The Girl Missing from the Records

“What made her target you?”

Mia worried the edge of her thumbnail, her mouth quivering. “I can’t tell. It was right after we got our social studies books. Mine was secondhand. Somebody had drawn little pictures all through it, and there was a name inside the front cover. Chloe Miller.”

My heartbeat thudded so loudly I thought she might hear it. I made my voice stay calm. “What happened when you found that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, wiping her nose. “I asked Mr. Sterling about her, that’s all. The drawings were amazing, and I wondered if Chloe had been in art club. He looked strange when I said her name. Then he grabbed the book and traded it for another one. The next class, Lexi walked into me in the hall and called me a freak. That was when it started.”

I leaned back. The pieces connected, and the answer made my stomach turn.

Mark Sterling.

He was the young teacher everybody seemed to like. He coached debate and led the Student Ambassadors. Students had lunch in his classroom, and he perched on his desk to joke with them. Parents praised him. The adults in charge trusted him.

But he was grown. Mia had spoken the name of someone he had hurt, and not long afterward Lexi Montgomery had begun punishing her for it.

“Get your bag,” I said, rising. “We’re walking to school.”

The morning had a sharp autumn chill, but I was hot by the time Oakridge Middle came into view. I stayed beside Mia all the way to the sixth-grade corridor. The instant we entered the crowded hall, it felt as if everyone’s voices had gone quiet.

Several older girls stood near the lockers. They were Lexi’s crowd, and they noticed Mia right away.

Lexi separated from them. She was tall, in a loose sweater that probably cost more than mine, with hair that fell in waves meant to look effortless. She didn’t shout or grin. She only looked at Mia as if my sister were nothing at all.

When we passed, Lexi bent toward one of the girls and murmured something. The girl snickered. Mia pressed herself against my arm, eyes shining.

“Leave her alone, Lexi.” I stopped walking.

Lexi turned to me with a slow blink. “What are you talking about, Ava? I haven’t done anything to you.”

“I see what you’re doing,” I said. My voice wobbled, though I tried to hold it steady. “I know who’s behind it, too. Tell him this isn’t going to work.”

Her eyes tightened. For one brief instant, the cool expression cracked, and I saw fear underneath it. Then a broad hand landed on my shoulder.

“Let’s not clog the hallway, girls,” said a man’s friendly, deep voice. “People need to get to class.”

I turned and found Mark Sterling beside me, papers marked in red ink tucked under one arm. A gray jacket over a dark shirt made him look relaxed and approachable. To anyone watching, he might have been a teacher stepping in to settle a small disagreement.

“Mr. Sterling,” Lexi said, standing straighter. She didn’t sound like she was chatting with a teacher. It was more like an employee answering a manager. “Ava’s yelling at me.”

“Probably a mix-up,” Sterling replied pleasantly. His gaze moved from Lexi to me, but the smile on his face never reached his eyes. His fingers pressed into my shoulder before he let go. “You’re Ava, right? Take your sister to homeroom. It’s a busy morning. You don’t want to put yourself somewhere you can’t get back out of.”

He held my eyes. Three seconds passed. I understood he wasn’t trying to help me.

“Come on, Mia.” I caught her hand and led her away. My jacket seemed to crawl where his fingers had touched it.

For the first three periods, I paid attention to everything and almost nothing else. I couldn’t use the digital records, and the library yearbook wasn’t enough. I needed something printed that put Chloe Miller, Lexi Montgomery, and Mark Sterling in the same story.

At study hall, I asked to use the bathroom. Instead, I took the rear stairs down to the basement without letting anyone see where I was going.

A storage room for the PTA sat beside the boiler room, hidden from windows and most people. The place held old bake-sale signs, folding tables, and boxes of school papers no one had thrown away. Dust, old paste, and wet cardboard made the air smell stale.

I switched on the lone ceiling light and started shifting plastic tubs from the metal shelves.

I passed over holiday decorations and looked for paper. Permission forms, play programs, and fundraising records filled the cartons. Dust and ink darkened my fingertips as I searched.

At the bottom of a box marked Admin Surplus, I uncovered a bundle of Oakridge Observer issues from last spring. The school still sent paper copies to older residents who never used its app. I laid the stack out in front of me and got ready to comb through every page for proof.