Timeless

by Alexandra Monir

  Michele ran to Caissie’s locker before first period, and fortunately, she was alone. Her eyes widened when she saw Michele.

  “Oh, God. Are you okay?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Michele burst out. “Do you think we can have lunch alone today, somewhere private?”

  “Of course.” Caissie peered closely at Michele. “You don’t look like you’re going to be able to eat a bite.… How about this: I’ll scarf down some food during break so we can spend lunch in the library.”

  Michele managed a weak smile. “Thanks. I’ll meet you there.”

  Her morning classes went by in a mindless blur, her body present but her spirit a hundred years away. At last the bell rang for lunch, and she hurried to the library. She and Caissie found a private table in the back, and the moment they sat down, Michele poured out the whole story, tears welling up in her eyes as she spoke.

  “So … what do you think happened?” Michele asked after she had finished.

  “I—I honestly don’t know,” Caissie said slowly. “But … I have an idea for how you might be able to find out.”

  “What?” Michele asked intently.

  “Do you think you can go back to the 1920s, before the time Judy said he—he died? She said it was in 1927, right? If you can get to him sometime before that, then you can find out firsthand if he’s okay, and if he’s not … then you have a chance to try to fix this.”

  Michele stared at Caissie. “That is a good idea. Only I don’t have anything like Clara’s diary to send me back to the twenties.”

  “Can you go digging around the house after school?” Caissie suggested. “I mean, there’s got to be something there.”

  “Wait a minute!” Michele exclaimed as a memory dawned on her. “I do have something. It’s from 1925, though.”

  “That’s close enough!” Caissie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my God. You get to see the Roaring Twenties!”

  The second Michele got home, she raced up to her room two steps at a time. She pulled open her desk drawer, where Lily Windsor’s composition book was still nestled—the book she had found during her trip to the attic weeks earlier and forgotten all about.

  “Please let this work,” Michele whispered.

  With one hand she clutched the key around her neck; with the other she opened the composition book to the first page of lyrics. As she read the song title, “Born for It,” written in Lily’s messy hand, Michele found herself sinking into the book pages, just as she had with Clara’s diary. And then she felt Time taking hold of her body, and she was spinning through the air so fast she felt as if her face could fly off at any moment. This must be what Caissie meant by going faster than the speed of light, Michele thought. And then she was dropped. Falling through the tunnel of time, she let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Horsefeathers! Who are you and where did you come from?”

  Michele looked up and there she was: her great-grandmother, the famous singer—before she was a star. Her auburn hair was styled in the wavy bob from the portrait in Michele’s room, and she wore a knee-length pleated dress. Without the heavy makeup she wore in her portrait, Lily looked youthful, maybe even younger than Michele.

  Michele gave her an awestruck smile, momentarily distracted from all her troubles. Never in a million years could she have imagined that she’d get to meet the Lily Windsor. And the bedroom—it could not have looked more different from Clara’s, or for that matter, Michele’s. The decor was all in the Art Deco style, cosmetics and accessories littered every inch of table space, and the walls were covered with posters emblazoned with names like Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Ziegfeld Follies.

  “I’m Michele,” she finally said to her great-grandmother. Then, remembering what she had told Clara, Michele cleared her throat and said awkwardly, “I’m a spirit.”

  “What?” Lily roared. “A ghost? I didn’t do anything to you, get out of here!”

  Okay, so clearly spirits were more highly regarded in 1910 than in the twenties.

  “Uh, no,” Michele said. “Not that kind of ghost. I’m a good spirit. I’m here to help you.”

  Lily stared at her. “Says you! Why should I believe that?”

  Michele shrugged. “Do I look like a scary ghost to you?”

  “Not really,” Lily admitted, inspecting her closely. “In fact … well, you do look a bit like me!”

  Michele grinned, feeling a little thrill at those words. As she glanced around the room, she noticed a worn copy of Shakespeare’s The Tempest on Lily’s unmade bed, and it gave her a spark of inspiration.

  “You’ve read The Tempest?”

  “Read it?” Lily scoffed. “It’s only my favorite of Shakespeare’s plays.”

  “Well, then you should understand what I am—a spirit just like Ariel from the play.”

  “Oh?” As Lily surveyed her, Michele could tell that she was pretty tempted to believe in the idea of having her very own Ariel. “Well, it would be like me to have something otherworldly enter my life,” she sighed dramatically, a tinge of pride in her voice.

  Michele tried not to laugh. “Yeah, well. It could be worse.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was looking for a solution to a terrible predicament,” Lily continued. “Is that why you are here, then?”

  “Um, what’s the predicament?” Michele asked.

  “We-ell …” Lily eyed her carefully for a few minutes, as if judging whether Michele looked trustworthy. “All right, I’ll level with you. I need to sneak out of here and get to the big singing contest tonight at the Cotton Club.”

  “But why would you need a singing contest? You’re—” Michele stopped herself just in time, remembering that Lily probably hadn’t made it big yet. Sure enough, Lily impatiently explained, “This contest could be my big break! We have to find a way to get me there.”

  “Okay, but first, can you tell me something?” Michele drew in a deep breath. “Do you know anything about Philip Walker? Does he still live next door?”

  Lily gave Michele a suspicious look. “Aren’t spirits supposed to know everything?”

  “Just tell me,” Michele begged. “Please.”

  “Oh, all right. He doesn’t live next door anymore, hasn’t for years. I think I heard he’s somewhere in London. And I never met the big pill. The Walkers were blacklisted from our family after he broke his engagement to my cousin Violet, back when I was a baby. Apparently he couldn’t get over another girl.” Lily rolled her eyes, as if to say, Like anyone could prefer another girl to gorgeous Violet. “Naturally we’ve hated those sour Walkers ever since. And now Daddy is just about killing Mr. Walker in business as payback,” Lily said conspiratorially.

  Michele stared at Lily, reeling from all the news. She was the reason for the big Windsor-Walker feud? It makes sense. I should have realized it sooner, Michele thought. But still, she had always assumed that the rift was caused by something else—business sabotage, maybe, but not her! Michele felt a stab of fear at the knowledge that it was all her fault. And worse, Philip wasn’t even here in New York? How could she have any chance at saving him now? I have to draw him out somehow, Michele realized. I have to find a way to bring him to me here.

  “Now, how do you think we should get to the club?” Lily pressed. “It’s all the way in Harlem.”

  “Let me think.” Michele paced the room, then suddenly stopped and looked at Lily. Wait a minute, she thought, her mind racing. Lily is a singer, and I know for a fact that she becomes famous. If I give her the songs I wrote with Philip and she performs them … then not only will he know that I’m here, but it could launch his career! She would have to come up with some sort of alias for him, of course, since she couldn’t imagine Lily doing anything to help a “sour Walker.” But this could still be the big break he needed. She couldn’t imagine him giving up on his life at just the time when he was finally reaching people with his music.

  “Lily, I think we can help each other,” she said abruptly. “I’ll get you to the Cotton Club.
But I need you to sing my songs.”

  “Ex-cuse me!” Lily exclaimed, giving her an affronted look. “Since when do spirits have ulterior motives and drive bargains? Plus I already have my audition song prepared.”

  “I don’t mean tonight, but soon. And you don’t have to sing them if you totally hate them,” Michele assured her, feeling a little guilty for bribing her great-grandmother. “But I have a … a good feeling about the songs for you.” She threw Lily a meaningful look. “You might want to—to trust my spirit guidance on this one.”

  “Oh, bother. All right,” Lily said, relenting. “I’ll hear them, but later. Now, what is your great plan?”

  “Tell your parents you’re going over to a friend’s house to spend the night, but just make sure it’s a friend who can cover for you if they call. Then, instead of going to your friend’s, we’ll walk to the Plaza Hotel, reserve a room, and take a taxi to Harlem from there.” As she spoke, Michele wondered what the heck she was getting them into.

  “Well, now you’re on the trolley!” Lily said, her eyes shining. “That’s a nifty plan. I have money for emergencies in my undergarments drawer, and it should be enough dough for the hotel and taxi.”

  “Just be sure to put on extra makeup and dress older, so they’ll think you’re at least eighteen when you try to book a room,” Michele advised.

  “Don’t you worry about that. If anyone knows about costuming, it’s Lily!” she said confidently.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Michele added. “No one but you can see me.”

  Lily changed into a kimono, and Michele watched curiously as she got ready, humming and doing funny vocal exercises all the while.

  “Hey, where are the … others? Clara and Frances and the rest?” Michele asked, wondering how it happened that Lily was now living in the mansion.

  “They live at the homes of their husbands, of course. Cousin James moved to England when he married Lady Pamela, so when Uncle George died, my father inherited the mansion.” Lily sat at her vanity and began plucking her already thin eyebrows with a vengeance, until Michele had to stop her.

  “Wait, you’re overplucking!”

  Lily wiggled her skinny eyebrows at Michele. “Oh, darling, that’s the look.” She shook her head in amusement.

  Next she rimmed her eyes with black kohl and applied mascara from a tube that Michele was amazed to see read MAYBELLINE. She dusted bright powder blush on her cheeks and then carefully applied red lipstick called Cupid’s Bow, giving her lips a dramatic bee-stung appearance.

  “How does it look?” Lily asked.

  She looked way overdone to Michele, especially with the bright spots of blush on her cheeks, but at least the smoky eyes and Cupid’s Bow lips made her look significantly older. She gave Lily an approving nod.

  Lily grabbed a roll of heavy tape from her vanity table, and Michele was astonished to see her tape her breasts with it, flattening her chest.

  “Uh, doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” Michele blurted out. “I thought you were trying to look older.”

  “Where have you been, darling?” Lily asked patronizingly. “Don’t you know that big breasts are not in fashion? The flatter, the better!”

  Michele had to laugh. Her generation would be horrified by this sentiment—but glancing down at her own less-than-huge chest, Michele knew she would have been a hit in the 1920s.

  Lily hurried into her dressing room, and when she returned, she was wearing a gorgeous sequined flapper dress. Michele’s breath caught in her throat. Mom would have loved this, she thought. It was a sleeveless silver dress, knee-length with a dropped waist and a gathered skirt. Her wavy bob was tucked into a cloche.

  “Gorgeous,” Michele declared.

  “Why, thank you!” Lily grabbed a black feather boa off her dresser and wrapped it around her shoulders. And now you just overdid it, Michele thought, but Lily looked so pleased with herself that Michele didn’t have the heart to tell her to ditch the boa.

  “All right, I’m going to ring the housekeeper now and tell her of the plan so she can be the one to tell my parents. If they see me dolled up like this, the jig’ll be up!”

  There was of course no intercom yet installed in the room, so Lily called her housekeeper on an old-fashioned cradle telephone. After explaining that she was going for a sleepover at Sally’s, Lily quickly packed an overnight bag and threw on a pair of pointy-toed low heels and a boldly patterned long coat. “Let’s go!”

  Michele and Lily hurried into the elevator and left the mansion through the back garden, then walked the two blocks to the Plaza Hotel. Michele followed Lily into the beautiful Beaux Arts building, and once inside the Fifth Avenue lobby, with its soaring ceiling and mosaic floor, she was thrilled to be able to see the Plaza in all its 1920s glory. The pomp and grandeur of the hotel served as the perfect backdrop for the Gatsby-esque characters who flitted in and out.

  Reaching the front of the reception line, Lily registered for a room under the alias of Contessa Crawford. “Could you pick anything less subtle?” Michele asked, rolling her eyes. Lily didn’t bother responding, clearly proud of her new name. As Lily instructed the receptionist to call her a taxicab, Michele wandered around the lobby. She watched as glamorous women in extravagantly festooned mink coats sank their heels into the thick Persian carpets while the men, wearing top hats and holding elegant walking sticks, sat in the antique French chairs and settees. The chandeliers cast a dazzling glow over the swanky figures inhabiting the room.

  Michele felt a hand grab hers, and she turned to see Lily smiling excitedly. “The cab is here. This is really happening!”

  Michele and Lily went outside to the Plaza’s front entrance, where a compact yellow Ford taxi was just pulling up. The driver stood beside his car, wearing a formal uniform with brass buttons and shiny boots. He chivalrously opened the car door for Lily and fluffed the leather backseat with a wooden paddle.

  Well, this sure is different from the modern-day New York cab experience, Michele thought with a chuckle, climbing in unseen after Lily.

  As they made their way uptown in the old-fashioned car, Michele pressed her face to the window. She watched in fascination as the Upper East Side’s homes, shops, hotels, and restaurants faded, giving way to the many churches, brownstone apartment buildings, and juke joints of Harlem. Before long the cab was surrounded by the sounds of jazz and nightlife as they pulled up to the plantation-style building known as the Cotton Club. Lily paid the driver and instructed him to pick her up in three hours. Then she grabbed Michele’s hand and the girls jumped out of the car, the brilliant whirl of a piano and the strangely familiar blare of a jazz trumpet summoning them from inside. As they reached the line outside the door, Michele felt a jolt of nerves: everyone looked and seemed so much older than she and Lily were. How were they supposed to get in?

  “Lily, I don’t know about this—”

  “We can leave right after the contest,” Lily assured her. “We’ve come this far; we can’t give up now!”

  When they reached the front of the line, the doorman stared at Lily suspiciously, as if seeing through the layers of makeup. “What are you doing here all alone? You aren’t old enough. Get out of here.”

  “No,” Lily insisted desperately. “I promise I am old enough.” But her voice sounded so childish as she said this Michele cringed.

  “Identification, please,” the doorman ordered.

  “Oh no, I left it at home!” Lily cried, a little too frantically. The doorman gestured to a nearby police officer, and Michele and Lily looked at each other in horror. It was all over. Lily wasn’t going to sing at the Cotton Club, she would be escorted home by the police, and it was all Michele’s fault—

  “The girl is with me.”

  Lily jumped as a firm hand gripped her shoulder. She turned around and looked into the eyes of a stocky cigar-smoking stranger. He was handsome in a rugged way, unshaven with sleepy dark eyes, and wearing a three-piece wool suit with a homburg hat. He gave Lily a qui
ck, reassuring grin.

  “Oh, sir, I didn’t realize—all right, then. Sorry for the trouble, miss.” Astonished, Lily and Michele looked at the doorman as his tone immediately transformed from gruff to friendly.

  Without a word, their rescuer ushered Lily inside, and Michele followed. The world of the Cotton Club engulfed them in its haze of smoke, jazz horns, husky voices, and dancing feet. Despite Prohibition, the alcohol was practically overflowing out of glasses. Michele was surprised to see that while nearly all the performers onstage were African American, the audience was made up only of Caucasians. Michele realized that while Americans might have evolved since 1910 to appreciate the gift of black music, African Americans were still unfortunately treated like second-class citizens in the 1920s, unable to patronize the very establishments they performed at.

  The man led them to a booth close to the band, and when Michele looked up, she nearly fell over in shock at the sight of a young Louis Armstrong, the twentieth century’s foremost jazz trumpeter, playing with the band. So that was why it had sounded so familiar!

  “I can’t believe I’m seeing Louis Armstrong live!” Michele said to Lily, marveling. But Lily didn’t seem too starstruck. Michele wondered if she was happening upon the beginning of his career.

  “Look how close we are to Fletcher Henderson!” Lily exclaimed, gesturing to the pianist, who was playing with a furious zeal.

  “So what’s your name, doll?” the man asked, pulling out a fresh cigar from his pocket.

  “Li—Contessa Crawford,” Lily answered, her cheeks flushing. “Pleased to meet you. And you are …?”

  “I’m Thomas Wolfe. I produce the shows here.” At that, Thomas looked over at Fletcher, who gave him a friendly nod. Lily was wide-eyed.

  “Why did you help me?” she blurted out.

  “Well, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for you. I reckon you are too young to be here, but I couldn’t stand to see a pretty dame like you turned away,” he replied, flashing her a toothy grin. Lily practically swooned, but something about his smile rubbed Michele the wrong way.