The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman Read Online Free PDF Page A

left.
    AGY EGY? T M R? Maybe these were the names of Ms. Finkleman’s best friends. Aggy Eggy? Tamara?
    P … P … Y …
    PROJ!
    Was it a list of places that Ms. Finkleman had traveled? Or lived? Was there a Projistan? Bethesda, who waspretty good at geography, didn’t think so.
    Come on, Ms. Finkleman, she thought. Who are you? As Bethesda sat staring helplessly at the code, remembering her arrogant performance in the lunchroom on Friday and generally deciding the situation couldn’t get much worse, she heard a chipper voice behind her.
    “All right!” said Bethesda’s father, settling down next to her at the kitchen table with a gigantic bowl of ice cream. “What are we working on?”
    Bethesda’s father loved to help. It was kind of a problem.
    “I have a big Social Studies project, dad. And it’s really hard, so—”
    “Ooh! The notorious Mr. Melville!” said Bethesda’s father. “Social Studies! Good thing I’m so social and/or studious! So? Lay it on me! What’s the assignment?”
    Bethesda sighed. “Well—”
    “Hey, you want some ice cream? It’s scrombifulous.” (Made-up word.) “Pecan raisin pretzel.”
    “No thanks, Dad. I have to focus.”
    “Can’t focus with low blood sugar, Dr. Octagon,” he said, using one of his zillion entirely nonsensical nicknames for her. He waggled the spoon at Bethesda and gave the ice cream a creaky, imploring voice. “Eeeeatme. Pleeease eeeeeat me….”
    Bethesda gave in and took the spoon, giving her father an opportunity to grab her spiral notebook. He held it up right in front of his eyes and squinted. “Let’s see what we have here! What on god’s green earth is a Finkleman?”
    “It’s not a
what,
it’s a
who,
and that’s what I’m trying to figure out. Ida Finkleman is my Music Fundamentals teacher,” explained Bethesda, reclaiming her notebook and wiping a smudge of chocolate syrup off the lower right-hand corner. “Look, Dad. No offense, but I don’t really think there’s much you can do to help on this one.”
    “That’s preposterous! ” her father protested. “First of all, I’m a good helper! Secondly, I know lots of stuff! Thirdly—did I say I was a good helper already? ”
    “Yeah, Dad.”
    “All right, then. Gimme a crack at it. What else is an old man to do? ”
    Bethesda’s father started pretend crying, blowing his nose vigorously in his napkin. Bethesda knew from many years of experience there wasn’t anything she could say that would make him back off. So she pushed the spiral notebook back across the table. He beamed and bent over it intently.
    “Hmm,” he said softly, peering at the mystifying scramble of letters that Bethesda had copied from Ms. Finkleman’s desk drawer.
    “Hmm, what?” asked Bethesda wearily.
    Bethesda’s dad didn’t answer. He held up one chocolate-stained finger for quiet and studied the spiral notebook in silence for a long moment. Then he snapped his fingers, looked back up at Bethesda, and said, “I’ve got it!”
    “Really? What is it?”
    “It’s a code.”
    Bethesda rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Dad, but I got that far already.”
    He shrugged and licked chocolate off his fingers. “Oh, well.”
    “What I’m trying to figure out is what the code
means.”
    “That I don’t know. Although …” “Although what? ”
    “It’s going to sound ridiculous. But there’s something kind of strangely familiar about those letters. Like I don’t know what it means, but the meaning is somehow … calling to me.”
    He was right: It sounded ridiculous. And yet Bethesda’sfoot sprang to life, suddenly squeaking insistently against the table leg, like it was a bloodhound that had just picked up a scent.
    “Calling to you? ” she asked, looking at her dad skeptically.
    “Yeah. Calling to me. Like from another life. Or something.” Bethesda’s dad laughed at himself, embarrassed. “Okay, so I guess I wasn’t much use this time. That’s what you get for—”
    Suddenly Bethesda