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by Denis Markell

  I poke my mom in the arm. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “He never liked to talk about it. He used to say it was a long time ago and he wasn’t really a hero and he just wanted to forget it.”

  A silence falls over the car. I look out the window and stare at what could charitably be called “the scenery.” We live in the San Fernando Valley, just over the canyon from what most people think of when they think of “glamorous Los Angeles.”

  On that side of the canyon is Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive.

  On our side are dozens of dinky little suburban places, like La Purisma. Not much different from anywhere else, with people going about their boring lives. The only difference is that we have palm trees. Big whoop.

  It’s kind of like the lunch tables at our middle school. The other side of the canyon is like the cool table, and we’re the kids at the other tables, near enough to see them, but we know we’ll never be invited to join, if you get my drift.

  So La Purisma was named after some famous mission that was here in the early days. It would be cool if it was still here, but it’s long gone. Nowadays people joke that “La Purisma” is Spanish for “strip mall.”

  But we’ve left La Purisma miles back.

  My dad turns the wheel sharply, and all of a sudden we’re turning off into a nasty part of the Valley I’ve never been in before.

  It seems to be made up mostly of manicure salons and gas stations.

  My dad steers the car into a small, L-shaped group of buildings. I can see a karate school, a noodle shop, a dusty grocery store, and an old office building.

  “Make sure you lock the doors,” Mom mutters to Dad. I look out and see some sleazy-looking guys loitering near the grocery.

  I wonder how many kids my age have ever been to a lawyer’s office. I haven’t. I’ve always pictured lawyers’ offices looking like they do on TV or in the movies. You know, you go up in a sleek elevator in some impressive glass-sheathed towers and then you’re ushered into a dark-wood-paneled room with large leather chairs and shelves filled with law books.

  Yeah, well, this looks more like the back room where we get our car repaired.

  We all carefully pick our way up a rickety flight of stairs and find ourselves in front of a dented door with a plastic nameplate pasted on, the kind you get at a stationery store.

  Mom knocks politely. No answer.

  We wait, and watch the characters wandering on the street, who look like they escaped from some reality TV show about drug addicts or drunks. My dad knocks this time, a lot louder than my mom. After a little bit, the door opens, and we find ourselves in the offices of Ben Huang, Esq. (don’t ask me what “Esq.” stands for. It’s on the nameplate).

  Mr. Huang matches his office perfectly. A large, sweaty old man, he smells of some funky aftershave—I bet he started wearing one brand in the seventies when it was popular and never changed it.

  Mr. Huang is also rocking a pretty sweet diamond ring on his pinky. I am totally impressed by this until I see my dad turn to my mom, raise his eyebrows, and mouth the words “He’s wearing a pinky ring,” in response to which Mom puts her hand over her mouth and shakes her head. So maybe it isn’t so impressive.

  Mr. Huang shakes hands with the family (I know I will continue smelling that aftershave on my hand for days).

  “So nice of you all to come,” Mr. Huang wheezes as he settles himself into the chair behind his desk, which is littered with files and papers of all colors and sizes.

  We find places to sit and he begins.

  “We are gathered here for the purpose of reading the last will and testament of Takateru ‘Ted’ Wakabayashi. Dear Uncle was eighty-eight years of age at the time of his passing. There are a few things I need to establish before I get to the actual reading of the will itself.”

  Mom pulls a yellow legal pad from her purse.

  “I promised the relatives back in Hawaii that I’d write down everything in the will. Let’s just hope he gave something to Auntie Tomoko. Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Mr. Huang looks up from his papers.

  “As I call your names, please answer ‘Present.’ If anyone listed is not here, under the terms of Dear Uncle’s will, I cannot continue.”

  It’s creeping me out that Mr. Huang insists on saying “Dear Uncle” with the same sympathetic smile every time, but then again, it goes with the rest of the general smarminess that hangs off the old guy like his cheap aftershave.

  As Mr. Huang reads our names, we all say “Present.”

  “ ‘I, Takateru ‘Ted’ Wakabayashi, being of sound mind and body, do hereby grant…’ ” And on and on.

  I look over and see that Mom is furiously writing down all the amounts the lawyer says, like she’s trying to finish a test in the last minutes before time is up.

  “Auntie Tomoko will be very happy,” she mutters more than a few times.

  Finally, Mr. Huang puts down the paper and wipes his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. He smiles and says, “This is the end of Dear Uncle’s will.”

  My mom begins to put her pad away when the old guy holds up his hand.

  “That was the end of Dear Uncle’s will until two days ago. I was summoned to his bedside in the hospital. There he dictated to me a codicil to the existing will. For the benefit of our youngest visitor, I will explain what a codicil is.”

  Right. Like I’m the only one in the room who doesn’t know what a codicil is.

  I look at Mom and Dad, and apparently I am the only one who doesn’t know what a codicil is.

  “A codicil is a document that adds to, rather than replaces, a previously executed will,” Mr. Huang says, smiling at me like I’m a moron. “Now, a codicil may add or revoke small provisions, or…”

  Here, Mr. Huang looks down and twists the ring on his pinky. He’s clearly relishing the moment. “…it may completely change the majority, or all, of the gifts under the will.”

  “He better not have taken everything away from Auntie Tomoko. She’d kill him if he weren’t already dead,” Mom says grimly.

  Mr. Huang smiles again, looking a little nervous. “There are only two provisions to the will as it stands.”

  He reads off a single piece of paper. Clearing his throat, Mr. Huang peers down onto the page and begins to read.

  “ ‘First codicil to my last will and testament: I hereby award from my estate to Lila Gerson the sum of eighty thousand dollars, to be used to help pay for her education at Harvard University.’ ”

  Mom gasps, and tears fill her eyes. She grips Dad’s hand so hard I thought it was going to fall off. Clearly she didn’t expect this.

  “ ‘Second codicil: I leave the entire contents of my apartment on 103465 South Alta Vista Avenue in Loca Grande, with all the treasure it contains…to my great-nephew Ted Gerson, who is so good at solving puzzles. Search hard and you will find it.’ ”

  “Just remember what your mother said,” Dad warns as he pulls off the freeway at the Loca Grande exit.

  “I know….I know….” I’m leaning my head on the window, feeling the impatience spilling over inside me, like when I’m waiting for a new game to load in.

  “Just don’t get your hopes up,” Mom said, when she heard me on the phone discussing with Caleb what “all the treasure it contains” might mean. “My uncle had a funny idea of what treasure was. He tended to um…keep things….”

  The plan is simple. The apartment is paid up until the end of the month. That gives me a week to go through everything in the apartment and figure out what’s trash and what’s treasure. Caleb is going to help, and anything we find, we split.

  And here’s the awesome part: since my great-uncle was a war hero, it’s possible he’s left some souvenirs from World War II lying around!

  Sure, Mom said in no uncertain terms that she’s visited the apartment dozens of times and has never seen anything of value.

  She’s also making me bring rubber gloves and bleach, “just
in case.”

  So what? This is going to be an epic week.

  Hanging with Caleb, going through a lot of cool stuff.

  Besides, what Mom and Dad think is treasure and what I think is treasure are two different things.

  And my great-uncle must have had a pretty good reason to have given whatever it is especially to me. Obviously, there is something special behind that apartment door.

  Caleb’s dad, Gene, has already dropped him off.

  My dad and Caleb’s dad are both English professors at California State University La Purisma, and we basically grew up together: barbecues in the summer, trips for winter break, last-minute get-togethers on weekends.

  Then, a year ago, Gene grows a ponytail and announces he’s leaving Doris and Caleb and moving in with an associate professor named Gina who’s like ten years younger than Caleb’s mom.

  This, not surprisingly, is causing a lot of problems, and Caleb is dealing with it the best he can.

  Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but around that time his dad moved out, Caleb started drawing a lot more pictures of guys punching each other.

  If he starts drawing a new villain called Evil Dad and has some superhero kicking his butt, we’ll know for sure.

  Usually, Gene would stick around to shoot the breeze with Dad, but things have been a little strained between them since the divorce.

  “Hey,” mutters Caleb as he pushes his blond hair out of his eyes and adjusts his glasses.

  He looks over at me and Dad, just standing there.

  “My mom had to go meet the lawyer to get the key,” I explain.

  My dad clears his throat. Clearly there is something on his mind.

  “Listen, I thought maybe you guys could use some help cleaning everything up….”

  “That’s okay, Dad. But it’s nice of you to offer,” I quickly respond.

  The last thing we need is to have my dad here while we’re going through stuff.

  And what if we find something awesome, like a German Luger or a samurai sword? Parents are funny about letting kids keep things like that.

  “Actually, I wasn’t talking about me. You know about the new head of the English department?”

  “Of course. Your new boss,” I say.

  “Guess what? Funny thing. His daughter is going to be in your class next fall. He’s eager for her to make new friends here, so I kind of invited her to help you guys.”

  Caleb and I exchange stricken glances. Whaaat?

  “Dad. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Of course, I should have known. My dad has always been like this—springing bad news at the last possible moment, when there’s nothing I can do about it. The last family vacation, just as we were entering the hotel room, he told me there was no Internet access. Two weeks. No Internet. This might even be worse.

  My dad is cleaning his glasses, not looking up.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Finally, he looks up. “Well, Ted, I liken it to taking the dog to the vet. You don’t tell him you’re taking him to the vet—he’ll never get in the car. You just say you’re taking him for a ride….”

  “And when you get there, you cut off his—”

  “Ted!” my dad warns sharply.

  “Glad to know you see me like the family dog,” I mutter.

  “It’s a metaphor,” my dad starts to explain, “like—”

  “I know what a freaking metaphor is, Dad—like comparing spending the next three hours with some girl we’ve never met to spending an eternity in hell,” I answer.

  “This is going to be worse than PE next year, when we have to shower with the other boys,” moans Caleb.

  Leave it to Caleb to put things in the proper perspective.

  “Look,” my dad says, getting suddenly serious, “she doesn’t have any friends. She’s just moved here. It won’t kill you to be nice.”

  “But—”

  “Ted, at least this way she’ll know some people before school starts. Her dad wants her to like it here. It’s rough, moving all the way across the country and not knowing anyone.”

  “Dad…some random girl…I mean, I don’t mind, like, meeting her, but—”

  “Who says she’s gonna want to spend time with two boys, anyway? Why couldn’t her dad find some girls here for her to hang out with?” Caleb asks.

  “Apparently there aren’t any girls your age around this time of the summer. Graham really wants to get her out of the house. He says all she’s been doing since they moved is sitting inside and reading books.”

  I let out a groan. A nerd girl. A weirdo. How did the coolest thing I was going to do all summer just turn into the most aggravating? Babysitting some snotty girl who’ll probably think Caleb and I are idiots for playing computer games. Just what I need. One more person judging me.

  “So it’s okay, right?” asks Dad hopefully.

  “Does Mom know about this?” I ask warily.

  “Yes, and I know how…disappointed she would be if you couldn’t be nice to a new member of your class.”

  Dad has shamelessly played the Mom card. Against which there is no defense.

  The Mom card is all-powerful.

  At this moment, I know that the answer has to be yes. I am defeated. By my own father. How Darth Vader.

  “I guess so. How about she comes over tomorrow and helps out for a day? That would be good, right?”

  “Ummm…I don’t think that’s going to work,” Dad says.

  There is a sound of a car pulling into the parking lot. I assume it’s Mom’s, but then I see it. A gleaming, sleek luxury car, the very picture of coolness. I’m not much of a car guy, but even I know this one. Lexus. Top of the line.

  “The thing is…I kind of already said yes,” Dad says sheepishly. “I guess that’s them.”

  The doors open and a man strides over, and he and my dad shake hands. Then a girl gets out to follow him, closing the door with a soft thunk that somehow manages to sound expensive.

  The first thing I notice is how she’s dressed.

  Knowing that this will probably be a hot and dirty job, Caleb and I have put on our funkiest clothes. I’m in an old pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt my Hawaiian relatives sent one Christmas that I would never be caught dead wearing in public, with a picture of a pig in a hula skirt on a surfboard under HANG LOOSE! (of course) written in big letters.

  Caleb is wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that once had a picture of Captain America on it but has been washed so many times it now looks like it says C P AIN AM I .

  It takes me almost a minute to realize the girl is wearing jeans. I’ve never seen jeans so pressed and spotless. They look brand-new, like her pristine deck shoes.

  I notice that her long blond hair isn’t pulled up, even though it’s going to be a sweaty day, most likely, but rather hangs down her back, held in place with a headband, like Alice in Wonderland’s.

  As she gets closer, I sense something else about her that I can’t put my finger on, something that sets her apart from the girls in my class. Certainly she dresses differently, and wears her hair differently, and doesn’t bounce around like the popular girls in my grade.

  I feel bad for her for a moment, imagining her trying to fit in at a new school, and being teased for her clothes, and—

  Then, as her father is about to introduce my dad to her, and she smiles exactly the right kind of smile to meet an adult, it hits me. What makes her different is that she’s just perfect.

  I can tell. This is a girl who has never said or done anything inappropriate in her entire life. And for some reason, this really, really bugs me.

  “Ted! Hello?”

  I snap around and look at Dad. Apparently I’ve been standing here like an idiot while my dad was introducing me.

  “Sorry about Ted, Graham. He’s a little, ah, distracted, I guess, what with his great-uncle…you know…Ted, this is Graham Archer. The new head of our English department.”

  Graham Archer is
tall and broad-shouldered. His full, golden hair shines in the sun.

  Dad takes off his grubby baseball cap and mops his shining scalp with a paper towel from his grimy Dockers pocket.

  I turn back to the Archers, who don’t look like the same species as us.

  Do they even sweat, these people?

  It’s kind of eerie. It’s a hundred degrees out here, and it’s like the two of them have some sort of force field around them, as if the Valley dust wouldn’t presume to land on their perfectly pressed polos.

  The girl turns to my father. “Hello, I’m Isabel.”

  “Isabel Archer!”

  At this, my dad breaks into a silly grin, the kind he makes when he’s sure whatever he’s about to say is clever.

  I brace myself.

  Addressing Isabel, my dad winks (yes, winks) and says, “You’re obviously intelligent, but are you excited as well?”

  I assume Graham Archer is going to punch my dad’s lights out for saying something so rude, but instead, he laughs out loud.

  “Very good, Arthur! I’m impressed.”

  “I haven’t been teaching Henry James for ten years for nothing!” my dad says.

  Wow. Dad always says that when he makes one of his lame “literature” jokes, the only ones who laugh are English majors. Because they have to.

  Then Isabel laughs too. It’s an “I am getting the grown-up reference and appreciating it while you two dweebs haven’t a clue” laugh and it seems so superior that it makes the six-year-old in me want to pick up a clod of dirt and rub it into her nice pink polo shirt and see if she’d find that funny.

  Of course, I know the twelve-year-old me isn’t allowed to do things like that.

  I then look down at my ridiculous outfit and realize that the twelve-year-old me is dressed similarly to the six-year-old me and I feel even more awkward.

  Graham turns to me and gestures to his daughter. “Ted, this is Isabel. I think you’re in the same class next year.”

  “So…uh, nice to meet you. This is my buddy Caleb.”

  Caleb nods at Isabel, who nods back. Graham, of course, reaches out and shakes both our hands. His grip, as I’m sure you can guess, is neither too firm nor too weak. It’s perfect, like the rest of him.