Shadowmaker by Joan Lowery Nixon

read selectionsfrom a couple of the journals, then said to me, “Katie, did you work with Lana Jean on her journal last week?”
    “Yes,” I said. “On Sunday.”
    She nodded. “I can see improvement in her work—primarily in the subject matter—but something puzzles me. There’s only the one entry. What happened to the rest of her semester’s work? The pages seem to have been torn out.”
    Everyone in the class turned to look at me. I was particularly conscious of B.J.’s curious stare.
    I attempted to explain. “She wanted to make a fresh start. She was really eager to get a good grade.”
    “Her intentions were good. However, it’s unfortunate that she didn’t remember the rules. I like my students to be aware of their progress through the semester. The last assignment is to write a critique comparing their first and last journal entry. I covered the rules of journal writing during the first week of class. You, being a new student, probably weren’t aware of this particular rule, and—if so—Lana Jean should have explained it to you.”
    For more reasons than one I wished that Lana Jean was there to speak for herself. I wasn’t going to lay the blame on her, so I just mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
    Mrs. Walgren didn’t turn loose. “Since the pages were destroyed—”
    “I’m not sure if she destroyed them. Maybe she can put them back into the journal,” I blurted out, then wished I’d had enough sense to keep quiet. What Lana Jean had written on those pages was nobody’s business but her own.

CHAPTER NINE
    W hen I walked into the cafeteria at lunchtime, Tammy motioned to me to join her table. There were some other kids I’d seen, but didn’t know, and Tammy introduced us. No one mentioned Lana Jean. I was grateful. They talked about the school musical, in which two of them had won parts, and the upcoming Future Farmers of America dance, which seemed to be one of the big events of the year. All I wanted to think about was the end of school, the end of summer, the end of Mom’s novel, and our return to Houston. I’d been practicing warm-ups, exercises, and positions with a vengeance, but it was obvious to me that without the stimulation of the class and the guidance of my teacher I was going downhill fast.
    When the bell rang I dumped my lunch trash and walked into the hall.
    “Hi,” Travis Wyman said. “I was waiting for you.”
    “For me?” I sounded like a nerd and tried to cover up by adding, “Why?”
    “I just want a chance to talk to you. I think you have the wrong idea about me, and I’d like to make things right.”
    I swallowed a groan and tried to pretend that my cheeks weren’t hot with embarrassment. Obviously the sheriff had told Travis what I’d reported about his conversation with Lana Jean. I certainly hadn’t expected Travis to confront me, and I saw no need to apologize. “You don’t owe me any explanations,” I said.
    “Yes, I do,” he said, “but not here and now.” He surprised me by smiling. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll come by your house this afternoon, after school.”
    As I hesitated, he said, “Please, Katie.”
    I stopped thinking rationally as he spoke my name with a voice that was deep and strong and soft, all at the same time. Somewhere inside my mind came the notes of a warning bell, but I ignored it. “Okay,” I told him. “I get home around four.”
    “I know where you live. See you at four,” he said, then turned and strode off toward his next class.
    I barely made it to mine.
    Throughout my afternoon classes I forced myself to concentrate on my work. It was the only way I could keep from thinking about Lana Jean and agonizing over the awful feeling that somehow I should know where she was. I really had to do something to find her. But what, I didn’t know.
    Late that afternoon, as I came through the kitchen, Mom got up from her desk to greet me, but her eyes were glassy,and she blinked a lot, looking as if she was trying to