Chapter Three: Right on Time
The autumn breeze tugged at Tim's navy windbreaker as he waited outside the front doors of Walkerville Elementary. D.A. had called his house that morning and told him to wait outside the front doors before school started, and, judging by his watch, the warning bell would ring at any minute.
He watched every girl entering the school, but none of them were her. Sure, a lot of them had sweaters, but none of them were the colors she usually wore. And a lot of them had blonde hair, but none of them wore it the same way she did— in pigtails, with red clips. Sometimes, he realized, she didn't wear a sweater, but had a T-shirt instead…
"Tim?" He looked up and saw D.A. standing there, arms crossed. She was wearing a purple sweater.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."
"Good. Hurry up, or we'll be late for library period."
"I thought you were going to tell me something."
"I will. In library period."
"In library period?"
Still in a daze, Tim followed D.A. inside.
-
As Tim and D.A. were making their way to the library, Ms. Frizzle was in the teachers' lounge, tapping on the counter surface and waiting for her coffee to finish brewing. The Walkerville Elementary coffee machine had been given the nickname "Old Faithful" because, like the geyser that was its namesake, its brewing period lasted precisely two and a half minutes. Unfortunately for Mrs. Frizzle, she was in a hurry, and waiting two and a half minutes for a single cup of coffee was just not going to cut.
"I wish I could speed up time," she mused aloud.
"Don't we all, Val," someone said behind her.
Ms. Frizzle started and whirled around to see a tall, dark-skinned man peering at the enormous master timetable that adorned one wall.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Ruhle," she said, hoping she wasn't blushing.
"Please, Valerie," he said, flashing brilliant white teeth. "Call me Max."
"Sounds good, sir— Max, I mean. Max."
"I was thinking the exact same thing," he said, gesturing at the master timetable. "It feels like first period goes far too slowly for my taste. I've suggested we begin at eight-thirty to the Board of Directors countless times, but they never take me seriously."
"I take you seriously, sir," Ms. Frizzle said. Mr. Ruhle smiled.
"I thought you might. What does your class have first period, Valerie?"
"Well, right now they're in the library, with the other half of third grade. I was just going to my classroom to catch up on some work Louise left in my mailbox. Do you know where she is?"
"Ms. Winters was contacted by a member of the Board of Directors last night— a Mr. McCrimmon, I believe. He informed her that there was an error in her calendar, and that she should have been on vacation the few weeks. She's taking that time off now, with double pay to boot."
"I had no idea the Board of Directors was that generous," Ms. Frizzle said, raising an eyebrow. "Who's replacing her?"
"Some woman we've hired. I can't remember her name— Amy, is it? Amy March?"
Ms. Frizzle froze. "Amy March? Mother of Timothy March?"
"That sounds right," Mr. Ruhle said. "Why? Do you have a concern?"
The room was silent for what felt close to eternity. Then there was a beep.
"Excuse me, Max," Ms. Frizzle said, turning away. "Old Faithful's right on time."
She took a mug from the cupboard above the counter and filled it with coffee before turning back to Mr. Ruhle.
"Mmm," she said, taking a sip. "That is a good cup of coffee."
"I'm sure it is," Mr. Ruhle said. Ms. Frizzle glanced at the clock.
"Whoops, look at the time. I have to run. I'd love to talk again sometime, though. Do you have any other spares today?"
"No," he said, trying not to let his disappointment show. "I'll see you later, then?"
"Sounds good."
With that, Ms. Frizzle left the teachers' lounge, coffee cup in hand. Mr. Ruhle waited a few minutes before doing the same.
-
Fifteen minutes into library period, D.A. passed Tim a note under the table they shared, an event so unlike D.A. that it took Tim several minutes to even register the note's crumpled existence in his curled palm.
At last, he opened it, and quickly scanned its contents.
Meet me in the Story Corner when quiet reading ends.
-D.A.
The note made Tim anxious enough to keep him from reading his signed-out copy of Stuart Little; instead, he stared at his watch, wishing the uncomfortable silence that filled the room would somehow be disrupted.
To his relief, after several painful minutes, Mrs. Newsome, the librarian (presently at her desk) looked at her watch and sighed in what could have either been exasperation or relief. "Quiet reading's over. You can work in small groups now, but please keep the noise to a minimum. Thank you."
Then she turned away from the students, towards her computer and began clicking away. Tim had always wondered what Mrs. Newsome did once quiet reading was over, but put such thoughts in the back of his mind as he headed over to the Story Corner at the other end of the library, where he found D.A., already sitting on a pillow.
The Story Corner was where the Kindergarten and Grade One classes— which had been his class, not so long ago— sat and listened to their teachers read from various books. He'd never liked it, and wondered if any of his classmates— especially Phoebe, who had come from another school, after all— had liked it either.
"So," he said quietly, once he had found a pillow of his own, "what did you want to tell me?"
"I have a plan for finding out more about the Smiths," D.A. whispered. "I'm going to the records office after school."
"The records office? Why?"
"Well, John and Marion had to have been married, didn't they? Why else would they be listed under the same last name?"
"I don't know, D.A. This was before we were born. Who knows what life was like back then—"
"Even if they weren't married," D.A. said, "they bought a house. My point is, there's got to be something in that office that can tell us more about them— maybe even how old this John Smith is."
"Wait. You're not just going to walk in there and ask to see a complete stranger's records, are you?"
"Of course not! I called them this morning and pretended I was my mother."
"You pretended you were your mother?"
"All I have to do is go there after school and tell them my mother sent me instead. It's simple."
"But what if they don't take you seriously?"
"Well, if they don't, I'll just have to—"
A woman's voice crackled over the library intercom before D.A. could finish, a voice that sounded all too familiar to Tim.
"Mr. Ruhle, line one. Mr. Ruhle, line one."
Tim stared at the intercom in dismay.
"Mom?"
-
"Mr. Ruhle, line one. Mr. Ruhle, line one."
Ms. Frizzle put down her pen and glanced at the intercom. The woman speaking, as she had feared, was indeed Amy March, someone she had never been on best terms with…
-
"I'd like to welcome everyone to the Third Annual Grade Two Parents' Lunch!" Ms. Frizzle announced from her position at the head table, looking out at the gymnasium (which had been commandeered for the event). "As you may know, this lunch was started by Mrs. Goldberg as a way for all you parents to meet and, hopefully, make friendships with not only other parents, but (I hope) with me. Please enjoy the food, and, uh, let the lunch begin!"
As she sat down to an enthusiastic round of applause, she caught sight of Mr. Ruhle beaming at her from across the table.
"You did a great job," he said. "Besides, Mrs. Goldberg had this terrible stutter, and it's nice to have someone that can actually get through complex sentences."
"Thank you," she said, unsure if it was a compliment or an insult.
As the lunch progressed, parents drifted by her table, many of them to ask personal questions, which she was able to handle with ease. A few complimented her on her speech.
It was when Amy March dropped by— her husband had been unable to make it— that she began to feel uneasy.
"I just wanted to say how excited I am for Tim to be in your class this year," she said, shaking Ms. Frizzle's hand. "I was just wondering, where did you get those beautiful earrings of yours? They look amazingly realistic!"
Ms, Frizzle fingered one of her earrings— today, in honor of the luncheon, she was wearing a sandwich-inspired dress, with lettuce-leaf earrings to complete the look— and forced herself to smile.
"Thank you, Amy," she said. "I got them in New York, actually. On Madison Avenue."
"Really?" Tim's mother said, smiling. "I would never have guessed. I suppose my fashion sense has always been a few seasons behind."
Before Amy walked off, she turned around again. "By the way, great speech! So much better than Mrs. Goldberg."
Mr. Ruhle reached across the table and patted her arm reassuringly.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm sure she didn't mean it."
"Oh, I know," she said, playing with an earring again. "I know she didn't."
-
As the Walkerville Records Office was half a block away from the elementary school; it took just over five minutes for D.A. to walk there. The building itself was made of a drab brick, hardly the sort of material, D.A. thought, you would use to build such an important place.
As she pushed open the slightly dusty front door and slipped inside, she could confirm that the building's importance had also had no effect on the dull grey paint chosen for its waiting room and front desk. Seeing as there was no-one sitting in the waiting room (she couldn't blame them; the chairs looked uncomfortable), D.A. decided to simply walk up to the front desk, where a bored-looking man sat, transfixed by his computer screen.
"Hi there," she said. "My mom phoned this morning and said she wanted to see the records of a certain person, but she's still at work, so she sent me instead. Is that okay?"
"Sure," he said, his eyes firmly on the screen. "What does your mom do, anyways?"
"She's an accountant," D.A said. "She does peoples' taxes."
"Can't say I envy her. What was the name of the person she wanted to look at?""
"John Smith."
A few minutes passed. The man sighed.
"I'm sorry, but we don't have a John Smith in our database."
"No John Smith? Are you sure?"
"Look, all of our records are on this thing, and it's practically state-of-the-art. If the computer says there isn't a John Smith in Walkerville, then there isn't a John Smith in Walkerville. Am I clear?"
"Yes. Can you do something else, though?"
"What?"
"Can you look up Marion Prentice? See if she ever existed."
"Marion Prentice, huh? This won't take long."
After several minutes of typing, he sighed again.
"No Marion Prentice either. Look, kid. Unless you have more imaginary people for me to search for, I'd suggest you leave. I have work to do."
"I guess I will," D.A. said as she turned towards the door. "Thanks for your help, though. I'm sorry it didn't turn out."
"We all make mistakes, kid. This just happened to be one of them. Have a good evening."
"You too. Bye."
"Bye."
As soon as the Records Office door had closed firmly behind her, D.A. took a deep breath and ran all the way home, trying to keep a feeling she couldn't quite name at bay as she dashed along the Walkerville sidewalks.
She couldn't wait to tell Tim.
--
To be continued…
