The sky rumbles as I finally reach Liberty Tower, where I started my journey yesterday, and climb off my bike. The building stretches up beyond the illumination of the streetlights. I ignore the ache in my chest and focus on the paintings, the shapes I studied over and over and couldn’t find meaning for. I don’t see anything in the structure that evokes those images, so I wheel my bike across the street and keep searching. What about the unusual lamp on the building on the next block? Could it be part of one of her paintings?
My heart sinks when I get close enough to see that there is nothing about the lamp that looks familiar. So I keep riding, studying every brick and iron bar and . . . there. I spot two white gateposts that lead to a courtyard several blocks away. When the lamp and the posts are combined, my artist’s eye tells me they match one of the images my mother painted. I snap pictures and keep walking.
My heart pounds. A drop of rain lands on my cheek, but even as everyone around me picks up their pace, I don’t rush for fear I will miss what my mother saw.
I see the blue-and-red columns on a building at the end of the block, put down my kickstand, and walk around, looking for what my mother painted. Finally, I find the right spot where the tree suddenly appears to be just small green specks behind the wide blue-and-red pillar.
Energized, I climb back on my bike and keep going—determined to find them all.
There! The corner of a concrete pedestal and the weathered bronze tip of the man’s boot from the statue I passed yesterday match another of my mother’s canvases.
Certain I am finally going to be able to finish my mother’s work, I ignore the mist of rain that starts to fall and keep riding until I again reach the La Salle Street Bridge.
The streetlights that line the bridge are bright. Thunder sounds. People hurry around me as I stare up at the black iron flower design and then walk the bridge past the arched red iron to the other side, looking for the last two of the completed paintings and a hint as to what the unfinished one might be.
Wait. There.
I snap a fast photograph from a distance, then shove my tablet into my backpack so it stays dry and hurry forward.
Fat raindrops fall from the sky. Thunder rumbles. A man with a shoulder bag bumps against me as he struggles to raise his yellow umbrella. Those without umbrellas race for cover. I don’t run, but I do wheel my bicycle faster as I approach a small courtyard area a half block away from the entrance to this side of the bridge. The rain soaks me, plastering my shirt to my body. My socks squish with every step until finally I get close enough to be certain that I’ve found the inspiration for Mom’s fifth painting. There is only one more finished painting to find the source of and then I’ll be able to search for the one she never got to complete.
“Here,” a man’s voice says. “I could be wrong, but I think you need this.”
I turn and see the man who bumped me holding out his large yellow umbrella.
“Thanks.” I smile gratefully and shake my head. “But I can’t take your umbrella.”
“Not the umbrella,” the man says as he holds out his other hand. Clasped between his fingers is a folded piece of paper. “This is for you.”
Four
The man thrusts the folded paper into my hand, then turns on his heel and hurries to the sidewalk that leads back toward the bridge.
“Wait! What is this?” I call, almost tripping over my bicycle as I turn it around to go after him. By the time I finally am ready to ride in his direction, the man and his brightly colored umbrella have disappeared.
Lightning streaks white against the sky, illuminating the heavy gray clouds. A crash of thunder follows. Rain streams down my face. My heart drums as I continue to search the street for any sign of the strange man.
Nothing. And he could have gone almost anywhere. Down the steps to the walkway by the river. Across the bridge. Into a building. There was no way to know. The page in my hand is the only proof that he was ever here. And even that will disappear if I don’t get out of the rain, which is now coming down hard and fast.
Quickly, I fold the page into a smaller square and shove it into my pocket. Then I turn my bike and, with dozens of questions swirling through my mind, pedal to my house.
Why would someone give me a piece of paper? Why would they give anyone paper? Especially now when the city had joined the national effort to buy back any paper that had not yet been recycled. Technically, I should go to one of the centers and turn the page in. It’s what anyone who loves our city and country would do.
Instead, I steer toward home.
Several times I have to stop under a tree or an awning as water pours from the sky in sheets. I am soaked and shivering when I finally pedal up my driveway and lean my bike against the back of the house. The windows of my father’s bedroom are dark, and when I step inside the house it is completely quiet. I strip off everything but my underwear and use a dish towel to get the worst of the wet out of my hair. Now that I’m not dripping, I dig the sodden piece of paper out of my pocket and start to unfold it.
Damn.
The paper immediately starts to tear. There is no choice but to wait until it dries out before I can see what the man handed me.
Frustrated, I dry off, change my clothes, then go to my mother’s studio and flip on the light. The paper has to dry. Obsessing about it won’t help me. Time will. So I try to focus on the other thing I gained while I was out. I now know the source of almost all of my mother’s final mysterious paintings. Carefully, I rearrange the small canvases in the order I saw them tonight, starting with the combination of the lamp and the white posts and ending with the arrows and diamonds. At the end of the line I place a canvas of deep red contoured rectangles all lined up next to each other. Gold lines divide each of the shapes. Shimmering gold images—which look sort of like winged trees—are lined up like sentries at the top.
Finally, I place the unfinished canvas with the red stars at the corners on the last easel to complete the set.
I know so much more about what my mother was painting before she died, and yet I still have no idea what any of it means. And now I have another mystery to unravel—the wet folded piece of paper. The man with the umbrella was unfamiliar but not exactly forgettable. He had a line of hooped earrings in one ear and a small diamond stud above his left eyebrow. No, I didn’t know him, but he seemed to know me.
I go to the kitchen to retrieve the tablet from my bag, glad that it was waterproof or I would be totally screwed. Then I curl up on my bed and draw what I can remember of the man in the rain.
Taller than me, but that’s not saying much. Yellow umbrella. Dark stubble against slightly olive skin. And sunglasses. Despite the rain and the dark, he was wearing black sunglasses. Maybe if I had seen his eyes I would recognize him. But looking at the image I have created, I find nothing about his face that pulls at my memory.
Rain pounds the roof as I turn and stare at the paper sitting on the nightstand. I’ll give it another hour to dry, I think, just before my eyes close.
I dream that I am lost in a forest of silver metal trees—hungry and tired and desperate to find a way out. When I see a crust of bread, I race toward it and cram it into my mouth before I can even think about who might have left it on the ground or why. I find another crust fifty feet away. The trees start to change color—bronze and wrought iron, then gold—as I follow the trail of crusts to the edge of a rickety bridge that spans a gaping hole that I can’t see the bottom of. I am just about to step onto the first wooden slat when I hear someone call my name.
“Meri—wake up. Your alarm didn’t go off. You have to get up. . . . Meri!”
I snap open my eyes. My father’s face comes into focus above me, and for a second, I don’t understand why. I am still standing at the bridge past the forest of metal trees, looking for more bits of bread, trying to find my way out. Then the words sink in. The bridge and the bread vanish as I sit up straight and glance at the clock. For the first time in months, I slept for six hours str
aight.
“I’m going to be late,” I say, leaping off the bed.
“I can drive you,” my father offers. “And I’ll put some coffee in a go cup just in case you decide you want it.”
It takes me just minutes to put on my uniform, brush my teeth and hair, and grab my things.
Wait.
I hurry back into my room, snatch the now dry paper off my nightstand, and shove it in the side pocket of my bag so I can open it later. Dad has the coffee and a toasted bagel ready for me when I reach the kitchen. I grab both and am glad he suggested the ride because I am just walking into the gym for my physical education final as the second bell rings.
Thankfully, the test for gym class is pretty simple. We have to either run a mile or take a fourteen-page written exam about the rules and history of the various team sports we participated in throughout the year. It’s not a surprise when all but four of us change into shorts and a school logo T-shirt and head outside to the track.
On my best day, I’m not a fast runner. Today was not even close to my best day, which means I end up jogging with a bunch of other students I’ve known forever. They keep up a running conversation about the end of finals and their excitement about summer break. And for some reason they insist on asking me questions.
I force myself to answer in between panting breaths. It isn’t until the test is over and I am getting back into my uniform that I think about the dream and realize what it meant.
Bread crumbs.
Mom’s paintings were like the bits of bread. Her trail led from Liberty Tower down La Salle Street to whatever the last painting represented. That was where something went wrong. The trail wasn’t complete. But logic dictated that it had to pick up somewhere on La Salle Street—the street where that man with the yellow umbrella found me.
I dig the paper out of my bag and duck behind an open locker so no one can see as I unfurl the fragile page. The paper is stuck to itself in several places. I have to keep reminding myself to go slowly. Not to rush as the page tears.
“Coach Kay wants everyone in the gym now,” someone yells.
Several lockers slam shut and someone calls my name to hurry up.
“I’m coming,” I yell back, but I don’t move as I finally pry the page all the way open.
The paper is wrinkled and torn, but the one word written in the center of the page in red block letters that are faded by the rain and partially washed away still is readable.
VERIFY
Or is it an N in the middle? V-E-N-I-F-Y?
Either way, is it a word? A name? Maybe a product or a place? If VENIFY is some kind of new business, then handing out pieces of paper with the name would certainly get attention. People could turn in the papers for the recycling incentive money.
I fold the paper and carefully stash it away, then head to the gym to listen to Coach Kay’s last-day speech before the bell rings. She gives the screen in my hand a deliberate look as she reminds us all to stay active this summer and not to spend all our time with our tablets.
As soon as the bell sounds, I bolt to the door and hurry to my next final. I am one of the first to arrive at English Comp, which gives me time to turn on my tablet and open up a search window. Do I think the word has an N or an R in it?
I type “VENIFY” first and hit Enter.
NO INTERNET CONNECTION AT THIS LOCATION.
Ugh. In my excitement, I forgot that the school turns off all wireless connections on final-exam days.
The letters on the paper haunt me as I hunch over my tablet for my composition test.
Thankfully, after English, my last final for this year is art, which means all I have left is to answer a few questions about the importance of celebrating American culture through realistic artistic expression, which I do in a matter of minutes. I hit Complete on my work and now I have nothing to do for the next hour.
I think about the page tucked deep inside my bag. I could wait until I go home to look for information on the strange name or . . .
I raise my hand and wait for Mrs. Rudoren to notice me and wave me toward her desk.
“Are you having trouble with your final?” she asks.
“I’m finished, but I’m not feeling well,” I say, putting a hand on my stomach. “Can I get a pass to visit the nurse? I think I just need to lie down for a few minutes.”
“You know, I thought you looked pale,” Mrs. Rudoren says, opening her desk drawer to pull out a small blue-framed e-memo screen. “Why don’t you take your backpack and tablet with you just in case he keeps you for the rest of the period. I can get the pass back from Mr. Hayes after school is over.” She glances at her watch, uses her stylus to key in the information, then hands the pass to me. “If I don’t see you before the end of the day, have a great summer, Merriel.”
I thank her and collect my stuff on the way to the door. As soon as I am out of Mrs. Rudoren’s sight, I hurry down the empty hall, past rooms filled with students hunched over tablets or staring off into space. Quickly, I head not to the nurse but to the Technology and Research Center to use one of the research computers.
On test days, the technology specialists are typically running from classroom to classroom helping fix tablet connections or making sure exams download properly. Today is no different. As I had hoped, the center is completely empty when I slip inside.
I hear a humming sound coming from the office in the back. Someone could be in there, but the blue door is closed and this won’t take more than a few seconds. I can be gone before whoever is in the office notices I am here.
I cross to a computer that’s behind a large blue-and-white column, out of the sight line of the office.
Heart pounding, I click on the Search bar and enter the word “VENIFY.”
THERE IS NO ENTRY FOR THIS QUERY.
The humming in the office grows louder. I shift the bag on my shoulder, hit New Search, and try the other combination of letters: “VERIFY.”
The screen in front of me changes from black-and-white to blue with red writing.
ERROR CODE 253
REPORT TO ADMINISTRATOR IMMEDIATELY.
Unless I want to explain what I’m doing here, I don’t think so.
My foot catches on the leg of the chair as I jump up. The clatter of the chair hitting the desk rings in my ears as I hurry toward the door. I close it carefully behind me. As it latches, I hear short, high-pitched beeps sounding from behind the doors.
“It’s coming from the Technology and Research Center,” someone calls down the hallway to my left, so I hurry toward the one to the right. I hold my breath as footsteps echo against the linoleum tile of the hall behind me. I slow my steps as I approach the white door with a plaque that reads “Bryan Hayes, RN” on the wall beside it.
One look at me—breathless and sweaty—and Mr. Hayes directs me to sit down so he can take my temperature. It’s not until he declares my temperature normal, has asked me a half-dozen questions, and checks on the four other students who are camped out in the office that he even thinks to inquire about my pass. He logs the information into the computer without questioning the time Mrs. Rudoren signed me out of art class.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and close my eyes. My heart beats loud in my ears as I think about the red error message on the computer screen—the beeps that started as I left the Technology Center and the voices that had been approaching it as I left.
The message appeared as soon as I searched for the word “VERIFY.” The beeping and the voices came seconds later.
That could be coincidence.
After all, it was just a computer search . . . for a series of letters on a piece of paper that had been given to me by a man I didn’t know, but who seemed to be waiting for me. In the rain. On the path of bread crumbs my mother painted.
This was all crazy. And yet . . .
The bell rings. The others sitting in the nurse’s office bolt for the door, but I take my time swinging my feet over the edge of the cot.
“No, I’m okay.” I push to my feet as if to prove it.
He watches me as I walk to the door. When he seems satisfied that I’m not going to keel over, he wishes me a good summer. I repeat the sentiment as I go out the door and into the hallway. It feels like a party. Spare uniforms and T-shirts are being shoved into bags, lockers are being slammed shut, and people are streaming toward the door that leads to several months of freedom from school. I start toward my locker, but when I reach the hallway for the Technology and Research Center, I turn down it instead of going straight. Through the long glass window in the door, I see Principal Velshi arguing with several security officials. Mr. Velshi looks frazzled. The guards don’t. They seem—
“Excuse me!”
I jump at the sharp voice and whirl around. Mrs. Haberman, the head Technology and Research Center specialist, has her arms crossed over her wide chest and gives a fierce frown. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I was looking for Rose Webster,” I lie. “I said I’d meet her here.”
“Well, you’ll have to meet her somewhere else,” Mrs. Haberman snaps. “The Technology and Research Center is closed.”
I step back and she pushes the door open. Just before it latches closed I hear Mrs. Haberman say, “Well?” and Principal Velshi reply, “Someone did a search on that computer seconds before the alarm went off. We need to report this problem and find whoever is behind it.”
I stumble back from the door. Principal Velshi is a nice man. When my mother died, he wasn’t one of the ones who told me that he was “always here” if I needed to talk and then never mentioned it again. Like it was a box to check—act sympathetic and then move on. He dropped by my lunch table or found me in the hallways every couple of weeks just to chat. If it had just been him in the Technology Center, I might have opened the door and told him about my search for VERIFY. I could have showed him the water-stained paper and asked what he thought it was.
Verify Page 6