The Scarlet Letterman by Cara Lockwood Page B

about is whatever killed that bear. I don’t think it was a hunter. The bear was half-eaten.”
    “Ew!” Hana says. “I’m trying to eat my breakfast slop here.”
    “Guys! Bear? Did you hear?” Samir says, joining us as he slides his tray down in front of an empty chair.
    “Duh — old news!” Blade says, waving her hand as if she hadn’t just heard the story five minutes ago. “So do you think that bear was killed by that monster you saw in the woods?”
    “What did you see in the woods?” Hana asks me.
    “If you tell me Dracula, I am so going to get a transfer,” Samir adds.
    I guess I forgot to mention the red-eyed thing to Hana and Samir. I relate the story.
    “Maybe it was just an owl,” Samir suggests. “Owls are way creepy.”
    “They don’t have glowing red eyes, dummy,” Blade says, tossing her empty milk carton at him.
    “And they’re not big enough to kill bears,” Hana adds.
    “Can’t blame a guy for trying to explain things logically,” Samir says. “By the way, did you hear —”
    “No, Parker was not bitten by anything, and no, Parker did not vanquish the bear by farting or whatever it is she’s supposed to have done,” Hana says, exasperated. “Now can I finish eating?”
    “Parker farts?” Samir echoes, looking puzzled. “Anyway, what I was going to say is that Coach H is missing.”
    “He’s what?”
    “He was AWOL at basketball practice and for his afternoon classes yesterday, too,” Samir says.
    “That’s weird,” I say.
    “Yeah. Apparently Headmaster B is going to make some kind of announcement at morning assembly.”
    The official excuse for Coach H’s abrupt departure, according to Headmaster B, is that he’s just on a leave of absence, but the four of us know that ghosts don’t just take vacations. And Hana thinks whatever happened to Coach H wasn’t planned in advance.
    “Otherwise he would’ve had a substitute teacher,” she points out as we file out of the chapel after morning assembly.
    “Something bad happened to him, I know it,” Blade says. “This is why we need to form the LITs.”
    “Not the club again,” Hana says, exhaling a sigh.
    “Maybe he escaped purgatory somehow,” Samir says. “Wasn’t he supposed to help people patch up bad relationships? Maybe he’s done that and moved on.”
    “Coach H? Are we talking about the same person?” I say. Coach has a long way to go in the people skills department. “I think it might take him a long time to get out of purgatory.”
    “That’s exactly my point,” Blade says. “Something bad happened to him. We ought to investigate.”
    “How are we supposed to do that?” Hana asks.
    “How else? Snoop around,” Blade says.

Eleven

    Blade’s idea of snooping involves sneaking into the boys’ dorm after curfew, armed with nothing more than a book of her Wiccan spells.
    “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I whisper as we’re standing in the hallway of Macduff dorm. The dorm hallway is nearly dark, except for small lights near the floorboards. The living room is dark, and giant shadows in the corners are either sofas or bear-eating monsters. Okay, so they’re probably not monsters.
    Still, I’d rather not find out. I wouldn’t be here at all, except for the fact that Blade guilt-tripped me. Coach H did save our hides last semester a couple of times when Emily Brontë was on the loose wreaking havoc. She reminded me that despite my recent falling out with Coach H, we had history, and the least I could do was try to find out what happened to him. And she’s right. I only wish she could’ve been right during daylight hours.
    “I should’ve listened to Hana,” I say and sigh.
    Hana was, at this moment, sleeping in her bed back in our dorm, where we were supposed to be. She was having no part in snooping. She said the idea was stupid, and not worth the risk of dish duty — our punishment should Guardians catch us breaking curfew.
    “Where’s your sense of