Running from Reality

by Missy Robertson

  “It’s hard to tell from here, goofball,” Ryan said. “Plus, it looks different all the time. Sometimes it appears green, turquoise, navy, mud brown . . . depends on the elements. Would you like me to explain those to you?”

  “No.” I pulled the bill of my cap up a little. “Where’s the observatory?”

  Ryan pointed to the left. “Over there. It’s mostly covered by the mountains. You can see the domes. Wanna walk over there? I think it’s eight miles.”

  “Sounds like it would be a nice drive, then.” I spied a little bench on the trail. “Right now, I would like to sit here and try to burn this view into my memory, since I’m not allowed to take pictures.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Ryan let me sit, and he walked around, back and forth, between the D and the H, in Hollywood, marveling at the view.

  “Hello.” A voice attached to a little girl wearing light pink shorts and a gray T-shirt approached me on the bench. “Do you have any Band-Aids?”

  The question made me smile.

  Yes, but I’m running out. Everyone is bleeding on this trip.

  The little girl had a bloody knee, but you wouldn’t have known by her face, which was grinning ear-to-ear, revealing two missing front teeth.

  “That’s a nasty scrape,” I said. “You came to the right person, because I have a box of princess Band-Aids here in my backpack.”

  Her eyes got big. “Can I borrow one?”

  I patted the bench seat next to me for her to join me.

  “You don’t have to borrow it, I’ll give it to you.”

  The girl sat down.

  “Thanks!”

  I looked around. “Are you here by yourself?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. My daddy is over . . . there.”

  Her dad was in a conversation with Ryan, and the two were already laughing. Soon he’d probably give Ryan the keys to a limo or something.

  I opened the backpack and pulled the bandage box out of the bag.

  “Pick a princess,” I said, and I handed the box to her. She searched for a minute, and then pulled out Ariel.

  “Good choice. My cousin has her same hair color, only redder,” I said, and then I laughed a little.

  The girl opened the bandage package and started to pull the tabs off the back.

  “Hang on,” I said. “Let’s clean it a little.” I pulled my water bottle out of the netted pocket on my pack, opened it, and poured some on her knee. Then she used the bottom of her T-shirt to wipe it off.

  “Thanks. I shoulda worn long pants.”

  “No, shorts were a good choice. It’s blazing out here.”

  The little girl pushed some of her long, wavy light-brown hair behind her ear.

  “Do you got an extra pony?”

  “I sure do.” I reached into the side pocket of my backpack and produced a stretchy band. Then I helped gather her hair up in a high ponytail.

  “Look!” She pointed to my ponytail. “Just like yours, but I don’t got a hat. My neck feels cooler. My name is Angela, what’s yours?”

  I cleared my throat. “Um . . . it’s Allie.”

  “Nice to meet ya, Allie.”

  “Nice to meet you too. So, what brings you to . . . uh . . . Doowylloh?” I pointed to the back of the sign. “Do you live here in the hills?”

  “No. Do you?” Angela swung her legs forward and backward.

  “No. But I’m staying in someone’s beautiful house. Are you on vacation?”

  She kept swinging. “No.”

  “Hmmm. Are you on a day trip?”

  Angela nodded. “A couple of days. We’re waiting for a miracle.”

  I turned my head to look at her, but she was just grinning, looking out at the city.

  “What kind of miracle?” I asked.

  “The only kind there is—from God.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “I get you.”

  “And I hope he hurries up, because my mom is having a baby.”

  “Right now?”

  “No!” She laughed. “On Thanksgiving.”

  “Well, that sounds exciting!”

  She shook her head. “Not if we don’t get the miracle.”

  “Is there something I can do?”

  “Nope.” She crossed her arms. “Only God does miracles.”

  “You have a lot of faith. How old are you?”

  “Seven. Is that old enough to have faith?”

  “Of course.” I glanced back at the steep trail that brought us up here. “Did you walk all the way up here?”

  “Yeah. I have lots of energy. Daddy wanted me to get rid of it.”

  “Well, this hike should do it.”

  “I think so.”

  “Angela, are you ready?” Angela’s dad walked halfway over to us. “We can run all the way down the hill if you want.”

  Angela slid off the bench. “Sure!” Then she turned back to me. “It was nice meeting you, Allie. Thanks for the Band-Aid and the ponytail.”

  “You’re welcome. And I’ll be praying about your miracle and your baby.”

  “Thanks!” Then she turned and began running with her dad down the hill.

  “Allie, do you want to run down the hill?” Ryan laughed and approached the bench.

  “No, but I am ready to get out of this California sun for a while. Are you sure it’s November?”

  I gathered up the bandage box and pulled out the Bag of Wonders to store it. As I opened the bag, I heard something shift in the bottom. Oh, yeah—there was one more item in there!

  I reached in . . . and pulled out a small key.

  We found the rest of our crew halfway down the hill.

  “Allie, you missed being in the Hollywood sign picture with us,” Kendall said. “Oh, wait—no, we didn’t get a picture because of . . . Papaw.” Then she growled.

  “Hey, you need to stop blaming Papaw,” Ryan said. “He just gave you what you wanted. And don’t forget that he sent you to California for free.”

  “That was cool,” I said.

  “So, do you guys want to go to Malibu today?” Ryan has endless energy—like my new friend Angela. “Allie’s concerned about the ocean color.”

  “Not after that fifty-mile-hike,” Kendall said. “Can’t we just go back to the house and veg?”

  “Yeah,” Lola said. “I want to be fresh and rested when we go to the beach.”

  “Well, we could go back and swim in the pool,” Brittany said.

  “Wait . . . there’s a pool? People, why are we standing around talking?” asked Hunter.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dumbwaiter Discovery

  Houses in the Hollywood Hills are huge, and they wind around the hills in funny ways. At least this one did. That’s why I hadn’t discovered the pool and fabulous patio that existed behind the left side of the house.

  “This is unbelievable,” I said to my cousins, as we all lay around on lounge chairs after a refreshing swim. (At least I did remember to bring a swimsuit.) “Did just the Gabi-girls live here in this huge house?”

  Brittany picked up her phone. “I don’t know. I’ll Google it.” She poked the screen, and in seconds came up with the answer.

  “It says here that Abigail married her high school sweetheart, Reginald Fremont, in 1932. He believed his wife had the prettiest face in the world, with a beautiful voice and acting ability to boot, so they moved to Hollywood, and he worked odd jobs day and night to support her so she could prepare for and audition for anything that came up.”

  “That’s so sweet,” Lola said. “I’d like to marry someone like that.”

  Brittany continued. “Soon, Abigail was discovered by the famous movie producer, Theodore Wallace.”

  “Wallace Films?” Hunter said. “They make tons of movies!”

  “Yes.” Brittany kept reading. “Abigail’s movies were so popular that she helped propel Wallace Studios to the giant they are today. Let’s see . . . it says here that in 1936, she gave birth to a girl, Gabriella Marie Fremont, and . . .�
��

  Brittany frowned and stopped reading.

  “What?” I sat up on my lounge.

  “Two years later, Reginald died in a car accident on the Hollywood freeway.”

  “NO! That’s not a fairytale ending!” Lola covered her face with her hands.

  Brittany continued. “Abigail was devastated, but determined to raise her daughter to love the industry that her husband worked so hard to support. She gave her dance, voice, and piano lessons, and she took her along on all her movie sets. The backstage crews helped raise Gabi—which is what she liked to be called—and as soon as there was a movie part that suited a little girl, Mr. Wallace cast her in it. The rest is history. The Gabi-girls starred in a total of thirty-two movies together, between 1946 and 1960, and each had a stellar career on their own too. Abigail had this house built in 1950, and she made sure there were lots of rooms so they could invite friends and relatives to visit. The women were especially close to Reginald’s many sisters. It says he had five.”

  “Did Gabi ever get married?” Kendall was full into the conversation now.

  “Hang on.” Brittany scrolled down on her screen. “Yes, it says here that she was married briefly to a guy named Wilson Greyhound, and they had a son named . . . Gabriel. Oh, dear . . .”

  “Briefly?” Lola looked like she was going to cry. “Did Wilson die too?”

  “No. It says that one day Wilson disappeared, never to be heard from again. And on the day he disappeared, he withdrew several thousand dollars from Gabi’s savings account.”

  “He stole her money?” Hunter took off his cowboy hat and put it over his heart.

  Brittany nodded. “Gabi was heartbroken. She never tried to find Wilson, and she changed her son’s last name from Greyhound to Fremont.”

  “That’s a horrible story,” I said.

  Brittany grinned as she scrolled some more.

  “Well, here’s a bright spot. It says here that Abi and Gabi were Christians, so they raised Gabriel together in this house and took him to church every Sunday. He grew up, got married, and became a minister at a church in Santa Barbara. He and his wife have four boys and one girl, ages thirty all the way down to eight.”

  “So Gabi got to be a Mamaw! That makes me feel better.” Ruby smiled.

  “It says here that Abi died in 2007, and Gabi died in 2011. That’s the end of this article. If you want to know more, you’ll have to do more than Google.” Brittany put down the phone and sighed. “Looks like God blessed a lot of people through those two ladies—despite their hardships.”

  Lola looked like she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I wish they were here so we could talk to them. Especially Gabi—to find out what it was like to be a kid star back then. I wonder if they ever made her wear a camo beanie.”

  “I doubt it,” Kendall said. “This is California. But I bet she got zits from time to time.”

  “Now I want to go explore the house, and find out more,” I said.

  “Me too!” Hunter said. “I bet the room I’m staying in was Gabriel’s.”

  “I don’t know how much you’ll find out,” Ryan said. “It’s pretty much bare bones—just furniture and wall hangings left in here. Even the bookshelves in the library are empty. If you really want to know more, I’ll see what I can do. Gabriel’s son is in my class at school. They were the ones who let us use the house this week.”

  “I want to see all the rooms.” I stood up and threw on my swimsuit cover. “Maybe they left some family photos somewhere.”

  “Let’s explore and meet in the kitchen to share what we find in one hour.” Ryan took Hunter with him, Lola and Ruby teamed up, and that left me and Kendall to go together.

  Brittany put her floppy hat over her eyes and laid back down on the lounge.

  “I’ll just hang out here and keep the pool safe from the Hollywoodlum.”

  “I need a snack or somethin’ first,” Kendall said. “Swimmin’ makes me hungry. Let’s go find some grub.”

  I followed Kendall into the kitchen, and as she pulled out the goodies, I looked through cupboards for any kind of clue to the history of the Gabi-girls.

  “Hey, what is this?” The wall next to the pantry had a cutout with a secret compartment of some kind. It looked like just another cupboard, but when I opened it, it revealed a big box with ropes hanging next to it. I pulled down on the ropes a little, and the box moved up!

  “Kendall, check this out! It’s like an elevator for cats or tiny dogs.”

  Kendall came over in a flash. “Hey, that’s a dumbwaiter! I see them in British movies all the time.”

  “A dumbwaiter? What does that mean?”

  “Well . . .” Kendall put on her British accent. “It’s like this, my dear. Sometimes objects are simply too heavy or awkward for the servants to carry. For instance, if you were taking afternoon tea and sandwiches to an upstairs sitting room, you would place them in this dumbwaiter, pull the ropes, and everything would be safely delivered, without losing a drop.”

  “We need one of these in my new house. I hate carrying things upstairs.”

  “Shall we try it out? Let’s get some snacks, shall we?”

  Kendall went back to the counter and piled some fruit, crackers, and cheese on a platter.

  “We’ll try some lemonade too. Might as well be adventurous.”

  Once we had the box all filled, I pulled the rope, and our food disappeared . . . upward.

  “When do I stop pulling? And how do we know where to go to find our stuff?”

  Kendall looked up the tiny elevator shaft. “I think it should stop at some point. Keep pulling till you feel resistance and then we’ll go find the other opening upstairs.”

  “This is fun,” I said, and I pulled till it stopped.

  “I bet I find it before you!” Kendall took off out of the kitchen. But I’m faster than her, so I caught her on the stairs.

  We both stopped on the second floor and dared each other go down the hall. But then we tore up another flight. The dumbwaiter had to go higher than that.

  Kendall took off down the hallway on the third floor, but I went up to the last level. I knew there was a rooftop patio up there. And that would be the place to have afternoon tea.

  I also discovered a laundry room. And . . . bam! The dumbwaiter was up on this floor too.

  I ran over to it—it looked just like the cupboard in the kitchen—and I opened the door.

  “Hmmm.” I stared inside the dumbwaiter. It appeared that I hadn’t pulled the rope quite far enough. The box with our food was only halfway there. I poked my head in the shaft, and then reached my hands in to see if there was a way to lift the box up a little more. I grabbed for anything I could find and felt a flat rectangular object on top of the shelf. I pulled it out.

  It was a thin book with purple flowers all over it. No title, and it had a strap with a lock on the side.

  “Allie! Did you find it?”

  I hid the book behind my back.

  Kendall rounded the corner, breathing hard. She stopped in front of me and stared me down.

  “Ugh! You always beat me! Just once I’d like to beat you—hey, what do you have behind your back?”

  She reached around me, but I pulled it the other way.

  “I found it on top of the dumbwaiter. I think it’s a diary.”

  “You think? Open it up!”

  I shook my head. “I can’t. It’s locked.”

  “Then it is a diary! I wonder whose it is?”

  Kendall reached for the book, but I pulled it away.

  “You don’t have a key, do you?” Kendall put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, of course not. Do you?”

  I shifted my eyes to the ceiling.

  “Allie, why are you acting so funny? Did you find a key in the dumbwaiter? Aww, come on! Quit messing with me!”

  “Come with me,” I said, and I led Kendall back to our room.

  “When I was on the hike, I found one more thing at the bottom of
the Bag of Wonders.” I walked over to my side of the bed and lifted my backpack off the floor. I unzipped it, pulled out the bag, and fished out the little key with pink plastic molding at the top of it.

  Kendall put her hands on her cheeks.

  “Do you think it will fit this diary?” I asked. “That would be the craziest thing in the world if it did.”

  Kendall thought a moment. “Allie, those little keys open bunches of things.”

  “But why is it in this bag, that also had a map of the Hollywood Hills in it, and we happen to be in the Hollywood Hills, not to mention that we have a headlamp with the address of this very house?”

  Kendall jumped up and down a couple of times.

  “What are you waiting for? Try to open it!”

  My hands shook a little as I settled the book on the bed and tried to line up the teeny little key with the teeny little lock. I pressed it in, and jiggled it. First left, then right. Then I yanked on the strap to see if the little hooks would disengage.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Kendall frowned. “Try again. My diary at home is picky about how you twist. Give it a little quicker wrist action.” Kendall tried to show me, with an action that looked like she was dangling a treat for a puppy.

  “Okay, here goes.” I dangled.

  And then we heard a click.

  I pulled on the strap, and the lock opened.

  Kendall stuck her head right next to mine as I opened the flowered book. The first few pages stuck to the cover, and I had to pry them down to see what was written inside:

  Diary of Gabriella Marie Fremont.

  November, 1948

  “Wow.” Kendall’s eyes were wide.

  I carried the book over to the wingback chairs, like I was carrying a delicate platter filled with china tea cups. I let myself down gently, and slowly turned the page.

  “You’re gonna to read it to me, right?” Kendall was in the other chair, leaning forward though—so she was barely sitting in it.

  I nodded and began:

  Today is my birthday. Momma gifted me this diary and encouraged me to write down my thoughts, dreams, plans, and prayers. That I will do, but I will also share my frustrations, since I cannot express them to the masses—or they would think me selfish and unsophisticated—which is exactly what I am.