I open to the first page.
Here is what it says:
Volume II of the Field Notes of the Last True Unicorn Seeker, 1923 by Lavender Lakewood.
I close the book and hug it tight. Sometimes when a book is even better than you dreamed it would be, your heart is so filled with joy that you might just float up into the sky like a rainbow bubble. That’s how it is for me in this exact moment—like nothing could possibly get any better than this.
But guess what. It does.
(Sometimes in a story, an important piece of information comes from an unexpected person and this piece of information takes the story in a completely new direction.)
Miss Mary says something that makes me totally speechless.
“Did you know that there’s an exhibit about Lavender Lakewood at the Natural History Museum right now?”
I think my mouth is hanging open because she gives me a kind of funny look. But there’s more.
“Some say there is a hidden message in her work, but no one has ever been able to decode it. Historians believe the message is a map to the location of the unicorn. I think you can learn anything from books, which is why I’m sure the secret is there somewhere.”
A secret map? Written in code? I can’t believe my ears.
My mouth opens even wider. I must look very odd or like I am about to cough. I find my words after what must be a few very awkward seconds for Gram and Miss Mary, but for me are a spinning, glittery top of ideas and thoughts. I try to explain them all in one single sentence. “I am going to the Natural History Museum next week!”
Miss Mary jumps right into the air at that information. Her braids bob up and down and the stuffed dog flies up out of the basket on her arm. “Oh, how exciting! What a wonderful coincidence.”
In my world, there is no such thing as a coincidence. Everything happens for a reason.
I am back in the forest, only now I am dressed as Dorothy but with sneakers instead of heels. Sneakers are way more practical footwear for exploring in a forest. Buddy the fox sits in the basket on my arm. I hold a map in my hand that can only be deciphered with the notes in the field guide. Buddy and I sit down by a lake to decode the message. When the moon and stars reflect off the water, I click my silver sneakers, and a unicorn appears. He touches his horn to the page in my notebook, and the code words light up to form a map. When I look up from the map, the unicorn has disappeared.
“We better get this checked out now,” Gram gently reminds me.
“Thank you for your help, Miss Dorothy,” I use her character name instead of her real one. When book people are dressed up as characters, we like to really be the characters.
“Come back to Oz anytime,” she answers with a wink. “I look forward to hearing all about the unicorn exhibit.”
I wave as we head to the main counter to check out the book. I can’t wait to start reading.
• • •
The next morning, I am the first person in line for class. Actually, I am the only person in line for class. It’s raining today, so I am using my white and silver umbrella with wings like Pegasus. My plan is to ask Mrs. Sablinsky about the Lavender Lakewood exhibit before roll call. But sometimes plans don’t go exactly as planned.
Because I have completely forgotten that this is Friday.
Which explains why no one else is in line. On Fridays, the entire school meets in the auditorium where we have our weekly assemblies. I can’t believe I didn’t remember this. I leave my backpack near the classroom door, where it is underneath the edge of the roof, so it won’t get wet. And then I slosh through the puddles and back down the stairs.
Now, instead of being early, I am probably going to be late. I run-walk to make it on time, slip through the door, and put down my umbrella. Mom says when someone uses an umbrella, it’s important to have umbrella courtesy. That means closing your umbrella inside and holding the pointy end down, so you don’t accidentally poke someone.
I guess Will B never learned umbrella courtesy because, instead of holding his closed umbrella with the pointy end down, he is waving it in front of him like a sword. Bryden is doing the exact same thing. Wait a minute, they aren’t just waving the umbrellas like swords—they are fighting with the umbrellas. The two of them clang back and forth and trample all the backpacks on the floor. Then Bryden trips and tumbles over. Will B presses the umbrella against his chest.
Things are about to get dangerous when Principal Snyder lifts the umbrella right out of Will B’s hand. “I will be keeping this until the end of the day.” He helps Bryden up from the ground. Then he opens his hand. “I’ll take care of yours as well.” Bryden turns over his umbrella to the principal. “Very well. Now, please find your seats.”
Principal Snyder steps back to give me room to pass by and greets me as though nothing just happened. “Good morning, Ruby.” I guess a principal would be used to things like umbrella-sword fights.
“Good morning.” I walk around the backpacks on the floor, which is a maze of leopard and polka dots and even faux fur. I’m really careful not to step on any of them. No one likes a giant, dirty rain boot print on their pink-and-white-striped roller backpack.
I look at the auditorium, and my stomach drops like there’s a huge rose quartz crystal in there instead of a strawberry smoothie and scrambled egg. Because Siri didn’t save me a seat. She always saves me a seat (or I save her a seat if I get here first). I can tell that the entire Room 15 row is full. The only seat left is on the end of the row next to Mrs. Sablinsky. A little prick touches the back of my right eyeball. It’s not an actual tear but the beginning of one. I blink it away really fast and paste a smile on my face that isn’t my real smile, but is the “everything is fine even though it’s not” smile I wear when absolutely necessary. Then I take the seat next to my teacher.
The bad part of this situation is that I am not sitting with my friends, so the things that are usually fun about the assembly—like cheering for the upcoming winter break in two weeks, or crossing fingers when Principal Snyder announces which class has won the spirit trophy this week—aren’t really fun at all. It’s pretty sad when you are looking forward to your spelling test.
The good part of this situation is that when there is a break in the assembly, I can ask Mrs. S the question I hoped to ask before roll call. Sometimes when you get lemons, you have to make lemonade—that’s what I always say.
I smile at my teacher and say this: “I found a second book by my author. I brought it today so you could approve it.”
Mrs. Sablinsky must have had her coffee this morning because she returns my smile and seems happy for me. “That’s terrific. Why don’t you show it to me after the spelling test?”
Since she’s in a happy mood, I say the thing I have been planning to say since yesterday afternoon. “Guess what I just found out.” I don’t wait for her to guess. “There is an exhibit about my book at the Natural History Museum!”
Mrs. Sablinsky smiles even bigger. “It really is special, isn’t it?” She is referring to what I said when I found the first book in the library. But she hasn’t answered my question yet.
Then I realize that I haven’t actually asked her the question. The super-important-change-everything question. So I do.
“Can we see the exhibit when we are at the museum next week? I looked it up last night, and it will only be there for another few days. Then it’s moving to a museum in New York.” New York is across the country. This is a really strong argument for seeing the exhibit while it’s in California. It may be my only possible chance.
I expect Mrs. S to smile again and nod. She doesn’t. I watch as her smile literally turns upside down. My smile shrinks at the same time. “I’m sorry, Ruby. Our day is already planned out. We are seeing the mammal hall and the insects, followed by the dinosaur exhibit. I do have a surprise though.”
My eyebrows raise a lit
tle at that—not all the way until they disappear underneath my hair, but a little higher than usual.
She shakes her head. “It’s not what you think. It’s something else, but I have a feeling you’ll enjoy it.”
I slump back into my seat and mope for the rest of the assembly. I don’t clap or cheer or even smile with no teeth. I can’t believe I will be so close to the secret about unicorns and so far away from it at the same time.
Chapter 8
The Most Awful Friday: Part 2
“I’m sorry we couldn’t save you a seat, but we took the last two open ones in the row,” Daisy tells me on the way to class after the assembly. The rain has slowed to a drizzle that is more like a mist than rain. Now, instead of using our umbrellas, we are getting wet. (I have noticed that getting wet is one of those things that is superfun to kids and not superfun to adults. This is the reason we dance in the rain and run through sprinklers whenever possible.)
I shrug. There’s really nothing to say about it now. The hurt digs itself into my side like a tiny thorn in a cougar’s paw. It won’t keep me from the rest of my day, but it won’t go away either.
“I finished the mustang book last night.” Jessica is always the first person done with our book club reads. She completes at least three new books every week. She sighs. “It wasn’t as exciting as From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler though.”
I have been known to have ideas just pop into my head at the weirdest moments. Someone will say something like, “It’s sunny today,” and that comment will cause me to think of a way out of a tricky situation. This is exactly what happens now.
Because I know how to visit the Lavender Lakewood exhibit.
I’m going to escape.
I would like to say that I begin to plan my Great Escape (which is what I am calling it to myself) right away. But I have to be patient, like Claudia, and make my plans properly. One does not plot out a museum escape without tremendous thought and a little help.
So first I take my spelling test, which is pretty OK except for this word reminisce. It means to remember something with happy feelings. I just can’t remember if there is a c after the s. I write it both ways.
reminisce
reminise
It definitely looks better with the c than without it. I decide to go with the c version. My cursive s isn’t the best because it sits sideways too much and tips into the c like a floppy teddy bear that can’t sit up straight.
After the test is over, I am supposed to go outside with the other fourth- and fifth-grade yard guards and help the first, second, and third graders at playtime or lunch. Siri and I used to be on the playtime shift, but this month, we are helping at lunch. Usually, this is the best part of my Friday, but at the moment, it’s not so appealing because Siri is my yard guard partner.
I quickly look to my right to see if Siri is struggling with this idea too. She is looking down at her empty desk with her mouth all scrunched up like she’s sick or something. Suddenly, I get so worried that I completely forget all about the Shun and reach out to touch her hand.
“Are you OK?”
Siri looks at me then. Her eyes are filled with tears. They start to spill out of her eyes and run down her cheeks. She quickly wipes her sleeve across her face, so almost no one would know what just happened. I might even think I imagined it except that the shine of tears is still on her face, even though the drops are hidden in her sweatshirt sleeve.
She doesn’t answer, so I ask her another question. “Do you want me to get our yard guard badges?” Whatever the problem is, we can sort through it much better outside the classroom.
Siri nods. I hurry to the drawer for our red-and-white badges. Mrs. Sablinsky has already excused us, so I don’t have to do anything else except put one badge around my neck and hand the other to Siri.
Siri follows me out the door and down the stairs without a word. I think this might be one of those situations where she needs time to open up.
But I am wrong. I am very wrong.
At the bottom of the stairs, Siri turns to me. The tears are gone, and her eyes are bright, like sparks are going to shoot out of them.
The words burst from her like an explosion. “You didn’t vote for a new book for next week!”
“You’re still mad at me about that?” I don’t understand why this has her so upset. She’s going to have to explain it to me better than this.
“You don’t understand why it’s important to me to have book club?”
I think back to yesterday at lunch. So much has happened since then that it seems like a week ago instead of twenty-four hours. I remember Siri saying it would be too late if we didn’t choose a new book for next week. “You said to forget it.”
“Well, maybe I didn’t mean it.”
“Wait a minute. You didn’t want me to forget it, even though that’s what you said?” I knew this was something I needed to remember, even if I didn’t understand what I was supposed to remember. We are almost at the lunch tables, and the younger grades are eating. I can see one student having trouble opening a bag of carrots and dip. “Hold on,” I say. I dash over and open the package of carrots. I poke a straw through a box of rice milk. I even tie a shoe. I am back to Siri in a superhero flash.
“But book club isn’t even your favorite activity. Why is choosing a new book this week so important?”
Siri bursts into tears. She’s sobbing as if her heart is breaking into tiny pieces that can’t ever be put back together again. I have never seen her like this—never once in six years.
I put my arms around my friend and hold on to her. “If reading a book together means so much to you, then we’ll choose one. We can vote today.” I am saying what I can to help. Siri starts sniffling now. She pulls away from me, and I see that she’s got tears and nose goo everywhere. She wipes her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve.
I step back to the lunch tables. “Can I borrow this?” I ask a small first grader with a paper napkin. It might have some cheese puff dust on it, but otherwise it’s clean. I hand the napkin to Siri.
She wipes her nose and then crumples the napkin. “It’s not about the book. Not really. It’s the Unicorns.” I still don’t understand. “It will be our last chance to read something together because I’m changing schools.” Siri says this like it’s a really big deal. But we’re fifth graders.
“We’re all changing schools—but not for months. We’ll have time to read three or four more books before then.” I pat her arm gently. “We get to graduate and everything. It might be confusing at first to be in middle school and have six classes instead of one. I’m sure we’ll get the hang of it as long as we’re together.”
Siri shakes her head and wipes her nose again on the now very crumpled and used napkin. “That’s the thing—we won’t be together.” She takes a shaky breath in. “I’m switching to a different school but not next year. Now. Well, not now-now. In January.”
My first reaction to this news is to blink a bunch of times super-duper fast. This is because I think I might be having one of my imagination bubbles. There is no possible way this can really and truly be happening.
When the bubble doesn’t pop, I know this is real. Siri is still crying, even though it’s softer now.
“My dad likes this other middle school, and it’s in a different school district that has a lottery. The best way to increase my chances of getting in is to move to the elementary school now.” She lets out a big breath like she’s been holding it for a really long time and can finally breathe normally again. “I’m sorry.”
My hands are sweaty, and my throat is dry like it is at the dentist’s office after a cleaning, when I have had to hold it open for thirty minutes. Siri is leaving school. Worse even than that—we won’t be going to the same middle school.
My mind jumps ahead to high school because middle school is only three years.
If we aren’t at the same middle school, what are the chances we will be at the same high school? And if we aren’t at the same high school, will we go to the same college and have our New York apartment? Suddenly, my entire life plan has been altered with one sentence (or maybe two)—I can’t remember if Siri told me with one complete sentence or a sentence and a fragment. Why am I thinking about grammar at a time like this?!
I notice that Siri is staring at me. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. All I get is a sound between a creak and a croak. I sit down right there on the ground and stare straight ahead.
I am not me. I am a frog sitting alone on a lily pad in a pond. I used to have a lot of frog friends, but all of them have hopped away to a fancier pond with red dragonflies, pink swans, and golden geese. Now I am left with just one teeny fly to talk to and a flamingo with mismatched socks. Neither one of them speaks ribbit.
“We will still be besties even if we aren’t at the same school,” Siri offers. I am supposed to be cheering her up, but she is doing the cheering now. I know perfectly well that she is saying one of those things you say to make someone feel better even if it isn’t the truth.
That’s why I stand up and brush myself off. “There’s nothing we can do about it, right?” I ask.
Siri shakes her head no.
(In stories, sometimes the main characters have to go their separate ways. They always come back together in the end. Friends like us have a forever kind of bond.)
That’s why I link my arm in Siri’s and finish our yard guard shift. The Shun is as forgotten as the crumpled napkin Siri tosses into the trash.
Chapter 9
Escaping with a Plan
At lunch, Siri tells the other Unicorns the truth. It’s definitely the saddest lunch we’ve ever shared. There are more tears—and a few runny noses.
“We can make a promise to have an annual sleepover every year during winter break,” Charlotte suggests.
The Great Museum Mix-Up and Other Surprise Endings Page 6
