“I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning, when the Goodwill people are here,” Isabel calls over her shoulder, trying to intercept him. But Graham is too quick for her.
“That’s what I like to hear!” Graham beams happily, then turns to my mom. “She needed a little convincing to come back, but I felt—”
“Father. Let’s go.” Isabel, for the first time, actually looks uncomfortable.
“Righto. We’re off! Great seeing you again, Amanda!”
As they pull out, I can see Isabel sitting, arms crossed, her mouth set in a tight line.
At dinner tonight, all the talk is again about Isabel. And St. Anselm’s, her old school.
“Lila called today!” exclaims Dad. “She says there are a bunch of kids at Harvard from St. Anselm’s. Apparently it’s one of the finest private schools in New York.”
“Well, if Lila is impressed…,” I snort.
“Yeah, she kept going on about how all these celebrities send their kids there, and how all these other famous people actually went there…fashion designers, actors, novelists….Not only that, but half the people who write for the New Yorker are school parents: authors, artists, you name it.”
“I wonder why Graham is sending her to La Purisma,” my mom muses. “I mean, it’s not exactly—”
“Hey! La Purisma is a great school!”
“Since when do you like your school?” asks Mom pointedly. “I seem to remember someone describing it as a waste of time,” she adds, wiping her chin.
“Maybe Ted is getting his priorities straight this summer,” my dad says, smiling at me.
“Yeah, maybe I am,” I respond, gazing at my dad with what I hope looks like admiration and maturity.
“I see!” Mom regards me with a weird grin on her face I swear I’ve never seen before. “Speaking of your priorities, Isabel seems like a very nice girl.”
OMG.
“For crying out loud, Mom!” I say. “Can we give this a rest!”
“All right, I’ll change the subject,” says Dad agreeably.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
“Aren’t you going to thank me for inviting Isabel to help out? It sounds like that extra pair of hands really made a difference.”
“Thanks for changing the subject, Dad,” I answer. “Yes, having an extra person was great. Especially when Mom called and said the Goodwill people are coming in the morning.”
“Don’t tell me you got everything packed up this afternoon?” Mom asks incredulously.
“Well,” I say, trying to sound casual, “ ‘the prospect of being hanged focuses the mind wonderfully.’ ”
Dad’s eyes pop open. “I am impressed. Nice quote.”
“I don’t play computer games all the time,” I say modestly.
Dad nods appreciatively. “So do you know who said it?”
“What?” I answer.
“I just wondered if you know who said the original quote.”
Darn! I should remember this.
“That’s okay,” Dad says gently. “It was Samuel Johnson. But it’s great that you know it. Did you learn that from Isabel?” he adds, as if somehow this is going to make it better.
“If he did, that’s fine,” says Mom, beginning to clear away the dishes.
I get up to help. Anything to get away from this conversation.
Dad, ever the professor, calls after me, “Oh, and you can tell her when you see her, the actual quote is ‘Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.’ ”
My mom turns, remembering something. “By the way, did you find anything for Mr. Yamada?”
“Mr. Who?”
“Mr. Yamada!” Mom says, her teeth set in frustration. “The man who used to visit Uncle Ted every day? His daughter wanted you to find something from the store?”
“Ohhh…right…his old customer…” The matchbooks! I was so focused on the game, I totally forgot to take them!
“Was there anything in that shopping bag?” Mom asks.
“Nah, it’s just magazines, like I said,” I answer quickly. “I’m sorry, Mom. But we put aside some matchbooks for him. When the Goodwill guys come, we can get them.”
“I hope so. She really sounded like he wanted you to bring him something.”
I wipe my hands. “I’m totally beat. I think I’ll head upstairs to bed.”
“I’m sure you are. I can’t remember the last time you did so much hard work.”
Mom kisses me on the forehead. “Yuck. Take a shower first. You stink.”
Dad has been reading and gets up and stretches. As I walk by, he gives me a quick hug.
“You look dead, kid. No computer games tonight, huh?”
“Nope. I need to be up in the morning to leave with Mom. She’s meeting the Goodwill people with us at nine sharp.”
“Sounds good. Sweet dreams.”
I slump into my room and fall face-first onto my bed. My eyes wander over to the shopping bag I oh-so-carefully hid in my closet, holding the box that will not open.
Without even thinking, I grab my laptop, turn it on, and find my way to the gaming site I bookmarked.
A small shiver goes up my back as I watch the welcome screen for The Game of Ted appear.
There it is. Again. For real.
I reach into my pocket and fish out the lighter. I place it on the desk and rub it.
For luck.
I log on and once more play through the game.
This time, all the books are there. Just as I remember from the walkthrough, the game ends with the discovery of the box and the lighter.
But now something is blinking in the corner. A new box has appeared.
“Coming Soon! The Game of Ted 1.2!” it announces.
I click on the link, but nothing happens.
Coming soon? But how soon? And what will it be?
I am still turning all this over in my mind as Mom and I pull into the apartment complex the next morning.
Caleb and Isabel are already here. She’s reading and he’s sketching. Both look up with relief when they see me.
“We were supposed to find a memento for your great-uncle’s old friend Mr. Yamada,” Isabel starts.
“How did you know that?” I ask, amazed.
“I was there when your mom said it, remember?” Isabel says impatiently. “I meant to look for something nicer than just some old matchbooks, but I guess with all the other…things…going on, it slipped my mind. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gerson.”
Mom regards Isabel with a mixture of awe and adoration. “You are the most thoughtful young lady I think I have ever met. That is so nice of you, Isabel!”
“She even remembered his name!” I mutter to Caleb. “How does she do that?”
“I’m telling you, man, superpowers,” cracks Caleb as he shuts his sketchbook and stands up.
A giant truck with GOODWILL printed on the side pulls up to the apartment entrance.
Two men get out of the cab and lumber toward us.
“Hi!” my mom says, extending her hand. “I’m Amanda Gerson. We talked on the phone?”
“You didn’t talk to me. I just drive and pick up the stuff. You talked to Mrs. Harris. We’re looking for a Mr. Waka…Waba…Wabakay…”
“Wakabayashi. That was my uncle.”
“Okay, lady, we’re good to go. So where’s the stuff at?”
My mom points upstairs. The littler guy squints.
“There ain’t no pianos or stuff like that up there, right? ’Cause we don’t take pianos down no stairs.”
Mom assures them there are no pianos.
“And everything’s in boxes or bags, right? We don’t take nothing loose,” he adds.
“Everything’s either in cartons or bags, or set aside to be dumped,” I pipe up. “We made sure of that.”
“Shall we, gentlemen?” my mom says, and gestures to the stairs.
The two men follow her up the stairs. Caleb, Isabel, and I ta
ke up the rear.
Mom puts the key in the lock and opens the door. The big man peers in.
“What th—”
He beckons to his buddy, who takes a quick look, turns around, and heads back down the stairs.
As he passes us, he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t waste people’s time like this, you know?”
We scramble up the stairs and look into the apartment.
Mom is in the middle of the room, trying to talk to the big man, her eyes wide. “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding. I’m so sorry….”
“Well, when you figure it out, you call Mrs. Harris,” he says as he storms off.
It’s total chaos. The place is a shambles.
Every bag has been ripped open; the furniture is cut to shreds, the newspapers strewn all over the place. The drawers in the desk have been pulled out and broken.
Someone has been searching for something. Something they want very badly.
My mom is shaking, she’s so mad. “Is this what you call clean?” she fumes. “I took time off from work, brought those men here, and this is what—”
“Mom!” I yell. “Are you serious? Do you think this is how we left the place?”
“Mrs. Gerson,” Isabel says calmly. “There has been a break-in. We need to call the police.”
My mom sits down. She looks around the room. “I’m sorry….I just…Of course…”
She takes out her phone and dials 911. As she waits, almost to herself, she murmurs, “Who would do such a thing?”
“Enemies,” Caleb declares grimly.
“If anything of value turns out to be missing, you’ll need to go down to the division office and make a report.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” my mom says. “And thanks so much for your time.”
“No problem. That’s what we’re here for.” The young police officer grins as he strides out the front door, tipping his hat as he goes. I wonder if he practices striding around in those boots in front of a mirror at home. He’s really good at it.
“They didn’t even send a detective,” mutters Caleb.
“I think they only do that if something of real value was stolen,” my mom says gently.
Isabel speaks up. “Maybe someone just assumed he had money, so they broke in looking for it.”
“Well, that’s certainly what that nice officer thought…or that some kids saw you working here and decided to trash the place after you left,” my mom continues, sitting on a box of ramen. “He said they see it all the time. Bored kids…summer…out of school, nothing to do…”
I’ve been quiet ever since Mom opened the door to find the disaster inside. I can feel my brain going a mile a minute. I didn’t even say anything as we waited for the police, while Mom went on and on about how she should have never let us do this alone, it was too dangerous, blah blah blah.
“One thing, Mom,” I finally say.
“Yes, Ted?”
“There was no break-in. The door wasn’t forced, or left open or anything.”
“You probably forgot to lock it last night,” Mom answers.
“That couldn’t be it,” says Isabel.
“And why not, dear?” asks my mom. “We all make mistakes, even Ted. No one’s perfect.” She smiles at me, which only makes it worse.
“But you unlocked the door when we came in. Which proves it was locked in the first place,” counters Isabel.
“That’s right!” I say.
Caleb throws down his pencil in frustration. “So how did they get in?”
“Maybe the lawyer had an extra key. Or someone in his office copied the one he had.” I’m thinking through the options like I do when playing a game. “Or one of the other tenants has a key….Of course, the landlord also has one….”
“Or maybe…,” Mom begins, weaving her way over to one of the windows. She reaches down and gently opens it.
“Unlocked!” she calls back to us.
I slump against the torn couch.
“I can’t believe we didn’t check the windows. How dumb can you get?”
“It’s not your fault, honey,” my mom says consolingly. “I’m the one who opened it. It’s not right to expect you to think of everything. Don’t worry. I’m calling a company to come and clean all this up.”
—
I’m sitting at our family dining table with Isabel and Caleb, drinking lemonade. Caleb has his sketchbook open, idly doodling, while Isabel has been flipping absentmindedly through the pages of the Purely Provence catalog. “So…who likes the Purely P?” she asks.
“That would be my dad,” I admit. “He’s really into it.”
“Wow!” She’s come to page 385. “Looks like your father likes this.”
“Yeah,” I say, “he’s totally in love with it.”
“That’s so funny,” she says. “We have this table.”
Of course.
I figure, why not make a joke out of it. “My dad is gonna die when he hears this,” I say. “Do you think he can come visit it sometime?”
“It’s in storage,” Isabel says, being little Miss Literal as usual. “We didn’t think it went with California, you know?”
Oh, snap.
My turn. “That’s cool,” I say. “I always wondered who actually bought copies of French farmhouse tables.”
“Oh, no. Ours isn’t a copy, ours is the original,” Isabel says, and then laughs that grown-up laugh that is just so irritating.
“Oh?” says Caleb skeptically. “How did your table end up in the Purely Provence catalog? Did someone just happen by your house one day and see it and say, like, ‘Can we borrow your table?’ ”
Isabel doesn’t even look up. It’s like this is the most fascinating photograph she’s ever seen.
“Not exactly. The man who owns the company went to Harvard with my father. He’s always loved that table.” Then she adds casually, “Like your dad, Ted, I guess.”
Game, set, and match—Isabel Archer.
“I’ve never actually seen it in the catalog. They did a really nice job.” Then she closes it with a loud bang and stares at me in irritation.
“What’s up, Isabel?” I ask.
Isabel sighs. “We’re kind of stuck, aren’t we? We still don’t know what 1405 refers to.”
“We? You’re sticking around after today?”
“Of course!” she laughs. “I certainly want to be there when you open the box!”
“If we open the box,” Caleb moans.
“I have a feeling Ted’s going to figure this out,” Isabel says simply. Her gaze is suddenly so strong and direct I have to look away.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But all we have to go on is this,” I mutter, pulling out the lighter.
“Uncle Ted’s lighter. You didn’t tell me you found that.” My mom has come in with a tray of drinks and cheese puffs.
“Sorry, Mom.” I shrug. “But with all the excitement, I guess it slipped my mind.”
Mom reaches out and takes the lighter from me. She rubs it and smiles.
“You can have it if you want,” I suggest. “You know, as a way of remembering him.”
My mom’s face hardens. “This lighter helped kill him. He must have smoked three packs a day, each cigarette lit with this thing. I never want to see it again.”
Then she brightens. “You know who probably would like it? Mr. Yamada! You never did get those matchbooks, did you? I’m going to call his daughter.”
We watch her leave the room, then turn to each other.
“Isn’t that the guy who she said was your great-uncle’s most loyal customer?” asks Caleb, his voice rising with excitement.
“And she said he visited him every day in the hospital, right?” adds Isabel, nodding.
I grin. “Yep, he’s the guy. If anyone knows what 1405 means, I bet it’s him.” I call into the kitchen, “Mom, do you think it would be all right if Caleb and Isabel came with me to give Mr. Yamada the lighter? They’d like t
o meet him too.”
Mom sticks her head out the door. “I’m sure that would be fine, but let me check with his daughter first.”
I hear my mom chattering on and on with Mr. Yamada’s daughter. It’s all arranged. Mr. Yamada would be delighted to meet me and my friends. He has no grandchildren and always loves being around young people.
Mom comes into the room with a strange expression on her face.
“What’s up?” I ask. “I thought I heard you say it would be fine.”
“Yes…,” my mom begins. “But when I offered to come too and say hello, she said he would prefer to meet with you kids alone. Isn’t that odd?”
Isabel puts down her lemonade and takes a cheese puff. “Perhaps you remind him too much of your uncle, and meeting you would be too painful?”
“Maybe…,” Mom muses.
“Or maybe he’s just a cranky old guy who just does weird things,” Caleb suggests.
“We’ll let you know,” I promise.
Mom laughs. “It’s all right. I’ve got a few errands to run near their neighborhood. We made plans for me to drop you off at two, and then I’ll swing by an hour later. Will that be okay with your schedule, Isabel?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Gerson,” Isabel replies, taking another cheese puff. “Father isn’t free to pick me up until four anyway.”
Isabel never calls her dad “Dad.” It’s always “Father.” She’s so weird.
As we head out, I nudge Caleb. “Look at my fingers.” They’re covered in cheese-puff dust.
“So what?” says Caleb, holding up his own orange fingers. Then I nudge him to look at Isabel’s.
Spotless.
“B-but—I saw her eat them,” Caleb sputters. “How can anyone eat cheese puffs without leaving telltale cheese-puff dust?”
“It can’t be done, dude. It’s like she’s not human,” I say darkly.
The Yamada home is all the way on the other side of Laurel Canyon, in Gardena.
“We’re almost there,” Mom announces. “There’s one thing you should know about Mr. Yamada. His daughter told me he was in Amache, and ever since then he’s cold no matter how hot the weather is. So his room isn’t air-conditioned, and don’t be put off by the fact that he’s wearing a sweater.”
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