I So Don't Do Spooky Read Online Free PDF Page B

TODAY @ 4:00 p.m .
IN THE COMPUTER LAB
THIS YEAR WE DESTROY THE SAGUARO
CACTI AND
BRING HOME OUR TROPHY!!
JOIN AND BE PART
OF DONNER HISTORY!!
WE NEED YOU!!
YUMMY SNACKS AT MEETING!!
    Tongue-Stud Girl’s words from this morning echo in my mind. About how Donner’s out to get us ’cause we dominated them last year. Oh, puhleeze. No one in their right mind would be so into robotics that they’d stalk the teacher of a rival team. Why would you bother? What would be the point?
    A whistle rips through the air. From the left path.
    I stare at the poster. “Destroy” is a pretty strong word. Another whistle blast.
    Water polo to the left. Robotics to the right. Isn’t there a poem about this? Not about this exactly, but about having to choose a path. And Nerdy Nick thinks I never pay attention in class. Ha!
    What if I went to the robotics meeting for five fleeting minutes? In five minutes, I could rule out the Donner Dynamos as an all-star team of stalkers. I could report to my mom that I already started investigating. I could nosh on some snacks. And then I could head poolside to see Josh. …
    More whistles and a buzzer. My cute ballet slippers slapping the pavement, I jog off in the direction of the arrow. At the computer room door, there’s a long-faced, short-haired stubby guy in an overly wrinkled button-down shirt. A flash drive dangles from a lanyard around his neck.
    â€œYou coming in here?” he says, his hand on the door handle.
    I nod.
    He releases the handle and steps toward me. “You’ll be our tenth and final member.” He’s swinging his flash drive like it’s some kind of neck metronome. The faster he swings, the faster he talks. “We’re gearing up for the practice competition. And then, like for all the teams, our bot is crated and sent to storage so that we only see it for competitions. Claire has a bunch of stuff she wants us to tackle today.”
    I take a step back. I don’t want the swinging flash drive to connect with my skull. Plus, the guy’s standing just a little too close. In fact, he’s just a little too friendly. And a little too enthusiastic. I mean, we’retalking robotics here. Not something truly exciting like clothes or makeup or teen magazines.
    Flash Drive Guy finally stops for a breath, and I break in. “So Claire’s the teacher-mentor for your club?”
    â€œNo. No. No. Claire’s an eighth grader. Our president. She’s brilliant.”
Swing. Swing. Swing
. “Although she does put the ‘boss’ in ‘bossy.’ But she grows on you.”
Swing. Swing. Swing
. “How can you not know any of this? What planet are you from?”
    â€œThe Planet of Homeschooling.” Talk about your very brilliant response. Because how suspicious would that look if I didn’t have a single class with a single person in the club?
    â€œI’m Austin.” He whips open the door. “Come in and meet the gang.” He slides in ahead of me and announces, “New person. She’s homeschooled.”
    Eight people sit or kneel on a big blue tarp. They’re surrounded by springs and wheels and loads of other brain-puzzle bits and pieces. A girl’s plugging in a drill. Several toolboxes lean against the wall behind the students.
    Austin yanks open a toolbox drawer and tosses me and everybody else a pair of safety glasses. They do not match my outfit. Actually, oversized plastic safety glasses don’t match anybody’s outfit.
    A girl with dyed midnight black hair, chin length onone side, shoulder length on the other, stares at me. Practically stares through me. Her lips are perfectly plump and shimmer with peach gloss that complements her baby-doll top.
    When you’re a detective, you notice details. When you’re a fashion queen, like myself, you notice even more.
    â€œClaire?” I ask.
    She pulls herself slowly to a stand, swaying like a cobra.