The man at the closest gas pump looks over at us. His wife points her phone at Paul. The man says, “Are you bothering these girls?”

Everyone’s looking now. Paul mutters something and saunters back to his truck, shrugging and smirking like it’s all a big nothing. The woman videos him anyway.

Skylar and I jump on our bikes and turn down a side road that leads to our neighborhood. Just to be safe, we hide behind a tall hedge and watch to see if he’s following us. No sign of him.

When we think it’s safe, we get back on our bikes and ride for home. Lucky for us, it’s downhill almost all the way.

Safe in front of our houses, I look at Skylar. I can’t help laughing. “Buzz off? Where did that come from?”

“I can’t believe I said it.” Skylar laughs. “I must’ve heard it on an old TV show or something. I opened my mouth, and out it came.”

We both laugh, kind of hysterically. I feel like we escaped a huge danger, but I don’t know what it was. Like a cloud passing in front of the sun, dark for a moment, then light again. But I’m glad the woman was there and ready to video our kidnapping, if that’s what Paul was planning.

That night, Greg comes over. After dinner, we watch the local news. Ms. Sullivan is still missing. The police have interviewed all the teachers. Several of them have agreed to talk to a reporter, including Mr. Boyce. Mom met him at PTA, of course, but I point him out to Greg.

“So that’s the guy you’re always quoting,” he says. “Good-looking chap.”

I blush, and Greg laughs.

“He’s the best language arts teacher I’ve ever had. You should hear him read poetry. He makes it come to life like a song written yesterday or something.” I thump my heart. “I feel the words right here.”

“For me, it was my baseball coach,” Greg says. “He never recited any poems, but he taught me a lot about being a good sport and trying my hardest and all that.”

“I wish Mr. Boyce could be my teacher every year. I’ll miss his class so much when school starts.” With a sigh, I settle back on the couch between Greg and Mom. When it’s Mr. Boyce’s turn to speak, I lean forward and stare at his face. He looks sad and tired and worried.

“We all love Kris,” he says. “She’s a joy to work with. Caring, compassionate, fantastic sense of humor, always willing to listen or to pitch in and help. The students are crazy about her, even the ones who usually hate art.”

He takes a deep breath, and his face saddens the way it does when he reads certain poems. “Please, Kris, come back to us.”