Ben Winters: The Mystery of the Missing Everything

“One person has the key, and one person grants access to this building after four o’clock, and that’s this person right here,” continued Principal Van Vreeland, pointing a long, trembling finger at the assistant principal, who gulped and looked down at his feet, like he was the one in trouble. “Whoever committed this heinous act is guilty not only of theft, but of trespassing, breaking and entering, and probably a bunch of other stuff I haven’t even thought of yet!”

Listening to this seething monologue, glancing again at Pamela, Bethesda Fielding felt an eager excitement building in her gut.

A terrible crime!

An innocent victim!

A mystery !

Some people were famous for their athletic prowess (like Guy Ficker and Bessie Stringer), some people were known to be amazing at art (like Marisol Pierce and Lisa Deckter), and some people were known for inexplicably falling down a lot (like Braxton Lashey, or… well, basically that was just Braxton). Bethesda got really good grades, and did a ton of clubs and stuff, but there had never been a Famous Fact about her, not really—until last semester, when she’d dug up the shocking rock and roll past of their boring Band and Chorus teacher, Ms. Finkleman.

Of course, what she discovered turned out to be completely wrong, and the whole incident turned into a monstrous disastrotastrophe.

But the whole experience had left Bethesda obsessed with mystery solving. That summer, at Camp Fairweather, she’d huddled under the covers with a flashlight, absorbing Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie; back home, she’d stayed up late with her parents, eating popcorn and watching Charlie Chan and Sherlock Holmes in black and white. Bethesda didn’t like to be arrogant, but she knew that if anyone could crack the Case of the Missing Trophy, it was her. Bethesda’s big toe, snug in the rubber tip of her Chuck Taylor sneaker, bopped rapidly against the battered metal leg of her auditorium seat.

Wrap it up, Van Vreeland , she thought. I’ve got to start digging for clues .

But the principal wasn’t done, and she’d saved the worst for last. “Until such time as the perpetrator comes forward,” she hissed. “I am revoking school funding for all class trips and extracurricular activities.”

Bethesda’s toe stopped bopping. She stared at Shelly, who stared back, gape-mouthed with distress. All class trips and extracurriculars?

“No way!” shouted Guy Ficker.

“You can’t do that,” Hayley Eisenstein pleaded.

But it was Rory Daas who stood up and hollered what Bethesda was thinking—what they were all thinking: “What about Taproot Valley?”

Of all the eighth graders, only a quiet girl named Reenie Maslow didn’t seem concerned. She stayed scrunched down low in her seat, as she had been for the entire assembly, a book open and balanced in her lap. Of course Reenie didn’t get it. She was new this year. She didn’t understand about Taproot Valley. The eighth-grade class trip, scheduled for the third week in October, was five days of “outdoor education.” Five days of ecology hikes, of organic gardening, of watershed science—and those were just the educational parts! It was also a week of team-building exercises, rock climbing, ropes courses, and sleeping in bunks….

“No… no…,” Tucker Wilson said, dumbfounded, shaking his head from side to side. Carmine Lopez raised his hands imploringly toward the stage, like a tennis player protesting a bad call, while Bessie Stringer groaned, “Come on,” and buried her face in her hands. Principal Van Vreeland just stood there, grinning wickedly, reveling in the distress she’d created.

“You can’t cancel Taproot Valley!” protested Chester Hu, seeming genuinely confused, as if the principal had announced she was canceling gravity.

“Of course I can,” she responded. “As a matter of fact, I just did.”

Well, that settles it , Bethesda thought as the principal pivoted on one thin high heel and strode off the stage, Jasper rushing along behind her. I am so solving this mystery.

On the way from the assembly to first period, Bethesda slipped away from the little knot of miserable, grumbling eighth graders to sneak a quick peek at the crime scene. But when she got to the end of the Front Hall, all she found was the massive, blue-denim-clad bulk of Janitor Steve, blocking the entrance to the Achievement Alcove like a human wall.

“Get to class, kiddo,” he said, jerking his thumb. “Nothing to see here.”

Craning her neck to look around the massive custodian, Bethesda caught an intriguing glimpse of the Achievement Alcove, preserved as if a murder had occurred—except that, lacking yellow police tape, Principal Van Vreeland had cordoned it off with duct tape and old typewriter ribbon.

“Hmm,” Bethesda murmured softly to herself, proceeding down Hallway A toward first period. She’d find a way to get into that alcove—she knew she would. In the meantime, it was a matter of keeping her eyes and ears open, on the lookout for anything suspicious. Bethesda Fielding, Master Detective, was on the case.

Ms. Fischler didn’t seem too suspicious during first period. The thin, sharp-tongued teacher in the black V-neck sweater was doing what she always did, attempting to teach advanced mathematical concepts to children with very little interest in them. As Ms. Fischler explained her patented six-stage approach to coordinate geography, her students were busy bemoaning all that Principal Van Vreeland had just stolen from them.

“Apple cider,” groaned Rory, in a loud, pained whisper, his black curly hair falling over his eyes. (Over the summer a girl at tennis camp had told him he had cool hair, and Rory hadn’t cut it since.) “We were going to make apple cider!”

“We were going to see snakes,” groaned Bessie. “Snakes and lizards. And deer. And raccoons…”

“S’mores!” sighed Hayley, popping out her retainer so she could give full weight to the one long, woeful syllable.

“People!” snapped Ms. Fischler, drawing a slope-intercept equation on the board. “Less whining, more equation graphing.”

The students picked up their pencils and set to work, but the urge to whine was not so easily contained. “You guys don’t even know,” said Pamela Preston after a few seconds, her voice hushed, self-pitying, and melodramatic. “You don’t even know how it feels.”

“Your trophy’ll turn up,” said Natasha Belinsky reassuringly. “Probably it’s just, like, lost.”

Natasha patted Pamela on the shoulder with maternal care. With a sweet, open face and dirty blond hair that fell in shampoo-commercial waves around her shoulders, Natasha was one of Pamela’s best friends—although Bethesda sometimes suspected Pamela hung out with her mainly to make herself feel smarter.

“Right. Lost,” said Pamela, rolling her eyes. “Or maybe the trophy came to life and ran away, and now it’s living in Canada.”

“Yeah! Maybe!” said Natasha brightly.

“Graph, people!” snapped Ms. Fischler. “Graph!”

“Anyone? Anyone?”

Dr. Capshaw, pacing the aisles of the English room, waved his copy of Animal Farm back and forth over his head like a flag.

“Allegorical structure? Hello? Earth to second period?”

Bethesda felt bad for Dr. Capshaw, whom she liked. He had a shiny bald head and a pointy beard, like Shakespeare, and when he read aloud from Animal Farm he got all charged up and bounced around the room like a crazy person. Today, however, she had no time for George Orwell or for Dr. Capshaw. On the back page of her English Language Arts binder, Bethesda was composing a big list of things to think about.