The view came out of nowhere, a vast and brilliant and unobstructed expanse of open sea. Wow, I thought. Just wow.
Someone had left the shed door slightly ajar. It took a while to wade through the clutter. I squeezed past rusted tools, rows of brightly painted ceramic vases, a giant toboggan standing on its hind legs, a horse’s head with dead black eyes that looked like it had been sawed off a carousel, a rusted dressmaker’s form.
It took a half hour in the antique land mine to finally reach the suitcase. It was more like a trunk, large and bulky and covered—as promised—with vintage NOVA SCOTIA stickers.
I pulled. I wiggled. I yanked. My spleen ached. I finally conceded that I didn’t have the strength to move that suitcase. I had to leave it until I could bring reinforcements.
That night I arrived early at the duck pond. Val was already there, sitting on a bench, writing in a notebook.
“Hi, Sadie. I’m so glad Alice summoned us.”
“Me too. What are you writing?”
She closed the notebook and turned toward me as I sat next to her.
“Oh, it’s inventory for the school-supply collection. I got a big pledge yesterday after the luncheon.”
“That’s awesome.”
She looked down at a text. “And… my boyfriend is pissed at me. Great.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me to stay home and hang out with him and his friend. He’s kind of needy,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Because of the lupus or in general?”
“In general.”
“Was he sick when you started seeing him?”
“Yes. But we didn’t know it was lupus. He just had all these weird symptoms.”
“It must be hard.” I didn’t want to harass her with more questions, but I didn’t exactly know what the symptoms of lupus were.
“We’ve been together a long time. He has his fun moments.”
Alice texted, on way.
“So you and Alice were in Girl Scouts together?”
I nodded. “She was obsessed with dogs even back then. And her friend was obsessed with horses. They called themselves Pooch and Neigh.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s so cute. And what about Gordie? What’s his story?”
“He’s like Mr. Everything—musical, academic, he’s really good at sailing. He always hung out with this kid Reid until Reid started dating a girl in our class. She’s one of the catty assholes.”
“Gadflies, right?” she said.
“Yup. Gadflies.”
“He’s cute,” Val said.
“Gordie?”
“Yeah.”
He was definitely cute. I had to give him that.
Alice parked her Subaru Outback next to Val’s tiny blue car, jumped out, and hoisted her satchel over her shoulder. She was wearing the same long, flowery skirt as the day before, now paired with a turquoise tank top.
“You showed up,” she said, sitting down on the grass next to me.
“Of course we showed up,” Val said.
“What about the boys?”
“Who knows?” I said. “Gordie Harris is notoriously late.”
“Soooo, did anyone see fireworks last night?” Alice rummaged through her bag and pulled out her phone.
“No,” Val said. I told them about my block party and the unimpressive but loud bootlegged fireworks display.
“I had hoped to go see good ones with my best friend, but she ditched me, so I ended up playing Pictionary with my parents and my eight-year-old neighbor,” Alice said.
“Why’d she ditch you?” It was strange looking at Alice. She still looked like Pooch from Girl Scouts, except that she had an angular, more grown-up face.
Alice played with her silver rings. “Well, Izzy has sort of gone heroin chic on me.”
“As in fashion?” Val said.
“As in heroin. She’s been doing heroin pretty much every day, and it’s getting worse. There’s not a lot of quality friend time going on.”
“Oh my God. That sucks, Alice,” I said. I had a vivid memory of baby-faced Izzy playing tug-of-war in her riding boots and braids at one of our jamborees. I couldn’t believe she was doing heroin.
“Yes, yes it does.”
A black Range Rover pulled into the parking lot and Gordie Harris jumped out, late as usual.
“Is that your car?” Alice said. “Sweet.”
“Yeah. Don’t judge,” Gordie said, wiping something off his khaki shorts. His tan looked even tanner in a white polo shirt.
“I’m stuck driving my parents’ old Subaru,” Alice said.
“I have to beg my mother for her Prius,” I said.
“I have to beg my mother for her ninety-three Civic,” Val said, laughing.
“Somebody text Jean,” Alice said. “We need all the homegrown heroes here.”
Val texted Jean while Gordie threw a crumpled half-assed origami crane on my lap. “Here. I got the origami crane memo.” He smirked at me.
“What’s the origami crane memo?” Val said.
“Sadie’s friends organized an origami crane project after the farm stand Hamptons Hero thing.”
“Wow. It’s nerdsville over in your town, huh?” Alice said.
“Jean says he’s already here. Near the bridge,” Val said, craning her neck toward the forested area.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Gordie, help me up.”
Gordie reached over and grabbed my hand.
“Ow. Don’t yank me.” My back still ached from the incident. I let go of Gordie’s hand and stuffed his origami crane into my pocket. We followed Alice to the path on the edge of the grassy hill and found Jean in the forest, which was thick with insect sounds. The sun was just beginning to set, and pops of fireflies dotted the humid air.
“Hey, heroes,” Jean said, sketching furiously in a red leatherbound sketch pad. “The sunlight here is perfection.”
The four of us leaned over the wooden bridge and watched the swollen stream flow over smooth stones.
“Are you going to show us when you’re finished?” Alice said.
“I’m finished.” He held up the pencil sketch of a tree bending over the stream.
“That is amazing,” I said. “Like professional level.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He stood up and wiped his hands on his faded jeans. “So what’s the plan? What do do-gooders do for fun?”
We sat on the edge of the bridge, five people who barely knew one another, kicking our legs and trying to think of something to do.
I couldn’t stop obsessing about Mr. Upton’s suitcase.
“So, can I ask you guys a favor?” I didn’t tell them about the promise to redeem the lizard’s bad deeds. I just told them Mr. Upton wanted me to have his suitcase, and I needed help prying it out of a creepy shed.
They followed me in a caravan of mismatched vehicles, all the way up the bumpy driveway of the Upton manor. The whole ride there I thought about Izzy and our Girl Scout days. My heart ached for her and Alice.
It was dark by the time we reached the shed.
“This place is huge,” Val said.
“You should see the view. It’s all ocean.” I pulled the door open and we shined our phone lights into the cluttered space. It stank of mothballs and decay.
“What the hell was that?” Jean jumped back.
“What?” we all said.
“It sounds like a creature’s nesting in there, like an owl or something.”
“So?” Alice said.
“Okay, I hate birds. They scare the shit out of me. That’s why I was in the woods earlier, safely away from those predatory ducks.”
“Is he serious right now?” I said to Val.
“We go to school together; I don’t know him intimately,” she said. “Jean, get it together.”
It took a lot of effort to assure Jean there were no owls hiding in the shed. But then, literally everything in the shed creeped us out. Gordie held up a faceless porcelain cat. Jean po
inted out a box of freakish Civil War soldier dolls.
“Old men are obsessed with Civil War stuff,” Alice said. She picked up a bearded doll in a blue uniform and dangled it in Gordie’s face. “Hello, little boy. Would you like some sassafras?”
“That’s Ulysses S. Grant,” Gordie said, laughing. “In case you were wondering.”
It was a struggle to dislodge the suitcase. But we did it. And we dragged it out to the driveway. When we finally accepted it wouldn’t fit into the back of the Prius with Dad’s golf clubs and Mom’s fabric samples, we opened the back of Gordie’s Range Rover.
“What the hell, Gordie? Are you a hoarder?” I said. His car was full of crap.
“No. I’m well prepared.” He grabbed the suitcase’s handle. “Clearly we don’t have space back here. Here, help me get it into the backseat.”
“I want to open it,” Jean said. “Why are we waiting?”
I reached into both shorts pockets and felt only the crumpled origami crane. “And… I don’t even have the key. It’s still in my jewelry box.”
We squeezed the suitcase on top of a blanket in the backseat of Gordie’s car and decided we’d just leave it there until the next night to avoid explaining the entire situation to my parents and Mr. Ng.
“I want ice cream,” Val said.
“Good call,” I said, wiping a cobweb off my face. “Let’s go to Carvel.”
Our five-car caravan made it to Carvel just before it closed. We ordered cones with sprinkles and sat on the curb. The Southampton streets were eerily quiet.
“Cheers to the honorees. Here’s to you for making a difference,” Alice said, tapping her cone against each of ours. I wasn’t sure if she was being serious.
“Sadie Sullivan’s over there,” a voice behind me shouted. “She’s from my school.”
“It’s Greg O.,” Gordie whispered.
Greg O.’s mom quickly ushered him away, probably afraid I was one of the many people who had been horrible to her son.
“I feel so bad for that kid,” I said. “With that whole Mayan blog thing.”
“What’s the Mayan blog thing?” Alice said, sticking a spoon into Jean’s cone.
“Hey, get away from my ice cream,” Jean said, pulling his cone away. “I barely know you, woman.”
“Greg O. is obsessed with Mayan civilization, so he spent, like, forever making a website about the Mayans and tried to get everyone to visit it,” I said.
“Yeah, so the pricks at our school left asshole comments and Greg ended up hitting himself in the middle of the cafeteria, which made the pricks roll around laughing. It was awful,” Gordie said.
“That’s so upsetting. I feel like crying,” Val said. “Is the site still up?”
Jean pulled his phone out of his pocket and we crowded around, scrolling through Greg O.’s Mayan blog. It was littered with comments.
Did the Mayans have sex with Greg O.?
Did Greg O. have fun eating dried-out Mayan feces?
Almost worse than the asshole comments was the fact that nobody, not one single person, had posted a nice word on Greg O.’s blog.
We clicked on the many tabs, in awe of Greg O.’s meticulous volume of work.
“This is heartbreaking,” Val said. “He added all the photos and maps. Look, he updated the part about astronomy this morning.”
We sat there dejected, tired, and sad.
Gordie took a deep breath. “I think we should fix that.”
“How?” Val said.
“Let’s post some uplifting shit on the site. Greg O. will love it,” Gordie said, tossing a clump of napkins into the trash can.
“I’m in,” Val said.
“Man, you guys really are a bunch of do-gooders,” Jean said before the homegrown heroes left in our caravan of cars, full from the ice cream and armed with a mission.
Later, I snuggled under my quilt and logged on to Greg O.’s Mayan blog. KINKY 3 had written: Just found this cool Mayan site. Mayans are awesome!
PIERRE wrote: Dude! I love this site. I want to know more about how Mayans sacrificed people.
I signed in as CAKES and wrote: What kinds of things did the Mayans wear?
Great site! CECIL wrote under my comment. And under that, HERMANITA wrote: My friend told me about this site. I’m especially excited because I might have some Mayan blood.
In between Greg O. posts, we hypothesized via group text about what might be in that suitcase.
Jean: What if it’s human remains? It smelled funky in that shed.
Gordie: That was mothballs.
Alice: I bet it’s Confederate money.
Gordie: Could be a dead Confederate.
Alice: Or a dead Canadian. Because… Nova Scotia.
Val: I’m sleepy.
I woke up in the middle of the night, my sheets drenched in sweat, my head throbbing deep below the scar. I sat up, confused, and tried for hours to get back to sleep, but a sense of dread hung over me. I finally gave in and made my way down to the alcove in my parents’ room, where I curled up with my blanket and my Flopper and finally fell asleep.
SEVEN
I HONORED MY promise to Mr. Upton—one of them, at least. After work, I had Daniela wait in front of the hospital while I ran up to deliver the pint of perfect peaches and, I hoped, get more information about how he wanted me to redeem his dead lizard-father’s evil deeds.
The room was dark and quiet, except for the steady beeping of a machine hooked to a sleeping Mr. Upton. Sissy was asleep in the chair, with a thin white blanket draped over her. I tiptoed in and set the pint of peaches on the table next to the pink barf bucket and Sissy’s needlepoint. The cross was nearly finished.
Alice agreed to pick me up after dinner so we could go to Gordie’s and find out what was in that suitcase. She jumped out of the Subaru and greeted Dad, who was hosing down the truck.
“Woody! It’s me, Pooch, from Girl Scouts.”
“I know you, Pooch from Girl Scouts. Mills Town Road, white house.” Dad had an uncanny memory. He remembered all his customers, past and present. “How’s your buddy?”
Alice shrugged. “She’s okay.”
As we drove toward the main road, she said, “Did you remember it?”
“Yes.” I pulled the key out from under my leprechaun T-shirt. I had attached it to my silver chain.
“I have to do a quick drive-by first.” Alice checked her rearview mirror and pulled out in the opposite direction of Gordie’s. “I’m still trying to find Izzy.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Since Izzy’s become a nasty smackhead, she keeps disappearing. I know that sounds harsh, but I’m friggin’ furious right now.”
“How did this even happen?”
“Well, let’s see, Izzy had a riding accident last spring and ended up getting hooked on Oxy. When the Oxy ran out, she started hanging out with this dealer named Hector, who got her hooked on heroin.”
“Alice, I don’t even know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. She’s gone, Sadie. Like a zombie. For a long time, I was taking care of her and protecting her from getting caught. I figured she would eventually get sick of living this way. But it’s just getting worse. When I finally threatened to tell her parents a few days ago, she disappeared.”
“Did you tell her parents?”
“No. Her parents are not cool people. They’ll make things worse—trust me.” Alice stopped the car abruptly in front of a run-down house on the corner near the gas station. I’d passed that house a million times and never noticed it. “Wait here.”
She marched up to the front door in her long lime-green skirt and combat boots and pounded on the door. Nobody answered.
“I tried,” she said. “That was the last trap house I could think of. Let’s go to Gordie’s.”
“What’s a trap house?” I turned to look at the house.
“A dirtbag drug house,” Alice said. “Damn, you’re sheltered.”
“Why do they call it a
trap house?”
“I don’t know. Because they trap people in misery for the rest of their lives?”
On the way to Gordie’s, Jean texted us, Do I have the wrong address or does Gordie live in a mansion?
Nope. That’s Gordie’s house, I texted back.
We parked in front of the towering hedgerows shielding the Harris estate from the rest of the world. I was used to excessive wealth framing the edges of my town. But it never really affected the way we lived. Yes, Parker’s mom was a socialite, and Seth’s stepdad was a movie producer, and Shawn Flynn’s dad ran a hedge fund, but my dad drove an ice cream truck, and Shay’s dad was a tennis coach, and Ellie’s parents were teachers, and D-Bag’s parents were chiropractors.
“Yup. It’s a mansion, all right,” Alice said, staring out at the manicured gardens that stretched past the guesthouse and the pool house and the tennis courts.
Jean and Gordie had just extracted the suitcase from the Range Rover and were hauling it down to the house’s basement entrance. We entered through the sliding doors into a velvet-curtain-lined movie theater with leather reclining chairs and a fully functional popcorn machine.
“So will your butler be joining us?” Jean said, staring at the row of stocked candy jars.
“Can you guys not judge me for having excessively materialistic parents?”
“No judgment here,” Jean said, dumping a scoop of chocolate-covered nuts into his hand as Gordie knelt down in front of the suitcase.
“I’m dying to know what’s in this thing.”
“I think we should wait for Val. Right?” Alice had a point.
“Let’s check out Greg O.’s blog.” Gordie pointed a remote at the movie screen and a search-engine window appeared. Gordie had somehow figured out how to optimize Greg O.’s blog, and random people were starting to log on.
“KINKY 3? Really, Alice?” I said, flinging off my sandals.
“I’m not KINKY 3. I’m CECIL, after my first dog,” Alice said.
“I’m PIERRE, after the rest of my name,” Jean said with his mouth full of candy.
The Unlikelies Page 5
