“Then I’ll be in the doghouse,” Whaley said mournfully. He caught Addie's eye, threw his head back, and howled.
Addie nearly laughed but managed to stifle it. Whaley had too many people charmed already and not enough people to tell him the hard truth. “You can’t keep getting in fights, Whaley! Not after they suspended you the last time. Don’t you care?”
“About school? What do you think?”
Addie didn’t have to think. She knew. “Well, do you care about Dad?”
“Of course I do. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be sleeping on that bench right there.” He looked down at his old Doc Martens and then back up at her. “And if it wasn’t for you.”
It was true. She’d been shocked to find him sleeping in this park last September after his stepmom had kicked him out, his head propped on his guitar case and his possessions stuffed into a bag at his feet. Since they’d been friends so long, it hadn’t been hard to convince her father to let him move in with them. Dad was a sucker for strays.
“You can’t let him see that big bruise,” she said more gently. “You promised no more fights, remember?”
“It’s a black eye, Addie. I don’t think I can hide it.” But he looked worried.
“Hmm. Actually...” She thought a minute. “Maybe I can.” Here was one thing, at least, she could salvage from today’s audition fiasco. “But you have to let me turn you into a troll.”
“A troll?” He broke off, looking slightly abashed. “Oh, man, I am a troll. I forgot your audition. Did you get the part?”
Addie ignored the question. “Wait here. I need to get something.”
She sprinted down the hill and ran along the street until Victrola Books came into view. Upstairs, on the second and third floors, where her family lived, the lights were out. But in the warm glow of the lamps inside the secondhand bookstore on the ground floor, Zack was curled up in the window seat reading one of his Redwall books, with Magnesium asleep on his lap, a swirl of soft white fur. Dad’s prized antique gramophone gleamed on the shelf above him. She caught a glimpse of Dad behind the counter, but thankfully he was reading the paper and didn’t notice her.
She darted around the side of the building before either of them could spot her, went in the back door, ran up to her room, and dug out the tackle box. Dad had given it to her for a makeup kit, back when she’d staged The Hobbit with the neighborhood kids in the adjoining backyards. The face paint she’d been messing around with last night was in there, and pancake makeup with brushes and sponges for applying it.
She may have blown her audition, Addie thought as she left with the tackle box in her hands, but she could at least keep Whaley out of trouble by transforming him into the troll king.
2. Mushroom Boy
An hour later, they came home from the park, shivering. The bookstore was closed, so they had to walk around to the back door to get into the house. Shedding their muddy shoes in the hall behind the store, they climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Smells of tomato sauce and oregano floated out of the kitchen as they headed to the living room, the largest space in the house, where everyone ate and hung out and did homework. Looking nervously at the glittery silver and green designs she had painted over Whaley’s battered features, Addie hesitated before going in. She wasn’t sure how successfully she’d concealed his injuries, and she didn’t feel ready for a confrontation if she’d failed. Whaley hung back, too. Gathering her nerve, Adie flashed him a quick smile and peeked around the door frame.
Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace. Its warm light glowed against the dark paneling. Their neighbor Mrs. Turner was sitting in one of window seats that overlooked the street. Even from way back here, Addie could see her bright lipstick vying for attention with the latest dye job she’d inflicted on her gray hair. Mrs. T. was stout, well dressed (in a flowing-crepe-fabric kind of way), and dynamic, especially for her age, which Addie thought to be about sixty. Dad and Zack were at the big oak table; Zack had his colored pencils spilling everywhere, and Dad’s round glasses were gleaming behind a newspaper with the headline CONGRESS VOTES FOR WAR FUNDING; FIRST OFFENSIVE EXPECTED SOON. He was reading the article out loud. Mrs. Turner was gripping an unlit cigarillo between her fingers, listening intently.
“‘Despite war costs set to top one trillion dollars for ongoing operations, Congress has authorized war funding for the new theater of conflict, citing credible intelligence of imminent threats. This despite opposition from a vocal minority in Congress.’”
Addie glanced at Whaley. She knew he’d been following this a lot more closely than she had. He always got worked up over military stuff. It was hard to gauge his reaction under the heavy makeup, but his eyes glowed with interest.
“This can’t be happening,” Mrs. Turner burst out. “Not again! Are we sure the intelligence is accurate this time? Reallysu re?”
Dad lowered the paper. “I doubt it, don’t you?”
“And is there a single reason to think it will do any good? Any reason in hell...” Mrs. Turner pulled out her lighter, flicked it, and then remembered she couldn’t smoke in the house. She dropped it back in her pocket with an impatient gesture. “It makes me mad! We’ve all been working so hard to stop this from happening—”
“Hey!” Zack spotted Addie and Whaley. “What are you guys hiding for? Is Whaley in trouble again?”
Whaley sliced a finger across his throat, but Zack only laughed and stuck out his tongue.
Addie gave Whaley a final once-over. Even the thick makeup couldn’t completely hide the worsening swelling under his eye. Still, you had to be looking for it, she told herself, and Dad probably wouldn’t be. Not with all the war news.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, stepping into the room. Whaley followed. “Hi, Mrs. T. Isn’t Almaz here yet?”
“Not yet.” Dad glanced at the paper one last time and then shoved it aside. “What’s with the face paint, Whaley? I thought Addie was the one auditioning.”
Mrs. Turner put a hand on her chest and drew in a deep breath to compose herself. She crossed the room, gave Addie a quick hug, and looked Whaley up and down. “I know I should be the last to comment on anyone’s makeup, but why, dear boy, is your skin the color of bread mold?”
“Just letting Addie practice on me. What do you think?”
There’s blood on his shirt, Addie realized. And mud. It was a nondescript lumberjack shirt, a murky reddish-brown plaid, but you could see the stains if you looked closely.
The back door slammed and they heard feet thumping up the stairs. Almaz burst into the room, her hair in the elaborate shuruba braids she reserved for big occasions. She was wearing a purple skirt, a dark scoop-neck top, and a long white scarf.
“Hey, everyone!” She pulled off her scarf and twirled around happily, waving the scarf like a flag. “Guess what!”
“What is it, Supergirl?” Whaley was grinning at her. “Why are you dressed up?”
She waved two fingers in the air. “Respect and praise to the King County math silver medalist!”
“Almaz! That’s great!” Addie exclaimed. Whaley grabbed the end of her scarf and tugged on it. Almaz laughed and yanked it out of his hands. “Whoa! What are you supposed to be, Whaley? The Tin Man?”
“If he only had a brain,” Addie stage-whispered. Almaz giggled.
“Do I look like the Tin Man?” Whaley went over to the mirror that hung over the mantel.
“Nah.” Zack stuck a crimson pencil in his mouth. “You look like a mushroom.”
“Well, good,” Addie said. “That’s the effect I wanted.”
“You wanted a mushroom? Why—”
“Speaking of mushrooms,” Dad interrupted, “go throw the pasta in, Addie. The sauce is already made.”
“I wanted a troll,” Addie told Zack. “Same palette.”
Whaley scrunched up his nose at his reflection and burst out laughing. “You’re right, Zack. I am a mushroom.” Abruptly, he crossed the room to pick up his acoustic guitar he’d left in the
corner. He threw the strap across his shoulder and began banging out blues chords, singing in a scratchy tenor:
Well, I’m a mushroom, babeee,
From Planet Zay-am!
Not no shiitake mushroom, babeee,
Like they got in Japan!
Don’t you know I’m a mushroom, baby?
“You’re a troll,” Addie said.
Whaley dropped down into the rocking chair, picked up the tempo, and shook his head wildly.
Some girls love a fungus
Some girls love a spud
But I’m here to tell you
That I ain’t no dud—
A blues troll,” Mrs. T. observed. “I wish I’d brought my camera.”
“Wait a second.” Almaz turned to Addie, narrowing her eyes. “What are you messing around with makeup for? I thought you were going to act.” She was tall and beautiful, and really strong, and when Almaz asked questions in this way, Addie had no trouble imagining her in her position as the intimidating left forward on her soccer team, charging the goal. She often thought goalies must quake when they saw Almaz coming. Addie, however, was going to try to deflect her.
“Well, isn’t it a good makeup job?”
“Sure.” Dad looked up from the paper, which he’d started reading again. “But how’d the audition go?”
“I’ll go cook the pasta,” Addie said, heading quickly for the door.
“Hey, Ads—” Almaz followed, putting her hand on Addie’s arm.
But Addie shook it off and hurried out into the hall. In the kitchen she found the Dutch oven full of hot water fizzing on the stove, about to boil over. She turned down the burner and dumped in two packages of spaghetti. The steam made her face hot. She didn’t want to talk about the audition.
But really, there was no way to avoid it. She sighed and grabbed a stack of plates out of the cupboard, shoved the kitchen door open with her foot, and went back to the living room. Might as well get this over with.
“I’m probably doing makeup again,” she announced as she plunked the plates onto the table.
Whaley put his guitar down. Zack looked up from his drawing.
“Oh, honey.” Dad put an arm around her, but she wriggled away.
“Get the forks and knives,” she ordered Zack. When he got up and did this without arguing, she knew she must really be pitiful.
Almaz put her hands on her hips. “That’s ridiculous. I read through that part with you. It isn’t like you weren’t good. And don’t tell me any of those drama queens were any better!”
Addie shook her head, but couldn’t bring out any words in response. Instead she went to fetch the brass candlesticks off the mantel.
Whaley followed her, awkwardly patting her back. “They’re morons, those theater people. Don’t know a good thing when it smacks them on the head.”
Addie glanced up at him and managed a smile. “I wasn’t bad. But no matter what I do, they just never pick me.” For some reason, she could take sympathy from Whaley when she couldn’t from anyone else.
“Who’s the student director?”
“Tom Stark.”
“Case closed. Everyone knows he can’t tell his butt from a hole in the wall.”
“Thanks, Whaley—that’s disgusting.” Addie started pulling mismatched glasses from the cabinet behind the table.
“Didn’t Mr. Crowley say anything?” Dad asked.
“He wasn’t there most of the time. His wife is having a baby or something. And it wouldn’t matter anyway. He didn’t cast me last year—I only got that walk-on....”
“So it was all Tom,” Whaley said darkly, rubbing the knuckles on one hand. “Want me to pound his face in?”
“No!” Geez, you’d think he could keep away from the subject of fighting just for a second.
“My great-aunt was a director,” Mrs. Turner interjected, settling herself at the table. She leaned back comfortably in her favorite chair. “Did I ever tell you that?”
Addie shook her head, grateful for the change of subject.
“She was. She lived in this house all her life, you know.”
“This house?” Addie looked at her in surprise.
“Oh, that’s right.” Dad glanced up from the bottle of red wine he was uncorking. “I remember you said a relative of yours lived here before you sold us the place, Margie.”
“That was Aunt Meg. I inherited it from her.” Mrs. T. took the bottle from him and splashed red wine into her glass. “Directed until she was in her eighties, God love her! A real terror, too.”
Dad looked at Addie thoughtfully. “What can I tell you, sweetheart? I’ve watched them pick other kids for the big parts as long as you’ve been at that school. We all know you’re good.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’re just jealous.”
Addie shook her head. Sorry for herself she might be, but she wasn’t going to be that self-indulgent. “Or maybe I’m no good. You can’t rule out that possibility.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. T. cried. “We’ve all seen you act. You’re with people who don’t appreciate you.”
“True.” Almaz stuck a candle in each candleholder and lit them. “Tom Stark’s not a terror. He’s a drippy dishcloth. And Mr. Crowley isn’t much better. I don’t care if his wife is having a dozen babies.” The little flames danced as she blew out the match.
They were almost cheering her up. Then Dad said, “Poor Addie. I was sure you’d get the part.”
“So was I.” Addie was mortified to hear a catch in her voice.
“If it’s any comfort, Whaley's makeup is brilliant,” Mrs. Turner said. “Where’d you get the idea?”
“From a book downstairs. I’ll get it and show you, if someone else will drain the spaghetti.” Suddenly, she was dying to be alone. Too much sympathy was as deadening as none at all. “Can I have the keys, Dad?”
“Just remember to lock up.” He dug into his pocket and held them out.
She grabbed the key chain, darted out of the room, and headed down the steps to the back hallway.
“Whew,” she said softly as she stepped inside the shop. She put the keys in her pocket, shut the door, and leaned against it. For a moment she just inhaled the comforting smells of coffee, yellowing pages, and furniture polish. A faint butterscotch light filtered through the big bay windows in the front, touching the book-lined walls. Shadows filled the store. Addie closed her eyes, savoring the moment of solitude.
But the humiliation still felt like a raw, ragged wound, and she couldn’t get beyond it. Not yet. Because she hadn’t told them everything. How Keira would skewer all the people who auditioned on her Facebook page. Sun was on her friends list (who knew why) and told Addie the sort of things she wrote there. God knew what Keira and her clique said about her behind her back. It was like getting bad reviews when you weren’t even performing. Getting bad reviews just for existing.
She opened her eyes and went in search of the book, shoving the rolling ladder out of her way as she went.
The shiny oak floorboards creaked beneath her feet. How many afternoons had she spent here, dreaming, memorizing lines? Since she was eleven or twelve she’d been reading her way through the skinny Penguin editions of plays, eventually tackling the big, bound collections: Shakespeare, Shaw, Ibsen, Williams, Wilson. She loved them all. The words jumped off the pages. She could hear how the dialogue should sound, imagine how a scene should look onstage. She devoured actors’ biographies and pillaged the DVDs and audio recordings. But her favorite book of all was definitely A History of the Theater.
She had shoved it into its place on the shelf spine-first to prevent anyone from buying it, and, as always, as she pulled it out she felt a twinge of guilt. It was a collector’s edition, and Dad could have sold it for a lot of money. She would turn it back around someday. Just not yet.
But as she tipped it out of its place, a squeal of car tires outside startled her. She spun around to see headlights flaring crazily in the window, and the volume slipped from her hand, pages fluttering.
Ooh, Dad would kill her if she’d torn out a page! Carefully, she reached over the tops of the books to get at the paper. But it just slipped farther down and stuck in a jagged crack in the wall.
Darn it! Now the whole bookcase would have to be moved.
She put the book down on a stool. Then she leaned her shoulder against the end of the shelf and rocked it gently back and forth. It groaned and scraped as she angled it away from the wall. When there was enough space, she slipped behind it and sneezed violently, trapped in a column of dust. Then she saw that the paper wasn’t stuck in a jagged bit of plaster after all.
It was caught in a door.
Addie felt a tremor of excitement. She’d pulled books off this shelf a thousand times but had never imagined there’d be a hidden door behind it. It was as if it had just materialized. She had the most ridiculous feeling that if she came back later, she’d find nothing here at all.
Bending closer, she saw that the paper was an old black-and-white photograph, faded to a syrupy orange. Only the bottom of it was visible: the hems of long skirts, pleated trousers, feet in fancy shoes and boots. Intrigued, she took hold of the corner and gently tried to pull it out.
It tore.
She winced, let go, and tried instead to open the door to release it. But no matter how hard she twisted the knob, the door only gasped slightly, like a fat man trying to catch his breath.
Now she had to open it. Something good had to come out of this day. She dashed into the back hallway to the closet where Whaley stashed his tools and grabbed a crowbar. She slipped behind the bookshelf again and inserted its edge into the doorjamb. It was hard work. Dried paint had melded with the moisture in the walls and created a sort of seal. She had to pry the door loose from its frame bit by bit.
The Jewel and the Key Page 2
