“Kind of like a made-up mystery,” Early agreed. “And Dash has somehow been dragged into all this, which is awful. But why? Why would anyone want to hurt a guy like Dash?”
“I doubt they would, but it’s possible that he simply made the wrong move at a fateful moment. Maybe he stumbled into it. Stepped in on the wrong beat. Any clues might have been impossible to comprehend from his vantage point.”
Early, storing the words comprehend and vantage point away for later, scrambled to add something valuable. Mr. Waive had a way of making you want to catch what he thought you could. After he suggested they check out any possible relationship between books and smuggling, she scrolled down page after page of references, learning an odd assortment of facts. For instance, stolen books, even rare ones, were often hard to trace. Shipments of old volumes had been used to hide paper money, bills tucked between the pages. Older books often had stronger bindings than newer ones and therefore lasted longer. Next, she found directions on how to transform an old novel into a box by cutting a hole in the center, underneath the cover so no one could tell; the outside edges of the pages were then artfully glued shut so nothing could fall out. Large pieces of jewelry, antique coins, and gold nuggets had been successfully smuggled in that way.
“Awesome,” Early murmured, and when Mr. Waive leaned over to read, she noticed his shirt collar had holes in it and that he smelled like the liquid soap used in the shelter bathrooms. “But the volumes in Dash’s boxes,” she continued, “were mostly thin. No room for secret compartments.” She paused. “Hey, even though he looked through each one when he was making his lists, maybe he missed something. Could be the diamond was stuffed into the inside crack of a binding, got loose, and fell out in our apartment. Then Dash never knew it was there, and the guys thought he’d taken it.”
“You might be onto something,” Mr. Waive muttered. “Let’s talk later. Hurry, because I doubt you’re welcome here. And don’t look so excited.”
Early, now looking for stolen or smuggled diamonds, scrolled as fast as she could and had just hit a page that she felt was valuable, a page explaining that stolen diamonds were easy to sell or launder, whatever that meant, when a hand bounced her chair backward.
“Mr. Pincer!” She smiled sweetly. He was trying to read the screen over her shoulder, she could tell, but she’d already clicked it closed. “How nice to see you here!” The claw let go, and she spun around to face him.
“No unaccompanied children in the reading room, I’m afraid,” he said. “Afraid, no, well, not that.” He cleared his throat. “Have to go now. You. Go.”
Early blinked and smiled again. “This is my homeschooling teacher, Mr. Waive. I’m doing a project on international crime rings. Quite a few, I must say! Never knew there were so many ways of getting things past the police. Of course, as Dash always told me, only losers steal instead of earn, but it’s history, so it’s important to know!”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Waive growled, over one shoulder. “This is a public space, of course, and I’m the accompanying adult. I’m quite sure this child has a library card.” He cleared his throat as if that settled things and he was too busy to be disturbed.
“I see,” Mr. Pincer said, his tone about as friendly as an ice cube. “See, yes. History and rumpa-rumpa.” He coughed, struggled to finish his sentence, and ended up with a strangled “cri-cri-mpa!”
Early couldn’t resist saying, “Bit of doughnut caught in your throat? I hate that. Can I help?” and reached around to pat his back.
Mr. Pincer leapt away, one hand chopping the air, and scuttled back through the same door Early had found. His coughs trailed into the distance.
“Be cautious about playing with that one,” Mr. Waive leaned over to say. “Never humiliate a dangerous animal; it won’t forget. Believe me, I know. And so may your father.”
“Ohhh.” Early suddenly felt terrible. “Think I’ve done something bad?”
“Not at all. Refused to be bullied. Good sign. Keep going.”
Early did, and wondered why it was a sign and where she was headed.
Catch
“I lied, too,” Mr. Waive said in the elevator on the way down to the Children’s Library an hour later. “Used to doing it, I guess. Embarrassed. Lost my home also, a couple of years ago. I think I told you I took my sister and her family in after I’d retired and she got sick. Well, I kept paying her bills, and by the time she died, it was all gone.” He shrugged and scowled, as though he wanted to be sure Early didn’t feel sorry for him.
“Wow,” Early said. “I thought you smelled familiar.”
Mr. Waive looked sharply at her. This was the first time she’d seen him look off balance.
“Like shelter soap.”
He grinned. “Natural-born sleuth. Your father’s girl.”
Early smiled back. Suddenly Mr. Waive didn’t seem quite so scary, and he was using fewer big words. It was almost, with Mr. Waive, like the big words were his way of building a protective fence. Syllables to hide behind.
Sitting on a bench outside the door to the Children’s Library, Mr. Waive listened intently while Early told him about her attempts to interview Dash’s coworkers yesterday. Both the visiting supervisor and Mr. Alslip had been nervous. Very.
It was as Early said Mr. Alslip’s name out loud that she made her discovery — one word hiding within another.
“Alslip. Alslip. Alslip could be Al!” Early said.
Mr. Waive nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that were so.” Then he was quiet for a moment. “The gang with masks, they took every last book in your apartment?”
Early hesitated for a moment, then said, “Except for one kids’ book that fell under a broken table. We have it. Langston Hughes’s The First Book of Rhythms.”
“Ahhh!” Mr. Waive’s face lit up, making him look almost happy. The wrinkles in his cheeks deepened farther, bunching around a huge smile. “My old friend!”
“Dash used to recite the poem to us that starts ‘If 2 and 2 are 4.’ He said you taught it to him. If he’s trying to figure out something, he sometimes says, ‘What’s the rhythm, Langston?’”
“Ahhh, that is wonderful to hear.” Mr. Waive’s eyebrows had zoomed up his forehead. “My fault, I should have tried to find your father after he left my school. I always remembered his brilliance, you know, and wondered what he was up to, but I guess problems of my own intervened.”
Brilliance … the criminals who had carried out the Antwerp crime had been described as brilliant, and Early pushed away the connection in her mind. She focused on intervened, realizing Mr. Waive was building a fence again. “‘Problems’ is the name of that poem, you know,” she said.
“Exactly,” Mr. Waive wheezed. “And to finish my thought about your father, it isn’t that easy to stay in touch with a student who is growing up in foster homes. Amazing that he got himself so far.”
“Is going so far,” Early corrected with a flash of panic, sure that Mr. Waive hadn’t meant to say it in the past tense. The man was such an exact thinker. Why was he talking about Dash as if he wasn’t coming back?
Early hurried on, blotting the worry with words. “You and I will figure out who has forced him into hiding. Coercion of some kind.” She hoped Mr. Waive noticed her use of that C word, one that sounded as sticky and gluey as what it meant.
But Mr. Waive only coughed a long, painful cough, and nodded. Early tried chatting with him more, but he didn’t respond.
“Want to meet back here tomorrow, Mr. Waive?” she asked. “Seems like we both have time.”
“Research rhythms,” he rasped, stepping into the elevator. At least Early thought that was what he said. Or was it “Please search rhythms”? Mr. Waive’s voice was so worn and scratchy, it was sometimes hard to hear.
“Hey!” Early called. “That’s so weird; that’s something my father said to me,” as the door closed on her words.
Catch
Sum interviewed for the job at McDonald’s while Early and Jub
ie sat on a stack of papers inside the door. Early read a library book aloud to her brother. The smells were intoxicating.
Finally Jubie, who’d been warned to stay quiet, piped up, “Hey, Early! How about we ask those kids over there for a few fries while we’re waiting for Sum! Can we do that? Looks like they’re done, look, they’re throwing stuff away.”
Early whispered, “Maybe if Sum gets a job, she can bring us back some McDonald’s food every day. How about that?”
“Yeah!” The thought was too much, and Jubie bounced to his feet, patting his stomach, sticking out his tongue, and panting like a dog. “I’m starved! Starved! Hurry up, Sum!”
Early pulled him back down just as a load of teenagers piled in the door, and Jubie called to them, “I’m hungry! Gimme fries!” and grinned.
One waved, then a few minutes later, handed him a paper napkin with a pile of fries on it. “Thanks!” shouted Jubie. “We was hungry!”
“Uh-oh,” Early said. Someone behind the counter was shaking her head at Sum and pointing to Jubie.
Sum didn’t get the job. Early was afraid she’d be angry, but she wasn’t. Just sad.
That day after lunch — shelter sandwiches that tasted much less yummy than McDonald’s food — Early sat on one of the bunks and started planning.
Dash’s heart kept a rhythm with her own at all times, and his power, drive, and sparkle filled her mind. They’d find him, of course, but meanwhile she also needed to continue Dash’s work on finding them a home, a place to go and grow, as he used to say.
Sum didn’t look strong enough to stay in this shelter forever. Although there were moments when she seemed like her old self, she was losing her hold. Sometimes Early felt kind of queasy about having lied, disobeying her mother about sharing the diamond news. First, one version with Mr. Pincer and then the truth with Mr. Waive, but both had felt necessary. This was a strategy, and the Pearl family needed strategies. Badly. Early looked over at her mother, who lay on the bunk with her eyes closed. Hold fast, Sum, Early said silently. Hold fast to dreams. For Dash.
There was no sign that Sum got her message. Jubie was busily driving his blue truck back and forth over his mother’s feet, making brrrrt sounds, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Early wondered what the best way might be to catch the attention of a grown-up, a busy person with power to help. Someone like the mayor. Or President Obama, a guy who loved Chicago and must have seen some of the thousands of empty houses dotting the neighborhoods in his city. Both had kids. Both had a home here. Then she thought of her teacher at the Hughes School, Ms. Chaff, and the way she’d dabbed at her nose after Early read aloud her description of how she’d fix up their dream house in Woodlawn.
An idea as small as the dot on a question mark appeared in her mind. A dot of dazzling light. Out of habit, she did what Dash had taught her to do: Spin it around, look at it from all sides, try to find the weak spot, if there was one. There didn’t seem to be one; the dot was rapidly exploding into a thrilling thought. Early clapped her hands, a loud crack of joy, startling both Jubie and Sum. “That’s it!” she shouted, bouncing to her feet. “Simple! I need all the kids! We can do this, we can!” And even though she was eleven, she jumped up and down, her snow boots making a squish-scree sound against the linoleum.
She could hardly wait for the tutoring room to open that afternoon. She’d start there.
Catch
Most tutors at Helping Hand were college students. They probably would have enjoyed just hanging out with the kids, but their main job was to help with homework. Many kids at the shelter didn’t want to do more schoolwork as soon as they’d finished a long day. Most struggled at their grade level, having moved a bunch of times, and had grown to hate everything about school. What they really wanted was a place to play ball or run around outside, but that wasn’t a choice.
Early understood their reluctance; it was hard enough to change schools and neighborhoods, but to leave everything familiar and then be labeled as one of the “shelter kids” was doubly tough. You stood out and might never fit in, not easily. More fortunate kids were often afraid of head lice and germs, as Mrs. Happadee had explained to her. Hiding the fact of homelessness was clearly best for peaceful survival in a classroom, but the idea felt nasty. Like losing your home was a dirty secret. No wonder these kids didn’t want to think about school once they’d left the building.
Everyone looked more cheerful when a special visitor came to the tutoring room, maybe an artist or writer, and the homework was put aside for a day. Once, a painter came and helped them make a mural on the tutoring-room wall. Early thought this was the key to getting people excited about what she wanted to do. It could be a project!
As soon as Mr. John unlocked the door that afternoon, she and Jubie burst inside the room. Only two other kids followed, and Early had never seen them before. They must be new to the shelter. Oh, well, Early thought. There’ll be a bigger group on other days.
Mr. John introduced them. “Isobel and Marcus, meet Early and Jubie. Hey, you guys are both sister-brother combos!”
The four kids looked at one another; Early thought Isobel might be close to her age, and Marcus and Jubie, who were about the same size, were already unloading a box of crayons and setting themselves up at the table for coloring.
“So …” Mr. John rubbed his hands together. “Anyone got homework? I know you’re not in school yet here, Isobel … and you’re doing your own thing right now, Early. How’s that going?”
“Great!” Early beamed. “In fact, I have a fantastic idea. A big idea. A project that kids in all the shelters could work on. A way to get us all back into homes.”
Mr. John blinked and smiled. “Sounds amazing,” he said. “How would you do it?”
Early first described going by train to the Harold Washington Library, and seeing all the abandoned houses and apartment buildings. “I remember them in my old neighborhood, too. They were there, but I never thought about it because my family had a home then.”
Isobel nodded. “Yeah, we had a home, too. But we been in shelters a couple of years now. We dream about having a place of our own again,” she said. “Ooh, my mom, boy, does she want that!”
“Us, too! Us, too!” said Early.
Mr. John was nodding.
“So, what’s your idea?” Isobel asked. She’d crossed her arms and tapped one foot, as if Early couldn’t possibly have a solution to such a big problem.
“Well, we’ll need some drugstore cameras, a way to get around, and maybe some help with spelling and writing. Oh, and some stamps and envelopes.”
Early described her idea: The tutors at all of the shelters around the city would organize short field trips in which they’d walk or drive through neighborhoods, and the kids could snap pictures of abandoned houses that they thought should be rescued.
Then, once the pictures were printed, the kids would take the photos they liked best and describe what that house or apartment would look like, in detail, if it were theirs to keep. If they could adopt it with their family, fix it up, and make it into a home again — kind of like the game the Pearls used to play when looking at the house with the cat.
“You imagine yourself into the home,” Early explained. “You picture yourself doing stuff in the bedroom, peeking out the front door, deciding what color the walls and curtains should be, making cookies or having a birthday party, and running around in the yard.”
Then they’d clip the building photo to the description, add a picture of the dreamer, and collect a big stack of these dreams from every family shelter in the city of Chicago. They’d end up with hundreds! Thousands! Copies would be mailed to famous people who might be able to help.
“Ta-da!” Early exclaimed, throwing out her arms. “Then powerful folks will know about our hopes!”
Isobel clapped, and Mr. John was rubbing his hands together. “It’s quite a thought and simple to do, with the right permissions. It’s hard to say what will happen, but why not try?”
He promised to bring it up with his supervisor later that day.
Early and Isobel spent the rest of their time in the tutoring room, drawing pictures of houses and describing the rooms inside.
“Don’t forget the rugs! Soft and squishy on your toes!” Isobel was drawing lots of small lines to show a thick rug. “And I like to clean, so I’ll be washing and polishing! My home won’t know itself, it’s gonna be so fresh!”
“Yeah, and maybe one day I’ll even have a solid bed, one with a piece of wood at the top and the bottom! I never had a bed off the floor except for the bunks here.” Early was busily drawing a bed with legs, posts, and a puffy green comforter.
“And maybe pillows that feel good,” Isobel added. “And mattresses that don’t have all that plastic covering and bug spray on them.”
“Uh-huh.” Early nodded, then thought about what Isobel had said. “That why the beds smell so nasty?”
“Better than getting vermin,” Isobel said, coloring her kitchen table a cheerful orange. “All the shelters gotta do that.”
“Oh,” Early said. “How many shelters have you stayed in?”
Isobel paused and looked at the ceiling, counting on her fingers. Early liked the way she took the time to make her point, whatever it might be. “Eight,” she said, and nodded her head dramatically. “And that is a lot of moving,” she added.
“Yeah,” Early said. “Sure is. Time for a home!” She grinned.
“I like you,” Isobel said, her head on one side. “You’re my kind of girl. Want to be best shelter friends? For as long as we’re both here?”
“Yeah,” Early said again. She hadn’t smiled this much in a long time.
When the tutoring room closed that day, all four kids continued talking on their way up the stairs.
“Catch you later,” Isobel said as she and her brother headed on up to their room.
Hold Fast (9780545510196) Page 14
