Fingers clasped, Principal Harada leaned over his desk and studied me, and seated in a chair beside mine, a school security guard shifted his weight.
“Ms. Skelton,” Principal Harada said. “What did you see?”
I glimpsed at the guard.
“No worries,” the principal said. “Nothing you say will leave this room. Isn’t that right, Mr. Mosby?”
The guard nodded.
“You see? All’s under control this Monday morning. Now, last Friday, you witnessed something in rear parking lot ‘C’, did you not?”
I chewed my lip.
“We know you did because you’d mentioned it to a member-of-staff.” The principal opened a file folder and tapped a page. “Cafeteria worker. Mrs. Jennings.”
I gnashed my teeth.
“Mrs. Jennings said she was in-route to her car when you’d stopped her and warned her about a van. What concerned you about a van, Ms. Skelton?”
I shook my head.
“For the record: Mrs. Jennings informed us because she’d believed something had distressed you. Had something distressed you?”
Mr. Mosby angled my direction.
“You’re not in any trouble,” the principal said. “We only need to know what you saw. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Great. What did you see?”
I lowered my eyes, and the principal sighed.
“You don’t trust us.” The principal tilted the page toward himself. “Well, trust we know you’re a Westwood Highschool asset.” He skimmed the page. “You started a baked-goods, literary club.”
I peered at him.
“‘Books-n-Bakes,’ is it not?”
I nodded.
“Sensational. Tell us about Books-n-Bakes. Can Mr. Mosby and I join?” He snickered. “What does the club do?”
“We bake. Hold discussions.”
“What do you bake?” he said. “What do you discuss?”
“Brownies, cookies, pies; and while they’re in the oven, we discuss a fiction read.”
“And you meet once a week after school,” the principal said, examining the page. “In a home economics classroom.” He smiled. “Your discussions must smell delicious. What else does the club do?”
“We sale baked goods to fund literary trips.”
“Like last Friday’s Allen Theater trip. A favorite author play adaptation, correct?”
The principal watched me nod and then check-marked something on the page. “Did you enjoy it?”
“We did.”
“Excellent.” His smile faded. “Ms. Skelton, following the play, your carpool returned to rear parking lot ‘A’, and every student’s parent and/or guardian was on-hand to drive them home except yours, I understand.”
“My brother had been held-up. He was on his way though.”
“How did you know?”
“He told me.”
The principal’s eyes widened. “Did he?”
“He did.”
He nodded at Mr. Mosby, and the guard reached into his pocket, removed a pink cellular phone, and sat it atop the desk.
I gnashed my teeth.
“Last Thursday, Mr. Mosby found it in a second-floor hallway,” he said. “For now, we’ll disregard inquiry as to how it’d arrived there.”
Mr. Mosby cleared this throat.
“What we’d like to know is how you knew your brother had been held-up last Friday when the phone had been in our possession?”
“Friday morning, he’d told me he’d be late.”
The principal folded his arms. “Yet you made no arrangement to ride home with someone else?”
“I didn’t want to burden anyone.”
“‘Burden’? Who: A member of your own club? A guardian who would’ve driven home—at night—their child’s female club president?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t mind waiting. Besides, that evening, the moon was something out of a recent club read, and I enjoyed observing it.”
“Yet you went back inside the school.”
I sighed. “Because I’d left something in the club room.”
“What?”
“A jacket.”
“Not a cell phone?”
“No.”
“Why not—a day before, you’d lost it?”
“Every month, I lose that phone. I wasn’t worried.”
The principal gazed at me, drummed his fingers atop the desk. “Okay, Ms. Skelton,” he said and slid the phone toward me. “You may reclaim your device and head to your second period class.”
I all but smiled. “Thank you, sirs.” I seized the phone and stood. “And have a good morn—”
“Sign-in to the phone,” Mr. Mosby said.
I did a doubletake. “Sir?”
“Your cell phone,” the guard said. “You couldn’t imagine how many phones I’ve recovered that have an identical case, color, or brand name as a student who lost theirs only to find-out the student couldn’t sign-in to the phone because it wasn’t theirs.”
I peered at him.
“Ms. Skelton,” Mr. Mosby said. “If you please.”
“Of course.” I powered-up the phone, and when a security screen appeared, keyed a pin number; and the phone scrolled to a home screen. I showed them the phone’s face. “You see? I own it. Everything’s—”
PING!
I studied the screen. Missed call.
PING!
PING!
I bit my lip, mashed a ‘decrease volume’ button.
“Ms. Skelton, all’s well?” the principal said.
“Yes,” I said. “Just a couple missed calls.”
PING!
Mr. Mosby peeked at the screen. “Looks like a missed text, as well.”
PING!
“Two,” he said.
“Family chats. My cousins gossip to no end.” I spun and dashed toward an office door.
“My daughter would be worried,” Mr. Mosby said.
I halted, turned.
“Had she lost her phone,” he said and looked at the principal. “Teenaged girl, out-and-about at night, she wanting to know where I am, she knowing I’d want to know where she was. Last Friday, she would’ve reentered the school and retraced her steps through hallways to find it.” He peered at me. “Or, maybe she’d never lose it. Maybe she’d share the phone with someone who didn’t have access to a phone, and that person would lose it.”
I cringed, and the principal’s eyebrows bunched.
“Mosby,” he said. “What are you playing at?”
“Only that my daughter would do anything to help me,” Mr. Mosby said. “For instance, if I was secretly a wanted man, she’d go as far as mislead a cafeteria worker, outrun a school security guard, and schedule a club carpool to return to a certain rear lot in order to leave another rear lot unoccupied.”
I shuddered.
“Mr. Mosby, you have two sons only. But I suppose you’re going to share with us why your ‘daughter’ would go through all that trouble.”
“Yes,” he said. “To help me hide in a place no one would think to look for me.”
I swallowed.
Mr. Mosby peered at the principal. “You know, sir, I’d never told you how I found the phone.”
“You’d mentioned a second-floor hallway.”
“Yes, but I never said how: Last Thursday ‘round nine p.m., while securing the main entry doors, I’d heard second-floor footsteps; and while I darted up a stairwell, I’d heard something slap a floor, and a window thumped shut. When I arrived at the second-floor, the phone laid in a hallway, and when I peeked around a corner into a second hallway, I saw a closed window and then peered out.”
“And outside the window,” the principal said. “What did you see?”
“A moonlit complex of smokestacks and ventilation units on a level rooftop.” He peered at me. “Anyone who could survive an impossible five-foot leap to it could reach it.”
I clutched the phone, and the principal chuckled.
“Next I suppose you’ll tell us you’d seen a shadowy figure move,” the principal said.
“No, but it is funny how no one had seen Ms. Skelton leave campus with a brother.”
I trembled.
“So, what do you propose, Mosby? Should we organize a rooftop search party to flush-out our other Skelton?”
Mr. Mosby shook his head. “No need. Tomorrow, day-one of a round-the-clock school roof repair will kick-off. So, anyone up there would need a new hiding place.”
The principal laughed. “Given you just tipped-off Ms. Skelton, if she was hiding someone there, she’d without doubt have to find ‘em new place now.”
Mr. Mosby gnashed his teeth.
“Okay, Ms. Skelton,” the principal said. “Head to second period; and remember: be a good accomplice and relocate your brother like our superstitious security guard advised.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and dashed out the office.