Open If You Dare

by Dana Middleton

  “Google.”

  “Sounds awful.” Rose’s face turns sour.

  “It could be worse,” I say. “It’s for preparing meat, not killing anything.”

  “Still gross,” says Rose. “So the question is, why was it there?”

  “Why would our Girl Detective bury a knife that wasn’t the murder weapon?” I ask.

  “Our Girl Detective,” Ally says. “I don’t get it, Birdie. Why do you care so much? It’s scary and weird.”

  That’s probably a good question. Why do I care so much? Instead, I say, “I can’t help thinking about the part of the clue where she says: He knows how to use this. Of course he does!”

  “What about it?” Rose asks.

  “I don’t know. Why would she say that? Of course he does! has to mean something.”

  “Like he already uses the knife for something,” Rose says.

  “But what?” I ask. “Who prepares meat?”

  “A butcher,” Ally says flatly.

  Yeah, she’s right. I let this new intel sink in.

  “So we should tell someone.” Ally looks at Rose.

  “What are you looking at me for? If we tell someone, it should probably be an adult, and adults suck right now. They make me play violin and move back to England.”

  “And I don’t want to get grounded again,” I say. “We’re breaking the rules right now.” I look around at our secret island, where we really shouldn’t be.

  “We don’t have time for anybody to be grounded again,” Rose states emphatically.

  We look at Ally. She finally nods. “No, I guess we don’t.”

  * * *

  “I know I said I couldn’t get away for the summer because of this work project, but your dad and I have been thinking.”

  I look up from my hamburger at my mom sitting across the table from me.

  “Your grandma really wants to see you guys,” Dad says from beside me.

  “In Chicago?” I ask, an alarm going off inside.

  “Yeah, my project is going faster than expected. We could drive up there at the end of the summer before school starts.”

  “No, Mom!” It comes out of my mouth too forcefully, too loud.

  “Birdie!”

  “But we can’t!” I exclaim.

  “Yes, we can,” my mom says firmly.

  “Everyone calm down,” Dad says, holding up his hands between us.

  “Yes, calm down,” Zora mimics. I shoot her a look.

  “We don’t have time for that!” I say, searching their faces.

  “Birdie, we always have time for your grandmother,” Mom says. “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Why can’t she come here?”

  “Because we said we would go there. We haven’t been to Chicago in a long time.”

  “You already told her?”

  “It’s not until the end of the summer,” Mom says.

  “That’s even worse!”

  “I can’t wait to go,” pipes in Zora.

  “You would,” I say.

  “Birdie!” Mom’s eyebrow raises.

  “Well, she would,” I say and look down at my napkin.

  “There are certain things we need to do in life,” Dad says. “And hey, your grandma would be so sad to hear you talk this way.”

  “I want to see Grandma. It’s not that. But it’s the end of summer. Rose will be moving.”

  “You’ll be able to say good-bye to her. Before you go,” Mom says like it’s not a big deal at all.

  “You don’t get it,” I say quietly.

  “I do,” Mom says. “More than you think. But sometimes we have to look at the big picture. You have a family, too.”

  “Yeah, Birdie,” Zora adds. “You have a family, too.” I feel my face turn red. I want to scream at her.

  Instead, I ask, “Can I be excused from the table, please?” As soon as my dad says yes, I’m out of my chair.

  Outside on our front porch, I stare out at the neighborhood. Even after everything we said at the island about not telling our parents about Girl Detective and Ruthie Delgado, I had actually been considering it. Because I figured they might know what to do, might even be cool about the island thing, might want to help me. But what had I been thinking? They don’t want to help me. They don’t care what I’m feeling. They don’t understand. They don’t understand anything.

  I see Mr. and Mrs. Gates crest the hill in front of me. They’re walking down Chancery Lane, the street that dead ends in front of our house. Mr. Gates is carrying his walking stick, as always.

  I watch them and don’t watch them at the same time. Mrs. Franklin said they’ve lived in the neighborhood a long time. Maybe even as long as Mrs. Hale.

  As the Gateses turn onto our street, Mr. Gates waves his stick at me. I half smile and half wave back. The Gateses have lived here a long time. Maybe as long as Mrs. Hale …

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gates!” I yell, and leap off the porch and run across our front yard.

  They stop and wait for me. “Hello, Birdie,” Mrs. Gates says, smiling warmly.

  “Hi,” I say back.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure, Miss Adams?” Mr. Gates says, tapping his stick on the asphalt.

  “Um,” I start, breathing harder than I’d like. “So, you’ve lived here a long time, right?”

  “Moved here in the summer of 1961,” Mr. Gates states as if for the record. “John F. Kennedy was president.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. “So did you know the Delgados? They lived here in 1973.” And I point to the Gillans’ house.

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Gates says. “They were those Yankees.”

  “I remember,” Mrs. Gates adds. “Moved here from Michigan. We hadn’t had any Yankees in the neighborhood up until that time.”

  Yankees in the neighborhood? That was a big deal? I can’t help but wonder what the Gateses thought when my parents moved in.

  “I do remember something about their daughter,” Mrs. Gates recalls.

  “Ruthie?” I ask.

  “I think so. What was it about her, Jim?”

  “There was something,” he says and looks up as if to pluck the memory from the sky. “I can’t remember. Maybe some trouble. They didn’t stay long.”

  They can’t remember a girl’s murder? Was that because she was a Yankee and didn’t matter or simply because they can’t remember things anymore?

  “Anything else?” Mrs. Gates asks, bringing me back from my thoughts.

  “No,” I say. “No, thanks.”

  Mr. Gates waves his stick and they start walking again. “Well, good night, young lady.”

  I turn to go back home then stop. “Wait!” I call out. They look back at me. “One more thing.” I catch up and ask, “Was there a butcher shop around here in 1973?”

  I see Mr. Gates thinking, but Mrs. Gates doesn’t have to think at all. “Oh, yes! Smith and Sons in the shopping center. You know, across from the library. Where the fabric store is now. I used to go check out my book for the week and then pick up the best lamb chops. Delicious. Remember, Jim? Such a shame they closed. Nothing’s like it used to be,” she says. “That’s a strange question, Birdie. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just wondering. Kind of for a school project about the neighborhood.” They ask me all about the fake school project, and I hate to lie to them but I do and smile until they are walking off again.

  As I watch them go, I feel Girl Detective standing beside me, urging me forward. Sending me to Smith and Sons.

  17

  THE RAIN is pouring down. I can hardly see more than a few feet in front of me it’s coming down so hard. I know it’s not safe to hide under trees during thunderstorms but I squeeze against the trunk of the willow, trying to escape the monstrous drops ganging up in sheets, soaking me through.

  Then I hear the scream. It’s muffled beneath the rain, thunder, and lightning. But it’s a scream. I know what a scream sounds like.

  There’s another one. More urgent this time. I p
ush through the storm to the edge of the island to the rushing and roaring creek. And I see her. Coming my way.

  A girl. Being carried downstream by the rushing current, struggling to keep her head above water, arms flailing. Her head dips under, then pops back up again. We lock eyes. I know she wants me to save her.

  I search for a branch, a stick, anything to reach out with that she can grab on to. But there’s nothing. I look back to the creek and witness her going under one more time. This time she doesn’t come back up.

  Panicking, I scan the raging water, knowing she’s down there. Knowing she’s passing me right now. I know it but I can’t see her. The creek is a murky mud monster that has swallowed her whole. And it’s not giving her up again.

  I can let her drown. Or …

  I can jump in.

  The water’s so cold as it sweeps me away. I’m blinded; it’s impossible to see, but I swim down anyway.

  I’m a good swimmer, I tell myself. I can hold my breath for a whole minute. Swimming deeper, I cast out my arms, trying to grab her. But the mud monster slips through my fingers like a liquidy ghost.

  I swim deeper. And miraculously, begin to see. The water suddenly becomes clear and calm, while above, the mud monster rushes madly past. Below, where I am, all is still. Like I’ve entered into another world. And there she is.

  The girl is floating at the bottom of the creek. Her eyes are closed, her long hair waving. I swim down. Hover before her. Recognize her.

  As I do, her eyes spring open. Blue. So blue. Like Rose’s eyes. Or my mom’s.

  I reach out my hand. I can pull her up. I can save her.

  She reaches back. Gives me the faintest smile. As if she recognizes me, too.

  Our fingers touch and—

  “Birdie,” she says. “Birdie.”

  Suddenly. Fiercely. Thunder cracks and the mud monster descends between us, pulling us savagely apart.

  Her blue eyes are the last things I see.

  “Birdie!”

  My eyes fly open. I see Zora standing over me. In my bedroom. In my bed. It takes a moment before I can speak. “What?” I say hoarsely.

  “Dad wants you.”

  * * *

  Zora rarely gets screen time in the morning but this day is different. She’s down in the family room watching Adventure Time while Dad sits at the kitchen table with me. Zora and Dad have already had breakfast, so he just watches me eat my cereal.

  I try not to notice.

  “They told me this was going to happen,” he finally says. “But I didn’t believe them.”

  “What are you talking about, Dad?”

  “You know. How your wonderful kid who talks to you about everything suddenly stops talking and becomes a moody vampire for five to seven years. It happened to me but I was sure it could never happen to my Little Bird.”

  I sigh, somewhat teenagerlike. “I’m not a teenager yet.”

  He shrugs. “Okay. So something is really wrong or you’ve been bitten. And you know what we do to vampires.”

  “We give them extra cereal?” I ask with grin.

  He doesn’t grin back. “Or we stake ’em in the heart.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot that part.” But we both know I didn’t forget.

  “So it’s either that or you start talking.”

  “I’m not a vampire,” I say, feeling my shoulders slump in that oh-so-teenage way.

  “How can I be sure?”

  There’s a little mirror magnet that lives on our fridge. I grab it, then go and stand beside him. I’m taller than him since he’s sitting down. “Look,” I say, holding up the mirror in front of my face. “There I am. See.”

  He studies my reflection, then nods. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Told you.” If I had actually been a vampire, we couldn’t have seen my reflection in the mirror.

  He picks up an apple from the fruit bowl and takes a bite. “Well, then what is it?”

  The dream I just woke from returns in a rush. The blue eyes. The muddy water. I know I’m sad about Rose leaving. I’m scared about going to middle school without Ally. But there’s something else.

  “I don’t know, Dad.”

  He stops chewing and looks at me.

  “Really,” I say.

  “You know I’m here when you figure it out. You can talk to me.”

  I nod.

  “There are lots of vampires in high school,” he says.

  “Yeah, I know.” He tells us a lot about the high school kids. How his job isn’t only teaching mathematics. It’s helping teenagers—the ones who’ve been bitten—come back to human again.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says.

  I know that, too. My dad would never give up on me. He’ll always be there. I know I’m lucky because not everybody has a dad like that. Not everybody has a dad. But how can a dad, even a good one, know what it’s like to be a twelve-year-old girl?

  * * *

  Half an hour later, as Zora talks and we pass by Mrs. Hale’s house, I act like I’m listening but I’m not. I’m thinking about the girl at the bottom of the creek.

  In my dream, I was so sure I recognized her. That she recognized me. But like wisps of wind that can’t be caught, the dream slips away from me. I can barely see her face anymore. I hold tightly to the image of her blue, blue eyes.

  I’ve got Zora pool duty this morning. After my behavior at the dinner table last night, it wasn’t hard for Dad to press her onto me. Just Zora, no friends. So it’s not so hard to ask him to drop off me and my friends at the library later in the afternoon. Only friends, no Zora. A fair trade.

  This is the second time it’s just me and Zora at the pool without a parent. When we did it the first time, earlier this summer, Dad had a little meeting with Mrs. Franklin first. They know I’m a good swimmer, but I don’t think Dad would be comfortable unless someone like Mrs. Franklin was there looking out for us. When we enter the pool area, I spot Mrs. Franklin on the lifeguard stand and she gives us a wave.

  Zora hates it when her feet can’t touch the bottom of the pool. I try and tempt her out into deeper water, but she refuses. Stubbornly. So that keeps us working on strokes in the shallow end. Surrounded by little kids. Where the pee percentage is surely higher than the water percentage. Maybe I should use this example when we work on percentages next time in Mathematics Camp.

  While Zora swims freestyle (or tries), I pool-walk beside her. “Breathe, Zora,” I say so she can hear me. She’s actually not so bad at swimming, she’s just really bad at breathing. So if she’s not careful, the act of swimming itself could lead to drowning. “Turn your head!”

  She doesn’t until her head pops up with that familiar freaked-out look on her face. She’s panting and struggling to tread water. “Help, Birdie.”

  “You can do it! Move your arms, pump your legs.” But she doesn’t and looks all helpless instead. “Come on,” I say, trying to be encouraging. When I was her age, I was already on the swim team. I was swimming laps. I was thinking about jumping off the high dive.

  “Birdie!”

  I grab her and she wraps herself around me like she’s a three-year-old. She’s actually shaking. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. You were going to let me drown,” she whimpers.

  “I was not!”

  “Were, too.”

  “Zora, I wouldn’t. I would never let anything happen to you.”

  She releases her arms from around my shoulders (but not her legs from around my waist) and looks me right in the eyes. “You promise?”

  Sometimes I wonder how this contradiction of a human being ever became my sister. So confident in mathematics. So frightened of everything else. “I promise.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really.”

  Her face floods with happiness and she smiles at me. I can’t help but give her some back.

  Goofball.

  18

  THE OLD sign over the door reads FABRICS in big red let
ters. Rose pulls open the door and a ding-dong announces our arrival.

  We step inside.

  I’ve never been here before. My eyes flutter across the rows of rolled-up fabric of all colors and patterns before scanning the stained carpet beneath our feet. It looks like someone deliberately poured a trail of coffee from the front door to the checkout counter. The store is completely empty. Not a soul inside. Just a musty smell and weird instrumental music playing from a speaker somewhere in the ceiling.

  “This was a butcher shop?” Rose asks. “Looks like it’s been a fabric shop for at least a hundred years.”

  I’m agreeing with her in my mind when a shop clerk appears from the back. She carries a cup of coffee and takes her place behind the counter at the side of the store. “Can I help you girls?”

  I sure hope so, because I thought we’d never get here.

  After I swam with Zora, Dad drove us to the library. It was only Rose and me because Ally has a sore throat. The General stayed home with her and everything. I think Ally wants to be sick because the Fourth of July is only five days away and she would probably rather die than wear Joey’s Broncos jersey in the parade.

  My dad waited and watched us go into the library. I waved from inside the door. As he drove away, I spotted the fabric store across the street in the shopping center. The fabric store that used to be Smith and Sons.

  Rose and I were about to slip back out the library door when I heard Mrs. Thompson’s voice. “Hi, girls. Coming in?” she asked from her perch behind the checkout counter.

  “Hi, Mrs. Thompson,” I said.

  “Hi,” said Rose.

  “We just got in a couple of books I think you’ll really like, Birdie.” The librarian smiled brightly. “Give me just a minute.”

  As she went into the back room, I turned to Rose. “What do we do?”

  “Play it cool,” she said as Mrs. Thompson returned carrying a couple of books.

  I love the books she’s held aside for me. She knows exactly what I like and is always looking out for me. She is truly the perfect librarian. But I wanted to get to the fabric shop. We only had an hour before Dad would pick us up. And Rose had to get home for violin practice.

  “Could you hold these for me?” I asked her. “We’ve got to do some work for a school project for a while.”