by Joan Bauer
“What’s your name?”
“Anna.”
He’s liking this. “Annie, you’ve got personality.”
“It’s Anna—”
“How much are you getting paid for this?”
“I’m doing it for free, to help the library.”
Hands on his hips. “I’ll pay you serious bucks to do this at my market.”
Ben walks by wearing a shirt that reads RENT A GENIUS.
I like the serious bucks part, but not the person who would be giving me the money.
“I can get you a better costume—we’ll have it made today. You can be a strawberry.” He smiles. “What do you say?”
I look over at Ben, who isn’t smiling. I don’t want to talk to Coleman Crudup anymore, but he takes out his wallet, rips out a fifty-dollar bill, and hands it to me. “Earnest money, Annie. I’d like you to work for me.”
“I can’t . . .”
“Of course you can.” He walks into the library. I look at the fifty-dollar bill. President Grant is on the front, not smiling, like Ben.
“This note is legal tender for all debts, public and private.”
I can do a lot with fifty dollars.
I hear Coleman Crudup tell another man, “We’re going to get this show on the road in a big way.”
He sweeps through the door, and turns back to me. “There’s more where that came from.” He hands me his business card.
“Sir, I can’t take—”
“It’s yours, Annie. Give your grandmother my regards.”
I don’t think I’ll be doing that.
And off he goes.
I don’t know what to do with this money, and being a petunia I don’t have a pocket. Ben walks over.
“He gave me fifty dollars. I told him not to.” I point to Ben’s shirt, RENT A GENIUS. “How much do you charge?”
“The first consultation is free.”
We walk out of the library past the hedges shaped like animals.
“How well do you know this town, Ben?”
“I was born here.” He turns down Wisteria Lane.
“How well do you know Crudup?”
“Not too many people stand up to him and win.”
I think about Mim standing tough. I hope she doesn’t get knocked down.
“I have a statement to make, Anna. We still need a singer for the band. Practice is in seventeen minutes.”
“But . . .”
“I wrote a song you can sing. Come on.”
There are twelve kids in the band, plus the bandleader, Mr. Cole.
“We call him Mr. Cool,” Ben says. This fits him.
Caitlin is blowing spit out of her trumpet and glaring at me. Nice to see you, too.
Mr. Cool is looking at Ben’s music. “Okay, guys, we’ve got a blues number here by one of our own.”
The band nods.
Mr. Cool smiles at me. “And it looks like we’ve got a singer.”
The band nods again and says, “Yeah . . .”
I cough. “Actually, I’m just visiting.”
Ben shoves the music into my hands. The song is called “Tell Me,” words and music by Ben Adler.
Wow.
I’ve never known a songwriter before, except for me, but I write mine on the spot, not on paper.
Ben hands Caitlin the music. “It’s got a good trumpet part. You get a solo.” She looks at the music.
“Listen up.” Mr. Cool plays the melody on the piano. He looks at Ben. “Now that’s good, son.” To everyone, he says, “Here’s how it goes,” and sings the first few lines.
Tell me how you’re doing,
I really want to know.
Are you feeling good
Or are you feeling low?
Mr. Cool laughs. “Can we get that groove?”
The band scrunches up their faces and looks at the new music. I’m getting seriously nervous about singing. My throat is getting dry. I’m coughing.
Mr. Cool snaps his fingers, “Together now, one, two, three, four . . .”
They play, but not together.
It sounds awful. Ben looks down.
“Okay, first time is guaranteed bad. We’re over that.” Mr. Cool snaps his fingers again. It still sounds pretty bad, except for Caitlin’s trumpet. She’s good. He looks at me. “Anna, I’ll play, you sing.”
Uh . . .
I don’t normally sing this way, but Mr. Cool doesn’t give me a choice. He plays an intro, points to me. I give it my best.
Tell me how you’re doing,
I really want to know.
Are you feeling good
Or are you feeling low?
Mr. Cool twirls his finger in the air. I don’t know what that means, so I stop.
We work on this song again and again until it’s sounding decent.
Tell me if it’s bad for you.
Tell me what you need.
I’m your friend.
You can count on me.
“Anna,” Mr. Cool says, “sing behind the beat on the you can count on me. You can uh uh count on me. Try it.”
You can uh uh count on me.
Everybody laughs.
The uh uh was supposed to be silent.
I try it again, again.
“Anna,” Mr. Cool says, “keep your head up.”
I don’t really want to look at people.
“And remember,” he says, “your vocal cords are strong. They like it when you sing out.”
I gulp, put my hand over my neck.
Mr. Cool snaps his fingers: “One . . . two . . . three . . . take it.”
I get it this time. It’s sounding halfway good, almost like I’m a real singer.
“Do it again,” Mr. Cool says, and this time Caitlin plays her solo.
That sounds good!
I add:
Oh yeah . . .
You can count on me!
Caitlin and I finish exactly on time.
I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back exactly, but she doesn’t seem like she hates me either.
I’ll take that.
Mr. Cool says the band should play this at the parade.
The thing is . . . I raise my hand.
“I won’t be able to sing with you. I’m a deputy petal person and I’ve got to march with twelve little kids.”
Ben is disappointed.
Mr. Cool says they’ll just do the instrumental.
It’s a good song, Ben.
I wish I could sing with you.
And, Caitlin, you’re the best player in the band.
You probably already know that.
Eighteen
“It’s pedicure time,” Taylor says, wiggling her toes.
“I’ve been meaning to get a pedicure for about twenty years,” Mim adds.
I’ve never even thought about having a pedicure.
I gobble up the last of my caramel roll and we walk out of Mabel’s.
Mim, Taylor, and I head across the street to Star Nails.
Up the stairs.
Through the door with the silver star.
We’re baaaaack . . .
“Happy!”
“Beyond happy,” Taylor assures him.
The man claps his hands. “Good customers, special price! Pick color.”
I want to match. I find the Whisper Pink. Taylor searches through the polish. “I am such a contradiction, my toes should be blue, I think.”
Mim picks rose.
We sit in the chairs, put our feet on risers. The women who work here take such care to do a good job. I like them.
I’m feeling so many things.
My nail lady washes my feet, which is weird. She smoothes the bottom of my foot with
a file and I break out laughing.
She smiles. “Tickle?” She uses the file again.
I laugh and twist in the chair. Is this part of the pedicure? Taylor and Mim aren’t laughing. The lady does it to me again. I laugh hard. Everyone smiles.
“Happy!” The man comes over to me. “You more happy now.” He smiles at me and gives me a rose from a vase. “For most happy girl.”
“Thank you.” He’s kind of nice, actually.
The nail lady starts up with my other foot and I fall apart.
“So much for blending in,” Taylor mutters.
I guess spies aren’t supposed to be ticklish.
This is a pretty place, all pink and white with stars and flowers; this is a clean place.
The Happy! man goes outside to smoke.
So, what am I looking for?
What’s going on here?
The lady with the big eyes who gave me the magazine when I had my manicure stands in the corner watching.
My nail lady puts paper sandals on my feet. She smoothes and shapes my toenails and paints them Whisper Pink.
Honestly, these don’t look like my feet at all.
I get out of the chair, head to the foot dryer. Walking in these sandals makes me waddle like a duck. If we have to run for our lives, I’m in trouble.
I stick my feet under the dryer. I wait, watch.
I want to go up to every nail lady, show them the napkin drawing, and shout:
HAVE YOU SEEN HER?
Mim and Taylor waddle over now, and we sit in a line drying our toes. I’m dying to ask them if they saw anything new.
The nail lady with the big eyes walks over to me quickly and hands me a magazine like last time. “Nice,” she says. She pats the magazine.
“Thank you.”
She turns the page for me, and there is a little blue envelope. She touches the envelope quickly and looks at me. Her eyes are big and scared.
It’s almost like—
Now Taylor, who is sitting next to me, sees the envelope. She sucks in air.
My phone buzzes.
I jump.
The magazine drops.
The envelope hits the floor.
I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!
Instantly, I put my foot over the envelope, which isn’t easy. I’m now slipping out of the chair.
Taylor grabs hold of me.
People are looking. “She’s young,” Taylor says. “Her first pedicure.”
I smile and wave at people, trying to seem normal twisted up like a pretzel.
I can’t take my foot off the envelope! I try to move it toward me slowly.
Inch by inch.
Almost.
And now my foot is cramping.
“Everyone,” Taylor whispers, “is watching us.”
“Do something weird,” I whisper back.
Taylor instantly laughs way too loud. Everyone looks at her, and I scoop up the envelope.
There’s no place to put it fast except down my shirt!
So I do.
Wow.
I clamp my hand over my chest to keep it there.
I don’t dare look at the nail lady with the big eyes.
I’m sure everyone saw everything I just did.
Mim says a little loudly, “Now what would you girls like for dinner tonight?”
“Hmmm,” Taylor says. “Now let me think about that.”
I pat my chest in time to the music that’s playing, nod my head.
“Pizza!” Taylor shouts.
“Oh, yes,” I’m still patting myself to the music.
I look at Mim, make my best we so need to get out of here expression.
We stand up, I feel the envelope drop lower in my shirt. I’m patting my stomach now. Let me tell you, it’s not easy to get my real shoes on!
“Bye-bye,” Mim says. “Thank you.”
“Bye, star ladies!”
I’m walking down the street with Mim and Taylor, and I’m whispering about the envelope. Only whispering, and Mim says, “Not here.”
I’m pretty sure that everyone is looking at me.
I start humming the “Smile” song written by Charlie Chaplin, who had to get a lot of information across just using his face.
I roll my eyes at Taylor, who doesn’t get that I mean
DEEP AND POSSIBLE DANGER
As in . . .
ARE WE BEING FOLLOWED BY BAD GUYS?
I’m sure we are.
Which of us will turn around first to check?
Mim does. “We’re fine.”
Speak for yourself.
My heart is rolling in my chest, causing the envelope in my shirt to shake.
“I feel a little dizzy,” I mention.
Mim takes my arm.
We walk to the car and get in. Mim starts the engine, and we’re off.
Taylor shouts, “Tell me everything, Anna, with unerring detail.”
“I don’t have any detail yet. I haven’t read the note!”
I take the wrinkled envelope from my shirt, try to smooth it.
There are symbols on it, that’s all, drawn with black ink.
This isn’t English. I hand it to Taylor. “Is this Chinese?”
She looks at it while Mim drives. “It’s Asian writing, that’s for sure.”
“Okay,” I say, “now someone better pay attention.”
“Hold on.” Mim makes a sharp turn and heads down the street fast.
“Are we going to the sheriff’s?” I ask.
“Absolutely not.”
She speeds around a corner, turns right, left, right, and cuts through to the back end of the library.
I look around. “Why are we at the library?”
Mim slaps the dashboard. “This is where things get done!”
Nineteen
Mim jumps out of the pickup. Taylor and I do, too. We slam our doors at exactly the same time, march up the front steps, and head for the return desk.
Winnie stops what she’s doing.
Taylor hands her the note.
“Is this Vietnamese?” Mim whispers.
Winnie puts her finger to her mouth.
Shhhhh . . .
She heads to the back, and we follow her up the stairs, to the right, where she reaches for a book on a high shelf. She opens it, lays the note on it.
“You see these symbols? They’re similar. I think you’re right, Mim. This is Vietnamese.”
She looks at Taylor and me. “What can you tell me?”
I look around and whisper about what happened at Star Nails.
Winnie nods.
I mention the size of the lady’s eyes.
“Maybe she’s related to the girl,” Winnie suggests.
I hadn’t thought of that!
She whips out her phone, punches a button. “Agent Brad Dugan please . . . He’s in a meeting? . . . Yes, it’s extremely important.” She stands tough. “Tell him his grandmother is calling!”
Winnie makes copies of the Vietnamese note and sends the original to Brad, who is going to have it translated and probably dusted for fingerprints, or whatever it is they do to fight evil.
“It’s official,” she tells us. “Brad is opening a full investigation. That boy can find a button at the bottom of the sea.”
Taylor yells, “Woo-hoo!” which is the right thing to shout, but not in the library.
“I have something to say.” Winnie puts her hands on her hips and glares at me, Mim, and Taylor. “I can’t believe you went to Star Nails without me!”
“We could have used a librarian,” Mim mentions.
Winnie snaps, “Remember that next time.”
“We won’t be going back there,” Mim says.
&nbs
p; I think about what Lorenzo told me:
She’s lucky it was you who saw her, Anna. You won’t let it go.
I should have done more.
But what?
Mim walks over. “You need a break, Anna.”
“I can’t—”
“You need a break,” Mim says.
Taylor says, “Listen to your grandmother.”
I shake my head.
The van was scratched.
The people were Asian.
The lady was wearing a pink shirt with a silver star.
The girl was wearing . . .
What?
What was she wearing?
My brain closes up.
Mim takes my hand. “You need a break, Anna. That’s an order.”
“Ohhh . . .”
That’s all I can say.
I feel my hair go electric frizz from the humidity. There are trees, a little path, so many flowers, and the butterflies—you can’t believe how many.
“It’s year-round now,” Mim says. An orange butterfly flits in her face. She smiles at it. We’re in the Rosemont Butterfly House, and every color of butterfly is here—they drink from hanging feeders, get juice from cut-up oranges. A pink one flutters past. I hold out my hand, and it lands on my thumb.
“Hi,” I whisper. “I’m totally honored you chose me.” The butterfly stays for a minute, then flies off.
A monarch butterfly flits right in Taylor’s face. “I’m going to name you Fluffy,” Taylor says to it. “Can you handle that?”
Guess not. The butterfly takes off.
Taylor calls after it. “How about Seymour?”
Taylor is sitting on a rock by a waterfall looking like a little kid. It’s impossible to be stressed in a butterfly house.
I grin at Mim. “Thank you.”
She nods, you’re welcome.
And if I had to write a paper for English, which I don’t because it’s summer, I would write about how good things sometimes light on you for just a minute, but their touch stays with you.
I feel peace—I need that.
I feel warmth—I need that.
“You’re relaxed?” Mim asks.
