Lea 3-Book Collection

by Lisa Yee

  “Is that where we’re going?” Kevin asked. Ms. Garcia just smiled and shook her head.

  We passed a glassy lake outlined by purple-leaf plum trees. On a tiny island in the center stood Forest Park’s circular bandstand. With its elaborate details and blue-green copper dome, it reminded me of a frozen carousel. I remembered seeing it a few summers ago with Abby, when we went to an outdoor performance of The Wizard of Oz at the Muny. I was about to remind Abby about it, but when I looked around, she and Camila were far away.

  The path crested up steeply, and we panted, struggling to get to the top. As we did, another building came into view, glittering in the sunlight. Except for a few metal bars and a stone entrance, it looked like it was made entirely of glass. I had to run to catch up to Camila and Abby.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ms. Garcia said dramatically, “welcome to the St. Louis Floral Conservatory, also known as the Jewel Box.”

  “It does look like a jewel box,” whispered Camila, and she was right. The building’s tiers of windows, stair-stepping roof, and metal double doors seemed like an elaborate case for treasures. The closer we got, the more light bounced off the glass, until it felt like we were walking into a giant diamond. I’d been here before, and every time I saw it again, I had the same reaction—I wanted to take a picture.

  Inside, colorful spring flowers like roses, lilies, and daffodils overflowed long beds and crowded displays. I stopped to breathe in the sweet perfume. A tour guide with steel-gray hair swept up in a tight bun introduced herself. She motioned for us to follow her down the center aisle as she told us about the building.

  “Since it was completed in 1936, the Jewel Box has become one of the world’s most famous decorative greenhouses,” she lectured. “At any given time, hundreds of rare and ornamental plants are on display, none of which are to be touched—ever.” She gave us all a stern look to make her point.

  Ms. Garcia stepped up. “Yes! Thank you! I know my students are going to be very respectful,” she said brightly. “Now, guys,” said Ms. Garcia, turning to us, “the Jewel Box and these plants were made to be photographed. With all the natural light and beautiful flowers, it’s impossible to take a bad picture here. So relax, let your imaginations run wild, and keep seeing in a new way.”

  I looked around. The class was scattering fast. Abby and Camila were already snapping shots of the clusters of ruby tulips lining the long center fountain. As they leaned their heads together, I couldn’t help admiring their matching mini buns. When Abby said something to Camila that I couldn’t hear, they broke into giggles. I pulled out my camera, trying to ignore the feeling of being left out.

  Above me, sunlight streamed through the line of glass windows. I snapped some shots of sunbeams hitting a wall of climbing roses, but when I checked the camera, the roses looked washed-out. Frustrated, I moved down the path, back toward the front entrance. On my right was a space where several long, rectangular glass windows met in a corner. I paused. Looking at it gave me a strange feeling—it looked familiar, but I didn’t know why. At first it made me think of the square, cut-glass crystal vase my mom sometimes puts flowers in. Then it hit me: It looked like the background of Hallie’s photo.

  I unzipped my backpack, pulled out the photo, and compared it with the real-life corner in front of me. Sure enough, Hallie was standing in her silk dress, wearing the compass necklace, in front of the exact spot I was looking at.

  This is where Hallie’s photo was taken! I nearly burst with excitement.

  Camila and Abby were a little confused when I raced up, blathering, “Hallie! The photo! It happened here! You guys have to come, quick!” Neither seemed that interested until I showed them the photo side by side with the corner and they saw what I saw.

  “This was definitely taken here,” said Abby, studying the photo.

  Camila looked at me, her eyes shining. “What should we do now, Lea?”

  “We need to find out why Hallie was here,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure if the grumpy tour guide could help me, but she was the only person I could think of to ask.

  She was intrigued by the photograph. “Yes,” she said, looking at the date on the back. “This photo was taken here. The Jewel Box hosted frequent debutante balls throughout 1956.”

  “Deb-you-tante?” asked Camila, confused. “What is that?”

  “Several decades ago, wealthy families in St. Louis would hold a ball, or dance, where girls turning sixteen would enter society,” said the tour guide.

  Abby frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I don’t either,” I admitted. “Aren’t they already in society?”

  “Not officially,” replied the tour guide, letting go of an impatient sigh.

  Now I was even more confused. Judging from their expressions, so were Camila and Abby.

  “What does it mean, ‘in society’?” asked Camila.

  Exasperated, the tour guide turned to Ms. Garcia, who’d been listening from a few feet away.

  “At that time, ‘society’ was a word used to mean wealthy and well-known families in the city,” Ms. Garcia told us. She came over and looked at the photograph of Hallie, glancing at the note on the back. “In 1956, women didn’t have the same opportunities to be educated or pursue careers that we have now. A debutante ball was where well-to-do young ladies were formally introduced to young men,” she said, adding, “In some families, girls were expected to simply look pretty and get married. Hallie may have done that.”

  I felt a flash of stubborn annoyance. “I don’t think so,” I said. Looking at the compass—and the way Hallie boldly stared at the camera—reminded me again of Ama somehow. “I think Hallie wanted to travel and explore,” I said.

  Ms. Garcia looked amused. “How do you know that?” she said.

  “It’s just a hunch,” I replied. “Also, she’s wearing my grandmother Ama’s compass necklace.”

  “It looks like Ama’s compass,” said Abby, “but it might not be the same exact one. Maybe they both just bought it at the same store, separately.”

  I knew Abby could be right. Still, it bothered me to hear her say it. I might not have been able to prove it, but I felt sure it was Ama’s compass. Wasn’t that enough for Abby to believe me?

  We all stared at the photo. My eyes fell on the flower pinned to Hallie’s dress. It was shaped like a lily, but smaller, and its six long petals stood out from one another like a star.

  “What’s this called?” I asked, pointing to it.

  “That’s called a corsage,” said Ms. Garcia.

  “No, I mean what kind of flower is it?” I said.

  The tour guide squinted at the photo. “It’s hard to tell since the photo is in black and white, but from the size and shape I’d say it’s a copper iris.”

  The name made my heart stop. Just last night in Ama’s journal, I’d read that copper irises were her favorite kind of flower! That can’t be a coincidence, I thought.

  “They’re native to Missouri,” the guide went on. “They’re small, but they have a very distinct appearance, quite unique—like this.” She walked us to another area of the greenhouse and pointed to a clump of irises growing beside a small fountain. The blossoms were much smaller than the yellow and purple flag irises I was used to seeing at this time of year, and their color was unusual and striking, coppery-red with gold accents.

  “I want to find out who Hallie is,” I told her.

  “If I were you,” said the guide, “I’d go look in the city archives at the main library downtown. That’s where we keep all of our historical papers for the Floral Conservatory. If an event was held here on July 12, 1956, they might have a record of it.”

  Over dinner that night, Camila and I told my parents the latest chapter in what I was now calling “The Hunt for Hallie.”

  “It sounds like you two had an interesting day,” my dad said as he scooped mashed potatoes onto his plate.

  “It was more than just interesting, Dad,” I said. “
This is important new information! Maybe Ama and Hallie were debutantes together?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mom took a bite of salad. She hadn’t said much during my retelling of the day’s adventures.

  “Why not?” I asked. “Maybe Ama was at the Jewel Box that night, too!”

  “Honey, there’s no way Ama was a debutante,” my mother said. “Her parents wouldn’t have had the money to pay for an expensive dress. They were immigrants. Anyway, they didn’t believe in that type of thing. They would have thought it was frivolous.”

  “What does ‘frivolous’ mean?” asked Camila.

  “Silly, or wasteful,” said my mother. “Besides, by the summer of 1956, my grandfather—Ama’s father—had already moved the whole family out of St. Louis to West County,” Mom went on. “Ama was working at the family grocery store and studying. She wasn’t going to debutante balls. I think the whole necklace thing is just a coincidence.”

  “Well, it still can’t hurt to go to the library tomorrow and check,” I said, persisting.

  When the phone in the hall rang, Dad went to answer it. He returned looking surprised.

  “It’s for you, Camila,” he said. “It’s Abby.”

  Abby? Calling for Camila and not me? Hurt feelings welled in my throat, but I tried not to show them. Instead, I studied my peas and pork chops while Camila talked on the phone. When she came back in, her eyes were sparkling.

  “Abby invited me to go with her to a baseball game!” Camila said. “Yesterday I mentioned that I would like to see the St. Louis Cardinals play, and Abby’s father has an extra ticket for tomorrow!”

  “That’s fantastic!” Dad said. “You have to go.”

  “Of course you do,” said Mom. “It’ll be a memorable experience. You girls will have so much fun!”

  “Yes,” Camila said, looking at me nervously, “but Abby says her father has only one extra ticket.”

  I bit my lip.

  “That’s okay,” Dad said, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “You’re not the biggest sports fan anyway, are you, Lea?”

  I shrugged, looking down at my plate.

  “While you two are at the game, Lea and I can hit the library,” Dad continued, “and resume The Hunt for Hallie.”

  Camila looked at me, concerned. “Are you sure, Lea?”

  I wasn’t, actually. It’s true that I don’t love sports, but I also didn’t love the idea of Camila and Abby having a fun time without me. I realized with surprise that I was a little jealous that Abby had asked Camila and not me. Still, I didn’t want to make Camila feel bad. So instead I said, “You should go. You’ll have a great time.”

  Camila smiled with relief.

  I smiled back at her. But inside I still felt awful.

  ear Journal,

  It’s past my bedtime, but I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Camila and Abby. They’re getting along so well, which is great, because they’re both my friends. So why don’t I feel more excited that they want to spend time together?

  Normally when I have a problem I talk to Abby. But I can’t talk to her about this!

  Sometimes Zac has good advice, but with everything that he’s dealing with in Brazil, I don’t want to bother him. I’m worried about Zac. Part of me wishes he would come home, but I know he’s working to protect the animals. Still, I don’t like thinking about him being in any kind of danger.

  Since I can’t talk to anyone about Abby and Camila, I’m going to focus on finding out more about Hallie. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s some link between Hallie and Ama.

  “Look alive, Lea,” my dad teased. I was lagging behind as we climbed the wide marble front steps to the Central Library entrance. We go to our local library a lot, but we hadn’t come downtown to the main branch in a while. I’d forgotten how huge the elegant granite building was…and how many steps it had!

  “What floor are the archives on again?” I asked, out of breath, as we moved through the entrance.

  “Fourth,” he replied.

  “Is there an elevator?”

  “We don’t need an elevator! You climbed a mountain in Brazil—twice in one day, remember?” Dad said. “Besides, it’s great therapy for my leg,” he added.

  “What’s an archive, anyway?” I asked, panting a bit as we scaled the last flight of stairs.

  “It’s a place that keeps historical records and papers,” he explained. “The records can’t be checked out like library books, but people can still visit to look at them.”

  It sounded sort of like a museum, but when we reached the archive, its low light and leather chairs reminded me more of a cozy study. Unfortunately, when my father told the archive librarian what we needed, her smile faded.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said regretfully. “Our records for the Floral Conservatory don’t begin until 1982. A storage fire destroyed everything before that. You’re welcome to look at any of the other photos and records we have,” she added, maybe because I looked so disappointed.

  “Is there anything else that you want to look at while we’re here, Lea?” Dad asked.

  “Do you have any old photos of Coventry House?” I asked the librarian. “That’s where we found Hallie’s photo,” I told her. “Maybe there’s a clue there.”

  We sat at a polished dark wood table. Soon, the librarian brought over several boxes full of antique photos, each covered in protective plastic. Carefully, Dad and I sifted through them. There were sepia pictures of Coventry House being built, with Francis Coventry posing proudly on the front steps, with his daughters in a horse-drawn carriage out front. Dad found a long photo of a large group of children sitting on the front steps, from when the house was an orphanage. There were even a few photos from after the house had been abandoned, with its windows broken. They were all interesting, but none of them offered any clue about Hallie.

  And yet her photo had been stored at Coventry House, so there had to be a connection. Could Hallie possibly have been a granddaughter of Francis Coventry’s? It didn’t seem very likely that she was an orphan.

  I turned over a big photo. Unlike most of the other pictures of Coventry House, this one was in color. I could tell it was spring from the buds on the trees. The blue sky was bright behind the turrets, but what caught my attention were the tall rust-colored flowers lining the neat path to the front door. I knew instantly what they were.

  “Copper irises!” I said, excitement making my voice loud. The librarian shot us a glance. I lowered my voice and leaned toward Dad.

  “Copper irises were Ama’s favorite flower. And Hallie wore one as a corsage in her photo!” I told him.

  “Okay,” Dad said, looking a little confused. “So what does that mean?”

  I have no idea, I realized. “I don’t know, but it means something,” I insisted stubbornly. Somehow Hallie, Ama, the compass necklace, and the irises were all connected, I felt sure of it. I just had to figure out how.

  On the way home, I tried to think of ways Hallie and Ama could have known each other. “Maybe they were both gardeners?” I said.

  Dad chuckled. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “Your grandmother had many talents, but she did not have a green thumb.”

  I sighed, slumping back in my seat.

  “Keep going,” Dad encouraged me. “A true explorer doesn’t give up if things aren’t going well.”

  I knew he was right, but now that the excitement of discovering the photo of irises at Coventry House had worn off, I was feeling a little discouraged. As I looked out the window, my thoughts drifted from Hallie and Ama to Abby and Camila at the baseball game. They were probably eating popcorn and frozen custard and laughing at jokes that they wouldn’t remember to tell me. Suddenly, my copper iris discovery didn’t seem so important.

  “How do you like having Camila here?” Dad asked.

  I was startled. Normally Mom’s the one with the freaky ability to read my mind, not Dad.

  “Um…it’s okay,” I said.

  “Just
okay?” he said.

  “It’s different from what I expected,” I added after a moment.

  Dad considered this. “You know, in my experience, when something’s different from what you expect, it can sometimes turn out to be even better than you expected—as long as you keep an open mind about it.”

  “Okay,” I said, and turned on the radio to fill the awkward silence. I didn’t really want to talk with him about it. I was already trying not to think about it.

  As we pulled into our driveway, Camila ran out to meet us. I barely recognized her. “STL” was painted on her cheeks in red and white, and she was wearing a Cardinals baseball cap and waving a big red foam finger that said “#1” on it. Her face flushed with happiness.

  Mom had to work late, so we ordered pizza. Over dinner, Camila told me and Dad how she and Abby had gotten their faces painted at Busch Stadium, and sat behind home plate and done the wave every time St. Louis scored. Plus, the guy next to them caught a foul ball, and gave it to Camila when he found out she was visiting from Brazil. It sounded a lot more fun than my day.

  Camila turned to me. “Did you learn anything new about Hallie at the library?”

  “Not really,” I said, picking a mushroom off my pizza and nibbling it.

  “Hey, that’s not quite true,” said Dad. He told Camila about the photo of the irises outside Coventry House.

  “It is another clue!” Camila said enthusiastically. “I am sure you will find Hallie!”

  “I hope so,” I replied, trying to share her confidence. Maybe the problem is that I’m trying to do this on my own, I thought. It was always more inspiring—and more fun—to have a partner. I turned to Camila, but just as I was about to ask if she and Abby could help me, Camila remembered that it was time for her to video-chat with her cousin Paloma in Brazil.

  Twenty minutes later, she was still in front of the computer screen, shaking the #1 finger at Paloma and talking animatedly in Portuguese. I’ll ask her tomorrow, I told myself, but as I climbed the stairs, I felt more discouraged than ever.