by Lisa Yee
“I don’t know,” I replied, turning over the bent, dusty photo. On the back, in small, elegant handwriting, were the words “Hallie. July 12, 1956.”
“Hallie,” I breathed. Questions flooded my brain. Who was Hallie? And why did she have Ama’s necklace?
We wove our way back through the maze of hallways to the Great Room. My mom was talking to the man in the hard hat at a worktable. Excited, I showed her the photograph of Hallie.
Mom studied it carefully. “It does look like Ama’s necklace,” she admitted, “but I doubt it’s the same one.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“It just seems unlikely,” she said, sounding tired.
“Well, did Ama ever talk about someone named Hallie?” I persisted. “Maybe they knew each other.”
“I don’t think so,” Mom said. “Ama never mentioned anyone named Hallie to me, honey. Sorry.”
I looked at the photo again. Something about the way Hallie looked boldly into the camera reminded me of Ama. “Can I borrow the photo, Mom? We found it in one of the storage rooms.”
My mother thought for a second. Reaching across to a workstation, she grabbed a clean plastic bag and put the photo inside. “You can borrow it,” she said, “as long as you take care of it.”
“I promise,” I said. She handed the photo to me and I hugged it close, feeling a strange thrill go through me.
At dinner, Camila and I told my parents all about following the kitten and then finding Hallie’s photo.
“So you met the Artful Dodger,” said Mom.
“That is his name?” asked Camila.
Mom nodded. “He just showed up a few days ago. We think he’s living in Coventry House, but we’re not quite sure where, mainly because he’s so good at running away. That’s how Dodger got his name.”
“But who owns him?” asked Camila. She looked even more worried when I explained that “stray” meant the Artful Dodger didn’t have a family.
“This is terrible!” Camila exclaimed “Lea, we must save Dodger!”
“If you can find him again,” my mother noted.
“How was your day?” Dad asked her.
Mom sighed. “Full of the usual problems.” She brushed her hair back from her forehead the way she did when she was worried.
“More funding issues?” asked Dad, concerned. Mom nodded.
“The donor’s trying to walk back his initial commitment,” she said.
“For Coventry House?” I asked. “I thought you had enough money to restore it.”
“Unfortunately, for a project like Coventry House, money is always a challenge,” Mom explained. “Restoring historic buildings is expensive, and people often want to tear them down because it’s easier and cheaper. They don’t think about the fact that these buildings are full of unique details and history that make them irreplaceable. Like Ama’s journals,” she said to me, “only for a whole community instead of one person. Buildings like Coventry House are part of North St. Louis’s identity. They’re a big part of the neighborhood’s past, and that’s worth protecting.”
After dinner, I checked my e-mail. Zac had sent me some photos of the latest animals he’d helped rescue. There were snapshots of a giant armadillo, a monkey with a broken arm, and a pair of baby macaws. The macaws’ wrinkled skin made them look like little old men, although parts of their bodies were starting to sprout green and blue feathers, and they had big black eyes. They were so cute! Zac said they’d been been rescued after their mother had disappeared—probably stolen by poachers.
The farther you go into the rainforest, the more poaching is a problem. Poachers kill, trap, and smuggle animals out of the country. We’ve been working to protect the local populations, but it’s not easy. The baby animals we rescue have to be raised by hand at the sanctuary, and even if they can be released back into the wild, they’ll be in danger again.
It was inspiring to know how hard my brother was working to protect the animals, but troubling to think of these problems. I told Zac about how Camila and I had found Dodger. We’re going to rescue him, but first we have to find him again, I wrote. I considered telling Zac about the photo of Hallie, but I hesitated. It seemed too complicated to tell about in an e-mail, and besides, I didn’t really know anything about her. I needed to find out more first.
While Camila brushed her teeth and got ready for bed, I looked at Hallie’s photo with my dad’s old magnifying glass. Under the magnifying glass, the eight pointed petals were clearly visible on the compass, exactly as they were on Ama’s compass.
My grandmother had never told me how she got her necklace. Were there lots of compasses just like this one in St. Louis back when Ama was young? It can’t be just a coincidence, I thought. Can it?
“Maybe tomorrow we can go back to Coventry House and try to catch Dodger,” said Camila, coming into my bedroom in her nightgown.
I nodded, still looking at the photo.
“I want to see the big Arch up close. Maybe tomorrow?” Camila said eagerly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll probably go there for photography class,” I assured her.
I returned to Hallie’s photo, searching for clues. Although the photo was black and white, I could tell that Hallie had blonde hair and dark eyes. Her pale dress had an elegant sheen, like silk, and her hands, in short white gloves, rested on a dark sash at her trim waist. Ama’s necklace shimmered around her neck, and she had a fresh flower fastened to her bodice with a pin in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.
Hallie stood before a tall window. Its long rectangular panels of glass fitted together in a series of angles that reminded me of a cut crystal’s facets. The corners of her mouth turned up in a small, bold smile that made it look like she had a secret. She reminded me of a photo I’d once seen of the old movie star Grace Kelly, poised and perfect.
The longer I looked at the photo, the more questions I had about Hallie—and the more I couldn’t wait to start seaching for answers.
The next morning, after we found seats together on the van for our first photography field trip, Camila and I told Abby about our discoveries.
“It could be hard to find out anything about Hallie,” said Abby. “The photo’s so old, and you don’t even know her last name.”
“I think it’ll be fun to figure out who she is!” I said. “Like solving a puzzle.”
“We must also rescue Dodger,” Camila added.
Abby perked up. “I can help you with that! I always help out at my mom’s veterinary clinic when cats get scared. Mom says I’m a cat whisperer.” Camila and Abby started talking about cats and how to catch them. “I know I can catch Dodger,” Abby boasted. “Lea, let’s ask your mom if I can come to Coventry House too.”
“I’m not sure if we’ll be able to visit again,” I said. “My mom’s really busy there.” Camila looked crestfallen.
“Oh, well,” said Abby. “So, Camila, what else do you want to do while you’re here?”
Camila lit up. “I want to see the Mississippi River, and the Arch…”
“You haven’t been to the Arch yet?” said Abby, amazed. “You have to go there! And you have to go to Six Flags, and Grant’s Farm, and City Museum—oh, and you need to try frozen custard from Ted Drewes. It’s the most delicious thing on earth. Right, Lea?”
I nodded. I was going to add that we needed to find Hallie first, but Abby kept talking about frozen custard until the van rolled to a stop.
Ms. Garcia stood up in the aisle. “Okay, photographers!” she chirped. “Welcome to our first urban exploration. Today we’re going to be taking pictures of the Soulard Market. Some of you may have been here before, but that’s okay—if you’re paying attention, you can always find something new to look at, even in a place you know well.”
I recognized the pretty redbrick building in front of us. “This market,” Ms. Garcia told us, “has been here for more than a century, so there are plenty of interesting things to photograph.”
We followed Ms. Garcia up to the arc
hed front entrance and through the double doors. Inside, endless rows of stalls filled the hall, displaying fresh vegetables, meats, fruits, and flowers. “Please stay inside the market area,” Ms. Garcia called after us. “We’ll meet at the front entrance in thirty minutes. Have fun!”
The class spread out, cameras poised. Camila headed down an aisle, snapping pictures, with Abby a few steps behind her.
I stood still, remembering what Ms. Garcia had told us about trying to see in a new way. I looked around and then took a few photos of oranges piled in a pyramid. But when I checked my shots, they all looked sort of dull. The last thing I wanted to hear was Ms. Garcia saying that I’d taken another boring photo.
I glanced around again. Camila and Abby had disappeared into the sea of shoppers. For a moment, I felt nervous and wondered if I should go try to find them. Yet a voice inside me said, No. Focus on what’s in front of you. It sounded like something Ama would say. I took a deep, calming breath and slowly made my way down an aisle, making sure I didn’t miss anything.
I’d been coming to Soulard Market with my family a few times a year ever since I could remember. Still, as I raised my camera up and looked through the lens, I began noticing things I hadn’t seen before, like how the sunlight streamed onto the polished, swirly gray-green floor, and how the iron lampposts at the end of each row of stalls were standing guard. I started snapping photographs, trying to capture the images.
I turned a corner. At the end of the next aisle was a bright stall with a yellow-and-pink-striped awning. The Flaky Bakery was one of Ama’s favorite shops. We would go there whenever we came to the market together. Sadness washed over me like an ocean wave. For a brief moment, I could almost see Ama there, nose pressed to the cupcake display, her compass necklace swinging. “Vanilla with chocolate frosting?” she’d ask me, “or chocolate with vanilla?” Then, before I could answer, she’d say, “Why choose? Let’s have both.” Just thinking about it made me smile.
I stepped up to the display case. Pastel cupcakes stood in neat rows behind the gleaming glass, their pink, blue, and lavender whipped-frosting tops making them look like sugary spring flowers. Without thinking, I lifted my camera and focused on the colorful cupcakes, zooming closer as I shot. Happiness bloomed inside me. Taking photos always made me feel better.
I didn’t realize I’d spent a half hour shooting cupcakes, but when I checked the wall clock, it was time to meet the class. As I came out the front doors, our van was by the curb and Abby and Camila were comparing shots nearby.
Camila saw me first. “Did you see the horses? They were huge!” she blurted.
“Clydesdales, they were Clydesdales!” said Abby, as they both rushed over. Abby showed me a few photos of Camila petting a team of draft horses yoked to a wagon, laughing, and even kissing one of their noses.
“I can’t believe you missed them!” Abby said. She and Camila kept talking about the horses, noting how huge but gentle they were, and how soft. Excitedly, they showed me the rest of their photos. Most were of Camila or Abby making faces for the camera and having fun. All their shots were bursting with life. By comparison, my photos seemed dull.
“What did you photograph, Lea?” Camila asked.
“Just some cupcakes,” I said. I waited for them to ask to see my pictures, but they didn’t.
Camila and Abby sat together on the way back. I was one seat behind them next to Kevin, who wanted to show me all the photos he’d taken of the sausages at Eddie’s Meats. “Sweet apple, sun-dried tomato, spinach feta,” he said proudly, clicking through his photos. It seemed as if he had taken a million of them. “Italian is my favorite. But look at this one…and this one…”
I nodded politely as I tried to overhear what Camila and Abby were talking about.
“I love horses,” Camila was saying. “In Brazil, you can ride them on the beach!”
“That sounds so fun,” said Abby. “I have to come visit you now!”
“Yes!” Camila agreed, sounding happy. I caught a snippet of Abby telling her how she’d taught her dog to play soccer before I finally gave up trying to eavesdrop and started looking at my photos. Cupcakes. Lots of cupcakes.
Kevin leaned over. “Hey,” he said, appraising my shots. “Looks like you like cupcakes as much as I love sausages!”
I gave him a weak smile.
Once we got out of the van at COCA, Abby ran up to me. “Hey, Lea, would you mind if Camila came over after camp today?”
“If your dad says it’s okay,” added Camila.
“We want to play soccer in my backyard,” Abby bubbled. She turned to Camila. “I have a net and everything. And you can help feed Tiny—he’s the newborn puppy my mom is fostering. I’ll ask her, but now that he’s getting bigger, I’m sure she’ll say it’s okay.”
I felt a sharp pang of jealousy. I’d been begging Abby to let me help feed Tiny, or even hold him. All I’d been allowed to do so far was look at him in his shoebox.
“Lea,” said Abby, “I know you’re not into soccer, so I don’t know if you want to come, but you can if you want.”
“I can’t,” I said curtly. “I have to go through Ama’s journals to see if she mentioned Hallie.”
Abby looked confused. “Can’t you do that another time?”
I shook my head. “I should do it soon, before I have to return the photograph.”
I was hoping that either Camila or Abby would offer to help, but Abby just shrugged. “Okay,” she said, adding, “We’ll miss you.”
“Yes,” Camila said. I could tell they were trying to be kind, but somehow that didn’t make me feel any better.
That afternoon, while Dad was taking Camila to Abby’s house, I dug out Ama’s travel journals. Mom had put most of Ama’s mementos in boxes in the attic, but I’d kept the journals in my bookcase after we got home from Brazil. Now, I stacked the four worn leather books on the window seat, curled up on the old velvet cushion, and started to read. The first time I’d opened my grandmother’s journals, on the plane ride to Brazil, I had read them for hours. But today it was hard to stay focused. I kept thinking about how much fun Camila and Abby were probably having, even when I reminded myself that they were just playing soccer while I was searching for important clues about Hallie and the compass necklace.
Ama’s first journal started in 1996. She talked about all the adventures she was having in Hawaii and then Bali. Even though I’d read it before, it was still interesting. Unfortunately, she didn’t talk about her past at all, and there was no mention of anyone named Hallie. After reading for over an hour, I started to wonder if this was a waste of time. Midway through the second journal, Ama was traveling through Siberia on a bicycling trip. She described stopping for lunch by a field of irises:
They reminded me (of course!) of St. Louis, of my favorite flower, copper irises, and my compass necklace, and of that promise I made when I was sixteen—and how far I’ve come since then.
I sat up. That promise I made when I was sixteen—What was she talking about? Ama had never told me of any special promises she had made involving her compass necklace. To whom had she made a promise? Could it have been Hallie? And what had she promised? Whatever it was, the promise must have been very important for her to remember it so many years later.
I read the rest of the journal as fast as I could, looking for any mention of Hallie or the compass necklace, but there was nothing else. There was no mention of them in the third journal, either. By the time I started the last one, my eyes were tired from staring at the pages, but I kept going. Finally, I got to where my own diary entries started. I turned to the most recent entry.
CAMILA IS ARRIVING AND I AM SO EXCITED! Can you tell? :) I can’t wait to see her again, and show her all the great things about St. Louis!
Reading those words now suddenly made me feel a little sad.
I looked up. Hickory Street was dark outside the window. I’d missed the chance to spend an afternoon with Camila, and I still had no idea how I was going to find
Hallie.
hen Camila and I got to COCA the next morning, Ms. Garcia was already waiting with the rest of the class by the van.
Abby rushed up as we approached. “Guess what? We’re going to take pictures at Forest Park today!” she said.
Excitement raced through me. Forest Park is one of the best parts of St. Louis. It’s huge and packed with a zillion things to see, like the planetarium and the zoo. “Maybe we’ll go to Turtle Playground,” I told Camila. “They have these giant cement turtle sculptures. Hey, they’re sort of like the big wooden turtle sculptures at the sea turtle sanctuary in Praia Tropical!”
Camila nodded, her eyes lit with recognition. She lived in Praia Tropical, so she’d been to Amigos do Oceano, the sea turtle sanctuary, many times.
Abby popped up behind us. “You have to see the Muny!” she said to Camila, as we climbed into the van. “It’s this big theater that puts on free musicals in the summer, and we all go and watch and eat a picnic dinner. It’s so much fun.”
When we took our seats, Abby started telling Camila all about the Muny. I noticed that Camila had done her hair in two high mini buns, just like Abby. I pulled my backpack onto my knees. Inside, in a folder wrapped carefully in a plastic bag, was the photo of Hallie. I’d brought it with me to show Abby, but somehow it seemed awkward to mention it right now, especially when Abby started taking pictures of Camila and making her laugh.
Before I knew it, the van pulled up to the park’s main entrance. Ms. Garcia turned around in the front seat to face us. “Okay, photographers!” she said, grinning. “Forest Park is one of the best places to take pictures in St. Louis, and today we’ll be visiting my all-time favorite spot, so make sure you’re paying attention.”
We followed Ms. Garcia into the park. Rolling green lawn stretched out so far in front of us, I couldn’t see where it ended. Ms. Garcia moved quickly down one path and across to another. Soon we were approaching the World’s Fair Pavilion, with its tumbling stone waterfall in front.
