“Voilà! So much for the first equation. The second equation is X − Y = 2, which is even easier to figure out coordinates for. For example, if X is four, then Y has to be two, because X − Y must equal two. Becca, I think it's your turn to solve.”
Rebecca takes the chalk from Margaret and struts to the board. “Piece of cake.” She starts to write something, then stops and makes a face. “Hmmm.”
“Do you want help?” Margaret asks.
Rebecca considers for a moment. “No, I've got it. So, I can use any numbers I want for X and Y, as long as when I subtract them, I get two. Like, you have this four and two. Is that right?”
“Exactly.”
Rebecca writes 6 and 2 under the X, and then 4 and 0 under the Y, and then marks the points on the graph with nice big dots.
“Now, the moment of truth.” Margaret hands the yardstick to Rebecca like it's Excalibur.
She places it against the blackboard and draws the line through her points. Her line intersects with Margaret's precisely at the point (3,1). Rebecca takes a bow and steps aside.
“Holy crap,” I say. “And that's where the ring is.”
Margaret steps closer to the board, smiling. “X marks the spot. Just like in the movies.”
“And this is really the only possible solution to those two equations?” Rebecca asks.
“Absolutely. Lines can only intersect at one point. It's a basic rule of geometry.” Margaret is positively glowing with her success.
Mr. Eliot whistles in admiration. “By George, I think she's got it. Bravo, girls.”
I point at Margaret. “She's way smarter than that old Nancy Drew.”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” Rebecca agrees. “It's not even close. She could take Nancy Drew with half her brain tied behind her back.”
“Let's wait until we have the ring in our hands before we get carried away,” Margaret says.
But she is smiling, my brilliant, beautiful, amazing friend.
And so am I.
Remember when Margaret said something
about us being the world's worst snoops?
Well, forget that she ever said it. Please.
Rebecca and I think seriously about chaining Margaret to her locker to keep her from running over to the church and starting to pull up the floor tiles right in the middle of Mass. Not that I think Father Danahey—or the dozen or so ninety-year-old women who are the early Mass regulars—would notice. Nothing slows Father Danahey down during the early Masses. Crying babies, ringing cell phones, police cars and fire trucks with sirens screaming—nothing fazes the guy. He's just a grumpy ol' Mass-sayin' machine!
Margaret finally agrees that we will have to wait until after school to get a good look at our target area—a particular location that poses a significant problem. The floor tiles are each one foot square, so if our target is the point (3,1), that means that the ring is only three feet away from a point right smack in the middle of the church. We need to figure out how we are going to lift the tile and set it back in place without showing up on the security cameras. Plus, we have to be able to do it when the church is empty, and without making any noise. Piece of cake, right? Cupcake? Slice o' pie?
Speaking of food, Margaret, Rebecca, and I are sitting in the cafeteria eating tacos when Leigh Ann sets her tray down. Aware that I have no right to be mad at her, I pretend to be concentrating on Great Expectations so I won't have to talk to her. She looks like something from the cover of Seventeen. Her blouse and skirt are freshly ironed, her accessories—bangles, watchband, hair clips—perfectly matched, and she is even more cheerful than usual. Sheesh.
“Hi, guys! Where were you this morning? I came down here before school, and nobody was here. I thought you were avoiding me,” she says, laughing innocently, genuinely.
“We were up in Eliot's room,” Rebecca answers. “We solved the puzzle!”
“No way! You found the ring?”
“Not yet, but we know where it is,” Margaret says. “Sophie said she looked for you but you weren't around.”
“I was a little off schedule,” Leigh Ann admits. “I was up kind of late, talking on the phone.”
I sneak a peek to see if she is smiling. She is. Grrr.
“What happened to you yesterday?” she asks.
I look up from my book but avoid eye contact. “To me?”
“Yeah, you just took off.”
“Nothin',” I mumble. “Just had to get home.” Eyes back on the page.
“Oh … okay. I thought maybe you guys were mad at me because of the skit. I know it's a little long, but I think it's pretty good, don't you?”
“The skit's great,” Margaret says.
Grrrrr squared.
Leigh Ann wanders off to the vending machines for a drink and Rebecca snatches Mr. Dickens right out of my hands. “What is your problem? I saw the way you looked at her.”
“Sophie thinks that Leigh Ann—”
“Margaret! Don't. It's nothing.”
Now Rebecca is really interested. “C'mon, quick, before she gets back.”
“Sophie likes Raf, but she thinks that he's going out with Leigh Ann, so she's mad at Leigh Ann, which really isn't fair because Sophie told her that Raf was available.”
I pound my forehead on the table.
Rebecca swats me with my own book. “I knew it! You act like such a dork around him.”
“I do not!”
“Margaret, does she or doesn't she?”
Margaret pats my arm. “Sorry, Soph. It's true. But only sometimes.”
Before Leigh Ann skips back to our table, I warn them. “I will kill you guys if you say anything. I mean it.” And I pretend to read some more.
Miss Covergirl takes the seat next to me. “Boy, you're really into that, aren't you? I'm almost done, so I don't want to spoil it for you, but I was really surprised by—well, you'll see. That Miss Havisham is a nutcase. Hey—have you told Ms. Harriman about the puzzle yet?”
Margaret's face brightens. “No, but that's a great idea, Leigh Ann. We should go right now! We can take the inside route.”
I start to say something about being late for class.
“We won't stay long,” Margaret assures me. “We'll just tell her that we should have the ring by tomorrow night. She should know about this, right?”
Mere minutes later, we are past the security guard, through the locked “chalice” door (another bobby pin sacrificed for the cause), and up the scary, curvy staircase. After Margaret knocks, we hear the shuffling of papers and insistent whispering. We press our ears against the door but jerk away when we hear the CLUMP CLUMP CLUMP of heavy footsteps. As the door swings open, we are greeted by Winifred and a cloud of smoke. A cigarette dangles from her lower lip, her square face twisted into something that resembles a smile—or is it a glare?
“Hi, Winifred,” Margaret chirps. “Is Elizabeth home?”
She mumbles and grumbles something about using the front door like most people, then waves us in. I take a quick look around the room and notice something very peculiar: another cigarette sits in the ashtray, burning away. A thin wisp of smoke pours steadily from it, fouling the air. It is definitely not one of hers. This one is shorter and stubbier, and almost looks homemade. I try to peek behind the door, where someone might be hiding, but Winnie practically shoves me down the stairs.
She takes us down to the living room and orders us to wait. I sit in the exact spot I sat in the last time; if Winnie is going to spy on us, I'm gonna spy on her spying. Teazle jumps up next to me, taking the spot Leigh Ann has been aiming for. Good kitty.
Ms. Harriman practically bursts into the room. She's wearing a bright red blazer—just like ours, sans crest. “Girls! It is so good of you to come and see me.” She shakes each of our hands and holds on for several seconds. She has a strange way of looking me right in the eyes, almost as if she's trying to read my mind. To be honest, it makes me a little squirmy.
After handshakes, she starts right in with the “lightning r
ound” questions (and answers). “How are you all? You look wonderful. I do love those blazers. After you were here the last time, I went right out to Bloomie's and bought one for myself.” She twirls in the center of the room, showing it off. “Oh, let's not talk about me. Tell me about you. Tell me everything. Oh my goodness, would you like some tea? We must have tea. Winnie! Would you make us some tea, please? And bring out a plate of cookies. Now, where were we? Rebecca, I'm so glad you came Saturday. You must tell me all about your lessons, after you get started, of course. Sophie, how is your guitar playing coming along? I think it's just wonderful that you take your music so seriously. And, Margaret, I hear you're a wonderful violinist.”
Many minutes and dozens of questions later, Winnie brings in the tray with the tea and cookies, creating just enough of an interruption that Margaret finally has a chance to convey our reason for stopping by.
“Elizabeth, we have some very good news,” Margaret announces, taking a cookie from the plate.
“How exciting!”
“We know where the ring is, and if everything goes according to plan, we will have it tomorrow.”
“Oh! Of course! The puzzle! That's why you're here!”
For crying out loud! Why else would we be here? I shoot a quick glance at Margaret, but she just smiles. Wait. Did I just say “for crying out loud”?
“Girls, this is absolutely incredible! I wasn't expecting anything for weeks and weeks. Tell me how it happened.” She is literally on the edge of her seat.
Margaret recites the slightly abridged version of the story (leaving out all of the math, thank God). I watch and listen while Winnie refills our teacups and passes the cookie plate around. She leaves the room, but I spot her snooping in her usual spot. What is up with her? I am keeping a pretty close eye on her in the mirror when I realize she is watching me. So, if I have this straight, I'm watching her watching me watching her watch everyone else. Oy. We are both a little surprised that we've been caught, and for a moment we just stare uncomfortably at each other. The next time I check the mirror, I can't see her, but I'm sure she's still listening.
When Margaret finishes the story, Ms. Harriman sits back in her chair, shaking her head slowly with a rueful smile. “You accomplished it all so quickly. Even if the ring isn't there, you girls have done more for me than you can imagine. You see, I have just made a very important decision, and I owe it all to you. I need to see my daughter. It's time for my family's foolishness to end, and it's up to me to end it.”
“Oh, that's wonderful,” Leigh Ann says. “I'm sure she will be so happy. Everybody needs their mom.”
“How do you think you'll do it? I mean, will you just call her up, or …” I mean, just how do you make up with someone you stopped talking to?
“Well, I suppose I'll just have to swallow my pride and ask Malcolm for his help.”
“Why don't you ask her to come to the Dickens banquet on Thursday?” Leigh Ann suggests. “It's going to be lots of fun. Our English teacher is in charge. He dresses up like Charles Dickens and people wear top hats. You could watch the skits, and there's a dinner, too.”
“Goodness. That does sound interesting.”
“I don't know, Leigh Ann,” Rebecca says. “They haven't seen each other in a long time. Maybe they want something a little more … private.”
“No, no, I think I like this idea. We'll have to talk on the phone first, but I think this banquet Leigh Ann described is the perfect place to meet in person—if she'll come.”
Leigh Ann claps her hands. “Yay! I'll stick a flyer in the mail slot in your door this afternoon. It has all the information. This is so exciting!”
“Do you really think you'll come?” Margaret asks.
“I wouldn't miss it for the world. I just hope my daughter will be accompanying me.” She gets a little misty. “I can't tell you how nice it is to say those words.”
Later that afternoon, Margaret and I are standing on Lexington Avenue, staring up at St. Veronica's Church.
“Ready?”
“Set!”
“Let's go.”
We could hear the organ from the street, and inside we can feel it; the organist is seriously rockin' the joint.
“Bach,” Margaret says. “Cool.”
“Sounds like a haunted house. Or The Phantom of the Opera.”
Robert is nowhere in sight, but the September issue of Elle is open on his desk (“Hate Him? Date Him!”). We push through the swinging glass doors and into the nave.
“Gone for the day,” I say. “Maybe the organist locks up when he leaves.”
“Hope so.”
We sneak along the side aisle, past the paintings where we had found the first and last thumbtacked clues, and make our way up to the edge of the raised section of the floor. Starting from the intersection of the two metal strips that was the zero point on our graph, Margaret counts the tiles to find the one where the point (3,1) is located.
“Uh-oh.”
“What do you mean, uh-oh?” I hiss.
“It's under the table.”
The altar table is about seven feet long and three feet wide, and it straddles the tile we need to get to. A tailored satin cloth covers it completely, hanging nearly to the floor on all four sides.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“This table weighs a ton. The wood on the top is like two feet thick. There's no way we can move it.”
She looks around the church to see if anyone is watching, but it appears to be deserted, except for the organist, who is up in the loft and facing away from us. I can just barely see the top of his head.
“Well, let's go have a look.”
Margaret crosses herself, steps up onto the worn stone floor, and silently ducks down under the table, behind the tablecloth. I do the same, after taking one last quick look around the church.
“We're in,” I say, as if we have just broken through a sophisticated security system and are about to save the world by disarming some nuclear missiles.
“Okay this is the spot. The good news is that the tiles don't seem to have any cement around them. They ought to be easy to lift up.”
“Them? They?”
“Oh yeah, I guess I forgot to mention that part. You see, I really don't know which exact tile it is.”
“WHAT!”
“Oh, relax. Jeez, you talk about me spontaneously combusting. Look, the actual intersection is really between the tiles, right? So we might have to lift all four.”
“So what's the problem?”
“This table leg is sitting right smack in the middle of the intersection of the four tiles.”
“So what does that mean?”
“Here, try to lift it up.”
We both reach under the edge of the tabletop—and heave!
Yikes. “I think I strained something. This is like something out of a freaking castle.”
Margaret shushes me. “Someone's coming. Under the table. I heard a door open, over by the dressing room.”
The music stops abruptly, and the sound of footsteps suddenly becomes clear and is getting closer. My heart begins jackhammering into my rib cage and when the tip of a man's black shoe appears under the edge of the tablecloth, I seriously think I might puke.
Black Shoe Man stands at the table for the world's longest minute. Will Robert's hearing aid pick up the sound of my beating heart? Margaret makes the “deep breath” sign with her hands.
The damn shoes finally move a few steps away, but they stop again near the podium on the left side of the altar. From under the tablecloth, we can't see anything above ankle height.
“He's kneeling down,” I whisper, mere inches from Margaret's ear. “He's looking for something.”
“Who is it?”
“I can't tell.” The organist launches into another raucous passage of Bach, allowing me the chance to shift positions and take another deep breath without fear of being heard. Something in my book bag is digging into my back, so I carefully slip it off my shoulde
rs. By the time things quiet down again, Margaret indicates that the visitor has moved to the other side of the table, nearer to me.
“Can you see him now?” she whispers.
I gently shift so I can look, and—yipes!—he is standing right beside me. A few seconds later, I see his feet go through the side door into the dressing room and then the door shuts behind him.
“He's gone,” I say, taking a much-needed breath.
“Good. I don't know how much longer I could have taken it.”
“I was dying.”
“That's what I mean. I don't know how much longer I would have been able to stand watching you. You look so terrible.”
“Hey, thanks. So, can we get out of here now?”
“Let's be sure he's really gone first.”
When Margaret signals, we slide out from under the table and hurry off the altar to the aisle opposite where the black shoes had disappeared. We turn the corner … and practically knock over St. Veronica's half-blind, hard-of-hearing, fashion-magazine-reading security guard.
“Oh, hello, Robert.”
Can you imagine? Margaret and me,
suspects in a crime?
“Hold it right there, girls.”
We are seriously busted.
“What were you girls doing up there?”
“What?” When in doubt, act stupid.
“I saw you come out from under the altar table.”
“We weren't doing anything,” Margaret says. “Really. Don't you remember us? We were here a few days ago, working on a project. We go to school next door. Here's my ID. We were just looking around, taking some more pictures, because it's due tomorrow, and we forgot part of it. Swear to—”
The security guard looks skeptical. “We've had some trouble. I'm supposed to take anything suspicious over to Father Danahey.”
“Suspicious! Oh, come on. We're just students.” Apparently, Margaret's strategy is to play the “mischievous but innocent schoolgirl.”
Robert calls up to the organist to let him know that he will be back in a few minutes. “C'mon, young ladies. Let's go.”
D. Michael Beil Page 13
