bookshelf were like soldiers all in a row, and the mirror had no fingerprints or dog-nose smudges. But there was a shirt hung over the frame of his bed and a poster of a surfer careening down a wave, loose on one corner.
“All right,” Jude said, sitting down on a spin-ny chair, pulling out the keyboard, and clacking away. “What did you want to look up?”
“Is this your own computer?” There were only a few things that were actually mine. The rest fell into three categories: things I had to share, things I had been given as hand-me-downs, or things I was allowed to borrow.
He nodded. “I got it from my grandparents last Christmas. I want to be an architect. You have to know how to use a computer if you’re going to do that.”
The book
Hoot
—one of my favorites—sat next to a framed picture of Jude, slightly younger, on the desk. He stood on a surfboard in a bathing suit and surf shirt, though the wave was only a giant cutout, and the board was a sleek plastic. “I take it you like surfing, too?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I’ve never done it, but Mom promised me that someday we’d go someplace where I could learn.”
“Cool.”
“Now, what did you want to look up?”
“Type in the
Alma Gazette
.”
“The newspaper? Why do you want to look at that?” He tapped at the keys without even looking at the letters and hit ENTER . A list of websites filled the screen.
I shrugged. “I just want to see if there are … any old newspapers that mention … Ben Folger.”
He whirled around. “Sunday, are you serious?”
“Wait, before you go crazy. I really think that maybe if I befriend him …”
“What?!”
“Or if I have proof that he’s a criminal, then … this could be my chance to do something to get noticed.”
We stared at each other in silence.
“Come on, Jude, please. We tried baking a giant cookie. I tried jumping rope. My mom and Miss Jenny are planning a reopening party, and I have no more leads on the manuscript. Just search Ben Folger’s name. Maybe nothing will come up. But if there is something, then we could be heroes. Think about it.”
He shook his head and muttered, “Think about getting killed.”
“Please.”
“Okay, okay.” He clicked on ARCHIVES and then typed BEN FOLGER into the search box.
I smiled when a series of articles popped up.
LOCAL LIBRARIAN WINS GRANT FOR TOWN LIBRARY
LIBRARIAN STARTS UP READING PROGRAM FOR KIDS
FUND-RAISER TO BENEFIT LOCAL LIBRARY
LIBRARY TO HOST FAMOUS AUTHOR LEE WREN
“You never told me he was a librarian,” I said, knocking Jude with my elbow.
He shrugged. “I didn’t know he was.”
“Do you see what this could mean?”
“That crazy Ben Folger used to be crazy Ben Folger, the librarian?”
“No, Jude. He was a librarian. I found the story in the library. That means he could’ve written the story I found.”
The headline flashed in my head:
LOCAL RECLUSE WINS PULITZER PRIZE FOR STORY HE HID AWAY. TWELVE-YEAR-OLD GIRL HONORED FOR THE DISCOVERY.
Jude clicked out of the window and slid the keyboard back under the desk. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, he could have.”
“Yeah, but you said my mom could have, too.”
I straightened my shoulders. “And I still think she might have. But it’s okay to have more than one potential person.”
Jude spun the chair around and around. “I guess you’re right. But Ben Folger—it’s just not—”
“It is possible,” I interrupted, plopping onto his bed. “But since we’re at your house, why don’t we search for clues and see if your mom was the author?”
“Okay. What should we look for?”
“Well, I guess anything that she’s written.”
I followed Jude into the bedroom across the hall. Like his room, everything looked as if it been washed, dried, and ironed to perfection. A long-stemmed rose in an elegant glass vase sat on the nightstand. I bent down and sniffed the petals, the sweet scent reminding me of therose Dad gave my sisters and me
“All right,” Jude said, sitting down on a spin-ny chair, pulling out the keyboard, and clacking away. “What did you want to look up?”
“Is this your own computer?” There were only a few things that were actually mine. The rest fell into three categories: things I had to share, things I had been given as hand-me-downs, or things I was allowed to borrow.
He nodded. “I got it from my grandparents last Christmas. I want to be an architect. You have to know how to use a computer if you’re going to do that.”
The book
Hoot
—one of my favorites—sat next to a framed picture of Jude, slightly younger, on the desk. He stood on a surfboard in a bathing suit and surf shirt, though the wave was only a giant cutout, and the board was a sleek plastic. “I take it you like surfing, too?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I’ve never done it, but Mom promised me that someday we’d go someplace where I could learn.”
“Cool.”
“Now, what did you want to look up?”
“Type in the
Alma Gazette
.”
“The newspaper? Why do you want to look at that?” He tapped at the keys without even looking at the letters and hit ENTER . A list of websites filled the screen.
I shrugged. “I just want to see if there are … any old newspapers that mention … Ben Folger.”
He whirled around. “Sunday, are you serious?”
“Wait, before you go crazy. I really think that maybe if I befriend him …”
“What?!”
“Or if I have proof that he’s a criminal, then … this could be my chance to do something to get noticed.”
We stared at each other in silence.
“Come on, Jude, please. We tried baking a giant cookie. I tried jumping rope. My mom and Miss Jenny are planning a reopening party, and I have no more leads on the manuscript. Just search Ben Folger’s name. Maybe nothing will come up. But if there is something, then we could be heroes. Think about it.”
He shook his head and muttered, “Think about getting killed.”
“Please.”
“Okay, okay.” He clicked on ARCHIVES and then typed BEN FOLGER into the search box.
I smiled when a series of articles popped up.
LOCAL LIBRARIAN WINS GRANT FOR TOWN LIBRARY
LIBRARIAN STARTS UP READING PROGRAM FOR KIDS
FUND-RAISER TO BENEFIT LOCAL LIBRARY
LIBRARY TO HOST FAMOUS AUTHOR LEE WREN
“You never told me he was a librarian,” I said, knocking Jude with my elbow.
He shrugged. “I didn’t know he was.”
“Do you see what this could mean?”
“That crazy Ben Folger used to be crazy Ben Folger, the librarian?”
“No, Jude. He was a librarian. I found the story in the library. That means he could’ve written the story I found.”
The headline flashed in my head:
LOCAL RECLUSE WINS PULITZER PRIZE FOR STORY HE HID AWAY. TWELVE-YEAR-OLD GIRL HONORED FOR THE DISCOVERY.
Jude clicked out of the window and slid the keyboard back under the desk. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, he could have.”
“Yeah, but you said my mom could have, too.”
I straightened my shoulders. “And I still think she might have. But it’s okay to have more than one potential person.”
Jude spun the chair around and around. “I guess you’re right. But Ben Folger—it’s just not—”
“It is possible,” I interrupted, plopping onto his bed. “But since we’re at your house, why don’t we search for clues and see if your mom was the author?”
“Okay. What should we look for?”
“Well, I guess anything that she’s written.”
I followed Jude into the bedroom across the hall. Like his room, everything looked as if it been washed, dried, and ironed to perfection. A long-stemmed rose in an elegant glass vase sat on the nightstand. I bent down and sniffed the petals, the sweet scent reminding me of therose Dad gave my sisters and me
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