Chapter 17: Investigation

I'm feeling better as I enter the kitchen, mind turning, my optimism and excitement rushing to greet me as I ponder the problem. I normally love problems and figuring out how to solve them. And I let Tom Brown take that away from me. I'm smirking with what has to be satisfaction at the imagining of his downfall as I stride through the glass door. Until Mom turns around and lets out a squeak at the sight of me.

"Kitten MacLean! What happened?"

I brush her concern off with one of my old grins, so happy to feel myself again I lunge to hug her. She avoids me and the sticky mess, handing me some paper towel. "Just a prank," I say, skipping past her, enthusiasm returned where once it was impossible even to fake. As I wink at her, I feel it surge. Tom's declaration of war has freed me. And I've never felt more alive.

I leave Mom gaping at me as I run upstairs to shed my egg-besmirched clothing and make a plan. I have to be smart about this, smarter than Tom. If he finds out I'm poking around, he'll make my life miserable.

He'll try. I grin into the quiet of my room and do a little dance in my striped socked feet. He'll try to make me miserable. But, that's my strength, isn't it? The fact he might be able to poke holes in my optimism, but in the end, happy is more powerful than mean and vindictive.

At least, I'm going to do my best to prove that theorem and shove it in his smirking face.

I find it hard to sleep, my mind whirling, for the first time since I can remember lost in my own excitement rather than anything I might dream up for Kitalia. The more I think about this challenge, the more it feels like it could be fun if I play this right. How could I have allowed Tom to bring me so low when, honestly, he can't really do anything to hurt me, can he? Sure, my boots are gone and he seems to enjoy doing his best to make other people feel small and vulnerable. But, he'd done his best to intimidate me and I am still standing. Still smiling.

That smile is hard to suppress as I walk to the bus stop. Clancy and Abigail keep their distance, so at least I don't have to pretend too hard to keep them from noticing the old me is back. A benefit of being under Tom's scrutiny, I guess. Though, it's made me wonder. If he's trying to intimidate me-and Tate, I can only imagine she's still a victim in all this-how many others is he doing the same to? Didn't he come out and tell me he owned Rimtree High? That implies there are a great deal more students who might be suffering from his unoriginal brand of bullying.

Jimmy is as silent as ever and I keep my own peace, letting him have his privacy for now. I can't wait to fill him in on my brilliance, though, once this is all over. He'll be amazed at how creative and smart I am, turning things around on Tom.

But first I need to understand exactly what's going on.

It's easy enough to lean over to Abigail in law and commiserate over her C on our last test. Even easier to sigh and complain a little, though it's not really my style, she seems to enjoy gossip from what I've been able to ascertain.

"Mr. Gladwell is so mean." I roll my eyes at the door. He hasn't returned yet. He left after handing out our tests, summoned to the office. I hide my A from her as she nods, snapping gum I know he'll demand she spit out when he returns.

"I know, right?" She exhales her artificial strawberry sweet breath over me. Her forehead clenches, irritation obvious as she whispers, "And I was supposed to get a B."

"That sucks," I say. I'm sure she studied, but she's never been a B student. "So, do you know Tom Brown?"

Abigail's eyes narrow and she leans away. "I should get back to my work."

Mr. Gladwell didn't assign any, but she's suddenly face first into her text book. Darn. I guess I was too heavy handed. Time to try a more subtle approach.

"I'm happy to help on your next test." Maybe she'd be more open to chatting if we could study together.

Abigail rolls her eyes at me and pulls her gum out of her mouth, tucking the well-chewed piece under the edge of her desk as Mr. Gladwell reenters the room, huffing and red-faced. "If someone would do his damned job, I wouldn't need to study." She looks angry again, but there's no time to talk. Not while my least favorite teacher launches into a diatribe about how this class-his class-is dragging down the entire school's GPA curve.

Not need to study? She's nice and everything, but I've known Abigail most of my life and she's sadly just not that smart.

Dead end, I guess. I have to dig deeper.

I catch up with Betsy Bearston in gym class, grinning at her while she ties her sneakers. She offers a faint smile back as the rest of the girls leave, one of them waving at her and giggling. She looks uncomfortable for some reason, standing quickly though her right lace is still undone, staring after them. I step into her path as she tries to leave, too, pointing down at the offending accident waiting to happen.

Betsy sighs and shrugs, sitting down to tie it. Wow, she must really hate laces the way she jerks on them like that.

"Hey, Betsy." I haven't had much of a chance to catch up with her this year, she's been so busy with basketball and I've been lost in my funk and everything.

"Hi, Kit." Her deep voice always reminds me of a guy, but she's really nice so I've never said anything about it.

"How's first semester going?" I smile brighter, shake my fists in the air. "Go Rimtree Owls!"

She stands up, smiles back, though she looks really tired. Poor thing needs more sleep. "We're not in regular season yet, Kit."

Oh. I really have to pay more attention to the school athletics schedule. No matter. I bounce on my toes, hearing Mr. Shute blow the whistle in the gym beyond the swinging door. Betsy notices too, seems impatient to be going.

I let her, shoulders sagging. Another chance lost. But, as she reaches the door, Betsy pauses and sighs again. Turns back and smiles at me, her tired look gone.

"Did you need something, Kit?"

I beam at her. Good old Betsy. "Just wondering how you are."

She shrugs, looks out the little window into the gym before turning back to me. "I was wondering the same about you."

"I'm great." Maybe I should be holding onto my hangdog show, the one I've been wearing for weeks, but I just can't manage it.

She seems confused. "I thought you were having some trouble." She stresses the word, whispers it as she leans toward me.

I shrug. "Well, that's the thing about trouble. It comes and it goes."

She looks stricken a moment, wipes at her mouth with one hand. "I wish."

What exactly did that mean? I take a step closer, letting my smile fade. "Betsy," I say, carefully, like I would to a dog that didn't know me, "do you know Tom Brown?"

She twitches, looks scared a moment and I have the answer I need. But she's not about to tell me anything. "We're late." She rushes from the locker room and I hear Mr. Shute yell her name. I know he'll probably do the same to me for being tardy and exit with my chin up, but he doesn't even notice, thank goodness.

I spend the rest of class trying to get Betsy's attention, but she's too focused on Mr. Shute. That's okay, I'll track her down and talk to her later. But, I think I'm right, I'm really on to something. Her reaction seems to meet the criteria for "suspicious".

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