by Barbara Dee
“I see,” Signe said. She took off her red plastic glasses and rubbed her eyes, which looked surprisingly small and old. “There are many, many wonderful students at Hubbard,” she said slowly, as if she were telling a bedtime story. “But the only person of genius I have ever taught is Lucas Joplin. His verbal decoding skills are truly extraordinary.” She pronounced the word in the European way: “extra-ordinary,” which sounded to Zoe like a contradiction.
“You mean he’s good at making up languages?” she asked softly.
Signe nodded. “Encoding, decoding, translating, all of it. When he was five, he mastered Morse code. By his seventh birthday he was reading Egyptian hieroglyphics. Once, he deciphered a code devised by a sixteenth-century Italian diplomat. Nobody could make any sense of it, but Lucas solved it in two months. Of course, none of this is very surprising genetically. His parents are Henry and Eustacia Joplin, both cultural anthropologists specializing in the origins of written languages.”
“I’m not…really sure what that means.”
Signe smiled. “Well,” she remarked lightly, “you either know or you don’t know. It means nothing to say you ‘aren’t really sure.’”
“Okay, then,” Zoe said. “I don’t know.”
“Lovely. Precision is everything, Zoe. Precision and patience. And, of course, intuition.”
She put her red glasses back on; now she looked like Signe again. “The Joplins are scholars who travel all over the world studying the texts of ancient civilizations, making comparisons about the early development of written symbols and so forth. Right now they are in Guatemala, observing a team of archeologists at a Mayan dig.”
“Whoa,” Zoe said, struggling to remember what she could about the Mayans. It was entirely possible that Signe had mentioned them in class sometime when Zoe was doodling on the whiteboard desk.
“Yes, it’s all quite exciting,” Signe was saying. “These particular archeologists are studying the walls of a buried chamber, and what appears to be an inscription with a rather unusual glyph.”
“And Lucas’s parents can decipher it?”
“Well, they’re not experts in Mayan hieroglyphics,” Signe replied. “Very few scholars are. Even the archeologists are stumped on this one, apparently. So the Joplins have e-mailed a sketch of the glyph to Lucas, to see if he can make any sense of it.”
“But can he? I thought you just said—”
“Lucas Joplin has a rare talent for reading,” Signe said warmly. “If any amateur can figure out this particular symbol, he can.”
“Whoa,” said Zoe, realizing that this was her second “whoa,” and Signe was not likely to put up with a third. “But if he’s so amazing, why don’t they just bring him along with them?”
Signe sighed. “Oh, they have. They’ve brought him everywhere, ever since he was a tiny baby. The whole world has been his classroom.” She made a large encircling gesture with her left arm, which dislodged her grape-colored shawl. “They’ll be back eventually. But for now he’s staying with me. I’m proud to say I’m an old family friend.”
Zoe considered all this. “You mean,” she said finally, “Lucas has never gone to a real school before?”
“That’s correct. Hubbard will be quite an adjustment for him. It’s very important that he make a good friend.” Signe stood up abruptly and walked to her desk, where she began arranging some books. “So tell me, my dear. How is school going for you otherwise?”
“Okay. I guess.”
“You guess? You lack firsthand knowledge?”
“It’s fine. Really terrific, in fact.”
“Hmm,” said Signe. She nudged the books into a small stack, then looked up at Zoe thoughtfully. “You know, Hubbard is a very special place. It’s not for everybody. I usually have a strong intuition about these things, but perhaps it would be better for you to ask yourself.”
“Ask myself what?” Zoe said.
Signe smiled kindly. “What you are doing at Hubbard,” she answered, “with whatever precious gift you have.”
13
On the walk over to Isaac’s, Zoe thought about what Signe had said. (Not the Zoe part; the Lucas part.) So he was some kind of genius crypto-whatchamacallit, apparently. Well, that didn’t mean he was right about her; it didn’t mean he was right about anything! And if he was so smart about hieroglyphics, if he was so extra-ordinary, as Signe had put it, how come he was so dumb when it came to other kids?
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Hubbard was the first real school he’d ever gone to. The whole world has been his classroom. How amazing that sounded, actually. Traveling everywhere with his parents. Assisting on archeological digs. Exploring underground temples. Never having to deal with noisy cafeterias or nasty kids or stupid plays. Hubbard must seem so weird to him. So weird and so, well, little. And he was staying with Signe. How much fun could that possibly be?
Still. Why couldn’t he try a bit harder to fit in? Why did he always have to make such a big show about how different and superior he was? And why couldn’t he make some other friend and forget about this crazy reading-Zoe business and just leave her alone?
The lizards were hungrier than normal today. Zoe fed them right away, noticing she was starting to run low on crickets. (She’d have to remember to buy some tomorrow, on the way over. The greens were starting to smell a bit weird; she’d have to get some of those, too.) And when she was misting the anoles, she was absolutely sure she heard a few chirps coming from the gecko tanks. Could they possibly be recognizing her? Saying hello in lizard language? That was almost too cool to even think about.
She was starting to love being at Isaac’s. It was all so fascinating and calm and orderly. And, except for the occasional chirping, so incredibly quiet. The only sort of troubling thing was that Iguana #3 looked a little funny today. Zoe couldn’t say why, exactly. But was he (or she or it) a little paler than usual? Were her eyes a little cloudy? And maybe not quite so alert? How was Zoe even supposed to know what she was looking at? She checked what she’d recorded on the chart yesterday: “Iguana #3 took five steps, sat on rock, turned head to left.” Not exactly an action-adventure movie, but definitely more energy than now. But what was she supposed to write on the chart? Iguana # 3 not doing very much. Sitting in corner. Paler? She imagined Isaac’s impatient reaction: Paler than what?
She tapped her finger on the glass, but Iguana #3 didn’t look at her. Even if Zoe were right about her (and by now Zoe was sure that the reptile looked like a girl), what could she do? Send Isaac another e-mail? Make him leave Arizona and come home?
Maybe Brooklyn wasn’t the right place for lizards. Maybe nobody was where they were supposed to be.
The phone rang. Zoe raced down the stairs, hoping it wasn’t Deb or Willie. “Hello?” she asked, noticing that her voice squeaked slightly.
“Who is this?” A man’s voice.
“Zoe, the lizard-sitter. May I ask who’s calling, please?”
“Walker Robbins. From the gallery?”
“Sorry,” Zoe said, wondering if she was supposed to know which gallery the caller meant. “Isaac’s not able to come to the phone right now.”
“Oh, is that right? Well, tell him there’s a major crisis with his biggest wire installation, and the wall’s coming off. Okay? The wall is literally coming off. And now the insurance company says it refuses to pay, and the opening is in five days, and I have no idea how to reach him. Do you think, Zoe-the-lizard-sitter, you can convey all this interesting information?”
“I’ll try.”
“Well, bless you, my child.” Then Walker Robbins hung up.
Zoe ran back upstairs to get her backpack. She took one last look at Iguana #3, who still hadn’t moved from the corner of the tank.
“Bye,” she said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. With fresh, yummy crickets, okay?”
She wished she could stroke the small iguana, but she couldn’t. The lizards were wonderful to look at, but the thought of touching them sti
ll freaked her out. That was okay, though, she told herself. They seemed to like her anyway.
She locked the door and went home.
“Can I ask you a question?” Malcolm was saying as she walked into the living room. “If Isaac numbers his reptiles, and you’re thinking about them, Zoe, does that mean that in your head you’re actually seeing them as colors?”
“You’re just hilarious, Malcolm. I’m practically laughing out loud.” She took off her backpack. “Is Izzy home?”
“She’s in bed. She said she was tired.”
“In the middle of the afternoon?”
Malcolm shrugged. “And Spencer went to the park with Bella, but they’ll be back any second. You’ve been warned.”
“Thanks.”
Zoe tapped lightly on her bedroom door. Sure enough, her sister was in bed. But she wasn’t asleep, because as soon as Zoe stepped inside the room, Isadora groaned.
“Hey! Turn off the light, Zoe!”
“Sorry. You okay, Iz?”
“No.”
Zoe sat on the bottom bunk. “Because of the play, right?”
“No, because of the weather! Of course because of the play!” Isadora sat up with surprising energy. “Do you have any idea, Zoe, what it’s like to spend all day at school and have to deal with everybody being so nice to you all the time?”
“No,” said Zoe truthfully. “I don’t.”
“Well, it’s sickening. It’s like everybody’s thinking, ‘Oh, no. Poor Izzy didn’t get the lead. Her life is over. Let’s hold open the door!’”
“Maybe they aren’t sure what else to do.”
“Well, I’m not asking them to do anything. It’s my humiliation. I just wish it wasn’t all so public.” She moaned and plopped back against her pillows. “Sometimes I’d rather be you, Zo.”
“Me?”
“Absolutely. You have the perfect life. You just go to school every day, hang out with Dara, come home…” Her voice trailed off despondently.
“My life is really not so perfect, Izzy.”
“How? I mean, no offense, but you have zero pressure. Nobody expects you to be this shining star all the time. And if you mess up, nobody even notices!”
“Oh, yes they do,” Zoe said. “Trust me, Isadora.”
Isadora rolled onto her side and leaned down. “What does that mean? Is someone giving you a hard time?”
Before Zoe could decide how she wanted to answer that, Isadora added warmly, “You’re so incredibly sweet and quiet, Zo. How could anybody be nasty to you?”
Zoe winced. “Incredibly sweet and quiet” sounded like “mind-numbingly dull and boring.” Not like the kind of person who had fascinating theories about numbers. Or who extraordinary geniuses slipped secret codes to in the middle of the cafeteria.
“It’s nothing,” she replied lightly. “Just the typical Hubbard stuff. You remember what it’s like in Middle Division, right? And not to change the subject, Iz, but do you think you want some chocolate ice cream?”
Isadora snorted. “Huh? Do I think I want some what?”
“Chocolate ice cream. I’m pretty sure there’s some in the freezer. I’m not trying to be nice,” Zoe added. “And I’m not fetching things either. I just think it might help.”
Isadora rolled onto her back. “Fine,” she answered. “Go see if there’s some of that hot fudge sauce left too.”
Zoe scrubbed her hands in the bathroom to get the reptile germs off. Then she went into the kitchen, where Spencer was pulling pots and pans out of the cupboards to construct some kind of obstacle course. And singing loudly:
I want a dog
A orange dog
A big, big dog
Because
I want a dog
A orange dog
A big, big dog
Because—
Zoe opened the freezer. “Can you keep it down, Spence? Izzy has a headache.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to explain. People are being nice to her.” She found the pint of Häagen-Dazs and hacked out two enormous scoops.
“People are being nice to me, too,” Spencer said solemnly.
“Really? Then you deserve some ice cream. If you promise not to sing anymore.” She handed him a tiny bowl with about a tablespoon’s worth of Chocolate Chocolate Chip. “Here. Don’t make a big mess.”
“I’m not a big mess. You’re a big mess.”
“Okay, Spence,” she said distractedly, studying the ice cream container. Häagen-Dazs. Strange name, Zoe thought. It had a secret word inside it: “Agenda.” What could you do with the leftover letters? Nothing, really. Hazs. But if you messed up the order, you had “Z’s agenda: ha.” Which was actually kind of cool, even it made no sense.
“Hey, Zoe,” called Bella from the living room. “Want to watch TV with me? Oprah’s on.”
“No thanks, Bella.”
“Just come talk to me, then. About your theory, or your love life, or whatever else you want. I’ll draw your portrait.”
“Maybe later.”
“Why not now?” Suddenly she was standing in the kitchen, watching Zoe take a jar of hot fudge out of the microwave and pour some over Isadora’s ice cream.
“Yum,” Bella said, grinning. “Go for it, Zoe!”
“It’s not for me. It’s for Izzy.”
“Oh, really? Why can’t she get it herself, then?”
“She can. She just had a bad day.”
“Well, so did I,” Bella said, opening the freezer. “Perfectly sucky. Is there any of that hot fudge left?”
By the time Zoe returned to the bedroom, her sister was sitting on the bottom bunk.
“Thanks,” Isadora said, her eyes actually brightening as she reached for the bowl and spoon. “You know what, Zo? This is the first food I’ve had all day!”
“Well, that’s not very smart.” Zoe watched admiringly as her sister twirled her spoon in the hot gooey fudge. Everything Isadora did looked big and important, as if she were performing on Opening Night. Zoe suddenly remembered about Isaac’s gallery opening. In a way that was a performance too. Except maybe it couldn’t happen if the wall wasn’t there. She should definitely tell Isaac right now, she thought. And besides, she’d made a promise to Walker Robbins.
“Um, Izzy? Do you know when Dad will be home? I really need to send an e-mail.”
“No idea. Just use my computer, Zo.”
“Are you sure? Because Dad told me—”
“Send away,” Isadora said, waving her chocolatey spoon like The Queen of Ice Cream.
So Zoe sat down and typed:
Dear Mr. Wakefield,
This guy from your gallery called and said the wall is coming off. He sounded really upset.
Very truly yours,
Zoe Bennett
She hit the Send key.
“Who are you writing to? Dara?” Isadora asked.
“No. The lizard guy, actually.”
Isadora made a face. “Eww. There is absolutely no way I’d ever babysit for a bunch of lizards. I’m pretty sure they give you warts. Or salmonella.”
“I don’t touch them, Izzy. I just feed them. And take notes.”
“Still repulsive,” Isadora declared, licking her spoon. Then she fell back against the pillows. “God. I ate too much. Now I feel sick.”
A few seconds later there was a reply to Zoe’s e-mail.
Hello, Zoe. Stop answering the phone.
She instantly wrote back:
Okay, if you say so. I think something’s wrong with Iguana #3. I can’t tell why exactly, but I’m getting kind of worried.
And Isaac replied:
I don’t want to hear your vague inner feelings, kiddo. Just write down # squash chunks and # oz. H2O. I’ll deal with this when I get back.
Try to be calm and unemotional and just OBSERVE.
14
On Thursday morning Zoe went to school determined to make up with Dara. Not that they’d had an actual fight, she reminded herself. But they hadn�
��t spoken to each other since yesterday morning at the lockers, and Zoe couldn’t bear to let things go on like this. She felt hollow inside, as if she hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and no amount of chocolate ice cream would make her feel like Zoe. Even with everything else on her mind—Isaac’s indifference, Owen’s threat, the weirdness with Lucas, worry about Iguana #3—the most important thing was finding Dara, talking to her, getting everything back to normal. Or as close to normal as possible.
She hoped she could catch Dara first thing, maybe at the lockers just before homeroom. But when she got there, Dara was standing in front of Leg’s locker. So were Paloma and Jake and Mackenzie, and so were Tyler and Calliope. Zoe tried to catch Dara’s eye, but Dara seemed too engrossed in something Leg had in her hand.
“Let me see it,” Jake was saying. Zoe could see him snatch a small white strip of paper from Leg. Zoe peeked over his shoulder and read the unnatural, almost-too-perfect handwriting:
The next best [military operation] is to attack alliances.
—Sun Tzu,
The Art of War
“Okay, it’s official,” Jake said, half-laughing. “Ezra Blecker has finally lost it.”
“How do you know it’s Ezra?” Zoe asked.
Everyone turned to look at her. She could feel her cheeks start to burn, but she didn’t care.
“You don’t know it’s Ezra,” she said, louder this time. “I mean, do you?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Paloma snapped. “We haven’t done DNA testing or anything.”
“Then you really shouldn’t accuse him.”
“Okay, Zoe. Who do you think is doing this, then?”
“I don’t know. It could be anyone, really.”
“Anyone wouldn’t be obsessed with The Art of War. Who else reads stuff like that, besides Ezra?”
“Actually,” said Tyler, grinning, “that book’s kind of cool. We read it Non-Euro, and sometimes I use it when I’m gaming.”
“You read ancient Chinese philosophy when you’re playing video games?” Calliope shreiked. She slapped his arm.
