Don’t worry, you aren’t mistaken—
this is supposed to be this way.
v3.1
For my students, past and present
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Trust me, I thought it was a non-contact sport, too
Chapter 2 - Parents just don’t understand. (Hey, somebody ought to write a song)
Chapter 3 - What if those fifty million Frenchmen are wrong? Has anyone even considered that possibility?
Chapter 4 - In which Becca walks in on a make-believe artist and I step into a minefield
Chapter 5 - Black-and-white television? No cable? Quelle horreur!
Chapter 6 - Whew! My computer and I both need a break after that last chapter
Chapter 7 - So, who wins in a fight between a crocodile and a unicorn?
Chapter 8 - A visit with old friends, er, good friends who are old-ish
Chapter 9 - In which Tillie has an unusual snack
Chapter 10 - A series of inexplicable events
Chapter 11 - In which Leigh Ann asks a question for the ages
Chapter 12 - Time for us to put on our detective hats. Let’s hope they’re fashionable
Chapter 13 - In which it becomes apparent that I may have spoken too soon
Chapter 14 - In which I set loose an army of killer ants on Livvy. Okay, not really, but a girl can fantasize, can’t she?
Chapter 15 - Maybe she has a sister named Raisinella
Chapter 16 - In which Tillie provides invaluable assistance
Chapter 17 - Oh, great—now my dreams are getting complicated
Chapter 18 - I know it’s not fair, leaving you (and Raf—oh no!) hanging like that, but …
Chapter 19 - The stuff nightmares are made of
Chapter 20 - In which many questions are answered
Chapter 21 - Margaret Wrobel: blackmailer, rabble-rouser
Chapter 22 - If you listen closely, you can hear that Twilight Zone music in the background—things get that strange
Chapter 23 - In which Malcolm delivers some disturbing news
Chapter 24 - Maybe they just have trouble with algebra
Chapter 25 - In which I dig up a “key” piece of evidence
Chapter 26 - Hey, I think I’d look good in red tights and that snazzy cape
Chapter 27 - We discover the only person alive who apparently never heard that old “sticks and stones” line
Chapter 28 - Let the great counterfeit canvas caper begin
Chapter 29 - In which I share the stage and the glory with an up-and-coming actress
Chapter 30 - Life imitates art, take two
Chapter 31 - Oh, you knew this was coming. There’s always an epilogue
About the Author
Trust me, I thought it was a non-contact sport, too
I glide through the water after a picture-perfect flip turn, the muscles in my arms and shoulders grateful for those two seconds of rest before my face bursts through the surface. With fifty meters to go and a comfortable lead, I could relax and cruise to the finish, but that’s just not me. I’m not about to let a little discomfort get in the way of a personal best time in the 400 individual medley, so I come out of the turn and start the final lap with arms and legs churning. The last twenty meters feel like I’m swimming in oatmeal, and when I finally touch the wall, every molecule in my body is aching and I am struggling to get enough air in my lungs.
My swim coach, Michelle, is standing over me, smiling at the stopwatch in her hand. She bends down, holding it closer for me to see, but the chlorine in my eyes makes it hard for me to focus.
“Good?” I ask, squinting.
“Nope. Grrr-eat. You broke your own record by almost three seconds.”
In the lane to my left, my teammate Olivia “Livvy” Klack touches the wall and lifts her perky, perfect nose to face Michelle.
“Nice job, Liv,” I say, trying to be friendly. “Thought you were going to pass me in the backstroke.” Of the four strokes in the 400 IM—butterfly, back, breast, and freestyle—the backstroke has always been my weakest, and it is Livvy’s strongest.
Livvy doesn’t even bother to look at me. She just kind of grunts and swims away, ducking under the lane markers to go talk to her friends, who are still finishing.
“What is with you two?” Michelle asks.
“Long story,” I say.
And it is. For now, let me just say that while the Red Blazer Girls—that’s me and my three best friends, Margaret Wrobel, Rebecca Chen, and Leigh Ann Jaimes—were busy solving the Mystery of the Vanishing Violin, we had a little run-in with Livvy and her friends. I know it sounds incredibly juvenile, but she started it. It’s not my fault she picked a fight with four girls who are smart, stubborn, and not at all above a little revenge if the situation requires it. It did. So we did. And while she used to just ignore me, she now appears to be embracing an active hatred of me.
It’s our last practice before our first meet, which is against a team from Westchester that has been together for years and is rumored to be really tough. We, on the other hand, have only been practicing at the pool at Asphalt Green, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, for a month. When I was nine and ten, I was on another of Michelle’s junior swim teams, but I took a year off from the sport to concentrate on school and the guitar. Funny thing, though. It turns out there is enough time in the day to swim, too, if you’re willing to get up at five in the morning. Margaret is still amazed that I’m doing it; after all, I used to grumble and be grouchy all day whenever she decided we absolutely needed an early start on the mystery of the moment and called me at six o’clock. After a few weeks of getting up at five, six is a slice o’ strudel.
Michelle gives the stragglers a minute to catch their breath and then turns us all loose for our final cooldown swim—800 meters, alternating between back- and breaststroke. She assigns the center lane to Livvy and me because we’re usually fairly well matched, speed-wise. The idea in sharing a lane is like driving a car—always stay to the right—which sounds simple, but nobody can backstroke in a straight line, so we’re always running into each other.
When Michelle gives the signal, Livvy and I dive in from opposite ends of the pool. Even though I am definitely not slacking off, Livvy starts to creep up on me almost immediately. Each time we pass by each other, I get a whiff of pure intensity that overpowers the smell of the chlorine. I’ll admit it—that all-out 400 took a lot out of me, and I am too tired to get into some weird grudge match with her in what is supposed to be a cooldown swim.
With two laps to go, she is still gaining on me, and Michelle shouts at me to hold her off over the last hundred meters. I groan to myself, but push hard off the wall before starting my breaststroke. When my face breaks through the surface, Livvy is right in front of me, back-stroking like some kind of demented propeller-zombie.
“Livvy!” I shout, hoping to prevent a collision.
She veers right, arms still spinning madly, and the heel of her right hand karate-chops me right smack on the nose.
Direct hit. And instantly, the pool looks like a scene from Jaws—there is blood everywhere and Michelle is shouting at me to get out of the pool. Which I would be happy to do if only I could see something besides a gajillion stars. I feel someone’s arms around me, dragging me to the side, where several more hands reach down and yank me out of the water.
Like most kids, I’ve taken a few direct hits to the noggin from soccer balls, but they were nothing compared to what is happening to my face as they lay me down on the pool deck and tilt my head back.
Michelle’s first words: “Oh my God.”
Not exactly encouraging.
“Sophie, we’re going to have to take you to the emergency room. She really whacked you, and you probably need to be checked out for concussion. And … um … I think your nose is broken.”
Not my nose! I love my nose. It’s not perky like Livvy’s; it’s kind of a miniature version of my dad’s classic French schnoz. Some people (small-nosed, small-minded people, most likely) might think it’s too big. Personally, I prefer to think of it as having a little character.
I reach up to touch it. Big mistake.
“Owwwww!” I scream.
“Man, look at her eyes,” says Carey Petrus, one of my teammates, who is leaning over me for a closer look.
“Wads wob wid by eyes?” I mumble. I know I’m not blind—my vision has come back enough for me to see the blood all over me and my swimsuit.
“Uh, nothing,” Carey lies.
“Midchelle! Wads wob wid by eyes?” I shout. Yet another painful mistake.
“Nothing. Your eyes are fine. Around them is a different story. You’re going to have a couple of good shiners for a few days.” When Livvy, looking really sheepish, shows up with one of those blue ice packs, Michelle takes it from her and gently sets it on what’s left of my nose.
“Ow, ow, ow.”
“I know, I’m so sorry, honey, but you really need to do this. Try to hold it on your face for a few minutes, and then I’ll get a taxi and take you to the hospital. We can call your parents from there.”
I nod at her, wincing at the pain. “Okay, but huddy, ’cause I dink by face is gonna ’splode.”
Michelle stands up and announces, “Okay, everybody, that’s it for today. See you all tomorrow at five-fifteen. Don’t be late!” Once a coach, always a coach, I guess. Even when your star is practically bleeding to death.
I try to sit up, but I’m dizzy and my head is wobbling around like one of those bobblehead dolls, and Michelle makes me lie back down.
“Whoa there, sport. You stay here with Carey. I’ll get the taxi and come right back for you. Don’t move.”
I don’t argue with her, because moving really hurts. I close my eyes for a few seconds and imagine that I’m curled up in my bed on a snowy Saturday morning with a favorite book, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on Dad’s freshly baked madeleines.
A very familiar voice cuts this little voyage to my happy place short.
“Sophie? Are you alive?”
I open my eyes, but all I can see is a vague shadow through the blue gel of the ice pack. “Mah-gid? Thad you?”
“Geez, you scared me to death, Sophie!” Margaret says. “I came by to see if you wanted to walk to school together since it’s such a nice morning. Then I get here and see you stretched out, flat on the ground, with blood everywhere. What happened?”
“Libby.”
“Libby? Who’s Libby?”
“Dot Libby! Lib—by! Oww!”
“I think she’s trying to say ‘Livvy,’ ” Carey says. “They were, like, sharing a lane. Sophie’s face sort of ran into Livvy’s hand.”
Margaret looks around me at all the blood and says with mock seriousness, “I always knew this feud with Livvy Klack would end in bloodshed.”
I fight back the urge to laugh because my gut tells me that would really hurt right now.
When Michelle returns, the three of them help me to my feet and sort of half carry, half drag me out the door and into the waiting taxi. Michelle and Margaret talk to my parents on the way to the hospital, assuring them that I’ll probably live.
Here’s what I learn from my trip to the emergency room: if you’re going to get your nose busted by your worst enemy, do it really early in the morning, because the place is basically deserted. With Michelle at my side, a nurse actually takes me directly into a treatment room; no waiting around for three hours while every other sick person in the city gets bumped ahead of me in line because they’re sicker, or older, or younger, or, more likely (after all, this is New York I’m talking about), complaining louder than I am.
The doctor is much younger than I expect, and, well, let’s just say she looks a little confused by the way I’m dressed at seven in the morning—I guess a clammy swimsuit and a bunch of bloodstained towels aren’t part of the fashionable fall attire in the ER. The faces she makes as she pokes and prods aren’t doing much for my confidence, either. Finally, she speaks.
“Yep. Broken nose. Did you run into the wall?”
“Another swimmer,” Michelle says. “She gonna be okay?”
“Oh, she’ll be fine—no sign of concussion or anything like that. It’s a pretty good break, so you’re going to have to be wrapped up for a few days, maybe a week.”
A week with a bandage on my nose! Clearly, this is someone who either had the entire adolescent portion of her memory erased or skipped seventh grade completely. Why not just tattoo “Kick Me” on my forehead?
Just when I think it can’t get any worse, my parents show up. When Mom sees me, her hand flies up to her mouth and she runs, crying, to hug me. “Sophie! I’m so sorry!” she sobs, like it’s her fault I was practically decapitated by the Livvinator.
The doctor takes a stab at reassuring them that I’m not permanently damaged, but they both look so miserable that I figure it’s time for me to take a look in the mirror to see why everybody is so wigged out.
Mystery solved. I am a freak. My hair, still wet, is so impossibly tangled that I’m afraid I’ll have to just shave my head and start over. And that’s the good part. Above the enormous bandage covering my nose, my eyes are circled by puffy purple and yellow rings.
“Ohhhh,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach.
Mom hugs me again (gently!) and guarantees that I’m going to be fine. “You’re definitely staying home today, and maybe tomorrow, too. By then, the swelling should be gone at least. And the bruising will go away … in a few days. Now, let’s get you home and into bed.”
“Well, maybe a shower first,” Dad says, squeezing my hand. “You still smell like the pool.” He tries to straighten out my hair but quickly gives up. “And I’m afraid we will have to shave your head, too.”
I give him a dirty look as Margaret, who is going to have to run to make it to school on time, promises to fill me in on everything that happens at St. Veronica’s. And that’s when it really sinks in: for the first time in my life, I am going to miss a day of school.
“Wait. I can’t miss school.”
But I can, and I do. And just like that, my seven-year perfect-attendance streak ends as I wave to Margaret, who bolts out the glass hospital doors.
My dad, who’s the chef at a ritzy French restaurant, doesn’t have to go into work until the afternoon, so Mom leaves me in his mostly capable hands. She objects at first, and is just about to call the music school and cancel all her lessons for the day, but I convince her that I’m fine. (Hey, I don’t want to be responsible for a bunch of violinists wandering aimlessly around the city all day. After that whole Vanishing Violin thing, I’m so over the violin.)
On the taxi ride to our apartment building, Dad promises to take good care of me—he’ll fix me anything I want to eat. Now, under normal circumstances, that would be amazingly awesome. In fact, I have a whole list of his special treats that I keep handy for just such occasions. But there’s a problem: I don’t really feel like eating. My head feels like it is made of concrete, and even the thought of chewing makes me queasy. I just want to go back to bed.
When I get to my room, however, I make the mistake of checking my phone for messages. There’s a new text from Margaret, sent right after she left me at the hospital. Like all of her texts and emails, it is properly punctuated and capitalized.
Sophie,
Call or text me after school’s out.
And stop worrying about your nose. It will be as perfect as ever.
I promise.
Margaret
And another, this one from Leigh Ann, sent at eleven last night.
big news ck ur voi
ce mail
So I do, where I find three new messages—two from Raf, my not-quite-a-boyfriend-but-more-than-a-friend friend, even though I have told him that I never check my voice mail, and one from Leigh Ann. In one very excited breath, she says, “Sophieohmigoshyou’renotgonnabelievewhatIfoundoutIwasonmywaybackfromdanceclasstonightandtherewereallthesetrailersandsignsallovertheplaceandguesswhatthey’refilmingtheNoReflectionsmovieintheparkcallmeassoonasyougetthiswehavetofigureeverythingoutbecauseIjusthavetomeetNateEtancallme.”
Dad comes into my room just as I’m turning my phone off.
“Wait a minute. Is that a smile I see?”
I hold my thumb and index finger a mere millimeter apart. “It’s Leigh Ann. She just left me a funny message. Oww. Smiling hurts.”
“Into bed,” Dad orders. When I’m safely under the covers, he asks, “Now tell me. What did your friend say to cause you so much pain?”
“They’re filming a movie in the park tomorrow—you know that No Reflections book I’ve been babbling about for the past few weeks?”
“Ah, oui. Avec Monsieur Nathaniel Etan, n’est-ce pas?”
“How did you know that?” I say, a little too loudly for my own good. “Owwww.”
“He was in the restaurant last night—”
“He what?” My head is spinning now. The combination of the morning’s full-contact swimming workout and my dad’s oh-so-casual mention that he was in the presence of Nate Etan less than twelve hours earlier is just too much for me. I mean, some of Nate Etan’s molecules could be in the very air I’m breathing.
“This Monsieur Etan—he is someone you, how do you say, have a crash with?”
“It’s a crush, which you have on someone, and, uh, yeah!” I shout, pointing to the bulletin board above my desk.
“Ah, oui,” says Dad as he sees the sixty-three pictures of Nate Etan adorning it. “I’m sorry—I should have asked for an autograph for you.”
“You talked to him?”
He shrugs apologetically. “He came in with a bunch of … big shots, I think you call them. Movie people. After dinner, they asked to talk to the chef. What can I do? C’est moi. I’m sorry, mon petit chou-chou. I didn’t know. He seemed … very nice.”
The Mistaken Masterpiece Page 1