned to bed, she couldn’t settle down to sleep. This was the second time in two days someone got sick from food fixed in the dorm kitchen. What was going on? They couldn’t blame the delivery boy
this
time. Something about Brooke’s insistence on keeping her illness a secret seemed strange. Was she really protecting herself from Ms. Carter’s mothering? Something didn’t add up. Whatever it was, Jeri was thoroughly awake now.

Tiptoeing past her sleeping roommate, Jeri turned the bright computer screen away from Rosa and then Googled “food poisoning.” She could use the information for her newspaper—and maybe discover what was happening in the dorm at the same time.

But forty minutes later when she logged off, Jeri hadn’t found anything helpful. The next morning she told Rosa about Brooke’s episode in the restroom. “I’ve decided not to eat any food from the dorm kitchen from now on.”

“Oh, that’s crazy,” Rosa said. “Brooke probably ate half a pizza instead of one piece and made herself sick from pigging out.”

“Maybe,” Jeri admitted, remembering the rash and Brooke’s odd behavior.
Or maybe not.

Once a week, the house mothers fixed a lip-smacking breakfast for any girl who wanted to eat in the dorm. Usually Jeri loved trooping downstairs in her pajamas to eat waffles or pancakes, but this Tuesday morning the aroma wafting up the stairs didn’t tempt her.

“I’m eating at the dining hall,” Jeri reminded Rosa. “You coming?”

“Are you nuts? I smell fresh coffee cake and banana bread!”

“Don’t get sick then,” Jeri warned. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Talk about paranoid,” Rosa said, pulling on her bunny slippers.

Ten minutes later in the noisy dining hall, after gobbling down some Frosted Flakes, Jeri headed to the greenhouse to interview Mr. Petrie. A gentle breeze blew as she strolled along sidewalks bordered by terra-cotta pots of impatiens and petunias. The carillon bells in the tower chimed as she skirted around a stand of white pine. The horse barn was on her far left, and then she passed the Sports Center. Lawn mowers zigzagged over the soccer field, and several high school girls jogged around the track. Jeri veered off the sidewalk and followed a white-rock path to the greenhouse.

The outside reminded Jeri of a gardening store, with its bags of rock, mulch, and fertilizer stacked beside clay pots, shovels, and three wheelbarrows. She meandered through everything to step inside the huge shed-like room attached to the greenhouse. At first, the darkness blinded

her, so she stopped a minute and breathed deeply the smells of wet dirt and mulch. Where did she know that smell from? For some reason, it put her right back in Iowa on her grandpa’s farm.

“Hello?” Jeri called, peering around the dim room. No answer. Mr. Petrie must be out in the greenhouse part where he grew the plants.

A scurrying noise to her left made her whirl around. She peered into the shadows. Was it mice? She shuddered. Or
rats?
A shadow darted from behind a clay pot, and tiny claws scritch-scratched across the cement floor. Jeri pivoted to run.

Her elbow hit a rack of hoes and shovels, and several clattered to the cement floor. The clanging echoed and rang in her ears. She groped for the handles and stood them back up, and then worked her way to a door at the back.
Let me out of this cave!

Beyond the door was a room full of light with walls made of glass or plastic. It was twenty degrees warmer, and Jeri unzipped her jacket. The sun pounding down on the clear roof turned the greenhouse into an oven. Sunlight shone on long rows of tables full of small potted plants. Baskets of ferns and ivy sprinkled by misters hung above her, and she felt the moisture.

She moved away and called again. “Anybody here? Hello?”

Mr. Petrie must be outside. Jeri started down an aisle of potted flowers she recognized from home: pansies,bachelor’s buttons, and marigolds. No wonder all the flower beds on campus were so colorful. The next aisle over contained vegetables she and her mom used to grow, like tomato plants and green peppers. She guessed the viney plants like cucumbers and melons were outside. The greenhouse grew more of the school’s food than she’d thought.

Jeri glanced at her watch. If only Mr. Petrie were here. A good quote for her article was all she needed before heading to her first-period library class to write it up.

She strolled up the last aisle and, without warning, stubbed her toe hard on something under the table. Jeri sucked in her breath and bent to see what she’d kicked.

Underneath were various bags and boxes of plant food, insecticide for garden pests, and weed killers. No wonder Mr. Petrie’s plants looked like blue-ribbon winners at a county fair, Jeri thought, if he put all that stuff on them.

On a box of weed killer, the word
Warning!
caught her eye. She crouched down and read:
Children are highly sensitive to the harmful effects of pesticides. Exposure to pesticides may produce brain cancer, leukemia, and birth defects.

Whoa! This stuff was deadly. Why wasn’t it locked up somewhere? What if a person got it on his hands and then touched his food? Was it possible that —

“What in blue blazes are you doing there?”
thundered a deep voice from behind her. “How many times do I have to tell you kids — ”

Jeri jerked, falling over backward and cracking her elbow on the cement floor. She dropped and spilled the box of weed killer. “I … uh … I …”

“I repeat, what are you doing?” Mr. Petrie asked.

“I was looking for you, actually.” Jeri crawled to her feet and turned to face him. “Hi, Mr. Petrie,” she said sheepishly, wishing she’d had a chance to clean up the mess before he saw it. And yet, she didn’t really want to touch poisonous stuff.

Mr. Petrie’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t recognize you. I was fixin’ to chew you out.” His grassstained fingers clenched a spade balanced on the toe of one worn work boot.

Jeri wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of the pesticide. “If you’ll show me where you keep your broom, I’ll clean that up.”

“Nah, I’ll get it. I don’t want you touchin’ that stuff. It’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, I saw the label.”

“Good eyes.” Mr. Petrie nudged the box with his toe. “Always read labels.”

“Why?”

“Labels have signal words that tell how poisonous something is.”

“Signal words?”

“Words like
danger,
which means very toxic or poisonous, or
warning,
which is medium poisonous.
Caution
means a little toxic.” He paused. “Say, shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Class is why I’m here. I wanted to interview you for an article.”

“Interview me?” He grinned. “What for?”

“About the food you grow here, mostly, and also about, well, food poisoning.”

He frowned. “Why that?”

Jeri explained about her friends being sick from something they ate, and she was writing an article on food poisoning. “I heard you grew the school’s vegetables.”

“You think my vegetables
poisoned
someone?”

“No, I didn’t mean that.” An idea occurred to her though. “Are weed killers ever missing?”

“You mean stolen? Naw. Kids don’t steal from me. Usually it’s only careless pranks that cause me trouble.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing big—just irritating things. Science classes come through on field trips and knock over plants. Softballs break windows. Occasionally horses from the barn get loose and run through the garden. Makes my job harder than it needs to be.”

Jeri dug into her backpack for a small notebook and pen. “Can I ask you a few questions?”