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imaginations get to work.”
    Edgar picked up his pencil. He liked the idea that a poem is a mystery and he wanted to try writing a very mysterious one, but he had to observe Destiny for suspicious behavior.
    Patrick was sitting next to him on the right, so he had to be very careful not to let him see who he was observing.
    Destiny was staring at her blank page, which was odd. She usually started on assignments right away.
    Why isn’t Destiny writing? Is she racked with guilt? Is she trying to come up with a new crime?
    I should be writing my own poem, but it is hard to write your own poem if you are spying.
    I bet Patrick will be the first person to raise his hand and read his poem.
    I think Destiny just had a brainstorm because she is writing fast now and pressing down very hard on her pencil.
    Edgar stared closely as Destiny’s pencil worked its way across the page. Then, he had a brainstorm of his own. He picked up his pencil and a poem poured out.
    What Am I?
    by Edgar Allan
    I am your thin friend.
    Pass your thoughts to me
    and I’ll scratch them down
    for all to see,
    giving a bit of myself
    unselfishly
    for you.
    He had never written anything like it. He read it over to make sure it was good. It
was
good. He liked the metaphor of the pencil as a friend. He imagined this pencil, loyal and brave, getting smaller and smaller with each use, in order to serve the writer. He liked the fact that his poem said all this without actually saying the word pencil at all.
    He smiled at the pencil in his hand. Thank you, friend, he thought! He put his pencil down and raised his hand. His heart was pounding.
    â€œYes, Edgar?”
    â€œI’m done!”
    â€œOh! Well, hold on. When everybody else is finished, you can go first.”
    A strange feeling was building inside Edgar, an excitement of a different kind. This was the third poem that he had written since Mr. Crew had started this poetry unit, and writing each one had been surprisingly satisfying. The thought that he might have a special talent for writing poems as well as for investigating mysteries occurred to him for the first time in his life.
    He noticed Patrick looking in his direction. Edgar smiled at his nemesis, and then he raised his hand again.
    â€œYes, Edgar?”
    â€œI’m done.”
    â€œYes, I know. Just wait a few minutes longer, and you can read your poem for us.”
    Finally, the class was ready. But somehow Mr. Crew forgot that he had promised Edgar could go first, and Patrick was the first to raise his hand.
    Patrick read:
    What Am I?
    I am your long skinny friend
.
    Give me your ideas
.
    When I scribble them down
,
    heads will bend to read them
.
    Edgar could hardly breathe.
    â€œYou’re a pencil!” Maia said.
    â€œYep.” Patrick nodded.
    â€œIt’s a masterpiece!” Mr. Crew said. “I love themetaphor of the pencil as a friend! Great job, Patrick! Who would like to go next? Edgar?”
    â€œThat was my . . . He . . .” Edgar looked at Patrick, but Patrick wouldn’t look back. Patrick had stolen his idea! He had practically stolen the whole poem!
    â€œEdgar, didn’t you want to read yours?” Mr. Crew asked.
    How could he read it now?
    â€œWe’ll go!” Maia said.
    Maia and Gabriela read another one that they wrote together, and Sammy read one about a soccer ball without enough air, and Taz read a funny one about the inside of a dog’s nose, but Edgar couldn’t pay attention.
    It is a terrible feeling to have something stolen from you. It’s like you’re about to eat a delicious feast and somebody comes along and pulls all the food away.
    Maybe a thief is somebody who has never had anything stolen because once you’ve had something stolen, then you know how bad it feels, and how could you ever do that to somebody else?
    Toward the end of class, Edgar realized that he was neglecting his crime investigation duties. Come to