11 A Strawberry on Top

CHAPTER ELEVEN A Strawberry on Top Heat (noun). From a chemistry standpoint, heat is energy flowing from a hotter system to a cooler one. If you give off energy, things heat up. If you take it away, things cool down. That's why if you do a hundred jumping jacks, you'll start to sweat. "I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU," said Birdie on Friday at lunch. "What?" I asked. We sat in the cafeteria away from everyone, behind the wilty salad bar. Normally, we sat at a long table in a big group. But I wanted a little chance to relax. It still felt like someone was out to get me. And I had no idea who or why. Birdie held out a white paper bag. I pressed my hands together. "Please, Birdie. You know I have zero patience. Tell me what's in there. I'm begging you!" "Close your eyes and count to ten." "Okay, fine." I squeezed my eyes shut. And started to count. "One Michigan," I began. "Two

Michigan." I could hear Birdie opening the bag. "Three Michigan." The sound of more paper crinkling. "Four Michigan. I can't stand it. Five, six, seven, eight, nine-ten," I rushed, then fluttered my eyes open. And there sitting on top of Birdie's palm was my strawberry candle. It looked just like it had before. Only better, if that was possible. "That looks amazing. So real. I mean, I actually want to eat it." "You think it's your wax strawberry. It's a real one," she said with a serious voice. "Really?" "Just kidding. But it does look real, doesn't it?" "Yes," I admitted. "I could almost forget that it was ever messed up. Like maybe it was just a figment of my imagination." "It wasn't your imagination," said Birdie firmly. "It looked like someone warmed it up in their hands and then squeezed it really hard to smash it." Birdie bit into her taco. "I just don't get who would do something like that." "Me either. Maybe it was a hungry rat who was confused." "Ha ha. That's weird."

"What's weird is the way Rory is looking over at me." I nodded over to the table where he sat with Elijah and a bunch of guys. Rory peered at me again and then looked away when I tried to catch his eye. Then he whispered to Memito. "Okay. That is weird," whispered Birdie. "I know." At that moment, as if Rory knew we were talking about him, he snuck a glance at me one more time. I gave him a questioning look and he whipped around. "Weirder," I said. "Agreed," said Birdie, dipping her spoon in some rice pudding, which was dusted with cocoa powder. "Hold up! That's cocoa powder." "Yummy. And pretty." "And also, a great tool." I remembered a Dr. Caroline episode about dusting for fingerprints with cocoa powder. I explained how it worked to Birdie and then I zipped to the lunch counter. Mrs. Andrews, who manages the cafeteria, was sealing the lid on a jar of mayonnaise. "Can I please have some cocoa powder? Just a small cup. It's for a really good reason. A science experiment." "Science, huh?" She looked at me. She looked over at a plastic container of cocoa. "I don't see why

not. Is it for class, Kate, or are you doing something on your own? Your mom told me about your kitchen science experiments earlier this week." I smiled at her. It's always a little weird that the grown-ups at school know things about me that I didn't tell them. But sometimes it's kind of nice, too. "There's a science project competition, one week from this Friday." I pointed to a banner in the cafeteria that read: STEM NIGHT! NOV. 20! "Oh right!" She measured out a cup and handed it to me in a baggie. "Good luck!" "Thanks." Back at the table, I turned to Birdie. "Sometimes having your mom as principal has some perks." As fast as we could, we went to Mrs. Eberlin's classroom, which was always open to students at lunch. We said hi to Mrs. Eberlin, who stood in the middle of the classroom with a stack of books in her arms. "What are you girls up to?" she asked as she strolled toward the back of the classroom. "Oh, just a little science," I said, which was the truth. "Well, have fun, girls. I'm going to do a little reshelving." She disappeared behind a bookshelf

area we call the book nook. "Holler if you need anything." "We will," I said. Explaining the procedure to Birdie, I quickly gathered everything we needed (luckily Birdie always has art supplies in her backpack and it was cold enough out that we had gloves in our jacket pockets): 2 pairs of gloves—to avoid putting our prints all over everything, or getting cocoa powder all over us 1 tablespoon of cocoa powder—not to make hot chocolate but to dust for fingerprints 1 paintbrush with soft bristles—to apply the cocoa powder, not for a Birdie masterpiece 1 roll of tape—not to tape stuff together but to lift off the fingerprints 1 index card—to stick the lifted fingerprint to for evidence

Birdie pulled on a pair of purple gloves that she'd bedazzled with rhinestones. "My prints will not be contaminating the evidence." "Definitely not." I grabbed some of the cocoa powder and poured it into my cubby. Then I picked up the paintbrush. "How does it actually work?" asked Birdie. "Fingers are coated with sweat and oil. That means the powder will stick to it. Dark powder works best on a light surface." After lightly swishing the brush back and forth, I gently blew away the excess powder. "Look!" I pointed to three fingerprints. "Wow," whispered Birdie. "I know." Birdie cut off three strips of tape. "It's time for liftoff." Smoothing the strips over the prints, she