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tinted windows, cruised past the front of school, slowing to a stop near the end of a long wide walkway that connects the auditorium doors and the street. Sadie saw the car first and her eyes widened. Her hands clenched at her sides as her white face flushed with heart-pounding fear.
    Doug, being a guy, was oblivious to this. His eyes were focused elsewhere. “Cool car. That your ride, Sadie?”
    She said nothing, but rushed into the school instead, leaving Doug and me on the steps with the mystery car just a few yards away. When Sadie disappeared, I figured the car would move on. But it didn’t. It stayed put.
    A few seconds later, the passenger door opened and a tall, sallow redhead dressed all in black—black leather pants, black leather jacket, black tee—got out. As she sauntered towards us, the window rolled down and a man’s voice shouted at her to get a move on.
    Without turning around, she picked up her pace, teetering forward on high-heeled boots that made her look like a bowling pin about to tip over any second. As she got closer, I could see that she was heavily made up with black eyeliner rimming reddened eyes, brownish lipstick, and eyebrows that didn’t match her hair color.
    “Can I help you?” I asked, and she looked at me like I had just spit at her.
    “Yeah, I guess. That girl. . .” Her voice was nasal and high-pitched.
    “Sadie?”
    The woman smiled. Or rather, she smirked. “Sadie,” she repeated. “Yeah. Sadie. Where’d she go?”
    Doug stepped forward. “Why do you want to know?”
    My hero.
    “Uh. . .’cause. . . I. . . I have to talk with her. . .”
    “Are you her mother?” Doug asked. Her mother? I nearly slapped my forehead with my hand. If this woman was Sadie’s mother, I was Jennifer Lopez.
    “Uh. . . yeah. . . yeah, that’s right. I’m her mother and I need to talk with her,” the woman said, but before I could cackle uproariously at this obvious untruth, Doug chimed in.
    “Oh, well, she’s probably gone back into the auditorium to get her things. Here, I’ll show you.” He turned to open the door. My chivalrous —but slightly dense—hero.
    I jumped between him and the door. “That’s okay, Doug. Look, I’ll show her. I want to talk with Sadie anyway. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
    Doug shrugged and looked a little disappointed, which was okay by me. Maybe he had been counting on another pal-like punch in the arm followed by a cheery farewell. Better to keep him wanting.
    As he walked off, I turned and opened the door for “Sadie’s mom,” making small talk along the way.
    “So, how do you like Maryland, Mrs. . .” I paused just a breath, hoping she’d chime in with “Sinclair.” When she didn’t, I continued my snooping, using the techniques I had learned at lunch earlier that day—direct interrogation. “I’m sorry. . . I don’t know your name.”
    So many kids had divorced parents these days, you could never be sure if their mother’s last name was still the same as theirs, right?
    “Uh. . . Sadie. . . Just call me Mrs. Sadie.” She giggled nervously, and her thin heels clacked on the tile foyer to the auditorium. No one was around. I led her to the doors, first glancing in through the tiny slit between them. Sadie was gone. I shoved open the doors with a flourish.
    “Oh dear, she appears to have left already. Let’s go look for her locker,” I said in my “most-helpful-parochial-school-student” voice.
    I started walking at a brisk pace towards the cafeteria. It was highly unlikely that Sadie would be in there, but there was something about this “Mrs. Sadie” (how lame could she get!) that made me want to keep her away from her “daughter” as long as possible. As we came near the other end of the lunch room, I caught sight of Sadie through the slender glass window that ran the length of the doors. Her eyes widened and I saw her take in her breath. With an imperceptible nod of my head, I