the Vehicle Identification Number to be a one. A two means the car was made in Canada and we don’t want those.”
All the way across the street, I see Franklin gesture to wave me off. He knows. The seventeen-digit VINs on each car are the key to this story. They’re like a car’ssocial security number. Its unique fingerprint. Once we grab the VIN, we can look up the car’s repair history.
“Here’s a pale blue Cambria, 2006,” Franklin says, opening the driver’s-side door to see the metal plate on the inside of the doorjamb, one of the places where the VIN is always stamped. “Yes, one is the first number here. And now, confirming that the tenth character is six for made in 2006. Yes. Ready, Charlotte?”
Franklin reads me a string of letters and numbers. I type it into the computer database we’re creating. He moves down the row to the next Cambria, and then the next and the next. It’s time-consuming and there’s absolutely no room for mistakes. If I type even one digit incorrectly, we’ll be looking up the wrong car and our story will crash and burn.
Franklin moves away from the line of Cambrias. I see J.T. leading his entourage to get the same cars on camera. Little do they know.
I get a little flare of goose bumps. And it’s not because the heat in the car is off. We’re a great team. And this is a great story.
“Franklin, you there?” I say into the phone.
I just had two more ideas about how we can make our story even better.
I flip open my reporter’s notebook. Although we’re verging on late for the Bexter party, my eye-wearying day of transcribing VINs is not over yet. Josh is still inside changing, so there’s just enough time.
“Just read me the numbers and letters, okay?” It’s probably the last thing Annie Vilardi expected me to say about the new—well, new to her—Ombra sedan her parents just gave her. She’s helping to make payments with the money she earns sitting with Penny. Now the two of them, wearing identical Bexter jackets and tasseled ski caps, aredelightedly demonstrating every gadget and gizmo on the white four-door. It’s the automotive version of a refrigerator, safe and boxy. But my research is about to prove even cars like this could have unrepaired recalls. So practicing what I preach, I’d better check out Annie’s car.
“Look through the windshield, on the dashboard. Nope, tucked in farther. The numbers are on a little metal placard.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it!” Annie says. She calls out the rest of the VIN as Josh trots down the front steps, checking his watch.
“Keep the porch lights on,” he says. “Don’t let anyone in. You have our cell numbers. And turn off the oven after you take out the pizza.”
“Of course, Professor Gelston,” Annie says.
“Duh,” Penny says.
One Bexter Academy Drive, the most prestigious address in Bexter faculty housing, is just five houses away from Josh’s number six, though we can’t see it through the neighborhood’s stand of evergreens. Tonight is Headmaster Byron Forrestal’s annual open house, a command performance for Bexter faculty and staff, as well as parents of new students.
And it’s my first appearance as a parent. At least, step-parent-to-be. I link my fingers through Josh’s as we approach the Head’s ornately carved oak front door and ring the bell. It feels as if I’m stepping into a new life. It’s also my first real opportunity to sniff out the truth about those phone calls. If I’m a parent, I don’t want my daughter to be in danger.
“Sweets?” I say. “They all know we’re getting married, right?”
Before Josh can answer, the door sweeps open and a cultured voice comes from behind it.
“Indeed. It’s our Josh and his beautiful Ms. McNally. Welcome, welcome. And my most sincere congratulations to the happy couple.”
The Head himself has answered, looking as stereotypically predictable in his prep-school mode as Franklin and J.T. did in their undercover
All the way across the street, I see Franklin gesture to wave me off. He knows. The seventeen-digit VINs on each car are the key to this story. They’re like a car’ssocial security number. Its unique fingerprint. Once we grab the VIN, we can look up the car’s repair history.
“Here’s a pale blue Cambria, 2006,” Franklin says, opening the driver’s-side door to see the metal plate on the inside of the doorjamb, one of the places where the VIN is always stamped. “Yes, one is the first number here. And now, confirming that the tenth character is six for made in 2006. Yes. Ready, Charlotte?”
Franklin reads me a string of letters and numbers. I type it into the computer database we’re creating. He moves down the row to the next Cambria, and then the next and the next. It’s time-consuming and there’s absolutely no room for mistakes. If I type even one digit incorrectly, we’ll be looking up the wrong car and our story will crash and burn.
Franklin moves away from the line of Cambrias. I see J.T. leading his entourage to get the same cars on camera. Little do they know.
I get a little flare of goose bumps. And it’s not because the heat in the car is off. We’re a great team. And this is a great story.
“Franklin, you there?” I say into the phone.
I just had two more ideas about how we can make our story even better.
I flip open my reporter’s notebook. Although we’re verging on late for the Bexter party, my eye-wearying day of transcribing VINs is not over yet. Josh is still inside changing, so there’s just enough time.
“Just read me the numbers and letters, okay?” It’s probably the last thing Annie Vilardi expected me to say about the new—well, new to her—Ombra sedan her parents just gave her. She’s helping to make payments with the money she earns sitting with Penny. Now the two of them, wearing identical Bexter jackets and tasseled ski caps, aredelightedly demonstrating every gadget and gizmo on the white four-door. It’s the automotive version of a refrigerator, safe and boxy. But my research is about to prove even cars like this could have unrepaired recalls. So practicing what I preach, I’d better check out Annie’s car.
“Look through the windshield, on the dashboard. Nope, tucked in farther. The numbers are on a little metal placard.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it!” Annie says. She calls out the rest of the VIN as Josh trots down the front steps, checking his watch.
“Keep the porch lights on,” he says. “Don’t let anyone in. You have our cell numbers. And turn off the oven after you take out the pizza.”
“Of course, Professor Gelston,” Annie says.
“Duh,” Penny says.
One Bexter Academy Drive, the most prestigious address in Bexter faculty housing, is just five houses away from Josh’s number six, though we can’t see it through the neighborhood’s stand of evergreens. Tonight is Headmaster Byron Forrestal’s annual open house, a command performance for Bexter faculty and staff, as well as parents of new students.
And it’s my first appearance as a parent. At least, step-parent-to-be. I link my fingers through Josh’s as we approach the Head’s ornately carved oak front door and ring the bell. It feels as if I’m stepping into a new life. It’s also my first real opportunity to sniff out the truth about those phone calls. If I’m a parent, I don’t want my daughter to be in danger.
“Sweets?” I say. “They all know we’re getting married, right?”
Before Josh can answer, the door sweeps open and a cultured voice comes from behind it.
“Indeed. It’s our Josh and his beautiful Ms. McNally. Welcome, welcome. And my most sincere congratulations to the happy couple.”
The Head himself has answered, looking as stereotypically predictable in his prep-school mode as Franklin and J.T. did in their undercover
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