“Everything okay?” Oliver asked.
No answer.
He tried again. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”
Nothing.
“Do I need to get my sword and take someone down?”
Hyacinth sobbed out something through her tears that sounded like miss beebee mania, which Oliver was certain could not be correct. He gingerly patted Hyacinth’s back and waited for her to be more coherent.
“I felt”—hiccup—“like I needed to fix”—sob—“what happened this morning”—sniffle—“with breakfast. Well, I spent hours making him”—hiccup—“a placemat, and then I brought it upstairs to him and”—sniff—“I thought I was Hyacinth the Brave but”—sob—“he was the scariest man I’ve ever seen.” Hyacinth’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears.
Oliver scowled, then rolled his shoulders and neck. “I’m going to challenge him to a pirate duel.” Oliver demonstrated his hand-swipe technique. “Take that, Beiderman!”
Hyacinth looked at Oliver with watery eyes.
“After I defeat him with my superior pirate skills, we could let Franz loose and have him pee all over his door again. Would that make you feel better?”
Franz’s tail thumped once against the carpet.
“I don’t know why he hates us so much,” Hyacinth said with a wail.
Oliver deflated. “Maybe it’s best that we move. At least we’ll get away from him.”
Hyacinth shook her head sadly. “I love it here. I want things to go back to how they were before. Before we had to be nice to him.” Her eyes began to well up.
Oliver, alarmed by the prospect of Hyacinth crying again, suggested that they go downstairs so she could show him her collection of buttons. It was an activity that never failed to cheer her up, even though it bored Oliver to no end. As they went down the stairs to the living room, Oliver remembered something.
“Hey, Hyacinth?”
“Yeah?”
“What did the Beiderman look like, anyway?”
Hyacinth paused to think. “Do you remember the movie Uncle Arthur took us to last year? The one where the werewolf creeps out of the cave to attack the unicorn?”
“Yeah?”
“The Beiderman looked like the werewolf.”
“Wow,” Oliver said as he let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Cool.”
While Oliver was trying to make Hyacinth feel better, Laney received permission from Mama to bring Paganini the bunny upstairs to Miss Josie and Mr. Jeet’s place. Laney loved visiting them for many reasons:
#1. Miss Josie made the best jam cookies, with plenty of strawberry jam in the middle, and she never, ever used orange marmalade.
#2. Mr. Jeet always knew what she was saying. He didn’t do that awful grownup thing where he looked at her parents or siblings to translate what she had said.
#3. Miss Josie was a terrific dancer, and she was teaching Laney how to lindy hop.
#4. Going into their apartment was like entering an enchanted garden. And Miss Josie let Laney pick flowers anytime she wanted.
Mama and Papa had told Laney that Mr. Jeet had had a stroke two years ago, which meant that he sounded and looked a little different than he used to. But that never bothered Laney; he had always been the same to her, and she loved the way he talked nice and slow so she could understand all the words. Isa and Jessie and Oliver told stories about how Mr. Jeet used to give them endless piggyback rides. He would play horsie and sleeping bear and friendly dragon. Laney didn’t remember that, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Jeet was perfect in every way.
Laney lured Paganini into his carrier with a few bits of carrot, then took her time climbing up to the second floor. A few months earlier, she had stumbled going up the stairs and almost fell on Paganini and squashed him, and Laney did not want that to happen again. She made it upstairs without tripping, set the carrier down, and attempted many unsuccessful jumps to reach the doorbell. By her fifth jump, the door swung open and a smiling Miss Josie appeared. Miss Josie had curlers in her hair and fuzzy slippers on her feet. She greeted Laney with a big hug.
“Hello, my beautiful Laney. Come in and have some tea and cookies with Mr. Jeet and me.”
Laney brushed past a large fern and skipped over to Mr. Jeet and climbed into his lap. Mr. Jeet was immaculately dressed in a pressed button-down shirt and crisp black trousers. A large daisy was stuck into his shirt pocket, and a purple bow tie with very thin white stripes lay against his throat.
“Your bow tie is very nice,” Laney commented, followed by, “Does the Beiderman like cheese croissants?”
“Cheese—croissants?” Mr. Jeet repeated as he removed the daisy from his pocket and handed it to Laney. “I—don’t—know.” He looked at Miss Josie.
“Did you ever meet him?” pressed Laney. She took a deep whiff of the daisy before sticking it behind her ear.
Miss Josie looked uncomfortable. “I knew him back before . . . Well, never mind that. I remember he used to listen to a lot of music. He had a record player, like us. He loved jazz music.”
“I like jazz music,” said Laney.
Miss Josie leaned down and kissed Laney’s forehead. “Me too,” she said.
Mr. Jeet tugged on one of Laney’s braids. “Is—Paganini—with—you?”
“He’s here!” Laney slid off Mr. Jeet’s lap and got the carrier. She unzipped it and the tip of Paganini’s nose emerged. Miss Josie gave Mr. Jeet a sprig of cilantro, and Paganini’s rabbit nose led the way over to the delicious herb, where he plucked it from Mr. Jeet’s hands and ate it with both efficiency and speed. Mr. Jeet grinned, his smile lopsided.
“You—should—train—him,” Mr. Jeet said. “Do—tricks.”
Laney giggled. “Paganini, do tricks! That’s so funny, Mr. Jeet!”
Mr. Jeet looked at her with his serious face. “Would—be—fun.”
Laney realized that Mr. Jeet was not joking. She imagined her family looking at her in amazement when they saw Paganini do tricks. Then she added a spotlight and a stage and lots of clapping to her imagination.
Laney looked at Mr. Jeet with more interest. “What kind of tricks?”
Mr. Jeet pulled out another sprig of cilantro and said, “Paganini—COME.” The bunny was busy rooting around in a corner behind a ficus plant and paid Mr. Jeet no attention. Mr. Jeet gestured to Laney, and she walked across the room and picked up Paganini and turned him around. Mr. Jeet repeated the command, waving the cilantro. Paganini hopped over right away at the smell of the cilantro and gobbled it up, his back molars crunching away happily.
And so the training began. Mr. Jeet instructed Miss Josie to chop a carrot into little bits. These would serve as Paganini’s training tools. Together Mr. Jeet and Laney worked on “COME,” rewarding Paganini with one small piece of carrot every time he successfully completed the command. It was decided that Laney would visit with Paganini every day for training. Big plans were made for a bunny show after Christmas Eve dinner.
“Can I wear a sparkly dress?” asked Laney. “And shoes with heels that tap like Mama’s shoes?”
Mr. Jeet nodded. “Paganini—can—wear—a—bow—tie. I’ll—lend—him—one.”
As Laney put Paganini back in the carrier, she turned to Miss Josie and Mr. Jeet. “Did you know we’re moving?” she asked.
Miss Josie went silent and Mr. Jeet looked away. “We know,” Miss Josie finally said. “Your papa told us.”
“I don’t want to move. Will you still live upstairs?”
“Sweetie, I don’t think we can move with you,” Miss Josie replied. “We’re too old to make a big move like that.”
“I have an idea. I can help you move. I can carry things downstairs,” Laney suggested.
“How about we see what happens. But if we can’t come with you, we’ll visit you, and you can visit us.” Miss Josie’s voice wobbled, and Mr. Jeet’s head bowed lower, tears rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto his pants.
Miss Josie walked Laney and Paganini to th
e door and watched them descend the staircase to the first floor and safely enter their apartment. Miss Josie closed her own door, then went to her husband and kissed his head.
“It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay,” she whispered to him, even as her own tears betrayed her.
Eight
After a lunch of grab-whatever-you-can-from-the-fridge followed by an hour of reading a massive science encyclopedia she had dragged home from the library, Jessie needed a break. She took the stairs two at a time to the bedroom in search of Isa. When she opened the door, she found Allegra, their friend from school, standing in the middle of the room wearing a frightful dress that made her look like a giant boysenberry. A bunch of other equally hideous garments were laid out on Isa’s bed.
Jessie shielded her eyes and grimaced. “I’m blind! Too . . . much . . . tulle . . . disguised . . . as . . . clothes . . .”
Allegra harrumphed. “Jess, get a grip. It’s not like I’m going to wear this when I walk the dog.” Allegra gave a regal spin that looked like a move she learned from a terrible girly-girl movie. “This is what you wear for an eighth grade semiformal dance.”
“I think Allegra looks lovely,” Isa said, gazing at Allegra reverently. “Isn’t that amazing that she’s going to the eighth grade dance?”
Jessie grunted. “I guess.” She slumped into the beanbag chair.
Allegra looked thoughtfully at Jessie. “Jess, listen up. You could look so gorgeous if you wore something other than those old jeans and sweatshirts. I bet if you dressed a little nicer, and maybe used some Farewell Frizz Spray or something to smooth down your hair, an eighth-grader would invite you to the dance too.”
Jessie rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “And that, my friend, is why I’m not going to dress differently. Eighth grade boys think they’re so cool. A dance sounds like torture.” Jessie looked at Isa for affirmation, but her sister wasn’t paying attention.
Isa fingered one of the dresses on the bed. “Hey, can I try this one?” She held up the least abominable of the dresses, a floor-length sleeveless peach-colored dress that had a high waist and fell in soft folds to the ground.
“Sure,” Allegra said. “Jess, feel free to try anything on. That sparkly blue one would look so awesome on you.”
“Never going to happen,” Jessie replied as she picked at her cuticles. The sparkly blue dress looked like something a six-year-old would wear to an ice-skating competition.
“Jess, help me,” Isa said. Jessie got up and helped Isa gently pull the dress down over her head. Jessie smoothed the long skirt and zipped up the back. Isa turned around.
“Wow,” Jessie breathed. “You look like a queen. An awesome, kick-butt queen.”
Allegra clasped her hands to her chest. “That dress is ahh-mazing on you!” she squealed. “I so wish you could go to the dance too.”
Jessie suddenly remembered Benny and their conversation earlier that day. Did Isa want to go to the dance? Generally the twins were in agreement about these types of things. But there Isa was, standing before her, looking so elegant and grown up in the peach gown, not looking a bit appalled by the idea of going to a fancy-pants dance. What had happened? Jessie had meant to mention the thing with Benny from that morning so they could both have a good laugh about it, but now she wasn’t sure if Isa would think it was funny. If Isa went to this dance without her—and with a boy—what would it mean? It would be the first major life event they didn’t experience together.
“Isa, seriously,” Jessie said, a little bit louder than she meant to. “We have bigger things to worry about than dances.”
“Yeah,” said Isa dreamily, admiring herself from different angles in the mirror, her impeccable posture making her look stage-ready for Carnegie Hall.
“Hello!” Jessie said, waving her hands in front of Isa’s face. “Moving? The Beiderman?”
“Whoa,” said Allegra. “Who’s moving? What Beiderman?”
Isa snapped out of her reverie and looked at Allegra. “We’re moving. The Beiderman is our landlord, and he isn’t renewing our lease.”
“We figure we have until Christmas to convince him to let us stay,” Jessie added.
“But that’s only four days away!” Allegra exclaimed. “What’s your landlord’s deal, anyway?”
Jessie shrugged. “He can’t take all our noise. Or something.”
Allegra planted her hands on her hips. “We need to stop him. Your brownstone is the only reason I don’t run away from home and find new parents.” Allegra’s parents were both pediatricians and spent so much time fixing the health problems of other people’s kids that Allegra believed they’d forgotten they had a daughter of their own.
“We tried to make contact with the Beiderman this morning. Did not go well,” Jessie said, then filled Allegra in on the failed breakfast attempt.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Allegra declared. “You’re going to save your home, and here’s how.”
Jessie clamped her mouth shut as Allegra rattled off a number of unreasonable ideas (including one particularly ridiculous suggestion to purchase the whole brownstone—in cash—from the Beiderman), and when Allegra ran out of ideas she talked again about the dance and how amazing Isa looked in the gown. Jessie didn’t trust herself to join the conversation, so she slipped out the door without saying anything at all.
Oliver spent a dreadfully boring twenty-three minutes looking through Hyacinth’s button collection. When he left his sister peaceful and preoccupied with a craft project (most likely another Christmas gift), he was reminded yet again that he had not figured out Christmas presents. He didn’t know how Hyacinth did it. Just two weeks ago she had made him some type of arm-warmer contraption. She was like a workaholic elf.
Oliver headed up to his bedroom to think about gifts, but when he saw his copy of Treasure Island sitting on his desk he had a flash of inspiration to avenge Hyacinth’s honor. He pulled out a fresh sheet of notebook paper, briefly contemplated the content of his letter, then wrote the following:
There, Oliver thought. Short and to the point. He was particularly proud of the part about the black spot. In Treasure Island, the black spot meant you were guilty of something and would be fully punished. He thought that lent a certain drama to the letter. He folded the letter into thirds, then slipped it into an envelope. He knew he should be trying to win over the Beiderman, but how would the upstairs neighbor even know that it was him writing the note anyway? It could be anyone. Oliver had really good handwriting for a nine-year-old.
He cut out letters from his Amazing Outdoor Adventures magazine to spell MR. BEIDERMAN, then pasted them onto an envelope, laying them out like the ransom notes he always imagined getting if someone were to steal Franz or Paganini. That would strike fear into the Beiderman’s heart, he was sure of it.
For the third time that day, a Vanderbeeker kid climbed the stairs to the top floor. Oliver stealthily slipped the letter under the door, then snuck back down the stairs, quiet as a mouse. Oh yeah, who is the man? Let it be known that he, Oliver S. Vanderbeeker, was not to be pushed around when it came to his family.
When Oliver reentered his apartment, feeling as smug as a peacock with a full plume of feathers, he ran straight into Jessie.
“Do you think I need to dress differently?” Jessie demanded.
Oliver winced. This could not end well.
“No,” said Oliver with complete honesty, hoping that was the right answer.
“Why not?” Jessie asked him belligerently. “Don’t you think my old jeans and stained sweatshirts are gross? Don’t you think I should dress nicer?”
Oliver decided to change tactics. “Um . . . yes? Maybe you should get nicer clothes?”
“So you think I’m a big loser too, huh? You and everyone else,” Jessie snapped.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want me to say so I can say it and go on with my life,” Oliver shot back.
“Sorry.” Jessie didn’t look or sound sorry.
“Well,
go eat some ice cream or get a chocolate croissant from Castleman’s or something.”
Jessie’s eyes flashed. Apparently that was yet another wrong thing for Oliver to say, although he couldn’t imagine why. Chocolate always cheered up his sisters. Oliver inched against the hallway wall, trying to give Jessie as much space as possible.
“Listen, I’m an innocent bystander here,” Oliver entreated, hands held up in surrender. He disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door. Two seconds later, he opened the door just wide enough for his hand to sneak out and hang a “Don’t Bother the Beast” sign on his doorknob before closing it soundly again.
Jessie stared at Oliver’s door and the ridiculous sign hanging from the doorknob. She sighed. She really did want a chocolate croissant—maybe two—but she did not want to go back to Castleman’s. She wanted to lie in bed under the covers and feel miserable about life.
Jessie’s bedroom door opened, and Isa and Allegra emerged, back in their regular clothes. Jessie sighed with relief and took a few deep, calming breaths. Now they could go back to concentrating on what really mattered, like saving their home.
“Jess, we’re going to Castleman’s for a croissant. Come with us,” said Isa.
“NO!” Jessie yelled, her heart rate kicking up. “I mean, yes. I mean, NO. I mean, don’t you think we should be brainstorming more about the Beiderman?”
“We’re just running out for a few minutes. You’re the one who always quotes that scientific study about how the chemicals in chocolate help the mind work,” Isa pointed out. “Besides, I want to talk to Benny.”
Jessie’s stomach dropped. She could not, absolutely could not, go back to Castleman’s today after what had happened that morning with Benny. Especially since she hadn’t told Isa that Benny wanted to ask her to the dance. Especially since it now seemed that Isa did want to go to the dance. Especially since Jessie did not want Isa to go to the dance.
The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street Page 6
