My Own Worst Frenemy by Kimberly Reid

Author:Kimberly Reid
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2011-07-20T04:00:00+00:00

Later in the day, I’m sitting in study hall and instead of doing homework, I’m watching Ms. Reeves. The study rooms are set up in a squared-off U-shape, the open end of the U being the front of the room where Ms. Reeves sits. I made sure I got to class early enough to get a study room, otherwise I’d have to share one of the tables inside the U and I don’t want any distractions. In fact, I got here so early—after pretending I was sick at the end of my last class—that I was able to watch the study hall class before mine empty the room. I didn’t see Annette, so I guess I can eliminate her as a suspect for the study-hall thefts.

I don’t know how I’ll get a chance to watch the other study-hall teacher, but I don’t think I need to. I’m pretty sure Ms. Reeves is the one. The other teacher, Ms. Hemphill, fits the Langdon scene perfectly—she’s got that whole I’m a person of culture thing going that all these teachers try to pull off, like they’re better than teachers at other schools just because they teach at Langdon. You get the feeling she can afford to be a teacher because she came from money. That’s the only explanation for her car, a Mercedes so new the temporary tag in the back window still has a month before it expires. Even at Langdon with its trust-fund teachers, that big shiny car stands out in the parking lot. She’s not a woman struggling to understand how these kids have the money they do.

Ms. Reeves, enviro-psycho, is the total opposite. She’s already decorated the study hall with posters of decimated rain forests and endangered seal pups. A jar sits on her desk with a sign next to it that reads: THE CHANGE LEFTOVER FROM YOUR SUPER VALUE COMBO COULD FEED A THIRD WORLD VILLAGE FOR A WEEK. It’s always empty. She drives a tiny hybrid that looks more like a Matchbox car than something made for grown people. It also looks brand new, so I figure Ms. Reeves is another trust-fund teacher, just one with a guilt complex.

Wait a minute. Her car. The tiny hybrid with a tiny trunk. I grab a dollar from my wallet, go up to her desk, and drop it into the jar.

“May I have a hall pass?”

“Thank you for your donation,” she says sweetly, handing me the pass.

I head outside toward the teachers’ parking lot, looking for a brand-new orange Honda, the little car I saw speeding away while I waited for Lana on the first day of school. I find it at the end of the lot, sporting a license plate that reads 431ZTF2. So that was Ms. Reeves at the mall. And I’d bet my Langdon meal plan ticket that she really was running because she stole something. I don’t have a motive yet, but I think I might have my suspect.

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