I scrutinize the classroom as if it were a secretive, smoke-filled jazz lounge, seeking clues that only a skilled observer like myself could discern. The sunlight cuts through the dusty air in sharp beams, illuminating particles that dance and swirl—just like the mysteries that drift through Brightvale Elementary, waiting for someone clever enough to solve them.

  Someone like me, Lucy Sinclair, future detective extraordinaire! (And current fifth-grade sleuth)

  I observe my suspects—I mean, classmates—while we wait for Mrs. Abernathy to arrive.

  Karen Baxter, my best friend and partner in crime-solving, sits beside me, her attention fixed on her sketchbook. Her auburn hair falls across her face as she doodles an exceptionally detailed unicorn with suspiciously human-like eyes. She's added muscles to its legs and a detective hat on its horn.

  When she catches me looking, she grins and whispers, "It's you," then adds a tiny red ribbon to the unicorn's mane. I roll my eyes, but secretly, I'm impressed by her artistry.

  Across the aisle, Ollie Grayson gnaws on the end of his pencil like it's trying to escape. His brown eyes dart nervously to the clock every thirty seconds. Ollie's the most reliable timekeeper I know—he can tell you exactly how many minutes until the bell rings without checking his watch. Currently, his furrowed brow tells me Mrs. Abernathy is precisely three minutes and twenty-seven seconds late.

  "She's going to have something weird today," he mutters, pulling the chewed pencil from his mouth. "I can feel it."

  I nod sagely. "The barometric pressure suggests unusual classroom activities!"

  I have no idea what barometric pressure is, but it sounds science-like, and that's what matters.

  My gaze drifts around the room, cataloging details as methodically as Dad does at a crime scene. Butch Thompson, predictably, hunches near the back, his gross fingers (no, seriously, he has so much dirt under his nails!) rolling paper into ammunition. His target today is the radiator—each wad makes a satisfying ping when it connects.

  Eric Weller sits beside him, whispering something that makes Butch snort with laughter.

  Fredrick Jones completes their trio, a puppet nodding along to whatever Eric says.

  Tommy Jenkins bounces in his seat. He has retrieved an unidentifiable object from his pocket, possibly a rock or perhaps a soiled candy piece. He studies it with the intensity of a jeweler examining a suspicious diamond.

  In the front row, Patricia Wellington arranges her pencils in perfect height order, her brown curls tied back with an elaborate bow that makes my simple red ribbon look like twine. She catches my gaze and lifts her chin just high enough to remind everyone that her father owns the department store, and therefore, she somehow owns everyone.

  In the corner by the window, Gerald Weiss sits alone, his sandy hair falling into his eyes as he sketches something in a notebook. No one sits near him. Not since the war started.

  I've caught glimpses of his drawings before—mostly trains and buildings, all rendered with an attention to detail that puts Karen to shame (SORRY!).

  The classroom bustles with morning energy, with a dozen conversations creating a background noise reminiscent of a bustling Main Street diner. I can smell the peppermint from the potted plants that Mrs. Abernathy insists make the room "scientifically serene." According to her, they improve oxygen flow to our brains and prevent the dreaded "afternoon doldrums." I'm not convinced, but they make the room smell nicer than Mr. Peterson's class, which always reeks of old sandwiches.

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  The door bursts open with such force that even Butch jumps in his seat. Mrs. Abernathy (my favorite teacher!) sweeps in like a tornado dressed for tea, her entrance as dramatic as the plots in the detective novels I "borrow" from Dad's shelf. Today, Mrs. Abernathy embodies a vision of cosmic confusion. Silver star earrings dangle from her ears, swinging with each emphatic head movement. She's paired these with scuffed brown cowboy boots that peek out beneath a dress with lovely flowers on it. Over this already questionable ensemble, she wears a lab coat covered in mystery stains—some of which glow faintly. Her thick glasses magnify her eyes to owl-like proportions, giving her the perpetual look of someone who has just discovered something astonishing.

  "Good morning, junior scientists!" she announces, depositing an armload of peculiar items onto her desk.

  I spot a cucumber, a thermometer, what appears to be a small battery, and something wrapped in aluminum foil.

  "Today, we embark on a journey into the fascinating world of thermal energy!"

  She says this with the enthusiasm most people reserve for announcing lottery winnings or the end of math tests. Mrs. Abernathy speaks about science as if it's the world's most important and exciting thing.

  Karen leans over and whispers, "Two dollars says something catches fire before lunch."

  "No bet," I whisper back. "That's a statistical certainty."

  Mrs. Abernathy raises the cucumber in one hand and the thermometer in the other, like a conductor preparing to lead an orchestra of vegetables. "Can anyone tell me what happens when energy transfers between objects of different temperatures?"

  Patricia's hand shoots up like a rocket, but Mrs. Abernathy's gaze falls on Gerry, who never raises his hand, ever.

  "Mr. Weiss?"

  Gerald looks up, startled. His voice, when it comes, is so quiet we all lean in to hear. "Heat...heat always moves from warmer objects to cooler ones."

  I don't think he was paying attention.

  "Precisely!" Mrs. Abernathy ignores. "Excellent observation! This cucumber," she waves it with a flourish, "is about to become our scientific subject. We'll observe as thermal energy transforms it from a cool garden vegetable to—"

  She stops mid-sentence, her free hand flying to her collar. The thermometer clatters to the desktop as her fingers pat her neck and chest frantically. She still holds the cucumber aloft, momentarily forgetting it.

  "My locket!" she gasps, her eyes growing wider behind her thick glasses. "My dear Uncle Leopold's locket—it's gone!"

  She staggers back, bumping into the globe on its stand. It spins wildly, countries blurring together in a dizzying swirl. Mrs. Abernathy steadies herself with one hand on the rotating world, the cucumber still clutched in the other.

  "I never take it off," she continues, her voice rising. "It's irreplaceable and possibly haunted! Uncle Leopold claimed that it once predicted a thunderstorm three days before it happened!"

  The room erupts into murmurs and exclamations. Tommy Jenkins's hand shoots up, waving so vigorously he nearly falls out of his chair.

  "Mrs. Abernathy! Mrs. Abernathy! Could raccoons have taken it? My grandpa says raccoons steal shiny things all the time! Once, a raccoon took his false teeth right off the porch!"

  Patricia Wellington releases a delicate sniff, which somehow sounds like a complete sentence. "Carelessness," she pronounces as if diagnosing a disease. "Mother advises keeping valuable items in proper jewelry boxes with locks."

  Butch laughs, a sound I’ve grown to dislike. "Maybe it fell in the toilet," he suggests, and Eric snickers beside him.

  Mrs. Abernathy waves her cucumber dismissively. "No, no, I'm sure it's nothing so dramatic. It'll turn up."

  She places the vegetable on her desk and adjusts her star earrings. "Now, back to thermal energy!"

  But I can see the worry on her face, the way her hand keeps drifting back to the empty spot at her collar. That locket matters to her, and not just because it might be haunted (there's no way, right?!).

  I glance at Karen, who raises her eyebrows in silent communication. She knows what I'm thinking. Ollie, catching our exchange, sighs heavily. He knows, too.

  This is no mere misplacement. The classroom is now a crime scene!

  Mrs. Abernathy continues her lesson by connecting the battery to wires, wrapping the cucumber in foil, and demonstrating how heat travels. But I'm only half-listening.

  In my mind, I'm already Detective Veronica Vane, piecing together clues, tracking down leads, and solving "The Mystery of the Vanishing Locket."

  The radiator pings again as another of Butch's paper wads finds its target.

  I adjust my lucky red ribbon and feel the familiar thrill of a mystery unfolding. Somewhere in this classroom, there's a story waiting to be uncovered. And I, Lucy Sinclair, sleuth extraordinaire!—am just the detective to find it.