Again he shrugged. “I told you, I rotate them. I suppose someone could figure out what year we were on by asking around. But it wouldn’t be easy.”
I nodded. “Just one more question. Are you planning to implement any new anti-cheating measures in light of this incident?”
He nodded vigorously. “You bet I am. From now on, I will inspect everyone’s hands before I give them a test. Turning me into a warden more than a teacher,” he mumbled. “Are we finished here?”
“Yep. Thanks for your time, Mr. Tipkins,” I said, getting up from the desk.
He nodded my way, then pulled a sandwich that looked soggy and limp from a battered paper bag next to his desk.
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.
The next two periods dragged so slowly I thought I actually saw the hands of the clock going backward at one point. My mind was completely on my interview with Sydney, only halfway listening as Mrs. Blasberg explained inverse functions and Senorita Gonzalez conjugated verbs. By the time the bell rang, I was practically vibrating with the need to get out. I made a beeline for my locker, quickly shoving my books in and taking homework out. I was just slamming it shut when Ashley Stannic jogged up.
“Hartley, did you read my article online today?” Ashley asked.
“Um, no. Sorry. I’m kinda late-”
“Ohmigod. I got like a total ton of hits! I wrote about Sydney Sanders losing the homecoming nom and who people might write in to fill her place, and everyone was, like, all over it with comments and stuff.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
“Wait-Chase told me the Sydney story was mine.”
Ashley blinked at me. “Oh. He did? Well, I mean, maybe he changed his mind?”
“Did Chase say you could write about Sydney?”
Ashley nodded. “He edited the article this afternoon during study hall.”
I felt anger welling in my stomach. “Where is he now?”
She shrugged, her eyes still wide with innocence. “Um, the workroom, I guess.”
I spun around, and marched toward the room. Sydney Sanders wasn’t going anywhere. My interview with her could wait. Chase, however, was going to hear an immediate earful.
He had his back to the door when I stormed through it, his head hunched over some piece of paper that Chris Fret was showing him.
“The cheating story is mine!” I announced. Loudly.
So loudly, I think I saw Chris jump. Chase turned around slowly.
“Hartley,” he said. His voice was super calm, which of course, just got me more riled up.
“Ashley told me that she got ‘a total ton of hits’ from her article on Sydney Sanders.”
Chase nodded. “Yeah. She did.”
“I thought you gave that story to me.”
Again Chase nodded slowly. “I’m expecting to print an article from you in tomorrow’s edition incorporating the interviews you’re getting today. But Ashley had an angle that was interesting, so I let her run with it.”
“Just like that? She comes up with something interesting and she’s running with my story?”
Chase frowned. “Hey, you come up with something interesting and I’ll print that.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you saying my articles aren’t interesting?”
“I’m saying I can’t print nothing. You have to give me something worth reading. And the longer you wait, the better the chance someone else is going to beat you to it.”
I opened my mouth, shut it, opened it again, realized I didn’t have a scathing response, and cursed the way my brain short-circuited at all the wrong times.
“Fine. You’ll get your story. And it will be interesting!”
I spun on my heels and slammed the door shut after me, stalking through the hallways toward the back exit. It took me until I had stomped all the way to the Los Gatos Creek trail before I could finally admit to myself that Chase was right. I didn’t have anything interesting. Something I seriously hoped my interview with Sydney would change.
The creek trail snaked behind the football field, down toward a row of condos below. According to Google Earth, Sydney’s house was situated just over a mile from the school, the third one down from Vasona Lake on the right.
By the time her back fence came into view, the mid-afternoon sun had created a fine layer of sweat along the back of my neck. I stepped off the trail, carefully setting my backpack down in the grass, and tried to peek over the fence. Tried, because the fence was at least six feet tall and I top out at about 5' 2'. Even on tippy-toe, I couldn’t see a thing.
“Sydney?” I called, doing something between a stage whisper and an indoor voice.
No one answered.
“It’s Hartley?” I called again.
I put my ear to the wooden fence, listening for a reply.
Nothing.
I squinted between the slats, but someone had done a crack job of installing this thing. I could only make out the tiniest sliver of the backyard beyond-just enough to see the blue waters of a pool and a pair of deck chairs.
I looked around for something to give me a boost. On the ground was a collection of rocks, but none looked big enough to stand on. On the other side of the trail sat a large oak tree, but I’d given up climbing trees about ten years ago. I called out to Sydney one more time.
“Hey? Sydney? It’s me. Hartley.”
No answer.
I looked across the trail again. Fine. Tree it was.
I quickly crossed to it, narrowly missing a biker clad in bright yellow spandex. The tree was thick, tall, and definitely sturdy enough to hold all one hundred pounds of me. The only problem was the lowest branch was a good four feet off the ground. I grabbed on to it and pulled my feet up onto the trunk, but they immediately slipped back down, causing my palms to scrape against the branch and depositing me on my butt on the ground.
Ouch.
I picked myself up, trying not to be embarrassed as another biker went by. (Seriously, he was in neon spandex. I wasn’t the one who had anything to be embarrassed about.) This time I was able to scramble my legs high enough to lock them around the branch above me. I hung there a moment, like a pig on a spit, before I gathered enough strength to pull my torso up and around to the top side of the branch.
I gave myself a two count to catch my breath, then carefully stuck my foot in the fork of the branches and moved a little bit higher. Once I was high enough that I was starting to get a little dizzy, I scooched out onto a limb that was overhanging the trail.
Sydney’s backyard was still a ways away, but from here I could see over the fence. I craned my neck to get my target in view.
What I’d seen through the sliver had been accurate. There was a large pool taking up most of the backyard with a couple of loungers set beside it. I saw a pink beach towel laid out on one, with a glass of iced tea sitting on a table next to it. Signs that someone had been in the yard recently.
I turned my attention to the swimming pool…
And then I saw it.
There, floating in the center of the sparkling blue pool, was Sydney Sanders.
Facedown.
Chapter Three
THE FIRST THING I DID WAS RUN. OKAY, ACTUALLY, THE
