During my first week of house arrest, I’m either reading in my room or playing with Zora in the front yard, trying to be a model citizen who deserves a birthday sleepover. I’m hoping to see Rose nonchalantly walking by our house, but that doesn’t happen. So I have to assume that she’s grounded, too.
I sit through every morning of Super Summer Mathematics Camp. I play every game we have in the house with Zora. I help Dad finish cleaning out the garage. And I daydream about Ruthie Delgado and Girl Detective.
It’s the longest week of my life and it doesn’t end the next Saturday. I plead with Mom, but she says my time isn’t quite up yet. “What about my good behavior?” I ask.
“You’ll remember this next time you think about setting off stink bombs,” was her only reply.
So I miss Ally’s game. I lie on my bed and picture her on the pitcher’s mound, striking out boy after boy. Ally will catch a spider in a cup and take it outside, but when it comes to boys and baseball, she has no mercy.
On Monday, hallelujah! Dad takes Zora and me to the library. I practically kiss the sidewalk outside the library door I’m so happy to be there.
As we walk inside, I wave to Mrs. Thompson, who’s checking out books at the counter. She sees me slip the book she recommended into the return bin and I give her a thumbs-up.
“Can we come see her, Dad?” I ask, pointing to the poster over Mrs. Thompson’s head—the one about the author coming to sign books here in August.
Dad looks up at the face of Emily McAllister, who’s smiling down at us. “I didn’t know she was from Atlanta. That’s pretty cool.”
“You know who she is?”
“Sure. Emily McAllister is a big-time mystery writer. And coming to our local library.” He grins at me. “Yes, we should definitely come.”
I give him my first genuine smile in over a week.
As Dad takes Zora to the science section, I wander over to my section and start sifting through books, searching for something new. Finishing one row, I turn up the other and practically collide with Romeo.
“Hi,” he says, equally surprised to see me.
“Oh, hi,” I say, wishing I’d gone down the other row instead.
“How’s it going?” he asks. He’s got a Percy Jackson book in his hand, the one about the labyrinth.
“Okay, I guess.” I look past him. Where are Dad and Zora when you need them?
“I was looking for you at Ally’s game. She said you got grounded.”
“Yeah,” I say, then brighten. “How’d it go? What happened?”
“She won. Six to zip. She pitched a great game.”
“I’m so glad,” I say, relieved.
“Don’t tell Joey, but me too. It’s kind of fun to watch him freak out because a girl might be better than him.”
I grin. “How’d you guys do?”
Mrs. Thompson walks by and puts her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
“Sorry,” I say and we stay silent until she leaves the section.
“We won,” he whispers. “But I think Joey’s starting to get nervous. The middle school coach is coming to the championship game. He’s going to scout them.”
“That’s awesome. Does Ally know?”
“I think so.”
“She must be super excited.”
“You’ll be at the game, right?”
“Yes.” I whisper. “I’ll be there.”
“Cool,” he says and just stands there looking at me.
“Uh, listen,” I finally say and look around. There’s a girl from school at the end of the row. “Come with me.” I lead him to the back of the kid’s section. “I have to ask you something.”
“Sure. Shoot.”
I bite my bottom lip, then ask. “Do you like Rose?”
I can tell he wasn’t expecting that question. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Rose is cool.”
“No, I mean, do you like her like her?”
“I don’t get it, Birdie. Didn’t you get my Valentine’s card?”
I start to blush. “Yeah, I got it but—”
“No, I don’t like Rose. Not that way.”
My mouth goes dry. “Yeah, but she—”
“I like you.”
I don’t know what to say. I feel all weird inside. So I play the eleven-year-old card. “I’m not old enough, Romeo. I’m not even into boys yet.”
“I can wait,” he whispers. “We’re going to middle school together. It’ll be fun.”
“Okay,” I say because that’s all I can think of. I look pointedly at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to go.”
Dad’s surprised when I find them and want to leave the library early. I never want to leave the library. On the way home, Zora leans forward in the backseat and loudly whispers, “Birdie’s got a boyfriend.”
I whip my head around. “Do not!”
“Do too! I saw you.”
“Zora, quit sneaking around all the time!” I say and turn back toward the front.
“I won’t tell your mom,” Dad says, “but when you’re grounded, I don’t think you’re supposed to talk to any friends.”
“You mean boyfriends, Dad,” Zora adds.
“Zora!” I exclaim. “It was just some boy from school,” I say to Dad. “And he was talking to me.”
“So it begins,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“My little girls and boys talking to them.” He shakes his head. “You know they’re going to have to come through me first.”
“Dad, I’m only eleven.”
“You’re almost twelve. Almost sixteen. I might start to cry.”
“Daddy’s going to cry?!” Zora shrieks from the backseat.
“Daddy’s going to cry!” Dad yells, and even through I’m grounded and freaked-out by a boy, I can’t help but laugh.
When we get home, Dad and Zora start making dinner. They usually cook dinner, and Mom and I usually clean up. I say I’m going to my room to read but that’s not why I’m going there. I’m going there to look at the clue again.
Something about seeing that poster of the mystery writer reminds me that mysteries are supposed to be solved and the next clue is just waiting to be discovered. The trail feels cold but maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just missing something and it’s my job to figure this out. Ruthie Delgado and Girl Detective are depending on it.
I pull the Open If You Dare box out from under my bed and unclasp the lid. There’s the ring, the ticket, and the clue, right where I left them.
The ring. I don’t think it’s haunted like Ally does, but I’m still not sure why it’s here. Did it belong to Ruthie or Girl Detective? And what does it mean? I place it on my bookshelf because if I see it every day, it might help me think of something.
The ticket. I reexamine the name scrawled across the back, Ruthie’s name. But Ruthie didn’t go to the Allman Brothers Band concert in 1973 because the ticket was never torn in half. So why is this significant?
The clue. I read it again:
R.D. is not alone anymore.
Because now I’m a dead girl, too.
I could have mailed this (I could have!) but
I’m not going to make it easy for you this time.
You know her address.
Where feathers are hard.
Keep following the clues!
Because he’s still out there.
You’re not making it easy for me is what I think. Especially if the next clue was destroyed when the Yukimotos remodeled the Gillans’ house. And if it wasn’t, it could be anywhere over there. As long as that’s the right address. But it’s the only address we have.
My room is at the front of our house and my side windows overlook the Gillans’ front yard. My eyes scan the area: the front porch, the koi pond, the garage. Everything’s new, or at least newish, over there. Nothing from 1973. As I lean back on my bed, I look at the haunted ring on my shelf and ask Girl Detective for help.
13
“I HATE that violin now,” Rose says.
“So much.”
“You already hated it,” I say.
“That wasn’t hate. This is hate.”
We’re playing goofy golf. Ally, Rose, and I are on our own. Mom and Dad are playing a separate round with Zora. Because they do that kind of thing for me on my birthday! And my mom persuaded Mrs. Ashcroft to let Rose come to my sleepover!
Rose has been telling us her side of the fallout from the Nefarious Stink Bomb Operation: no phone, endless packing, infinite violin. Not to mention, she had to stay inside. She couldn’t even leave the house without adult supervision.
“I’m sorry it was so bad,” I say. Mine wasn’t great but hers sounds worse.
Rose sighs. “We’re moving. I can set off all the stink bombs in the world and it won’t change that.”
I rub my sneaker into the artificial turf. “I know.”
“I knew all along,” Ally says and taps her ball into the hole. “I hate that you both were so dumb that we missed out on almost two weeks of our summer. And you missed my game.”
“You won, though,” I say as cheerfully as I can.
“I know. But it’s better when you’re there.”
We pick up and walk to the next hole. It’s the miniature windmill that spins around so you have to time it right to get your ball through.
Rose goes first and a windmill blade blocks her ball. “Shoot,” she says. “Can’t I just move it?”
“Play fair,” Ally says as her ball sails past the windmill to the far side of the hole.
Birthdays seem to make everything better. I’m twelve now and no longer grounded. When I looked into the mirror this morning, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was somehow different. But then, when I saw Peg Leg Fred in the reflection propped up on my pillow, I realized I’m not that different yet.
Mom stayed home from work this morning and after we had Mickey pancakes with candles on top, she signaled to Zora, who ran off to the dining room.
“Now, you know you’re not getting a phone yet,” Mom said, eating her pancakes.
“I know, Mom. I know. I just wish I knew why.”
“You know why,” said Dad.
“Because phones are the devil?”
“I never said that,” he said. “But I see it every day. All those kids on their phones. Constantly! If you get one too soon, your mind will melt before high school.”
“Ta-da!” Zora ran back carrying a wrapped box and placed it on the table before me. I had no idea what it could be.
We ripped off the wrapping paper and I still had no idea what it was.
“It’s a Polaroid camera,” Mom said.
“Oh,” I said, sort of curious. I’d heard about Polaroids.
“A relic from the Pre-iPhone Era,” said Dad. “For pictures.”
“And selfies,” added Mom. “You watch the photo develop before your eyes. And no printing. You can post them on your corkboard right away.”
I opened the box and took out the camera. Mom picked it up and snapped a photo of Zora and me. There was a weird cranking sound right before the camera spit out a picture-sized, plastic-looking rectangular thing. There was no photo, though, only a gray blank space within a little white plastic frame.
“I don’t think it’s working, Mom.”
“Wait for it,” Dad said. So Zora and I stared at the gray space as it slowly morphed into a full-fledged picture of us. “Cool!” I said. “Can I try?”
Later that night, after goofy golf, we take lots of Polaroid pictures. Zora tries to photobomb almost every one and it doesn’t even bother me. I immediately pin three of them onto my corkboard.
There is birthday cake and the best picture of all is of Rose, Ally, and me behind a flaming mass of candles. As my family and best friends sing me the birthday song, I blow them out and make a wish that it can stay this way forever.
* * *
“I can’t be as good as him; I have to be better than him. That’s how it goes.”
We’re in our sleeping bags on my bedroom floor, stuffed so full with popcorn we can hardly breathe. The sleeping bags form a T at the foot of my bed, our faces in the center. It’s dark except for the flashlight beam running between us.
“Cuz you’re a girl?” I ask Ally.
“Cuz I’m a girl,” she answers.
The championship game is this Saturday. “So be better than him,” Rose says. “It can’t be that hard. Joey’s a moron.”
“You better hope I’m better than him,” Ally says. “Or it’s your fault I’ll be in the parade in a Broncos jersey.”
“Yeah, please don’t let that happen,” Rose says.
“Yeah, please,” I say and turn over in my sleeping bag. “Where do you think we’ll be this time next year?” It’s a morbid question but I can’t help myself from asking.
“Ugh. London. It’ll be summer and raining and cold,” Rose says. “But you know what I’m going to do that’s going to drive my mum crazy?”
“What?” Ally asks.
“Remain American.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how she hates that I have an American accent and mostly say American words and stuff like that?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“She thinks when we move back to England, I’ll get all English again. I’ll sound like I used to sound. Won’t she be surprised when I don’t?”
“You used to sound funny,” Ally says.
“Well, I’m going to sound funny now in reverse, and this time I don’t care what people think,” Rose declares. She looks at us seriously. “Will you guys Skype me?”
“Yeah!” Ally says.
“Constantly,” I add.
“Good,” she says. “Where will you be a year from now?”
“I’ll be right here,” I say. I don’t add the part about being friendless and afraid, scared that even Ally will drift away when we go to different middle schools.
“Me too,” Ally says at exactly the right moment, making me feel better. “Maybe you can come visit us, Rose.”
“Maybe,” she says forcing a smile.
We get quiet and lie back on our pillows. I shine the flashlight on the ceiling and make a bunny rabbit shadow with my fingers, like my dad sometimes does with me and Zora.
After a while, Ally starts snoring lightly and Rose whispers, “Hey, Bird.”
“What?” I whisper back.
“I’m sorry I got you in trouble. I really am.”
She didn’t have to say it but I’m glad she did. “I know.”
It goes quiet again until she says, “You know what makes me sad?”
I could name a number of things but instead just ask, “What?”
“I wanted my first kiss to be with an American boy.”
“Oh.”
“Well, not just any American boy. With a certain American boy.” She sits up. “I know you think that stuff is stupid. But my parents have put me on an accelerated kissing schedule. With the move and everything.”
I slip out of my sleeping bag and walk to the front window.
“All that stuff is coming, Bird,” she says gently. She knows I’m uncomfortable. But she only knows part of the reason why.
I look outside. The moon is shining down like a midnight sun. It strikes the maple tree my father planted when Zora was born and projects a creepy tree shadow across the yard. On the other side of the maple is our mailbox. Beyond that, I see the upper edge of the Gillans’ front yard. Can’t see the koi pond from here. Can only see their mailbox. Their mailbox with the bird on top.
The pieces start coming together before I can process them. I rush to my bed and pull out the clue box that’s stashed underneath.
“What is it?” Rose asks as Ally stirs.
Opening the box, I pull out the clue. I could have mailed this to you (I could have!). I scan further down to: You know her address. Where feathers are hard. The words reverberate in my head. Then, flipping over the sheet, I point to the inky scratches under the words I TOLD YOU SO. To the little
bird.
“That’s it!” I exclaim, and hand Rose the clue as my eyes seek out my corkboard. Grabbing the flashlight, I aim it at my pictures and search for the selfie we took on the last day of school—the one in front of the Japanese garden, so close to the mailbox that the bird on top could practically peck us. I shine the flashlight directly on the photograph. And there it is—the METAL BIRD, with feathers that are hard, right on top of the MAILBOX, in front of Ruthie’s Delgado’s house. Just like the clue says.
“What are you doing?” Rose whispers loudly.
Awakened, Ally stares at me, too. My fingers are tingling. My brain is on fire. It might be the only thing over there that escaped the Yukimotos’ renovation. It’s old, 1970s old. And somehow, it remains. That bird. I’ve seen it every single day of my life.
A bird in plain sight.
I take a private moment to let it sink in. Then I tell them. “I know where the next clue is.”
14
WHEN WE sneak out of the house, the moon is so bright we don’t need a flashlight, but we bring one anyway.
The Gillans’ mailbox is made of brick, like a tall, narrow house, and the ancient metal bird is perched on top. The metal part of the box, where the mail actually goes in, looks like a small garage where the bird could park its car.
We stand side by side, staring at the bird with hard feathers. The street is empty and the Gillans’ lights are out. “What do we do?” Ally whispers.
“I don’t know,” I say, crooking my head and looking more closely at the little bird. I try to move it but it doesn’t budge.
“Maybe one of the bricks,” Rose says and starts feeling around at the base of the mailbox. Ally and I join in. We touch every brick. All solid. Until I push the one right underneath the metal mailbox/bird garage. It moves.
“Look,” I whisper. We bend down and I press at one side of the brick and watch as the other side slides forward. Carefully, I remove the brick.
“Flashlight,” I say and Ally hands me the flashlight as I give her the brick. I shine it into the space the brick left behind.
Open If You Dare Page 7
