I step closer, so that he can see me more clearly, then use two fingers to zip my mouth closed. I lock them with an imaginary key and toss it over my shoulder. By the weird look he’s giving me, I’m gonna guess that particular kid-code for “my lips are sealed” hasn’t been invented yet. Whoops. I try words instead.
“I would never do that. Your secret is safe with me. You can trust me completely.”
His smile is shy. “Thank you, miss. Though, I do feel guilty relaxing when the others are so hard at work. I can assure you I don’t do it for more than a few minutes each day.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you deserve all those breaks and then some. If it were up to me, I’d give you whole weeks or months off.”
He ducks his head, either in thanks or in embarrassment. Either way, I can tell he’d rather change subjects ASAP, so I ask, “Is there a whole room back there?”
Jonah shrugs lightly. “It’s more of a hollowed-out space behind the wall. It’s not large, but there’s enough room for someone my size to stretch out.”
And more than enough to hide a painting.
I could hug him. “Jonah, this is GENIUS. You’re, like, smarter than Einstein!”
“Who?”
Must. Remember. Time. Period. Albert Einstein’s probably still in college or something right around now. “What I mean is, you’re very, very smart and this is beyond perfect.”
Jonah beams at me, and I pray it really will be beyond perfect.
“But how did you ever in a million years find this?” I ask. “And where did you get the key to open it?”
Even in the deep shadows back here, I can see his smile dim. He sighs. “There was a man who worked on the construction of the house, and he was hired on to help maintain things after the opening. He . . . he was . . . very nice to me. He requested my help on many projects around here and even taught me some mathematics and a bit of carpentry; he said I could maybe be a builder’s apprentice someday.”
“Where is he now?” I ask, but I can tell from the little wobble in Jonah’s voice that I’m not going to like the answer.
“He took ill,” Jonah says simply. I can figure out the rest. People in 1905 only lived half as long as we do now, on average I mean.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“As am I.” Then he shakes his shoulders, and his smile returns. “But I believe he would like to know this room is being used for such an important mission now.”
I sure hope so. I even hope he’s watching down on us now, because I’ll take all the help we can get. This has to work.
Has to.
Chapter Eighteen
Maggie
TARA KEEPS CHATTERING ALL THE way to Belcourt Castle and halfway back again, and I don’t say a word, mostly because I don’t understand one thing she says. I’m still thinking about women fighting for equal rights. Women treated as equal to men. People from other cultures playing alongside one another. It’s an amazing thought.
We pass old homes I remember, new ones I don’t, and large buildings that don’t seem to have an obvious purpose. Knowing that other summer cottages like The Breakers and Marble House and Rosecliff and Chateau-sur-Mer all still exist and are museums just like The Elms makes me feel slightly less ill than I’ve felt since this whole thing started.
“So, Alex told Cheyanne that he thought Brianna was cute. But then Cheyanne got super ticked off, ’cause you KNOW she always thought that Alex liked HER. Between you and me, he just likes to tease. It’s a big mess! Bri isn’t talking to Cheyanne or me! I mean, is she for real? And Alex expects me to smooth things over, just ’cause he’s my cousin. I didn’t even do anything!” She pauses to look at me. “You know?”
I can’t begin to mimic her language, so I smile and nod my agreement. “Yes. Yes, I do know. How upsetting for you!”
Her language is so strange. I feel like I get more information from her tone than the actual words, though she is speaking English. It just comes out so fast. I believe she’s telling me about a quarrel between two of her and Hannah’s friends, but I can’t be entirely certain.
She pulls out her device and glances at it. “We’d better start toward the field. We’ve only got a few minutes to get there. If we’re late, Coach will have kittens.” She makes a devious face. “By the way, Alex texted. He’s going to be at the Tower later with Ethan. Wanna stop by?”
I hope my face does not betray my confusion. “Where?”
“The Tower, of course. As long as we don’t hang too long. I need to be home by three o’clock. But we should have time to make a quick stop.” She rolls her eyes. This mannerism I recognize. It’s the same one my aunt uses when she’s exasperated with Colette over some indecent thing she’s done.
“I know how much you’ve been dying to talk to Ethan after last week at the pier. Alex won’t tell me outright, but he totally hinted that Ethan’s got a new crush. I’m betting it’s you.” Tara tosses her head in a way that makes me think of Colette, and I understand. A hundred years later, and girls still make fools of themselves over boys. The thought of Colette reminds me that I’m supposed to be enjoying my time in the twenty-first century. She’s the one thing from my own time that I do not miss at all.
Even though I feel like I’m getting to know Tara, my hands start to twitch. So far she hasn’t really asked me too many questions, but pretending to play a game she’s good at, and later having to speak to Hannah’s beau? Things are bound to get much more difficult.
But saying no doesn’t seem like an option. “Yes, of course. I am delighted.”
“Seriously . . . you should probs put the kibosh on that old-timey talk.” She shakes her head.
I try to remember Hannah’s words from earlier. “I’m cool.” I look at Tara, hopeful that I haven’t made a huge mistake. She smiles and slips her arm through mine as we head toward Newport proper.
I can breathe. For the time being.
• • •
In the heat of the day in my own time, I would be expected to sit in the drawing room and sew. Or read, in my case. I hate—that is, strongly dislike (Aunt frowns on the term “hate”)—sewing. In the afternoon my aunt makes us sit quietly to “digest” our lunch while she’s out calling on neighbors. Aunt would rather I sew than read. Colette always threatens to tell when I swap my handwork for a book, but I’ve got enough on her to make sure she won’t.
But now I am walking, as bold as brass, down the main street with only another girl my own age as chaperone. It feels like I’m breaking the law! It’s absolutely invigorating. I inhale deeply and breathe in the sea air, which smells identical to how it is in my own time.
But I can’t enjoy my newfound freedom. My brain keeps returning to the thought of this infernal game I’m supposed to be playing in a few short minutes. And Tara has a plan to meet some boys on the way home. I exhale. One thing at a time. I can think about only one thing at time.
All of a sudden, something looks very familiar. “The Casino!” I shout as we approach a crossroads with more modern buildings. Tara looks at me sidelong.
“The what?” She stops for a moment with her hands on her hips. She looks just like Mrs. O’Neil giving me the evil eye. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to make me call buildings by their old-fashioned names today.” She chuckles as if this might be something Hannah makes her do regularly.
“Oh.” I cringe. “No. What do you prefer it be called?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure Serena Williams would want you to call it by its normal name, the International Tennis Hall of Fame.” She looks at me. “Like everyone else in Newport?”
This statement leaves me with so many questions. I stick to the most obvious. “Serena . . . ?”
“Williams, of course. She’s the GOAT! You know, the greatest of all time? Jeez, Hannah. You’re out of it today. Future Hall of Fame inductee? She was in town last week promoting her new clothing line; it’s been all over the news.” She’s staring at me again like I’m a fool. “I know
you’re crushing on Ethan lately, but it’s not like you to be so far under a rock. Especially when it comes to celebrity sightings in Newport.”
“The International Tennis Hall of Fame.” It feels like an appropriate name for the Casino. I wanted to see Bessie Moore play with Wylie Cameron Grant in the US mixed doubles championship at this exact spot last summer, but Aunt refused to let me attend. It was exhilarating to hear of a woman playing in such a high-stakes game, even if I’m not allowed to exert myself that much. “We could play lawn tennis later, maybe?”
She gives me that look again. “Lawn tennis? Um, sure. Maybe later. But right now we’re playing soccer.”
We turn right past the Casino and around another corner to where a large field opens up. The smell of cut grass envelops me. Girls of all shapes and sizes and skin color, dressed in uniforms like ours, run back and forth on the field, chasing one another, or a ball. I don’t know which.
I blink at the chaos. I tell myself I shouldn’t be surprised that so many of the girls look like they were born far away. They are probably like Tara: families from other places, but all from Rhode Island.
And they are all running. The girls are running. They look like they are exerting themselves a lot.
Sometimes Aunt allows us to walk on the grounds, if the day is cool enough. She always says the summer sun will damage my hair or my skin and I must preserve my good looks for my debut. Of course, running is forbidden. It will damage my insides, she says. I’ve never understood why it wouldn’t damage a boy’s insides. I realize there are a lot of questions I’ve not asked in my own time. About a lot of things.
As we get closer, my mouth falls open. These girls are perspiring. Some of them are soaked through their clothes. They look like they are having the times of their lives. I suddenly can’t wait to run alongside them.
“C’mon. We don’t have much time to warm up,” Tara says. “That little detour took longer than I expected. Maybe Coach won’t notice we’re late.” She pulls me toward her and drops her bag. She kicks off her shoes and pulls out a pair with the bumps on the bottom. “Well, are you going to get your cleats on or what?” She glances toward a woman striding in our direction. “You better hurry, Coach doesn’t look happy that we’re so late.”
I flip off the shoes I hurriedly put on in Hannah’s room, and slowly lace up the ones found in her bag. If I take long enough, maybe I can observe some of the game before I’m expected to play.
“Hannah!” Tara yells, almost like she’s warning me.
A shadow looms over my shoulder. I leap up and hurry after Tara, who runs for the opposite side of the field with the other girls on the team. When we get there, one of the girls says, “Two lines. Dynamic warm-ups.” I follow their lead, and before long I’m laughing with them all as we skip, hop, and kick our legs. No one seems to notice that I’ve never done this before. I can’t believe it’s so easy.
One of the girls gives a cry that sounds like “whoop,” and soon everyone is yelling. I make a small sound that comes out like a quack, but when I try again, I find my voice and scream with the others. I’ve never had so much fun, and the game hasn’t even started.
Tweeeeeet! A loud sound travels across the field. The girls freeze and look toward the sound, which comes from a woman wearing a striped shirt. “Game time!”
The smell of the grass; the wind blowing through my hair; all the girls running next to me, giddy with excitement . . . for a moment I have half a thought that I can do this.
The coach stands on the side of the field, next to the woman in the striped shirt. “Line it up.”
Panting harder than I ever have in my life, I get in line next to Tara. I have to bend over to catch my breath. The striped woman calls our names one at a time. Each of the girls steps out of line when her name is called and turns to show the big number on her back. Then she shows the bottom of her cleats and touches her sock. I can do this. It’s going to be easier than I thought.
“Jordan?”
I smile confidently and stride out just like everyone else, like I know exactly what I’m doing. I turn. I show my cleat and tap my sock. I head back to the line.
“Hold it.”
I freeze. No one else had to hold it. Coach stands with her hands on her hips. “Where are your shin guards?”
“My what?” I rack my brain, but I’m sure no one mentioned shin guards before just now. I look at Tara, but she seems to have abandoned me.
“Shin guards. Mandatory to play soccer.”
“I . . .” I have no idea what she is talking about, but before I can say anything else, Tara runs over.
“Here they are. I forgot to give them back to you. I accidentally put them in my bag.” She hands them to me, and with a raised eyebrow as if she realizes I have no idea what to do, she grabs them from me and stuffs one into each of my socks. She pats them hard and says, “Good to go.” She gets up and pulls me into line. “What is wrong with you?” she mouths.
Coach shakes her head and gestures. “Bring it in, ladies.” We make a tight circle. I sneak a glance around, but everyone’s eyes are fixed on Coach. My stomach suddenly lurches.
“This is your game. You’ve been working hard and have improved so much this summer. Take a deep breath. Remember what we’ve been doing in practice. You’re ready.”
Her voice is steady, calm, inspiring. “We’ll go with the regular starting lineup. Hands in. ‘Team’ on three.” Coach puts her open palm into the middle of the circle, and all the girls put a hand in. I put mine on top. For a split second the feeling of doom evaporates and I feel something I’ve never felt before. Something like strength, like I’m part of something much bigger than myself. “One, two, three . . .”
“TEAM!” They shout in unison and throw their arms into the air.
Some of the girls run out onto the field, and the others go over toward the bench near the white line. Coach puts her hand on my shoulder before I have a chance to follow. “Hannah, where are your gloves?”
“Gloves?” I think about the silk pair Aunt Herminie gave me to wear to the ball. No one else is wearing anything like those.
When I don’t move or say anything, Coach cocks her head. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
“Well, go check your bag, then. Your gloves are probably in there.”
I rummage around in Hannah’s bag, and sure enough, I find a pair of large white gloves with a bright green stripe down the back of them.
“Gloves!” I call to Coach, and wave them in the air.
“Great,” she says. “How about you put them on. We have a couple of minutes for a quick warm-up.”
I feel warm enough already, but I sense that would be the wrong thing to say. I pull on the gloves. They’re big but not too big; it’s like they make my hands feel extra large. I like how white and clean they are.
Coach waits for me with a ball in front of the net. “Ready to make some saves? Here you go,” she says, and tosses the ball at me. It hits off my stomach and down my legs and feet, before rolling back to Coach. “Sorry, I thought you were ready,” she says, and tosses it again.
The same thing happens.
She stares at me, holding the ball under her arm. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
“Well, how about trying out your new gloves?”
I’m supposed to catch the ball.
She tosses it to me again, and this time I reach my hands out and the ball hits off them. I look down to the other end of the field at the girl standing in the opposite net. She is catching every ball her coach throws.
“Do your gloves feel okay? You’re a little off today.”
I’m thinking she’s just being kind, as this must be more than “a little off” for Hannah.
“Yes. They are quite comfortable. I’m sure I’m just nervous, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She hesitates, then grins. “It’s okay to be nervous, Hannah. Take a few deep breaths. You’re an amazing go
alkeeper. You’ve made some awesome saves in practice. Just play like you know how, and you’ll do fine.”
That’s the problem, I want to say. I have no idea how to play.
“Your gloves are probably still a little slippery because they’re new. Just spit on them and that will help.”
“Did you say spit on my gloves?”
“Like you always do. Remember? It helps to grip the ball.” She demonstrates by spitting on her hands.
She watches me until I reluctantly spit on my gloves and rub my hands together.
Her patience with me is running thin, I can tell. “Okay, I’m going back to the bench. Maybe you just need a few minutes to regroup.” She begins to walk away. “You’ve done this before. Just keep it simple!” She turns back and with a wink adds, “Make sure the ball stays out of the net.” She gives me a big smile and a hearty thumbs-up.
A couple of girls shout and clap for me. “Go, Hannah!”
I give them a weak smile. I’m afraid Hannah will never forgive me if I ruin this game. My knees wobble. I think I may need to vomit. Coach, Tara, and the rest of the team are depending on me, and I don’t know what I’m doing.
Coach said to take deep breaths. I take one and another and another. It helps. I look down the field at the other goalie and have an idea. I’ve been imitating someone else all day! I’ll just do what she does. I can do this. I take a full breath and feel my heart return to a normal pace.
The whistle blows and the game begins.
The other goalie crouches a little, so I do the same. She waves her hand now and then, so I do too. The ball is being kicked back and forth mostly in the middle of the field far away from me. It seems to go off the field a lot, which causes the woman with the whistle to blow and pause the game. I can do this, I keep saying to myself. All I have to do is watch. And mimic. It should be easy.
The girls from both teams seem to be fighting over the one ball, kicking at it. There are bags of extra balls next to the benches. I don’t know why they don’t just give one to everyone.
The Art of the Swap Page 10
