The attendant heaved another sigh. “All I wanted was a few minutes’ quiet. A few minutes free of screamers, flames and darkness. Why can’t you leave me alone? What have I ever done to you?”
He punched in more than three numbers. He wasn’t calling the police.
“Ms. Moore? I’m in the office. There’s somebody here you need to deal with. The guy who tried to wreck the display.”
He listened for a moment. His face grew unhappier. He replaced the phone. “I’m to keep you here till the guard arrives,” he announced glumly.
I spotted a door at the end of the wall. I walked over to it.
“Hey! You can’t go in there! You’re supposed to wait.”
I opened the door. It led into the souvenir shop. The sales clerk was twirling her baton. “With our metal mailing tubes, you can send posters to—”
She stopped when she saw me. She laughed. She remembered what I’d thought about the posters.
I grinned back. She was a refreshing change. Unlike the other Death Drop staff, she was cheerful.
Plus she had those green eyes.
I asked, “You didn’t see a lost blond kid wander through, did you?”
The clerk shook her head. “The only thing out of the usual was a frail old lady. She looked sick. She had a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She staggered out to a taxi. I wanted to help her, but she waved me off.”
I couldn’t believe it. “The old lady was on her own? Smythe wasn’t with her? Somebody should send Smythe on the big drop—without the elevator.”
The clerk didn’t look too upset at the idea. Then she frowned, as if remembering something. She started to speak.
Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. The Deet. He babbled, “So guess what. I went back to the portrait. Got a second look. And this time? It was a letdown!”
I didn’t get the chance to ask why. The security guard lumbered over. I shrugged apologetically at the clerk. Whatever she’d been about to say would have to wait. The gift shop was turning into my own personal Grand Central Station.
The guard shoved his face up to mine. “Edwin tells me we need to have a talk.”
Edwin. That would be the hooded attendant.
“It’s about time someone listened to me,” I told the guard. “I’ve been trying to find out about—”
“I don’t think you get my meaning, wise guy. I’m going to talk to you.”
The security guard peeled off his Death Drop Security jacket. He rolled it up and stuffed it under his arm like it was a sleeping bag. “Hot day,” he explained.
He stomped outside to a bench. I followed. Not that the guy was my idea of a great companion. I thought maybe I could get through to him.
Across the street, Coach gave a massive, sarcastic shrug. I could guess his thoughts. The team was starting practice, and I was busy chatting. Not stellar.
The guard noticed Coach’s shrug. It would be hard not to. Coach was a big guy. The shrug had been like the shifting of a tectonic plate.
The guard sat back. He laced his fingers behind his head. “I used to play baseball,” he said conversationally.
“That’s great,” I replied. “But what about—”
“I was an outfielder,” the guard said. “Loved the game. Never missed a practice.”
I wasn’t interested in hearing his baseball memoirs. I tossed my ball up and down. I forced my voice to stay even.
“Sir, I’m really worried about this blond kid. She told me her aunt was missing. She—”
Smiling, the guard shook his head at me. “We have no missing-child report. No hysterical aunt on the phone.”
He leaned forward. “Smythe never saw any blond kid. He says you and a smart aleck with glasses jumped the line. He says you made up this lost-kid story to embarrass them, in case…”
His eyes bored into mine. “…in case the Death Drop manager files a police complaint about the two of you.”
“That’s crazy! Smythe’s lying! He—”
“Now, now. No need to shout.”
I spotted Dieter. He was holding a huge candy-floss cone. He was peeking from behind it to watch us. He was playing spy.
I shut my eyes for a moment to keep them from rolling.
The guard was back to his memoirs. “Like I said, when I was your age, I was an outfielder. And I never missed a practice.”
I clenched my baseball. What did the guy want, a medal?
He lowered his voice. Now we were buddies, sharing a secret. “I see what happened. That’s your team over there. It’s a practice day. But the field is right across from Death Drop. The thrill ride everyone’s talking about.
“You can’t resist. You just have to go on Death Drop. But it means you’re going to be late. You’re going to be in trouble with your coach.”
The guard winked. “So…you make up a story about a lost kid.”
“I didn’t make her up.”
The guard frowned. He whipped out his security-guard badge. “Don’t mess with me. I may not be a cop, but I have the right to detain you. If the manager would let me, I’d phone the cops.”
I didn’t know about this detain stuff. But I did know that the badge, seen from across the street, could just as well be a police one. In his jeans and T, the guard could be an undercover cop.
Sure enough, Coach and my teammates were staring at us. My teammates’ mouths hung open.
It must have been a sight to see their pitcher being questioned, possibly arrested.
Coach looked surprised and angry.
No, angry didn’t quite capture it. Thunderous. That was it.
And I saw my scholarship prospects fluttering away in pieces, like the pomegranate-shaped glitter.
Chapter Six
When the guard went back inside, Dieter hurried up to me.
“Don’t you have a home?” I asked irritably.
My mood had, if it was even possible, gotten worse. I’d received a text from Coach that said, Forget coming 2 practice. Meet me @ the park @ 6. Ur explanation better be STELLAR.
I glanced across the street. Coach was in a huddle with my teammates.
I wondered if my ears should be burning.
The Deet peered solemnly up at me. “I waited around to see if I could help.”
I stared at Dieter. “Hey, you didn’t see Blondie, did you? I took her to the manager’s office when you were barging into Death Drop.”
Dieter shook his head. “I was in a hurry. I wanted to see the painting of Persephone. I’ll never forget that first view I had of it! Wow.”
He brightened. “I could say I saw the kid.”
“No. We have enough liars. We need to find someone who will tell the truth.”
Dieter phoned his mom to say he’d be home a bit late. “I’m hanging out with a baseball pitcher.”
I heard a delighted gasp. Then his mom gushed, “Oh, honey, you’ve made a friend? I’m so happy! I just knew one day those baseball boys would realize how special you are.”
Dieter flushed. I gazed ahead, pretending I couldn’t hear.
His mom said warmly, “You be home when you can, Dieter. Not too late, mind.” A happy laugh tinkled out of the phone. “It’s just so sweet that they’re paying attention to you!”
She rang off. I noticed the Deet’s dejected face. I thought of him showing up at practices. Begging Coach to let him play. Rattling off baseball stats to prove he knew the game.
Dieter’s mom meant well. But it wasn’t sweetness Dieter wanted. It wasn’t people thinking he was special.
He wanted to play baseball.
I gave Dieter a friendly arm punch, then surveyed the Death Drop line. All I needed was one honest person. Hadn’t some philosopher said that, way back? In my case, one honest person who had seen Blondie. Who would say I wasn’t lying.
Lots of people had been around when Blondie walked up to me. It would have been hard not to hear her crying and complaining. But those people were long gone. The ones in the lineup were all new arrivals.
Or maybe not. There might be some repeat riders.
I looked at the Deet. “How about if you go up and down the line, asking people if they were here earlier this afternoon. If they remember a little girl with blond, sausage-shaped curls.”
It was a rotten favor to ask the Deet. People in line on a hot day were cranky. He’d get some rude responses. Some flipped fingers.
But he nodded, his glasses bobbing on his nose.
“I’ll pay you back,” I promised. “I’m going to teach you how to throw.”
Dieter’s jaw dropped. It hung there as he tried to process what I’d said. Finally he spluttered, “Me—throw? Wow!”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s not like you can’t be scholarly and athletic. Not if someone practices with you.”
I headed for the vendor at the far end, whose sign promised DEVILISHLY GOOD CANDY FLOSS! The stall was topped by a picture of a demon gobbling a pink swirl of floss.
A mom and two kids stood grinning in front of the stall. The dad was filming them.
Behind me, footsteps pounded the sidewalk.
It was Smythe. He was waving his arms and shouting.
“Get out! You have no right to be here!”
This was a public sidewalk. Nobody had the right to keep me off it. Especially not a liar-liar-pants-on-fire.
I stepped forward to say that to Smythe.
But he ran by. He hadn’t even seen me. It was the dad with the videocam Smythe was yelling at.
Past the candy-floss stall, a limo had just pulled up to the curb. Smythe didn’t want the dad filming the limo.
Looking offended, the family retreated. When they were a safe distance away, one of the kids shouted that Smythe was a moron.
Well, yeah.
Meanwhile, a chauffeur opened one of the passenger doors. A woman in a white dress, floppy hat and flashy diamond jewelry got out.
I held my hand over my eyes. I’d had this blinding experience before. It was the woman from the video. Sherry Moore, manager and designer of Death Drop.
She was finally showing up for the day.
Smythe rushed over to Sherry. His pinched face took on a sucky, adoring look. He told her everything was fine.
Sherry nodded impatiently. She walked toward Death Drop, her high heels making loud clip-clops on the pavement. Smythe had to scurry to keep up.
It hit me. Sherry didn’t like Smythe. I bet the manager saw right through him. Right into his inner weasel.
That gave me hope. Sherry might listen to me. After all, as manager she was responsible for what happened at Death Drop.
I ran up to her. “Hey, ma’am, I need to talk to you. It’s about the blond kid who lost her aunt. Smythe phoned you about her. But now he says the kid never existed.”
Even with all that sun-flashing jewelry in the way, I could see the manager was startled. She shot a look at Smythe. “What’s all this about?”
Smythe whispered in her ear. Sherry shot me a distrustful glance. She let Smythe bustle her into Death Drop.
That decided it for me. Somehow I had to talk to Sherry Moore—on my own and Smythe-less.
Chapter Seven
I had no chance of seeing the manager now. If I tried barging into Death Drop, Smythe would call the security guard.
Dieter was questioning the people in line. The day was getting hotter. His glasses kept sliding down his nose, and he kept pushing them back up.
I figured I might as well do my bit. I headed back to the candy-floss stall. The vendor was a woman with fluffy platinum hair. She twinkled at me. “Lemon? Raspberry? Grape? Bubblegum? Apple cinn—”
“No, thanks,” I said before she could rhyme off any more flossy flavors. I described Blondie. I asked if the vendor had seen her.
“A kid with sausage curls? Not that I noticed.” She patted her own fluffy ’do, possibly to check that it hadn’t fallen off.
I went to the next vendor, and the next, right to the end. Nobody had noticed Blondie. The popcorn vendor was snarky about it. He pointed out that there were billions of blond kids on Earth.
The hot-dog guy overheard and felt sorry for me. He gave me a container of free fries. But no, he hadn’t seen Blondie.
“Me neither, hon,” said the next vendor. Her stall had red-velvet cushions embroidered with Persephone’s sad face.
Beside the cushion stall, sketches on thick, creamy paper were spread out on the sidewalk. A sign propped against a pink piggy bank said, If you’d like one, please pay by donation. If you can’t afford a donation, just help yourself—and enjoy!
I noticed how good the sketches were. How real. A tree glowing with cherry blossoms. An old man’s wrinkled face and warm, wise eyes. A bright-eyed seagull standing, ballet-dancer style, on one leg.
I checked the bottom right-hand corner of the tree sketch to see the artist’s name. All I saw was a small drawing of an airplane.
My phone beeped. A reminder from Coach. The park @ 6. With a STELLAR explanation.
Dieter ran up to me. “Nobody saw Blondie.” He shaded his eyes and peered at me. “Do you have this kind of experience often?”
“What experience?”
“Seeing people nobody else does.”
At the look I gave him, Dieter retreated several steps. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. Honest, I—oof!”
He’d backed into the cushion stall.
The cushion lady chirped, “My auntie Gladys imagined people. Always one for invisible friends, she was!”
“I don’t imagine things,” I muttered.
Or…did I? A doubt floated in my mind. Maybe everybody was right. Maybe I had imagined Blondie.
I tried to push the idea away by looking at more sketches. Here was a cop, arms spinning as he directed traffic. And here, a wide-eyed baby watching a butterfly. And here…
I stared.
The doubt in my mind dissolved. I broke into a wide grin.
The cushion lady was in full memory mode. “They ended up putting Auntie Gladys away. That’s what happens when you can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t!”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” I replied.
I felt in my back pocket for my wallet. I stuffed a ten into the piggy bank. I picked up the sketch.
Which showed Blondie yelling, a stubby finger pointing—at me.
Dieter ogled the sketch. “Whoa,” he breathed. “Sorry about the imaginary-people remark.”
With my cell phone, I snapped a photo of the sketch. I wasn’t taking any chances. I wanted a backup copy.
I rolled up the sketch and put it in my backpack. I checked the time on my phone. Almost five. I needed to talk to the artist. He or she would be back to collect the money and unsold sketches. Sometime.
I couldn’t wait. I had proof that Blondie existed. I had to show it to Sherry Moore.
The all-too-familiar problem leered at me like the demon puppet. How to get inside? Smythe wouldn’t fall for my lost-ball routine a second time. He’d yell the house down.
I could go through the souvenir shop. I didn’t think the green-eyed sales clerk would start screaming. If anything, she’d laugh.
However, to get in through the shop, I’d have to jump over the exit turnstile. That would attract a whole lot of attention. The guard would be on me before I got a chance to talk to Sherry.
I needed to get in without anyone seeing.
Dieter was studying the cushions. He traced the rhinestones sewn around Persephone’s neck. “The Rossetti painting doesn’t show Persephone with a necklace,” he told the cushion lady.
The vendor grabbed the cushion from him crossly. She set it in its place again.
Something gleamed on the side of the cushion. A zipper.
The red velvet was just a cover. Removable.
“I take great pride in my cushions,” the vendor was saying in an injured tone. “I lovingly hand-sew each one…”
She kept yakking, but I didn’t hear. I was picturing the cushion cover—removed. Turned insi
de out so Persephone wasn’t showing.
I bought one of the cushions. I unzipped the cover and took it off. I handed the cushion back to the astonished vendor. “Thanks. I won’t be needing this.”
With my penknife, I scored two slits in the cover to see through.
The vendor wailed, “What are you doing? My beautiful creation!”
I walked around behind the stall. I pulled the cushion cover over my head. Hooded, I’d fit right in at Death Drop.
Because I’d got it wrong just now. I didn’t have to get in without anyone seeing.
I had to get in without anyone seeing me.
Chapter Eight
Dieter peered owlishly up at me. “I’m to be your decoy.”
“Yeah. If you run in, they won’t notice me.”
“But I—”
“You’ll get to see the Persephone portrait again.”
“Two times was enough. The thrill wore off.”
“Dude. Smythe is lying about Blondie. I have to tell the manager.”
Dieter sighed. “Oh, all right.”
He ran to Death Drop’s entrance. He ducked under the rope, right in front of Smythe.
Smythe lunged.
But Dieter was too fast. The guy was like quicksilver. He vanished up the passageway.
Smythe punched numbers on a cell phone. Busy whining into it, he didn’t notice me slip under the rope.
I pulled my new hood over my face. I ran after the Deet.
Dieter and I met up by Sherry Moore’s video. We and several other people held up our hands to ward off the glare from her jewelry.
Then—
The real Sherry burst around the corner.
I waved at her. This was my chance. I’d tell her about Blondie.
Sherry saw me. Her flashy-ringed hands pushed people aside. She waded through. She was smiling. Things were going to go well.
Okay, so there was a speck-sized chance they wouldn’t. Just in case, I gave my phone to Dieter. “If Sherry doesn’t believe me, get out of here. My coach will be in the park across the street at six. My password is strikeout. Show the sketch to him. Explain what’s happened.”
Sherry reached us. She winked at me. I felt a rush of relief. I’d been right about the manager. She was okay.
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