Case File 13 #3 (12 page)

But just before the bell rang, Ms. Schoepf came bustling through the door, her arms loaded down with a large black case and several bags. “Sorry I'm late.”

The substitute, a tall, bony woman with frizzy hair, got up from behind Ms. Schoepf's desk. “I thought you were out sick.”

“I was,” Ms. Schoepf said. “But I'm feeling fine now.”

Carter leaned over to Nick and whispered, “What's that she's carrying?”

Nick studied the black case. It looked sort of like a guitar. But as far as he knew, Ms. Schoepf didn't play any instruments. In fact, she'd once mentioned wishing that she'd been born with even an ounce of musical talent.

The substitute teacher looked flustered. She straightened her glasses and tugged at her skirt. “I drove all the way across town to get here. Who's going to pay me for my time?”

“Talk to the principal,” Ms. Schoepf said. “I'm sure she'll work it all out. It's really none of my concern.”

Nick felt bad for the woman as she gathered up her things and left. It wasn't like Ms. Schoepf to be so rude. Especially to someone who'd been doing her a favor by filling in.

As soon as the sub was out the door, Ms. Schoepf whipped open the black case. It
was
a guitar. “Boys and girls,” she said, sitting on her desk and resting the guitar on her lap, “why do you think you've been struggling so much with math?”

Angelo raised his hand. “Because people haven't been doing their homework?”

“I did my homework,” said a boy with red hair. “I do my homework every day.”

“Whatever,” Nick muttered. Rob Wells was the biggest liar in sixth grade and everyone knew it. Nick raised his hand. “I think it's the variables. If we could just stick with numbers and leave out the letters, it would be a lot easier.”

“All good answers,” Ms. Schoepf said. “But I've given it a great deal of thought, and I've decided that math would be much more interesting if we put it to music.”

“You mean like scales and time signatures?” Dana asked. “Math and music have a lot more in common than many people realize.”

“Actually,” Ms. Schoepf said, “I was thinking more of the driving beat of hard rock, with the mind-numbing chords of acoustic guitar.” She shook back her head, ran her fingers through her hair, strummed a series of chords that didn't go together, and burst into singing that could best be described as excruciating.

Sitting in their desks, the kids stared in shock and a little bit of horror. Nick didn't think he'd ever heard anything so terrible in his life. Not only could Ms. Schoepf not play at all, but Nick didn't think the guitar was even in tune.

Angie put her hands over her ears. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I once heard a cat get its head get stuck in a rain gutter,” Carter said, raising his voice to be heard over the teacher's screaming. “It sounded much better than this.”

Kimber Tidwell raised her hand and shouted, “Can I go to the nurse again?”

“Button it up, Buttercup!” Ms. Schoepf yelled, still strumming wildly. “I've got six more verses.”

The rest of the day didn't get any better. During history, Ms. Schoepf did an interpretive dance that she claimed paid homage to Abraham Lincoln's hair and the woman who sold Benjamin Franklin his false teeth. In science, she nearly lit the curtains on fire with what she called “a display of totally awesome pyrotechnics that will make heavy metal concerts look like tea parties.” And in English she asked the entire class to write an essay on what the world would look like if we all had zucchini slices for eyes.

By the time they finally stumbled out of class at the end of the day, the kids all felt like they'd been through a war zone.

“I am
not
going back to that class,” Kimber sobbed.

“I'm telling my mom,” Rebel said. “Ms. Schoepf has gone completely crazy.”

“I kind of liked the interpretive dance,” Carter said. He waved his arms and warbled the words Ms. Schoepf had been repeating. “Abraham Lincoln with his head full of rollers. Thank you for the woman who gave Benjamin his molars.”

Nick didn't know what to think. That morning he'd been sure nothing could be weirder than Old Man Dashner's outfit. But after Ms. Schoepf, Mr. Dashner looked totally normal. It was like the whole city was going crazy.

On the way home, the boys tried to remember if they'd ever had a more bizarre day.

“There was that time in second grade when Carter stuck a peanut in his ear and couldn't get it out,” Nick said. “I still remember how hard everyone laughed when you told the teacher why you had to go to the nurse.”

Carter huffed. “What? Rob Wells told me that if you didn't wash the dirt out of your ears you could grow plants in them. I thought it would be totally cool to have peanuts anytime you wanted. Besides, it was a lot weirder when
you
turned into a zombie,” Carter said.

“Sure,” Nick agreed. “But at least that made sense when we figured it all out. Today was just totally random.”

“Or was it?” Angelo pulled his bike to the side of the road.

Nick skidded to a stop beside him. “What do you mean?”

“I'm not sure. It's just . . .” Angelo bent over and wrapped his arms around his chest.

“Are you okay?” Nick asked. Angelo looked a little pale, the way Kimber had after coming back from the nurse.

Angelo breathed heavily for a minute or two before nodding. “I felt a little dizzy for a minute, but I'm okay now.” He got back on his bike and started pedaling. “Let's check on Mr. Dashner to make sure he's all right.”

“Are you kidding?” Carter squealed. “Let's just check the dental work on a great white shark while we're at it. Or offer to let Chuck Norris try out his latest karate moves on us.”

“He's got a point,” Nick said. “I mean, Old Man Dashner's never been exactly thrilled to see us.”

Angelo pedaled faster, and Carter, who had the shortest legs of the three and the oldest bike, barely kept up despite pedaling nearly twice as fast as the other two. “He threatened to feed me to his pet piranhas if I ever came within fifty feet of his house again. All because I accidentally got stuck to the back window of his car. Well, that and the mailbox thing.”

“Which makes it twice as strange that he was so friendly this morning,” Angelo said. “You two can do what you want, but I'm going to check on him. Something isn't adding up.” He turned his bike into Mr. Dashner's driveway.

“We better cover his back,” Nick said. He followed Angelo, even though he thought he'd rather approach a sleeping bear in its cave than Mr. Dashner in his house.

Carter looked toward the sky and said, “God, if I get killed, make it quick and painless. And make it not by piranha, or crossbow, or acid or—”

“Are you coming or not?” Nick asked.

“Amen,” Carter said, hurrying after him.

“Since when are you religious?” Nick asked as they got off their bikes.

Carter wiped the sweat off his forehead and grinned nervously. “Since I realized we are going to see the devil.”

Old Man Dashner watched his yard like an eagle. If a kid looked like he was even thinking about stepping onto the lawn, Dashner was outside shouting threats. So Nick was surprised that they got almost all the way to the door before the door flew open.

“Who's out there? What do you want? Is it the milkman?” At least he was back in his khakis and plaid shirt. Nick wasn't sure he could deal with a cranky old man in a pink swimsuit.

Angelo glanced back toward Nick with a quizzical look. Nick stepped back, ready to
take off at a moment's notice, but Angelo kept walking. “We just wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me?” Mr. Dashner barked. He ran his fingers through his wild gray hair with a confused sort of expression. “What do you mean,
check on me
? More likely coming to throw eggs at my door. Don't think I didn't hear you sneaking through my yard the night before last either.”

Angelo paused a few feet short of the front steps. Nick didn't blame him. He'd heard that the old man carried a cane with a razor-sharp blade that popped out of the end. The last thing he'd want to do was get within swinging distance. “We're not going to throw any eggs. It's just that when we saw you jogging this morning,” Angelo said, “you didn't seem like yourself.”

“Jogging?” Mr. Dashner spat. “Do I look like one of them crazy fools who sweat in public for enjoyment? Listen here, I've been a little under the weather today, but I can still deal with a handful of troublemaking scoundrels.” He leaned a little farther out, and the dazed look in his eyes disappeared as he spotted Carter. “You!” he shouted, poking a knobby finger in Carter's direction. “You're the brat who stuck gum to the back of my car!”

Carter backed toward his bike. “You, uh, must be thinking of some other kid.”

Old Man Dashner rubbed his eyes and squinted. “It's you all right. Didn't I tell you I'd feed you to my piranhas if I saw you again?”

The old man started down the steps and Carter made a break for it. “I'm out of here,” he screamed, jumping on his bike and pedaling furiously.

Nick grabbed the back of Angelo's shirt. “Time to go.”

“I just wanted to ask you about this morning,” Angelo said. “Did you feel unusual in any way?”

“I'll make you feel unusual.” Old Man Dashner grabbed a stick from beside his steps, brandishing it like a sword. “Teach you young troublemakers to bother peaceful folks.”

Nick yanked on Angelo—who finally seemed to realize talking was no longer an option—and the two of them grabbed their bikes and ran down the driveway.

“That's right, you run!” Mr. Dashner shouted, waving his stick. “And keep running too! Next time, I'm calling the cops.”

“Didn't I tell you he was crazy?” Carter said when Nick and Angelo had caught up with him.

Angelo shook his head. “Cranky, yes. And possibly violent. But not crazy.”

Nick panted, trying to catch his breath. “If there's a difference, I'm not seeing it.”

“This morning was crazy. What we saw back there was
just angry.”

Carter laughed. “Dude, that's exactly my point. This morning he's running around in a pink swimsuit. This afternoon he's waving sticks and threatening to feed me to the fish version of a food processor. That's crazy, cuckoo, nuts, mixed up in the melon.”

Angelo tapped the picture. “Except that I'm almost positive the person who just threatened us on his porch has no memory of being this person. And did you hear him ask if I was the
milkman
? There hasn't been milk delivery in Pleasant Hill since before we were born.”

“What are you saying?” Nick asked. “You think he has that thing where older people can't remember stuff? What's it called, all timers?”

“Alzheimer's,” Angelo said. “A form of dementia most common in people sixty-five and older. The most common symptom is forgetfulness, which could explain why he doesn't remember that he was out jogging in a Viking helmet this morning. And yet he not only recognized Carter, he also remembered that Carter put gum on his car, and that he threatened to feed him to a species of fish illegal in the U.S.”

Nick hadn't thought of that. “But if he can remember all that, why can't he remember what he did this morning?”

“It's my curse,” Carter said. “People remember things I did that even
I've
forgotten about.”

“I don't know.” Angelo pulled his pen out of his monster notebook book and chewed on the back. “Don't you think it's quite a coincidence that Mr. Dashner decides to dress up and go running on the same day that Ms. Schoepf freaks out?”

“You think she has old-timers too?” Carter asked with a grin. “Maybe she'll forget I didn't turn in my English assignment last week.”

“It's Alzheimer's, not old-timers,” Angelo said. “And I don't think Ms. Schoepf or Old Man Dashner has it. Something weird is happening around here. And I want to figure out what. Come on, let's head back to my house.”

As the three of them neared Angelo's house, Nick noticed Angie, Dana, and Tiffany standing in the front yard. “What are they doing here?” he asked.

“Maybe they found Carter Junior,” Carter said, racing ahead.

When Nick and Angelo got there, Angie was folding her arms with an annoyed expression on her face. “It took you long enough.”