by Ellen Potter
“She must be listed somewhere in the school records. Can’t we look it up?” She nodded toward the locked office. Ms. Blurt suddenly grew serious, clutching her coffee mug to her chest with both hands.
“I’m afraid school records are private, Clara,” she said solemnly. “Regulations, after all. ” Clara examined Ms. Blurt carefully. She had a gift for seeing through people, and now she tried to figure out just how strictly Ms. Blurt would follow regulations.
“Of course, I understand.” Clara nodded, equally solemn. “Thanks anyway. ” She started to walk away, then stopped and turned back to Ms. Blurt. “You know, now that I think about it, a busboy at Pish Posh once found a funny little sketch on the wall in the kitchen’s linen room. Do you think that artist, Fizz, Fizz—”
“Fizzelli,” Ms. Blurt blinked three times in rapid succession, her face suddenly animated.
“—Fizzelli. Do you think he might have drawn it?”
“Oh, indeed he may have! Oh, indeed! Wouldn’t that be remarkable! If I could only see it, I could tell for sure.” Ms. Blurt’s coffee spilled all over her hand, but she was so excited, she didn’t seem to notice.
“I could arrange for you to come to the restaurant. You could have some dinner, and then look at the drawing. We do have a strict policy about reservations, but I suppose I could break the regulations for you, Ms. Blurt. If you could break them for me ... ”
Ms. Blurt bit at her bottom lip. Clearly, the temptation was very great. She stared down at her coffee, much of which was now on the floor and splattered across her striped pants, as though she’d find the answer to her dilemma in her mug. “To take a peek at the sketch—that would be most educational. ”
“I’m sure the principal would agree,” Clara said.
“He might be upset if I didn’t do it,” Ms. Blurt muttered to herself. After a moment, she said, “Hold this,” and handed her coffee cup to Clara. She pulled out a ring of keys from her pocket, opened the principal’s office, and then shut herself in the room.
Clara could hear the clatter of metal file drawers opening and closing, then the rustle of paperwork. After a while, Ms. Blurt emerged with a scrap of paper and handed it to Clara. On it was written “Annabelle Arbutnot, 55 West 86th Street. ”
Clara smiled. Well, Annabelle was in for a surprise.
She handed the mug back to Ms. Blurt without a word and started to hurry back down the hall.
“When should I come to the restaurant?” Ms. Blurt called after her.
“Tonight is fine, ” Clara called back without stopping.
“But what should I wear?” Ms. Blurt asked.
“Whatever you like, ” Clara called back hastily, then wondered if that was the best advice. But she was in too much of a hurry to worry about it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Clara hailed a taxi. The driver eyed her suspiciously as she climbed into the backseat.
“You got money on you, kid?”
“No, I’m going to pay you with crayons. Of course I have money, you boob! Now take me to Fifty-five West Eighty-sixth Street immediately. ”
“Nice mouth!” the driver sniped. But he took her straight up to Eighty-sixth Street in double time, snaking in and out of traffic, and coming so close to ramming into other cars that several times Clara had to shut her eyes and clutch the door handle. The taxi finally came to a halt in front of a brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street, off Columbus Avenue.
“Fifty-five West Eighty-sixth Street, kid.” Clara paid the man and gave him a large tip, just because he probably thought she wouldn’t.
It was a pretty little brownstone, with stone urns filled with flowers lining the front staircase’s balustrade. She walked up the steps. To the left of the door was a bronze placard that read DR. JOHN S. ARBUTNOT. Doctor? Annabelle had said he was a thief. Maybe Ms. Blurt had given her the address of the wrong Annabelle.
Clara propped her dark glasses on top of her head-something she always did when she was unsure of herself—and squinted against the brightness of the day, contemplating whether or not to press the doorbell.
“Cripes, how’d you find me?” said a scratchy voice from behind her. “Hold this a minute, will you?” Annabelle had come up the steps, hugging a bag of groceries. She pushed the bag at Clara, which Clara, momentarily caught off guard by Annabelle’s sudden appearance, took. Annabelle reached into her shirt and pulled out a chain with keys attached to them.
“You stole my pearl necklace,” Clara said, suddenly remembering why she was there.
“Of course I did,” Annabelle agreed without a trace of guilt as she put the key in the door.
“Well, I want it back,” Clara demanded furiously just as Annabelle pushed open the door.
“Oh, sure. No problem,” Annabelle replied casually, taking the bag of groceries out of Clara’s hands. “Fair is fair. Come on in. Have some lunch. ” She clearly was not disturbed by Clara’s surprise appearance, which made Clara even angrier.
“And how dare you—”
“Shh. Keep it down. My dad’s got a client in his office.” They walked through a short foyer, past a closed door through which muffled voices could be heard, and into the kitchen. Annabelle plopped the bag down on the kitchen counter and began putting its contents—packages of odd and unappetizing-looking food—into the fridge.
“I thought you said your father was a thief.” Clara narrowed her eyes at Annabelle. “The sign outside said Doctor.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” Annabelle said, putting away a box marked ORGANIC RED-GREEN ALGAE FLAKES. “So... you hungry? You want a sandwich? We’ve got mungbean salad, some diced wheat gluten... I think there’s still some marinated tempeh left—”
“All I want from you is my necklace. ”
Annabelle sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sheesh, I just thought you might be hungry. Okay, just wait here. I’ll go get it.”
Left alone in the kitchen, Clara folded her arms and waited, flabbergasted by how nonchalant Annabelle was. In fact, Annabelle seemed almost glad to see her, like they were old friends. Ha! Like she would ever be friends with a thief! Not likely.
Suddenly, Clara heard the sound of a woman’s voice, crying out boldly, “But I do hear voices in my head, sir! I hear them as clearly as I hear your own!” It was coming from Annabelle’s father’s office.
“You are lying,” came the harsh response from a man—Annabelle’s father, Clara guessed. “You just want me to believe you are insane. Instead, you are simply an evil, no-goodnik, snot-nosed pig of a woman! I can’t bear the sight of you! Fleechhh!”
Clara covered her mouth to keep from gasping. This man was horrible. Horrible!! And the woman must be his patient, too. She had come to him for help, and he was treating her so cruelly!
Clara quietly inched closer to the office door and leaned her ear against the wall outside, to hear better. The woman was crying softly now, but her voice still had great strength in it as she declared, “Upon my honor, it doesn’t matter what you think of me. ”
Good for you! Clara thought, nodding.
“You are wrong, mademoiselle!” Annabelle’s father shouted. “It matters very much what I think of you. And now you will see just how much! ” There was a moment of utter silence, and then the woman began to scream in the most bloodcurdling way, so that Clara actually jumped and pressed her hands against her mouth to keep from shrieking.
“Do you feel the flames licking at your toes, mademoiselle? Do you feel the fire creeping up your legs now? Go ahead and struggle against those ropes—it will only make the flames leap higher! You will burn for your lies! You will writhe in eternal torment!” And all the while the woman never stopped screaming, until Clara could stand it no longer and burst into the office.
CHAPTER SIX
Lying on an overstuffed lavender couch was a blonde young woman with an expensive-looking haircut. Her hands, with their tapered, bright pink nails, were folded in her lap, and her eyes, which were shut when Clar
a first entered, were now open wide and staring at Clara in surprise. Opposite her was a pleasant-looking man with thick, light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.
“Pardon me, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” the man said kindly. “We’re in the middle of a session.”
“I heard a woman screaming,” Clara said.
“Was I screaming?” the woman on the couch asked eagerly.
“Only a little, Amber,” the man said. “Which is perfectly understandable, since you were being set on fire. ”
“Cool!” Amber said as she pulled a pack of gum out of the pocket in her blouse. “And was I brave at the end? ” She peeled a stick of gum and popped it in her mouth.
“Wonderfully brave, Amber. You hardly flinched.” Then he turned to Clara. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.” Clara was so confused, it took her a moment to nod in embarrassment and leave.
Just as she closed the door softly behind her, Annabelle came trotting down the hallway, holding a paper bag.
“Ho, there! What were you doing in my father’s office?”
“I ... I heard screams. ”
“Oh. ”Annabelle rolled her eyes. “That’s Amber, one of Dad’s clients. Such a drama queen! She was Joan of Arc in another life, and she insists on repeating the whole burning-at-the-stake thing again and again. You’d think once would be enough, wouldn’t you? She says it’s helping her to quit smoking.”
“What are you talking about?” Clara said. “Why was your father being so mean to her? ”
“That’s his job. He’s a hypnotherapist. ” She looked at Clara as if that would explain everything, but when she saw that it clearly didn’t, she continued to explain. “He hypnotizes people to help them get rid of their problems. You know, like if someone wants to lose weight or stop smoking or get over their fear of elevators. But he also can get people to remember who they were in their past lives. Oh, they can remember all kinds of weird stuff—like being a soldier in the Civil War or owning a pastry shop in France during the Revolution.”
“But how do you know they’re not faking it?”
“Some of them fake it, but my dad has ways to tell if they are. Lately, everybody wants to have lived during medieval times. And then there are all the people who say they were famous in their past lives, like Queen Elizabeth or Cleopatra or something. I mean, what are the chances of that? The ones who are really hypnotized usually find out that they had average, boring lives in the past, just like their lives now,”
“So Amber is faking it?” Clara nodded toward the door.
“Oh, no. She really was Joan of Arc. She’s one of two ‘dead celebrity’ patients he has. The other one is William Shakespeare, but he’s a lot more fun than Joan of Arc. At least he knows a few good jokes. ”
“But,” Clara said after a moment, “I thought you said your father was a thief. ”
“Shh!” Annabelle grabbed her roughly by the elbow. She was a good head taller than Clara, and quite strong, and although Clara resisted, she found herself unceremoniously dragged down the hallway and out the front door.
“Well... is he or isn’t he?” Clara insisted, once Annabelle had released her on the landing of the front steps. Annabelle crossed her arms against her chest, leaned back against the balustrade, and narrowed her eyes at Clara.
“How did you find us anyway?”
“I persuaded someone at the Huxley Academy to give me your address,” Clara said evasively.
“Persuaded? ”
“I bribed her,” Clara admitted.
“I knew you were a shrewd duck!” Annabelle said approvingly. Clara would have objected, but it secretly pleased her. “Hey, what’s your name, by the way?”
“Clara. ”
“Clara? Funny name for a kid. Yeah, Dad is a thief, sure,” Annabelle said. “But how do you think we get invited to rich people’s parties? I mean, who’s going to invite a thief into their house? So Dad learned how to be a hypnotherapist by reading books. Plus, he’s a genius and can do anything he sets his mind to. ”
“Then why doesn’t he just become a hypnotherapist and give up being a thief?” Clara asked. It seemed an obvious enough question, but Annabelle looked at Clara like she’d just suggested that her dad lick an electrical outlet.
“Where’s the sense in that?!” she exclaimed angrily, kicking one of the stone flowerpots. “I mean, that would ruin everything. What would I do? Go back to school? Join the debating team and trade friendship bracelets? No thank you.”
In a way, Clara could understand Annabelle perfectly. She would have felt the same if someone suggested that she spend less time at Pish Posh and do things other kids her age did. But the mention of bracelets made her remember why she was there in the first place, and her former indignation returned.
“I thought you said you were getting my jewelry, ” she said sternly.
“Oh, right. Here. ” Annabelle handed her the paper bag. Clara opened it promptly. Inside was the Tahitian pearl necklace. Clara should have felt victorious; but she didn’t. For some reason, the pearls seemed less important now that she had them back.
“Fine. That’s all I wanted. Good-bye,” Clara said. She felt a sudden cramp in her stomach. She must be getting sick. Summer flu. She got one every year. Tomorrow she would be sneezing and achy and would have to stay in bed all day.
The front door opened and Amber stepped out, with Annabelle’s father behind her. “I’ll see you next week, Amber,” he said. “Just stay away from fire for twenty-four hours—no barbecues, no campfires. ”
Amber blew a thin bubble with her gum, then snapped it. “You’re the best, Doc.”
“And no cigarettes, ” he called after her when she reached into her bag and pulled out a pack. But she pretended not to hear him as she strode off down the street.
“Poor Joan of Arc is probably rolling over in her grave,” Annabelle’s father said, shaking his head. Then he winked at Clara and pinched Annabelle’s nose and went back inside.
“So, Clara,” Annabelle said, “will you come back to visit me again?”
“Possibly,” Clara said. She adjusted her sunglasses. As she walked down the stairs, she began to feel better. Much better. Miraculously, the summer flu had instantly left her body.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Every table at the Pish Posh restaurant was occupied that very table at the Pish Posh restaurant was occupied that evening, as usual. Clara sat at her little round table in the back, trying hard to focus on ferreting out the Nobodies, but she kept thinking about Dr. Piff. Pish Posh was different without him. You wouldn’t think his absence would matter so much since Dr. Piff was such a quiet and plain man. But somehow Pish Posh seemed a little less glittery and fabulous when he wasn’t there.
You have failed to notice a most peculiar and mysterious thing that is happening right under your nose.
Clara thought about Dr. Piff’s words again and gazed around the restaurant. What could be so peculiar and mysterious?
Her eye caught Mavis Von Mavis, the famous artist, who was eating at a table in the corner with someone whose portrait she had been painting. Mavis Von Mavis held up a brussels sprout and cried, “This is the exact shade of green I will use for your face!” Then she dropped the brussels sprout into her bra for safekeeping, while the woman whose face was going to be painted brussels-sprout green looked decidedly unhappy.
Mavis Von Mavis was certainly peculiar. But so were many of the other customers at Pish Posh.
Just then the restaurant’s door opened and in walked Ms. Blurt, dressed in a purple velvet pantsuit. Cinching her waist was a shiny red belt with the words SASSY LADY ... SASSY LADY .. SASSY LADY ... printed all around it. She had attempted to tame her light brown curls by pinning them up here and there, but the effect was that she looked as though she had clumps of caramel corn stuck to her head.
Oh, no, Clara thought, I forgot all about Ms. Blurt!
Up front, Clara’s mother was staring at Ms. Blurt with wide, incredulous e
yes. Ms. Blurt said something to her, and Lila looked down at the reservation book, then shook her head vigorously.
Clara got up to explain the situation to her mother, and the moment she rose, all conversation stopped and every eye in the restaurant turned to her in dread. Everyone thought she had found a Nobody.
“You are not in our book, Ms. Blah,” Lila Frankofile was saying.
“Blurt,” Ms. Blurt corrected her. “Clara Frankofile invited me to dine here tonight.” Her voice resounded loudly in the silence.
“Is this true, Clara?” Lila Frankofile looked appalled, and some of the customers murmured, “Clara Frankofile invited that to Pish Posh? Impossible!” and “She looks just like a stick of grape chewing gum in that outfit.”
Ms. Blurt blushed to nearly the same shade of red as her Sassy Lady belt and looked at Clara helplessly. Clara hesitated. Ms. Blurt was so obviously a Nobody. In fact, you would be hard-pressed to find someone who was more a Nobody than Ms. Blurt. What would everyone think if Clara admitted that she’d personally invited Ms. Blurt to Pish Posh? Clara opened her mouth, then closed it, cleared her throat, and looked down at the floor.
“I guess I must have misunderstood, ” Ms. Blurt said finally. She gave her belt a sad little tug and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Clara said to Ms. Blurt. Then to her mother, “It’s true. I invited her to have dinner at the restaurant tonight.”
“Clara, how could you?!” Lila was aghast. “And in any case, we are completely full. There’s not a table to spare.”
“She’ll dine at my table,” Clara said decisively.
“Impossible!” Lila cried. But Clara hated to be told that she could not do something, so rather imperiously she hooked her arm through Ms. Blurt’s and ushered her to the little round table in the back of the restaurant. One of the waiters rushed to bring a second chair to the table, and Ms. Blurt, still red in the face, sat down. Every customer fell to whispering, filling the restaurant with a sound that was uncannily like that of an industrial washing machine-phiddle slush, phiddle slush.