But the jealousy didn’t last. She is that good. And poetry isn’t really my thing. Verse and meter confines me, and my free-verse poems turn into stories and just keep going and going. Ron says to accept who my identity as a writer and move on. Ron—he lets us call him “Ron” when we meet in the club—says prose writers make more money than poets anyway. He always laughs to let us know he isn’t really serious. He encourages his students to write what we want.

“Let’s face it,” he said once, “the world is full of rules and expectations. Just let your imaginations run wild wherever you can.”

The office is mostly empty. Mr. Feltz and Mrs. Paine are there, each with their heads bent over their computers, tapping away. Feltz has been at Garrett Morgan for over forty years. He has a thick gray mustache and a bulging stomach. He looks up and leans back in his chair, which creaks beneath his weight.

“Looking for Hartman?” he asks.

I took Feltz’s class, Reading American Authors, last year. He was good, but a little scattered. He spent too much time talking about his stint in Vietnam. His war stories were fascinating, but a lot of students fell asleep. He knows my role in Ex Libris—I’m the president this year—so I’m always coming by to talk to Ron. Sometimes Chloe comes with me, although lately she’s been busy with her college applications, and I’ve been coming alone.

“Is he around?” I ask.

“He’s out today,” Feltz says, brushing crumbs off his shirt. His gut makes a shelf where they land.

“Sick?” I ask.

“Likely,” Mrs. Paine says without looking up. “Or he ran off to join the circus.”

Feltz chuckles. Mrs. Paine teaches drama, and her hair is the color of a fire engine and flows down her shoulders like a flaming waterfall. Chloe says it’s a wig.

“Nothing serious?” I ask.

Feltz shakes his head, tapping a red pen against his thigh. His fingernails are thick and yellowed, and his hands look like they could crush rock. An image of a younger, thinner version of him slinking through a Vietnamese jungle, M16 in hand, pops into my head. He must look at all of us kids with our medications and our anxieties and viral videos and worry for the future.

“You’ve been in the news a lot,” he says. “And you’re a video star. I guess one advantage of Hartman being a Luddite is he won’t see you shared it on the Ex Libris channel.”

I remember my manners, the ones Mom taught me. And given his military experience…

“Yes, sir. I was just trying to do something to help…”

“Chloe took my class sophomore year,” he says, still tapping the pen. “A bright girl. Very promising. I hope they solve the case soon. And with a positive result.”