Click Here to Start

by Denis Markell

  I should mention that someone lobbied very hard for some of the money to go toward the purchase of a French farmhouse table but was outvoted. Although I have to admit that his compelling argument that as a half-Jewish family we would be honoring the brave French Resistance fighters who stood up to the Nazis was both creative and pathetic.

  Now that the whole story has been told, and retold, and arguments settled over who did exactly what, there’s one question everyone still has: how did I come up with the proper three-number sequence to open the panel and discover the falcon?

  “I knew it had to be something to do with being Japanese,” I finally tell them. “When I scratched my knee, I remembered Mom telling us that the only Japanese she knew was a silly phrase Great-Uncle Ted had taught her to learn the first five numbers.

  “If you get a mosquito bite on your knee, it itches, and if you rub sand on it, the itch goes away. So…‘Ichi ni san shi go.’ Go is ‘five’ in Japanese. And what’s another way of saying you have no money?”

  “Broke,” Caleb suggests.

  “Right, so being broke means you have zero money, right?” I continue.

  Isabel shakes her head in admiration. “Oh my gosh, that’s brilliant.”

  “Five-four-zero…Go for broke.”

  They are sitting cross-legged on the brown late-summer grass outside Caleb’s house when I pull up on my bike.

  Isabel is looking over Caleb’s shoulder at a book of drawings he’s done.

  “Hey, welcome back!” I call out as I get off and join my friends.

  “Hello, stranger.” Isabel smiles and motions with her head for me to see what Caleb has done. “Have you seen these?”

  Caleb clears his throat. “I, uh…well, Ted, I was going to show you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel, but then Isabel insisted, so—”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Now I know what he’s been doing all summer. I thought he was just avoiding me.”

  Soon after the first news reports of the discovery of the falcon, our story went viral on the Internet. Interviews on morning talk shows followed, which, as Lila so delicately put it, “will look awesome on Ted’s college applications!”

  There was more happy news.

  Mr. Yamada, it turns out, suffered a stroke when he realized that the man he had talked to wasn’t the real Stan Kellerman. But he’s slowly getting better. We wanted desperately to see him, but Donna insisted that as long as his health was still fragile, we’d have to wait until fall.

  As for Isabel, Graham had already been planning a trip for her to visit all the cities of Europe she had read about that summer, and a decision was made to go ahead with it, since he felt getting her away from all this was the best thing.

  And it would give them some really nice father/daughter time together.

  Isabel sent dispatches back, emailing pictures and descriptions, with quotes from books I had never heard of, let alone read.

  The one topic she didn’t address was whether she was going back to her old school or staying here.

  It was clear from her emails that as much as Graham loved having his daughter with him, he felt La Purisma had too many awful memories for her, and she belonged back in her world of New York City, with her old friends and teachers.

  And now, with a week to go before school starts, Caleb calls and asks if I can come over.

  And here is Isabel, sitting with Caleb.

  Is she saying goodbye?

  Caleb, as I said, has made himself scarce for most of the summer, not telling me what he was doing, simply making vague comments about “working on something.”

  As for me, I managed to convince my parents that because of what happened, instead of going off to computer camp in August like we’d originally planned, I could spend the rest of the summer basically hanging out. I had it all planned that I would spend as much time as possible time playing my favorite escape games, but things didn’t really work out that way.

  After discovering that I’d “borrowed” Mom’s ID and biked to the hospital in the middle of the night, my parents decided the best punishment was to confiscate my laptop for two months.

  I think anyone would agree that this was totally unfair.

  But since I had nothing else to do, I picked up The Maltese Falcon and ended up reading it from cover to cover. I actually got so into it that I went to the library and found other books by the same author, Dashiell Hammett, and read those as well.

  As Dad says, it’s not Henry James, but it’s a good start.

  I squat down to sit next to Isabel.

  Caleb passes me his sketchbook.

  Instead of the usual superheroes, he’s worked out an entire story called “Three Kids and a Falcon.” The heroes are a tall blond boy, a pretty blond girl, and a short skinny kid with spiky hair named, well, Ted.

  It’s in a new style—nothing like the superheroes I saw in Caleb’s bedroom when I visited and we called Isabel for the first time, before Kellerman and the douk-douk and the whole crazy experience that almost cost us our lives.

  The story of our adventure, in comic-book form. And right under the title, he’s written “Amazing Adventure #1.” I guess if he couldn’t find a copy of the real comic, he’d make one himself.

  “Isn’t it great?” Isabel exclaims, looking proudly at Caleb.

  “Yeah, but…I’m not really that short, right?”

  Isabel and Caleb shoot me a look.

  “Dude, you are,” Caleb says.

  “Yeah, dude. You totally are,” says Isabel, without a trace of irony.

  I clutch my chest. “Did…did…Isabel Archer just ‘dude’ me? Have aliens from the planet California infected her brain?”

  “Shut up and tell Caleb what a genius he is,” Isabel says, smacking me. Gently.

  “I can’t do both,” I say.

  “You know what I mean, Ted. Be nice,” answers Isabel as Caleb chews on the corner of his thumb. I guess he actually does care what I think.

  “You still made me look like some manga or something,” I add, “with those big eyes.”

  I point to a picture of Isabel’s body and remark, “And you gave Isabel—”

  Isabel’s eyes narrow. “He gave me what?”

  I open my mouth and then shut it. “Nothing. It’s great, just like you said.”

  “It is great. And I was about to tell Caleb that as soon as I get back to St. Anselm’s, I want to show it to these guys I know who have a webzine and see if they’ll put it on their site. And who knows? One of their dads is a big guy in the graphic novel field—”

  St. Anselm’s.

  I see Caleb’s face fall, and I’m pretty sure the same expression is on mine.

  “So…you’re going back to St. Anselm’s?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Isabel says simply.

  She looks for a long time out at the traffic snaking past Caleb’s house. It’s impossible to read her face. We all sit silently for what feels like forever.

  Finally, Isabel turns to us.

  “Of course I’ll go back to St. Anselm’s—at Thanksgiving, when I go to New York to see my friends and family.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to La Purisma this year?” Caleb practically yelps like a puppy.

  “Yeah.” Isabel grins.

  “Wow.” I’m speechless. “I mean…that’s nice.”

  “I’m glad you’re so pleased, Ted,” Isabel snaps.

  “I’m completely stoked,” I say. “I just didn’t expect you to give up such a great school, and all your friends, and—”

  “That’s going to be hard, but you know what was harder?” Isabel asks.

  Somehow, Caleb and I know enough to just let her talk.

  “When I was at St. Anselm’s last year, I was the girl who lost her mother to cancer. That’s how everyone saw me. And it’s not their fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. But you have to understand. My mother was loved at that school. She was one of the school librarians and volunteered for everything, and she’s…well, she�
��s everywhere in that place. I need to be somewhere else now.”

  Isabel rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. I don’t know how to comfort her. I’m pretty sure if I try to hug her I’ll get punched. Or maybe not. It’s so confusing.

  “And La Purisma is just as good as anyplace else.”

  Isabel sees Caleb and me looking at her with such sad eyes she shakes her head.

  “Let’s change the subject, please. I wanted to talk to Ted about his great-uncle.”

  “Sure,” I agree quickly. “He seems like he was an amazing dude.”

  “Yeaah…” Isabel draws out the word, as if she’s going through something in her mind. Then she adds, “Sounds like he was. But there’s something I don’t get.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “The notebooks. He left you the notebooks. And yet there weren’t any clues or hints about the falcon in them, were there?”

  “There was the key,” Caleb reminds her. “He did hide the key in one of them.”

  “He could have hidden the key anywhere,” Isabel insists. “He could have taped it inside The Maltese Falcon.”

  “That’s true,” I admit. “Maybe he just thought the notebooks were interesting.”

  “There’s some pretty cool stuff in there, I bet,” adds Caleb.

  Isabel looks like she’s about to burst. “Here’s what I think,” she says, then continues all in one breath. “Your great-uncle knew that even if you found the falcon, it wouldn’t belong to you. He had to know that. So what if that wasn’t the treasure he was referring to? What if finding the falcon was just a test? What if the treasure is something else? Something to do with those notebooks?”

  I try my best to look like this is possible. Caleb is less charitable.

  “I hate to state the obvious, but you read too many books,” he says.

  “I didn’t get that from a book!” fumes Isabel. “It could be true.”

  “I guess…so…,” I say, trying to sound positive. “I think the treasure was something else too. But not necessarily the notebooks.”

  “What, then, Mr. Know-It-All?” asks Isabel.

  “Since you’ve been gone, and Caleb hasn’t been hanging out with me, I’ve had a lot of time alone to think about things. Maybe the treasure was the search. The discovery. I don’t know…the adventure, I guess. Learning to not give up. Learning to go for broke.”

  Isabel and Caleb look at me without saying anything.

  “I guess that sounds pretty stupid,” I finally say.

  “Yeah, it kinda does,” Caleb agrees, going back to his drawing.

  Isabel kicks him.

  “Maybe it’s both things,” Isabel suggests. “Maybe you’re right and I’m right.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” says Caleb. “It’s either one or the other. He didn’t say ‘treasures.’ He said ‘treasure.’ ”

  Isabel shakes her head. “You’re thinking so literally. No wonder you’re so bad at escape games.”

  “I am not so bad,” Caleb grouses. “We’re talking about being consistent, here.”

  “Well, you know what Emerson said,” Isabel sniffs.

  “I have no idea what Emerson said,” Caleb shoots back.

  “ ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,’ ” recites Isabel.

  “Who is Emerson, anyway? One of the Muppets on Sesame Street?” Caleb asks.

  “Ralph Waldo Emerson! God!” Isabel seethes.

  And just like that, I happily see my future. Days to come filled with bickering, clues, and discoveries, with the three of us looking into what’s in those notebooks the mysterious Great-Uncle Ted left me. And maybe finally finding out exactly who created those games I SWEAR were on my computer.

  Amazing Adventure #2?

  I guess life can be like that.

  And looking at my two friends, I realize that there are some places you don’t want to escape from.

  This is one walkthrough I’ll happily do myself.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Getting from a manuscript to a book takes a lot of people, a lot of patience, and a whole lot of support. Especially a debut novel.

  Some people who helped early on include freelance editor JillEllyn Riley, whose enthusiasm for the project and savvy notes helped to remove some of the most egregious faults and traps I had gotten into.

  Joanna Volpe, Stephen Malk, Steve Meltzer, and Christi Ottaviano read early drafts and said helpful things that moved the manuscript forward and taught me what was missing. Sometimes those one or two notes can make a difference in getting it right. Or at least a whole lot better

  When I wondered if I would ever find an agent who would represent this project, Colson Whitehead, brilliant author and fellow school parent, provided invaluable help. He asked his wife, Julie Barer, who provided me with a list of names, one of which was Holly Root.

  Since the moment Holly signed on to be my agent, she has put up with all my questions, my occasional tantrums, and my general cluelessness with extraordinary good humor and smart and levelheaded advice. She has yet to steer me wrong, and every day with her is like a Hollyday. (She no doubt rolled her eyes at that, as she should.) She sold the manuscript to the right people—Delacorte Press was my first choice, so I was delighted when I found out that an editor there was actively pursuing the book.

  That editor, to my eternal gratitude, is Kate Sullivan, who combines an unerring eye to spot the smallest flaw in logic or clumsy sentence with the vocabulary of a Teamster, and who in all honesty is the person most responsible for taking the manuscript and turning it into a book.

  Yes, I hear her say, that’s my job, stupid. (She would probably edit out the word “stupid.”) But doing your job and doing it brilliantly are two very different things. I think she’s one of the greats, and I sincerely hope we continue to do this together for a long time.

  To Kate’s name I must add a few more: the folks from Random House/Delacorte Press, who were essential in making this book look as good as it does.

  A huge thank-you to:

  The patient and brilliant art director Katrina Damkoehler, who found our astounding artist.

  Octavi Navarro, who provided the kind of masterful cover and interior illustrations that make the twelve-year-old in all of us joyful.

  Stephanie Moss, who designed the book so beautifully.

  Copy editors Colleen Fellingham and Alison Kolani, who seemed to catch every errant “was” and missing “to” with incredible precision. I hope they will read these acknowledgments with equal attention!

  Now to the personal.

  No one has been more helpful in providing support, email addresses, and insight into the process than Mary Pender-Coplan. She is one of those “behind-the-scenes” people in publishing, and I am delighted to tell you for a change to pay attention to the person behind the curtain.

  Special thanks to:

  Matteo Bologna, typographer straordinario for his always wise advice, his friendship, and his inspirational fonts.

  Melissa Kantor, who read the book early, gave brilliant and incisive notes, and encouraged me when no one I wasn’t married to or related to by blood believed in me.

  My mother-in-law, Alice Iwai, who has been a source of emotional support for her daughter and for me as long as we’ve been together.

  My father-in-law, Chuck Iwai, and his lovely wife, Sherry, who have never once questioned his daughter’s decision to marry a journeyman writer with nothing to give her but love and respect. They have always been in my corner, and I thank them for all they’ve given us.

  My Aunt Cecille Markell has read more mysteries than anyone I know and passed her love of them on to me.

  My sister, Dr. Mariana Markell, and her husband, Dr. Jody Blanco, and their children, Miranda, Max, and Peter, who have always provided a place for me and later my wife and son in their home and their hearts.

  My brother-in-law, Jeff Iwai, and his wife, Wendy, and their three kids, Sam, Nick, and Emily, who have been an
endless source of joy, laughter, and love when we have needed it (and when don’t you need it?).

  My parents, Robert and Joan Markell, who raised me in a house filled with music, art, great conversation (and listening), and of course a love of reading and good books, which they possess to this day. I love them more than I can ever express, and their unwavering support for their son and his often-wavering career has meant everything to me.

  Every single day has been made richer, funnier, more delightful, and better in every way since Melissa Iwai agreed to go through life with me. I am constantly amazed by her love, loyalty, beauty (inside and out), wit, intelligence, and abundant gifts as an artist. By the way, she’s also a great cook and mom.

  Just ask the incredible, surprising, hilarious, and (in my humble opinion) adorable and brilliant person who is our son, Jamie. He is, and will always be, the greatest thing I’ve ever helped create.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This is Denis Markell’s first novel, and he took writing it very seriously, playing hours and hours worth of escape-the-room games for research (or so he told his family). He also wrote or cowrote the following: an award-winning Off-Broadway musical revue; a few musical comedies for the stage; various and sundry sitcoms; a play with Joan Rivers; an episode of Thundercats; and two picture books illustrated by his wife, Melissa Iwai—The Great Stroller Adventure and Hush, Little Monster. He lives in a small apartment in Brooklyn with Melissa; their son, Jamie; and a Shetland pony named Ronaldo.