Amanda Lester and the Orange Crystal Crisis, Page 3

  “I’m not better,” whispered Amanda. “It’s just that when you’re responsible for every detail of look and feel, you notice everything. But you’re naturally better.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Ivy, looking like she’d lost her best friend.

  What was up with her? Amanda was starting to worry. She looked around the classroom. “Still no Editta, I see.”

  “I know,” said Ivy. “I don’t like this. You don’t think her parents pulled her out of school, do you?”

  “I don’t see why. And even if they did she’d say goodbye.”

  “Yes, she would. This isn’t good.”

  Suddenly the door opened and Headmaster Thrillkill stuck his head in. He gave a sign to Professor Sidebotham, then entered followed by a nice-looking dark-skinned boy wearing a bow tie and a serious expression. The kid seemed to gleam. The buttons on his blazer glinted like diamonds, the creases in his trousers were impossibly perfect, and he was wearing freshly buffed tasseled loafers. Even his short afro sparkled. He looked like he’d just arrived from the 1950s.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Professor,” said Thrillkill, “but I have a new student for you. Class, this is Scapulus Holmes.”

  The room went silent. The boy stood by the door and smiled ever so slightly.

  Amanda took in the sight before her. This was Holmes? This vision of smugness? Ugh. He was going to be awful—worse than she’d expected. Who dressed like that? He was obviously so self-involved that he couldn’t recognize how real people looked and behaved. She wanted to run up and pull that prissy little bow tie off his neck, rub dirt on those too-shiny buttons, and scuff up his look-at-me shoes.

  Before she knew it she had blurted out, “OMG, what a dork!” Then, realizing what she’d done, she turned as red as Simon’s sweater and bolted from the room, leaving behind a roomful of gaping would-be detectives.

  2

  Gordon Bramble Explodes

  Amanda had pulled some stupid stunts in her life, but reacting to Sherlock Holmes’s descendant that way was the worst ever. How gauche could she be? She could hear Nick’s voice in her head saying, “Good one, Lestrade.” He had called her by her ancestor’s name when he turned mean, and it had stung like a thousand wasps. She was so ashamed she wanted to die. How could she ever go back into that room? Maybe she should just stow away on another delivery truck, the way she’d done last term when she was trying to find her father, and go home, or anywhere that wasn’t Legatum. Her parents had offered her the chance to go back to L.A. and live with relatives. Maybe she should take it and leave this craziness behind.

  Actually that might not be such a bad idea. Maybe she didn’t belong at Legatum at all. For a girl who prided herself on her observational skills, she had really messed up. How could she have failed to see what Nick really was? Now that she looked back, it was obvious he’d been playing her. Was she that stupid?

  Obviously she was. He’d known she was gullible. Out of a class of thirty students he’d singled her out as the one most likely to believe his lies. By spending so much time with her, he’d limited his exposure to others who might have been more skeptical. He must have had highly developed turkey radar. What was it that had made her such an obvious choice? Of course—what else? It was those awful Lestrade genes again.

  She heard the door to the observation classroom open and saw Professor Thrillkill come out. Fortunately she was out of his line of sight and was able to duck around a corner without being seen. She tried to make like Ivy and prick up her ears, but her heart was pounding so hard it was difficult to hear footsteps. Still there was the headmaster’s voice, joined by another she didn’t recognize. She caught the words “Blixus” and “Feeney,” but she couldn’t make out anything else. She was sure the two of them were discussing the missing item, but she was unable to glean anything beyond that. Nevertheless, the conversation seemed to add proof to her fear that something weird was happening.

  She knew she was going to have to face the music so she tiptoed back toward the classroom. Thankfully, Professor Thrillkill and whoever he was talking to had disappeared, but she was still supposed to see him later. Ugh. He’d definitely say something about her outburst. Just when he’d seemed to thaw a little she’d had to go and ruin everything. Typical.

  She opened the door slowly to minimize the creaking and stepped back inside. The room was dead still except for Professor Sidebotham’s voice. The new student had found a seat. Everyone turned to look at her, obviously embarrassed on her behalf, except for Wiffle and his friend Gordon Bramble, who giggled. She sat back down and drew her body inward, as if to hide in plain sight. Should she say something to Holmes? He was sitting way across the room, paying rapt attention to the teacher. He seemed to be acting like nothing had happened but she couldn’t tell for sure. He certainly didn’t seem to be brooding, or laughing. He was a complete cipher. Well, wasn’t that just like a Holmes—completely wrapped up in himself. Still, she’d done a terrible thing and there would be a price to pay.

  “Miss Lester? I asked you a question,” said Professor Sidebotham.

  The whole class, Holmes included, turned to look at her.

  “I’m sorry, Professor. Would you mind repeating it?” Amanda’s face felt so hot she thought she could fry an egg on it.

  “I said would you please elaborate on my point.” The professor looked at her sternly.

  “Uh, sure. Er, you were talking about using all the senses instead of just sight.” It sounded good anyway.

  “That was ten minutes ago, Miss Lester. Please join us in the twenty-first century.”

  “Sorry, Professor. I was, uh, I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “No, you did not, Miss Lester. You committed a faux pas, which is entirely human, but a detective stands up and accepts the consequences of her actions. She doesn’t run away. Being out of the room is no excuse. I’m deducting fifty points from your next test. Is that clear?”

  The Wiffle kid was gloating so hard he looked like a mask of himself. Amanda felt that she’d gotten off easy, however, and said, “Yes, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t. Now, class . . .”

  Professor Sidebotham’s voice faded out of Amanda’s consciousness. Maybe she had been too cocky thinking she was over the whole Holmes thing. She’d just demonstrated that Holmes and his family could still get to her. This was not good.

  Except that it wasn’t her, it was him. She was the victim. She decided she hated Holmes more than ever. She even convinced herself that it was his fault that Nick had betrayed her and the school. Holmes and his family must have provoked the Moriartys into that whole sugar scheme and made them so angry that they’d had to use their twelve-year-old son to infiltrate the detectives’ school. Moriarty was only Moriarty because he had Holmes to play off of. If there were no Holmes, he’d just be an ordinary, run-of-the-mill loser. She seethed so hard she could barely keep it together.

  When the class ended Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Amphora ran to Amanda and said, “I can’t believe you said that.” Although she knew what she’d done was horrific, Amphora’s accusing comment got her dander up and she huffed off.

  Then Simon came up to her and said, “Way to go, Amanda.”

  “Don’t be mean,” said Ivy, who had joined them. “It wasn’t the greatest thing to say, but it’s not the end of the world.”

  “It was incredibly embarrassing,” said Amanda. “Who’s the dork here—him or me?”

  “Live and learn,” said Simon in his maddening way.

  “I think he’s cute,” said Amphora, rejoining the group.

  “You would,” said Simon.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Here we go again. Amanda wondered if those two would ever get along. Probably not.

  “Nothing much. You’re just a bit moony,” Simon said.

  “What do you mean moony?” Amphora crossed her arms the way she often did with him.

  “You’re always mooning over
guys, that’s all,” he said.

  “I don’t moon. Ivy, do I moon?” Amphora uncrossed her arms and turned to her roommate.

  “No, I don’t think you moon,” said Ivy.

  “What do you mean you don’t think I moon?”

  “You don’t moon, okay?” said Ivy with uncharacteristic pique. What was up with her? Maybe this thing with Editta was really getting to her.

  “What am I going to do?” said Amanda. “I hate that guy. I mean, I don’t hate that guy because I don’t know him, but I hate Sherlock Holmes and everything about him, and—well, I do hate that guy because did you see how he looks? He’s going to be terrible. And now he knows I hate him and Thrillkill is forcing me to be his big sister and that kid is going to cause me so much grief and what about all the other kids who heard me say that, and Sidebotham too?”

  “You’re making too much of this,” Amphora said.

  “Agreed,” said Simon, astonishing everyone. He never agreed with her.

  “I don’t think so,” said Amanda. She was pacing now.

  “They’ll get over it,” said Simon. “Anyway, he looked fine to me.”

  “I don’t think he looks bad at all,” said Amphora. “It’s refreshing when someone pays attention to their appearance."

  “Yeah, I saw you noticing him,” said Simon. “You looked like a dog discovering a steak.” Amphora glared at him.

  “He has a lovely voice,” said Ivy.

  “When did you hear his voice?” said Amphora. She looked startled for some reason Amanda couldn’t fathom.

  “He said something under his breath,” said Ivy. “You didn’t hear?”

  “No,” said Amphora.

  “Well, he does,” said Ivy.

  “You girls are nuts,” said Simon, shaking his head and walking off.

  “Did you do what we talked about?” Ivy said to Amanda.

  “What? Oh, you mean the texts?” She rummaged in her bag. “Got it.” She held her phone at the ready. The light hit it at just the right angle and it glinted.

  “Yes.”

  “What texts?” said Amphora, who seemed annoyed at having been left out.

  “Have you heard anything from Editta?” said Amanda.

  “What? No. Where is she? Why isn’t she here?” Amphora seemed to be reading disaster into the question. She did that a lot.

  “Exactly,” said Ivy.

  “We’re going to text her three messages in quick succession and see if she answers,” said Amanda.

  “Oh, I see,” said Amphora. “Like a pattern. She’ll answer that.”

  “We hope so,” said Ivy. “Amanda, please do it now.”

  “Okay.” Amanda quickly thumbed until she had sent three identical texts in rapid fashion. The girls stood there for a second and stared at the tiny screen. Nothing. “We have to give it some time. Maybe she’s busy.”

  “Yes,” said Ivy. “I’m sure that’s it.”

  “Definitely,” said Amphora, who didn’t look at all convinced.

  “I need to tell you something,” Amanda said to Ivy when Amphora had left. “It’s important.”

  “Something bad?”

  “It is bad, I’m afraid,” said Amanda. “Maybe very bad.”

  “Oh no,” said Ivy. “You’d better tell me quick.”

  Amanda explained what she’d overheard before class. As she revealed more and more of the detail, Ivy’s expression grew increasingly serious until her brow was deeply creased with worry.

  “This isn’t good,” she said. “We need to do something.”

  “Do what?” said Amanda. “We don’t even know what’s missing.”

  “We have to figure it out fast,” said Ivy. “You’re right. We’ve never heard the teachers act like this before. Something terrible is about to happen. Anything to do with the Moriartys can’t be good. I need to know more. I’ll bet I can pick up something if I nose around.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk about this at lunch. Maybe Simon and Amphora can help.”

  “If they ever stop fighting. What is it with those two?”

  “I don’t know. They sure don’t like each other.”

  “No. They don’t.”

  Amanda, Ivy, and Nigel scooted off to their fires and explosions class. They wished they’d taken it last term, when the school’s garage had exploded as part of the class project. As they investigated the explosion and the fire it had started, the kids were unsure what to look for and how to preserve the evidence, but the teachers had structured the exercise to be difficult on purpose. They’d wanted to test the new class’s skill at handling an unfamiliar and dangerous situation. In the end, only Holmes House, which was where Amanda, Ivy, Amphora, Simon, Editta, and Nick had been assigned, had cracked the mystery. The other houses, especially Van Helden House, which included David Wiffle and Gordon Bramble, had resented them, going so far as to complain that Holmes House had cheated, which had not gone over well with the powers that be. Holmes House’s victory had helped melt Thrillkill’s icy exterior and led to him asking Amanda to teach the storytelling class.

  The first thing Amanda noticed when she arrived at Professor Pole’s classroom was Scapulus Holmes sitting in the first row. Suddenly she remembered that she was supposed to take him under her wing and show him around. There was no way she could do that now. She’d rather be pulled apart by wild camels. Then she had a thought: maybe Thrillkill had forgotten. The kid looked like he could take care of himself just fine. He’d found his way around so far. What did he need her for? She’d done all right without a guide. What was the guy, five years old? He was a Holmes. She’d carry on normally and see what happened.

  Professor Pole was an affable man in his forties. As a child he had been burned in a house fire, and half his face was scarred and some of his hair missing as a result. If you didn’t know him, you might be afraid of him because he looked kind of scary, but once he spoke he was so funny and nice that you quickly forgot.

  Not only was Professor Pole fun to be around, he was also brilliant. A physicist by trade, he solved astrophysics problems in his spare time, a pursuit he found relaxing. He also hunted for fossils and had even discovered some dinosaur bones on a dig in Montana. The class promised to be challenging, useful, and fun, and Amanda was looking forward to it, despite the fact that she’d heard it could be dangerous. She was getting used to risk now and wasn’t nearly as worried as she’d been a few months before.

  “Boo!” yelled Professor Pole while the students were still jabbering among themselves. A couple of the kids dropped things on the floor and one or two clutched their chests as if they’d had a heart attack. “Explosions. That’s exactly how they occur. They’re strong, sharp, loud, sudden, and almost always unexpected. But you can prepare yourselves for them, and that’s one of the things we’re going to learn how to do in this dynamite class. Ha ha!” He beamed, obviously proud of his little joke. A couple of the kids groaned, but quite a few of them broke into nervous laughter. Amanda felt her body tense up. She was just sure he was going to try to scare them again.

  “You there, Mr. Bramble.” Professor Pole motioned to Gordon. “Come up here, please. That’s right. Don’t be shy.”

  Gordon Bramble, a me-too sort of boy who normally relied on his friend David Wiffle to take the lead, looked embarrassed and confused, but he managed to get himself to the front of the class.

  “Now, I want you to add this liquid to this beaker. Before you do, please put these goggles on.” Professor Pole pointed to a clear vessel that contained glittering blue powder. It was sitting in a pan. The liquid he was referring to resided in a smaller beaker that looked like the larger beaker’s child. Amanda had visions of Dr. Frankenstein and his monster. What a great film that was with Boris Karloff. She should watch it again.

  Gordon took the goggles and nervously fitted them over his eyes. They made him look like a deep-sea diver. He eyed Professor Pole tentatively, as if to say, “Please don’t make me do this.”

  “All right,
go,” said the professor. Gordon stood stock-still. “It’s okay. I promise.”

  Shaking visibly, Gordon held his arm out as far as it would go and gingerly picked up the beaker with the clear liquid. Then, standing as far away from the large beaker as he could, he poured about a drop into it.

  “More,” said Professor Pole. “Do the whole thing at once. Upsy daisy.”

  This baby talk seemed to embarrass Gordon so much that he stood closer to the large beaker and dumped the clear liquid in, whereupon a sparkly blue explosion blasted out of it and overflowed into the pan. It made a snapping sound, like a whip being cracked. It was more show than danger, though. The stuff didn’t even get on Gordon’s clothes. He winced and turned away, then slowly pivoted around and, seeing what had happened, smiled from ear to ear.

  “Awesome,” he said. “Can I do it again?”

  “Yes, you may,” said the professor. “How about a different color? But first, let me explain what just happened. The large beaker contained baking soda with blue dye and glitter. The smaller beaker contained white vinegar. Perhaps you can smell it.” Gordon wrinkled his nose and nodded. “The baking soda and the vinegar reacted and caused the mixture to explode. So for you cooks out there, never mix those two ingredients together or you’ll have a birthday cake to remember. Now, Mr. Bramble, would you like to do the honors?”

  “Professor, Professor,” yelled out David Wiffle. “Can I try?”

  “You’ll get your turn, Mr. Wiffle. Let’s see what Mr. Bramble can cook up.”

  Now that he knew he wasn’t going to die, Gordon really got into the experiment. He mixed several different colors of dye and glitter and put them all into the same container. The explosion they created looked like the Fourth of July. He got so excited that he managed to trip. As he started to fall, Scapulus Holmes raced to the front of the room and caught him before he crashed to the floor. Now Gordon was embarrassed again. He murmured a word of thanks and asked if it was okay to return to his seat. Professor Pole nodded.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said the professor. “That was quick thinking.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Holmes. Ivy was right. He did have a nice voice. He was probably a good singer. As if Amanda cared.