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his face, and I tried out some robotic 1980s dance moves.
    “There’s this homecoming dance next weekend,” he said while boogying my direction.
    I walked like an Egyptian. “Yeah. It’d be so funny if we showed up in these clothes.”
    “Together?” he asked. Suddenly, the mirror version of Edge stopped dancing and looked directly at the mirror version of me, and I stopped dancing, too.
    For a moment, I could picture us walking boldly into the decorated Crestview High gym, to the center of a dance floor, hand in hand, not caring who looked at us. And suddenly, that gold dress felt too tight. “Of course not. We don’t go to lame school events, remember?” I laughed.
    He looked down. “Right. No. Of course not. I was just kidding, too.”
    Something had shifted, or the air had changed, and our mirror-selves didn’t look at each other. We didn’t dance anymore. We changed back into regular clothes. Things stayed weird for a whole week, until homecoming passed, and then we were fine.
    That one weird week was enough to make me realize I had to keep my feelings for him bottled. I felt like I could lose him. I already know what it’s like to lose a great friend.
    But right now, I just have to hear his voice. I call his house. Edge’s mom answers.
    “Hi, Mrs. Downey, it’s Violet. Can I talk to Edge?”
    “He’s still out. He’s not answering his cell?”
    “No. I thought he was staying home to work on his video.”
    “He was, but then he went over to help someone with a demo, someone who’s going to the same camp. Wait, I have their home number. Let me find it.” Paper rustles.
    I’m not surprised his services are in demand. A few months ago, Edge shot this amazing, short film-noir spoof. It followed staff members at our school—the parking lot attendant, janitors, bus drivers, cafeteria workers. He made it seem like they were all up to something suspicious as they carried out day-to-day tasks. When he posted it online, it went viral. In the last month of school, our lunches at school were interrupted by people coming up to congratulate him. Suddenly, Edge was visible . I felt proud, sure, but scared. I wanted to grab his arm and yank him back into our circle of friends and never let him go. I wasn’t ready to share him.
    “Here it is. He’s at Mardi Cooper’s house.” Mrs. Downey reads me the number, but I don’t write it down. That’s the last place in the world I’m going to call.

6
    E arly in the morning, I slip out of the house and catch a bus back to North Seattle while my dad’s still snoring away. I lean my throbbing head against the bus window. I barely slept last night. The paint fumes got to me, and I had to get up and open my window. Then I was thinking about the rock through the dining room window, and how now I was basically opening a portal for any aspiring robbers or vandals to enter through. And lacing through worries about my dad and the mystery were my new worries about Edge and Mardi.
    Around midnight, I ended up turning on my laptop to distract myself. First, I emailed Reika about the mystery and my upcoming trip, so we could try to meet up in Tokyo. Then I did an Internet search on the Yamadas and the missing van Goghs. I read articles about them and watched video interviews of Kenji until almost two in the morning.
    Now, unable to doze on the bus, I take my sketchbook out of my backpack and draw what I learned, in manga-style panels, to try to make sense of it all.
    In a panel labeled February , Kenji Yamada sifts through a box in his Tokyo office. He finds the portfolio of drawings mixed in with old blueprints.
    In the next scene, Kenji has the drawings appraised by a top art expert and a team of van Gogh scholars. “Congratulations,” the appraiser tells him. “Though unsigned, these are authentic van Gogh drawings, in good condition, worth two million dollars.”
    Kenji appears on the Today show. “My brother, Tomonori, bought these drawings, with a corresponding