by Lisa Graff
Fifty-three years. He’d spent fifty-three years searching, tracking down every St. Anthony’s suitcase ever made, and it wasn’t there.
His mother’s peanut butter recipe wasn’t there.
19
Cady
CADY HAD JUST DROPPED TOBY’S CAKE PLATE IN THE SUDSY sink when she heard the thud from the main storeroom floor. She scuttled out of the kitchen and looked to the top of the stairs just in time to make out the Owner’s surly face. He growled at her and then slammed shut his bedroom door.
Toby was right about him—he was a grumpy old man.
Flung carelessly atop the circular counter in the center of the room was the thing that Cady assumed must be the source of the Owner’s rage (as well as the thud)—a single powder blue suitcase, with three small dimples near the left clasp. It looked exactly like the suitcase the curious man in the gray suit had unstrapped from his bicycle (and also quite a bit like the other powder blue suitcases Cady had noticed under the countertop—some sort of collection of the Owner’s, she figured).
Cady stood on her toes at the counter and pried the suitcase open carefully, wondering what about a piece of old luggage could possibly have made the Owner so furious. But all she found, inside one of the pockets, was a small ceramic bird, its yellow beak wide open in a whistle.
Perhaps the Owner really hated birds.
As Cady moved to snap closed the top, something fluttered out of the ripped lining, just flittered to the floor, as though Fate had wanted her to find it. A slip of paper. Cady picked it off the ground. It was brown like a fallen leaf, and brittle with age. Its creases were raised like scars. As she slowly unfolded it, one corner crumbled completely to bits.
PERFECT PEANUT BUTTER
That’s what was written across the top of the paper. Cady bit her bottom lip as she read the recipe. If anything could make a person less of a grump, she thought, it was a cake baked specifically for him. And maybe, if the Owner were just a little less grumpy, Toby might want to stick around a while longer.
He might want Cady to stick around, too.
Cady hadn’t so much as finished the thought, however, when the words of the man in the gray suit scampered into her head. It’s the way we deal with what Fate hands us that defines who we are. Cady shook them free. With the recipe clasped gingerly in her fingertips, she shut the suitcase and slid it underneath the countertop with its brothers. Then she headed to the kitchen. There were only a few hours before the bakeoff, and she had a cake to make.
20
Zane
ZANE HEARD THE THUD ON THE COUNTERTOP OF THE MAIN storeroom floor, but he ignored it. Tucked away in the electronics corner, Zane did his best to tread lightly, quietly. It was silly, perhaps, to think he could keep ahead of the trouble he knew was coming, but darned if he wasn’t going to try anyway. Because even if the letter from that old bat Principal Piles seemed to have disappeared in the chaos of the move (his parents had yet to mention it, and in Zane’s vast experience with trouble, when parents read such letters, they usually mentioned them right away), Zane’s problems hadn’t disappeared. Sooner or later, one way or another, Zane’s parents were going to hear from the principal. They were going to have to decide whether or not to send him to boarding school. And there was a chance—slim perhaps, but a chance nonetheless—that Zane could cut the trouble off at the pass.
Zane pulled a pair of expensive-looking headphones off a shelf and examined them carefully before tucking them inside his pocket. They would fetch a pretty fair price at Louie’s Pawn Shop (well, as fair a price as Louie ever gave). And with enough trips to Louie’s, Zane just might (perhaps, maybe) be able to cover some of the cost of the repairs for that stupid hole in his family’s apartment wall. Nobody would send a thoughtful, supportive boy like that to boarding school. Well, it was worth a shot, anyway. As long as Zane’s parents didn’t figure out how truly . . .
WORTHLESS.
When Zane’s pockets were stuffed almost to bursting, he searched the store for the perfect container to store his goods in. If he remembered correctly, under the circular counter there was a stash of seriously old blue suitcases. The Owner would never notice if one of those was missing.
On his hands and knees, Zane pulled out one of the suitcases. St. Anthony’s, the scrawl of silver thread across the top announced. There were three small dimples by the left clasp. Zane opened it up. The lining was torn. He yanked out a second case from the collection to see if perhaps it was in slightly better shape. Positioning this second suitcase next to the other—just to the left—Zane opened the clasps. Torn as well, in exactly the same spot. Zane shrugged. He supposed it would have to do. Into the suitcase went the cameras, the leather wallets, the rings, the belt buckles. Anything that might score a few dollars.
Zane hadn’t realized just how much he’d miss his old home before they moved into the Emporium. He’d never been the kind of kid who felt particularly homesick when his family went away on vacation or he spent a week at camp. What was so great about a tiny, cramped apartment? he’d always wondered. With everybody smooshed together, poking into your business all the time? Nothing. That’s what he’d always thought.
But if they did send him to boarding school . . . Zane swiped at his nose. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, having your business poked into just a little bit.
Zane was just emptying his last pocket into the suitcase when he heard a startling skitter-skitter-CRASH! And suddenly, in a flash of fur and claws, Will’s pet ferret, Sally, whomped down from the overhead air vent, right into Zane’s spiky hair.
“Aaaagh!” Zane batted at her wildly until she skittered down his neck, across his chest, and buried herself inside the suitcase of loot, where she promptly became entangled in the pricey headphones.
“Sally!” Zane shouted, digging into the suitcase to pull her out by her scruff. “Don’t you dare break any of my stuff, you little weasel.”
Sally spit out the shiny bit of whatever it was she’d been hoarding to let out a frantic click-click-clack! of protest.
“Get out of here!” Zane advised her, tossing her to the floor. “Why don’t you go find Will?”
Sally narrowed her eyes threateningly at Zane, but she scurried off just the same. Zane shook his head. Stay ahead of the trouble, he reminded himself. You need to stay ahead of the trouble.
WORTHLESS.
Zane jumped up on his heels. All he needed now was some way to get to Louie’s and sell his stuff. A bicycle, maybe. A bicycle would be perfect. Leaving his loot in the suitcase for just a moment, he wandered off to see if he might be able to find one.
21
Will
SIR WILL WAITED UNTIL HE WAS SURE THE COAST WAS CLEAR before popping out of the air vent onto the main storeroom floor. There was no way the evil wizard would ever find him. Sir Will was too good at hiding. He zipped across the room until he reached the circular countertop in the center. There he found a pair of powder blue suitcases. Perfect. Sir Will flipped open the top of one of them—the one on the right. It had three small dimples by the left clasp, and it was just large enough for a small child.
Checking that no one was watching, Sir Will crawled inside, curling himself into a tight little ball against the torn inner lining. (Sir Will had somehow lost one of his shoes along the way, but knights didn’t care about things like that.) He pulled the lid securely over his body and clutched at his mother’s precious hairpin, waiting for his heart to stop racing. He breathed in deep. His pulse slowed. His eyes drifted closed. And safe in the darkness of the warm blue suitcase, Sir Will drifted . . . off . . . to . . . sleep.
Marigold’s Lime
Pound Cake
a cake that contains more than a little zest and zing
FOR THE CAKE:
4 large eggs, at room temperature
1/2 tsp vanilla
2 tsp
grated lime zest (from approximately 2 limes)
2 tbsp lime juice (from approximately 1 lime)
1 cup butter (2 sticks), at room temperature (plus extra for greasing the cake pan)
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1/2 tsp salt
2 cups flour
1. Preheat oven to 325°F. Grease a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan with butter.
2. In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, vanilla, lime zest, and lime juice. Set aside.
3. In a large bowl, beat the butter with an electric mixer on medium-high speed, until fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add the sugar and the salt and beat, starting on low speed and then increasing to medium-high, until well combined, about 2 minutes more. Slowly add the egg mixture and beat until well combined, about 3 minutes.
4. Reducing the speed on the mixer to low, gradually add the flour to the batter, and beat until just combined.
5. Pour the batter into the pan and smooth the top. Bake for 60 to 70 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool completely before serving.
22
Marigold
MARIGOLD PICKED HER WAY DOWN THE STAIRS, HER ARMS piled so high with shirts and pants and things for her father that she practically tumbled to her death three times. A suitcase. She needed a suitcase to ship the care package.
At the foot of the circular counter in the center of the room, Marigold spied a pair of old powder blue suitcases. Perfect, she thought, making her way over. She set down her father’s things and flipped open one of the cases—the one on the left.
It wasn’t empty.
Inside the suitcase was an impressive stash of odds and ends. Watches and cameras and jewelry. A pair of fancy headphones. Expensive-looking gadgets. Things that a delinquent spiky-haired kid just might steal and sell at a pawn shop. Marigold gritted her teeth. When was her brother going to learn that he couldn’t just—
Something shiny caught Marigold’s eye. Three silver beads, strung onto a short length of red thread, plopped carelessly on top of the rest of Zane’s loot in the suitcase.
Her Talent bracelet.
“Zane!” Marigold hollered. She slapped the bracelet onto her wrist. That little fink had actually stolen her Talent bracelet, and he’d been planning to sell it. Didn’t he care about anybody but himself?
Well, maybe he’d learn to care a little more if he didn’t have his precious stolen treasure to sell. Her cheeks puffed with rage, Marigold flung her father’s things on top of Zane’s plunder and squeezed closed the lid of the suitcase. She secured the clasps tight. From her pocket she produced the label for her father’s hotel in New Jersey. Let’s see what our parents have to say about Zane’s new hobby, she thought.
Wha-pop!
There was a noise from the doorway. Marigold jerked her head up, the address label still in her hand. It was a mailwoman, her satchel of letters hanging at her side. She noticed Marigold and headed her way.
“I’m Gloria,” the mailwoman greeted her. Marigold stood to accept the small bundle of letters that Gloria handed over. “Any parcels or packages to go out today?”
Marigold nodded quickly. “Yep,” she said. “A big one. Let me just . . .” She peeled off the back of the mailing label and bent to slap it on the suitcase—the one on the right. She secured the clasps tight.
“Here, let me help,” Gloria said, reaching out to hoist the suitcase to her side. “Ooh, that’s heavy. I’ll charge the shipping to the Emporium’s account, is that okay?” Marigold nodded, and Gloria headed to the door, her muscles straining with the weight of the suitcase.
Marigold smiled to herself, smoothing her bracelet over her wrist as Gloria wha-pop!ed open the front door and loaded the suitcase into the back of her truck.
And then Marigold noticed it, across the storeroom floor: a small boys’ sneaker. Marigold crossed the room to snatch it up.
Will’s left shoe.
An uncomfortable unease prickled Marigold’s cheeks. Slowly, she returned to the circular counter, where there was now only one powder blue suitcase.
Its clasps were secured tight.
Slowly, Marigold knelt down.
Slowly, she opened the case.
There were the contents of her father’s care package. Shirts and pants and underwear, the special shampoo he liked so much. Zane’s loot was there, too. All just as she’d packed it. Marigold turned back to the shoe in her hand, just as the mail truck’s tires began to scrape across the gravel parking lot.
“Stop!” Marigold hollered, leaping to her feet. She waved the shoe as she ran out the door, down the driveway, across the dirt road. “STOP!”
But it was too late. The mail truck was already gone. It kicked up dust as it rolled down Argyle Road, the powder blue suitcase hopping up and down in the back, as fitfully as Marigold’s stomach inside her.
Marigold had the worst suspicion that she’d just mailed off her little brother to New Jersey.
23
Will
RATTLE.
Rattle.
Thump-a-thump-a-thump-a.
Something was shaking, Will observed as he woke up. Something was shaking, and moving, and bumping. It was him: He was moving. Rattle, rattle, thump-a-thump-a-thump-a. And it was dark. Very dark. All Will could make out was a tiny sliver of light. He was curled up so tight, he could hardly move, and he was holding what he was pretty sure was his mother’s hairpin. He was missing a shoe, too. His back ached from having been pressed so long against something solid, about the size and shape of a small ceramic bird.
Where was he?
Thump-a!
A suitcase, Will remembered. He was inside a suitcase. And now the suitcase was moving, probably on the back of a truck somewhere, heading who-knew-where.
Thump-a-thump-a-thump-a!
The truck swerved.
Screech!
The suitcase bounced up . . .
Fwoop!
. . . and then down . . .
Tha-WUNK!
. . . and then it rolled over, over, over down a hill . . .
Crash crash tumble crash!
. . . through a thicket of weeds and bushes . . .
Schwick-a-schwick-a-schwick-a!
. . . until it smashed . . .
Crack!
. . . into a small rock.
Ka-THUMP.
And Will toppled out, end over end over end.
Splat!
Will looked up at the blue sky and smiled.
He was definitely on an adventure now.
24
Miss Mallory
MISS MALLORY WAS SITTING AT THE PICNIC TABLE ON THE front lawn, reading a mystery. Face Value, by Victoria Valence. She’d been planning to work in her flower beds, the way she usually did to pass time between orphans, but she was currently facing a conundrum.
The man who owned the local nursery—the person who’d sold Miss Mallory all of her petunia bulbs and pansy seeds, fertilizer and planting tools and everything—had, just that morning, presented her with a gift. “I created them specially for you,” he’d told her proudly. “My best customer.”
Miss Mallory set her book in her lap to study the gift once more, staring back at her from atop the picnic table. It was a small carton of delicate purple flowers, unlike anything Miss Mallory had ever seen before. And yet at the same time, they were quite familiar. “A hybrid,” the nursery owner had declared. “My own creation—an impeccable cross between a petunia and a pansy. Beautiful, aren’t they?”
They certainly were. The flowers had the petunia’s distinctive mauve hue and the pansy’s particular petals. Even their scent was a perfect mix—combining the crisp freshness of a petunia with a pansy’s delicate richness, creating a cool, clean aroma that was both invigorating and calming at once. Lik
e a favorite aunt’s perfume. No doubt about it: The new flowers would be a stunning addition to Miss Mallory’s lawn.
The conundrum, however, was that Miss Mallory had no idea where to put them. Should she plant these new flowers in the petunia bed, to the left of the front door? Or would they be better suited with the pansies, to the right? Where did you put something that fit so perfectly in two very different places?
Miss Mallory turned back to her book. She should be spending this quiet time enjoying herself, she thought, since there were no orphans banging about. Less laundry to worry about. Fewer dishes to be washed. And yet here she was, fretting over flowers. She could only hope that, in the many quiet days that were sure to come, she’d learn to do a better job of relaxing. Because this was it, Miss Mallory knew. Cady had finally found her perfect family. The tug in Miss Mallory’s chest had told her.
(It was trying to tell her something else, too, as it turned out, but Miss Mallory wasn’t listening.)
“Aren’t I in a sorry state?” she said to the flowers on the picnic table. “Take my last orphan away and I crumble to bits.” She sighed. “Still, I do wish I had something to match.”
The flowers, of course, had no response. But a hundred yards from the orphanage, in a thick patch of weeds and brush by the side of the windy highway, something else did.
Ka-THUMP.
Miss Mallory left her book on the picnic table to inspect the source of the noise. After several minutes she found it—a suitcase, busted open. It was old and worn and powder blue, as large as a small child, with three dimples near the left clasp and the words St. Anthony’s stitched on the side in silver thread.
