by Laura Tucker
It didn’t smell very good in there at all.
Alex stood there for a minute. Then he backed out of the room quietly and closed the door behind him. When he turned to me, he looked like Linda.
“How long has it been like this? How long has she been like this?”
I pushed him away from the door, catching him off guard. He stumbled back.
“Why are you doing this?” I pushed him again, harder. “You knew she wasn’t getting up. Why are you acting so surprised?”
I pushed him again, even harder this time. This time he was ready for it, so he didn’t stumble, which made what I was doing even more like hitting. But he didn’t do anything except look at me.
“How long, Ollie?” he asked again. Instead of answering—and for the first time since ding-a-ling, almost the whole time we’d been friends—I hit him on the arm. He didn’t even flinch. I pulled my arm back to do it again, just to see if I could make his face change, but his hand moved out fast to catch mine before I could.
Alex is so skinny, it’s easy to forget how strong he is. I tried to yank my arm away, but he was holding my wrist tight, the same serious look on his face. I struggled for a minute, and then I didn’t. As soon as I stopped fighting, Alex let go.
When he said, “We have to tell someone about your mom,” he wasn’t asking me, he was telling me. And then he brushed past me, moving toward the window again.
DOUBLE TROUBLE
By the time I got back out onto the fire escape, Alex was halfway up the stairs to the studio.
I called his name, once, even though I hated the desperation I could hear in my voice, but he didn’t stop.
Maybe I could have stopped him, if I’d really tried. But I didn’t.
Twenty-two stairs later, he was bent over, knocking on the studio window to get Apollo’s attention. I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was in Linda mode. I bit my tongue; I wasn’t going to beg like a baby, even though that was what I felt like doing: Stop, listen to me, give me a little more time to fix it.
He didn’t look at me when he straightened up, but put his hands in his pockets and looked off into the distance down Greene Street like he was expecting to see someone he knew there. That made me furious, as if the errand he happened to be running had nothing to do with me, as if he was letting me tag along like Maggie while he went ahead with the important work of ruining my life.
Except that this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I’d solved the mystery; I knew where my dad had gone. I even had a plan: The only thing left was to get Richard and the dimes to a payphone.
Except that Alex was dead set on ruining everything.
It was sunny on the fire escape, but not warm; a cold wind had come up from the river, and a hard light bounced off the window. We could see Apollo striding across the studio, a rag in his hand, squinting out in our direction without seeing us through the glare. His face brightened when he got close, though, and he bent down to grab the window’s handle.
As the big window rolled up, the smells of the studio—solvent, paint, a freshly brewed pot of coffee—gusted out on the cloud of warmth that greeted us. It was the smell of happy afternoons spent quietly drawing at one of the big tables while my dad and Apollo worked and talked quietly to each other about restoration problems that had solutions: alkaline baths and vacuum suction and wool felt blotters and the careful application of the right percentage of hydrogen peroxide. I wished I could curl up on the windowsill at the edge of that warmth and stay there.
“Ah, double trouble today,” Apollo said, extending his arm. Alex shouldered me aside to go in first, putting a quick hand on Apollo’s arm to steady himself before jumping down.
“And how was your bunny received, Mr. Alex?” Apollo teased, giving me a wink and offering me a hand as I followed Alex through the window. But I ignored his outstretched hand and dropped clumsily to the floor without meeting his eyes. Once inside, I stood very still against the radiator, arms crossed tightly over my chest and my jaw tightly shut, my molars grinding into one another.
Apollo registered the grim look on Alex’s face and looked at me in surprise, trying to figure out what was going on between the two of us. I looked away. If Alex wanted to spill the beans about my private life, then he could do the talking. Avoiding Apollo’s gaze, I ground the toe of my sneaker into an ancient piece of masking tape on the floorboard in front of me. I worried at it until the blackened strip lifted at the corner, revealing the pale, untouched floor beneath.
The window was still open wide, and a harsh blast of wind blew through the studio, ruffling a client’s prints laid out on one of the worktables. Apollo, distracted, looked back at the prints, and then turned quickly to close the window. It hadn’t rolled down evenly, catching before it had closed all the way, and I knew from experience that he’d have to shake it loose and then roll it back up in order to get it back on the track.
He dropped the rag in his hand onto the slanted drafting table by the window. It was one of my dad’s old navy T-shirts, cut up and soaked through with turpentine, the smell so strong my eyes pricked with tears.
I watched in silence as the rag tumbled slowly down the angled surface and came to rest on the wooden seat of the bar stool below it.
I should have said something.
I knew it was dangerous.
But I didn’t.
While Apollo was still working to free the window, Alex addressed his back.
“Apollo, we have to tell you something. But you have to promise not to freak out.” He took a deep breath. “It’s about Ollie’s mom.”
I could only see the back of Apollo’s head, his shoulders tense as he struggled with the window against the uncooperative track, but still I could tell that he was suddenly listening carefully. He yanked at the handle one more time and the window came unstuck, the big panes of glass rumbling down fast to shut with a bang.
Alex kept talking: I could tell he was scared he wouldn’t get it all out unless he kept going.
“She went to bed, and she won’t get up. She’s not working or making dinner or doing anything except sleeping.” He stopped again, trying to decide what to say next. “It seems pretty bad.”
Apollo turned around and looked directly at me, not at Alex. There was no teasing left in his face. Very softly he said, “How long, Olympia?”
I shrugged, my jaw set. He couldn’t make me tell him. But his ugly face was gentle and kind, and I looked away again, this time so I wouldn’t cry.
He moved to put his massive lion head right into my line of vision, and asked again. “How long, sweetheart?”
I wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Two weeks. About,” I said, and saw his eyes widen in shock.
There. It was out, gone, done, like water running through my fingers. I sent a silent message to my mom: I’m sorry.
Just then, the door to the studio crashed open.
Richard was standing in the doorway, glaring daggers at Alex, who looked alarmed to see him. We were all alarmed when Richard started yelling.
“What, you just forgot about me down there?”
He must have been sitting on the loading dock, waiting for us to come down so we could go to the park.
Except that we hadn’t come down. We’d gone up.
“I didn’t forget. I mean . . .” Alex waved his hands vaguely in front of him, then crossed his arms against his stomach. “The thing with Ollie’s mom? It got bad.” And the three of us watched the mad go out of Richard with a whoosh.
Then, as if one stupid, bossy, busybody boy wasn’t enough, Richard turned to Apollo and said, louder and faster than I’d ever heard him say anything before, “Ollie can’t stay there anymore. Her mom needs help. Real help. We should have told someone when it started; I knew we should and I wish we had. But you’ve got to do something now.”
I’d thought I could trust Richard.
But he was a traitor, too.
SOME ISLAND
Apollo had been standing still, his big body frozen in place. Richard’s speech seemed to thaw him out. He walked swiftly over to the big black phone hanging on the wall by the door and cradled the receiver on his shoulder while he rifled through the notebook he’d pulled out of his back pocket for a number.
He’d plugged the phone back in. The calls from Antonin Grandjean must have stopped when the big man had gone back to Brussels.
“Whoa, whoa.” Alex said, jumping in front of him. “Who are you calling?”
Apollo picked up the phone and started dialing.
“I am calling your mom.” Which was pretty much the last thing on earth I thought he was going to say. It also might have been the worst.
Alex also seemed genuinely alarmed by the idea of involving Linda and went so far as to reach up to try to grab the receiver from where it was sandwiched between Apollo’s shoulder and his ear, but Apollo gently blocked him with one enormous paw and turned away.
Alex came back and stood next to me, visibly upset. I was glad. I stared at the blue rag where it lay crumpled on the wooden seat of the chair, feeling the ugliness beating around my chest and pushing up through my throat. I kept my face expressionless; if you’d been looking through the window, you wouldn’t have been able to tell that anything was wrong.
Alex and Richard could tell, though.
Linda picked up right away. We could hear her tinny voice through the old receiver—not the words, but the tone—and when Apollo said who it was, I could hear her switch to the icy, professional voice she uses when she calls a company to make a complaint. That made me feel hopeful; maybe she wouldn’t want to get involved at all. But Apollo is Apollo, and by the time he’d growled his way through some flirty hellos, we could hear Linda softening up and laughing.
Then he got down to business. “Linda, I have a favor to ask of you. You’re opening the house on the Island this weekend, is that right?” Every year, Alex spent the whole summer out there with his aunt. Usually, I missed him. At that moment, though, I didn’t care if he moved to Mars for good.
Linda whinnied something back, and Apollo nodded. As if it had just occurred to him, he asked, “I don’t suppose you could find a spot in the car for Olympia?”
A bubble of disbelief rose up the whole length of my body. I couldn’t go away with Linda to some weird island. What would happen to my mom while I was gone?
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, and then Linda asked a question. Apollo turned to the wall and hummed some confirmation, which freaked me out more than anything that had happened yet.
Without Apollo saying anything, Linda knew what was going on with my mom.
Then Linda said something else, and Apollo’s jaw tightened. His voice sounded different, too. “When did Cornelia call you?” he asked.
Richard’s head shot up; Cornelia was his mom.
“I wish you had let me know.”
Linda twittered on for a while, and Apollo kept shaking his head, even though she couldn’t see him. Finally, he interrupted. “I’m not sure yet. I need some time. And Olympia could probably use some . . .” He glanced at me, then trailed off.
Linda was uncharacteristically quiet on the other end of the line. I couldn’t make out what she said next, but what I could hear was worse: the singsong of pity. Tears of rage bit at my eyes, and I sucked my cheek in tight between my teeth so that I didn’t start yelling. If I started, I’d never stop.
Apollo wanted to get off the phone. He thanked her and said, “I’m sending the three of them to you now, Linda. Thank you. I’ll call you later tonight when I know more.” Then he hung the heavy black phone back onto its cradle, squared his shoulders, and turned around. He looked tired, but his voice sounded ordinary and purposeful.
“Alex, will you please take Olympia downstairs so she can pack a bag? She’s going with you to the Island this weekend. You’re leaving in less than an hour.” To me, he said, “Don’t forget long pants and a sweatshirt, Ollie—it’s still cold out there at night.”
I shot lasers out of my eyes at him. Alex moved quickly toward the front door, relieved to have told someone, happy to have a plan, and glad to be out of there. Richard was behind him.
I shot Apollo one more filthy look over my shoulder. He spoke so quietly that only I could hear. “I know this isn’t what you want. But don’t be too angry with Alex, okay? He did the right thing.”
And he rested his huge hand on my shoulder quickly, taking it away before I could have the satisfaction of shrugging it off.
TRASH
We went down the regular inside stairs. The fluttery panic I’d been feeling had turned into a cold, hard nugget of anger sitting high in my chest. Alex pretended he didn’t notice me glaring at him as he moved to the side and waited for me to open the door.
Richard kept going down the stairs; he’d wait for us outside.
I went into my room and got the duffel bag I used for sleepovers from its spot underneath my dresser. I stuffed a couple of T-shirts and my other pair of jeans into the bag, grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom and a couple of pairs of underwear from where they hung on the chairs. I put my notebook in the duffel, too. I couldn’t imagine drawing anything, but I couldn’t imagine being without my notebook, either.
At the last minute, I threw in an almost-full can of peanuts from the kitchen counter. Four days with Linda, and who knew what kind of wacky diet she was on right now? When we were in third grade, there had been an entire month of sardines from a can you had to open with a key, which she ate with dark mustard on crackers that looked exactly like the inside of a corrugated cardboard box. Alex had practically starved.
Alex was still waiting for me by the door, the energy radiating off him in spiky waves. He couldn’t wait to leave, but he wasn’t about to say anything to me, which was wise. It was going to be a quiet trip overall, because I’d already made up my mind: I was never going to speak to him again.
I waited for him to go downstairs, but he’d obviously taken it upon himself not to let me out of his sight. Fine. I turned my back to him and walked toward my mom’s room.
I knocked gently, once. There was no answer from inside.
“Mom?” I whispered, leaning my head against the painted panes. Still no answer. I desperately wished Alex wasn’t there.
“Mom?” I whispered again, more urgently this time, and put my hand on the knob that Alex had opened half an hour earlier, but the handle wouldn’t turn. I tried again, with a little more force. The handle did not budge.
I backed away as if I’d been electrocuted. She must have gotten up to lock the door while we were up in the studio with Apollo.
When I turned around, Alex’s face was terrible.
“Forget it,” I said shortly, storming across the big room toward the door. “Let’s go.”
I shouldered past him toward the door, then turned back to see him furtively pushing the notebook on the counter away. He looked up at me guiltily. “I left the number of the house on the Island, in case your mom wants to . . .” he said, but his voice petered out by the time he got to the end of the sentence.
I headed out the door past him and ran headlong down the long, crooked grey stairs. At the bottom, on my way out the door, my shoulder brushed against the plastic-covered A.I.R. sign taped to the front wall.
It felt like a bad joke. Artist-in-residence? My mother wasn’t an artist. She was barely even a person right now.
I got my fingers between the duct tape and the window and pulled. It hurt to do, but I was glad; I would have ripped the whole world apart with my bare hands if I could have.
The last bit of tape came off all at once, and I stumbled back, breathing hard, the thick wad of plastic and tape and cardboard crumpled in my hands. I smashed the sign into a ball, dropping it on the unswept tile floor o
f the foyer before bursting out onto Greene Street, kicking it out to the gutter as I went.
I didn’t look back once. Not at the cast-iron building I’d grown up in, my mom motionless upstairs behind the locked doors of her room. Not at Richard, watchful by the curb, his shoulders hunched with worry.
And especially not when I heard the heavy metal front door clang shut behind Alex, because I didn’t want to see what he knew, what we both knew, which was that my mother was not going to call me while I was gone.
NOTGUN
I could feel the two of them trailing me down Greene Street and then around the corner onto Prince. Alex had slowed to match Richard’s pace. They were nervous. That made me madder.
I hoped we’d have to go up to Alex’s room, where everything was matchy-matchy and his Star Wars figures were arranged just so above his bed. Linda had told us once that they’d have to take apart the built-ins to get anything that fell back there. As soon as I got the chance, I was going to knock Han Solo behind the shelf. Maybe Chewbacca, too.
But as we turned onto Mercer, I saw the station wagon parked outside Alex’s building, the doors and back open, a heap of bags piled on the sidewalk next to the car. Which comes from Sweden, as Linda will gladly tell you, like anyone cares.
Linda and Maggie were waiting for us, and Alex ran ahead to them. I could see his relief in the way he ran.
As soon as he got close to the car, Maggie called shotgun. “Shotgun, Alex! Shotgun! Ollie, I get shotgun!” She did this every single time we went anywhere together. She had never—not one time in her whole life—noticed that we always let her call shotgun because we’d rather sit together in the back seat than up front with Linda. Alex always said we’d probably be in college before she figured it out.