The Vanderbeekers to the Rescue

by Karina Yan Glaser

  “Hi!” he boomed. “How are you feeling about tomorrow?”

  Isa hurriedly pressed the button that decreased the volume. “I don’t know,” she told him. “I’m worried.”

  “Ah, why worry? You will be brilliant.”

  “How is Amsterdam?” she asked, changing the subject. Mr. Van Hooten had gotten married last year, and he and his spouse were celebrating their one-year anniversary in Amsterdam, the capital of the Netherlands.

  “It is a beautiful city!” He turned his phone around and aimed it out the window. Isa could see the glow of streetlamps and the faint outlines of buildings.

  “It’s too dark,” Mr. Van Hooten said. “I’ll send you a picture tomorrow morning. You will fall in love with this place. One day you will come here and play music at the Royal Concertgebouw.”

  “Maybe,” Isa said, her stomach flipping at the thought of a huge concert hall in a foreign country. “But I’m nervous auditioning just for a high school orchestra.”

  “You will be brilliant,” Mr. Van Hooten repeated. “Let me hear your piece, and then I must go to bed. It’s midnight here.”

  Isa winced. “I forgot about the time change! I’m so sorry!”

  Mr. Van Hooten shook his head. “We were at a concert. We got home only thirty minutes ago.”

  Isa smiled, relieved he hadn’t stayed up to hear her, and lifted her violin to rest on her shoulder. She took a deep breath and began to play.

  Sometimes when Isa played, the vibrations of the violin filled her heart with energy and love. Sometimes the notes shimmered in the air and floated to the ground as if they were fireworks drifting lazily in the breeze after they exploded.

  Tonight, however, the notes didn’t shimmer. Each note dropped to the ground and shattered, and Isa knew halfway through that Mr. Van Hooten would be disappointed.

  When she played the last note, she put down her violin before the string had even finished vibrating. “I’m sorry, Mr. Van Hooten,” she began. “I’ve been working so hard, but—”

  “Isa,” Mr. Van Hooten interrupted, “you need rest. Something is on your mind, yes?”

  Isa’s mind was full of everything that had happened that week: of home license inspectors and homeless kittens and flapping chickens, of guinea pigs and a dog with a scar on her nose, of Mama’s ruined business and a dilapidated storefront. She looked at Mr. Van Hooten on the screen, and as usual, he seemed to know what was on her mind without her saying a word.

  “Things always get better,” he said. “You’ve put in the work. Your fingers and your body know the music. Now you need to let your heart know it too. Do your best, and remember the important things—”

  But before he could finish the sentence, the connection between them failed. Isa stared at the phone, willing for Mr. Van Hooten to appear again and tell her what exactly it was that she should remember. But the screen stayed blank.

  Isa waited for a few more minutes before putting down her phone and picking up her violin. If she got the piece exactly right, maybe somehow everything else in her life would fall into place as well.

  Friday, April 5

  Twenty-Nine

  The next morning, Hyacinth woke up and shivered. She glanced at the thermometer outside her window. Jessie had installed one outside everyone’s bedroom window the previous Christmas. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees overnight.

  Hyacinth pulled her blanket around her, stuffed her feet into slippers, and checked on the animals. The guinea pigs were buried under a pile of shredded newspaper, and the kittens were sleeping in a pile in the corner of the crate. Satisfied that they weren’t cold, she headed out of the bedroom with Franz following her sleepily. As she went down the stairs, she tried to remember her strange dream from the night before. It had to do with Mr. Huxley, she knew, but after that, things went hazy.

  Downstairs, she expected to see Papa, who was an early riser, but instead Hyacinth found Mama under a throw blanket on the couch with a book as thick as Hyacinth’s encyclopedia of knitting stitches, which was so heavy she never moved it from its spot on top of her desk.

  Hyacinth crawled under the blanket next to Mama, trying to absorb some of her warmth. The book was open to a page that said “U.S. GAAP Rules.”

  “What does that mean?” Hyacinth asked.

  Mama took off her glasses and rubbed her temples. “It’s something I need to re-remember for my accounting interview.”

  Hyacinth eyed the book with skepticism. “That looks complicated. Are all the pages in that book like that?”

  “Sort of,” Mama said. “Accountants have to be very smart.”

  “You’re smart,” Hyacinth said.

  “Thank you,” Mama said. She kissed Hyacinth on the cheek, then went back to her reading.

  “Mama?” Hyacinth asked.

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “I’m sorry we ruined your business.”

  Mama cupped Hyacinth’s face in her hands and kissed her nose. “You know what? The inspector would have closed my business anyway. It’s not your fault.”

  Hyacinth was not reassured.

  “Hey,” Mama said, catching a tear from Hyacinth’s cheek with her thumb. “I think we both need some cheering up. Let’s make sugar cookies.”

  For the next hour, Hyacinth and Mama settled into the familiar rhythm of mixing butter, sugar, flour, baking soda, eggs, and a pinch of salt. After they let the dough chill briefly in the freezer, Hyacinth watched her mom’s strong arms roll it out; then Hyacinth pressed her cat-cookie cutter into the sheets. Mama deftly transferred Hyacinth’s cutouts to a baking tray and slid it into the oven.

  An hour later, the rest of the Vanderbeekers, except Oliver, who was sleeping outside in the treehouse, awoke to the brownstone’s happy creaks and the comforting smell of sugar cookies. The heat from the oven spread warmth throughout the apartment, and the one thought that drifted over the Vanderbeeker kids as they awoke was that they absolutely could not let Mama down this time.

  They needed to get her that bakery.

  * * *

  Oliver did not wake up to the sounds of Mama and Hyacinth giggling or the sweet smell of sugar cookies. He woke up to the clucking of chickens and the blare of a car horn. He sat up and cupped his hands over his face, blowing warm air to defrost his nose. Pulling his hoodie over his head, he sat up to look out the window. The chickens were awake and pecking the ground, but there didn’t seem to be any additional animals.

  Oliver checked the camcorder—it was still running—and he switched it off and unplugged it from the extension cord. Then he slipped the device into his hoodie pocket and slid down the climbing rope. The chickens gathered around him, having recognized him as the source of their meals. Oliver promised to feed them after he ate his own breakfast, and he left the hungry chickens pecking at the door in protest when he slipped inside the brownstone.

  Once inside, he basked in the warmth of the kitchen and the smell of sugar cookies. His favorite smell in the whole world was chocolate sea salt caramel cookies, but sugar cookies were definitely in his top ten. Mama and Hyacinth wore matching aprons; Hyacinth had flour on her nose. Franz was weaving between their legs, sniffing out a trail that would hopefully lead to a stockpile of dropped cookie dough.

  “Any more animals?” asked Jessie, who was standing by the kitchen island, crunching on an apple.

  Oliver shook his head. “And the recorder actually worked last night too.”

  “Darn,” Laney said.

  “I know,” Oliver agreed. “What a waste.”

  “I was hoping for a hedgehog,” Laney grumbled. “Or a mini-pig.”

  “Those are illegal in New York City,” Jessie told her.

  Laney scowled at the injustice. Then she shoved a big bite of buttermilk pancakes into her mouth.

  Oliver’s stomach rumbled, and he reached out for a plate, but Mama swatted his hand away.

  “Wash your hands first,” she said, going to the kitchen sink and gesturing him over. “Since appare
ntly we are operating a farm now.”

  Oliver went to the sink, and Mama took the soap dispenser and pumped a healthy glob of soap onto his hands. He got the suds going, then let the warm water bring feeling back into his cold fingers. After he ate breakfast, he climbed into the shower and let the hot water warm the rest of his body up. Once he was dry and in clean clothes, he headed downstairs to see if he could find the sugar cookies. The doorbell rang when he was halfway down, and there was the usual mad rush—Franz howling, New Dog barking, the kittens scrambling to see what the commotion was, George Washington fleeing up the stairs to hide from the intruders. Oliver opened the door to find Benjamin Castleman.

  “Hey,” Benjamin said.

  “Hey,” Oliver said. “Nice jersey.”

  Benjamin looked down at his shirt, then back at Oliver. “Thanks. Is Isa home?”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Isa said, flying down the stairs, her hair streaming down her back. “I just need to get my violin!” She was wearing a black dress and no shoes.

  “Wow,” said Benny.

  “Right?” Oliver said. “She’s all stressed about this audition. Hey, want to play basketball with Angie and me later?”

  “I’ve never seen her in that dress before,” Benjamin said.

  Oliver wrinkled his nose, sensing that Benjamin’s attentions were focused elsewhere, and left him at the door to return to his original purpose for coming downstairs: sugar cookies.

  A few moments later, Isa emerged from the basement with her violin.

  “I thought your audition wasn’t until ten thirty,” Mama said, looking at her watch.

  “I want to get there early so I can warm up,” Isa explained.

  By that time, the rest of the family had gathered in the living room to wish Isa luck and give her hugs. Hyacinth and Laney kept touching her lace dress and commenting on how pretty it was. Benjamin didn’t utter a word, but Oliver could tell he agreed. Jessie handed Isa a pair of black shoes. Mama gave her a kiss and said she was proud of her. Papa gave Isa his usual game-day pep talk about playing hard and how the greatest glory was giving it your all, something he had probably borrowed from his high school basketball coach, then handed her a coat, since it had turned so cold overnight. Oliver sat down on the couch with his cookies and watched everyone say goodbye as if Isa were leaving them for three decades instead of three hours.

  After the long goodbye, Papa went to work and Mama curled up on the couch, glasses on, the Accounting Best Practices book in her lap. Oliver, hoping Jessie wouldn’t remember that she had volunteered him to help finalize the business plan, grabbed another cookie and went to the backyard. The chickens ran to him, their wings flapping.

  “Okay, okay,” Oliver said to them, trying not to step on any chickens as he made his way to the feed bin. It was difficult to avoid them, harder than it had been the day before. Why was that?

  Then Oliver stopped and counted the chickens.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven.

  Seven chickens!

  * * *

  Jessie was in her room at the computer, adding the finishing touches to the business plan, when Oliver burst into her bedroom.

  “There are seven chickens outside,” Oliver blurted out. “Seven!”

  “What?” Jessie said. She was trying to complete a thought she had just had about business outcomes.

  “Seven chickens!” Oliver said. “We need to look at the video! Hyacinth! Laney!”

  Hyacinth and Laney rushed into the room.

  “What’s going on?” Hyacinth said. “Is everyone okay?”

  Oliver was punching buttons on the recorder. “There were three more chickens in the backyard this morning. I didn’t notice until I was feeding them. If someone left them there, they should have been caught on camera.”

  Jessie grabbed the recorder from Oliver. “Don’t randomly press buttons! You’re going to accidentally delete it!” She tinkered with it, then held it out so everyone could see the video play on the tiny recorder.

  “Gosh, that screen is so tiny,” Laney said.

  Jessie set the video playback at ten times the normal speed, yet the recorder showed the same view of their back door, dimly lit with a single porch light. Ten minutes later, they had reviewed nearly three-quarters of the video.

  “Maybe the chickens heard that the Vanderbeeker backyard was the place to be, and they flew over the fence,” Jessie said.

  “Or the camera is angled wrong,” Oliver said gloomily. “Maybe the person opened the gate, snuck the chickens inside the backyard, then left again without crossing the back door.”

  A morning light began to creep into the footage—the sun was rising—and Jessie’s arm was tired of holding the camera. “I don’t think we’re going to find any—”

  “Wait! There!” Laney shouted at the same time Hyacinth yelled, “I see something!”

  Jessie paused the video, rewound a little bit, then played it again at the regular speed. The shadow of a person crossed in front of the door, then disappeared. Three chickens ran across the screen.

  “I can’t believe it,” Jessie said.

  Oliver glanced at Jessie. “Maybe we should look at the video again.” He reached out to take the recorder.

  “We don’t need to see it again,” Jessie said, snatching the recorder back. “We all know who that is.”

  Thirty

  A few minutes later, Jessie, Oliver, Hyacinth, and Laney were knocking on Miss Josie and Mr. Jeet’s door.

  Miss Josie opened the door and looked around. “No animals today?”

  “They’re resting,” Laney told her.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Jessie said, “but do you know if Orlando is around this week?”

  “I can’t imagine why not,” Miss Josie said. “He called yesterday to check on me.”

  “Do you know where he lives?” Jessie asked. Even though Jessie and Orlando had hung out nearly every day since he had moved to Harlem nine months earlier, she had not once been to his apartment, a fact she now suddenly found suspicious.

  “I haven’t been to his place in months—I barely leave the apartment these days unless I’m taking Mr. Jeet to the doctor—but he lives in the white brick building on 122nd Street between Adam Clayton Powell and Frederick Douglass. North side of the street, sort of near the middle. He lives on the second floor, apartment 2A. I don’t remember the building number.”

  “We’ll find it,” Jessie said.

  “Thanks, Miss Josie,” Laney said, giving her a hug.

  “I hope everything is okay,” Miss Josie said, her face creased with worry.

  “Me too,” Laney said, glancing at Jessie, who looked as mad as the time Laney had (accidentally) sat on her experiment and ruined three weeks’ worth of scientific research.

  “Tell him he should come over for dinner tomorrow,” Miss Josie said.

  “Will do,” Jessie said before turning Laney’s shoulders toward the staircase and nudging her downstairs.

  “Where are we going now?” Laney asked.

  “Orlando’s place,” Jessie said.

  Jessie popped her head inside their apartment to let Mama know they were taking a walk.

  “Put jackets on,” Mama asked. “And take the dogs with you, please!”

  Franz was dozing in a patch of sun, but New Dog was pacing back and forth and whining.

  Jessie let out an impatient sigh, but she grabbed jackets while Hyacinth and Oliver leashed the dogs up. Before long, they were walking down Frederick Douglass Boulevard, passing sandwich boards advertising hair braiders and southern fried chicken. They walked south all the way down to 122nd Street, then made a left.

  “Hey, this is the same block as the animal shelter,” Hyacinth said.

  “Isn’t it weird that we’ve never been to Orlando’s place?” Oliver asked. “He practically lives at our brownstone.”

  “It
is weird,” Jessie said, her voice clipped.

  “Are you mad at him?” Laney asked.

  “You bet I’m mad at him,” Jessie said, her arms crossed. “He lied about being out of town this week when we were supposed to be working on our science fair project, and now we find out that he’s the one who’s been leaving all those animals at our home? Nope. Not cool.”

  “Maybe he has a good reason,” Hyacinth said, jogging a little to keep up with Jessie’s long, indignant strides.

  Jessie didn’t respond, and it made Laney really, really hope that Orlando had a good reason, because Jessie did not seem in the mood for anything less than the best excuse in the world.

  * * *

  The Vanderbeekers followed Miss Josie’s directions to Orlando’s apartment. They were searching for the white building when they saw Orlando’s familiar silhouette rambling toward them from the opposite end of the street. Laney immediately broke into a run to greet him, and by the time the rest of the Vanderbeekers caught up with her, she was talking a mile a minute. Franz let out an I’ve-missed-you-so-much howl, and New Dog licked Orlando’s hand.

  “Was that really you, Orlando, who left all of those animals at our place?” Laney was saying. “Why would you do that? And did you know that Mama’s baking business got closed down? Mama has to go back to her accounting job, which no one wants her to do. And Jessie is super-duper mad at you because you were supposed to be doing your science fair project with her this week but you said you were out of town and you weren’t.”

  Jessie crossed her arms and stared at Orlando. His shirt was dirty, his pants had holes in the knees, and his eyes had dark circles under them.

  “Wait, what happened to your mom’s business?” Orlando asked.