by Wendy Mass
“This is a really slow elevator,” I observe.
“Yeah,” Lizzy says. “It’s almost like we’re not moving.”
I look at the panel of numbers. “That’s because neither of us pushed the button for our floor!” I lean over and push 14. The elevator jumps a little and begins to ascend.
We start to laugh. Lizzy says, “You’d think we’d never been out of the house before.”
I watch the floor numbers light up one at a time as we approach each one. “Did you know,” I tell Lizzy, “that most buildings don’t have a thirteenth floor because the number 13 is supposed to be bad luck? Of course there still is a thirteenth floor; they just call it the fourteenth floor.”
Lizzy narrows her eyes. “So what you’re saying is that since we’re going to the fourteenth floor, we’re gonna have bad luck?”
Maybe it’s better when Lizzy doesn’t listen when I share my knowledge of the world. “Um, forget I said anything.”
When the doors open we get out and follow the signs toward Suite 42. Along the way we pass assorted businessmen and women, all who either ignore us or give us the forced smile that adults usually give to kids, where just the corners of their mouths turn up. We finally find the right door. It still has the FOLGARD AND LEVINE, ESQUIRES brass nameplate on it. Lizzy steps back and motions for me to try the door. I take a deep breath and turn the handle. Of course it doesn’t budge.
“Turn it the other way,” Lizzy advises.
“That’s not gonna work,” I say. “You always turn a knob to the right to open it.” Nevertheless, I try it. I’m so surprised to feel it twist under my hand that I don’t even push the door open for a second.
“Wow, that actually worked!” Lizzy exclaims, pushing through the door. I quickly follow and close it behind us. There is no electricity in the office, but enough light comes through the windows that we can easily see around us. It’s like a ghost town of an office. Shells of desks and filing cabinets, stained carpet, empty cardboard boxes, a broken lamp.
“Let’s get moving,” Lizzy whispers. “You look in Harold’s office, and I’ll check out here in the waiting area.”
I nod, and head into the office that has Harold’s nameplate stuck on it. First I check the old wooden desk that sits in the center of the room. It’s a nice desk. I wonder why he abandoned it. The drawers are all hanging out, which makes it easy. I feel around the insides of them, and also check the bottoms of each drawer in case the keys are taped there. All I come away with are a few splinters, three paper clips, and a business card for a moving company. I can hear Lizzy in the next room opening and closing drawers, too.
According to the plan, I crawl around on the carpet, feeling for lumps as I go along. About halfway around the room I actually feel something! It’s about a foot away from one of the walls and is just the right size for a set of four keys and a key chain.
“Hey, Lizzy,” I call out as loud as I dare. “I might have found something!”
She comes running in, and I point to the lump. She runs back out. When she returns, she is carrying her briefcase and my bag, which we had left by the front door. She unsnaps her briefcase and pulls out the screwdriver. She hands it to me, which I think is a nice gesture since I’m sure she’d be as capable as I in cutting the carpet. I would feel guilty doing what we’re about to do, but the carpet is so old and stained and torn that there’s no question the new tenants are going to replace it. In a way, we’re helping them out.
Using the sharp edge, I hook the screwdriver under the edge of the carpet where it meets the wall. Then I move it back and forth like a saw. Even though the carpet is old, the fiber is strong. Lizzy holds the two edges of the rug apart as I go along, revealing the concrete floor beneath. I’m sweating by the time I slice my way to the lump. One last slice and the carpet reveals its hidden treasure.
Lizzy screams and jumps back so fast that she crashes to the floor, limbs flying. She covers her mouth to keep herself from screaming again and finally manages to scramble to her feet.
“You’re such a girl,” I tell her, letting the carpet fall back into place. “It’s long dead.” Instead of the keys to my box, we have uncovered the final resting place of a little brown mouse.
Lizzy shivers. “Lets just finish looking around. This place is giving me the creeps.”
The only place I haven’t searched yet is the ceiling. It’s one of those drop-down types where you can push on the panels and they lift up. “Flashlight,” I say, holding out my hand. Like a nurse handing a doctor a scalpel, Lizzy repeats, “Flashlight,” and lays it in my hand. I stand up on the desk and can easily reach the ceiling. Pushing up on one of the panels, I move it aside so I can stick my flashlight up there. I have to clear away a cobweb before sticking my head in. Good thing I’m doing this instead of Lizzy. For a tough girl, she is brought to her knees by things with multiple legs.
“See anything?” she asks. Her voice sounds muffled from up here.
“Pipes, dust, and wires,” I call down. I shine the light slowly around, but just see more of the same. “Do you want to take a look?”
She doesn’t answer. I repeat my question. She still doesn’t answer. I duck my head back out of the ceiling to see Lizzy standing stiffly in the center of the room. A very round and red-faced policeman, in a full-on NYPD outfit, stands at her side. The security guard from downstairs almost completely fills the doorway.
All I can think to say as I climb off the desk is, “I told you we should have given him the king-sized Snickers!”
Chapter 7: The Job
“You didn’t say anything about the Snickers!” Lizzy hisses as we are led into a mini police station right in the basement of the building.
“Well, I thought it!” I reply lamely.
The security guard, who must have ratted us out, exchanges a few words with the policeman and leaves without a backward glance. The policeman, whose nametag says POLANSKY, motions for us to sit on the wooden bench across from his small desk. Lack of beard aside, he would make a good department store Santa Claus. He isn’t very jolly, though, so he probably wouldn’t last long.
“Would you like to tell me what you were doing vandalizing that office upstairs?” he asks, leaning forward in his chair.
Lizzy and I exchange glances. I can see she’s frightened, even though she’s trying to pretend she’s not. Before I can think it through, I say, “Um, we know him, I mean Folgard. Harold. I know we told the guard he’s our uncle, but really he’s a friend of my parents. I mean of my mom’s. My dad, he’s… he’s not around, so—”
“What my brother here is trying to say,” Lizzy interrupts, “is that vandalizing is totally not the right word. You see, we had passes to go up there.” She gestures to the sticker on our chests. “So this has all been a big mistake.”
“Not so fast,” Officer Polansky says as Lizzy reaches for her briefcase. “That office no longer belongs to Folgard and Levine. It was rented out last week to J&J Accountants. It was their office you were vandalizing.”
Lizzy whispers out of the corner of her mouth, “There he goes with that word again.”
“The guard in the lobby has a direct video feed to all the empty offices. Gotta make sure no squatters get in here. He saw you destroying private property.”
I have no idea what a squatter is other than someone who squats, but I don’t bother to ask. Instead I say, “Honestly, we were just looking for a set of keys that Mr. Folgard hid there a long time ago. We didn’t mean to destroy anything.”
“Breaking and entering is a very serious offense, you know,” he says.
I glare at Lizzy. She shrinks down in her seat a little. Then she says, “But the door was unlocked, so it wasn’t really breaking. Just entering. And really, what’s so bad about entering?”
“The way I see it,” Officer Polansky says, clearly not swayed by Lizzy’s logic, “is that not only do you owe J&J Accountants the money for a new carpet, but you have to pay your debt to society for not respecting
other people’s property.”
Neither of us speaks for a moment. I am calculating how many weeks of allowance it is going to cost to buy and install a new carpet. “Can’t we just write a letter to J&J, and to, you know, society, apologizing for the misunderstanding?” I ask, hoping he can hear the sincerity in my voice.
He ignores my question and says, “Now Tony, Tia, those aren’t your real names, are they?”
Neither of us answers at first. As Tony Castaway, I had felt shielded from the reality of the situation. But as Jeremy Fink, there is no escape. Officer Polansky makes us tell him our real names and addresses, and he types them into his computer. He is a very slow typist, so we have plenty of time for Lizzy to pinch my leg. As I flinch, I realize I’d been holding my breath, and I quickly let it out.
“What was that for?” I ask from the corner of my mouth.
“You were turning purple,” Lizzy whispers.
“You swore we wouldn’t get arrested!” I whisper back.
“We’re not getting arrested!” she says, forgetting to whisper. Then in a smaller voice she asks, “Are we?”
Officer Polansky gives us a long look. We try to appear as innocent and wide-eyed as possible. Mom told me once in times of trouble to try to project sunny thoughts: butterflies, babies laughing, hot dogs in a ballpark on a sunny day. So I think of babies laughing in a ballpark surrounded by butterflies eating hot dogs. Very small, tiny hot dogs. I can’t vouch for what Lizzy is thinking, but it must be something good because Officer Polansky says, “No, I’m not going to arrest you.”
“You gonna send us to juvie?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.
I groan. Officer Polansky laughs. “No, I’m not going to send you to juvenile detention either. I was thinking of community service. You don’t have any big plans this summer, right?”
Thinking of the box, I say, “Well, actually—”
“Nope,” Lizzy jumps in. “Community service is fine.”
“I’ll see what’s available,” he says, pulling a clipboard from his desk drawer.
“Um, doesn’t a judge have to assign community service?” I ask.
“We’re streamlining the process,” the policeman explains, “unless you want me to involve a judge….”
Lizzy kicks me in the ankle, which actually hurts quite a bit.
“I didn’t think so,” he says. He scans the list in front of him. “I’m even gonna be a nice guy and give you some choices.”
“Great,” I mumble under my breath. I can’t believe that in the few days since school ended, I am now sitting in a mini–police station being assigned community service for the summer. How did this happen? How am I going to open the box if I can’t look for the keys because I will be too busy picking up garbage on the West Side Highway or planting flowers in some church garden?
“Let’s see,” Officer Polansky says, running his finger down the list. He is apparently unaware of my screaming inner voice. “Here’s one. You can pick up trash in Central Park following the weekly free concerts. How’s that sound?”
I do not trust myself to speak.
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” he says. “We’d give you poles so you wouldn’t have to touch the garbage with your hands. And any cans you find, you can keep and turn in for five cents down at the recycling center.”
“What else ya got?” Lizzy asks bluntly.
He consults his list again. “Well, the only other one that would take kids your age would be helping a man named Mr. Oswald with some deliveries. He’s closing down his pawnshop and moving to Florida. The job could involve some lifting though, and I gotta tell you, you two aren’t the strongest specimens I’ve seen.”
“We’ll take it,” Lizzy and I say at the same time.
“We’re stronger than we look,” I add. While this is true of Lizzy, I’m probably just about as strong as I look.
The policeman pauses to consider it, then says, “All right. I’ll call Mr. Oswald and find out when he wants you to start.”
He pushes two small notebooks toward us. “You’ll have to keep a log of the hours you spend on the job and your observations. At any time we might ask you to turn ’em in so we can make sure you’re not skirting your responsibilities.”
“Observations?” I ask. “Of what?”
“Community service isn’t just about getting people to work for free. The citizen is supposed to learn something from the experience. They should come away from it a better person.”
“A better person?” Lizzy repeats. “What’s wrong with us now?”
“I don’t know, Tia,” he says.
That shuts her up.
He dials Mr. Oswald’s number, and after he introduces himself as Officer Polansky, all we hear is, “One boy, one girl, ’bout thirteen. Yes. No. Yes. Say they’re stronger than they look.” He checks his computer screen and reads out our address. Then he says, “Okay. Yes. They’ll be there. No problem. Good day to you, too, sir.”
“You start tomorrow,” he says, putting a notation next to the job on his clipboard.
“Um, how are we supposed to get to him?” I ask. “Because my mom works all day, and so does Lizzy’s dad, so I don’t see how—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “Mr. Oswald will send his driver to pick you up and take you home.”
“A driver?” Lizzy asks. “If this guy has a driver, why can’t he just hire someone to help him pack up his stuff?”
Officer Polansky’s face darkens a bit. “Would you rather take the first job?”
Lizzy shakes her head hard. “I was just asking.”
“Mr. Oswald has done a lot for the city,” he says. “So we like to help him out whenever we can.”
I wonder how a pawnshop owner helps out the city, but I am not about to ask. Officer Polansky looks like he’s on his last nerve. I don’t like the idea that I’m going to be taken out of my neighborhood comfort zone, once again, and led who knows where.
“You two can go now,” he says. “Nine a.m., sharp. And dress more… casually. Never seen kids on summer vacation dressed up before.”
“We don’t usually dress like this,” I am quick to explain. Not that it really matters.
“One more thing,” he says. “You do a good job, and we’ll waive the cost of a new carpet. That one was pretty beat even before you two got to it.”
“Thank you,” we say in unison. We practically leap off the bench in our hurry to be out of there.
I’m about to sling my backpack over my arm when he says, “Oh, wait, what was I thinking? I still have to call your parents!”
“But they’re at work,” Lizzy says hurriedly. “We can just tell them ourselves.”
He chuckles, but not in a very friendly way. “Doesn’t work that way,” he says. “Now what’re their work numbers?”
“Actually,” I say, raising my hand slightly then quickly lowering it. “My mom’s home today.”
He adds both numbers into the computer and then says, “Now get going. See if you can stay out of trouble for the rest of the day.”
Lizzy grabs her briefcase, and we hurry from the room and back into the elevator. Neither of us speaks as we press the button for the lobby. It’s just as well that he made us leave before calling them. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear Mom’s reaction. I’ll hear it soon enough.
“What were you thinking?” she demands as I walk in the door an hour later. “How did you get home?”
“The bus,” I told her. The return trip on the bus had been much smoother. We got quarters from a hot pretzel vendor, and Garlicman was nowhere in sight (or in smell, as the case may be). We sat in the front of the bus and I tried to eat my peanut butter sandwich while Lizzy ate a pretzel. It wasn’t easy to choke down the sandwich after our experience, but just in case Mom punishes me by only serving something healthy for dinner, I had to eat while I could. Even still, I could only eat half.
“I’m sorry we lied about going to the post office,” I reply sheepishly. “I know we should ha
ve told you where we were going. I was afraid you’d say no.”
“Come sit down,” she says, and leads me over to Mongo. We pass a painting on an easel that she must have been working on today. It’s covered with cloth now though, so I can’t tell what it is. We sit down, and she takes my hand in hers. “I know this is hard for you,” she says gently. “You want to follow your dad’s instructions, but we just might have to find another way.”
“Lizzy and I have already tried everything else,” I tell her. “The only way to get in is with the keys. Otherwise we’ll ruin the box.”
“I don’t want that to happen either,” she says. “But now you have to put that aside and deal with this community service mess you’ve gotten yourself into. You can’t shirk your responsibilities with this man.”
“What if he’s some sleazy pawnbroker guy who just wants free labor?”
“He’s not,” she assures me. “I made Officer Polansky give me Mr. Oswald’s phone number to check him out. I wasn’t going to let my baby be whisked away by just anyone.”
I groan. “Mom!”
“Sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t going to let my almost-teenaged son be whisked away by just anyone.”
“That’s better.”
“He’s a very interesting man. And I think you’ll find this job—”
“It’s not a job,” I remind her. “A job is where you get paid.”
She shakes her head. “A job is where you are assigned a task and you complete it to the best of your ability. Money or no money. Anyway, as I was saying, I think you might actually enjoy working with Mr. Oswald. You may find you have a lot in common.”
“Like what?” I ask, but I’m not really interested. My stomach is growling. Now that I know Mom isn’t going to punish me, my appetite has returned.
“The man has spent his life around other people’s stuff. Sound like anyone you know?” Without waiting for an answer she stands up from the couch and says, “And by the way, you’re grounded for a week. It would be more, but I figure you’re already being punished. You’ll do the community service, and then come straight home.”