by Lisa Yee
“Oh, Abby, you’re crazy,” I said through a smile. “You’ll always be my best friend.”
“I know that now!” Abby snorted, and then giggled. She slung an arm around my shoulders. “Lea, you’ll always be my best friend, too.”
After dinner, I pulled out the photograph of Hallie again, and Camila and I stared at it.
“I don’t see anything new,” I said with a sigh.
Camila looked thoughtful. “Perhaps we should do as Ms. Garcia says and look at things in a new way.”
“Okay, but how?” I threw myself onto my bed, frustrated. My eyes came to rest on the photo on my bedside table—the one of Ama with the Masai warrior in Africa. Ama was sunburned under her bush hat and she looked tired, but her compass still hung around her neck, and she wore a triumphant smile. I remembered her telling me once that on the way to Mount Kilimanjaro, she and her guide had come to a river where the bridge had been washed away by rain. “I was worried we wouldn’t make it,” she had said, “but the guide led us downstream to another place where we could cross. There’s always more than one way to get where you want to go.”
Suddenly, I felt a burst of inspiration. “Hold on!” I said, sitting up. “We’ve just been searching for information about Hallie. But maybe instead we should look for more information about Ama. That would be easier to find, and it could lead us to Hallie if she and Ama are connected.”
“That’s true,” Camila agreed enthusiastically. “But where?”
Yes, where? I’d already reread Ama’s journals, and I hadn’t found anything about Hallie there. Where else could I look? Then I remembered.
The attic. After Ama had passed away, Mom had given away many of her clothes and books, but she’d kept a box or two of Ama’s mementos and stored them in our attic. Maybe if Camila and I looked through them, we’d find something that could help us solve the mystery and uncover the connection between Ama, Hallie, and the compass necklace.
ad was surprised when I asked him if Camila and I could search the attic, but he didn’t say no. He came upstairs to the hall outside my room and pulled the attic ladder down from the ceiling.
Camila looked up nervously at the narrow wooden stepladder to the attic. I could tell she was thinking about Abby getting stranded upstairs at Coventry House.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “It’s totally safe.”
Camila gave a sharp nod. She gritted her teeth and followed me up as Dad watched us.
In a corner of the attic we found the boxes marked “Ama” and began digging through them. They were packed with loose photos and souvenirs from all over the world: masks from Mexico, a kimono from Japan, a wooden flute from Peru. I sifted through photos of Ama on the Great Wall of China and swimming in New Zealand.
We kept searching. Camila pulled out an old, dusty photo sleeve from inside an overstuffed book. When she opened it, her eyes widened. “Look,” she said, handing it to me.
Inside was a black-and-white photo of a young Ama in a pleated skirt and a dark jacket. Pinned to the lapel was a metal pin—a fleur-de-lis.
“Look, look! She went to the Coventry School, like Hallie!” I blurted.
“You were right!” Camila said, wide-eyed.
An electric thrill zipped through me. I turned to Camila. “You wanted to help me find Hallie, and you did! This photo could help lead us to her!” Camila and I beamed at each other. I looked at Ama’s picture again and knew there was someone else who’d want to see this.
When Camila and I came down from the attic, I told her I’d be right back. Clutching Ama’s photo, I raced downstairs, heading for Mom’s office off the dining room. But as soon as I turned into the front hall, I heard her voice coming from the kitchen.
“This is a disaster,” she said, sounding upset.
“Maybe you can talk to them,” I heard Dad say.
“I did,” Mom said. “They said they’ve made their decision.”
I stayed in the hallway shadows, unsure what to do. When I looked out, I could see my parents standing in the kitchen.
Dad put a comforting hand on Mom’s arm. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t give up. Maybe the Preservation Society can find another sponsor.”
“It’s almost all our funding,” Mom said quietly. “If we don’t get another sponsor for the restoration soon, it’ll be too late. The bank will foreclose on it and sell it off to developers. Coventry House will be torn down.”
The next day was chilly enough to make me shiver as I looked out the van window while we headed downtown. The gray sky threatened to darken into storm clouds any minute. It looked the way I felt right now—sad and hazy. I couldn’t stop thinking about Coventry House being torn down.
Soon our destination came into view—the silver loop of the Gateway Arch. Next to me, Camila stretched her neck for a better look. As we got closer, the Arch loomed over us, huge. You can take a tram to the top, and the city views are unforgettable. Although Camila had wanted to visit the Arch, with her fear of heights I didn’t know if she would want to go all the way up.
The van dropped us off near the Arch. As we walked toward it, Ms. Garcia told us, “It’s called the Gateway Arch because St. Louis was regarded as America’s Gateway to the West. In the 19th century, pioneers had to cross the Mississippi River and pass through St. Louis before they went west. So in a way, the Arch celebrates how the city was like a bridge from America’s past to its future.”
By now, we were much closer. The Arch stretched over us like a steel rainbow. “This is the most photographed place in St. Louis,” Ms. Garcia said as we all looked up. “Your challenge is going to be to find fresh ways to shoot it. I know you can do it! Is everyone ready to go up and start taking photos?”
I glanced at Camila. She was staring up at the Arch, looking anxious. “Don’t worry,” I said, squeezing her arm. “We’ll be with you the whole time.”
We crowded inside the sleek silver tram. After a long moment, it started moving, lifting straight up from underneath. It felt like we were inside a spaceship taking off.
“Whoa,” said Abby.
Camila sucked in her breath. I knew she was afraid. It didn’t help that Kevin kept repeating, “We’re going so high! We’re going so high!”
Camila put her hand on the wall, flat, like she was trying to stay standing. “Just breathe. You’re doing a great job!” I whispered. She gasped as the tram turned, curving up the spine of the Arch, and then slowed to a stop as we reached the top.
“We’re now at the highest point in the city,” said Ms. Garcia, as we exited onto the observation deck. “Six hundred and thirty feet above the ground.”
The buildings, parks, and streets lay below in a complicated puzzle. From here, City Hall looked like a matchbox with a dome. I wanted to show Camila, but her eyes were closed again.
“Camila, you have to see this—it’s incredible!” I said. “You know, sometimes the best experiences are also the hardest. Remember in Brazil, how afraid I was to snorkel? But I’m so glad I did it.”
Slowly, Camila opened her eyes. As she did, the sun started to come out, making the city below glitter. “Wow,” Camila said softly, her eyes full of wonder.
“Look—City Museum!” I said, pointing out the jumble of colored pipes with the yellow bus on its roof in the distance. Camila took it in, fascinated. I could tell she was forgetting her fear, because she lifted up her camera and looked through it. I took out my camera too and circled the observation deck, looking out the windows at the city. I noticed how the sunlight reflected off the shimmering Mississippi, and how Eads Bridge looked like an iron spiderweb, and the intricate patchwork of parks, buildings, and streets that stretched to the horizon. It was like I was seeing St. Louis for the first time.
Soon, we stepped back on the tram. As it accelerated down, Camila yelped, but she looked excited, not scared. By the time we reached the ground and the tram’s doors opened, she was giggling. Camila turned to me. “It is as you said, Lea. You cannot let your fear stop you
.”
After the trip up inside the Arch, I felt inspired. Ms. Garcia gave us twenty minutes to take photos, and everywhere I turned, I had a new idea. I took pictures from the base of the Arch looking straight up, and a bunch more running toward it. The time flew by, and suddenly it was time to leave. I had been too busy trying to capture what I was seeing and how I was feeling to notice.
“How did it go?” Ms. Garcia asked us as the class walked back to the van.
“Good,” said Camila. “I took one I like—look!” She held out her camera for us to see. It was a photograph of me, running in front of the Arch. My hair was blowing around, and I was jumping, caught in midair, trying to get my shot with my camera. I looked really happy.
“Wow,” said Ms. Garcia. “That is a great action shot, Camila!”
Camila looked pleased. “Thank you,” she replied. “I think Lea looks very like her grandmother Ama in this.”
“Lea, you do!” Abby echoed. Camila showed me the photo again. They were right. My head was tilted back, and my hair caught the light as it bounced behind me. I looked bold and free, just like Ama did in the photo of her jumping over that rock on Bondi Beach.
“What about you, Lea?” asked Ms. Garcia as we reached the van. “May I see some of the pictures you took?” I nodded, handing her my camera. “Very nice,” she said, scrolling through the shots I’d taken while I was running. She scrolled back even further. When she came to the shot of Abby and Camila in front of the girls in the Coventry House mural, she paused. For a moment I thought something was wrong, but when Ms. Garcia looked at me she seemed really impressed.
“Lea,” she said, “this photo is truly striking. The composition makes it seem as if the girls in the painting are looking at Abby and Camila.”
I nodded. “That was the idea,” I said, pleased she’d noticed.
“You’ve really found your eye,” she said. “This is exceptional.”
I was so happy, I felt like doing cartwheels. Ms. Garcia liked my photo!
“The mural in the picture is striking, too,” she continued. “Where is it?”
“In Coventry House, in Old North St. Louis,” I replied. But it might not be there for long, I thought sadly, as she handed me back my camera.
At lunch, I told Camila and Abby about Coventry House possibly being torn down. “What?” said Abby, taking a bite of her peanut butter and banana sandwich. “After all the work they’re doing on it? Why?”
“My mom said it would happen if they don’t get the funding they need,” I replied. I scrunched up my sandwich wrapper and threw it in the trash. “When I think about that, finding Hallie doesn’t seem so important anymore.”
Abby frowned. “Lea, what are you talking about? I know how much you want to find Hallie. If you don’t find out the whole story, you’ll always have questions.”
I nodded, but I still felt worried. “I guess I’m just afraid,” I admitted. “What if, even after I search, I never discover anything more about Hallie?”
“You must not let your fears stop you,” Camila said. “It is as you said in the Arch: When something is difficult, that is when you must continue.”
Camila was right, and I knew Ama wouldn’t want me to quit, either. She’d want me to keep moving forward to find Hallie. And I thought I knew where we needed to go.
hen Dad picked us up, I asked if he could take us to the Missouri History Museum’s Library and Research Center. Sarah the art restorer had said that when the Coventry School closed, all its papers had been taken there, so that seemed like the best place to look next.
My dad was pleased at my sudden interest in the History Museum’s library. “It’s a pretty fantastic place,” he said as we drove toward Forest Park.
My father was right. The research center was across from Forest Park, in a domed yellow brick building that Dad said had once been a Jewish temple. He dropped us off and promised to meet us in an hour.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Camila asked as we headed inside.
“I think so,” I said, even though I wasn’t totally sure. In the lobby, Abby and Camila followed me across the polished stone floor to a wall map, which said that the Archives and Photographs Department was ahead on the left.
We moved through a double-doored entrance into a gigantic reading room. Above us soared the huge, stained-glass dome. It was so quiet I could hear Abby suck in her breath as we walked down the aisle, past people reading.
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” she whispered to me.
A few adults looked up as I led Abby and Camila up to the main information desk. A tall librarian sat there, looking at his computer screen.
I cleared my throat. “Hello,” I said.
Seeing me, the librarian blinked hard and turned up the corners of his mouth in the tiniest smile I’d ever seen. “May I help you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I need to look at the enrollment records for the Coventry School for Girls between 1952 and 1956, please.”
The librarian managed to raise his eyebrows and narrow his eyes at the same time. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Um, ten?” I told him, feeling self-conscious.
“Do you have a parent with you?”
I shook my head.
“Well then, my apologies, but our policy is that children under sixteen need an adult to do research. I think it best that you come back with a responsible grown-up.” Before any of us could reply, he walked off, leaving us standing there.
Camila looked confused. “What is going on?” she asked.
“He won’t help us because we’re kids,” said Abby, upset. “What are we supposed to do? We can’t just leave—”
“We’re not leaving,” I told her. I was angry at myself. I should have asked Dad to stay, or called ahead about the archive’s policies. My father had given me his cell phone in case of an emergency, but I was guessing my parents wouldn’t think this qualified as one. Still, it felt like one to me. By the time Dad returned to pick us up, the archive would be closed, and who knew when I’d be able to come back. Time was running out. I needed to fix this problem myself.
“Wait here,” I said, and marched after the librarian. He was about to go through a door marked “Restricted” when I stepped in front of him.
“Excuse me,” he said. “This is a restricted area!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, my voice firm. A few of the adults working at tables looked over. “May I please speak with you?” I asked.
The librarian gave the adults a weak little smile. It evaporated as soon as he looked at me. He folded his arms. “I’m busy. What is it?” he asked in a low voice.
I launched in, explaining as fast as I could about finding Hallie’s photo, and Ama and Coventry House. As I talked, Abby and Camila joined us. I told the librarian how the hunt had led us to the Jewel Box, the main library, and now here. “I may not be an adult, but that doesn’t mean I’m not doing real research. I am,” I finished passionately.
“Interesting,” said the librarian. After a long moment, he spoke again. “So you’re looking for records from the Coventry School for Girls?”
Abby, Camila, and I nodded eagerly.
The librarian let go of a sigh so big he seemed to deflate. “We house the school’s complete academic and registration records here,” he told us. “You can’t look at them, of course…but I suppose there’s no harm if you watch me look at them.” Then, out of nowhere, he winked at us.
We sat at a long table and waited until the librarian returned with the Coventry School registry from 1952. “What name am I looking for?” he asked, opening the wide leather book.
“Amanda Silva,” I said, remembering Ama’s last name before she married Grandpa Bill.
The librarian flipped through the pale green pages. After a minute or two, he stopped. “There!” he said, looking pleased with himself. At the top of the page was a small black-and-white school photo of Ama as a girl, smiling brig
htly.
“Amanda Silva, eighth grade,” read Abby over the librarian’s shoulder. “It has her address here and everything!”
Pride soared through me. I’d been right! Ama had been a student at Coventry!
The librarian scanned the page and said, “It says here she withdrew at the end of the school year.”
“What does it mean, ‘withdrew’?” Camila asked.
“It means she left,” replied the librarian.
“Because they moved to West County!” I chimed in, recalling what Mom had told me. Thinking about Ama having to leave her school and friends made me sad for her. I couldn’t imagine having to move away from Lafayette Square and Abby. The more I thought about it, the more certain I felt that Hallie and Ama had been friends at the Coventry School. But I didn’t yet have any proof.
“There should be a girl named Hallie in the same grade,” I said to the librarian.
He read off names as he turned the pages. “Mary, Shirley, Deborah, Lynn…” Finally he reached the last page. “There’s no Hallie, I’m sorry.”
No Hallie? That couldn’t be right! Disappointment flooded through me. They had to have gone to school together, I thought, feeling a sharp pang squeeze my heart. I was so close to figuring it out. What was I missing?
“Maybe Hallie is a nickname?” Abby piped up.
“You’re right!” I said, excitement lifting me up. “Her real name could be something else. Maybe we can recognize her photograph!”
As the librarian turned back to the start of the eighth-grade section, I pulled out my photo of Hallie at the Jewel Box. She would have been a little older in this picture than in her school photo, but I still hoped it would help us recognize Hallie if we saw her.
Carefully, the librarian flipped through the pages of eighth-grade girls. We studied each little black-and-white picture. Some girls had horn-rimmed glasses, others wore bows in their hair, but none of them looked like Hallie.
The librarian turned a page, and suddenly I squinted at one of the photos. The girl’s hair was longer, and her face rounder, but her eyes met the camera in the bold gaze I had come to know so well.
