Null Pointer

Full Pockets

1. Nell Frayne - Summerhouse Key
2. Tim Mangan - Letter
3. Aunt Alicia - Yarn
4. Mr. Lynch - Empty
5. Dan - Stolen Goods
6. Jonesy - Notebook
7. Regan - Carrot
8. Mr. Darnell - Robin Key
9. Mrs. Darnelll - $20
10. Bobby - Quarters
11. Harrison - Matchbook
12. Spider Webster - Gum
13. Andrew Belden - Dog Treats
14. Good Samaritan - Hotel Keycard
15. Bob the Pilot - Jet Keys
16. Hallie Belden - Room Key
17. SJSHS Custodian - Nails for Bikeathon Booth
18. Nick Roberts - Pen
19. Sgt. Molinson - Advil
20. Benjamin Riker - Wallet

SJSHS Custodian - Nails for Bikeathon Booth

Mack, head custodian for Sleepyside Junior Senior High School, added an extra handful of nails to one of the pockets of his tool belt. The Glen Road kids – the ones with the red jackets, and some name for themselves – had found a new cause, this one close to home. He had to wonder when the adults in the community would wake up and realize their kids were doing a better job of being decent human beings than they were.

He hadn’t been a great student. Formal schooling came hard to him; these days, when it seemed everyone had something or other, he’d probably have a label, some sort of learning disability to call his own. He hadn’t been a talented artist, either, but art class had been one of the places he’d been able to get what was in his head out in a format that was both accurate and acceptable. He hated to see the chronic underfunding of Sleepyside’s art programs that meant those with talent couldn’t pursue it, and those, like him, who just needed the outlet, couldn’t find it. But he wasn’t going to be able to make an impassioned speech in front of the school board, and no one else seemed to care one bit. That is, until the Glen Roaders found out about the funding crisis.

Now he had a request to build them a booth so they could recruit riders and sponsors for a bikeathon to raise money for the art program. It was hardly the first fundraiser the septet had put on, and he doubted it’d be the last. Hopefully they’d raise a decent amount of money, even if it was just enough to get people talking, shame them into realizing that, in a developed country like the United States, children shouldn’t have to fundraise to pay for their own education in a public school, at least not before they graduated high school. If the adults got talking, got shamed a little, they’d probably pony up the money they should have put into the art program half a dozen years ago. And once there was some groundswell, and buy in (because they were savvy businessmen who knew it took more than cash to turn an idea into a lasting reality), Matthew Wheeler and Edward Lynch would quietly, without fanfare, dump a generous donation into the school coffers to resolve the issue in the long term. If all went well, the art program would be funded for a quarter century by the end of the month. And his part was to hammer some nails into some wood to make a booth. It sure was funny how this thing called civilized society worked sometimes.

Nick Roberts - Pen

Nick helped Mart serve Hunter’s Stew at Mr. Maypenny’s quite willingly, and found he even enjoyed it. That night, at home, he flipped open his sketchbook to start on a couple things that he’d been itching to draw all day, bikes and bikeathons and Bob-Whites. Maybe he could offer them to Trixie for Thank Yous to the donors, show his appreciation for all the Bob-Whites did for the Art Department, despite his sullenness? As he flipped to a clean page, he flipped past Ben’s sketch. He really is good. And an outsider, like me, and fresh-moved-to-Sleepyside, just like I was. If he’d really learned his lesson, then he ought to show it, by welcoming Benjamin Riker to Sleepyside, and forgiving his bouts of surliness that probably came from mostly the same places as Nick’s own.

Nick felt the weight of the package of drawing pens in his back pocket as he walked into school Monday morning. He wasn’t usually one to put himself out where rejection was possible, but he hoped the thought, if not the action, would be appreciated by someone, if not the intended recipient. Finally, he saw Benjamin Riker down the hall. “Ben!” He called.

Ben turned back, allowing Nick to catch up. “I, um, I don’t know if this is even something you want, but when I got home from the bikeathon, I just couldn’t deny that your sketch really was pretty good, especially for someone without any lessons behind him. So, well, I got you these, artist to artist,” Nick stumbled through his explanation, offering the package of pens.

Ben looked stunned, like he couldn’t imagine anyone doing something like that for him. Nick knew Ben came from money, so why was a gift worth a couple dollars such a surprise? Nick started to wonder if Ben hadn’t had many good friends, even at his old school. At last, Ben stammered out a thank you, and then a shy, “Will you give me some pointers, maybe? Just until I can get into a class next semester? Please?”

“Yeah, sure. Of course. I usually try to do some sketching after I finish eating at lunch, if you want to join me, and some of the other art kids.”

Sgt. Molinson - Advil

“Molinson,” the Sergeant answered his phone briskly. It was dark, but still early into his night shift, before the problems on Hawthorne Street tended to really ramp up.

“Wendell, it’s Helen.”

There was hardly only one Helen in Sleepyside, but the Sergeant knew exactly who it was. His hand went immediately to the handle of his desk drawer to pull it open and root around for the bottle of Advil he stored there. “What has Ms. Belden gotten herself involved in this time?”

“I assume she’s on a hunch about whoever is trying to quash tomorrow’s bikeathon. We took the children to the Cameo, but Trixie elected to stay home, said she was too distracted. You probably think I’m a terrible parent. After all this time, I should know better than to leave her alone when there’s a mystery afoot—”

“I know you and Peter do the best you can,” the officer admitted, swallowing the pain relievers dry. The number of headaches one thirteen-year-old girl could give him!

“Anyway, Brian and Mart called up to Manor House, just in case, but she wasn’t up there. They assume she’s taken her bike and headed out along tomorrow’s route.”

“Probably that abandoned house,” Molinson theorized. If Trixie’s instincts for a case had led her anywhere, that’d be where. The other hosts of the bikeathon stops had no motive to try to stop the event, in fact were among the top donors, in addition to their hosting duties. “I’ll take a few men with me and check it out. Call dispatch if they come back home without a police escort.” That, in and of itself, was half a sign of how often situations like this arose—that Helen Belden had called Wendell’s desk directly because a) she knew the station phone number by heart and b) she knew which senior officer was on shift at the exact moment her daughter tried to get herself killed by involving herself in very adult police business. How often did a girl have to get into trouble before her parents knew the police station’s phone number instead of just calling 911?

“Thank you, Wendell. I hope I’m overreacting, but—”

“It’s Trixie,” he finished with her. “We’re heading out now,” he assured her before hanging up.

He whistled to gather up three more officers. “What’s up, Sarge?” One asked as they headed out to the cars.

“Trixie Belden,” he said briskly.

Wendell’s partner groaned. “Again?”

“Again,” the Sergeant confirmed. “The abandoned house on Old Telegraph Road.”

“Christ, this bikeathon is gonna be the death of us. Shoulda made them cancel it so we can focus on that counterfeiting case Pete brought our way.”

The third officer shrugged. “Feds are going to take that one away from us anyway, and we’d still be tripping over Detective Belden, no matter which case we were chasing. Girl doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

“Indeed. Let’s go rescue a damsel in distress and maybe discourage her a little bit more.”

The first officer snorted, but they all got into the cars and headed out.

The next time Wendell Molinson arrived at the police station for work, he noticed something out of place on his desk. A bottle of pain killers. He opened his desk to confirm that the bottle he stored in his desk was still there, and he hadn’t simply left it out. He hesitantly picked up the bottle and realized there was a piece of paper underneath. He opened it to read the note.

Sergeant Wendell Molinson,

Thank you for, once again, keeping our daughter safe. I agonized over what might be an appropriate token of my appreciation, but that couldn’t be misconstrued by anyone as some sort of ulterior motive or bribe (which isn’t to say there isn’t a loaf of banana nut bread in your future, if you stop by when you’re off-duty). Then I saw Peter rubbing his temples and muttering about how he never had headaches before his princess learned the word “mysterious”, and I imagine someone else I know can commiserate. Keeping you in headache relief seems like the least I can do.

With my everlasting gratitude,

Helen Belden.

Molinson chuckled ruefully and shoved the bottle in the pocket of his uniform. With his luck, Trixie’s next mystery would strike when he wasn’t at his desk.

Benjamin Riker - Wallet

Ben tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d agreed to wait half an hour for his cousin and her best friend to visit the Sleepyside Junior Senior High School’s first ever art fair. He knew they were disappointed with the time limit, but he wanted to be long gone when Bill Wright, Jerry Vanderhoef, and Mike Larson got out of practice.

He hadn’t ever intended to turn out like this. It had happened piece by piece, and he never could figure out how to alter the trajectory of his life. The trajectory had never been a good one. His cousin Honey had doubted her parents love for her, only to discover they loved her very much when it had come down to it. Ben had no doubts: he knew his mother had never wanted a child. She wanted all the status markers that she could brag to others in her social circles about that came with having a child. His entire existence was a rung she stepped ruthlessly on to climb the social ladder.

She’d enrolled him in the finest institutions; there was no faulting her there. But the moment someone else got attention for having enrolled their child in a school somehow more prestigious, Ben’s enrollment was transferred as soon as possible, to the point that he was changing schools every year, if not every term. He learned that there was no point in settling in and no excuse for not having fun now, in the time he had.

Finally, he’d been allowed to stay somewhere long enough for his pranks to become a nuisance rather than a distraction and a headmaster called his parents about his behavior for the first time. Oh, they were both furious that time. It was the most attention Ben had had from them in … years. He loved it. He craved it. The lecture meant to cause him to mend his ways backfired.

Unfortunately, his parents had become numb to the calls before too long and he had to up his game to keep their attention. Suspensions did it for a time. Until they didn’t. Then expulsions.

Ben recognized the symptoms. He knew it was no different than any other addict chasing an unattainable high. His parents didn’t love him. He didn’t believe his mother was capable. And he knew he was on the knife’s edge now. The next stop would be reform school. No one else would take him if SJSHS kicked him out. They weren’t his parents, but Uncle Matt and Aunt Maddie did love him, did give him the attention and affection he’d craved his whole life. He meant to behave himself here. He meant for things to be different this time.

But actions, repeated often enough, become habit, become unconscious, and Ben felt he’d barely blinked and already he’d made friends with Bill, Jerry, and Mike, made friends with the wrong crowd, made enemies of the better students.

He knew he needed to distance himself from the trio of trouble-causers, but he’d never been that assertive, never been the take-charge type, the leader. He knew, if they found him here, in the parking lot, he would fall in with them again, just like always.

He had no illusions about where he stood with them. He was the new guy. They’d turn on him as soon as it became convenient. That was okay. He’d throw them under a bus, too, given the chance. He just wished distancing himself from them wouldn’t leave him isolated. Why did he always have to be alone or in trouble?

Ben drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, but the spots on his windshield that he was staring through offered no answers.

Nor did the sudden rap on the driver’s side window, though that made him jump in his seat. A word that Uncle Matt had expressly forbiddden him use around his cousins crossed Ben’s mind. The three people he least wanted to see were standing outside his car.

“Come on, Benny, practice let out early, and I want a burger,” Mike informed him, the one who’d knocked on his window.

Ben rolled down the window. “Sorry, guys. I promised Honey and Trixie I’d give them a ride home after the art fair.” There, a perfectly good reason for him not to fall in line like a dutiful puppy.

Jerry snorted. “Can’t believe their folks let them run around with hooker names.”

Ben saw red. He knew he was a flawed human being, but no one got to call his teenaged cousin a hooker. Any teenaged girl that. He got out of the car, planning to do something to teach Jerry manners.

As he pulled his fist back, Ben saw the vice principal out of the corner of his eye, crossing the parking lot. If he started a fight now, they’d surely be caught, and with his past, defending Honey’s virtue wouldn’t be a good enough excuse. He would be suspended for certain, possibly even expelled. Ben let his arm drop, defeated, and turned to the front of the school. It was time to go find Honey and Trixie, half an hour or not.

Ben couldn’t shake the feeling of dread as the trio followed him back into the school building, still trying to persuade him to drive them to Wimpy’s, still trying to persuade him to abandon the girls, still trying to persuade him to punch them in the nose. But he wasn’t going to do that. Any of that. No matter how tempting it was becoming. He was going to find the girls and take them home, because he said he would, and keeping his promises was one of those things he had to do if he wanted to be one of the good guys, was part of the line in the sand between him and them, on which he would build the wall that would someday hopefully separate him and them.

Fortunately, he saw Honey and Trixie immediately when they all walked into the gym. They were on the far side of the gym, talking to a boy about some pen and ink drawings. Really good ones, Ben could tell even from here. Ben wished he had talent for something other than getting in trouble.

Aside from the pen and ink, the art fair appeared to be short on talent, Ben thought, as his gaze swept over the meager offerings. He’d been stuck at his boarding schools’ art fairs before. He supposed talent could be bought when children were enrolled in art classes practically before their first breath. Many of his prior schools were also twice the size of Sleepyside Junior Senior High School, which meant more students with art to include in the fair. It wasn’t right of him to hold this fair to those standards, but he couldn’t help it.

Ben was so lost in his thoughts that he barely heard Mike talking at him again about Wimpy’s. “Sure would be nice to stop over at Wimpy’s for a cola.”

He did hear Jerry’s rejoinder, though, and clenched his fists. “Yeah, but our buddy Ben is the only one with a car, and he can’t come along because he has to play chauffeur to his cute little cousin and her freckle-faced chum.”

Ben felt himself flush, but he was determined to not do anything stupid in front of witnesses. “It’s just my good deed for the day, pals. I’m much too wonderful a guy to pass up two maidens in distress.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mike jeered. He turned to the third boy and pretended to be speaking confidentially as he said loudly, “You know what I think? I think Ben’s got a crush on tomboy Trixie.”

“Nah,” Bill Wright said disdainfully. “I think Ben just likes being a chauffeur. I heard he’s going to get himself a little uniform and a cap, just like Tom Delanoy, his uncle’s chauffeur, wears.”

Ben felt his control fray. Mike was closer to the truth than Ben wanted to admit when his cousin James Winthrop Frayne the Second clearly had eyes (and first dibs) on the curly-haired blonde. Ben actually really like Tom Delanoy, his uncle’s chauffeur and knew how hard the man worked, all with the most cheerful attitude Ben had ever seen. Ben didn’t like anyone implying Tom’s work was disdainful any more than he liked the boys calling Honey a hooker. “Hey, knock it off,” Ben said, giving Bill a shove that was meant to look playful but actually had a great deal of force behind it.

“What’s the matter, Ben? Does the truth hurt your feelings?” Bill shoved Ben back, knocking him into the table that held a display of pottery.

Ben’s eyes and fists clenched as he heard the crash of one of the pieces shattering on the floor. When he opened his eyes, Trixie, Honey, and the boy from the pen and ink drawings had come running and the girl who’d been behind the pottery table was staring at the pieces of what Ben thought had been a blue vase like she’d lost a friend.

Ben knew artists were weird like that, and he felt horrible about breaking it, and he really didn’t want to deal with crying girls or the amount of trouble he was likely in, but here he was.

Honey, whose nickname had always, to Ben, seemed to be as much about her sweet disposition as her hair color, threw her arms around the girl who looked to be on the edge of tears. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Why, oh, why, did it have to be that vase that broke?”

Amy attempted a wry grin that didn’t quite work. “I guess that was a third possibility I hadn’t considered,” she said. “It looks as though I lost, after all.”

Ben didn’t understand the reference, but clearly Honey and the girl had spoken about the piece earlier. Ben wasn’t sure what to do, how he could make this right. If he could make this right. So, he held his tongue and let Honey work her magic.

And he forgot Bill, Jerry, and Mike were still standing right there. “Oh, Ben,” said Jerry sarcastically, “look what you’ve done. You’re so destructive!”

“Clumsy, too,” added Bill. “Well, now you can get a broom and a dustpan and do your second good deed for the day—cleaning up this terrible mess! See you around, Ben!” Laughing loudly, the boys left the gym.

Ben, his face flushed, reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I guess I broke the stupid thing, so I might as well pay for it. What do I owe you?” he asked the girl.

The pen and ink boy—Ben would have to ask Honey what his name was when he finally got out of this disaster—stepped between the girl and Ben. “That ‘stupid thing,’ as you call it, took more time and effort than you’ve probably ever put into anything. It was a work of art, meant to be looked at and enjoyed, not swept up and thrown into a garbage can in a million pieces. I know your type. You’ve had everything handed to you on a silver platter, and you think you can bail your way out of anything with money. But this is a loss you can’t pay for, any more than you can pay for Amy’s hurt feelings.”

Ben winced. He hadn’t meant that the vase was stupid, not really. He’d just meant that the whole situation that led to it breaking was stupid. But, as usual, he’d said and done everything wrong before his brain caught up with his actions and, now, he was knee deep in it.

The girl—Amy, Pen&Ink had called her—put her hand on the boy’s arm. “He didn’t break the vase on purpose, Nick. He was pushed. If he wants to try to make up for it by paying for it, let him. After all, we’re here to raise money for the art department. I’d hate to think the vase was a total loss.”

Ben Riker took a ten-dollar bill out of his billfold and tossed it onto the table. “You heard her, buddy. Here, you can use this to buy a brand-new lump of clay. Come on, girls. I want to get you two home before you get me into any more trouble.” Ben turned on his heel and strode out of the gym. Today was clearly a total loss, only putting him further in bed with the very people and situations he was trying to distance himself from.

Pen&Ink—Nick, was it?—would never forgive him, from the sounds of things, and he knew he’d been unbearably rude to Amy. Maybe, when he’d found a better outlet for his shame and frustration, he’d ask Honey how good people went about apologizing for their life spinning out of their control.

The trio rode home in strained silence. Ben, still angry at Nick’s tongue-lashing, drove Mr. Wheeler’s car fast and recklessly. He knew Uncle Matt would be furious if he found out Ben drove that way at all, but especially with the younger girls in the car. He also knew Honey, always trying to soothe hurt feelings, had made a few random comments on the weather and schoolwork, but he couldn’t deal with small talk right now, and he was ashamed by how grateful he felt when she lapsed into a silence Trixie didn’t break.

As they neared the Belden driveway, Honey said, “Ben, why don’t you take us both to the Manor House? With Jim, Brian, and Mart all busy, Regan will be happier if Trixie and I exercise at least two of the horses.”

Regan was the Wheelers’ groom. He was a great friend to all of the young people Uncle Matt permitted on his property, but he also had a temper suited to his red hair. The Bob-Whites all tried to do their share of exercising and grooming the horses, to avoid upsetting him. Ben realized he should do his part, too, but Regan would be even more upset than Uncle Matt if Ben rode a horse the way he was driving the car. Tomorrow, maybe. If nothing else went wrong.

Ben’s coworkers at the law firm complained bitterly about the pop-up craft fair that filled the plaza between their office building and the nearest subway station between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but Ben had never minded. He liked seeing what crafty people came up with – it was a little bit of a break to the otherwise tedious commute – and this year, especially, he had a girlfriend serious enough to warrant a decent present and he needed coffee mugs. He had his travel mug, but it was getting old and needed to be replaced. Plus, his girlfriend liked a cup in the morning and he didn’t have mugs, so he’d been a little bit self-consciously avoiding having her stay over at his place, and he knew she was starting to get suspicious, but he didn’t want to just go buy generic cheap mugs. He might have turned his back on his parents’ wealth, but he still appreciated the finer things in life and wanted his possessions to reflect that.

He slowed as he passed a stand selling pottery with mugs that caught his eye, and a candy dish molded like a blooming flower. He looked them over more closely and liked the items even better. Noticing his interest, the artist came over to see if she could sell him. Their eyes met, and Ben couldn’t help a rueful chuckle. “It figures it’d be you,” he said.

She stiffened, and Ben backpedaled immediately. He apparently still hadn’t learned how to keep his foot out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Amy. I probably didn’t mean that like it came out. I’ve been needing a pair of coffee mugs and Christmas present for my girlfriend, and it’s just so my life, you know, that the artist whose pottery catches my eye would be the same artist whose favorite vase I broke when I was young and dumb back at your first art fair.”

Ben reached for his wallet, pulling it out of his pocket, unable to forget the way he’d done the same thing at that art fair back when they were all in high school up in Sleepyside. “How much for those two mugs and that blossom dish?”

Amy tallied them up and answered, “It’ll be $35, Ben.”

Ben pulled out two twenties. “Keep the change,” he told her, thanking her again when she wrapped up his purchases and handed him the paper bag.