Secret of the Red Arrow Read Online Free PDF Page A

exception.
    Everybody loved Ms. Collins. She was one of those teachers who had the knack for always making you feel enthused and entertained. Joe and I had our own reasons for loving her: She had written the recommendation letter that kept us from being sent to the reform school Mr. Gorse had mentioned: J’Adoube—a really notorious place on a tiny, isolated island twenty miles out to sea. All kinds of rumors existed about the place. Rumors about strange “behavior modification therapies” with names like “Swarm” and “Funhouse Mirror.” It was also rumored that several kids died each year trying to escape.
    Today Ms. Collins seemed troubled. “I hope you boys are careful about talking on your cell phones,” she said.
    Smiling at this haphazard warning, I said, “You don’t believe that stuff about their causing brain cancer, do you, Ms. Collins?”
    “No, but I think mine’s been hacked or something. . . .”
    That sounded odd. I wanted to ask her more about it.But Mr. Gorse invited her in. She said good-bye to us with that same uneasy air, and the door shut behind them.
    In the lobby, Principal Gorse’s secretary, Connie, smiled and held up two green late passes. “How’s Trudy, boys?”
    Connie knew Aunt Trudy from their gardening club. Together, they’d helped make an untended plot in back of the school into an overflowing vegetable garden. The cafeteria even used the fresh veggies in its daily special. (Not that you could tell, really. If only Aunt Trudy would teach some cooking classes down there!)
    “She’s good,” Frank said with a smile. “We’ll tell her you say hi.”
    Connie nodded. “I’d appreciate that. Have a good day, boys.”
    •   •   •
    I’m not sure Connie needed to bother with the late passes. Frank and I both had study hall in the cafeteria next with Coach Gerther, who barely glanced at the passes before grabbing them out of our hands and gesturing vaguely at the rows of tables. “Take a seat.”
    Coach Gerther was rumored to have lost 80 percent of his hearing in the Vietnam War, which made him the perfect teacher for study hall. The din regularly reached rock-concert levels. It was literally impossible to get any work done in there, unless your “work” involved studying the effects of loud noises on hearing over time. Frank and I settled at a table in the back, and Frank pulled out a notebook.
    “So . . .,” he began. “About the speech . . .”
    “Yo—Hardy boys!”
    I looked up to see Sharelle Bunyan standing over us. Well, looming over us was more like it. She was the queen of pep. Although she was an old friend of mine from junior high, we’d drifted apart in high school. She was very popular (not that we were un popular—but she was definitely in the alpha group).
    It was actually nice to see her. She had the same red curly hair she’d had as a kid, only now she wore her cheerleader uniform, with the Bayport High colors of green and gold and the school mascot—Bill the Bulldog—pictured snarling on the front.
    “Hey, Sharelle. Long time no see. What’s up?”
    “I was hoping,” she said, “that you guys would be able to volunteer for the blood drive.” She sat down next to us. As she did, she accidentally dropped a clipboard she was carrying. It clattered to the floor. “Shoot!” She picked it up and dusted it off, then held it out under our noses. Apparently, we had no choice but to sign up. “Ball of energy” is how people used to describe her in junior high. I saw that the description was still applicable.
    “Um, sure, Sharelle.”
    “Yeah, we’re always happy to bleed for a good cause.”
    We were starting to add our names to the list when she spoke to us under her breath. As she did, her whole demeanor changed. She sounded panicky.
    “Look, guys—I need your help,” she whispered. Something about her mood was contagious. We lowered our voices to match hers and kept our heads down.
    “What kind of help?” Frank