If You Find This

by Matthew Baker

  I brought him the sandwich.

  “I hear you’re a whiz with numbers,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said. He bit into the sandwich and stared at me as he chewed. Everyone says my eyes are the color of limes, but my dad has brown eyes and my mom has brown eyes, so I always thought that my green eyes hadn’t come from anyone. But Grandpa Rose’s eyes were that exact same green as mine. He was huge and skinny, and his skin was wrinkled and veiny, and his face was freckled with white sunspots. He was the best grandfather I ever could have imagined. I was too afraid of him to speak or even breathe. “A math whiz. Like Grandma Rose. Your Grandma Rose was a whiz with numbers too. Bring me my cane, would you, kid?”

  He was scratching at the beard like it was a sweater he wasn’t used to wearing. I brought him the cane that was leaning against the house.

  “Naptime for this grandpa,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said. “I have a big trip to make later, so I’m going to need my energy.” He swallowed the rest of the sandwich and hobbled into the house. I wanted to know if he had ever killed anyone. I wanted to know if he remembered my name.

  Grandpa Rose was (forte)snoring already on the couch. I took my violin from my backpack and hopped the railing and ran to the woods to talk to my brother the tree. We talk with music. Whenever I have a question, I ask my brother. My brother always has an answer. When I’m not home my brother talks to the birds, who have been everywhere and seen everything, and to the older trees, who are majorly wise.

  I sawed my bow across my violin, making notes that meant, BROTHER OUR GRANDPA ROSE IS ALIVE SOMEHOW AND AT OUR HOUSE. I AM SUPPOSED TO WATCH HIM BUT I AM SUPPOSED TO MEET THE ISAACS AT THE GRAVEYARD TOO. SO NOW WHAT?

  My brother uses the wind to make music with his branches. Also sometimes the birds help him with his songs.

  My brother’s song said, MEET THE ISAACS. BUT TAKE YOUR KNIFE. I WILL WATCH OUR GRANDFATHER FROM HERE.

  My knife was back in the house, in my bedroom, in my closet somewhere. I didn’t have time to get it. The sun was setting. The Isaacs were probably already waiting. I hid my violin under the deck and ran down the driveway.

  Our road runs from the wharf, past the ghosthouse, through our neighborhood, into town. I was heading toward town, obviously. I crossed the stone bridge over the creek, where the woods finally die off into lampposts and sidewalks, and kept running. Downtown in our village is just one strip, lined by shops with square signs and diamond windows. Just before the shops is the graveyard, with hundreds and hundreds of tilting gravestones and crumbling monuments, sprawling over hills overgrown with weeds. The rest home sits across the street from the graveyard, its door facing its gate. I’ve never had a grandparent who lived at the rest home, only a mom who works there. I (forte)clattered into the graveyard over its spiked fence.

  Gold clouds were drifting above the graveyard. Below, Little Isaac and Big Isaac were leaning against a tomb topped with a stone boy. The stone boy was naked except for some stone leaves. Beyond the tomb sat a chained mausoleum, the sort of building where whole families were buried, that said XAVIER 1847–1913.

  “Hi,” I (forte)said.

  “Consider yourself tardy,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

  Big Isaac grabbed me and dragged me behind the tomb and shoved me against the stone boy, while Little Isaac stooped in the weeds for a wound coil of moldy rope. I (forte)shouted for help as the Isaacs tied me to the stone legs.

  Big Isaac hit me in the ribs.

  “Stop screaming,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

  “You’re acting like a kindergartner,” Big Isaac (forte)said.

  “All we want is the combination to your locker,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

  The Isaacs peeked around the tomb as a truck (forte)sputtered past the graveyard. The Isaacs were wearing black basketball hoodies. Basketball hoodies have names and numbers printed on the back. Little Isaac’s said ISAAC 17. Big Isaac’s said ISAAC 19. Little Isaac’s pouch was bulging with something that had edges like a knife’s.

  “Now there aren’t any teachers around, let’s try this again,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

  “Are you going to take Zeke’s money?” I (forte)said.

  “You think we need Zeke’s money?” Little Isaac (forte)said. “We don’t need anybody’s money. Our parents give us anything we want. No, your locker partner stole something from us, something we need.”

  “You’re going to take Zeke’s money,” I (forte)said.

  Big Isaac hit me again. I made myself think about music so I wouldn’t have to think about hurting. I thought, forte means loud. I thought, piano means soft. I thought, da capo means return to the beginning, means play the song again. Big Isaac hit me again. Kids love the Isaacs. The Isaacs are as mean as Jordan Odom, but he’s mean to everyone, which is why everyone hates him. The Isaacs are only mean to kids like me, kids who don’t have any friends. Every year the Isaacs have to buy extra yearbooks, because so many kids sign their original yearbooks that there isn’t any room for more signatures. Big Isaac hit me again. I didn’t want to give the combination to the Isaacs. I was trying to protect Zeke.

  Little Isaac unlaced my high-tops and twisted them off and tossed them behind a tomb, as Big Isaac lifted a boot to stomp my toes, and I braced myself against the stone boy, already wincing.

  “Just say the combination,” Little Isaac (piano)said.

  Then I thought of a way to tell them the combination without telling them. I shouted the combination, but in a language they didn’t speak. I shouted the combination in square roots.

  “The square root of 529! The square root of 49! The square root of 2,209! That’s the combination!” I (forte)shouted.

  Big Isaac stomped my toes anyway. I (forte)shouted the square roots again. Little Isaac reached into the pouch of his hoodie.

  “Saw that coming,” Little Isaac (forte)said, taking a calculator from the pouch. “I might not be a genius, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use a calculator.” He punched different numbers into the keys of the calculator. “23. 7. 47. That’s the combination? 23. 7. 47.” He (piano)snorted. “Thanks, sucker.”

  The Isaacs stalked into the graveyard, vanishing beyond some mossy tombs.

  I jerked against the rope until I could wriggle loose. Then I sat against the XAVIER mausoleum, peeking under my shirt. My ribs were marked with newborn bruises. I knew what this was for the Isaacs. This wasn’t the end of anything. This was the da capo. I was a song they would want to keep singing.

  I found my high-tops behind an urn of flowers. I limped home carrying a high-top in each hand.

  I picked my way through scattered rocks, fallen acorns, rosy shards of glass, in my socks. Trees swayed above the road, as squirrels leapt between branches. I was crossing the stone bridge, back over the creek again, when I spotted something flickering through the woods. A glint of jean, a wink of shirt. Someone creeping through the trees. It was my locker partner.

  Zeke slipped from the trees into the road. His dogs were there too, three wolfdogs with bright eyes and thick tongues. Zeke has dark hair like mine, but buzzed to the scalp. His arms, as per usual, were scrawled with drawings of mermaids.

  “Did you give them the combination?” Zeke (forte)said.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I (forte)said.

  “Coward,” Zeke (forte)said.

  He had never spoken to me before. His voice was reedy, sort of growly. One of his wolfdogs (piano)huffed.

  “What did you steal from them?” I (forte)said, but Zeke and his wolfdogs had trotted into the trees, had (piano)splashed across the creek, had vanished already. Now he hated me too.

  And when I got home, Grandpa Rose wasn’t napping on the couch, wasn’t sitting on the deck, wasn’t anywhere. His cane was gone. He was gone. Gold leaves had blown into the house through the door he hadn’t shut.

  I had lost him.

  I didn’t even know where to start looking.

  A WARNING

  Everyone is afraid of me because of my theories. I have too many
of them. I talk about them when I shouldn’t. The problem is that I’m always thinking and that I can’t stop thinking. Like one morning when I was in first grade, I thought of something I hadn’t thought of before. I woke, I blinked a few times, I saw the ceiling above my bed—and then I realized that I was in the same body that I had been in when I had fallen asleep. And it surprised me. It seemed odd to me. That I would never be in another body. That I always would be stuck in my own body. That every morning I would be waking to that same ceiling. I don’t know why, but it made me sad. Even more than sad. Sadsad—sad to the power of sad—sad multiplied by itself a sad number of times. That I would never know what it was like to be anyone other than me—what chocolate tasted like to their tongue, what the color green looked like to them, what it felt like to have their feet.

  On the playground that afternoon, I was drawing a forest with chalk I had brought from home. Mark Huff and the Geluso twins had borrowed some of the chalk to draw pirates fighting on a ghost ship. I stopped drawing.

  “Want to know something that, once you start thinking about it, you’ll never stop thinking about it, and then you’ll lose your mind?” I (forte)said.

  Mark Huff (piano)said yes. The Geluso twins didn’t say anything.

  “Every morning you’re going to wake in the same body. You’ll only ever be in one body. You’ll only ever be yourself,” I (forte)said.

  None of them said anything. They gave me back my chalk. Then they ran away toward the soccer field. Before that they had asked to borrow my chalk almost every day. After that they never asked to borrow my chalk again.

  I’m telling you this as a warning. Kids at school don’t talk to me because they think that I have Dangerous Ideas. And I can’t explain everything that’s happened without Dangerous Ideas. So if you found these, I can’t stop you from reading them. But you might want to stop yourself.

  THE GHOSTHOUSE

  I started to panic. I ran to my bedroom and cupped brittle brown pine needles between my hands and made myself breathe. The needles smell like my brother, which helps calm me down. I breathed through the needles, crisp tart air. I needed to think.

  Grandpa Rose was missing. That was a fact. My mom worked the night shift and wouldn’t get home until almost morning. That was a fact. If I called my mom and said that I had lost Grandpa Rose, I would be grounded for the rest of my life, or at least until eighth grade. That was a fact. I would have to find Grandpa Rose myself.

  I didn’t have any facts about where Grandpa Rose might have gone. To answer the question, I needed additional information. In my parents’ bedroom I found Grandpa Rose’s luggage, a leather suitcase with metal hinges. In the suitcase there were,

  1. A broken music box, dark wood with gold swirls on the lid

  2. A passport, with stamps on every page, plus a photo of MONTE ROSE

  3. A couple of letters written in a language I couldn’t understand (Italian?)

  4. Underwear (boxers with green stripes)

  5. Socks (the kind with gold toes)

  I memorized the information. I kicked into my high-tops. Then I dug through my closet for my knife. The knife has a cracking leather sheath, a cracking leather handle, and a blunt chipped blade the length of a geometry compass. I belted it to my leg, where it would be hidden under my jeans, and went looking for Grandpa Rose.

  By now dinnertime had come and gone, and all the neighborhood regulars were out, enjoying what remained of the daylight before the twilight went to dusk. Mark Huff, (piano)kicking a soccer ball around his yard. The Geluso twins, careening around on bicycles, (forte)shouting something about zombies. Emma Dirge and her sisters floating up and down on their trampoline, their dresses snapping against their legs as they floated up, puffing out again as they floated down. Leah Keen sprawled on the grass underneath, watching the feet slamming against the trampoline. Everyone ignored me, as per usual.

  The Geluso twins (piano)cranked past me on their bicycles.

  “Have you seen my grandfather?” I (forte)shouted.

  They looped around, (piano)skidding to a stop where I was standing.

  “What did you say?” Crooked Teeth (forte)said.

  “Have you seen my grandfather?” I (forte)said.

  “We don’t pay attention to old people,” The Unibrow (forte)said.

  They hopped onto their bicycles and (piano)cranked away again.

  Zeke and his wolfdogs were sprawled across the wildflowers along the creek. Zeke had his jeans rolled to the knees, was feeding his wolfdogs biscuits from the pocket of his shirt. I peeked over the railing of the stone bridge.

  “My grandfather ran away while I was getting tortured by kids who hate you,” I (forte)shouted.

  Zeke didn’t say anything.

  “It’s your fault he’s missing, so you’re going to help me find him,” I (forte)shouted.

  A wolfdog raised its head and (piano)growled.

  “You can’t make me,” Zeke (forte)said.

  It was true, which was frustrating, so I kicked the bridge, which hurt. Zeke (forte)laughed. I shoved a lock of hair out of my eyes and kept walking.

  As I was crossing the bridge, though, Zeke and his wolfdogs scrambled from the trees into the road.

  “If I help you, you have to swear that next time you won’t give the Isaacs even a single number,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “They already know our combination,” I (forte)said.

  “I’ll fix that,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “How?” I (forte)said.

  “Also, if you’re trying to find your grandfather, you’re going the wrong way. He wasn’t headed into town. He was headed toward the wharf,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “You saw him?” I (forte)said.

  “He had your same eyes,” Zeke (forte)said.

  The wolfdogs needed Grandpa Rose’s scent, so we headed toward my house.

  Something I think is odd is that we’ll give a person a name, but we won’t give a group of people a name too. Like how my name is Nicholas, and my mom’s name is Beatrice, but when we’re together, Nicholas + Beatrice, we’re something different. When I’m part of Nicholas + Beatrice, I’m different from when I’m only Nicholas. Or when Little Isaac is only Little Isaac, he’s nice, and when Big Isaac is only Big Isaac, he’s nice, but Little Isaac + Big Isaac is something mean, but then Little Isaac + Big Isaac + Mark Huff is something nice again.

  Nicholas + Zeke was a sort of equation no one had ever had to solve before. Emma Dirge and Leah Keen were perched in the gnarled branches of a beech tree, watching us through the leaves as we flew past. For them, Nicholas + Zeke = ? They didn’t know whether Nicholas + Zeke was something they should want to talk to or something they shouldn’t.

  As we ran up my driveway, Emma and Leah dropped from the beech tree, brushed some bark mulch from their knees, then hurried off toward Mark Huff’s, to gossip, probably. I dug my key out of my pocket, and let us in.

  The house was quiet. The furniture was turning bluish in the dying light. The wolfdogs sniffed the couch’s cushions, the piano’s keys, the oven. Zeke (forte)barked at them, and they trotted after us down the hallway, sniffing the carpet.

  Grandpa Rose’s suitcase was still in my parents’ bedroom. My mom probably wouldn’t have wanted me bringing someone from school in there—especially when the bed hadn’t been made, and dirty pajamas were hanging from a lampshade—but this was an emergency, obviously. Beyond the dusty glass of the windowpane, our backyard was visible—my brother was upset, trembling in the wind, worried about Grandpa Rose being missing.

  I unlatched the suitcase. Zeke lifted out the music box, touching a finger to its gold crank, its gold clasp, the gold pattern twisting in swirls across the dark wood of its lid.

  “Where did your grandfather get something as old as this?” Zeke (forte)said.

  “How do you know it’s old?” I (forte)said.

  Zeke chewed a lip. He tucked the music box back into the suitcase. Then he plucked a handful of dirty socks from the suitcase f
or the wolfdogs to sniff.

  “You have that scent?” Zeke (piano)murmured, nuzzling his head against theirs.

  I didn’t know if we were friends now, or just locker partners searching for a missing grandfather. I wanted to be friends, because I thought having a friend would be like having a brother. It’s not that I didn’t love my brother. It’s that sometimes I would have liked having a human brother too.

  The wolfdogs were trotting ahead, sniffing the gravel for some scent of Grandpa Rose.

  “What’s your grandfather after?” Zeke (forte)said.

  “I don’t think he’s after anything. He gets confused sometimes,” I (forte)said.

  “He didn’t look confused. He looked like he was after something,” Zeke (forte)said.

  We were to the wharf almost. We rounded the bend in the road, passing onto the empty stretch where the ghosthouse sat perched on its hill. Its winding dirt driveway, like the rest of the hill, was buried under dying leaves. The mailbox had missing numbers.

  The wolfdogs stopped, raising their heads, their snouts pointing at where the roof of the ghosthouse was poking above the trees.

  I didn’t like where this was headed. Even just looking at the ghosthouse made me feel at risk of getting haunted. I didn’t want to go anywhere near that hill.

  Zeke (piano)sniffed the air.

  “He was smoking before,” Zeke (forte)said. “Do you smell that?”

  I sniffed the air. I couldn’t smell anything except rotting leaves, rotting pine, and the wind from the lake.

  Zeke (forte)sniffed again, scowling.

  “We’re not far now,” Zeke (forte)said. “I smell cigarette.”

  I kept begging the trail to change direction, but instead the wolfdogs slipped into the underbrush and (piano)scrambled over a toppled wooden fence and then galloped straight up the hill, sniffing at leaves and twigs and dirt, until the scent had led us all the way to the ghosthouse.