Nathan Quist and the Curious Affair of the Crescent Earrings By Adam James Stück   Chapter 1   I Meet Nathan Quist                 Twelve-year-olds can’t solve mysteries. At least that’s what they told me. But that was before I met Nathan Quist and we were both pulled into the terrible case of the crescent earrings—but maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself.             My name is Daniel Reimer. I don’t like school much and wasn’t looking forward to sixth grade at Concord Elementary.             “I don’t want to go to school,” I told my mother that fateful morning as I ate my cereal. “Can’t you write me a note?”             “No,” she said. “If you don’t get an education you’ll have to live in a cardboard box on the street when you grow up.” She went back to reading. I wished I could just sit around reading all day like she did, but then I wouldn’t get a job when I grew up and would have to live in a cardboard box on the street.             “I wouldn’t mind living in a cardboard box on the street,” I mumbled, interrupting her reading again.             “Eat your cereal,” answered Mom without looking up.             So that was how I found myself on the bus staring out the window and wishing I was somewhere else. School was just so―so boring. Nothing ever changed. I would walk in, old Mr. Humphrey would tell me what class to go to, and then I’d be given a name tag so that all the other students would know who I was. They already knew, but the teachers gave us name tags anyway.             Then we’d just do math and grammar and stuff all day, until three-thirty when we could get on the bus and go home. I wanted to go back home now. I sighed and pulled a book out of my backpack. I had just begun to read when a felt someone nudging the back of my head. I ignored him. He nudged harder.             “Cut it out,” I said.             “Cut it out,” mimicked someone in a high-pitched voice. I edged forward in my seat beyond my tormentor’s reach and kept reading. I suddenly felt a sharp pain between my shoulder blades. I whirled around and felt something small and wet hit my forehead.             “He fell for it!” said Lyle with a mean smile, giving the kid next to him a high five. “We got him to turn around and wham! Spitball between the eyes!”             Lyle Auger, school bully and general pain-in-the-neck, sat behind me. There was a fat kid sitting next to him who I didn’t recognize.             “This is Billy,” said Lyle. “He’s new here. I’m helping him . . . fit in.” He smiled nastily. “Don’t I have such a big heart?”             “If your heart was half as big as your mouth,” I said, “you’d be Mother Teresa.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Lyle wordlessly reached out, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and pulled as hard as he could.             “Say anything like that again,” he said, “and it’ll be your nose I’ll pull next time.”             Eyes watering from pain and embarrassment, I stood up and tried to find a seat far from where Lyle and Billy were sitting.             “Sit down!” yelled the bus driver grumpily as I lurched to the front of the bus.             “I’m just—” I began.             “Sit down or I’ll tell the principal you were misbehaving,” he said.             I found a seat, sat down, and tried to ignore the tears coming to my eyes. Perfect, I thought. Just the way I wanted to start the school year off. —             We got to school with about five minutes to spare. It didn’t take me long to find my classroom, and I was in my seat as the bell rang. Our new teacher walked to the blackboard, wrote his name, and then faced the class with a big smile.             “My name,” he said, pointing to what he had written on the board, “is Mr. Judson. I will be your teacher this year, and I hope you will enjoy getting to know me as much as I will enjoy getting to know you.”             Every teacher ― beginning with little old Erma Eisenhower who taught the first grade ― made more-or-less the same speech every year. She always smiled too, until Gail Stephens smashed the fish tank she kept on her desk. The water soaked all her papers, and she never smiled much after that. The smile Mr. Judson had on was that same kind of smile, the sort of smile that looks as though soap and a good scrubbing would get it off.             “I would like to begin by telling you a little bit about myself,” Mr. Judson told us. “Then we’ll see how many new pupils we have.” He talked about where he was from and what things he liked to do until it was pretty obvious that none of us were listening. Then he stopped and asked if there were any kids who had never come to this school before. A boy in the back row raised his hand.             “Please come on up,” said Mr. Judson. The new kid stood and walked to the front of the class. I knew instantly that this was no ordinary kid. Most new kids either acted really shy or else just sort of slouched up. But not this kid! He walked very straight with his head held high. He might have looked like a student, but he walked like a prince.             “What is your name?” asked Mr. Judson.             “Nathaniel Quist.”             “Where are you from?”             “Oxford, England.”             There was a sudden rush of interest. In the heart of Indiana, it was unusual to meet anyone from outside the continent. Mr. Judson looked interested too.             “What brings you to Indiana?” he asked.             “My father,” began Quist, “is a professor of philology in Merton College.”             “What’s philology?” asked the kid in front of me. Quist ignored him.             “I am visiting the United States of America for six months,” he continued. “A former student of my father’s lives nearby and has kindly agreed to let me live with his family while I am here.”             “What do you like to do in your spare time?” asked Mr. Judson.             “I enjoy reading. I am an avid football player, occasionally write stories, and play the cello.”             At this point, pretty much the entire class was sitting open-mouthed. Quist sounded like a grownup. No normal twelve year-old used words like “philology” and “avid.” And how many kids play the cello? Quist didn’t seem to notice that everybody was staring at him.             “Thank you,” said Mr. Judson. He looked pretty surprised too. “You may have a seat.”             We all gaped at Quist as he walked to the back of the classroom, and as he sat down, I had my first chance to get a good look at him. He was very tall for a sixth grader and was thin without being skinny.  He didn’t smile much, but sat very straight and never let his eyes stray from the teacher. After about five minutes people stopped staring at him and went back to writing notes and doodling on their notebooks.             It wasn’t until mid-morning that Mr. Judson had us take a quiz. “This won’t be graded,” he assured us. “This is just a practice quiz to find out how much you know.” He handed out the quiz papers and soon all that could be heard was the sound of pencils scratching against paper.             Twenty minutes later he picked up our papers and let us out for recess. We rushed through the doorway and down the hall to the playground.             Recess was just as predictable as the morning class had been. The girls would sit on the swings and talk and braid each other’s hair, the cool boys would stand around daring each other to try climbing the skinny tree outside Principal Pickens’ window, and the athletic kids would play softball in the field. I wasn’t much of an athlete, and since I didn’t play sports, no one thought I was very cool.  I usually sat and read the books I checked out of the library.             That day though, I sat and watched Quist. No sooner had he walked onto the playground than a group of kids approached him.             “You talk funny,” said one of them. I didn’t think it was a very nice thing to say, but I was too far away to tell him so.             “Because I speak with an accent?” asked Quist.             “Because you use weirdo words like ‘avid.’ What’s avid mean anyway?”             “Enthusiastic, keen, passionate, devoted, or ardent,” he answered. You could see that the kids were more confused than they had been before.             “You wanna play football?” asked one of the kids, changing the subject.             “By all means,” replied Quist.             “Then let’s go to the field,” said the kid. “I’ve got a ball.” Quist looked at the ball.             “I apologize,” he said. “I misunderstood.”             “You misunderstood?” asked the kid, tossing the ball from hand to hand. “What’s to misunderstand? Do you wanna play football or don’t you?”             “I thought you meant . . . what is it called in America?” Quist wondered aloud. “Soccer . . . I thought you meant soccer.”             “Oh,” said the kid. Soccer had never really caught on in Concord Elementary. “Uh . . . we’re gonna go play, if you change your mind . . . .” They ran off toward the field, leaving Quist by himself.             He watched them go and then turned and looked around. I wondered what he’d do next. He didn’t want to play football, he probably wouldn’t try climbing Principal Pickens’ tree, and I didn’t think he’d want to try braiding the girls’ hair. Imagine my surprise when he began walking toward me.             “Hello,” he said.             “Hi,” I answered.             “May I sit down?” I nodded and he sat next to me. “What are you reading?”             “The Hobbit.” I showed him the book cover.             “Ah,” he said, nodding. “Excellent book.” We sat in an awkward silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “I would like to know a little more about you.”             “Uh . . . .” I began, unsure of how to reply.             “Indeed,” he continued. “I know nothing about you besides the fairly obvious facts that your name is Daniel Reimer, you play guitar, and have recently stopped using glasses.”             My mouth dropped open, and I stared at him, amazed. I had started learning guitar a couple of years back and had only started using contact lenses a week before. How could a new kid know these things?             “You look shocked,” said Quist with a small smile.             “But . . . how did you?”             “It’s simple,” said Quist. “You have calluses on your fingertips where they brush the guitar strings. Most guitar players have them, and since you have them, you must play guitar.”             “But how did you know that I recently stopped using glasses?”             “You have a little imprint in each sideburn from where your glasses pressed against them.”             “And my name?” Quist smiled.             “You seem to forget that you are wearing a name tag,” he said, tapping it with his finger.             “That’s amazing!”             “Thank you,” he said. —             Quist and I talked for the rest of recess. “Where did you learn to do that?” I asked him right after he told me all he had learned just by looking at me.             “I didn’t learn it,” he said. “I’ve always been able to do it. I think it might be genetic . . . you know . . . something I was born with. My great, great grandfather had a brother named Mycroft who could do the same thing, and my great aunt was related to a priest named Brown who—”             “Wow!” I interrupted. “That’s like the coolest thing ever!”             “Thank you,” Quist said. “Ah! There’s the bell. We should go in.”             The rest of the day went by pretty quickly, and before I knew it, I was on the bus home. I made sure to sit as far away from Lyle as I could. Within half an hour the bus driver was dropping me off at my home. The leaves on the trees in the yard were just beginning to turn orange, and it was cold for this early in the fall. I ran to the door and into the house.             “How was school?” Mom asked as I shut the door and took off my backpack.             “It was okay.” It was what I always said, but it was always true. Things never seemed to change at all. Even the leaves on the trees changing colors weren’t much of a change. You knew they’d fall off and then grow back in the spring. Nothing ever changes, I thought to myself as I opened the door to my room and went in. I kind of wish something unexpected would happen.             Looking back, I regret ever thinking that. Something unexpected did happen, and it was not at all what I wanted.