Ben Winters - The Mystery of the Missing Everything

“Totally understand,” said Chester. “I’ll try to be quick. I have gathered all of you—Kevin, Suzie, Rory, Pamela, Marisol, Victor, Todd, Natasha, and… wait. Braxton, what are you doing here?”

“Oh. Sorry,” said Braxton Lashey. “I heard there were going to be snacks.”

“Okay, well, stick around, I guess.”

And then Chester revealed his plan.

When he was done, to his great relief, no one laughed. No one looked at him like he was stupid or crazy or just a total doofus, not worth listening to. They nodded as he spoke, and asked him questions. Rory stopped eating the snacks, got out a notebook, and started making notes. Braxton took the bowl and ate Scorchin’ Habanero Doritos till his hands were stained bright orange, looking up every once in a while to say, “This sounds awesome, man.”

And it did sound awesome.

First, they would write a song—a beautiful, powerful, heartbreaker of an anthem, about how their outdoor education trip had been cruelly taken away from them. Then they would post that song on the internet, along with a website address where sympathetic people could make monetary donations.

“The thing is, the school only pays for half the trip,” Chester concluded. “Our parents already paid for the rest. This group right here, this small but incredibly talented group”— Positive reinforcement! Positive reinforcement!— “can, with a single song, earn back the missing money.”

“It’s a phenomenal idea, Chester,” said Kevin. “I love it.” Rory, the best creative writer in the eighth grade, was already scribbling song lyrics in his notebook; Marisol, an amazing artist, was doing sketches for the big murals that would be backdrops for some parts of the video. Todd Spolin, who Chester had asked to play guitar in the video, was scrunching up his face, practicing his strained guitar-hero expressions they all remembered from last year’s Choral Corral.

“Are you sure a song is best?” asked Pamela, her head angled thoughtfully to one side. “Maybe I should make a dramatic speech instead? I can cry on demand, you know.”

“Good thought, Pamela,” Chester positive-reinforced. “But I think a song is key. One song can change the world, people. Like ‘Happy Birthday.’ Just imagine how sad everyone’s birthdays were before that.”

They set to work, sketching out the song, figuring out details, making a schedule. They decided that the song should start off all soft and tinkly, like it was going to be a ballad or a slow jam, but then turn into a big rock-out. Pamela declared that she would need to be lit from behind, “so my hair looks golden, like gossamer.” Suzie ran to check out a laptop from Mr. Muhammed, and by the time Chester finished asking her how long she’d need to build the website, she was done. Rory suggested that for the video to go viral, there would need to be some hilarious part, “like maybe there should be someone in a bear costume who falls down a flight of stairs.”

“Ooh! Ooh!” said Braxton enthusiastically. “I’ll do that!”

There were only two moments in the entire meeting that interrupted what Ilene’s email called the “positive flow.” The first came when Natasha, who Chester had put in charge of choreography, said, “Wait, you guys. Tenny Boyer is back. Maybe we should get him to play guitar.”

“Perfect,” said Chester. But then Todd snorted angrily and sneered at Natasha. “Oh, what, so then I wouldn’t be in it anymore?”

“That’s not what I meant, Todd,” Natasha said.

“So, what did you mean?”

“Nothing! God, Todd!”

Pamela rolled her eyes. “What is with you two, lately?”

Todd muttered, “Forget it,” and turned back to helping Rory with his lyrics. This was all very odd: Todd, Natasha, and Pamela were usually supertight, which is part of the reason Chester had invited all three. He decided to skip the Tenny Boyer issue, for the moment.

The second moment that interrupted the positive flow, fortunately, didn’t come until right at the end of the meeting. They were discussing whether or how to get hold of a smoke cannon for the video’s big final moment, when Victor Glebe raised his hand for the first time. Chester grinned as he pointed at him—Victor, after all, was his best friend, and he hadn’t said anything so far. He’d just been sitting on the bench farthest from the big tree, arms crossed and face blank, not even eating one of the coconut donuts Chester had brought special for him.

Victor didn’t have a suggestion, but a question.

“Do we know exactly how much money it is?” he asked solemnly.

“What?” said Chester.

“To make up what Principal Van Vreeland took away. What’s the total?”

“Oh. Uh…” Chester fumbled from his pocket a second piece of paper, the one on which Mrs. Gingertee had written down the amount for him. “Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars.”

“Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars,” Victor repeated slowly, rising from his seat on the bench. “Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars.”

“Victor?” Chester said, but his friend was already walking away.

What’s his problem? Chester wondered. But there was no time to worry about it now: Marisol was busily sketching for the mural, Rory’s notebook was brimming with couplets, and Kevin had already hopped up, ready to head for the old Steinway in the Band and Chorus room.

“All right, folks,” Chester said, flashing everyone a big thumbs-up. “Let’s do it.”

The next morning, Principal Isabel Van Vreeland did the same thing she had done every morning since the trophy’s disappearance. She stopped on her way to her office to stare, with a mixture of melancholy and horror, into the Achievement Alcove. There it was, the broken glass case atop the rickety wooden stand, where her beloved trophy had ever-so-briefly stood. The longer she stared, the tighter became her grip on her World’s #1 Principal travel mug, the one she had bought herself off eBay last year for her birthday.

“Stop right there.”

“Oh. Good morning, ma’am.”

She turned on Assistant Principal Ferrars, who had literally been tiptoeing past her, clearly hoping she wouldn’t ask him what she was about to ask.

“So. How is the mystery solving going?”

His eyes flickered and darted up and down the hall as he stammered a reply. “Oh, you know… getting there.”

“Getting there?” Principal Van Vreeland squeezed her mug so hard that coffee trembled and spluttered out the top.

He flinched and nodded.

“There’s a student helping me. Bethesda Fielding? In the eighth grade? She’s quite enterprising, really. She has this, um, special notebook…”

“Well, that’s fantastic, Jasper,” Principal Van Vreeland said, her voice curdling with sarcasm. “Just so long as you’ve got a twelve-year-old working the case.”

As Jasper scurried off, Principal Van Vreeland turned her gaze back into the Achievement Alcove and took a slow, bitter sip from her World’s #1 Principal mug. She had a sneaking suspicion that Jasper knew something he wasn’t telling her. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that a lot of people knew a lot of things they weren’t telling her. Instead of helping her get to the bottom of this, and get her precious trophy back, all everyone did was moan and groan about their precious extracurricular activities. Children looked at her all day long with those nauseating puppy-dog eyes of theirs. The teachers had sent that pesty Ms. Finkleman again to ask her to change her mind.

Well, guess what, folks. You want me to make things better around here? Too bad. They’re about to get a lot worse.