I could almost smell the tight stack of newsprint on Rankin’s desk, more aware of those pages than the blank one in front of me. I tapped my pencil and tried to focus on the pop quiz. My knee bobbed up and down, shaking the table. Anh kicked me without looking up. It was Friday morning and the Bui Mart had been sold out of City Posts—as was every store in a three-block radius. Bao said the front page had been some kind of smear campaign against a local politician, and his supporters had combed through every store in town that morning, buying up every copy on the shelves. I stared at the City Post on Rankin’s desk, took a deep breath, checked the clock, and forced my attention to my quiz.
Two more problems and I was out of there. Maybe Jeremy had a copy . . . if he was speaking to me at all. I’d taken the bus home from the hospital yesterday, and walked to school that morning, like I did every Friday. I hadn’t seen Jeremy since I’d stood him up yesterday, and I had no idea what to expect.
A cold rush of air moved past my desk. Oleksa sauntered down the aisle and set his quiz facedown. I looked at the clock again. Anh finished, sliding her chair back without a sound. TJ was behind her.
I jabbed the buttons of my calculator, scratched out numbers, and finished just as the bell rang. My quiz was the last one on the stack, but I was certain I’d nailed it, even through all the distractions.
I approached Rankin’s desk, where the newspaper was now spread open. Somewhere in it was a message for me. I knew it. The note in my locker and then the sign-in sheet in the hospital were building up to something.
Better luck next time.
No. No more next times. I needed that paper.
“Question, Miss Boswell?” Rankin stared at me over the drooping pages of his newspaper.
“No. No question.”
“Very well then.” He snapped the paper up, teasing me
with the front and back pages. Definitely today’s paper. “Where did you get it?” I heard myself ask.
He looked at me with a curious expression. “You mean
this? Yes,” he said, brows shooting up as he rustled the pages. “I had quite a time finding one this morning. This copy was waiting on my desk quite unexpectedly when I arrived.”
My spine tingled, as if someone drew a finger over it. The only City Post in school was left on Rankin’s desk before first period, where I’d be sure to see it. Someone wanted me to find it, like they’d wanted me to find all the others. I had to get my hands on that paper.
“May I borrow it?” The ice I was treading was thin. He’d expressly forbidden me from bringing the paper to class, but class was over and I couldn’t walk away without asking. If he didn’t agree, then I’d find another way. I wasn’t leaving school without that paper.
He flipped the corners down. “No, you may not. I’m sure your physics teacher would not appreciate you reading it in his class any more than I want you reading it during mine.”
“But—”
“However,” he interrupted, raising a finger, “there is plenty of inventory yet to be counted. I’ll see you at two forty-five. If the paper is still here when you return, you may take it if you wish.”
? ? ?
At 2:43 p.m. I sprinted through the chem lab door. Rankin was gone, but his newspaper was there.
I flipped through the sections with shaking hands, snatching the Missed Connections out of the stack. The pages clung together, reluctant to separate. I dropped into my seat, skimming the fine print for an equation or theorem. But the numbers were all bust sizes and addresses of bars.
Whoever had written the ads wasn’t making this easy. If there was an ad in today’s personals, I’d have to read them all to find it.
I laid the paper across my desk and studied them, one by one, reading the cryptic ones slowly, listening for a familiar cadence or the suggestion of a clue.
And there it was.
I don’t know how I knew, or why I was so sure, except that it was the only ad that didn’t seem to fit with the others. The tone of the ad seemed to resonate with malice, where all the others resonated with hope. Grabbing a lab marker, I circled it.
I’m serious. I’m done chasing my tail, trying to be the big dog. I’m the brightest. Lie back and watch me shine.
What did it mean? I’d expected a number, a formula . . . something concrete. This was as maddening and nonsensical as the message under the bleachers.
I’m the brightest. Fine. Whatever. I shoved my chair back and stuffed my hands in my pockets. If he wanted to prove he was smarter than me, why not give me a problem I could solve?
Or had he?
I scooted back to the desk. I read it again, dissecting each word for some corresponding value. Scrutinizing each letter for patterns or hint of a code. No key emerged.