without really thinking and almost before she knew that she was doing it, Jessie uncrumpled the paper and spread it out in front of her. And then, when she got that feeling in her stomachâthat tingle that told her she might be doing something wrongâit was too late, because a question had popped into her mind. And once that happened, there was no stopping Jessie. She needed to know the answer to the question, just as she had needed to know the answers to all the other questions that had come up this year: Who stole the lemonade money? How did Scott Spencer buy an Xbox 20/20? Where did the New Year's Eve bell go? What was wrong with Maxwell? The questions were like math problems, and Jessie couldn't rest until the equation was solved.
Who was
pony girl?
What did these words mean?
Jessie heard a sound from downstairs. She wasn't sure what it was, but it reminded her that she was in Evan's room without having asked him for permission. So she scooped the balls of paper on the floor into the trash can, set the trash can upright, then ran out of Evan's room.
Back in her own room with the door closed, she settled down at her desk and smoothed the wrinkled paper in front of her. A thought flickered through her mind:
Am I stealing something by taking the paper?
But no, that didn't make sense. The paper was trash, and you couldn't steal trash. Besides, Jessie carried the trash out of Evan's room every week. It was one of her household chores. What was the difference between carrying it out today and carrying it out on Saturday?
Still, she opened her door and hung up the Locked sign, then closed her door again and slipped the paper into her top desk drawer. There was no time to think about trash or words or Evan. Right now, she had to tally up the responses to her survey.
Using a pair of scissors, she carefully cut the top off the shoebox and dumped all the surveys onto her bed. Half of them were folded so many times, they looked like square paper rocks. A few of them even rolled off the bed and onto the floor. Jessie carefully unfolded each survey and spread it out on her bed. By the time she'd finished, the entire bed was covered in paper.
But when she counted up the surveys, there were only twenty-six. She looked on the floor and doublechecked her backpack but couldn't find the twenty-seventh survey.
How was that possible? No one had been absent today; she was sure of it. Maybe someone had not handed one in? She wondered who it was.
Jessie was still staring at her bed when she heard Evan climbing the stairs and then
bang, bang, bang,
on her door.
"I'm busy," she said.
"Open up!" he commanded. "Now."
Jessie didn't like the sound of that.
She opened her door a tiny crack, then pressed her face up to the thin slice of the opening. The surveys were spread out on her bed, and she didn't want anyone to see them.
"You can't come in," said Jessie, her lips pressed against the narrow space of the open door.
"I don't want to," said Evan. "Did you come in my room?"
"Yes," said Jessie. "But only for a second."
"It doesn't matter. You're not allowed in my room without my permission. You owe me a dollar."
Jessie knew there was no way out of this one. A rule is a rule. "Okay," she said. "I'll pay the dumb fine."
"It's not dumb. You wouldn't think it was dumb if I came in your room." But Evan never came to Jessie's room anymore. Jessie wished he would sometimes. Especially if it meant he had to pay her a dollar.
Evan stood waiting at the door.
"Now, you mean?" asked Jessie. "You want the dollar now?"
"Yes." Evan didn't move. His face looked like it was carved out of granite.
"Oh, fine," said Jessie. She closed the door and went to get her lock box from its hiding place behind some books on the top shelf of her bookcase. Then she retrieved the key, which was hanging on a small nail that she had tapped into the doorjamb inside her closet. She did all this very quietly, as if she were a spy on a secret mission, so that if
Who was
pony girl?
What did these words mean?
Jessie heard a sound from downstairs. She wasn't sure what it was, but it reminded her that she was in Evan's room without having asked him for permission. So she scooped the balls of paper on the floor into the trash can, set the trash can upright, then ran out of Evan's room.
Back in her own room with the door closed, she settled down at her desk and smoothed the wrinkled paper in front of her. A thought flickered through her mind:
Am I stealing something by taking the paper?
But no, that didn't make sense. The paper was trash, and you couldn't steal trash. Besides, Jessie carried the trash out of Evan's room every week. It was one of her household chores. What was the difference between carrying it out today and carrying it out on Saturday?
Still, she opened her door and hung up the Locked sign, then closed her door again and slipped the paper into her top desk drawer. There was no time to think about trash or words or Evan. Right now, she had to tally up the responses to her survey.
Using a pair of scissors, she carefully cut the top off the shoebox and dumped all the surveys onto her bed. Half of them were folded so many times, they looked like square paper rocks. A few of them even rolled off the bed and onto the floor. Jessie carefully unfolded each survey and spread it out on her bed. By the time she'd finished, the entire bed was covered in paper.
But when she counted up the surveys, there were only twenty-six. She looked on the floor and doublechecked her backpack but couldn't find the twenty-seventh survey.
How was that possible? No one had been absent today; she was sure of it. Maybe someone had not handed one in? She wondered who it was.
Jessie was still staring at her bed when she heard Evan climbing the stairs and then
bang, bang, bang,
on her door.
"I'm busy," she said.
"Open up!" he commanded. "Now."
Jessie didn't like the sound of that.
She opened her door a tiny crack, then pressed her face up to the thin slice of the opening. The surveys were spread out on her bed, and she didn't want anyone to see them.
"You can't come in," said Jessie, her lips pressed against the narrow space of the open door.
"I don't want to," said Evan. "Did you come in my room?"
"Yes," said Jessie. "But only for a second."
"It doesn't matter. You're not allowed in my room without my permission. You owe me a dollar."
Jessie knew there was no way out of this one. A rule is a rule. "Okay," she said. "I'll pay the dumb fine."
"It's not dumb. You wouldn't think it was dumb if I came in your room." But Evan never came to Jessie's room anymore. Jessie wished he would sometimes. Especially if it meant he had to pay her a dollar.
Evan stood waiting at the door.
"Now, you mean?" asked Jessie. "You want the dollar now?"
"Yes." Evan didn't move. His face looked like it was carved out of granite.
"Oh, fine," said Jessie. She closed the door and went to get her lock box from its hiding place behind some books on the top shelf of her bookcase. Then she retrieved the key, which was hanging on a small nail that she had tapped into the doorjamb inside her closet. She did all this very quietly, as if she were a spy on a secret mission, so that if
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