The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman by Ben H. Winters Page A

all the ingredients as directed by the box. And yet my perfect little child, more precious to me than life itself, won’t eat. You hate it. You hate me. I shall stab myself with a salad fork.”
    “Knock it off, Dad,” cautioned Bethesda. “I’m not in the mood.”
    Bethesda’s dad never knocked it off when people asked him to. It was kind of a problem. “Oh, and it
looked
like such a simple recipe,” he said, moaning in his fakedistress. “Just macaroni and … shoot, what’s the other thing? ”
    Bethesda crossed her arms, trying not to be amused. “Cheese, Dad.”
    Her father smacked himself in the head with an open palm. “Oh, man! No wonder! I put in maple syrup!”
    “That’s gross.”
    “Oh? Well, bad news, Grouchykins. You’re smiling.”
    Like all people in a bad mood, Bethesda hated to be told when she was smiling. She stopped immediately.
    “So what are the bad mood ground rules here? Am I allowed to ask you a question? ” Bethesda just shrugged. “What happened with the Special Project? Speaking as your unofficial research assistant, I feel it’s my right to know. According to the fine print of the unofficial research assistant contract I …”
    Bethesda’s father stopped mid-joke and looked at his daughter seriously. “Bethesda?”
    She pushed the plate away and laid down her silverware. Her father gazed at her for a long moment until she looked up and said, “You know what, Dad? I’ve got a lot of homework.”
    “Okey smokey,” he replied softly. “More ice cream for me.”
    *   *   *
    In her room, Bethesda sat glumly on her bed, hugging Ted-Wo to her chest. She had three chapters of early American history to read, two chapters of
To Kill a Mockingbird,
four pages of Pre-algebra problem sets, and an earth sciences quiz on Friday. She didn’t feel like doing any of it. In fact, she didn’t feel like doing anything.
    “My life is not a joke, or a game, or a school project,” Ms. Finkleman had said, her eyes flashing. “It belongs to
me.”
    Bethesda groaned. What kind of terrible person was she? She hadn’t even
thought
of Ms. Finkleman’s feelings, never stopped to consider how the dumb Special Project would affect
her.
    She groaned again and listlessly started unpacking her book bag.
    That’s when she saw the note.
    At 8:25 that night, Tenny Boyer pushed open the glass doors of the Pilverton Plaza Mall. As always, he wore an ancient rock-and-roll T-shirt (in this case, from AC/DC’s 1980 world tour, purchased at a yard sale last summer), jeans of dubious cleanliness, and his well-worn blue-hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled uploosely around his thick hair. As always, his iPod ear buds were firmly in place. Listening to
King of America,
Elvis Costello’s tenth (and in Tenny’s opinion, best) album, Tenny slouched past the arcade and rode the escalator up to the food court. He slouched past the Sbarro, past the Cinnabon, past the China Wok, past the Auntie Anne’s, and at last arrived at his destination: Chef Pilverton.
    Chef Pilverton was a life-sized automated puppet of a French chef. He lived inside the big clock that sat in the northeast corner of the food court, across from Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips. Every fifteen minutes, Chef Pilverton popped out of the top of the clock like a jack-in-the-box, brandishing a rolling pin and an eggbeater, and made some sort of food-court-related announcement in a dramatic French accent. Stuff like, “Bonjour! Bienvenue à la Food Court! ” or “Mmm! J’adore China Wok! ”
    When Tenny was a little kid and came to the mall with his parents and his brothers, he would stare at the clock, just waiting for Chef Pilverton, and fall over laughing every time he popped out. Now, age twelve, Tenny thought Chef Pilverton was sort of lame. In fact, he thought Pilverton Mall as a whole was kind of lame, especially since the only thing
not
lame about it—namely, Record World—had closed three years ago.
    Tenny was only here