Criss Cross by Lynne Rae Perkins Page B

house, into the bright light of the kitchen. It still spelled
Debbie.
There was a tiny red gemstone dotting the I.
    Russell wondered what the necklace was doing in his backyard, how it had gotten there, and which Debbie it belonged to. There were a lot of Debbies. Three that he knew of; probably there were even more. He pictured himself going around to all the Debbies, asking them if this was their necklace. “I found this in my backyard, is it yours?” He didn’t want to do it. He decided he would turn it in to Lost and Found at school, and he put it in the pocket of his jacket, hanging in the hall closet. Where it stayed for a while, because the next day was sunny and warm.
    But back in the evening before the sunny day, Phil was shooting baskets. He had finished his homework at school. Lenny heard the ball bouncing on cement and boinging on the backboard, and went over. He sat on the low wall in Phil’s backyard while Phil kept shooting. Sometimes one or the other of them would say something, not saying much, but with the feeling of talking that is a good prelude for going home and going to bed.
    A while later, when he finally did slip into his bed, Lenny felt a weight on his feet. Oops, he thought. He reached down and dropped his unopened school books onto the floor. As he fell asleep, he heard the muffled thunk of heavy objects settling into new positions down in the basement.

CHAPTER 17

At the Tastee-Freez on a Tuesday Evening
     
    T hree or four stars were visible in the opalescent dome of the sky, which was light and diaphanous to the west, a deepening delphinium blue to the east. The air was as warm as bathwater. Across the street, strings of lightbulbs illuminated rows of shiny used cars and a yellow sign with red letters that read

     
    Debbie couldn’t look at the sign without saying it aloud in her head and trying to make it come out right. She and Patty were eating hot fudge sundaes from plastic boats with plastic spoons. They sat balanced on the back of a bench with their feet on the seat, watching people come and go at the Tastee-Freez. Light, spotty currents of east and westbound traffic shoop-shooped past, one way and the other.
    Frank’s Featured Cream Puff of the Week was a light blue Mustang convertible, a coupe. It reminded Patty of Nancy Drew, who she hadn’t thought about for years.
    “Did you ever notice,” she said, “that everything good or interesting happens to Nancy Drew, and her friends just get the leftovers? If there’s a statue or a painting or a lookalike person, it always looks like Nancy. It never looks like Bess or George.”
    “And they never mention Bess without saying that she’s ‘pleasingly plump,’ or George without saying that she’s boyish and athletic and has short hair,” said Debbie. “Just so you don’t forget that
    Nancy is the beautiful one with the perfect figure and the ‘titian’ hair.”
    “What I want to know is, where does she find time to learn how to do so many things? You never see her practicing. If there’s something she doesn’t already know how to do, she’s good at it right away. It’s always harder for Bess and George.”
    “I’d like to read a book about Bess and George solving a crime while Nancy is in the hospital with a broken leg.”
    “Or off on a ski weekend with Ned.”
    “She’s good at skiing.”
    “She’s really, really good. She could probably be in the Olympics. Maybe she breaks her leg, though. An evil criminal rams her into a tree on the ski slope. And Bess and George solve the mystery without her.”
    “Ned could help.”
    “Maybe Hannah Gruen could still be in the story. She makes really good food.”
    “She could help, too. They could all help. And they would find out that Nancy isn’t the only one who can do things.”
    “Meanwhile, in her hospital bed, in traction, Nancy is studying marine biology. And Norwegian.”
    “And brain surgery.”
    “Have you ever noticed how many evil criminals use River