Maybe something was wrong with her. Considering that perfectly solid things were disappearing and reappearing ... The horrible moment when she found the angel gone flashed into her head, and a rush of dizziness overtook her.
She stuffed the memory away quickly into some hidden compartment in her mind.
“Hey!” Whaley tapped her shoulder. “Want to help out here?”
Addie shook herself and put her hands under a toppled bookcase. She raised it, and the rounded edge of a brass trumpet amplifier gleamed beneath the mess of books that had fallen from the shelves.
“Dad! I found your Victrola!” she called, righting the bookcase and bending down again to carefully uncover his treasured record player. “I think it’s okay.”
“It’ll be a miracle if it is.” Dad emerged from the chaos of fallen shelves, an anxious look on his face. His dark hair and beard were dusted in white plaster. “If you find the box of seventy-eights, would you check inside? I don’t think I can stand to look.”
Addie’s heart went out to him, thinking of all the years he had spent searching for the records at antique stores and estate sales, cleaning them, cataloging them, and playing them on the Victrola at backyard parties in the summer....
“They’re all shellac, aren’t they, Mike?” Whaley shoved a box he’d filled with books against the wall. “Man, I couldn’t look either if I were you. Some of them must be one of a kind.” He straightened up, and a look of panic washed over his face. “Oh, my God. Nothing better have crashed down onto my guitar. I left it out of the case.”
Addie jumped to her feet. “I wonder if I put away the theater-makeup kit.”
Dad looked from one of them to the other. Then he lifted his hand, curving his thumb and pointer finger together, like a statue of the Buddha. He lifted his head in a meditative pose. “Life is suffering,” he declaimed. “Attachment to things causes suffering. To end suffering, detach yourself from antique record players and guitars.”
“Speak for yourself, Buddha.” And Whaley went running to the back of the shop. They heard him pounding up the stairs to his room.
“Release yourself from twenty-jar makeup kits and wardrobes full of vintage gowns and boots....”
“Shut up, Dad.” Addie giggled.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Ah, my head is clear. I feel free....” He opened his eyes, winked at Addie. “Cheer up. We’re out of business for a little while, that’s all.”
A moment later, Whaley thumped back down into the store. “I did put it in the case.”
“That's good,” Dad said. “Listen. I’ll clear this stuff away. You guys go get some of that plywood out of the shed and hammer it across the window frames. We need something to keep the vultures out until we can get a glazier to fix us up. Oh, and Addie?”
“Yes?”
“Take off that marvelous costume of yours. It’s your brawn I need, daughter dear, not your beauty.”
“Oh, right.” Addie glanced down at the antique dress. “I’ll go change.”
She began to pick her way through the ruins of the store, heading for the back stairs, but came to a sudden halt. The drama shelf had toppled over. Crouching down, she began picking up the books, carefully closing them, brushing off plaster dust. Her eyes darted anxiously until she found A History of the Theater splayed open on the floor. Thank goodness it wasn’t squashed or ripped! Some pages were bent back, but the binding hadn’t broken. She hugged it to herself. Where could she put it to keep it safe? She could take it to her room, but that would be plain stealing. Her eyes traveled across the wall to the hidden closet, exposed now. Perfect. She opened the door, placed the book on the little seat that protruded from the wall, and shut the door again. She’d put the book back once things settled down.
As she stepped into the back hall, she ran into Whaley coming out of the storage closet with his hammer and a jar of nails. His bleak expression startled her.
“Whaley? Something wrong?”
But he just ignored her and went out the door into the backyard.
Concerned, Addie followed him out, then stopped short.
Mrs. Turner was reclining on their flowered garden chair, her injured foot propped up on a stool. Zack was sitting on the old picnic table, reading one of his books to her.
“Addie!” Zack leaped up and charged toward her as if he’d been fired from a cannon, hair sticking up and smudges of dirt across his cheeks. “It was so cool! The teachers helper hid in the broom cupboard. There were six of us under my table, and the table legs jumped like a frog, and one of the boys was hanging on to this girl’s braids, and as soon as it stopped, she socked him—pow!”
“You’re spitting on me!” Addie spluttered, holding him at arm’s length, grinning.
“It was a six point eight, the radio said, but way deep down, not on the surface.” It figured that Zack would know this, Addie thought. He loved earthquakes, volcanoes—any kind of natural disaster. He always wanted to go to Mount Saint Helens when they went hiking so he could look at the lava dome. “That’s why there wasn’t too much damage.”
“This isn’t much damage?”
“And we get to have a barbecue,” Zack rushed on. ‘A barbecue in April! There’s still no electricity, so Mrs. Turner said I could get those iron tong things, if it’s okay with Dad, and she’ll make toasted cheese over the fire pit.”
Mrs. Turner was watching Addie with a sheepish look on her face. “It sounds as if I sent you on a fools errand. I’m sorry, sweetie.”
Gently, Addie pushed Zack away. “Go tell Dad about the barbecue.” Zack ran into the house. She turned to Mrs. Turner. “What do you mean, a fool’s errand?”
“I mean there was no need to send you after all. Becky Powell rang a little while ago to make sure I didn’t come hitching across the city to check on her, since she was fine.”
“The phones are working?”
“My cell is, now. Still no landlines.”
“Well, she said she would call you.” Addie leaned against the picnic table. “There’s something funny there,” she said slowly.
“Where?” Mrs. Turner looked around, as if expecting to see a rat by the chicken coops.
“At the Powells’.” Addie hiked herself up onto the table and sat where Zack had been. The wood was slightly damp, and for the first time since she got home, she felt the chill in the air. “For one thing, there’s nothing wrong with your friend’s eyes, is there?”
“Of course there is! Didn’t you notice? She’s recovering from cancer.”
“Cancer?” An image of a thin, withered-looking woman in a hospital bed flashed through Addie’s mind. Her mom. So long ago. Addie could remember very little of her during that last illness, when she was in the hospital, but this image had always haunted her. She held it up to her image of Mrs. Powell from earlier in the day, and shook her head. “How could that be? She has so much energy.”
Back by the alley, the shed door slammed loudly. She looked over at Whaley, struggling with a sheet of plywood. ‘Addie! You helping or what?”
“In a minute!”
Whaley heaved the wood up onto his back and stalked past her.
Mrs. T. eyed Addie quizzically. “Becky had brain surgery about six months ago. It nearly destroyed the vision in her right eye. She can see fine out of the other, but it affected her spatial sense—for example, she can’t always judge distance. The other eye will eventually compensate, the doctor says. But it’s good to hear that she was energetic.”
The beautiful polished-agate color of Reg's mothers eyes rose in Addie’s mind, and the whisper of unease she’d felt at the Powells’ stirred again, stronger this time. It fit with that feeling she’d had from the moment she met Reg, that something was really off; things just weren’t adding up.
She thrust the thought away. Looking around at the familiar yards, the houses, the big Douglas fir, the weathered picnic table, and the piled-up milk crates that Dad used and reused for transporting books, she found it all
oddly comforting. She turned back to her neighbor. “I really liked her—Mrs. Powell. She invited me to the Jewel on Tuesday after school.”
“Tuesday? I’m going there on Tuesday, to help her with the inspector.”
“What inspector?”
“Building code. Becky wants to renovate the place.” Mrs. T. shook her head. “It’ll be a lot more than she was bargaining for now, with this earthquake.”
Maybe Mrs. Powell had been lucky and her theater had suffered as little damage as her house, Addie thought. Though when she looked around at the roof shingles in the yard and Mrs. Turner’s damaged chicken coop, it seemed unlikely. “What time are you going to be there?”
“Around two. Becky gave me a key. If you’d like, I could leave it in the mailbox for you—its by the loading dock entrance in the alley around back—so you can just let yourself in when you get there.” She paused, examining Addie. “She must have seen you were interested in theater. Did she think that old dress was a costume? Now that I look at it on you, I’m beginning to wonder.”
Addie leaped off the picnic table. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! Its a mess. I’ll get it dry-cleaned, I promise!”
“Stop apologizing! You ran halfway across the city just because I was worried about Becky. Besides, the dress isn’t mine as far as I’m concerned. Its yours. I was thinking I’d offer most of the contents of the crates to Becky for the Jewel, since it seems they came from there in the first place. But of course you can keep anything you like.”
“Really?” Delight flashed through her. This wonderful dress was hers! And maybe even—she reached into her pocket, pulled out the mirror, and handed it to Mrs. Turner. “I forgot I had this. Do you mind if I keep it, too?”
Mrs. Turner’s eyes widened. “Where did this come from?”
“It was wrapped in the shawl that went with the dress. The shawl must still be up in my room. I forgot about it when I found the mirror.”
“I don’t blame you. This is gorgeous!” She held the silver closer to her face and squinted. “Do you see this here?” She pointed the manicured nail of her pinkie finger at some tiny letters along the edge of the metal. “The silversmith’s mark. T-a-g ... something.”
Addie went and leaned over the edge of the lounge chair. “There’s a date, too ... 19—oh, I can't tell what the other numbers are. We need a magnifying glass.” She looked up. “That’s a great idea, giving the costumes to the theater. You’ll need help getting them there, won’t you?”
“I’m hoping your dad will offer to loan me the van.” She looked down at her bandaged ankle ruefully. “And help me pack it too.”
“Well, when I get to the theater, I’ll help carry the crates inside. Actually, I’ll get Whaley to help, too. How does that sound?”
“Perfect.”
The sound of banging on the front door carried into the backyard, and Addie heard Whaley yell, “Don’t come that way! Can’t you see the broken glass? Climb through the window.”
Addie straightened abruptly and bounded away. “Thanks, Mrs. T.!” she shouted over her shoulder and rushed around the side of the house, hoping she would find Reg there.
But it was Almaz who was standing on the sidewalk examining the empty window frames. She had a bandage on her hand, and her white T-shirt was stained with mustard. Addie guessed the jars in the store had shattered in the quake, and her friend had been helping clean up.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Wow, I feel welcome already,” Almaz said sarcastically. She slumped into a pantomime of disappointment. “Hey, back atcha.”
Despite her teasing, there was a strained, upset look on her face. Addie caught up her nonbandaged hand and squeezed it. “Sorry. I just thought it might be someone else.”
A faint smile flickered across her friend’s face. “And I would be fascinated to hear who that might be, except right now I need to borrow Whaley. The banister on our stairs needs to be fixed before it falls down and kills someone.”
As she spoke, Whaley emerged from the back of the store with more wood. “I’ll come when we’ve finished boarding up here.” He glared at Addie. “Which might take hours if I don’t get some help. How bout you get out of that flouncy dress and lend a hand? Unless you’re planning on declaiming Ophelia’s death speech while we hammer—which, by the way, if you don’t start helping, really will be a death speech.”
“Ophelia doesn’t have a death speech. She just floats and then sinks.”
“Can you come soon, Whaley?” Almaz asked. “The food’s going to spoil unless the electricity comes back, and we’re so busy clearing up that I don’t see how we’re going to fix the banister before dark.” To Addie’s dismay, the unflappable Almaz looked close to tears.
“Sure I will,” Whaley promised. “Go get changed, Addie!” He disappeared again into the backyard.
“We’ll get right over as soon as we’re done here,” Addie told her.
Almaz gave her a quick hug and made an effort to look more cheerful. “Now you have to tell me. Who were you expecting?”
“A guy I met,” Addie said, embarrassed. “Just some crazy guy.”
Almaz looked Addie up and down. “Is that why you’re so dressed up? You look good.” She caught Addie's expression and laughed. “Don’t worry. He’ll come.” With a wave, she turned around and headed back toward her house.
They worked all the rest of the day, helping at Almaz’s and Mrs. Turner’s places, clearing up debris, dragging stuff that was irretrievably broken out to the curb, and boarding the store up tight. And even though the lights and electricity came back on by evening, they still had the barbecue in the backyard, much to Zack’s delight.
But Almaz was wrong. Reg never showed up.
8. An Errand
On Tuesday, all the students were allowed back into the Lincoln building; they’d had a day off while the teachers put their classrooms back together. The whole school had a shaken, confused look, and boarded-up windows made it dark and gloomy. Addie couldn’t even stare out of the math room to mentally flee the boredom of Algebra II. Almaz pointed out that Addie’s math scores might actually improve because of this, but she wasn’t convinced. Mr. Brent’s droning didn’t sink in any more than it usually did. And drama class was awful.
When she walked in, Keira was leaning back, and Taylor, a co-diva, was French-braiding her hair. Inevitably, a whole group of people were caught up in the hair drama. As Addie walked by, Keira murmured something that caused a ripple of giggles to run through the group. Pretending not to notice, Addie sat down on the opposite side of the classroom with Jake and Sun, and Brian, who had a wispy mustache and told geeky stories of weekends spent with the Society for Creative Anachronism.
“She’s just jealous,” Sun whispered. “I thought you were good.”
Addie raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
When Mr. Crowley finally showed up, his shirt was untucked and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Between the earthquake and Mrs. Crowley’s blessed event, the parts for the Short Takes had never been posted on the website. So he just read out the names and promised to post a formal list when he had a chance.
Addie was paired up with Sun for makeup and costume design. It was no surprise. And she liked Sun a lot. But it still felt like she’d swallowed a rock when she heard that Taylor had gotten the part of the troll princess.
She’d seen Taylor’s audition and it was blah. Just blah. Had Mr. Crowley even watched it? She glanced at Tom and saw him flash a thumbs-up at Taylor. Bile rose in Addie’s throat. She wished Whaley were here and she could whisper something caustic in his ear like, “Who the heck do you have to bribe to get a part around here?” She almost laughed, imagining the changes he’d probably make to that question.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. After all, she was going to the rehearsal at the Jewel right after school. And that was going to be amazing. She just knew it.
When the final bell rang, she threw her books into her backpack, squeezed through the crush o
f students, and ran out the door.
She scanned the park across the street to see if Whaley was there. Little kids on the playground leaped from the jungle gym to the climbing frame. Above their heads, the wind tore blossoms from the cherry trees and scattered them into the street in great sweeps of pink, like ripped crepe paper. It always made her a little sad, the first storms of spring and the way the wind plundered the flowers off the fruit trees.
No. She wouldn’t think sad thoughts. And she wouldn’t think about drama class. Only about the Jewel. Anticipation bubbled through her, and she almost danced with impatience. She still felt a little disturbed about that earthquake business with Reg, but the apprehension it caused her had faded.... Where was Whaley, anyway?
A finger poked her shoulder. She turned and grinned at Almaz, who had one ear bud in her ear and one hanging loose at her neck.
“Hey! Didn’t see you at lunch.” Almaz took in the green headband holding back Addie's hair and the 1920s vintage dress she was wearing. “Is this the big day? That why you’re so decked out?”
Addie gathered her cropped wool jacket tighter over her dress. “Is it too much?”
“Not to those who know and love you. We’re used to your wacky wardrobe.”
“I’m serious, Almaz.”
Almaz put her head to one side. “What? Were you supposed to bring your own costume? What if they’re doing a modern play? Or Shakespeare or something?”
“They’re not going to put me in a play. It’s just—I guess I just want to make an impression.”
“You always make an impression.” Almaz started to bop her head to the music. “Hey, get this.”
She put the other earbud in Addie’s ear and Addie listened, her head bent close to Almaz’s. She heard a distant sound, like a jet engine revving up or a bomb exploding. Then a voice from an old crackling recording began to speak. It was a speech—a famous speech. Someone explaining or justifying—or maybe excusing—something terrible. She thought she knew who it was, but the name eluded her. Chanting layered in beneath it, and as the speech finished, the explosion got louder, and dub bass and rapid-fire drums overwhelmed it all.
The Jewel and the Key Page 8
