to the second floor where all of the old yearbooks are kept.
“This place is mad creepy,” Banks says, eyeing the low ceilings and creaky oak floors. It’s the first thing he’s said today that I agree with. I shepherd everyone to the last row on the right, where the yearbooks are kept.
“We should break up into pairs,” I say. “We can cover more ground that way.”
I catch Banks muttering something that sounds like Who made you Queen bitch? I stare him down. “You can be my partner.”
Bingham and Oliver laugh as I drag Banks to the next row, where the yearbooks from 1990 until now are stashed with the various volumes of A History of the Wheatley School. On the other side of the stacks, Jill removes a yearbook. She catches my eye through the hole where the book was. And she smiles. I return it as Banks plops on the floor with a yearbook.
I grab the yearbook for 2002 and sit across from Banks. I flip through several pages of photo collages at the front of the book, pausing when I see a picture of Professor Robinson, my art history teacher from last year.
I smile, because Robinson has slightly more hair and better teeth than he does now. He’s at the center of a group of about ten students. A pug-nosed brunette is holding up a sign that reads ART CLUB.
I do a double take—not because of the brunette. The girl next to her.
What’s that called, when your brain is so fixated on one thing that it starts telling your eyes to see things that aren’t really there? I think that’s happening to me right now.
Because there’s no way the girl is really her .
Ms. Cross.
I flip to the student portraits so fast I nearly give myself a paper cut. I scan the freshman class for the name Natalie Barnes. Nothing. Same for the upper grade levels.
I turn back to the art club photo. The girl has a round face, in that freshman-with-baby-fat way. Her blond hair is cut short, with thick, American Girl doll–like bangs.
It’s so hard to remember the details of someone’s face when you haven’t seen them in months. But I squeeze my eyes shut and picture Ms. C. She has long hair the color of copper, and gray eyes that squint when she smiles. She’s girl-next-door adorable yet pretty enough to be an actress in a Kate Mara–type way.
I cover the bangs of the girl in the picture so I can peruse every one of her facial features. Slightly long canine teeth. Round, gray eyes, and the slightest dimple in her chin.
It’s not my brain convincing me to see something that’s not there. I’ve found Ms. Cross.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
“Boom,” one of the boys says from the other side of the stacks. I think it’s Bingham. “Found him. Professor David Scheckel. Chemistry, 1998.”
Crap. I can’t leave the library yet—not when I’ve finally had a breakthrough.
“Give me that.” I jerk my head toward the 2002 yearbook in Banks’s hands. He shrugs and rejoins his friends.
“So I guess we go make a copy of his portrait,” Jill says.
“I’ll meet you guys downstairs,” I say. When they’re gone, I reexamine the picture. Ms. C is wearing a woven leather bracelet that’s identical to the one the girl next to her is wearing.
They could have made them together in art class, but none of the other girls in the photo is wearing one. It’s more likely that the girls are friends, and bought the bracelets together somewhere.
I flip to the student portraits in Banks’s yearbook: No Natalie Barnes. But I notice something strange—a whole page of pictures of kids I don’t recognize from the 2001 yearbook.
Somehow, I doubt that Wheatley gained ten students in a year.
I return to the 2001 yearbook and flip to the class portraits, more deliberately this time. Just as I suspected, there’s an entire page of students missing, as if someone tore it out carefully. From the looks of it, it’s students A-B.
Which would include Natalie Barnes.
I sit back against the stacks, the cold metal of the shelf jabbing into my spine. Someone
“This place is mad creepy,” Banks says, eyeing the low ceilings and creaky oak floors. It’s the first thing he’s said today that I agree with. I shepherd everyone to the last row on the right, where the yearbooks are kept.
“We should break up into pairs,” I say. “We can cover more ground that way.”
I catch Banks muttering something that sounds like Who made you Queen bitch? I stare him down. “You can be my partner.”
Bingham and Oliver laugh as I drag Banks to the next row, where the yearbooks from 1990 until now are stashed with the various volumes of A History of the Wheatley School. On the other side of the stacks, Jill removes a yearbook. She catches my eye through the hole where the book was. And she smiles. I return it as Banks plops on the floor with a yearbook.
I grab the yearbook for 2002 and sit across from Banks. I flip through several pages of photo collages at the front of the book, pausing when I see a picture of Professor Robinson, my art history teacher from last year.
I smile, because Robinson has slightly more hair and better teeth than he does now. He’s at the center of a group of about ten students. A pug-nosed brunette is holding up a sign that reads ART CLUB.
I do a double take—not because of the brunette. The girl next to her.
What’s that called, when your brain is so fixated on one thing that it starts telling your eyes to see things that aren’t really there? I think that’s happening to me right now.
Because there’s no way the girl is really her .
Ms. Cross.
I flip to the student portraits so fast I nearly give myself a paper cut. I scan the freshman class for the name Natalie Barnes. Nothing. Same for the upper grade levels.
I turn back to the art club photo. The girl has a round face, in that freshman-with-baby-fat way. Her blond hair is cut short, with thick, American Girl doll–like bangs.
It’s so hard to remember the details of someone’s face when you haven’t seen them in months. But I squeeze my eyes shut and picture Ms. C. She has long hair the color of copper, and gray eyes that squint when she smiles. She’s girl-next-door adorable yet pretty enough to be an actress in a Kate Mara–type way.
I cover the bangs of the girl in the picture so I can peruse every one of her facial features. Slightly long canine teeth. Round, gray eyes, and the slightest dimple in her chin.
It’s not my brain convincing me to see something that’s not there. I’ve found Ms. Cross.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
“Boom,” one of the boys says from the other side of the stacks. I think it’s Bingham. “Found him. Professor David Scheckel. Chemistry, 1998.”
Crap. I can’t leave the library yet—not when I’ve finally had a breakthrough.
“Give me that.” I jerk my head toward the 2002 yearbook in Banks’s hands. He shrugs and rejoins his friends.
“So I guess we go make a copy of his portrait,” Jill says.
“I’ll meet you guys downstairs,” I say. When they’re gone, I reexamine the picture. Ms. C is wearing a woven leather bracelet that’s identical to the one the girl next to her is wearing.
They could have made them together in art class, but none of the other girls in the photo is wearing one. It’s more likely that the girls are friends, and bought the bracelets together somewhere.
I flip to the student portraits in Banks’s yearbook: No Natalie Barnes. But I notice something strange—a whole page of pictures of kids I don’t recognize from the 2001 yearbook.
Somehow, I doubt that Wheatley gained ten students in a year.
I return to the 2001 yearbook and flip to the class portraits, more deliberately this time. Just as I suspected, there’s an entire page of students missing, as if someone tore it out carefully. From the looks of it, it’s students A-B.
Which would include Natalie Barnes.
I sit back against the stacks, the cold metal of the shelf jabbing into my spine. Someone
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