by Sheela Chari
“Then who is he? Why can’t you take me to him?”
Nike shook his head. “That’s not how it works. The point is, it’s not who he is, it’s what he can do. Training. Did you look up what I told you?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, parkour. So it’s cool, and—”
“Cool? You think this job is where it’s at? I’m practicing PK hard until I’m so good, I’ll fly out of here and land in Santa Monica. They’ve got a stunt gym out there and everything.”
“And that’s what Randall is doing? Trying to get to Santa Monica?”
“Course not, you idiot. That’s my dream.”
“But where’s Randall, then? You still haven’t told me where to find him.”
“Look, I can’t. Why don’t you follow the Oms?”
“Follow the Oms?”
“Sure. A moonless night is coming. That night, he’ll be at the first clean station on the train line, because that’s where he’ll be doing the next Om. That’s his latest thing.”
“Dobbs.” Why didn’t I think of that? And the new moon was . . . “Tomorrow.”
Nike nodded. “You be waiting there for him.”
Okay. So I had a plan. But there was one thing Nike hadn’t told me. “How does that . . . ?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just telling you how to find Mighty. Now why’s he training with Tops? That’s easy. To make himself a better finder. He wants to find those diamonds and make your family rich.”
I stared at him. He’d said the D word. Which meant he and Randall knew the story about my pop and grandma. My head was spinning. But why would parkour make Randall a better finder?
“One last thing. And this one’s important, Petey. That uncle of yours. Don’t trust him.”
“Wh-wh-what?”
“I don’t know what rock he crawled out from, but people don’t just show up, hear?”
I stared at Nike’s baby eyes. I remembered the times I’d seen him with the crew, his quiet way of whispering his tag in the dark—a wing for victory.
He had a little brother, and parents who spoke Spanish. I didn’t know a single other thing about him except he was Randall’s only real friend.
“Listen, this is my last day at the store,” he said. “So don’t come back here, okay?”
He turned to go when I stopped him.
“Who is he, Nike?” I whispered. “My uncle, that is?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just don’t him tell him nothing about Mighty. Nothing.” Then he disappeared inside the store.
I was walking to my locker after the last bell when Mr. Clay saw me from his door.
“Did Peter find you?” he asked.
I stopped. “Was he looking for me?”
Mr. Clay was drinking coffee as he spoke. “Well, he was looking for his American Studies book. We thought it got switched with someone else’s, like yours.”
So Peter had figured it out already. I guess I wasn’t that shocked.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” I said, smiling weakly. “He lives next door to me.”
“In Margaret’s old place?”
This surprised me. “You know her, Mr. Clay?”
He nodded. “Sure. She used to come sometimes with her friend to the Historical Society when I was volunteering there.”
“You mean Allie?” I said.
He shook his head. “No, that friend of hers, Rose. The diamond cutter.”
So Mr. Clay knew Peter’s grandmother, too? I wondered who else or what else he knew. He was the local history teacher, wasn’t he? “I guess you’ve heard about Scottie Biggs,” I said.
He lowered his coffee cup. “Oh, him. I don’t know if we can believe everything we read. It’s just too bad that Rose got her name involved, especially with what happened to her afterward.”
Kai had told me about Rose’s car accident. “Yeah,” I said.
I looked down where students were streaming out the front doors. In a few minutes, the halls would be empty.
“And Rose knew a lot,” Mr. Clay went on. “So did Margaret, but Rose came more often.”
“What was she doing at the Historical Society?” I tried to picture someone who looked like Peter and made diamonds, talking to Mr. Clay about landmarks. It was a little hard to imagine.
“I don’t think she was doing anything. She just liked history. She was someone who got it.”
The halls were empty now except for the sound of one pair of footsteps. I saw my dad approaching us. “Got what?” I asked.
“That we’re living in history,” Mr. Clay said. “We’re surrounded by it. At least, that’s what I try to teach you kids. Buildings are our map back.”
Buildings are our map back. I looked at him when he said that. I actually liked it. I’d have to write it down before I forgot.
“There you are,” Dad said. He and Mr. Clay nodded to each other. “I hope she’s keeping out of trouble,” Dad said lightly.
“Oh, I have my eye on her,” Mr. Clay said. “Myla’s a sharp one.”
I was surprised he said this. Mostly I was surprised he even knew my name.
“See you later, Mr. Clay,” I said. In the parking lot, I dug out my journal from my backpack, and started writing down what Mr. Clay said.
Dad watched me. “Can’t that wait? You can do it in the car. I’ve got a dental appointment in a little while.”
“I’m almost done,” I said.
“Peter does the same thing, you know,” Dad observed. “I see him writing in his little book all the time. Just like you.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. I could feel the guilt starting to bubble inside me again. I had to return Peter’s stuff as soon as we got home. But first I stopped to read over what I’d written. Buildings are our map back. And just like that, seeing those words on the page, I thought of something else. Why didn’t I see it before? “A map,” I said softly.
“What did you say?” Dad asked.
I shook my head. “Never mind.”
In the car, I drew it the same way I’d seen it in Peter’s black book, right under Mr. Clay’s words: High Bridge and Croton Dam, with a line and dot in between. It was a map of the Aqueduct Trail. And the dot? Maybe that was where we were.
I watched the buildings go past us as we drove down Broadway. I was still feeling bad about reading Peter’s black book. But there was also this small glimmer of satisfaction in me that I’d solved one of Peter’s puzzles. It wouldn’t help me know him better, and it probably wouldn’t make a difference to anyone else. But I’d still done it. I’d made sense out of something strange and mysterious. I turned to Dad. I wanted to tell him to step on it, but I didn’t. “Hurry,” I said instead. Then I added, “Please.”
Nothing could get me home fast enough, least of all Uncle Richard’s craptastic car.
“Petey, not following here. He can’t tell you where Randall is?”
The car idled like a crazy thing at the traffic light.
“That’s what he said.” I kept a poker face.
“You mean, he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want to tell you?”
“He doesn’t know.” I searched for something to tell Uncle Richard so he’d stop with the questions. “He said to watch the moon.”
That seemed to work. Uncle Richard nodded. “We had this thing, your pop and me, about moonless nights. There’s a way of knowing when they come up. Counting on your fingers.”
“Really?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.
“Your pop liked to plan. Soon as we saw the full moon, we counted. Fourteen days later is a new moon.”
“I didn’t know my pop was the planning kind.”
“He was. Even with the Om. But that was really a way of him having a conversation with your grandma.”
“Wait, what? Talking to Grandma Rose?”
We crossed the parkway, and a sign greeted us at the light: welcome to dobbs ferry.
“Yessir,” Uncle Richard drawled. “Let’s just say the dead can talk. And sometimes the living c
an’t. Omar was trying to figure out which was which.”
Huh? I had no idea what Uncle Richard was shooting out of his mouth. Right now, I just wanted to get home.
I waited for the rat-tat-tat of Uncle Richard’s car. He was in my driveway, engine turned off, doing what, I didn’t know. I didn’t want him seeing me at the window like I was waiting for him to leave. So I sat in the kitchen, listening instead. Was he under the hood with a monkey wrench? Taking a siesta in the backseat? Finally I heard the gunning of his motor echo down the street. With that noise, the folks in Texas were covering their ears.
I walked across the yard with Myla’s textbook tucked under one arm, and I was seized with a nervousness I didn’t expect. I knocked on the door, then remembered the doorbell. Idiot. No need to pound the house down. The door opened, and there she was. Behind her was her brother.
“Oh, Peter,” Myla gulped, seeing the book. “I stopped by before, but you weren’t home.”
“I came for my American Studies book.” I held it out. “This one isn’t mine.” I paused, but I had to be sure. “Mine’s got something else inside it. The black book.”
Myla nodded. “I know,” she said. She looked up at her brother, who seemed to be hanging on every word. “Cheetah, can you leave us alone for a sec?”
Did she call him Cheetah? I watched as he hurried upstairs. After he was gone, she turned back to me. “You mean the black book I saw in your house?” she repeated nervously.
I gave her an exasperated look. “I only have one,” I said.
“Right, of course. Wait here,” she mumbled. She ran up the stairs.
Meanwhile, I stepped inside her house. She hadn’t exactly invited me in, but she’d also left the door open. The wall along the staircase was the strangest green. Like being in the woods. But it was trimmed with a shiny white, and there was a tall vase of leaves, which made me think everything was done on purpose, by somebody who knew how to decorate.
Upstairs I could hear voices going back and forth. Then: “Cheetah, quit bugging me!” I thought of calling out, but I made myself wait. Then I took one more step in. From here I could see the TV turned on to a cooking show with no one watching it, and behind the TV set, the deep purplish haze of the living room walls. Purple? Everything was done in velvet, the sofas the color of red wine, and there were wooden elephant statues on either side of the fireplace. Opposite the window was a print of the Taj Mahal. Nobody in my family had come close to seeing it, though Ma had a paperweight version on her nightstand. I remember playing with it when I was little, then dropping it on my toe. I had a bruise for a week. Meanwhile, the talking overhead had stopped.
“Myla?” My voice traveled up. Nothing. “You there?” Still nothing. “I’m coming up, okay?” When I got to the top of the stairs, I spotted Cheetah looking out from his bedroom. The moment he saw me, he shut the door. On the other side of the hall, Myla stood in front of her room. She wasn’t holding the black book.
“Peter, I’m really sorry.” There was a catch in her voice. “I don’t have what you want.”
“What?”
Her face was blotchy and red. “I mean . . . you see . . .” She didn’t know how to finish.
I pushed past her, then stopped. There were words of every size and color popping out at me. It was like drowning in paper. “What kind of crazy place is this?” I muttered.
“It’s my room.” Myla’s voice went up a pitch.
“Just give me the black book,” I said impatiently.
“Peter, you don’t understand.”
By then I saw the American Studies book lying on a mattress on the floor. Without waiting for her, I kneeled down and leafed through the pages. Then I held the whole book by its spine and shook it. But nothing fell out. There was no black book. Just a big, ugly textbook that weighed a freaking ton.
“Can I just say something now?” Myla asked.
I jumped to my feet. “All my life I’ve never seen such a dumb thing!” I could see her shriveling in front of me like a dried fruit, but so what.
“I’m so sorry.” She did sound genuinely sad, her eyes round like two moons. “It’s completely my fault. But I think I know what happened here.”
I leaned in so I was shouting in her face. “Like you dropped it somewhere? Like the Fencers have been in your room?”
She held her hands up. “You don’t have to yell. Remember my necklace?”
“Who cares about your stupid necklace?” My pulse quickened. There was a silence. “Fine. What about it?”
“I told you I bought it in Yonkers. But I didn’t tell you this man followed me while I was there because he wanted it back.” Myla rushed through, her voice squeaking like a mouse on speed. Around us, the cut-up words hovered, and I thought of one that described them perfectly: claustrophobic. “Only I wouldn’t give it to him,” she squeaked on. “And he left me a note on my car saying he’d find me.”
“And you were stupid enough to tell him where you live?”
Now Myla was glaring. “I’m not that stupid.”
I glared right back. “I better go before you waste my time about some crazy fool after you.”
“Waste your time?” Myla looked at me with disbelief. “That ‘crazy fool’ is the one who took your black book.” She leaned over and yanked open an empty drawer from her desk. “And he took my necklace, too.”
Peter didn’t wait for an explanation. If he had, he’d see I was upset, too. “Maybe we can find the man,” I called out, running behind him. “We could talk to that lady who sold me the necklace. What if there’s another fair in Yonkers, and we can—”
He glared at me over his shoulder. “We are NOT going back to Yonkers. At least not together. You’ve done enough already.”
“Please listen to me,” I pleaded as he barreled down the stairs. “Look, I thought it was the Fencers, too. You didn’t see my door. It was marked. But then his note is gone from The Wall. Don’t you see—it’s his way of saying it was him. It has something to do with the necklace and the Oms in the train stations.”
Peter halted so suddenly, I almost crashed right into him.
“What?” he asked.
“The Oms in the train stations. You painted them, right, like the ones in the black book? Unless . . .” I stopped, and it dawned on me. “Unless that’s not your book.” I saw his face and I knew I was right. “It’s someone else’s.”
Peter turned white. “You had no right looking through that book. Thanks to you, my brother will never speak to me again. If I ever find him.” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
I was thunderstruck. His brother?
I clapped my forehead with my palm. It suddenly became clear. The book was his brother’s. Which meant, those were his Om tags, not Peter’s. Now his brother was missing, and Peter wanted to find him. Maybe the black book was his only clue. Until I came along.
A wave of grossness washed over me. It was bad enough the necklace was gone. But so was the black book, maybe Peter’s only link to his brother. Why didn’t I give back the necklace that day when I had the chance? Now it was so much worse with Peter involved, and it was all my fault.
“Myla?” Cheetah called out softly. “Is he gone? Can I talk to you?”
“Not now,” I said.
“But Myla,” he said miserably.
I sniffed loudly. “Not now, Cheet. Okay? I’ve got to think through stuff by myself.”
I went back to my room. This was where it had begun. If Peter had just let me explain, I would have told him what I had pieced together. Like the gap on The Wall where the note had been. And my open window, which I never locked. From there, I figured it all out.
Craggy had used the metal trellis to climb onto the garage. Then, he used the painter’s ledge we’d left on the side of the house when we had it painted last year. It was small, less than a foot wide, but the ledge ran from the garage all the way to the end of the house, right under my window. And then it was only a matter of pushing the window up
and climbing in. Just thinking about the whole thing made me faint, like the world was tilting, and I was slipping down one side.
More than the necklace, it was that awful look in Peter’s eyes that haunted me. I’d told him we could look for Craggy, but in my heart, I knew it was impossible. Craggy had found me, but the truth was, I couldn’t find him back.
“And now Peter might never find his brother,” I said aloud.
I went to look out the window again. My stomach lurched but it felt good, like I was correcting something that had gone wrong in me. Here I’d been thinking about me, me, me. Even when I was looking through the black book, I was looking for things I liked, that Peter had in common with me. But it went further back. I’d been thinking about myself even when I bought the necklace in the first place, how it would make me look, how it would make other people in school notice me. I’d given no thought to Craggy and his feelings. I knew he’d wanted that necklace but I still went ahead and bought it. And when I had a chance to give it back to him, what did I do? I ran out the door. Of course, Craggy wasn’t an angel. But all these problems hadn’t started with him. They had started with me. And now it was up to me to fix them. I studied the painter’s ledge and the trellis nailed to the side below. And slowly, an idea began to form. Tomorrow was Saturday, right? There was one way I could help Peter after all. If I was brave enough.
The next day dragged by as I readied myself for basically the most terrifying adventure of my life. Then night fell, and it was ten o’clock, as I paced back and forth in front of my window.
Cheetah was in bed. My parents were in the family room. The house was mostly quiet except for the faint murmuring of my parents’ voices downstairs. It was their habit to read in the evenings, sometimes to each other, after we went to bed. It was the only thing they ever did together. And like my dad’s yoga, it was a time Cheetah and I weren’t supposed to interrupt.
No problem. It meant no one would be interrupting me either.
I raised the window all the way. It slid easily. It was brand-new, something my parents had replaced two summers ago. But then I looked outside, and for a moment I thought I was going to throw up. I can’t do this, I thought. I was the person who couldn’t even sleep on a bed. And I was climbing out of my bedroom window? I covered my eyes with my hands, ready to give up and crawl back to my mattress. But when I covered my eyes, I saw Peter’s face. The expression when he found out his brother’s book was gone. It’s your fault, I told myself. You have to fix it.
