by Wendy Mass
“I could have done that,” I whisper.
She plops the box on the counter. “Can you open this?”
“What a pretty box!” the man declares, turning it around in his hands.
Aha! I feel vindicated. He thinks it’s pretty, too.
“The meaning of life is in this box, eh?” The corners of his mouth twitch upward.
I pretend not to hear him. If my dad says the meaning of life is in that box, then darn it, it’s in there. “I’ve lost the keys,” I explain in as patient a tone as I can muster. “Do you have ones that might fit?”
He examines the box closely and furrows his brows. “Hmm. Let me see. No markings on the box indicating where it came from or who made it. That would have been helpful. These keyholes are very specific—made for this box alone. Maybe there’s some other way to get in it.” He slides the box under a lamp and switches on the light.
“The meaning of life in a box,” he mutters as he bends down to scrutinize it. “Who woulda thunk it.”
An older man in identical overalls comes out from the back room. “What’s this I hear about the meaning of life in a box?” he asks.
Larry Junior points to us. “These kids brought this box. Don’t have the keys.”
“No keys, eh?” he asks, looking at us closely. “I’ll take over,”he says, stepping behind the counter.
“That’s okay, Pop,” Larry Junior says. “I got it.”
The old man—who I assume is Larry himself—shakes his head. “We just got a call that Mrs. Chang locked herself out again. I need you to go help her.”
Larry Junior shrugs and grabs a toolbox from the shelf. “Good luck,” he says, and heads out. The bells tinkle behind him.
We turn back to Larry Senior. He is resting his hands on the box, eyes closed. Lizzy and I raise our eyebrows and exchange a look.
“Um,” I say tentatively, “so do you think you can open it for us?”
Larry’s eyes snap open. “Nope.”
My shoulders sag a bit.
He continues. “This is no ordinary box. It has an elaborate locking mechanism inside with levers and pulleys and—”
“We know,” Lizzy interrupts, and then recites Harold’s letter, “and each keyhole needs a different type of key. And an internal latch will prevent the box from being pried open.”
“Not just that,” Larry says, “but under the wood is a layer of metal. That means no one is getting through this without destroying the contents. A saw or an axe would crush the whole thing. You can see the edge of the metal layer if you look closely in the gap.”
We lean into the counter and peer under the light. He’s right. I hadn’t noticed the thin sliver of metal visible along the opening. Why couldn’t my dad have bought a normal box like anyone else would have? With only one keyhole?
He switches off the lamp and pushes the box across to us. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the only way anyone is getting into this box is with the keys.”
Lizzy points to the rows of keys behind the man. “What about those? Will any of those fit?”
Larry doesn’t even turn around. “Nope. Those are blank keys that we use to make copies of existing ones. But I do have a box of spares that I’ve collected over the years. You’re welcome to ’em.”
He bends down and fishes around under the counter for a minute. Lizzy and I stand on our toes, eagerly peering over. He finally stands up and hands me a cigar box. It doesn’t even feel full. I try not to show my disappointment. I had pictured a huge box with hundreds of keys.
“Thanks,” Lizzy says gamely. “And if none of these fit, what do you think our chances are of finding keys that will? I mean, somewhere else in the city?”
“I’d say slim to nil, but slim ain’t left town yet, if you know what I mean.”
We stare at him blankly.
He chuckles. “That means it’s doubtful, but anything’s possible. After all, you’ve got a mighty good cause. Trying to find out the meaning of life, and all.”
“Thanks,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel. “We’ll bring these right back.”
“No rush,” he says, waving his hand in the air. “How long you got till your thirteenth birthday anyway? I’m assuming you’re the Jeremy Fink on the box?”
“A little under a month,” I reply as we head toward the door. It’s hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
“A lot can happen in a month,” he calls after us. “Keep the faith.”
“You bet,” Lizzy says. “Amen.”
When we make it outside I tell her, “I don’t think you’re supposed to say ‘Amen’ when someone says ‘Keep the faith.’ ”
She shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? All I know about religion is that dog spelled backwards is god, and I learned that on a Saturday morning cartoon. Let’s go sit in the park and try the keys.”
We head around the corner to the park where we’ve played since we were little. It has a different feel to it now that we’re on a mission. I wonder if the men reading the newspaper on the benches, or the women watching their kids in the sandbox, can sense that we’re up to something important. We settle under a tree near the playground where the grass has been worn smooth. I dump the keys onto the ground in a pile. It’s not a very big pile. Thirty keys, at most. We agree to try each key in each keyhole, and then if it doesn’t fit, return it to the cigar box. That way we won’t try the same key twice by mistake.
Lizzy takes the first one and, before she puts it in a hole, covers it with both hands and whispers something to it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m saying a little prayer for good luck,” she answers. “I might not know anything about religion, but that doesn’t mean we can’t pray. You know, to the powers of the universe or something. Come on, do it with me.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
She thinks for a minute and says, “How about: O Master of All Things Locked, please allow this key to open Jeremy Fink’s box.” After a short pause she adds, “Amen.”
I glance around to make sure no one sitting nearby heard that. “Why don’t just you say it? We don’t want to confuse the Master of All Things Locked with two different voices.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, and prays to the key louder than I would have liked. She then tries it in all four holes, to no avail. We go through each key that way. None fit. Most of them won’t even enter the keyholes at all. About a handful of them actually slide in a notch, but don’t go any farther. By the time we’re down to our last key, Lizzy’s prayer has become a mumble of MasterkeyboxAmen. This time I add my own little silent Amen, but it does no good. Larry’s box is now full again, and I have to go on the subway. Ugh.
Chapter 4: The Flea Market
Lizzy goes in to return the keys while I wait outside, gathering my nerve. I’m not proud of the fact that I’ve never taken public transportation without an adult, but everything I need is usually within walking distance.
The bells jingle as Lizzy comes back out and begins marching down the street toward the subway. The closest stop is a few blocks away, and I find myself trailing behind. I have a lot on my mind. I can’t be expected to walk so quickly. She waits for me at the next corner, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I have an idea,” I tell her, trying to sound enthusiastic. “We can go to some garage sales right here in the neighborhood.”
“You know our best bet is the flea market,” she says firmly, taking off again. “We’d have a much better chance there than at some little garage sale.”
I know she’s right. The 26th Street Market in Chelsea is the biggest in the city. My parents and I spent many weekends there. After Dad died, Mom and I went on our own, but it wasn’t the same. In the last year or two, we haven’t gone at all.
“How do you know which train we should take?” I ask as we descend into the muggy darkness of the subway station.
“There’s a map right here on the wall.” Two older boys are standing in
front of it, arguing about which way to go. One of them bets the other that he can’t eat fifteen Nathan’s hot dogs in under five minutes when they get to Coney Island.
I whisper to Lizzy, “I once stuffed twenty-seven candy corns in my mouth at once and then ate them all. And I didn’t even need anyone to bet me.”
“That’s gross,” she says, tapping her foot at the boys, who ignore her. Finally they move on, and we move closer to the map.
She traces her finger along one of the subway lines. “It looks like this one will take us right to Sixth Avenue, and then we just need to walk two blocks. And it’s only five stops, so don’t be a baby.”
“If it’s only five stops, maybe we should walk,” I suggest. “You know, save our money.”
“We’re not using our money,” she says, digging into her shorts pocket. “We have your mom’s tokens, remember?”
“Tokens are still money,” I mutter under my breath as she forces one into my hand.
We approach the turnstile, tokens held at the ready. But when we get there, neither of us can find a place to stick them in. It’s been a few months since Mom took me on the subway, and I guess I didn’t pay enough attention because I can’t remember what to do. I feel a tap on my shoulder. A man wearing a Yankees cap and T-shirt points to a sign that says: NO MORE TOKENS. METRO CARDS ONLY. I tap Lizzy, who is frantically trying to stick the token in anything that remotely looks like an opening. She whirls around, and I point to the sign. We sheepishly step out of line and watch the Yankees fan swipe his card through a groove. He pushes through the turnstile and turns around to face us when he gets to the other side. “Come on,” he says, holding his card out. “I can use the good karma. The Yanks are playing the Red Sox today.”
“Thanks!” I say, taking the card from his outstretched hand. I swipe it, walk through, and pass it back to Lizzy. After she comes through, she returns it to the man and mumbles an embarrassed thank you. Lizzy doesn’t like to admit there’s something she can’t do. I don’t have that problem. I know I can’t do most things.
As we carefully dodge the used gum and unidentifiable puddles, I say to Lizzy, “I wonder why my mother kept those tokens in the kitchen if they can’t be used anymore?”
“Half the things in your house don’t have a purpose,” she points out.
Actually, I’d say more than half.
We wait for the train a good distance behind the yellow line and listen to a short, wide man with a crewcut play a guitar and sing about lost love. He looks like he should be on the football field, not singing in a subway station. I don’t turn away until the high-pitched squeal of the arriving train drowns out his singing. Lizzy takes hold of my arm, and we push our way through the doors.
Grasping onto a pole with a tighter grip than is probably necessary, I try to keep my brain occupied by staring at the nearest advertisement. GET RID OF ADULT ACNE. Adults have acne? I glance at Lizzy and wonder if she’s thinking about the same thing I am—the appearance last Christmas of Lizzy’s first pimple, better known as The Pimple That Ate Manhattan. She looks at me, looks at the poster, then scowls. But when she thinks I’m not looking, I see her reach up and rub her cheek. In the right light one can still see a faint red mark from where she savagely attacked the pimple with a pair of nose-hair tweezers. After that, Mom made Lizzy promise to come to her with any beauty emergencies. Lizzy’s dad is useless when it comes to girl stuff. He’s the one who gave her the tweezers!
“Are we there yet?” I ask her as the train slows to a halt.
“This is only the second stop,” she says.
“It feels like the fourth.”
“Well it isn’t.”
“Are you—”
“Yes! I’m sure! Stop being such a baby!”
“I’m not being a baby,” I mumble.
Lizzy digs into her pocket. “Here,” she says, thrusting a Milk Dud into my palm. “This should make you feel better.” The half-melted Milk Dud is covered in a light film of pocket lint. I pop it in my mouth anyway. The chocolate-caramel goodness does indeed make me feel better.
A tall, middle-aged man standing nearby chuckles, and I turn to look at him. He nods his head toward Lizzy and says, “You and your sister remind me of the way my sister and I used to be. Oh, the fights we would have! But there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other.”
“She’s not my sister,” I quickly reply. My eyes dart over to Lizzy, but she seems oblivious to the conversation. She’s staring at the adult acne poster with a pained expression.
The man raises his brow in surprise, then nudges me with his elbow and says knowingly, “Ohh, she’s your girlfriend!”
“No, she’s not!” I exclaim, this time getting not only Lizzy’s attention, but the attention of everyone nearby. I feel my cheeks begin to burn. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve heard that. Kids make fun of us at school all the time. But still! From a stranger! On the subway!
“Now we’re here,” Lizzy says, grabbing my arm and pushing me toward the door. I glance back at the man, and he gives me a little wink.
ARGH!
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lizzy asks as we climb the long stairs back into the bright sunshine.
“I guess not,” I mumble. I swing my backpack around to the front to make sure no one unzipped a zipper when I wasn’t looking. That guy might have been trying to distract me while his accomplice went into my bag. I check all the pockets, but everything is safe and sound (including the pack of Razzles I forgot was in there, which is always a nice surprise).
The flea market is basically two big parking lots that get taken over every weekend by all types of vendors. It’s very crowded and smells like a combination of boiled hot dogs and sweat. And not the good, peanut butter kind of sweat. Even though this used to be a home away from home for me, I stick close to Lizzy.
It takes a while for us to wind our way past the section of artists selling their crafts so we can get to the second-hand section. It’s so strange being here without either of my parents or Aunt Judi. Mom and Aunt Judi are equal-opportunity flea market shoppers. Not Dad. He always went straight for the second-hand stuff, also known as the junk. The junk section is where I feel at home, since after all, most of my home started out on these sidewalks. One of Dad’s favorite quotes was, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Every time he said that, Lizzy used to whisper, “One man’s trash is another man’s trash,” but never loud enough for Dad to hear. Whenever Dad found something he considered a treasure, he’d do a little dance right there on the sidewalk. People would laugh, and I would be embarrassed. I don’t see anyone dancing today.
We walk past vendors selling used clothing, children’s toys, old Life and National Geographic magazines, and rare comics in slipcovers. My legs slow of their own accord when we pass the comics, and Lizzy has to push me forward. I don’t see anyone with stamps, but there’s a table of old postcards that my mom would love. There aren’t any of dogs in tutus, so we choose one with a lady sitting in a museum staring at a painting, except it’s not a painting, it’s a mirror. It’s just strange enough that Mom will love it and will hopefully forgive my recent transgressions. Plus, it costs only a dime.
As the woman slips the card into a small bag for me, I turn to Lizzy and ask, “Did you know when you look in the mirror, you’re actually seeing a slightly younger version of yourself?”
“Is that so?” she mumbles, her eyes darting to the next table, which is piled high with cheap makeup that looks half-used.
“Yes. It has to do with the time it takes light to travel between the mirror and the person standing in front of it.”
“Uh huh,” she says.
I don’t bother continuing my explanation about the speed of light, and ask her if she wants to stop at the makeup table. She pretends to be horrified that I’d even mention it and harumphs. Lizzy is very attached to her tomboy reputation.
We make our way up and down the rows, scanning the wares for keys. Halfway
through the third row, we find a woman with blankets of stuff spread out on the ground. She also has a table with a tray full of mismatched jewelry and a bowl filled with brass doorknobs. I feel like we’re getting warm. The table is crowded, and we have to wait for a rather large woman to finish haggling before we can see the rest. The haggler is trying to get the similarly large woman on the other side of the table to take a dollar for the whole tray in front of her. She’s holding up the tray, and we can hear its contents clashing and jingling, but can’t tell what it is. What if we’re a minute too late and this woman goes home with my keys?
Lizzy stands on her tiptoes and tries to peer over the lady’s shoulder but almost falls right on top of her instead. Patience never being her strong point, Lizzy finally has enough and pushes her way in.
“Oh,” I hear her say. “It’s just a bunch of broken buttons. Why would someone want a tray of broken buttons?”
The shopper in question turns to glare at her, then shoves a dollar in the seller’s hand and storms away.
“Sheesh,” Lizzy says as we step up to the table. “Some people are so sensitive.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the vendor says, tucking the dollar bill into a small canvas bag at her waist. “She’s here every week and never wants to pay more than a buck for anything.”
“I know the type,” Lizzy says, gesturing to me with her thumb.
“Hey,” I say, offended. “There’s a difference between thrifty and cheap.”
Lizzy is already busy rummaging through the other trays. “No offense,” she says to the woman, “but why would someone buy buttons or old doorknobs, or any of this stuff?”
The woman shrugs. “All different reasons. Sometimes people are looking to fix up something they already got, and are searching for a particular thing. Some folks are looking to add to a collection. You wouldn’t believe the things folks collect.”
“Like mutant candy?” Lizzy asks innocently.
The lady looks puzzled. “Can’t say I’ve heard of that.”
