* * *
“Keep turning the pages,” Kristy said impatiently, as she looked over my shoulder. She’d been excited to hear what we’d found out so far, and so had the other BSC members. We had gathered in the library at lunchtime (all except Jessi and Mal, that is, since the sixth-graders eat lunch at a different time), and we’d found the old yearbook from the year of the dance.
I was holding it, and everyone else had gathered around. I was turning the pages especially slowly, making sure not to miss anything, but I turned a little faster when Kristy said that. Suddenly, I stopped and let out a gasp.
“What?” asked Mary Anne. She moved closer, so that she could see better. “Oh!” she said, echoing my gasp.
We were looking at a full-page picture of an older man in a suit. At the bottom, within a black border, were the words, “In Memory of Mr. Brown.”
“That’s him,” said Mary Anne. Everyone clustered around to look at the picture.
“I bet he was strict,” said Claudia. “Doesn’t he look it?”
He did. His mouth was a straight line, and his eyes, behind black-framed eyeglasses, looked serious.
“What if he’s the one tearing up posters and painting on the walls?” Abby said.
“He’s dead!” cried Kristy.
“I know,” Abby said, with a tiny smile. “But maybe he’s not totally dead, if you know what I mean. Maybe he’s haunting the school, because his murder was never solved.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Stop!” cried Mary Anne. “You’re creeping me out. Stacey, turn the page. I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me.”
I turned the page, and we started looking at the eighth-grade pictures. Immediately, we forgot about Abby’s ghoulish idea. The pictures were hilarious. “All the boys look so geeky!” cried Kristy. “Look at those haircuts.”
“And the girls have such big hair,” Claudia said. “How about those cat-eye glasses, too?”
We paged through the pictures, laughing at how strange the kids looked. The funny thing was that they didn’t really look like kids at all. They looked like miniature grown-ups. The boys had short hair and wore suits and ties, and the girls looked as if they were about thirty. I kept turning pages.
“Whoa,” I said suddenly, looking at one of the pictures more closely. “Check it out!” I pointed to a picture in the upper left hand corner of the page, of a relatively cute but still geeky-looking guy with black, curly hair.
“What about him?” asked Kristy.
“Look at the name,” I said. Underneath the picture, the caption read “Michael Rothman.” “How weird. That’s the name of the teacher who’s advising the decorations committee.” I bent to give the picture a closer look. “Wouldn’t it be wild if this was really him, twenty-eight years ago? I didn’t know he went to SMS. But it could be him. He’s still just as skinny, and he has that black, curly hair.” I stared at the picture. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Mary Anne was looking, too, but Abby and Kristy had already shifted their attention to another picture in the lower righthand corner of the page. “What do you think?” asked Kristy. Abby shrugged.
“Who’s that?” I asked. Kristy pointed to the name, and I read it out loud. “Jerome Wetzler. Who’s that?” Then I remembered, and my eyebrows flew up. “Mr. Wetzler? The guy who’s writing all those letters to the editor? Hmmmm.”
“Hmmm is right,” said Mary Anne. “I second that hmm!”
This was becoming very, very interesting. And it became even more so when we discovered, in the back of the yearbook, pictures of all the athletic teams. Underneath the picture of the football team, we found the name M. Rothman. If this M. Rothman was the M. Rothman I knew, it could be very significant that he was on the football team, since members of the team were suspected of being involved in the prank on the night of the dance.
I leaned forward to examine the picture more closely, and just then the loudspeaker over the library’s door crackled to life. “Attention, students,” someone said. It sounded sort of like Mr. Kingbridge, but it was hard to tell because of the static. “At the sound of the next bell, students in all grades are to proceed to the auditorium for a special assembly.”
When the announcement was over, Claudia giggled. “Mischief Knights again,” she guessed.
But she was wrong. As soon as the bell rang, the librarian shooed us out and told us to head straight for the auditorium. “Mr. Kingbridge wants everybody there,” she said.
“What’s the assembly about?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
I wondered if the assembly had anything to do with the dance. “Maybe he’s canceling it,” I said as my friends and I walked to the auditorium. I didn’t have to even explain what I meant by “it.” The dance was on everybody’s mind.
But, as it turned out, the assembly wasn’t about the dance at all. It was a special presentation by a community theatre group, about how to say no when your friends try to talk you into doing things you don’t want to do. We’ve already heard a lot about that, and I actually had to do it (say no), once when Sheila and her friends were trying to talk me into drinking at this concert we went to. So I thought I’d be bored. But the skits they performed turned out to be pretty funny, and soon everyone in the auditorium was laughing.
Since this was a special assembly, we could sit wherever we wanted. The BSC members had claimed a row in the back of the left side of the auditorium, and no teachers were nearby. Ordinarily, we might have talked and giggled, but the theatre group grabbed our attention. I was sitting between Claudia and Jessi, near the aisle, so I had a good view of the audience and of the stage.
I especially liked one actress. She had a kind of glow, as if she really loved what she was doing. She was pretty, with big, expressive eyes and a head full of red-gold curls. Plus, she was funny. She was great at the slapstick stuff, such as falls and double takes. I watched her closely, daydreaming a little about what it would be like to act professionally.
When the lights went out, I first thought it was part of the performance.
Then people started to scream, and I realized that all the lights were out in the auditorium. Instantly, I remembered what we’d found out the night before, and I felt fear rise inside me. This was like some kind of sick joke, a flashback to that night twenty-eight years earlier when the lights went out in the gym — and a person died.
I felt somebody grab my hand. It was Claudia. We peered at each other through the darkness, and I could tell that she was thinking the same thing I was. I reached out for Jessi’s hand, too, and we all held tight.
“Please, please, please! Let’s not panic!” That was Mr. Kingbridge’s voice. But his plea came too late. Plenty of students were already past the point of being calmed.
Q: How many middle school students does it take to create a stampede?
A: Not many.
I think it started in the front rows, with a group of sixth-graders who were afraid they wouldn’t be able to leave the auditorium. Then it grew and grew, until a huge mass of kids was trying to work their way up the aisles. I heard shrieking and yelling and crying, and then a crash and a long scream, from the front of the auditorium. Claudia’s hand tightened around mine. We were still sitting there, waiting to see what was going to happen next.
“What was that?” Jessi whispered. She tightened her grip, too.
“I don’t know, but it didn’t sound good,” I whispered back.
Mr. Kingbridge was still trying to calm everybody. But the panic just seemed to spread. I was too afraid to move, so I stayed in my seat. I couldn’t see a thing in the dark, and I knew it would be crazy to try to find my way out of the auditorium.
Then, just as suddenly as the lights had gone off, they came back on. Everybody seemed to freeze in place. I saw kids practically piled on top of one another in the aisles, many with flushed, frightened-looking faces. The teachers looked terrified as they tried to herd everyone back to their seats. Mr.
Kingbridge jumped off the stage and bent down to look at something, then stood up and called for help. I stood to try to see what was happening, but too many people were in my way.
“What a mess!” I heard Kristy say.
“Was it the Mischief Knights, do you think?” Mal asked.
“No way,” said Logan. “They’d have to be nuts to do something as dangerous as this. They’re mischievous, but they’re not crazy.”
I saw a teacher run up the aisle from where Mr. Kingbridge was standing, and out the door. Minutes later, I heard an ambulance siren. Once again, I felt the fear rise. What if it had happened again? What if somebody had had a heart attack?
Mr. Kingbridge climbed back onto the stage. “Okay, people, let’s just stay calm. I don’t think we have any major injuries here, although it looks as if one of our actresses has been hurt. The emergency medical people will take care of her, and they’ll check out anyone else who believes they’re injured. In the meantime, I’d like the rest of you to leave the auditorium — in an orderly fashion — and proceed to your eighth-period classes.”
The assembly was over. I found out later that the actress I had liked, the one with red hair, had fallen off the stage (that was the scream I’d heard) and broken her arm. I also found out later that nobody had a good explanation for why the lights had gone out. The Mischief Knights did not claim responsibility, and nobody else did, either. Was it an accident, or a prank? Nobody knew. But I, and the other BSC members, suspected that the episode was somehow connected to the mystery, and we decided to step up our efforts. If we didn’t solve the mystery soon, somebody might really get hurt … or even killed. It was time to follow up every possible clue we had.
That’s how I ended up interviewing Mr. Wetzler.
Now, I’m not usually a very good liar. Still, in this case, I thought the situation called for a tiny fib. After all, what’s the best way to find out more about who somebody is and what they know? Interview them. But in order to do an interview, you have to be a reporter, which I’m not. That’s where the fib comes in. When I called Mr. Wetzler, I told him that I was with the SMS Express, and that I wanted to ask him some questions about the school budget “and its impact on eighth-graders like me.” Since the school budget happens to be his favorite subject, he fell for it hook, line, and sinker. An hour later, I met him at the Rosebud Café and we sat down to talk.
I had thought ahead and brought a tape recorder, which turned out to be a great idea. As Mr. Wetzler and I sipped tea and chatted, the tape recorder did the work. I didn’t have to remember anything. All I had to do later was listen to the tapes and transcribe what we said. I found out some very interesting things, but somehow I didn’t think Mr. Wetzler was telling me everything he knew. You can judge for yourself; here’s the interview. Mr. Wetzler is JW (for Jerry Wetzler, of course), and you know who SM is.
SM: Thank you for meeting with me today, Mr. Wetzler.
JW: No problem. Hey, is that thing on?
SM: Yes, it is. I record all my interviews. Do you mind?
JW: I guess not.
SM: Let’s begin, then. First of all, I understand that you disapprove of the current school budget.
JW: I do, indeed. There’s waste everywhere, and my taxes are paying for it.
SM: Waste? For example —?
JW: Those ridiculous dances, for one. They’re totally unnecessary, not to mention dangerous.
SM: Dangerous? Are you by any chance referring to the last Halloween masquerade twenty-eight years ago?
JW: That’s right.
SM: Can you tell me more about what happened there?
JW: Uh, I don’t really —
SM: Details might be helpful, if you are trying to convince the school to cancel future dances.
JW: Well, a teacher died. A Mr. Brown. In a stampede.
SM: What caused the stampede?
JW: I think it had something to do with that eighth-grade girl, the one who was jilted at the dance. She created havoc, and then she disappeared and never came back to school.
SM: What? Um, I mean — very interesting. Can you tell me more about this girl?
JW: No, no. I don’t remember anything else. I really don’t.
SM: But she never came back?
JW: She never came back.
SM: Why —?
JW: Oh, my goodness, would you look at the time? I have to go. I — I have dinner plans!
SM: Well — well thanks for your time. If you have more time later, I’d like to ask you more —
JW: I’m afraid that won’t be possible.
That’s it. There’s nothing else on the tape. He left the Rosebud so fast I didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye. And the weird thing was that it was only about four o’clock. Why would he have to rush off for dinner at that hour?
It was very interesting, but I couldn’t figure out what it meant. This thing about the girl, for example. That was new to me. All I knew was that my friends and I had to keep investigating until we could put the pieces of the puzzle together. And we had to work fast.
“How do you find somebody who isn’t there? How do you even start looking for somebody who isn’t there?”
“What?” Kristy put down her fork and stared at me. “Stacey, what are you babbling about?”
I looked around the table and realized that all of my friends were staring at me. I also realized that I must have spoken out loud when I hadn’t meant to. I was so caught up in thinking about how to find out more about the girl Mr. Wetzler had mentioned that I’d barely been aware of the fact that I wasn’t alone. I was startled to find myself at a table in the SMS cafeteria surrounded by my friends, who were looking at me with concerned expressions. It was the Tuesday before Halloween weekend. We had spent lots of time during the last two BSC meetings trying to understand how what Mr. Wetzler had told me fit into our mystery. But nobody had come up with any answers — yet.
“It’s okay, I haven’t gone around the bend,” I assured them. “I’m just trying to figure something out.” I started to peel an orange.
“Well, clue us in,” said Abby.
“It’s about that girl, the one Mr. Wetzler told me about. That’s the first we’ve heard about a girl being mixed up in what happened at the dance. It just seems like —”
“Like if we can find out more about her, we’d be able to solve the mystery,” Claudia finished. She crumpled up an empty Doritos bag and tossed it at me. “Good thinking, Stace!”
“I think it’s mean that he seems to blame everything on her,” Mary Anne mused. “How could one girl be responsible for a stampede?” She bit into her sandwich thoughfully.
“You never know,” said Logan, who was sitting next to her. He had already gulped down a school lunch with double helpings of everything — tacos were on the menu that day — and now he was looking hungrily at Mary Anne’s sandwich. She offered him a bite, and he took a big one. “But Stacey’s right. No matter what, the first thing we have to do is find the girl.”
“But how?” I asked. “We don’t even know her name.”
“And even if we did, she wouldn’t be in the yearbook,” said Kristy, “because she left school in the fall.”
“Whoa!” Claudia said. “Hold on a second. Hey, Kristy, remember that really cute guy back in sixth grade? The one with the curly blond hair and the eyes?” She turned to me. “It was like he had these two laser beams,” she explained. “When he looked at you with those blue eyes of his, you’d just feel like fainting.”
“Claudia —” Kristy began.
“What was his name?” Claudia asked, closing her eyes as she tried to think. “Robin? Robert? Roger! That’s it. Roger. Roger Casey.” She sighed. “He was so cute. I was devastated when he left school because his family moved to Kansas.”
“That’s all very sad, Claudia,” said Kristy sarcastically. “But what on earth does it have to do with what we’re talking about?”
“Oh! Right,” said Claud a little dreamily. I could tell s
he was still thinking about those laser-beam eyes.
“Claudia, tell us,” I prodded her. I knew she was onto something, but so far I didn’t have a clue as to what it might be. “Why are you telling us about this guy?”
“Here’s the thing,” said Claudia. “I had such a crush on him, and I was so sad when he moved. My only consolation was that when the yearbook came out I’d have a picture of him, to remember him by. But when the yearbook came out, he wasn’t in it, because he had left school before pictures were taken.”
“So?” asked Kristy. “That’s what I was just saying. This girl wouldn’t be in the yearbook.” She looked confused, and a little irritated.
“Aha!” said Claudia. “But here’s the kicker. I’ll never forget turning to the page where Roger’s picture should have been. It wasn’t there. Instead, three pages later, there was a little list of all the people ‘not pictured.’ ”
“So what are you saying?” I asked. “That Roger wasn’t the only one?” Now I was confused.
“I see!” said Logan, jumping out of his chair. “She’s saying that there was a list! Of names.”
“Names of people who left school before the year was out!” Mary Anne exclaimed.
“So all we have to do —” Abby began.
“Is check that year’s yearbook!” I finished. “This girl’s name will be on the ‘not pictured’ list! Claudia, you’re a genius!”
Claudia smiled. “I am,” she admitted. “And I owe it all to a diet based on chocolate and chips.” She cracked up. “Come on, what are we waiting for? Let’s hit the library!”
We cleaned up our table and headed back to the yearbooks. We grabbed the one from the year of the dance. Sure enough, there was a short list of names on the last page of the eighth-grade section. “Not pictured,” it read, “are Julia Berkman, Elizabeth Connor, Herbert Franks, Susan Hsia, Steven Levy, and Mark Whipple.”
“Three boys and three girls,” said Mary Anne. “I wonder what happened to them?”
“The question is, which one is the girl we want to know about, and what happened to her?” I asked. I stared at the names, as if I could figure out everything if I looked at them hard enough.