by Ryan Calejo
“Ah, yes, secrecy. I am very familiar with the concept. KGB is all about secrecy. . . .” She gave me a wink. “Just one more question—why do you smell like toilet?”
CHAPTER SIX
As I was making my way back to class, wondering what excuse I was going to give Mr. Henry for why I’d run off like that and why I’d come back wearing this ridiculous purple ski jacket, a huge banner hanging over the glass trophy case caught my eye. The glittering tinsel lettering read:
MRS. TANNENBAUM’S UPCOMING PLAY: A FLIGHT OF FEATHERS
Auditions in the auditorium! More details to follow!
For a moment I just stood there, stunned. I couldn’t believe Mrs. T’s upcoming play actually had something to do with feathers. The only explanation I could come up with was that the big guy upstairs must’ve really enjoyed messing with me because, like, what were the chances? I half expected to see another sign somewhere that read, CHARLIE HERNÁNDEZ IN THE ROLE HE WAS BORN TO PLAY!
Shaking my head, I was about to start walking again when something else drew my attention—one of the faculty photos on the wall next to the trophy case. It showed a woman in a dark business suit, with long reddish hair swept over one shoulder, smiling at the camera.
Lynda Eloise Hernández.
My mother.
Just the sight of her brought a huge lump to my throat. Today made it exactly two months since my parents had gone missing. Exactly two months since I’d last been able to hug them or watch TV with them or tell them how much I loved them. The only good news in all this was that they hadn’t been in the fire. (The firefighters had been very clear about that.) But the bad news was that the police still hadn’t been able to turn up any leads.
Without thinking, I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the big silver locket that had come in the mail last week. It was my mom’s, the only thing I had left of hers. According to the little evidence card it had come with, the locket was the one item in the entire house that had survived the fire. A fire that the chief over at the station house was pretty sure had been caused by a freak toaster-oven malfunction. And the weirdness didn’t end there. I still hadn’t been able to figure out how to open the darn thing. It was locked by a row of tiny combination wheels, like the ones on briefcases and bicycle chains, that had me totally stumped. But I figured eventually (or whenever I got my hands on the world’s tiniest crowbar), I should be able to—
“Hey, check it out!” shouted a voice behind me. “It’s Barney the dorky dinosaur!”
I turned, surprised, and saw Alice Coulter standing behind me, her army of lady-jocks gathered around her. Alice was a six-foot-tall fastball-crushing all-state softball player who looked like she belonged in the majors. She had thick tree-trunk legs, forearms like pythons, and biceps that were the envy of the boys’ varsity football team. Her softball jersey and cleats were always spotless. Her dark, brownish hair was cropped close to her head in a fauxhawk, the tips frosted blue for a little extra school spirit. Her pirate-inspired crossbones nose ring glinted dully in the overhead lights.
In third grade, she’d earned the nickname “Alice the Terrible” after pegging one of our PE teachers with a fifty-mile-per-hour curveball and then proceeding to strike him out in front of the entire class. Mr. Plummer, who was also our school’s basketball coach, was never again seen on school property.
“Hello, boys and girls. I’m a big purple loser!” Alice said, doing her best Barney impersonation, and big surprise, her gang of morons burst out laughing.
One of them shouted, “Burn!” right in my face. Another one—the starting catcher, I was pretty sure—shoved me into the water fountain with her shiny black mitt while popping a bubble of gum between her teeth.
I looked around for a hall monitor. Nada. Which was the problem with hall monitors: They were never around when you needed them.
Alice gave me a big, wicked grin. “Honestly, is dressing like that considered cool wherever it is you’re really from?”
“I’m from here,” I reminded her for what felt like the zillionth time. This whole thing started back in first grade when we’d been partners for a cultural heritage project and she learned that I was born in Puebla, Mexico. (My dad’s family is Mexican and Portuguese, and my mom’s is Cuban.) I’d tried to explain to her that my parents had moved here when I was only one, so America was the only country I’d ever called home, but she didn’t seem to get that. It sucked that some people would never accept me just based on my parents’ nationalities and the color of my skin.
“Sure you are, ese . . .” Alice’s gaze narrowed. Then she stepped forward and snatched my mom’s locket out of my hands before I could react.
“Hey, gimme that back!” I shouted, lunging at her. But two of her henchwomen grabbed me. They slammed me roughly against the wall of lockers and held me there. I could only watch, shivering with anger, as the bat-swinging Neanderthal raised the locket to her face and grinned.
“Pretty fancy,” she said with an evil wink. “Let me guess, a going-away gift from Mommy and Daddy when they got deported?”
My temper flared. “Don’t talk about my parents!”
“Yes, sir, Capitán! I beg your pardon, Capitán!”
Most of her crew was almost falling on the floor, they were laughing so hard. Then Alice gave me a mocking salute, and they all started laughing even harder.
Gosh, what was wrong with these people? Did they just wake up in the morning thinking about whose life they could make miserable?
“Tummy tuck!” Alice suddenly shouted, and punched me right in the stomach.
Pain exploded inside me, and I doubled over, letting out a weird, high-pitched gasp as more cackling laughter echoed through the hall.
“You’re lucky I’m in such a good mood,” Alice said, bending down to whisper in my ear, “or that would’ve just been the opening pitch.”
I managed to choke out, “So this is your good mood, huh?” But I had a feeling she wasn’t kidding about that.
Ignoring me, she held my mother’s locket up to the light like some wannabe jeweler examining a precious stone. “You know what?” she said. “I think I’m gonna hang on to this for a while. Yeah, that’s a good idea. . . . Matches my nose ring pretty good. Plus, it might help with your lip.” She looked around at her friends. “What do you think, girls? Add it to my collection?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking maybe not,” said a new voice.
I looked around and felt my face flush with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. It was Violet Rey, also known as Ultra Violet. The prettiest, smartest girl in our entire school. And probably the world. Violet was captain of both the debate team and the cheerleading squad and was editor in chief of the school newspaper. The crush I had on her went all the way back to first grade, when she tricked me into eating a carrot-shaped stick of orange Play-Doh. I puked. Saw stars. Had a thing for her ever since.
“In fact,” she said, strolling right up to Alice, “I’m thinking these two bozos should let him go, and you, queen of all bozos, should apologize and give him his stuff back.”
“Or what?” the queen bozo sneered. “You gonna go tattle on me?”
A couple of her sidekicks laughed at that, smacking hands like it was the comeback of the century. Morons.
“Sort of,” Violet said, “but not exactly how you’re thinking. See, a very reliable source told me not too long ago that you spent the summer bulking up on performance-enhancing drugs your daddy bought for you off the Internet. So, I was thinking maybe I’d run with it. Make it the front-page story of the Leon Gazette and see what all the high school and college scouts think about that.” Violet grinned mischievously. “Would you like me to forward a copy to your place of residence? Maybe sign you up for a year’s subscription? As always, all proceeds go to support our local PTA.” She let that hang for a moment before adding, “Next move is yours, Allie. But my advice, you and your baboons make like polynomials and factor out.”
I saw Alice’s expression darken. Saw her teeth gr
it as she aimed a long, meaty finger at Violet. “You wouldn’t dare print something like that. . . .”
“Then call my bluff, poker star.” Violet stepped up to her, getting all up in her face. Her blue eyes were like chips of ice and just as sharp. “ ’Cause I’m all in.”
Alice thought for almost twenty seconds—yeah, I counted—and I swore I could hear the gears grinding in her head. Finally, her toxic brown eyes narrowed on me, and she slammed the locket into my chest. “You lucked out this time, amigo,” she said. “But hey, there’s always mañana. . . .”
The moment they were gone, I turned to Violet and said, “Thanks.” But what I really wanted to say was, Hey, would you mind being my personal bodyguard for the next thirty-six weeks?
The pay wouldn’t be great, but at least I could guarantee she’d get to see plenty of action.
“No sweat. I can’t stand racists or bullies—and especially not racist bullies.” Then she looked at me and laughed. “What in the world are you wearing . . . ?”
Kill me now, God. “Just, um, a little something I picked up at the mall.”
Violet made a face. “Listen, for the record, no one hates bullies more than I do. But I gotta be honest, dressing like that—you’re making yourself an easy target.”
“I was cold,” I lied.
“Then wear a jacket that fits. And preferably one that’s less sparkly.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” I rubbed my chest, feeling a red-hot blush creeping up my neck.
“Hey, your dad is Edward Hernández, right? The animal scientist?”
Whoa, she knew that? “Uh, yeah . . . he’s an animal geneticist. He studies their DNA and stuff like that.”
“You remind me of him,” Violet said, and it was easy to understand why. My dad and I were basically twins. We had the same honey-colored skin, the same dark hair, and the same chocolate-brown eyes that proudly showed our Latino heritage. My mom says I’m his mini-me, which I guess is a good thing since most of her friends like to call my dad (when he isn’t around, of course) Señor Tall, Dark, and Muy, Muy, Handsome. But, unlike me, my dad has this cool Spanish accent that everybody loves but that he thinks makes people underestimate him. I never understood that.
“I still remember that presentation he gave about dogs,” she said. “It was really eye-opening.”
“You remember that?” I couldn’t believe it. That must’ve been, like, two years ago, on Bring-Your-Parents-to-School Day.
“How could I forget? When he explained how pure-breeding dogs actually hurts the animals and messes up the gene pool, I ran home and worked all night to get a story ready to publish the very next morning in the school paper. I mean, it really is a modern form of animal cruelty, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Totally . . .” I was too stunned to come up with anything more intelligent-sounding.
“So, what is that thing, anyway?” Violet asked, nodding at my mom’s locket.
“You mean this?” When I held it up, her eyes got all huge and excited.
“Oh my God, it’s beautiful! Where did you get that?”
I caught a whiff of her—she smelled like strawberries and cotton candy—and “Uh,” was all I could manage.
“You don’t remember?”
“No, no—I do. It’s just . . . something I found.” I hoped I didn’t sound as stupid as I felt. Though I was pretty sure I did.
“Well, looks to me like a hybrid of a bola necklace and a locket. Definitely silver. Throw in the chain and the oddity value, and my guess is that it’s probably worth somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred bucks. You could probably pawn it for around three hundred if you needed to score some quick cash.” I must’ve looked pretty stunned because she quickly added, “My dad owns an antique shop downtown. Sometimes I work the register.”
“I had no idea,” I said. But the truth was I knew all about her dad’s shop. I’d probably made my mom sell off about half her old clocks and china just so I’d have an excuse to go in and maybe catch a glimpse of Violet hanging around the back somewhere. Pathetic, I know.
“Yep.” She was nodding now, eyes fastened on the locket. “Anyway, it’s definitely vintage. Maybe early nineteenth century. Definitely rare.”
“I was thinking the same thing, actually . . . about it being rare and stuff.”
“Have you checked to see if there’s anything inside?”
“Yeah, yeah, I tried. But I couldn’t get it open.”
“Here, let me.” She took the locket and went to work on it. “I’m good with locks.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you’re going to be able to open it so easily. . . . I’ve been trying nonstop for, like, five whole—”
The locket clicked open in her hands. “There.”
“—seconds.” I gaped, shaking my head. “How’d you do that?”
“I’m good with locks, remember?” Her lips curved into a dazzling smile. Then she turned her attention back to the locket. “Where did you say you found it again?”
“In my house. My old house.”
“Check it out. . . .” With the tips of her fingers, she pulled what appeared to be a small square of dyed animal skin from the locket. She held it up, and I could see that the edges were all crinkled and frayed like some ancient scroll. “Looks like some kind of map,” she whispered. “An old one . . .”
When she passed it to me, I realized she was right—it was a map! There was a legend in the bottom-left-hand corner, a scale (1 cm = .5 acres), and a little red X in the middle. But why was there a map hidden inside my mom’s locket?
“What do you think that symbol means?” Violet asked. “On the other side?”
I flipped it around. On the back was some sort of decorative marking: two long horns curving up toward a fan of plumy feathers.
My fingertips went numb. Horns and feathers.
No flippin’ way . . .
“Hey, you okay?” Violet asked, jabbing me on the shoulder.
I gave a shaky nod as she handed me back the locket.
“Where did you say you found it again?” she asked.
“It was in my room. In my other—”
“Excuse me!” rasped a voice from up the hall.
We both turned to see Mrs. Porter, the school’s home ec teacher, poking her head out of her classroom. She had a crusty wooden spatula in one hand and was pointing it at us threateningly. A glob of spaghetti sauce dripped off the spoon-shaped end, splattering to the ground between her feet. “This isn’t a coffee shop,” she said. “You two need to get back to class. Now.” Her beady little eyes narrowed on me. “And what in God’s name are you wearing . . . ?”
“He’s cold,” Violet said.
Mrs. Porter looked like she’d just been told the earth was actually square. “But it’s over ninety degrees out!”
“Might actually be closer to eighty-eight with the windchill factor,” I threw out. What else could I say?
Mrs. Porter stared at me for another long moment, as if her brain absolutely refused to let her accept what she was seeing. Then she said, “Your generation lacks any sense of propriety. And style. Now get back to class!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the final bell rang, I headed out to the bleachers by the PE field to meet up with Alvin Campbell and Sam Rodriguez—my two best (and only) friends. I jokingly called them “Los Jimaguas,” which means “the twins” in Spanish, because I don’t think there were two people on the planet who looked less alike. Where Alvin was tall and portly, with a milky complexion and curly orange hair that fell over his face like a mop, Sam is rail-thin, dark-skinned, and had thick black hair that stuck straight up in a perfect three-inch-tall flattop. If I had to compare them to creatures in the animal kingdom, I’d say that Alvin most closely resembled a manatee in shape and overall athleticism (which I guess is kind of ironic since manatees recently became his favorite animals when one started hanging out in the canal behind his house last year), while Sam probably reminded me most of a flamingo
, with those bright, tropical-colored T-shirts he liked to wear and his long stick-thin legs than could really move when they had to. But as different as they looked on the outside, the bonds that united them on the inside—that united all three of us, really—were strong and unshakable: video games, Hot Pockets, and our three-man Latin rock band called Los Chicharrones. So, naturally, the guys were rocking out on air guitars when I got there, probably leveling up through the latest mobile version of Guitar Hero.
“Dude, where’s the blizzard?” Alvin said mid-solo.
“Not today, Al.” I blew out a breath. “Definitely not today.”
As we started across the field toward the line of parked cars, Sam put his shiny new NY Red Bulls–skinned iPhone away and said, “So, are you going to explain the jacket, or you want us to pretend we don’t see it?”
“Guys, it’s not a big deal,” I said. “I just felt like adding another layer of protection.”
They both stared at me.
“What? It’s not that weird.”
Alvin was shaking his head. “Dude, I just need you to understand that when you wear stuff like that, you bring down our entire group average. People are going to start thinking we’re weird.”
“They already think that,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but I mean, like, everyone’s going to start thinking that. Not just the cool kids.”
Sam looked me up and down. “You look like you’re about to pass out, hermano. Sure you don’t want to take that thing off real quick? Give your cells a second to breathe?”
“It’s actually more comfortable than it looks,” I lied. “The material’s soft. Breathable. I can really see it becoming a staple in my wardrobe.” At least until I molt, I thought.
“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” Alvin said. “Guess I’ll be avoiding you for a while.”
“Laugh it up, chico.” I wiped a stream of sweat from my forehead and glanced down at my watch. It was a couple of minutes past four, which meant Sam’s mom was almost twenty minutes late. Again. When she happened to be on time (which wasn’t very often), she usually parked on the far side of the field, waiting along with the rest of the other parents, but I didn’t see her blue Oldsmobile anywhere. Magnífico.
