Now You See Me ...

by Jane B. Mason

  “Whoa there, girl,” Abby said, taking the remaining film out of her friend’s hands. “They go in rows….”

  Lena handed the boxes over. “I just want to have a little fun,” she said, trying to sound more lighthearted than she felt. “We have exactly two days before school starts.” Lena pulled the strap away from where it was sticking to her neck.

  “I’m all for fun,” Abby agreed, straightening the final rolls in the cabinet before sliding it closed.

  “Can I take the camera for a while?” Abby asked when they got outside. “You know, to give you a little break?” She started to lift it off Lena’s head.

  Lena instinctively grabbed the strap, holding it around her neck.

  Abby looked totally serious for a second, then laughed. “I just want to try it out,” she cajoled. “I haven’t even had a chance to click the shutter!”

  Lena felt ridiculous holding on to the strap, so she let go and lifted the camera over her head. But her hands were a little shaky as she handed it to Abby. And just as Abby put the Impulse around her own neck, a giant gust of wind kicked up, blowing a pile of leaves around them like a tiny tornado. Then, as quickly as the wind had appeared, it was gone.

  Freaky, Lena thought.

  “Gross!” Abby said, spitting bits of dry foliage out of her mouth. “How bad is my hair?” she asked, leaning down so Lena could evaluate.

  Lena inspected the tight braids and pulled out a few twigs and bits of leaf. “Not too terrible,” she said. “Mine?”

  “Reasonable,” Abby replied, returning the leaf-removal favor. “Let’s get the bikes.”

  Minutes later the girls were rolling down Main Street. Abby cruised slowly along in front of Lena, window-shopping and stopping to take a few shots with the camera. Lena tried not to crash into her and to ignore the worrying fear that was growing in the pit of her stomach. First the computer. Then the weird, blowing leaves. What next?

  Abby rolled to a stop in front of their favorite yogurt shop, parking her bike near the curb. “Feel like a cup of frozen happiness?” she asked with a grin.

  Lena knew better than to say no. “Love one,” she lied.

  “My treat,” Abby said, hopping off her bike. She disappeared into the store and came back with two cups of light orange swirls. The two girls sat down on a little bench in front of the store.

  Abby took a giant frozen bite. “I love peach season,” she said through her mouthful.

  Lena took a bite and tried to let the sweetness seep in. It was delicious. “Not as much as my dad,” she said with a laugh. “He was in the kitchen at dawn.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Abby said. “His jam is amazing. Did you know he offered to teach me? Maybe we should head back. It’s only eleven o’clock.”

  “Go back to that hot kitchen?” Lena squinted in disgust. “Are you crazy?” She set down her yogurt and held out her hand. “Can I have the camera? I want to take a shot.” She could already picture the close-up of the cup and spoon through the viewfinder.

  Abby gave her a look, but lifted the strap over her head.

  Lena took the camera. It felt really good to have it back in her hands, as if she’d been without it for days instead of a mere fifteen minutes. She found the shot of the spoon in the yogurt cup through the viewfinder and pressed the button, but nothing came out. “You used up the film!” she protested, shooting Abby a pretend dirty look.

  Abby scraped the bottom of her yogurt cup with her spoon and looked nonplussed. “We both know you have another package in your bag, and five hundred more at home,” she replied smoothly.

  Lena smirked, feeling normal for the first time that day. “Thank you, Jake!” she cried.

  The girls finished their treats in silence, climbed back on their bikes, and rode the rest of the way down Main Street. Lena struggled to keep a hold on her easy mood, but could feel it slipping away.

  Just before rounding the corner onto Fourth, Abby screeched to a halt, leaving black tire marks on the cement.

  “A little warning might be nice!” Lena yelped, quickly steering to the left to avoid a crash. Without replying, Abby propped her bike next to a building and slipped inside.

  “The girl’s gone loco,” Lena said to herself. She shook her head when she saw where Abby was going, then locked the bikes and followed her friend into the art gallery. “Didn’t I tell her I don’t want to enter the photo contest?” she complained to no one in particular.

  The gallery was cool and quiet inside, with high ceilings and exposed beams. The floorboards creaked as Lena caught up to her friend in the back of the big, open room. Abby was standing in front of a wall hung with a long row of pictures.

  “What gives?” Lena asked, feeling a little grumpy about her friend’s unannounced stop.

  “I just felt like stopping,” Abby said. “Here, I got this for you.” She shoved an entry form into Lena’s hand and turned her attention back to the wall of photos. “These are all the contest winners.”

  Lena knew from experience (and from watching her best friend drive hard bargains) that Abby didn’t take no for an answer. Most of the time this was totally fine, and even entertaining. But when Abby’s pushiness was directed at her, it could be totally annoying. She crumpled the form into a tight ball and glanced up at the winning images in spite of herself. Within five seconds she was hooked.

  The shots varied widely — there were images of everything from a super-close-up of a happy dog’s tongue to a dewy meadow at sunrise, to a weirdly disturbing image of a place setting missing its spoon.

  Every picture told a story, which was exactly what Lena loved about photographs. She loved how a moment captured in the blink of the shutter could say so much more than seemed possible.

  Lena and Abby lingered over the back wall. All of the shots were great. But time and again Lena kept coming back to one picture — the black-and-white silverware shot. Simple as it was, it was oddly captivating. It looked like it had been taken at a diner — possibly even Saywell’s. Lena liked the way the curved coffee stain marked the spot where the spoon should have been. It had a lonely quality.

  “Check it out,” Abby said, pointing at two placards beneath the photos. “Some guy named Robbie Henson won twice in a row.”

  Sure enough, the photos were credited with the same name. One was a shot of three sets of toes dangling off a dock just above the water — a man, woman, and child obviously enjoying summer. The other was the napkin-coffee-stain image Lena had just been staring at.

  “The images are so different,” Abby said thoughtfully. “You’d never guess they were taken by the same person.”

  Lena discreetly uncrumpled the entry form. She flattened it and pushed it into her messenger bag. It was amazing how one picture could completely change the way you saw things.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The girls stood silently in front of the photos for several minutes. “Just think,” Abby said, turning toward Lena. “Your name could be up here, too!”

  Lena rolled her eyes. Thinking about entering was one thing. Planning on winning was quite another. “Let’s just take it one step at a time,” she replied. Abby was the queen of putting the cart before the horse.

  “The seed has been planted,” Abby said with a knowing smile. She turned toward the door.

  “You’re such a pest,” Lena teased, lightly pinching her on the arm and following behind. Abby was just reaching for the door handle when a crash echoed from the back of the room.

  Lena knew what had happened before she turned to look. One of the pictures had fallen off the wall. But which one? Glancing back, she felt her stomach tighten. It was the coffee stain photo she’d just been admiring. The glass in the frame had shattered, and Lena felt her nerves splinter right along with it.

  “Goodness!” came a voice as a tall, salt-and-pepper-haired man appeared and rushed to the back wall of the gallery. “What happened here?” he asked the air.

  The girls watched as he stooped to examine the photo and lean
it carefully against the wall. Then he disappeared again, presumably to get a broom.

  “Let’s go,” Abby whispered.

  Lena thought maybe they should stay, but since they weren’t anywhere near the photo when it fell they obviously weren’t responsible, and the man clearly had the situation under control. Nodding, she followed her friend back into the heat.

  The girls unlocked their bikes and rode side by side up Fourth Street. Neither of them spoke. Lena tried to think happy thoughts, but the spooky mood from earlier in the day was oozing back in, like horror movie slime.

  “Hey,” Abby suddenly said, breaking the silence and looking like she’d just had a brain wave. “We should have a sleepover tonight. Tomorrow’s the last free day before school starts, so our parents can’t say no.”

  Lena hesitated. They had sleepovers all the time, of course. But Lena knew she wouldn’t be very good company. Plus, she had no interest in staying up late. She really just wanted to sleep.

  “Come on. We have to live a little before it’s back to the grind,” Abby urged.

  “Sounds good,” Lena finally replied. It didn’t really, but it did sound better than staying home alone — her parents had plans to go out.

  “Perfect. I’ll just gather a few things, get the all-clear from the ‘rents, and see you back at your place.” Abby waved and split off down her own street.

  “Perfect,” Lena echoed. But she felt far from it.

  When Abby showed up at the Giffs’ a few hours later, Lena was still in a fog.

  “Don’t you ever take that thing off?” Abby wrinkled her nose and pointed at the Impulse as she breezed into the living room. She dropped her bag and her backside on the couch.

  “What thing?” Lena asked. She glanced down and saw that the camera was still hanging around her neck. She hadn’t even realized it was there, that she’d been wandering around the house with it all afternoon. “I was just about to grab a shot of my dad’s jam,” she lied. “You should see it.”

  Abby followed Lena into the kitchen, where rows of gleaming jam-filled jars lined the counters, waiting for labels. The last batch was still hot, the jars sitting upside down to prevent bacteria from growing.

  “Come to admire my handiwork?” Mr. Giff asked, sauntering into the kitchen dressed for a night out and wearing a wide smile. “Hello, my beauties,” he greeted his jam, patting the bottom of a hot jar.

  Lena rolled her eyes and decided not to point out that he was going to be eating his little beauties in the very near future.

  Mr. Giff dropped some cash on the counter for pizza and turned back to the girls. “I didn’t see you in jam class today, Abby. You really should come help me and learn some of my tricks. I don’t offer my jam-making secrets to just anyone, you know.” His eyes twinkled.

  “I totally want to make jam with you, Mr. G. We just got, uh, a little distracted today.” She shot Lena a look.

  Lena felt a twinge of guilt. Her best friend had spent most of the day trying to help her unravel the Impulse mystery. She vowed that tonight would be different. Tonight she was going to have fun.

  She trained the camera’s eye on her father and one of his beauties. “Smile, Dad,” she directed. Shifting the camera to the left, she fit as many jars into the shot as she could and pushed the button. The camera whirred.

  “Next time, Mr. G.,” Abby vowed. “Next time we are going to have a stellar jam session.” She smiled and ran her finger along the gleaming line of jars.

  Mr. Giff handed the jar he was holding to Abby. “This one’s for you. As for our lesson, I wish I had time tomorrow. There’s a whole flat of peaches on the porch I didn’t even get to.” He shook his head dramatically. “But I have a meeting, so this lot will have to get us through.”

  Lena looked at the rows and rows of jars. It was definitely enough to get them through the winter, plus extras to give away to friends. Not to mention the two cases of strawberry jam in the pantry. But according to her dad, you couldn’t have too much jam.

  “What a waste,” Mr. Giff murmured. “And I’m a little short this year, too.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” Lena said, patting her father on the back. “I’ve heard of this crazy thing you can do with peaches. It’s called eating them.”

  “Smart aleck,” Mr. Giff harrumphed. He checked his watch and called out to Lena’s mother.

  “What time did you say the movie started?” Mrs. Giff appeared in the kitchen in the nick of time. She looked at the girls and lifted her eyebrows. “Is he still whining about the jam?” she asked.

  They didn’t have to answer.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get him out of here,” Mrs. Giff joked, and tried to tug her husband toward the door. “The man needs distraction.”

  POP! A small explosion echoed in the kitchen.

  “What the —” Lena turned and her mouth dropped open. One of the upside-down jars had popped its lid and was oozing sticky peach goo all over the counter. POP! Another one opened up.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Giff asked.

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Mr. Giff wailed. “I was just going to flip them over. Everything seemed fine, and now …”

  A third jar popped, and peach jam flowed out the bottom like lava.

  “Honey, we have to go,” Mrs. Giff called her husband from the hallway. “We’ll miss the movie.”

  “But …” Mr. Giff looked from the door to the jam and back.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll clean it up.” Lena wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her father so distraught.

  “I made sure everything was boiling hot. I used the same pectin. I …” Mr. Giff walked slowly out of the kitchen talking to himself, going over each step and wondering what had gone wrong. “I suppose the lids might be defective….”

  Or something else, Lena thought.

  “Man. Your dad was a mess,” Abby said after the door was closed and locked behind Lena’s parents.

  “Yeah. So’s the counter,” Lena pointed out. The sticky peach ooze was spreading out under the jars, sealing them to the granite. Suddenly, Lena was regretting her offer to clean up.

  “Okay. You wash, I’ll dry,” Abby said, taking charge.

  Lena turned on the hot water, added soap, and began to carefully wash the bottoms of the still-sealed jars. The Impulse clunked awkwardly against the counter every time she reached for another jar.

  “Why don’t you take that thing off?” Abby asked.

  Lena felt a flash of annoyance. One minute she wanted her to enter the photo contest, and the next she was telling her to ditch the camera….

  The Impulse thunked against the lip of the sink again, this time coming dangerously close to getting wet. Abby had a point, Lena realized, and she was being ridiculous. Reaching up, she removed the strap and set the camera on the counter nearby. There. That was better.

  Or was it? In an instant her anxiousness was back, and Lena could feel herself starting to rush through the cleanup. She had to get it done! She finished the washing, then grabbed the dried jars off the counter and carried them into the pantry.

  “There, that’s done,” she declared as she set the final jar in its place. She was about to snatch up the camera when Abby suddenly jumped into her path, a suspiciously sly grin on her face.

  Oh no, Lena thought. What now?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “How many times have you watched your dad make jam?” Abby asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “About a gazillion,” Lena answered. She tried to duck around Abby’s arm to grab the Impulse off the counter, but Abby shifted again — right into the center of her path.

  “So, you know how to do it, right?” Abby prodded.

  Something in her tone made Lena stop trying to get around her and look into her face instead. “Yeaah …” she said slowly.

  “So, I bet we could make a batch ourselves,” Abby concluded. “To help him out.” A slow smile crept across her face. Any trace of a smile disappeared from Lena’s.

&n
bsp; As if we aren’t already in hot water, Lena thought. But Lena had been cooking and baking in their kitchen since she was ten, and once Abby had an idea in her head there was no stopping her. Lena had seen Abby’s determination lead to some amazing successes, like first place at the science fair in fourth grade, and the bake sale sellout earlier this summer. But she had also been witness to some spectacular failures, such as (but not limited to) the front yard ice-skating rink catastrophe and the doggie day-care disaster. With the way things had been going lately, she was pretty sure that the great jam session would fall into the “failure” category.

  Forty minutes later, the girls were wrist-deep in peach peeling and pulping. Lena picked up a blanched yellow ball and easily peeled the skin away. She split the peach in half with her fingers, let the peach halves fall into a giant bowl of already-peeled peaches, and dropped the peel and the pit into the compost tub.

  “That’s peach number five hundred and sixty-two,” she groused.

  “Oh, come on, this is fun,” Abby corrected as she dumped a giant pile of peach chunks into a flat-bottomed dish for mashing. “And besides, I’m already pulping.”

  It was true. With both girls working they were making good time.

  Abby finished her cutting and walked over to the sink, using her elbow to turn on the faucet. Her peachy hands reminded Lena of scrubbed-up doctors, only it was peach juice instead of disinfectant. What they really needed were spikes on the tips of their fingers. Peeling peaches was slippery business.

  “You get back here!” Lena called as a peach slid out of her fingers and onto the floor. It hit the tile with a sploosh, skidded across the kitchen, and wedged itself under the fridge.

  Abby retrieved it and rinsed it in the sink. “Nobody has to know,” she said with a giggle as she finished washing up. They were finally ready to make jam.

  Lena measured several cups of peach pulp into a big pot and set it on the stove. Behind her, Abby excitedly ripped open a box of pectin.

  “So, how much of this stuff do I put in?” Abby asked, gazing into the pot of peach pulp. “Mmm, smells good already.”