Study Hall Hood: A Hatty Pearst, Teen Detective Mystery

There was the loud sound of footfalls behind her. Could it be—the murderer? Hatty had to think quick, or she would be discovered searching for clues in the locker room. Thinking the obvious, she tried each locker until one near the end was found unlocked, and climbed inside. The door closed with a faint click just as she heard footsteps in the room.

Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching. It sounded like Fred Astaire, judging by the tap of the shoes, but it couldn't be since he had died long ago. It was likely only one other person—the murderer!

She had mixed feelings. If the murderer flung open the locker door, she would be able to see who he was. But if he flung open the locker door, he would see who she was and probably kill her, if he was the murderer. If he wasn't, that would leave her with doubt. The only way for her to discover if whoever was outside was indeed the murderer of Professor Dimble was to be found in the locker and murdered. That would pretty much put all doubts to rest.

Still, she hoped it wouldn't happen. She would get no credit for capturing the murderer if he killed her. But it seemed it was becoming inevitable. He must have caught a whiff of her perfume, Liz Taylor's White Diamonds, because he began to fling open the lockers starting with the first at the far end. Hatty wished she had some kind of weapon, like a gun or a knife or a sharpened stake, if he were a vampire. She wished she were a cop or a secret agent, or someone who could protect herself, instead of a too-curious high school girl with a keen detective mind. Then, she wished she were a princess, with a huge castle and gigantic knockers. It did no good—the mysterious stranger kept getting closer and closer, opening locker door after locker door, until he was almost up to hers.

"Hello?" she heard a loud, bellowing voice, not belonging to the murderer. But it was enough; he was frightened off, and she heard his stylish-but-loud clacking shoes clomp out of the locker room.

When she stepped out of the locker, relieved and breathing doggedly, she saw her savior standing there: Brando, the janitor.

"Mr. Brando! It was sure a lucky thing you heard that strange man and came to my rescue, here in the girl's locker room!"

"Yeah," said Mr. Brando, appearing slightly confused. "It's a good thing. This place is completely empty after school hours. Some guy could have come in here and masturbated all over you and no one would have ever known!"

"I was more afraid of him killing me!" said Hatty, finally catching her breath.

"Oh, yeah. They'd never find out about that either, I guess."

Hatty looked around the smallish, somewhat sensual locker room. "Jeez-louise, if you didn't see him as he ran out, then where did he go?"

Brando thought for a moment, and it was painful. "I suppose he could have gotten out through the crawlspace." Hatty asked him what crawlspace he was referring to. "I'll tell you. The crawlspace over there, behind the showers. There's a small, janitor-sized cubby hole in the wall where a body could squeeze in, then escape through a hidden passageway to the football field!"

"My goodness! That's where he's gone, I'll bet anything! Come on, we've got to catch him—he's probably the man that murdered Professor Dimble!"

"Yeah!" cried Brando. "And I'll bet he's done other despicable things, like leaving child pornography magazines in that crawlspace. I'll bet you anything!"

Freak Outs and Head Trips in Atlantic City
Atlantic City is like the orange shag carpet of a ratty first apartment, brilliantly bright and nasty. Filled with cigarette butts and alcohol stains that come out fully visible in the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights. And there's nothing but... (8/18/03)

Harvey Potluck and the Sophomore Slump
Upon entering his second year in Hogwash Military Academy and Magic Technical School, Harvey was very relieved to be returned to this place, which had been the source of much pride and happiness during his first best-selling year. It was peculiar... (8/4/03)

Hamilton Castlewaite
It was a dreadful mess, washing up on an uncharted desert isle out in the middle of nowhere. But 'tis most usually the case with uncharted desert isles. You seldom find them just five miles west of San Francisco or anything, some earnest young... (7/21/03)

The Adventures of Sollsberry Stake
It wus'n nigh on 4 of the clock when I seen Rush Steamshed, mah ol mate. Rush is'n a first-rate buddy, real true, too. He'sn the kinder feller what would punch 'is own head 'fore he'd a punch you. You know the kind—real stupid. Rush wus'n... (7/7/03)