Mysteries of Maya

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A blog that follows the the mysteries of a teenage girl, Maya, as she tries to get to the bottom of whatever tragedy follows her. . .

     My name is Maya. Maya Travis. This blog starts with the reason why I was at a bank when there were four masked robbers firing guns in the air. It all started because Chronicle Circle, which is only the most prestigious periodical in town, asked ME to be an intern.  Not like I’m bragging or anything.
      Let me tell you how, as a 17-year-old, soon-to-be high school senior, I got an internship, and that will explain my involvement in a bank robbery.
     It’s really quite a simple story, actually.
     My dad is a police detective. Frequently, he brings his work home with him. He studies the files at home at the dinner table. “Clocking out” doesn’t really apply to him. Since I had nothing better to do, I peered over his shoulder, deciphering his scribbles and examining the pictures.
     Nothing gruesome. Just break-ins. The strange thing was that these intruders knew when to occupy each house. I’m sorry. Did I say occupy? Oh, yes, because they occupied each house for days! They didn’t break in, steal diamonds, and run away like normal burglars. Also, the police found no DNA, although the surplus of dirty dishes implied that there should have been a surplus of DNA. These guys found the time to bleach silverware, cups, and even the shower. They cleaned meticulously.
     The length of the stay in each house bothered me. Some homes had been occupied for merely a weekend, others for nearly two weeks. If the family was gone for two weeks, the intruders stayed for nearly the same amount of time.
     Pacing the dining room, I chewed on my lip. Who knows how long someone is out of town? Family members, friends, schools, coworkers and bosses. The victims weren’t related, shared no mutual friends, and worked at completely different companies. Some of these guys even owned their own businesses. I was missing something. My dad was missing something.
     Walking myself through preparing for a vacation, I made a mental checklist: talk with teachers; catch up on school work; brag to my friends; tell my boss; book the flights and hotels; pack, clean the house, and place a hold on the mail.
     Honestly, I think a light bulb appeared over my head. Meandering my way back to the table, I casually suggested, “You know, these houses aren’t far apart. Different social statuses, sure, but all fairly close together. The families didn’t happen to place a hold on their mail, did they? It’d be pretty easy to hack into the records online. . .”
     My dad’s brown eyes studied me for a few seconds, then lightened with understanding.
     “Maya, you’re ingenious.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. I shrugged my shoulders innocently.
     While he called his partner, Landon, my dad shooed me off to bed.
     Two days later, my dad informed me that they had caught the squatters. I pieced together an article for the school newspaper, naturally exaggerating my help in catching the bad guys. The following day, I got a call from Chronicle Circle, from the Editor-in-Chief’s secretary, asking me if I wanted an internship. Apparently, my dad had emailed them a copy of my article, without my knowledge or consent. The pay wasn’t great, but the experience would be priceless. Maximum of 250 words per article. That’s really not a lot of words, so I started this blog as practice. I figure, 1000 words per post, because a lot more happens in one week than in a ten minute interview.  
     Since I needed to set up direct deposit, I strutted into the bank. And that is why I was at the bank, with gunshots reverberating through the air.

But oh my goodness, look at the time! Watch for my posts every Tuesday and Friday to hear about the bank!

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