by Laura Ruby
“Sol!” said Bunny.
“Well, you’ve met the girl,” said Sol.
“Sol!”
“What?”
Bunny clucked her tongue at them both, but Georgie could see that she was smiling. Georgie devoured many slices of meat, a pile of potatoes and four biscuits. She was about to reach for a fifth when she realised that perhaps it was Agnes’s high-calorie food that had caused her freakish growth spurt. She decided to skip dessert, which was some sort of quadruple-chocolate, triple-fudge, double-butter, possibly deep-fried cake.
After dinner, the family retired to the media room, which was set up like a cinema, complete with stadium seating and a popcorn machine. Sol cued up one of his favourite black-and-white films, one about a guy who goes to Paris and meets some beautiful girl who doesn’t talk that much but dances around a lot, and the two of them dance on the ground and dance in the air and the whole thing ends up in this long ballet sequence that Georgie didn’t entirely understand, but didn’t find entirely horrible. At least, she didn’t fall asleep. But her parents did. By the end of the film, the two of them were slumped in their seats, their heads tipped together, as if one were about to turn and whisper something to the other. Georgie watched them for a while as the credits rolled. They were nice people, her parents. Nobody had a right to be miserable with parents like these. So what if Bug was a jerk face? So what if Roma was an idiot? So what if the Prince School was packed with spoiled princesses who’d never had to work for anything in their whole entire lives? She wouldn’t be there for ever. As a matter of fact, she would only be going to the school for a few more months before she’d move on to high school. That would have to be better, wouldn’t it? She would have to try harder to be happy.
Georgie kissed her parents good night, careful not to wake them. She wandered back to her bedroom where Noodle was looking at a website called catsinexile.com, which seemed to be some sort of blog with photos. Georgie was amazed to see so many pictures of so many different cats, considering how rare cats were. Maybe some cats had escaped The Professor’s apartment. But then, she didn’t want to think about The Professor, not really. Cats reminded her of stealing, which reminded her of Bug, which reminded her of the mean, mean thing she’d said to him in his apartment and the way he’d yelled at her and told her to get out, and she didn’t want to think about that any more. She didn’t want to think about it ever.
She changed into a pair of pajamas and crawled into bed. She considered the pile of books on her nightstand before pulling Charlie and the Chocolate Factory from the pile. She was nearly finished with the book; she was right near the end where the glass lift flies. Georgie knew a lot of things that flew, but none of them were lifts. She liked this book very much.
She settled back into her pillow, opening the book with a sigh. She had just read a single paragraph when an odd noise caught her attention. An odd, shuffling sort of noise, like a cat wearing slippers.
She looked at Noodle, but Noodle was downloading a photo of a white kitten sleeping in a sink and seemed absorbed in the work. Probably the computer making the noise. Sometimes the computer whirred and chuffed like an animal. Georgie shrugged, and went back to her book.
Shush, shush, shush.
Georgie glanced up sharply. A shadow lurked under door. As if someone stood behind it. Listening.
“Mum?” Georgie whispered.
No answer.
“Agnes?”
There was someone behind the door, Georgie was sure of it. But who? The Bloomingtons had the most advanced alarm system in the universe. People couldn’t just walk into the building. And nobody could just walk into the Bloomingtons’ penthouse. It was ridiculous. It was imposs—
The door creaked open. There, in the doorway, was a man wearing skinny plaid trousers, combat boots and a spiked collar. A white T-shirt, emblazoned with the logo GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, was splattered with paint and food stains. His blue hair stood up in a stiff Mohawk. Though it was dark, he wore sunglasses.
“Oi, oi, oi!” he said. “You must be Georgie!”
Noodle hissed, leaping from the desk chair to Georgie’s bed. The fur along her back spiked in an imitation of the man’s Mohawk.
“Who…” Georgie said. “How…”
The man held up a set of gold keys that dangled from a cheap Statue of Liberty key ring. “Keys to the City,” he said. “Let you in anywhere.”
“But the doorman…” said Georgie.
“Came in through the parking garage. Nobody keeps a decent eye on the parking garage. Easy after that.” He removed his sunglasses so that Georgie could see his wolfish, pupil-less eyes. A Punk. A Punk was standing in her doorway. In her house. That would have been amazing enough, except that the Punk threw in a little dance, bopping his head to music only he could hear.
He stopped bopping as quickly as he’d begun. “Do you like art?”
“What?”
“Art,” he said. “You know. Paintings. Sculpture.”
“Uh,” said Georgie, her eyes darting around. Where were her parents? Where was Agnes? What if he’d hurt them?
“Good,” the Punk said. “You’ll be seeing lots of it. You and your friends. Rich kid like you has to have a lot of rich friends.”
Noodle growled loud in her throat – because there was a crazy Punk in the room or because he’d suggested that Georgie had lots of friends, Georgie wasn’t sure.
“Speaking of friends,” said the Punk. “Heard from The Professor lately?”
“What do you mean? Who are you?” Georgie demanded.
“Don’t got to be so loud,” the Punk said. “You want to wake the ’rents?”
“The what?” said Georgie.
“’Rents. Parents. Oi, you’re not such a smart one, are you?”
Noodle’s growling got louder. “Go away! Get out of my house!” said Georgie.
“Just having a friendly chat, is all,” the Punk said. “No need to get your blankets in a twist. You can call me—”
“Sid,” said Georgie, who knew that all male Punks were called Sid and all female ones called Nancy.
“No!” the Punk bellowed. “I’m not Sid. Never, ever call me Sid. Call me Mandelbrot. That’s the name of a famous mathematician, you know. Studied chaos. And I’m the king of chaos, you know?”
“OK,” said Georgie, who didn’t know, but also didn’t want to find out.
“So, like I was saying. You see this Professor lately? Maybe he rings you once in a while? Maybe gives you some things to hang on to?” The Punk’s eyes fell on the cat. “Maybe this is his kitty and you’re watching it for him, right? Something special about this kitty?”
The Punk reached out for Noodle and Noodle hissed a ferocious hiss, the most ferocious hiss that Georgie had ever heard, a hiss that was too piercing and too big and too much to come from so small a cat. The Punk was startled, then enraged. Remarkably, incredibly, madly, he hissed back. The two hissed and hissed and hissed until Georgie couldn’t take it any more, until Georgie used the only part of her that didn’t seem to be frozen, her voice. She screamed as loud as she could. She leaped out of bed, grabbed up her cat, and vanished.
“Crikey!” shouted the Punk.
Agnes burst into the room with a lasso of sausage links swinging overhead and a meat fork pointing at the Punk’s heart. “Out!” she ordered. “Or not even queen can save you!”
The Punk hissed one last time before running across the room and flinging open the windows. He pressed a button on his metal belt. A parachute opened as he jumped out into the black night.
Chapter6
Patience and Fortitude
Her parents were in the room a second later.
“Georgie!” Her mother grabbed her.
“What is it?” said her father. “Did something happen? Did you see someone? Was someone here?”
“What?” said Georgie. She was no longer frozen. She was no longer invisible. She looked around wildly. The window was open, the wind swinging the curtains, but t
here was no Punk in sight. Noodle mewled, tucking her head under Georgie’s chin. Agnes tucked the meat fork in the pocket of her nightdress.
Solomon cupped Georgie’s chin in her hand. “Georgie, tell me what you saw. I need to know.”
Georgie took a deep breath, her mind scrambling for an answer. Georgie turned from her mother to her father, taking in their worried, anxious faces – terrified faces. She couldn’t bring herself to scare them more then they’d been scared. She cared about them too much. “Sweetcheeks,” she said. “I dreamed of Sweetcheeks.” She stared at Agnes, pleading with her eyes. Please don’t say anything about the Punk. Please help me protect them.
“Oh, honey,” said her mother.
“I dreamed that he could fly, and that he was coming to take me away from you.” Though this was not what she had seen at all, just thinking about it made her eyes tear up. She shivered.
The worry fell off the Bloomingtons’ faces. “You worried me,” said Bunny. “For a minute, I…” She trailed off.
“It’s all right, Bunny,” Solomon said, patting her shoulder. “She’s here. With us. Everything’s OK.”
“I’m sorry, Mum,” Georgie said.
“Don’t be sorry,” Bunny said. “It was just a bad dream. Sweetcheeks can’t hurt you any more.”
“That man is in jail for the rest of his life,” added Solomon. “And not only is he in jail, he’s in jail in Wyoming. He’s so far from us he might as well be on Neptune.” Muscles in Solomon’s jaw clenched. “You have my word: you’ll never see him again.”
“That’s enough talk about that evil man.” Bunny kissed her on both cheeks and hugged her again, tightly, tightly, tightly. “Would you like some warm milk? I can go make some. That will put you back to sleep. That will chase the bad dreams away.”
Georgie hated warm milk, but Noodle didn’t. And any kitty fierce enough to help drive off a Punk deserved a reward.
“Sure,” Georgie said. “We, I mean I, would love some.”
The Bloomingtons hurried off to fetch the milk. Agnes also turned to go, but Georgie stopped her. “Thank you, Agnes.”
Agnes waved her meat fork. “For what?”
Georgie and Noodle split the warm milk. Perhaps because it was warm, perhaps because her mother was the one who had warmed it, the milk did manage to drive away all thoughts of gangsters, Punks, and every other thing that goes bump in the night. Georgie slept soundly, not thinking about anything awful until she was on her way to school the next day. And then everything came flooding back:
I hate the Prince School.
I hate Roma Radisson.
I hate Bug.
I hate Punks.
So many awful thoughts, so little time. The bell rang and Georgie ran to her first class. Unfortunately, she had to sit next to Roma, who cleared her throat loudly and announced, “I don’t know what this school is coming to. Some students have to stay in boring museums packed with dead stuff all day long while other students” – here she looked pointedly at Georgie – “can cut whole afternoons and it doesn’t seem to matter. I guess if you have enough money you can do whatever you want.”
Ms Letturatura, the English teacher, floated over to Roma’s desk and scooped up the bottle of polish Roma was using to paint her toe nails. “I guess you can,” she said dryly, holding it out of Roma’s reach. “Does everyone have their permission slips? If you don’t have a permission slip, you won’t be able to go to the library. And if you can’t go to the library, you can’t do research for your papers. And if you can’t do the research for the paper, you can’t do the paper. And if you can’t do the paper, you get an F.”
Everyone started searching for their permission slips. Ms Letturatura was the only teacher at the Prince School who was a stickler for such things. Georgie had forgotten to ask one of her parents to sign the slip, and her mum had left early that morning, so she’d asked Agnes. On the line that was meant for parent’s signature, Agnes had scrawled “Georgetta’s Mum.”
Well, thought Georgie. This ought to work very nicely.
But it did. As Ms Letturatura collected the slips from the girls in the auditorium, she didn’t seem to notice what was written on Georgie’s. (Nor did she notice that Roma Radisson had written “Whatever!” on hers.) And she didn’t seem to notice that Roma half skipped, half floated behind Georgie down the streets and on the subway, deliberately kicking the backs of Georgie’s knees so that Georgie’s legs would collapse. Georgie yearned to disappear and stick out a huge invisible foot, sending Roma pinwheeling through the air. But of course, Georgie did not. She allowed herself to be kicked all the way to the public library. Not because she couldn’t get out of Roma’s way, but she couldn’t muster up the energy. And maybe she deserved to be kicked in the backs of the knees. For defying her parents. For worrying her parents. For Bug. For generally being a spaz. A few crows perched high up in a tree agreed: “Ha, ha, ha!” they laughed.
But Georgie’s dark mood was no match for the public library. As soon as she saw the grand white building, she felt herself cheering up. Ms Letturatura asked the students to gather around her. “The library itself is built in the Beaux-Arts style, characterised by high drama, huge columns, and freestanding statuary, like the world-renowned library lions behind me. These lions, originally sculpted by Edward Clark Potter, have seen everything. They almost seem to be looking at you, don’t they? Their names have changed a few times since the library opened in 1911. First they were called Leo Astor and Leo Lenox, after library founders John Jacob Astor and James Lenox. Then, even though they’re both male lions, they were later known as Lord and Lady Lenox. During the Great Depression, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia observed that the qualities city-dwellers seemed to have in abundance were patience and fortitude. And that’s what the lions are still called. Patience guards the south side of the Library’s steps and Fortitude the north.”
Georgie was the only one in her class – one of the few people in the whole world – who knew that Patience was really an actor named Henry Goldberg, and that Fortitude was a man whose stage name was Jean-Michel Renée Clouseau. The real pink marble statues were way too valuable to sit outside, and were stored somewhere in the bowels of the library. The trustees had used actors in lion suits posing on the steps for decades. Georgie knew all this because one night, while invisible, she observed the actors changing shifts and overheard them talking about rumours of the trustees’ plans to stop using actors and install cheap stone animals outfitted with security cameras instead. “If they do that, I’ll have to go back to dressing as a turkey sandwich and handing out flyers,” Henry had complained.
“Now,” continued Ms Letturatura. “I have a lot of fortitude, but I do not have a lot of patience. I want you all to act like young ladies while we’re touring the library, do you understand? That means that you are to be polite, respectful and most of all, quiet.”
At this, Roma Radisson kicked the back of Georgie’s knee and Georgie fell forwards. The other girls giggled.
Ms Letturatura took a deep breath. “Georgetta. You seem to be having some trouble moving today. And standing still. Is something the matter? Do you need medical attention?”
“Yes!” said Roma.
“No,” Georgie said, getting to her feet.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Good. Now remember what I said, ladies. Anyone making too much noise or generally acting out of turn will get a detention.”
London England yawned widely and Bethany Tiffany varnished her lips with one of Roma’s trademarked lip glosses. “The library. I’m already bored out of my mind,” Roma whispered.
“Did you have a question, Ms Radisson?” Ms Letturatura said, pausing at the base of the stairs.
“Yeah,” said Roma. “When’s lunch?”
“Polite, respectful, and quiet, Ms Radisson.”
Roma rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
“Thank you.”
Ms Letturatura led the group pa
st the lions, up the stairs and into the library. Despite the attitudes of Roma, Bethany and London, the other girls were quiet as they entered the big building. Footsteps echoed reverently and conversations stopped as the group took in the vaulted ceilings, the enormous columns, the arches and the windows that bent the sunlight into an ethereal haze. Ms Letturatura conferred with a petite girl wearing a bright scarf wrap on her head. It was Hewitt Elder, the Prince School senior who had chaperoned the museum school trip. Georgie smiled a greeting, but the girl didn’t look as if she recognised anyone. Or just didn’t want to.
“Ladies,” Ms Letturatura said, “Hewitt Elder will be leading the tour today. She’s a regular volunteer at the library, so she knows all about it. And if any of you are poetry buffs, you might already know that Hewitt published several volumes of poetry as a child. She’s quite the prodigy.”
“Hello,” said Hewitt in the most unenthusiastic voice Georgie had ever heard. She might well have said, “Goodbye,” or perhaps, “Get out,” or even “Drop dead.”
Bethany Tiffany sucked in her breath. “She looks like some sort of model. Or rock star. Or something. Have we seen her in a video? Do you think she’s an actor?”
Roma glared at the slim, tiny girl with the chocolate eyes, olive skin and elaborate head scarf, and Georgie could tell she didn’t like what she saw. People just weren’t supposed to be more beautiful and more delicate and more exotic than Roma. Roma seemed to gather up her courage and spat, “What kind of name is Hewitt?”
Hewitt Elder turned her dark eyes on Roma. “It’s an English name meaning ‘smart one’.”
“Really. Well, I’m named after a—”
“City. Yes,” Hewitt said. “You must be very proud.”
Roma tossed her hair. “I am. I—”
“As you might already know,” Hewitt Elder said in a louder voice, “the city library opened in 1911. The architectural style is considered Beaux-Arts. Notice the details such as…” She continued talking about the features of the building as if she didn’t care about Roma at all. Which, it seemed, she didn’t.