Francine was a geek for two things: dance and drama.
What Pearl had to recognize was that geeks could be friends with other geeks—even if they were geeks about different things.
—M.A.M.
“Fourteen.” He put out a hand. “Oleg Boiko,” he said. He could have added “professional rock geek,” but he didn’t have to. The rest of the geeks in the room had already figured him out.
“Pearl Moran. What grade are you in?” she asked, shaking his hand.
“Eighth,” said Oleg. “At Lancaster Avenue.”
Pearl’s school. She hadn’t noticed him there. “Transfer?” she asked. “From where?”
He named an elementary school, and she knew without being told that he’d fallen behind the year before. Nobody in eighth grade was already fourteen in September. Plus, Pearl’s school was a magnet for messed-up middle-schoolers from other public schools. Something told her Oleg was good at science, but you had to be good at everything to be good at school.
“Would you like a library card, Oleg?” asked Mom.
“Sure,” he said, coming back to the circ desk, probably because it was so obviously the right answer. Mom handed him an application and he started turning out his jeans pockets, scattering their contents on the circ counter: pebbles, a marble, a red bandana all scrunched up and dusty, a dirty sheet of folded pink paper (the “LOST HEAD” sign), and a dollar. “I don’t have much money on me.”
“Library cards are free,” Mom said, and Oleg looked relieved. He started filling out the application.
“We have rock books,” Pearl said, coming nearer to peer at Oleg’s handwriting, which was tiny and neat, not what you’d expect from a bad student.
“Really?” Oleg’s face was all light.
“Sure, in the geology section,” said Simon, and the two boys went upstairs to the 551s.
“All this talk about why anybody comes to the library? He came out of kindness,” said Ramón.
“I’m not sure we can count on kindness to bring our circulation numbers up. Kindness is a rare commodity. Anyway, you sound like you’re talking about a space alien,” said Mom. “He came in kindness. I come in peace. Take me to your leader.”
Bruce shuffled quickly down the spiral staircase with a package for the library board office just as Francine’s tap shoes clicked up the steps.
“No new head,” Pearl was saying. “We don’t want a new head.”
“What, never? Just keep her headless?” asked Ramón.
“If she gets a new head, it will never look right. It could be all wrong! Plus people will stop trying to find the old head.” Pearl was appalled at the catch in her voice, and struggled to control it.
“I don’t know about that,” said Bruce. “But payment for the sculpting of a new head is more money than I want to ask for.”
“Bruce,” said Mom. “If she stays headless, nobody will know who she is.”
He blew out his breath. “We have to make choices!”
Pearl suddenly understood that it wasn’t just money; it was also how much time you could put into any one problem, and Bruce just couldn’t do everything. She grabbed Francine by her sparkly shirt and pulled her into the reference room. She whispered, “I’ve got a theory. That boy might be the thief.”
Simon had left Oleg upstairs and followed them in. “Oleg Boiko?” He rolled the name across his tongue.
“Yeah. Did you see his muscles?”
Francine giggled.
Simon said, “How come you’re noticing muscles lately? I didn’t notice them.”
Pearl flushed. “Simon, think! He climbs rocks. Maybe he can lift them, too. He could have lifted that head. And he was out there spying last week, from the other side of the fence.”
Mom came in. She’d overheard them from behind the circ counter. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You think this boy has been staking out the library from some apartment over there, waiting for his moment to steal a statue’s head? And he came and did it under the cover of night—”
“Yes!” Pearl liked the way Mom described it.
“Why would he do that?” called Ramón.
“Huh?” the girls said.
“It’s not enough just to have a way to do it or the muscles to do it.” Ramón came up and leaned against the doorframe. “Plenty of people have muscles. Why would that boy steal Vincent’s head? What’s his motive?”
Simon suggested, “Because he wanted the job of replacing it?”
Pearl had an idea, of course. “So, first he removes the head. Then he offers to replace the head. That way he gets the thrill and he gets the—”
“The reward of money!” said Francine. “When we pay him for the new head!”
“Could be,” said Ramón. “All you have to do is prove he stole the old one.” His owl eyes were twinkling, and Pearl could tell he was teasing them.
“Find the head in Oleg’s house,” said Simon, nodding mock-seriously. “Blow things wide open.”
“The point is,” said Mom, “the boy has a stone. And if Vincent gets a good head, we get some good publicity. We have a little ceremony. The press comes, some neighborhood folks—”
“So you’re for it?” Pearl wailed at her mother. “But there’s no way the head will look the same!”
Mom said nothing. Ramón shrugged. Simon raised his eyebrows. Only Nichols, who apparently had been awake for a while over in his chair, gave the group a sympathetic look, pushing out his lower lip and nodding sideways.
“Then it’ll be a little different,” he said.
1 National Geographic is an actual magazine. Most of the covers have bright yellow edges.
15: APOLOGIES FOR MY DAUGHTER
SEP 22–23
On Friday night, Bruce came to dinner. Pearl took her veggie burger into the bedroom along with her vocabulary homework and Pinky Pye,1 a good book about a cat who writes a story about solving a mystery, and who knows a thing or two about drama.
(Cats writing—that’s a good one! I’d like to see a cat write Pearl a note.)
She worked, then read, then thought about raccoons solving mysteries, then eavesdropped enough to know that there were some interesting discussions about whether Alice’s baby was going to come before Thanksgiving. The silences were also interesting. But then she heard Bruce say it had been Mr. Gulliver who’d told the real-estate men that the library building might be available for repurposing, and she had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep from shouting out. All along, she’d assumed that Mr. Bull and Mr. Dozer had gotten their idea from the first Moon story.
Her mother only said calmly, “Well, some developer would have figured it out eventually, the way things are going with developers moving into old neighborhoods all over the city.”
A Sidebar About Urban Legends
The most famous urban legend set in New York is the one about the alligators in the sewers. Like other legends (see chapter 5), it’s a story that gets larger with retellings. People used to be stupider about taking animals out of their natural habitats. Rich people vacationing in Florida could buy baby alligators and take them home as pets, keep them in aquariums or even a spare bathtub.
But sometimes they’d get sick of the pets and flush them down the toilet. Sometimes the bathtub wouldn’t have enough water to keep the alligators content, and they’d escape. Legend has these alligators growing to huge sizes, feeding on rats and garbage. Truth is, some alligators really did wind up in the sewer system of New York City, which is extensive. And so sometimes these sewer alligators would actually surface in the middle of the city.
All this is a long way of saying that there’s a grain of truth in every story, even the most bizarre fiction.
—M.A.M.
“And kicking out all the old neighbors,” said Bruce.
“Gully is one of the old neighbors,” said Mom. “He ought to know better than to mess with me.”
Pearl waited, but the conversation moved on to black vs. green tea at this ti
me of night, and she didn’t get to hear what her mother intended to do about Gully. But she thought about it until she fell asleep.
She wasn’t able to do anything about it until the next morning at the library, when she casually said she was going to Gully’s and slipped out. She was on the curb in front of the library, striding away, when Mom called down from the third floor, “Pearl! Wait!”
Mom emerged from the library, ran down the steps, and hurried across the street to Pearl.
“Why can’t I go alone?” Pearl asked quietly. “Gully was the one who told those construction guys to come check out the old library!”
“Oh, Pearl!”
“I know I’m not supposed to eavesdrop, but you guys were talking so loud I couldn’t not hear. Gully can’t keep on telling stories about us! He’s trying to wreck everything with his lies!” said Pearl.
“So you’re going over there to accuse him? That’s not the kind of drama we need.” It was like Mom had been hearing all those thoughts about drama that Pearl had been having. She almost asked, “What kind do we need?”
But Mom said, “You can’t just go confronting people, Pearl girl. That’s not the way to get things done. You have to learn how to make the most impact: be diplomatic, not get yourself and the rest of the enterprise in trouble because you’re mad at”—she lowered her voice and angled her head away from Gully’s window—“a certain busybody neighbor. As I’m sure you heard me say last night, some developer would have had this idea soon anyway.”
Pearl put a hand on her mother’s arm. “So what are you going to do?”
“Diplomacy,” said Mom. “Watch and learn.” She led the way into the store.
“Good morning, Mr. Gulliver!” said Mom with false cheer.
“Maybe for you,” said Gully. “It’s practically lunch time!” He opened every day at 7:30, for the rush-hour traffic and the kids on their way to school. He kept to that schedule even on Saturdays.
“Gully, you’re just the expert I’ve been needing to ask,” Mom said. “Don’t you think that if the library were open in the evenings, there would be more foot traffic on Lancaster Avenue?” Was this what Mom meant by diplomacy, asking an opinion where one was not needed?
Sure enough, Gully puffed up like a pigeon on a cold day. He liked being asked his opinion. “You think there’d be more foot traffic?”
“And it would be safer,” said Mom. “The way things used to be.” (Those were Gully’s favorite words.)
“We remember,” he said to Mom. He smiled down at Pearl, his voice almost gentle for once. He had been running his store since Mom was a little kid living on Seventh Avenue, and he was friendly to her because they both remembered that time. Mom was wistful about when her parents and brother lived in the neighborhood. Gully was nostalgic for the days with more white people—and not such poor ones, either. Now he said, “Safer would improve my marketing, that’s for sure. You think I’d make money at night with all these punks and let’s-call-them-newcomers around here?”
“Why not, if the library brought in customers,” said Mom. “ ’Til nine, at least. There’d be the old hustle and bustle on the avenue.”
But the moment of nostalgia had passed for Gully, and he flapped his hand at Mom. “Library was on the chopping block even before that head got stolen.”
“No we’re not!” said Pearl. “We’re just”—she borrowed a phrase she’d heard Bruce and Mom say—“under proposal.”
“Under proposal to be turned into residences,” said Gully, pointing his finger at her rudely. “And a good idea, too. Why not just close and get out? Let them make the place into something—restaurants, a little shopping street?”
But her mother said, “What would be great is if an established local businessman like you would send a letter of support for the library to the board.”
Gully looked like he’d swallowed salt, but Mom had an idea in her teeth and she wasn’t going to let go of it. “Even if you did suggest development to Mr. Bull and Mr. Dozer—” Mom rambled right on, her eyes focused somewhere over Gully’s head, as if she didn’t even notice that he gulped and blinked and cleared his throat when she said it. “A local institution of learning and culture like the Lancaster Avenue branch library is an expression of this neighborhood’s high values—and you should think about where your store fits into that.” She paused. “If you want to survive the coming changes. Your building is real estate, too.”
But the threat of becoming the next target for the developers was lost on Gully, who was dashing to the corner, where Nichols lingered outside the newsstand, looking at the headlines on the morning Moon. “Hey, paying customers only! Keep moving!”
Mom caught Pearl’s arm as she charged forward in pursuit, holding her so tight it hurt. “You’ll only embarrass Mr. Nichols, Pearl!” she said into her ear.
Gully came back in, punched the register’s keys, and said, “Stinking bums.”
“Mr. Nichols doesn’t stink and he isn’t a bum,” said Pearl.
“He’s homeless!” Gully spat out the word. “Why doesn’t he get a job?”
“Why don’t you give him one?” Pearl said. Mom put a hand on her shoulder.
“People like that are wrecking this area,” said Gully. “It’s bad for business!”
“Mr. Nichols has as much right to be here as—”
“He’s our friend, Mr. Gulliver,” Mom interrupted. She hoisted her purse up her shoulder and hauled Pearl out the door, adding, “My apologies for my daughter.”
“I don’t apologize!” said Pearl.
“Shush!” said Mom.
They banged out of the store. Francine was lurking in the doorway. Pearl could tell she’d heard the whole thing.
Pearl chased after her mother. “Your apologies?” she cried. “I stand up for someone, and you apologize for me?”
“Gully is our friend, too,” Mom said, storming across the street. “You have to be polite to him.”
“No,” Pearl said. She shook her head all the way up the library steps. “Not if he’s rude to Mr. Nichols and me!”
“Then you are banned from his store until you can be polite to him,” said her mother.
Here came Francine. “I wouldn’t have apologized either,” she said. “But I’m hardly allowed to talk to him. He’s our landlord.” Suddenly, her eyes widened.
And then everyone’s anger popped when they saw what Francine was looking at.
Francine grabbed Pearl’s arm. “Those men!” she hissed. “They’re back!”
(Drama. It grabbed people!)
Mr. Dozer and Mr. Bull were pulling up and parking right on the sidewalk.
Sure, maybe they had read about the lost head in the newspaper and found the library themselves, simple as that. But maybe Gully had actively sought out the real-estate guys to encourage the idea of the library as a site for repurposing. Or maybe Gully had stolen the head himself to get a story in the paper and bring somebody to the neighborhood to look at the library!
He certainly has the motive, thought Pearl. He wanted to get the library sold away, bring in new development, raise rent. And he could have beheaded Vincent—he was strong enough to lift the head. And who else would know when the library staff had locked up and gone home for the night, leaving Vincent vulnerable, just waiting to have her head stolen?
Pearl whirled back toward Gully’s store. He was standing in the doorway, smiling toward the trucks, nodding.
“Pearl,” said Mom warningly. “I think you girls should go—”
“Come to my place!” interrupted Francine. “We can see the library from there.”
“Go there and nowhere else,” ordered Mom.
What else could Pearl do? She went.
1 Pinky Pye by Eleanor Estes, illustrated by Edward Ardizzone (Harcourt, Brace & World, 1951).
16: BECAUSE OF FRANCINE
Still SEP 23
Francine’s granny’s studio was a high-ceilinged, odd-smelling room with heaps of what some might call art ma
terials and some might call dumpster debris. One corner held a stove and a sink. The collapsible card table had one chair and one stool, and there was a hot glue gun on it. Francine tapped across, and immediately there was a thumping sound from below.
“Is that Gully?” Pearl asked.
Francine nodded. “See why I have to go outside to practice?” She led Pearl through the kitchen to a tiny room that might have been a pantry once. Lit by a small, bathroom-sized window was a table covered in newspaper printed in what Pearl figured was Portuguese. Francine had hung clear plastic shoe bags from Gully’s on the two walls. The shoe compartments were full of craft stuff: beads, glue, feathers, pipe cleaners, sequins, glue sticks, scissors, Popsicle sticks, gimp string, hemp string, pompoms, googly eyes, and fluorescent Day-Glo fabric paint.
It was a place for making things, not just living.
“Cool,” said Pearl. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”
“My mother, when she left for Brazil,” said Francine.
“Why didn’t you go?”
“It’s better for me here.”
That statement froze Pearl. With all the blabbing and blubbering she’d been doing about losing her library, here was Francine being calm, cool, even cold on the subject of her missing parents. For all her caring response to Pearl’s drama, she didn’t show much worry about her own.
“I wish we were in the same class at least,” said Pearl.
“Me too,” said Francine.
Their eyes met.
After a beat, Francine asked, “Want to glue some fish on your flip-flops like I did?”
“What?”
“Look.” Francine slid her hands into two yellow flip-flops. There were plastic goldfish stuck on the thong just above where the toes would be. “I got them at Gully’s.” She reached into one of the shoe-bag pockets and pulled out a handful of plastic animals. “Pick something.”
A Girl, a Raccoon, and the Midnight Moon Page 10
