Open If You Dare

by Dana Middleton

  “Got you.” I grab her arm gently. “I got you. It’s okay.” But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t turn around. She’s as still as a block of ice.

  “Come on, Zora. Just turn around and I’ll help you down.”

  “I can’t.” It comes out like a whimper.

  “Yes, you can.”

  Ever so slightly, she shakes her head no.

  “Just turn around. It’s easy.”

  “No!” Zora whisper-yells.

  I look down at my friends for help. “You should jump,” Rose calls up. But gently. “You can do it. It’s easy.”

  Zora grabs on to my arm for dear life but still doesn’t turn from the spot. And I realize Rose is right. Jumping is the best way out of this.

  “Let’s jump, Zora,” I say as brightly I can. “It’ll be fun.”

  “No, Birdie.” She’s trembling now.

  I lean down, my lips beside her ear, and whisper, “Why did you do this? Why did you come up here?”

  It’s very quiet before she says, “I wanted to fly.”

  I smile to myself. Of course she did. “So let’s fly. We’ll do it together.”

  “Nooooo!”

  “Please,” I say. “I’ll let you play with Peg Leg for a whole week. You can sleep with him and everything.”

  Her head turns slightly. “Really?”

  “Really. And it’s no big deal. I’ll stand right beside you. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll fly together.”

  “It’s okay, Zora,” yells Ally.

  She shakes her head sharply. “I can’t.”

  “Don’t look down. Look up. Like the birds.”

  She squeezes my hand. I could jump off and pull her with me. It would work. It would get her down. But it also might scar her for life. And I would hate it if I was the reason she never went to Mars. Instead, I choose the greater good.

  “We could turn around and climb down the ladder with everybody looking at us. Or they could all watch us jump. Think how jealous Rose and Ally will be.” I feel her eyes shift to my friends by the side of the pool. “This will be just our thing. Only you and me, Zor.” That last part was completely manipulative because I know Zora is sometimes jealous of my friends. But like I said, the greater good.

  “Okay,” Zora says quietly. “Okay.”

  I step beside her, locking eyes with Mrs. Franklin, who’s probably going to put me in “tween time-out” for this because only one person is supposed to be on the high dive at a time. Not to mention if I had been watching her like I was supposed to, Zora wouldn’t have climbed up here in the first place. But I can’t think about that right now.

  I take Zora’s hand in mine and she looks up at me. “We’re going to be birds,” I say. “We’re going to fly.”

  Her eyes turn forward like she’s facing a firing squad.

  “When I get to three. One … two … hold your breath, Zora … three.”

  And we fly.

  25

  THE LITTLE bell rings as I walk into the fabric store. I look at the shop, those four walls, with new eyes today. I can almost picture Smith and Sons.

  Even though Ally and Rose want to be done with the mystery, done with the clues, I’m not. I’ve tried but I just can’t help it. I opened Girl Detective’s box. I was the one who found it. I was the one who dared. And now I can’t let go. I need to know what happened. At this point, I’m not even sure why.

  Going to the nursing home solved the mystery of Martin Smith but it did not solve the murders. I’ve spent days at the pool, trying to be normal again. Trying to do what my friends wanted. But last night, I couldn’t help myself. I opened the clue box and reread the second clue, the one from the Gillans’ mailbox.

  Congratulations. You’re smarter than you look.

  Thank you very much, I thought.

  Now you know. Again, I didn’t know much.

  Ruthie didn’t go to see Gregg. That meant she didn’t go see the Allman Brothers Band and that was established by the intact concert ticket. You’re repeating yourself, G.D. The question now was why didn’t Ruthie go to the concert and what happened instead?

  Because of him. I guessed Martin Smith happened instead.

  He knows how to use this. He was a butcher. And a murderer. Got it.

  Of course he does! Got that, too.

  Find him and you can find her. Ruthie? Her body? Her bones? Gross.

  Keep following the clues! We found Smith and Sons. We found Henry Smith, but I don’t feel any closer to finding the next clue.

  But here’s the Wrinkle—A wrinkle; an unexpected complication. Like I need that.

  Then I read the last line. Meg is waiting. Meg. But who is Meg? And how do I find her?

  It was Meg that sent me back to the fabric store. Meg made me lie to my dad and get him to drop me off at the library for an hour. “I’m old enough,” I said. Even added, “Don’t you trust me?”

  He shouldn’t. My awesome dad should not trust me. But he does. Even after telling him what happened with Zora at the pool, he does. And how do I repay his trust? After he dropped me off in front of the library, I watched him drive away, then crossed the street and headed directly for the fabric shop. I didn’t even go inside the library. Instead, I walked into the fabric shop and stepped right up to the counter.

  “Hi,” Lucy says, recognizing me but not quite placing me.

  “Hi. I’m Birdie from last week. My friend and I came in.”

  “Oh, yes. Birdie,” Lucy says, the book of her mind flipping back to that page. “I remember. How can I help you? Not many girls your age want to sew these days.”

  Right, I’m in a fabric store, so I feel a little bad telling her that I’m not interested in sewing. As I look around the empty shop, I realize not many people in general are interested in sewing anymore. “I just have a question,” I say to her. “It’s about Meg.”

  I let the name sink in, studying her eyes for any sign of recognition.

  “Meg who, dear?”

  “Uh … that’s what I was hoping you would know. She might have been a friend of Martin Smith’s?” I look hopefully into her eyes but get back nothing. “She could have worked here? Maybe been his girlfriend?” I’m grasping because I really thought Lucy would know.

  The blank expression on Lucy’s face tells it all. “No, no Meg,” she says. “None that I can remember.”

  Have I been totally wrong about everything? I was so sure the second clue was leading me to the butcher shop. But it’s really been leading me to Meg. If Lucy doesn’t know who Meg is, how am I supposed to find out?

  For the first time, it feels like I’ve reached a real and true dead end—the wall at end of the road. I lean my face against the cold, hard brick and think, If Meg is waiting for me, she might be waiting forever.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Lucy asks.

  I nod, say a quiet yes, and slip out of the shop without another word.

  At the library, I stare at the same page of the same book for the next forty-five minutes. My mind is racing, going around the same track over and over again. At full speed and getting nowhere.

  The big clock on the wall says my dad will be back any minute. I take the book to the checkout and hand Mrs. Thompson my library card.

  “Hi, Birdie,” she says and steps off her perch. She scans my card and punches the keyboard, waking her computer. “I’ve still saved those books in the back for you if you’re interested.”

  Oh no. Mrs. Thompson, the greatest librarian in the world, saved me books, and in my hunt for Martin Smith, I forgot all about it. “I’m really sorry,” I say. “I had to leave early last time. I should have told you.”

  “It’s okay. Stuff happens. Give me a sec.” She walks into the room behind the counter while I stand there staring at the wall. In less than a minute, she’s back, books in hand. “I’m an expert at hiding the good stuff,” she says with a wink.

  I smile a thank-you. Not my usual library smile, a half-hearted one.

  “You coming to see
her?” she asks, turning to the poster behind the counter. I didn’t even realize I had been staring at it.

  “Ms. McAllister is going to read from her new book before the signing. She writes adult fiction. Actually, she writes murder mysteries, so I wouldn’t recommend her to most young readers but I think you can handle it.”

  I look at the picture of Emily McAllister. “Dad said she’s big-time.”

  “Very big-time,” Mrs. Thompson says and hands me my books.

  “So why is she coming here?”

  “Read, Birdie.” She points to the poster where it says Atlanta native. “She grew up in Atlanta.”

  “That’s cool,” I say.

  “Yes. Very cool, indeed.”

  26

  “RUTHIE DELGADO is alive.”

  I must look like I’ve swallowed a fly or something, because Rose leads me to the clubhouse steps and sits me in the shade. “Breathe, Bird,” she says.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “Breathe.”

  “No, about Ruthie.”

  “She’s alive,” Rose says. “Ruthie D. is in the land of the living.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Easy. I looked for her where all old people end up,” she says. “Facebook.”

  I gaze up at Rose and feel a little queasy and don’t know why. Ruthie Delgado is alive. That’s good news. That’s what we wanted. So why am I suddenly feeling carsick and no one’s stopping the car?

  Ally walks toward us, dripping from the pool. “What are you talking about?”

  “You!” Rose says. But I miss the beat. My you comes out as an afterthought.

  “What’s wrong?” Ally asks me.

  “Nothing.” I look up, squinting against the sun. “Ruthie’s alive.”

  “Huh? I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.”

  “We weren’t,” Rose says and sits beside me on the stairs. “But then I woke up this morning with this Facebook idea. My mum Facebooks her friends back in England all the time. They’re all on Facebook. And since I’d already decrypted her password, you know, it was easy. I just looked her up.”

  “Why didn’t we think of this sooner?” I ask, truly dumbfounded by the oversight.

  “I don’t know. We must be idiots. Anyway,” Rose continues, “she lives in Michigan now. Her last name is Bayer.”

  “But how do you know it’s really her?” I ask.

  “A couple of reasons. One, old people don’t know how to leave their year of birth off Facebook, and Ruthie Delgado Bayer is no exception. Year of birth: 1957. Check. Also, she went to Crestwood High School.”

  We stare at her blankly. “So?” Ally asks.

  “So,” Rose replies. “I did some research. Crestwood High School opened in 1971. Right in time for Ruthie Delgado to go to school there. And it closed in 1992 to become a middle school. So Crestwood High School became…” She looks at us like we’re supposed to know the answer and then gives up. “Monarch Middle School.”

  “The old middle school?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “So I’ll be going to what used to be Ruthie Delgado’s high school?” Ally asks.

  “Exactly.”

  I lean back on the stairs and take this in. Frankly, I can’t help but feel a little inferior. Why didn’t I think of looking on Facebook? Why didn’t I find out about Crestwood High School? “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes this morning, Rose,” I say, trying to hide my jealousy. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe cuz of all this extra time not playing violin. And look!” She holds out the fingertips of her left hand. “Hardly any calluses anymore.”

  She can believe it if it makes her feel better, but it’s been less than a week, so those calluses aren’t fading yet. What is fading is our summer, which is ticking down like a time bomb.

  And now Ruthie is alive.

  “Oh, and that’s not everything,” Rose states triumphantly. “I found her number, too. That was easy once I knew where she lived. So what do you say? Let’s give Ruthie a call.”

  * * *

  “Hello.”

  The voice answers on the second ring. We’re in Rose’s bedroom, having threaded our way through unpacked boxes and screeching packing tape.

  “Hello,” I say into Rose’s phone, my eyes widening. “Is this Ruthie Delgado?”

  “This is Ruth Bayer,” the not-so-friendly voice answers. “Who is this?”

  “Um.” I look to Rose and Ally. “Well, I’m calling from Atlanta. My name is Birdie Adams. I think you used to live next door to where I live now.”

  “On Gainsborough?”

  “Yes, on Gainsborough!” I say excitedly. This is her. This is our Ruthie. “So you’re really alive?”

  “What?” she says. It’s only one word but it’s a suspicious one.

  “Oh, I mean, well, we found this ticket to the Allman Brothers Band concert and it was yours and the person who buried it thought you were dead. And I mean, we’ve been trying to solve the mystery. To find out if Martin Smith really killed you. Because Girl Detective was really convinced that he did, but if you’re alive then—”

  “Who is this again?”

  I hold the phone away from my face and look pleadingly at Rose, who mouths, She thinks you’re crazy.

  “Oh, I’m not crazy or anything,” I say back into the phone. But as soon as I say it, I realize that makes me sound even crazier.

  “Right,” Ruthie says. “Whatever kind of crank call this is, I’m not interested. Especially if you know Martin Smith. Call me again and I’ll call the police.”

  “But—”

  The phone goes dead in my hand. I hold it out to Rose as if she can give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and bring Ruthie back.

  “Way to play it cool, Bird,” she says, taking the phone from my hand.

  “Yeah, way to scare the crap out of her,” says Ally.

  “You think I scared her?”

  “Just a little,” Rose answers, and starts to laugh.

  “Oh no!” I put my hands over my eyes. What is wrong with me?!

  “Yeah, but she’s alive,” Ally says. “That was really her, right?”

  “Yeah, it was. She said Gainsborough Drive. And she knew who Martin Smith was. So we were right about him, too.”

  “Except for the part about him killing her. But who cares?!” Rose declares and throws her hands up. “Mystery solved! The Case of the Buried Box is finally finished.”

  “Well, kind of.”

  “Birdie!” they both exclaim.

  “Okay, okay. Mystery solved,” I say. Except no matter what they say, it’s not. Because what about Girl Detective? We still don’t know what happened to her.

  * * *

  After eating sandwiches that Mrs. Ashcroft made us for lunch, we start back outside to go to our island, when Rose’s mom says, “Why don’t you and Ally nip back to the pool, Rose. I’d like to have a word with Birdie.”

  Rose and my eyes meet. “Mum!” she says.

  “Shan’t be for long. Now, off you pop.” As Rose’s mom shoos them out the front door, I catch one last look at Rose’s pleading eyes before the front door closes.

  When Rose’s mom returns, she asks me to sit down again. And I do. I sit at the kitchen table and do my best to act like everything is normal.

  Instead of joining me, she glowers over me like Professor McGonagall. “So, Birdie. What do you know about Rose’s violin?”

  I force my eyes to meet hers. If I look away, she’ll know I’m hiding something.

  “Well,” I start to say, and thankfully, the kettle blows and she walks to the counter to turn it off. She places two tea bags into a teapot and fills the pot with boiling water. I’ve seen her do this hundreds of times.

  As the tea brews, she sits down in the chair across from me. There might as well be a single lightbulb strung over my head. I steel for the interrogation.

  “I can’t imagine someone coming into our house and stealing Rose’s v
iolin. I’m not buying it.” She watches me closely. “I thought you might have something to add to the story.”

  I shrug. I really don’t want to lie to her. How did I get to the point where I feel like I need to lie to so many adults? “Not really,” I say.

  “You have nothing to say?”

  “I just know what Rose told me.” Yeah, that’s a lie. Could I possibly consider this a lie for the greater good? It’s for my greater good, for sure. Rose would be so upset if I told her mom the truth. But is it for the real greater good? “I really loved listening to Rose play violin,” I tell her. Because that is true. “But maybe it’ll be good for her to have a break. I think she was starting to … I don’t know … resent it.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes are working hard, trying to crack me open, to see what’s inside. “It’s a sin to waste a talent,” she finally says. “Rose needs to play. She needs to practice.”

  “Maybe when she gets back to England,” I say and feel my eyes unexpectedly fill. I drop my head and just sit there silently, waiting for more questions, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Instead, Rose’s mom pats my hand with hers. “You’ve been a good friend, Birdie. Rose is lucky to have you.”

  27

  THE LAST place I expected to end up today was in Joey Wachowski’s TV room. But here I am. Here we are. And it’s practically a miracle.

  * * *

  When I got to the island, after my talk with Rose’s mom, Rose jumped up as soon as she saw me and asked, “What did she say?”

  “Nothing, really. She just asked me about the violin.”

  “And?”

  “I was cool.”

  Rose let out a sigh of relief and sat back down under the willow tree. I plopped down, completing the circle between her and Ally, our cross-legged knees touching. There was a weird feeling in my stomach. I wondered if, in a year from now, our circle would be unbroken? Would being a good friend to Rose really mean anything then?

  We’d been sitting for all of two minutes when a voice made us jump back to our feet. It was Romeo, boarding our island and yelling for us.

  Out of breath, he exclaimed, “There you are!” He wasn’t looking at Rose and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Ally. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere!”