The Vanishing Violin

by Michael D. Beil

  Mom comes back from my room with the grabber and pulls down a little pitcher from the top shelf.

  “I should get one of those for my mom,” Margaret says. “It reminds me of that thing Jaz used to change the lightbulb.”

  “We use it all the time,” Mom says. “I may need it later today to put Sophie’s dirty gym clothes into a laundry basket. Lord knows I don’t want to make actual contact with those.”

  “Mom. Please.”

  She holds up her hands. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend the princess by suggesting that her gym clothes stink?”

  Margaret is enjoying this a little too much. “Ewww. Sophie, you brought those home a week ago.”

  “Excuse me for being too busy to clean my room. Somebody keeps dragging me all over the city after school every day.”

  “And yet, my room is clean.”

  “That’s because you’re obsessive-compulsive.”

  “Well, you’re both going to be late for school if you don’t hurry,” Mom says. She kisses me on the cheek. “I love you, Stinky.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  We make it to school with a few minutes to spare. Leigh Ann and Becca are waiting for us upstairs by the seventh-grade lockers.

  “Lookie at what we have!” says Leigh Ann.

  “Yeah, while you two losers were sleeping in this morning, Leigh Ann and I wrote a masterpiece,” Rebecca adds. “Livvy is going to totally fall for it. It’s as good as one of those Harvard things you’re always yapping about, Margaret.”

  Margaret looks stunned. One does not joke about the Harvard Classics with her. “Let me see it.”

  Leigh Ann hands her the note, which alternates between Becca’s and Leigh Ann’s writing. It is supposed to look like something they wrote in class, passing it back and forth. I lean in to read it over Margaret’s shoulder.

  Hey LA, I did it! U know that big test in Lonneman’s class Tues? I have all the answers.

  OMG How?!

  It wuz ez. Hacked into her computer after school. U can have a copy Just DONT TELL anyone, speshally sophie and the brain.

  Y not?

  Cuz they dont need it there like jeniusses and besides they never help me UR right they get A’s no matter what. Anyway, marg is such a saint she’d probly tell Lonneman or Sister B. Promise?

  Promise.

  OK. Its on the top shelf of the locker under all the books—make a copy if u want, but b sure 2 put it back.

  “This is good,” I admit. “I think Livvy’ll buy it. I especially like the creative misspellings.”

  Becca pretends not to know what I’m talking about. “There are misspelled words?”

  Margaret agrees with my assessment and hands the note back to Becca. “So, how do you get this into her sneaky little hands without her being suspicious?”

  “We’ve got it under control,” Becca answers. “L.A. and I sit right in front of Livvy in social studies. We’re going to pass this back and forth a few times, making sure that Livvy sees us. After class, I’m going to situate myself right in front of her, and it’s going to ‘accidentally’ fall out of my notebook. She’ll never be able to resist reading it.”

  “Not bad, you two,” Margaret says admiringly. “In the CIA, they call this kind of thing disinformation. Leigh Ann, I have to admit, I find this devious side of you most interesting. You definitely have a future in espionage.”

  At lunch, future spy Leigh Ann Jaimes reports that phase 1 of the plan went perfectly. After Becca dropped the note, Livvy pretended not to see it and covered it with her foot. When she thought no one was looking, she reached down and slipped it into her blazer pocket.

  “And she had this smirky-jerky smile on her face,” says Leigh Ann.

  “Like the one you have now?” I ask. “Where is Livvy, anyway?”

  Leigh Ann points with her eyes at a table on the opposite side of the cafeteria. “She’s at her usual table, with the usual adoring crowd. They’re all whispering about something. I swear, it looks like she’s already told them. I can’t believe that. I thought for sure she would keep it to herself.”

  Margaret shakes her head. “Not her style. This way, if she gives everyone the answers, she’ll be the big hero. Don’t forget, it’s always all about Livvy.”

  “I hope Becca put the fake answer key in your locker,” I say. “Because she is definitely going after it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes her move today.”

  “It’s there,” Leigh Ann replies. “And the locker’s unlocked. We always just leave the lock hanging.”

  “Speaking of leaving things hanging, Margaret,” I begin, “when does the plan to catch Sergei go into effect?”

  “Tomorrow,” she answers. “Jaz says that Sergei shows up at Perkatory at about eight, so guess what? You and I are going to be there when he arrives.”

  “On a Saturday morning?” I whine. “How come they don’t have to come?”

  “Because they are busy doing other things on Saturday mornings. Important things. You would just be sleeping in.”

  “Sleep is good. Sleep is important. Doctors are always saying people don’t get enough of it.”

  “Then go to bed early. Get all you want. But don’t plan on getting much on Saturday night. We’re all sleeping over at your apartment.”

  “We are?” Becca, Leigh Ann, and I say in unison.

  “Uh-huh. Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything.”

  Sometimes having a genius for a best friend can be so exhausting.

  “Um, Margaret, do I have any plans next March twenty-seventh, around three o’clock?”

  “Well, actually, we do need to—” She stops, a big smile on her face. “Oh, all right, you’ve made your point. I’ll go over to Mr. C.’s for the daily check-in.”

  “Awesome. That means we rehearse today,” I say to Leigh Ann and Becca. “Let’s go over to Elizabeth’s right after school. Maybe we can actually learn a whole song.”

  An entire song. A short song.

  Dare to dream.

  When the dust from the dismissal-bell stampede of girls settles, Becca announces that phase 2 is complete. The Klack-Hack has taken the bait.

  “I had my books arranged so that I’d be able to see if anyone touched them, and they have definitely been moved. The answer sheet is still there, but I’ll bet you she made a copy and brought the original back so that I wouldn’t know.” She laughs her evil-genius laugh. “Hwaa-ha-ha! Livvy Klack is going down.”

  “Don’t count your chickens, Bec,” I say. “A lot can happen between now and Tuesday. And didn’t you say the same thing about your supersecret anti-Vatican organization?”

  “Don’t be a buzz kill, St. Pierre. And for your information, I’m not done with the SAVO yet. You just wait and see.”

  “Oh, I’ll wait, Chen.”

  Leigh Ann looks to Margaret, palms up, for help dealing with Becca and me. “Have fun practicing. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Margaret says.

  Having the basement in Elizabeth’s house all to ourselves for a couple of hours is just what we need. We crank the amplifiers up to a respectable-for-rock level, and Becca and I start to get the hang of playing together. About an hour into the practice, we make it through all of “Twist and Shout” without any (cringeworthy) mistakes and then congratulate ourselves with high fives and ear-to-ear smiles.

  “Man, we should have recorded that,” I say. “Margaret will never believe us.”

  “That was awesome!” Leigh Ann agrees. “We totally rocked it.”

  “Ready to do it again?” Rebecca asks. “When we can play it like that twenty times in a row without mistakes, then we’ll be ready to play it in front of other people.”

  “Hello, girls,” Elizabeth says, coming down the stairs. “Sorry to interrupt when you’re practicing. You sound wonderful, by the way—now, that’s my kind of music! There’s someone here who says she was supposed to meet you—”

  “Mbingu!” shouts Rebecca, who runs over to greet her tall, striking friend, who is
wearing, appropriately enough, a bright red coat. “You made it! Everybody, this is the girl I was telling you about, from the art program. I didn’t say anything ’cause I wasn’t sure she’d come. This is Leigh Ann, and this is Sophie. She’s the one who was totally rude to you on the phone.”

  “Becca! Jeez! I am so sorry about that,” I say. “Rebecca dearest, you were going to explain that to her, remember?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Mbingu doesn’t seem to know what to make of us, but Elizabeth helps things out by inviting everyone upstairs for a short snack break. “You girls need to get to know each other a little if you’re going to play together. What better way to do that than over Oreos and milk?”

  For all her wackiness, Elizabeth is very wise. By the time we polish off a package of Oreos and half a gallon of milk, we are bandmates.

  “I do have one little problem with being in the band,” Mbingu says, pulling a pair of drumsticks from her backpack. “These are all I have. No drums.”

  “Maybe we can borrow some for a while, until we get enough money to buy or rent used ones,” I say. “We must know somebody with a drum set.”

  “My brother has some drums,” Leigh Ann says. “He doesn’t have time to play anymore. I’ll ask him if we can borrow them.”

  “Problem solved,” Becca announces. “For today, you get to play on a plastic bucket, Mbingu. Kind of like those guys on the street. Elizabeth, you got one of those we could use?”

  Back in the basement, we let Mbingu watch and listen as we play “Twist and Shout.” By the time we’re halfway through, she knows the beat and is pounding it out on the top of the bucket. And suddenly we sound much better.

  Leigh Ann notices the difference, too. “Mbingu, that was amazing. Where did you learn to do that?”

  “I don’t know—I listen to a lot of music and just imitate what I hear,” she says with a shrug.

  “Well, keep doing it,” I say.

  We hammer through “Twist and Shout” five or six more times, until Leigh Ann has finally had it. “Okay, I need a break from that one. I’m going to lose my voice. Sophie, why don’t we try your song for a while?”

  Rebecca strums her bass. “You have a song?”

  “Well, it’s not really done, and I’m not too sure about the key, and—”

  She cuts me off with another riff, louder this time. “Lemme see it.”

  I take a notebook out of my bag and flip through the pages until I find it. “The chorus is done, but I think it needs one more verse. I don’t even have a title—I just call it ‘The Apostrophe Song.’ That dumb project of Mr. Eliot’s was the inspiration.”

  “Play a little bit for us,” Leigh Ann says.

  “It has a punky, Ramonesy kind of beat,” I say as I find my way through the first few notes. Mbingu is tapping out a rhythm right along with me. “Yeah. Something like that. And the chorus has a much quicker tempo. More like this.”

  Leigh Ann takes the notebook from me. “Play that part again so I can sing. Ready?”

  “Ready, two, three …”

  I wouldn’t, oh no I couldn’t,

  And no I haven’t and I don’t.

  He doesn’t, no no he isn’t,

  No way, he didn’t and he won’t.

  We shouldn’t, oh no we aren’t,

  No we can’t … no, no, no we can’t.

  “Sophie, that’s awesome!” Leigh Ann says. “You have to finish it, ’cause I really want us to do this song.”

  Mbingu looks suspiciously at me. “This isn’t some joke you’re playing on the new girl, is it? You really wrote that? Because I like it!”

  “You know, L.A. and Mbingu are right—it’s got potential,” Becca says. “When you said you wrote a song, I’m thinking it’s gonna be some cheesy ballad about Raf’s big brown eyes. But Sophie St. Pierre, punk princess? Who knew?”

  “Who is Raf?” Mbingu asks.

  “Sophie’s boyfriend,” Becca chides. “He’s sooo dreamy.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Mbingu leans in to whisper to me: “But is he dreamy?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, finish the song, princess,” Becca says. “It’s totally rockin’ and we need it!”

  Maybe there’s hope for me yet as a bad girl? Move over, Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten. Here comes Sophie Sinister!

  Chapter 21

  I’d like to thank the members of the Academy …

  In a clear violation of the Geneva Conventions, Commandant Margaret drags her only POW—that’s a prisoner of Wrobel—out of bed and down to Perkatory at 7:45 on the dot. I mean, it’s Saturday, for cryin’ out loud. Even worse, she woke me up right in the middle of a great dream. First, Raf, with slicked-back hair and a leather jacket, picks me up on his scooter and takes me to my dad’s favorite café in Paris—a place I’ve been to many, many times with my parents. (I know that sounds like the most pretentious thing ever, but I swear it’s not like that. It’s just, my dad is French. So we go to France for a lot of family vacations. Makes sense, no?) We’re sitting at a sidewalk table drinking l’eau gazeuse (water with bubbles), nibbling on a baguette, and chatting away en français about the beautiful evening. When Raf reaches over and takes my hand, I notice that I’m wearing the Ring of Rocamadour, and I just can’t take my eyes off the gold band with its tiny cross of rubies. Behind me, someone is calling my name: “Sophie. Sophie? Qu’est-ce que tu attends? What are you waiting for?”

  I look over my shoulder at the waitress, who has the face of St. Veronica (this I know from a very familiar painting in our church). She looks me right in the eyes and smiles sweetly.

  “Bonjour, Sophie,” she says. “Time to take the plunge. You are ready.”

  I try to say something—I don’t know what—but my lips seem glued together.

  Then the phone rings and jolts me rudely back to reality.

  Ready for what? I wonder. Some part of me must want to achieve something important, but the semiconscious, sleep-deprived part sitting in Perkatory seems basically contented with the gigantic mug of steaming hot cocoa that Jaz has set in front of me.

  “Mmmm. Cocoa good.”

  “So, you are alive,” Margaret says. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  I shake my head. “No talk yet. Sophie need more cocoa.”

  The door jangles, and Margaret sits up stiffly when she sees who comes in. “Oh. My. Gosh. You are not going to believe who just came in.”

  “Mmfff. Who?”

  “Your old friend Mr. Winterbottom. Winterbutt. Winterpatootie.”

  That brings me to life. I haven’t seen ol’ Winter-slimebucket since, well, since the week we recovered the ring, and he and I had a, well, interesting final encounter. And there he is, skin the color of an overripe banana, and dressed in a rumpled suit that hangs limply from his shoulders. “You know, I was just thinking about him, wondering what he’s up to these days. Do you think he’s working at another church?”

  “Hmm. Seems doubtful.” Suddenly she turns back to me. “I think he recognizes us. What’s he doing? Is he coming over here?”

  “Calm down. He’s just ordering coffee from Jaz. Wait, now he’s leaving.”

  “Well, that’s strange. He left without any coffee or anything?”

  A few seconds after he leaves, Jaz motions toward the door with her head, and a few seconds later, Sergei walks in. There’s no doubt it’s him; he is about five feet tall, and when he takes off his jacket, his biceps bulge through his skintight shirt like the Incredible Hulk.

  And boy, is he all flirty with Jaz at the counter as he orders his caffeine cocktail. “Look at the guns on that dude. I wouldn’t want to get into a fight with him,” I say.

  “Wait a minute. Did you really just say ‘look at the guns on that dude’? Good Lord. Did you pick that up watching WrestleMania?”

  I flex my muscles for her. “Nah. Been pumpin’ some iron down at the gym.”

  Sergei sits right where Jaz said he would, two tables beh
ind me and right next to the air vent. Margaret scoots her chair a few inches so that she can see him over my shoulder and slides an index card with some writing on it toward me.

  “Your script,” she whispers.

  Ahem. Places, everyone. Quiet on the set. Time for yet another awesome performance from Miss Sophie St. Pierre. Actress. Guitarist. Vocalist. Composer. Lemon tart taster. Sigh. My public simply can’t get enough. I just hope the script is worthy of—ahem—my extraordinary talent.

  I wait for my cue from Margaret. Sergei settles in, reading the paper and humming quietly.

  “I can’t believe we have to go into school today,” Margaret says, winking at me. “These morning practices kill me. What are you doing later?”

  I check my script. “Oh, I have guitar at five, and then I’m going to a movie with Raf. How ’bout you?”

  Margaret looks over my shoulder to make sure Sergei is listening. “Well, my violin lesson is at two, but I’m going to hang out next door, at Chernofsky’s. I feel kind of bad for him ever since his assistant ran off with that violin. He seems kind of nervous, like the guy’s going to sneak back and steal more stuff.”

  “But he, like, changed the locks and everything, didn’t he?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s the first thing he did. I’ve been trying to tell him that there’s no way the guy is getting back in there. New locks, new alarm codes. And it’s a good thing, too—what?”

  Margaret lowers her voice a step. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, because he is a little wigged out by it, but one of Chiang Li’s bows is in the shop. He showed it to me—it’s worth about fifty grand.”

  The script tells me to react loudly—I can do that. “Fifty grand for a bow! You can buy a car for that.”

  “Shhh! I know, it’s crazy.”

  “Whose bow is it?”

  “Chiang Li. He’s playing at Carnegie Hall next week, and I guess it needs new hair or something.”

  “He brought it to Mr. Chernofsky?”

  Margaret shrugs. “He has a good reputation.”