“Intriguing,” said Friday.

  “Why would the swamp yeti want your assignment?” asked Melanie.

  “I heard a rumor that the swamp yeti was a student from long ago who ran away from being in seventh grade,” said Parker. “So perhaps he’s tired of living in the swamp with all the mosquitoes and stinky mud, and he’s trying to catch up on the coursework so he can get back in.”

  “We shall investigate,” announced Friday.

  * * *

  Friday and Melanie went with Parker back to his room. It was just like their own, except that it smelled bad because two boys lived there, and there was lots of dirty sports equipment littered about. (Friday and Melanie did not approve of sports equipment. If they were forced to own any, they usually shoved it as far back underneath their beds as possible so they would never have to look at it.)

  “Talk me through what happened,” said Friday.

  “I was sitting here doing my chemistry assignment,” said Parker. “It was really hard. It took me forever. I’m not very good at understanding valences. I know the teacher said it had something to do with an orange and a baseball field, but, honestly, I couldn’t follow what the fellow was saying.”

  “So it took you a while?” asked Friday.

  “Hours and hours,” replied Parker. “My roommate, Nigel, had to go and get me a plate of dinner so I could work right through.”

  “It was shepherd’s pie last night,” said Melanie. “You wouldn’t want to miss that. It’s the best dinner of the week.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Parker. “But I couldn’t afford time away from my desk. The assignment’s due tomorrow and I just had to get it done.”

  “Couldn’t you ask for an extension?” asked Friday.

  “Normally I would,” replied Parker. “But Mr. Spencer would never do that. He hates me.”

  “Why?” asked Friday. “It seems very unscientific to be so emotional.”

  “Because in the last exam when we had to identify which beaker contained acid and which contained an alkaline, I forgot how to do the proper tests with that litmus stuff, so I worked it out by sticking my finger in each beaker and licking it.”

  “Oh, I remember that,” said Melanie. “You had to spend a week in the hospital, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” said Parker. “It was an awesome week. I got to lie in bed all day watching television. And the skin grew back eventually, so all in all it was a win for me.”

  Friday peered at Parker’s desk, and then the window next to it. “How was it that your homework came to be missing?” asked Friday.

  “I was struggling with a particularly difficult problem and eating the first bite of my shepherd’s pie when Portelli knocked on the door,” explained Parker. “He said they’d tied a sixth-grade boy to a desk leg, and did I want to go and have a look.”

  “And you did?” asked Friday.

  “Of course,” said Parker. “It sounded like a laugh. So I popped out for a quick peek. I was only gone sixty seconds, and when I came back it was gone!”

  “Someone had taken your homework?” asked Friday.

  “Yes, and to add insult to injury they took my dinner as well,” said Parker.

  “They ate your dinner?” asked Friday.

  “Yes,” said Parker.

  “Did they take the plate?” asked Friday.

  “What difference does that make?” asked Parker.

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Friday. She was clearly lost in concentration.

  “No, they left the plate, but ate every last scrap of the dinner,” said Parker. “It’s a good thing I had a stash of potato chips hidden under the floorboards, or I would have starved.”

  Friday looked about the room, then walked over to the open window, took out a magnifying glass, and closely inspected the frame.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “A clue?” asked Parker.

  “A footprint,” said Friday.

  “Whose is it?” asked Parker. “It’s the swamp yeti, isn’t it?”

  “No,” said Friday. “Swamp yetis don’t exist.”

  “Oh,” said Parker. He was clearly disappointed.

  Friday leaned out the window, looking first one way, then the other. On one side she could see the baseball field in the distance. On the other side she could see boys coming out of the dining hall, laughing among themselves and throwing a few scraps to Fudge, the school’s overweight dog.

  “Then do you know who did take my homework?” asked Parker.

  “Yes, I do,” said Friday. “The problem will be proving it. I’ve got the twenty you just gave me, but do you have any more cash?”

  “Umm,” said Parker as he checked his pockets. “I’ve got eighty … no, ninety dollars.”

  “That ought to do it,” said Friday, taking the money out of his hand. “What time is your science lesson tomorrow?”

  “Third period,” said Parker. “So 11:15 a.m.”

  “I can make that work,” said Friday as she tucked the cash in her pocket. “I will meet you at the beginning of your science class tomorrow with your stolen homework.”

  Friday then turned and clambered out the window.

  “Thank you, thank you very much!” Parker called after her with great relief.

  He and Melanie watched Friday jog off into the bushes. Parker turned to Melanie. “She hasn’t just run off with my money, has she?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Melanie. “But it can be hard to tell with Friday sometimes. She’s very peculiar.”

  Chapter

  18

  The Homework Is Found

  The next morning Parker was very nervous as he stood outside his science classroom, waiting for Friday. Melanie waited with him. But that did not make him less nervous because Parker found girls nerve-racking as well. All the other students were filing in. He couldn’t delay much longer.

  Mr. Spencer was just about to start the lesson when he spotted his hapless student loitering in the corridor.

  “Parker, get in here, stop dillydallying,” he snapped.

  Parker entered. His shoulders were slumped. He was just about to get detention for goodness knows how many days, possibly weeks. And he was out of pocket the $110 he had already given Friday.

  “Why is she here?” asked Mr. Spencer as he glared at Melanie. She had followed Parker into the room. “Did you decide to bring a date to class?”

  The class sniggered.

  “No, sir,” said Parker lamely.

  “And where’s your assignment?” continued Mr. Spencer.

  “I don’t have it, sir,” said Parker.

  Mr. Spencer sighed and crossed his arms, getting ready to enjoy yelling at his most abysmal student. “So, tell me, what’s your excuse this time?”

  “Someone stole it,” said Parker.

  “Preposterous!” exclaimed Mr. Spencer. “You expect me to believe that someone would steal the homework of a boy like you?”

  “It sounds silly when you put it that way,” agreed Parker.

  Suddenly the door burst open.

  “Stop!” yelled Friday as she stood in the entrance, carrying a ziplock bag containing a mysterious brown substance.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Mr. Spencer. “Aren’t you in seventh grade? Shouldn’t you be in English right now?”

  “A minor technicality,” said Friday. “I am here to clear the name of this boy, Parker.”

  “He says someone stole his homework,” said Mr. Spencer. “I find that very hard to believe. When he does hand in assignments he always gets very bad grades. No one in his right mind would steal an assignment from him.”

  “Ah,” said Friday, “but it wasn’t stolen. It was eaten!”

  “What?!” exclaimed Parker and Mr. Spencer in unison.

  “By whom?” asked Mr. Spencer.

  “Not ‘By whom?’” said Friday. “The question you should ask is ‘By what?’”

  “So it was the swamp yeti!” exclaimed Parker.

  “No,” said Friday. “Your homework was not eaten by another student or a fictional swamp-dwelling man-beast. It was eaten by Fudge, the school dog.”

  “Fudge ate my homework?” marveled Parker. “But why would he do that? He always gets lots of scraps from the students. That’s why he’s so fat.”

  “Because it was shepherd’s pie Tuesday,” said Friday, “and everyone loves Mrs. Marigold’s shepherd’s pie. Therefore, there were no scraps. It is the one day of the week when Fudge is left alone outside the dining room windows, feeling hungry. And there is nothing hungrier than a fat dog. So when you left your plate of shepherd’s pie on your desk it was practically entrapment. Fudge could not resist.”

  “But what has that got to do with this boy’s homework?” asked Mr. Spencer.

  “Dogs are messy eaters,” explained Friday. “They usually eat from bowls. But Parker’s shepherd’s pie was on a plate. So as Fudge licked it up, he licked it off the plate and onto the piece of paper below, which was the homework assignment. When he finished, Fudge was still hungry, so he ate the gravy-smeared paper as well. Dogs don’t have opposable thumbs, so they literally can’t pick and choose what they eat.”

  “This is absurd,” said Mr. Spencer. “I don’t believe it for a minute.”

  “Ah, but I have proof!” said Friday as she held up the ziplock bag full of mysterious brown stuff. Everyone in the room got a nasty suspicion about just what was in that bag. “Behold! Here is Parker’s assignment. Fully digested and excreted as Fudge’s poop!”

  “Ewww!” exclaimed the students.

  “That’s disgusting!” exclaimed Mr. Spencer.

  “That’s evidence,” said Friday. “I had an express courier drive it to the university last night. There is a PhD student there who owes me a favor because I helped him with the mathematics in his thesis. He ran a sample of the poop through their analysis protocols, and the results are conclusive. This poop is eleven percent paper, which is consistent with a sheet of letter-size paper eaten along with a serving of shepherd’s pie.”

  “This is by far the most disgusting thing a student has ever confronted me with,” said Mr. Spencer.

  “Disgusting, yes, but also conclusive proof that a dog ate Parker’s homework,” said Friday.

  The class applauded. Friday was putting on their most interesting science lesson since Mr. Spencer accidentally burned his own eyebrows off with a Bunsen burner.

  “This whole debacle still does not reflect well on Parker. I have a good mind to send him to detention anyway,” said Mr. Spencer.

  “Mr. Spencer,” said Friday, “I know that Parker is as thick as two short planks, and that must be very irritating for you to endure. But he is sincerely frightened of you, and so he did earnestly try to do his assignment. If you crush him now, it may be a blow he never recovers from. And you don’t want Parker to repeat a year because his grades are so bad, do you?”

  “No,” said Mr. Spencer, shuddering at the thought of having to endure another twelve months with the dullard.

  “So give him another night to do the assignment all over again,” suggested Friday.

  “Aww,” said Parker, “I was hoping I could get a pass.”

  “Parker,” said Mr. Spencer, “I’m giving you another chance. But please don’t leave a freshly cooked meal on top of your homework in front of an open window again.”

  “No danger of that, sir,” said Parker. “It’s kidney pie for dinner tonight. Not even Fudge would touch that.”

  * * *

  “Well done,” said Melanie as the two girls left Mr. Spencer’s classroom.

  “It was simple, really,” said Friday. “The only hard part was following Fudge around until he pooped. I didn’t realize that the canine digestive system was so slow.”

  “It’s just a shame it was Fudge,” said Melanie.

  “What do you mean?” asked Friday.

  “Well, it’s one thing to have a yeti living in the swamp,” said Melanie, “but to have him climbing in through windows looking for food would be even more exciting.”

  “Setting aside the fact that swamp yetis do not exist,” said Friday, “what on earth would be exciting about having one climb in through your window?”

  Melanie sighed. “Friday, you need to read fewer textbooks and more romance novels—then you’d know. Speaking of which, do you know where Ian has been this week?”

  “No,” said Friday.

  “If he doesn’t turn up soon,” said Melanie, “you should make him the subject of your next investigation.”

  “Why would I do that?” asked Friday.

  “Because of your feelings for him, of course,” said Melanie.

  “If he had disappeared into the swamp and been eaten by the swamp yeti, that would be fine with me,” said Friday.

  “Ahuh,” said Melanie, who did not want to accuse her best friend of being a liar.

  Chapter

  19

  The Case of the A++

  Ian did turn up several days later, but not in the dramatic style Friday had been expecting. When Friday and Melanie entered Mr. Braithwaite’s history class, Ian Wainscott was setting up to do a presentation at the front of the room. He was looking like his usual detached and aloof self, except browner. He had an incredibly good tan. When Friday had last seen him, Ian had the usual pale skin of a blond boy in winter, but now he was practically copper-colored, except for a watch mark on his left wrist, which clearly showed what color his skin had been when they’d last seen him a week earlier.

  “I didn’t know Ian was back,” said Friday.

  “Oh yes,” said Melanie. “I saw a car pull up and drop him off after breakfast. I didn’t like to mention it to you because I know how you are in love with him, and I thought it would affect your ability to concentrate during class.”

  “I’m not in love with Ian Wainscott,” hissed Friday.

  “Oh no,” agreed Melanie. “Of course you’re not.” She nodded amiably, clearly not believing Friday for a second.

  Friday sighed. There was no point arguing with Melanie. Words had very little semiotic meaning for her. She usually lost concentration somewhere between the beginning and the end of a sentence.

  “I wonder if he will beat you,” said Melanie. “It looks like he’s got lots of props.”

  All the students in the class had had to present a fifteen-minute talk on a historical subject of their choice. Friday had received an A+ for her presentation on Rosalind Franklin and how Watson, Crick, and ovarian cancer had combined to cheat her out of a Nobel Prize for her role in the discovery of the structure of DNA. That A+ was the top grade in the class so far. Ian was the last to do his presentation because he’d been away.

  “History presentations are not a competitive sport,” said Friday snappily.

  “They should be,” said Melanie. “Making assignments competitive makes much more sense than making sports competitive. That’s just kicking a ball around. Who cares about that?”

  “Okay, Ian,” said Mr. Braithwaite. “When you’re ready.”

  The mumble among the students fell silent. Ian really was very handsome. When you actually looked at him, and he looked at you with those piercing blue eyes, it was hard to remember what you were thinking about in the first place.

  “Some of you are probably wondering where I was last week,” said Ian.

  Actually, few of the students were. People often underestimate how self-involved everyone is. As the saying goes, “You would not worry so much what others think of you if you realized how rarely they did.”

  “I was in Egypt,” announced Ian.

  This set the class off muttering again.

  “Shhh,” said Mr. Braithwaite, who resented having to pay attention to class control during a presentation. He usually saw it as an opportunity to have a rest.

  “I was helping with an archaeological dig,” said Ian. “My cousin is in charge of the excavation of Abu Simbel, the site of the statue of Ramses the Great.”

  Ian took out a large color photograph of a huge stone statue of a king.

  The class gasped. The Egyptians were undeniably impressive when it came to public monuments.

  “You can see me standing in the foreground,” said Ian.

  The class leaned in. On closer inspection they could see Ian. They hadn’t realized he was in the photo because they hadn’t realized just how huge the statue of Ramses the Great was. Ian seemed like an insect in the foreground.

  “It was hard, dusty work,” said Ian. “I spent five days brushing away sand with a soft paintbrush without finding anything. But on the sixth day I found this.”

  Ian showed a photograph of himself crouching in an archaeological dig. He had the soft brush in his right hand, and in his other hand he held up a coin. It was clearly a very old coin. He had taken off his glove. It was the same dark brown as his leather watch strap. He held the coin up at eye level, just next to the scar above his eye.

  “It is a coin from the time when the Romans controlled Egypt,” explained Ian. “You can see it has a picture of Julius Caesar on it. And here it is.” Ian took the coin out of his pocket and passed it around. “I was allowed to bring it home to show you.”

  “Looks like you’re going to lose, Barnes,” Mirabella obnoxiously called out from the front of the class. “Ian’s topped your tedious speech. He’s sure to get an A++.”

  “He deserves an A++,” said Friday.

  “Thank you,” said Ian, smirking at her.

  “If he is being given marks for lying badly,” continued Friday. “But for history he should get an F because he’s made three critical mistakes.”

  “He has?” said Mr. Braithwaite, snapping out of his reverie. He had been imagining what he would make for dinner. He was thinking of trying to make horseradish sauce from scratch.

  “First of all,” said Friday, “Ian can’t have worked on a dig at the site of the statue of Ramses the Great because that whole area was flooded by the construction of the Aswan Dam.”