The Red Blazer Girls

by D. Michael Beil

  “Three and six,” I volunteer.

  “Good. If X is three, Y must be one, right?” She adds those numbers to the columns. “You have to make the equation true, so X plus Y always has to equal four. How about for six? What do you add to six to get four?”

  “You can't,” says Rebecca. “You have to subtract. No, wait, that's wrong. You can add a negative number. Same thing. Six plus negative two equals four.”

  “Exactly! So, now we have three pairs of numbers.” The whiteboard looks like this:

  “Now watch what happens when we plot those points on our coordinate plane.” She quickly marks our three points in red. Then she places a yardstick against the whiteboard so that it hits all three dots and draws a line.

  “This line now represents the equation X plus Y equals four. Pretty cool, huh? And you see, no matter what numbers you use for X and Y, as long as they make the equation true, those points will always fall right on this line.”

  “I see that,” Rebecca says. “This is cool.”

  “I know,” Margaret agrees. “But wait, it gets better. The next step is when you have two equations, which is what we just happen to have in this letter. We'll get to our equation, the first one, anyway, in a minute, but let's do another example, to show you what happens when you have two equations.” On the side of the board she writes another equation, X − Y = 0, and the two columns that she again labels X and Y.

  “When you have two equations, it's called a system of equations, and you can solve the system the same way we just graphed the first equation. When you're done, you're always going to have one of three things. One, the two equations will have exactly the same solution. In other words, they're the same line. We're not going to worry about that option. Second, you can end up with two lines that are perfectly parallel. We don't care about that one, either. The third one is the big one for us. It's when the two lines intersect. Let me show you, using this equation.”

  In the X column she writes 2, 0, and 4, and then writes the same numbers in the Y column. “Are you with me? If X minus Y equals 0, then X and Y are always going to be the same, right? Now we graph these points and draw the line for that equation.”

  “See, the line for this equation intersects the line for our first equation at this one point. This point, (2,2), is the solution to this system of equations. It is the only point that occurs on both lines.” For emphasis, she draws over the two lines several times, making a distinct X. “Now, do you remember what Raf said?”

  “X marks the spot,” I say. “I think I've seen this in a movie.”

  “I understand all this stuff,” says Leigh Ann, “but I'm still not getting what it has to do with the actual finding of anything.”

  “That's because you weren't in the church with us today,” said Margaret. “Remember, Soph, I told you how easy it was for me to figure out distances in the church because of those nice, neat twelve-inch floor tiles that are everywhere? The church floor is the coordinate plane. Get it? The way I see it, the nave and the choir are the Y-axis, and the transept is the X-axis. I suppose they could be aligned another way, but in the church it seems logical to be facing the altar. And remember, there is that thin strip of metal that runs right up the center of the aisle and another that crosses the church right in front of the altar table, right where the floor is raised up. The place where the metal strips intersect is our zero point, and the ring is somewhere under that floor. I'm sure of it.”

  Margaret then erases everything on the board except the X-axis and the Y-axis. To one side, she writes the equation X + 3Y = 6 and then steps back. “Okay, Sophie, this one's all yours. This is what we have so far—the answers from the first three clues. Plot the line for that equation.”

  I am suddenly very tingly “You mean that's it? All I have to do is draw the line that fits this equation, and we'll know where the ring is?”

  “It's not quite that easy, Soph. Yes, we will know that the hiding place is somewhere on the line, but we won't know where on the line, which could be ninety feet long. And even if some of the tiles are loose, most of them probably aren't, and I doubt that Father Danahey would appreciate us digging up the entire church floor.”

  “Oooohhhhh, now I get it,” says Rebecca. “We need to fill in the blanks in the other equation and then figure out where the line for that equation crosses the line for this equation. This is totally cool. I'm so getting into this. C'mon, what's the next clue?”

  “Not until Sophie solves this equation,” Margaret says. “Come on, Soph. Find the Xs and Ys that will make the equation true, and then draw the line.”

  I take the red marker in hand and write across the top of the board:

  Hmm—let's find out.

  In which, as hard as this may be to believe,

  new heights (depths?) of geekdom

  are reached

  Sadly, the answer to my question is a resounding yes. It's not like junior high kids in New York have these amazing social lives (at least, not the people I know), but come on, we are sitting in front of a whiteboard in Margaret's apartment learning new math concepts. On a Saturday night.

  I call an official time-out from the Xs and Ys because I need to hear about Rebecca's afternoon in Chelsea with Ms. Harriman. (I am also dying to hear Leigh Ann's version of events from the dance, but I don't want to be the one to ask.)

  “What was she wearing? Another cowgirl wedding dress?” Leigh Ann asks.

  “She went with more of a Goth look this time. It was a long, lacy black dress with a spider web in the back. I almost didn't recognize her because she had her hair all pulled up under a hat. And she had black gloves on—up to her elbows!”

  “How about the shoes?”

  “Black Chuck Taylors. I kid you not.”

  “All right! Chucks rule.” I just happen to be wearing a red pair.

  “So I show up at this gallery, and there's like a million people because it's the opening of a show for some artist whose paintings I don't get at all, and I swear Elizabeth knows everybody. The mayor's there, and some rapper I've never heard of, and a couple of the Yankees. And she's introducing me to everybody like I'm her long-lost daughter, and I feel like a total schlub with my stupid sketchbook that I am just praying she doesn't ask me to show to these people.”

  “Did she?” I ask, cringing.

  “No, thank God. After about an hour, the place empties out—like that—and we go into her friend Alessandra's office. She owns the gallery and is like the total opposite of Ms. Harriman. She's wearing this chic little black dress, perfectly normal. So, Ms. Harriman tells her about meeting all of us, and how impressed she is with my drawings, blah, blah, blah, and this lady—Alessandra—takes a look at them, and, and … she likes them, too! She wants me to come there for this special program for supposedly gifted young artists—for free!”

  “Oh my gosh. That is great, Becca,” says Margaret. “When do you start?”

  “In a couple of weeks. She showed me the studio upstairs. It's amazing. Every year, she finds about ten kids and brings in friends of hers who are artists to do the teaching. I saw some of the things they're working on, and wow! I can't wait.”

  “What did your mom say?” I ask.

  “I haven't told her yet.” Suddenly the excitement drains out of her face and she falls backward onto the bed. “Oh, man. My mom's job. I'm not gonna be able to do it.”

  “What!” cries Leigh Ann.

  “What about your mom's job? Did she change shifts?” Margaret asks, very concerned.

  “It's not just that, she's—” I blurt out before remembering my promise not to tell.

  “She's what?” Margaret has me by the arm.

  “Sorry, but I'm telling them, Becca.”

  So I spill. Even the part about her possibly leaving St. Veronica's.

  “That's completely unacceptable,” Margaret declares. “Did you tell Elizabeth about all this?”

  “No way,” says Rebecca. “Why?”

  “Because, people like
Elizabeth Harriman can make things happen,” Margaret declares. “Look at you—you're twelve years old and on your way in the New York art scene.”

  “My mom would kill me if I told a complete stranger about family stuff.”

  “She's not a complete stranger,” I say.

  “She is a little strange, though,” says Leigh Ann.

  Rebecca waves both arms at us. “Everybody stop! I don't want to think about it anymore. Let's talk about somebody else's problems. C'mon, Sophie, you must have a problem.”

  “Nope. Not a one. Everything's perfect.” Did Margaret tell her my secret about you-know-who?

  Before anyone has the chance to go nosing around in my life, Leigh Ann stands and takes charge. “I have a better idea. Why don't we work on our skit for the Dickens banquet? We're all here; if we put our heads together, we can write our script tonight, and we'll have a week to practice. I want to win this thing.”

  “Win?” I ask. “It's a contest?”

  “Of course. The best solo act and the best skit win prizes.”

  “Books, Sophie,” says Margaret. “For your collection. Dickens. Hardcovers.”

  Ooooohhhh. I rub my hands together.

  “I already have a good scene in mind,” says Leigh Ann. “It's from chapter twenty-seven, where Joe comes to visit Pip in London.”

  “I'm only up to chapter twenty,” I say.

  “I've read about twenty pages,” said Rebecca. “And don't include me in this, anyway. My mom wants me home right after school every day to babysit, so she doesn't have to pay for day care, and besides, I doubt I can go to the banquet this Friday.”

  Leigh Ann isn't giving in that easily. “You can be Biddy. It's a small part. And you don't have to memorize it. You can read your lines, because it's supposed to be a letter that she writes to Pip. It's perfect. Come on!”

  Rebecca slaps her palm to her forehead. “Aaaiiiiyyyyy.”

  Margaret shakes her head at her. “When are you going to learn, Rebecca? We never give up. We're permanent. Like a tattoo. Attached, like leeches.”

  “So, what's the scene about?” I ask. “Give me the SparkNotes version.”

  Leigh Ann explains. “Pip gets a letter from Biddy telling him that Joe is coming to visit, and Pip is kind of bummed, because he's afraid Joe will embarrass him. Joe shows up and has dinner with Pip and Herbert, and … oh, you'll see. It's really funny, but it's also kind of sad.”

  “You know, classic Dickens,” Margaret adds.

  Now to the nitty-gritty. “And who am I?”

  “I was thinking you could be Pip's roommate, Herbert,” says Leigh Ann. “Margaret can be Pip, and I'll be Joe. I mean, if that's all right with you guys. I don't want you to think I'm taking things over. I know I'm still the new girl.”

  Margaret pats her on the back. “It's good that you're taking charge. I've been kind of preoccupied with this puzzle, and, um, other stuff that's going on here. We haven't even thought about the skit.”

  “How are things going with your grandmother, anyway? Any better?” I ask.

  Margaret sighs. “’Bout the same. It's just—well, let me give an example from this morning. Mom asked me to go out to Gristedes for some milk, so I asked Babcia—that's my grandmother—if she wanted to go with me. We hardly get out the door, and she's stopping at every garbage can on the block, looking for empty cans and bottles. Somehow she found out that they're worth a nickel apiece, and she's telling me how in Poland, she could live on what the people in my building throw away.”

  “She's probably right,” Rebecca says.

  “Yeah, but some of our neighbors saw us, and I wanted to crawl under a parked car.”

  “Aww, she's just from a different world, Margaret,” says Leigh Ann.

  “I know, I know. I mean, when I think of what she's been through—the Depression, the war, the Holocaust, communism—I'd probably be the same way. But she's still embarrassing.”

  “Well, are you sure you're okay playing Pip in this skit?” Leigh Ann asks. “Because, you know, he's—” She stops herself, smiling ever so slightly.

  Margaret moves to her computer. “Absolutely. You talk, I'll type. And while I get set up, tell us all about the dance.”

  My ears and everything else perk up.

  “Oh, I didn't stay that long,” Leigh Ann starts. “Not that many kids from St. V's were there—but that girl Bridget…” Her big, beautiful, dramatic eyes widen. “She is wild.”

  Without looking up from the keyboard, Margaret says, “Raf told us that part.”

  Leigh Ann instantly smiles at the mention of Raf's name. “Oh, yeah, I ended up hanging with him and his friends for a while—he's funny—”

  Grrrrrr. He's funny?

  “—and so nice. And he's really cute.”

  Just kill me now. Please. Get it all over with.

  “So, what's his deal, anyway? Is he, you know—”

  “Available?” Margaret asks without looking up from the computer.

  Leigh Ann gives us kind of a shy shrug. “Um, yeah, I guess.”

  Margaret turns to face me. “I don't know. What do you think, Soph? Is Raf available?”

  I stammer for a second, and then a voice that comes from somewhere inside my amoeba-size brain says, “As far as I know.”

  Leigh Ann's dimples deepen. “Good to know.”

  I am stupid, stupid, stupid.

  In which we learn that teachers are actually

  human beings. Who knew?

  On Sunday mornings, Dad makes me my favorite breakfast of crepes with Nutella and bananas, along with this totally decadent coffee, chocolate, and whipped cream concoction that he claims he invented. After a night of tossing and turning imagining Leigh Ann and Raf having a fabulous time at the dance, it is just what I need. She thinks he's funny. Grrrr, again.

  Dad sets a perfectly folded crepe on my plate and my mind drifts back to the museum and the legend of the ring.

  “Dad, what's the name of the town where you grew up?”

  “Ste. Croix du Mont. Pourquoi, mon petit chouchou?”

  I giggle. I love it when he calls me his “little cabbage.”

  “Oh, I'm just wondering. Me and Margaret are doing this project. Have you ever heard of a place called Rocamadour?”

  “Ah, oui. It is maybe one hundred kilometers east of Ste. Croix du Mont. A very famous place.”

  “Do you know anything about some rings from there? With special powers, supposedly.”

  “Of course. Les bagues de Rocamadour? St. Veronica, like your school, n'est-ce pas?”

  “That's right! So, it's true? The legend, I mean?”

  Mom lowers the Arts section of the Sunday New York Times. She looks quizzical. “What legend?”

  “The rings were a gift from Veronica,” I begin. “You know, from the Bible. They're wedding rings, and—”

  “Legend says that if a person wears the ring and prays to St. Veronica, she will appear in a dream and will answer their prayers,” Dad finishes.

  “Nice. And where is this ring?”

  “One of them is in the Met,” I say. “But that's the man's ring. The other one is, well, that's what we're kind of trying to find out.”

  “It disappeared a long time ago,” Dad says. “There are many theories, but no one knows for sure where it is. Probably still on someone's finger, dead and buried.”

  Or in a church on the Upper East Side.

  “Mom, if the ring was for real, and you had it, what would you wish for?”

  “Sophie, it is not a wishing well.” Dad takes his legends seriously.

  “All right, what would you pray for?” I stick out my tongue at Dad.

  “Nothing. I have everything I need right here at this table.”

  Geez—that is such a Mom answer.

  It is a perfect New York City September afternoon. After I finish breakfast, I go to meet Margaret's babcia. The doorman lets me go up without buzzing the Wrobels. Outside their apartment door, I hear Margaret playing the violin, s
o I wait until she gets to the end of the piece. After the clapping and the shouts of “Encore!” I knock quickly.

  Mr. Wrobel answers the door. “Sophie! So good to see you! Come in, come in. Margaret is entertaining us with a little Chopin. He was Polish, you know.”

  “Um, yeah, I think I heard that. It sounded great, Margaret.”

  “One day soon—Carnegie Hall!” Mr. Wrobel practically shouts.

  “Papa! That's a long way off. Besides, Sophie doesn't want to hear you bragging about me, do you, Soph?”

  “Ummm, no, it's okay. He's right, you'll be playing in Carnegie Hall, and I'll be in some smoky dive in the East Village.”

  Mr. Wrobel pulls me into the living room, where Margaret's mom and grandmother sit in matching wing chairs. “This is my mother.” He says something to her in Polish; I catch my name and Margaret's.

  She smiles politely at me. “Sophie,” she says softly.

  I smile back. “Hi.”

  Awkward silence.

  Somebody else, please say something. English, Polish, Swahili, Klingon, anything.

  Margaret's mom finally asks me how I like the upper school and how my parents are—typical parent questions, to which I give her the typical kid responses: “It's okay” and “Oh, they're fine.”

  Margaret rescues me by dragging me back to her room.

  “Let's go out,” I suggest. “It's beautiful.”

  “Yeah, I know. We went to the early Mass,” she says. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “I dunno. I was thinking about a movie, but it's way too nice. Maybe we should go hang in the park. You can bring a book if you want. I just didn't want to stick around the house. My mom woulda had me cleaning my room or something.”

  “Hmmm. That might be a good thing.”

  “That's beside the point. So that's your grandmother, huh? She doesn't seem that bad to me.”

  “I never said she was bad. I said she was driving me bananas.”

  “Well, she seems nice to me.”