“We know what records are,” I say, slightly insulted. “Vinyl. They’re back in style.”
“Ah, forgive me. I momentarily forgot that I am also dealing with famous musicians.”
Malcolm and Elizabeth are probably the Blazers’ biggest fans; they’ve been to every one of our shows, and Elizabeth lets us practice in her basement a couple of times a week after school.
Margaret holds up the loupe. “Can we borrow this? I think I’m starting to get some ideas about where we go from here.”
“You definitely have your work cut out for you,” Malcolm says. “But if the way you handled all the twists and turns in those extravaganzas with the ring and the violin is any indication, the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency can certainly handle this case. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“I would think, dear,” Elizabeth chimes in, “that if you were really confident, you’d risk something that actually had some value.”
“Touché,” says Malcolm, holding his heart as if he’s been stabbed.
In which Tillie has an unusual snack
With Becca heading to Chinatown and Leigh Ann off to Queens, Margaret and I walk back to my apartment fully intending to do our homework together. I say “intending” because my new friend Tillie has made other plans.
Mom isn’t home from the music school yet, and Tillie meets us at the door. If you’re not a dog person, you probably don’t understand how unbelievably nice it is to be on the receiving end of that greeting at the end of the day. Dogs are always glad to see you; it doesn’t matter if it’s been three hours or three days. I’ve only had Tillie for a few days, but it feels like we’re old friends and have a routine that we’ve been following for years.
After her usual tail wagging, rolling over to have her belly rubbed, and excited leaping, she is ready for her afternoon walk. We take her over to Carl Schurz Park, between East End Avenue and the river. There’s a small area that’s fenced in on three sides, and I bravely (stupidly?) unclip her leash and let her run around while Margaret and I keep her away from the open side. It’s just what she needs—some real exercise—and since she doesn’t try to run away, I’m starting to gain the confidence to let her go off-leash in Central Park, which is many, many times larger than Carl Schurz Park.
That is, unless I kill her first.
When we get back to the apartment, Mom is there waiting for us at the door, and the greeting I get from her isn’t nearly as nice as the one from Tillie. She is scowling at me.
“Sophie! Have you seen your room?”
“Oh, right. Sorry, Mom. I know, I promised to straighten it up over the weekend. I’ll do it tonight, I promise.”
“I think you’d better take a look,” Mom says. “It’s going to be a bigger job than you think. Margaret, if you’re smart, you’ll disappear before you get roped into helping her.”
I glance at Tillie—all innocence and sweetness—and then run back to my room, stopping cold when I get to the doorway.
“Holeeee cow,” I gasp. “What happened?”
“Was there an earthquake today that I didn’t notice?” Margaret asks. “Some other kind of natural disaster?”
“Hurricane Tillie,” I say. “Tillie!”
Tillie, wisely, does not come when called.
All my bookshelves are on the floor, with all my books. Hundreds of books.
“How on earth did she …” Margaret ponders for a moment, then walks gingerly toward the pile, glancing up at the wall, from which the naked brackets still extend. “Ahhh. The chair,” she says, pointing at my sturdy wooden desk chair. “I’ll bet she climbed up the back of this chair and then put her feet on the bottom shelf.”
“But … why?” I ask, sorting through my most precious possessions and one decidedly unlovely brass bowl, now in an ignominious pile on the floor. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve been back to my orthodontist. Another Reader’s Digest, another “Word Power.” Frankly, I don’t know what I’ll do to expand my vocabulary if I ever get my braces off. It’s quite worrisome. In fact, I’m rather disconcerted by the very notion.)
“You must have had something up there that she wanted,” Margaret says. “A sandwich?”
“I did not have a sandwich on my bookshelves,” I insist. “C’mon, I hardly ever bring food in here. Other than the occasional cookie, that is.”
Margaret’s raised eyebrow tells me that she’s not buying whatever I’m selling. “Occasional, my eye.”
“Okay, so maybe it’s slightly more than occasionally. But I would never put a cookie on the bookshelves.”
And then I see it. In the corner of the room, over by the window.
Miles and miles of gray yarn. A hint of red stitching. Chewed-up leather.
“Is that—?” Margaret’s hand flies to her mouth.
“A baseball,” I whisper. It’s hard to make much noise when your heart makes the leap from your chest to your throat.
Margaret picks up Father Julian’s tote bag and looks inside. “Were they … both … in here?”
“Y-yes.” I drop to my knees. I’m not praying—well, not yet, anyway. My legs just gave out.
Margaret starts to stuff that mass of yarn and leather formerly known as a baseball into the tote. “This is definitely only one baseball. The other one might still be safe.”
I’m still paralyzed, unable to help her.
“Come on, Sophie. Help me find the other ball. I don’t see any more yarn. It’s probably under all these books.”
I force myself to start looking under everything—the bed, my desk, the ginormous pile of books—but it’s just not there.
“This can’t be happening to me,” I sob, looking upward. “First my nose, now this. What did I do wrong?”
And then, the unthinkable: Tillie walks into my room with the other baseball in her mouth.
I scream.
Margaret screams.
Mom comes running.
And a totally terrified Tillie scurries from the room with the two of us right on her tail—a tail that is tucked firmly between her legs. She goes into my parents’ room and ducks under the bed.
“C’mon, Tillie,” Margaret coaxes. “Good girl. You can come out. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Actually, one of us might. Because, to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly certain of what I’m going to do when I get hold of that scrawny mutt’s neck.
Tillie is unconvinced by Margaret’s pleasant tone, however, and stays put.
“What does she have?” Mom asks.
“A baseball,” Margaret answers. “It belongs to Father Julian. We’re—it’s kind of a long story.”
“It’s really valuable,” I manage to say. “Maybe.”
“I’m going in after her,” Margaret says dramatically.
“Be careful,” Mom says.
Which is exactly what moms are supposed to say in situations like this.
Margaret commando-crawls under the bed, sweet-talking Tillie every inch of the way. “That’s a good girl, Tillie. Can I have the ball? I’ll trade you that nasty old baseball for a brand-new cookie. Good girl!”
“Did you get it?”
“Got it.” Margaret’s feet start backing out from under the bed. Tillie pokes her head out, looking up at me with those big ol’ sad eyes of hers.
“Don’t even talk to me,” I say to her.
A dust-covered Margaret finally emerges, holding the ball up triumphantly. She spins it around and around in the light.
With a heavy sigh, she announces: “It’s okay. A little wet, but no damage, and the autographs are all still there.”
“Thank God,” I say. Then I glare at Tillie, who hides behind her new best friend and protector, Margaret. “You … you …”
“Maybe Tillie should come with me for a while,” Mom says. “While you and Margaret go sort things out in your room.”
“Good idea, Kate,” Margaret says, pulling me along. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”
A
n hour later, my books are still in a pile on the floor. I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how I’m going to tell Father Julian that the baseball his great-uncle caught at Yankee Stadium was eaten by Nate Etan’s dog. I wonder if he even knows—or cares—who Nate Etan is. Somehow I doubt he’ll think he’s lucky that his family heirloom was chewed up by some celebrity’s mutt.
Margaret attempts to console me by telling me that, no matter what, Father Julian will forgive me.
“He’s a priest, Sophie. He’s in the forgiveness business. And you didn’t do anything wrong, or even irresponsible. You had no way of knowing that Tillie has some weird baseball obsession and would tear down a whole wall of shelves to get to one. It was an act of God.”
“More like an act of dog,” I say through sniffles and sobs.
Margaret’s next strategy is hard research. She goes online, reading article after article on baseball construction throughout the years. Occasionally she spouts some fact or other about how many yards of wool yarn it takes or how the covers changed from horsehide to cowhide because there was a shortage of horses, but I’m too caught up in my own self-pity to really pay attention. Until now, that is.
“Sophie. Come here. I have some bad news.”
“Y-you do?”
“Uh-huh. ’Fraid so.”
I drag myself off the bed and slump next to Margaret. The very same Margaret who has saved me so many times. But not, it seems, this time.
She points at the article on the screen, something about World War II-era baseball. “Sorry, but you’re not going to be famous.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” I feel the tears backing up in my eyes. “Oh no. That was the original ball, wasn’t it.”
Margaret smiles and shakes her head. “What I meant was, you’re not going to be famous as the girl whose dog ate a really valuable baseball. Tillie ate the fake one. I’m positive.”
“Really?” My knees give out again and I sit on the floor next to her.
“Absolutely.” She holds up a rubber ball about an inch in diameter. “This is the center of the ball that Tillie chewed up—they call this ‘the pill.’ During World War II, the government was rationing rubber, so they had to use inferior, man-made materials for things like baseballs. And this is definitely not natural. This baseball may have come from Yankee Stadium, but not in 1928. It wasn’t made until 1942 at least.”
I jump to my feet and tackle her, pulling her off the chair and onto the floor, where I sit on her. “Margaret Wrobel, I love you! You totally saved my life. Again! I am going to dedicate the rest of my life to you. Whatever you want, just ask me and it’s yours.”
“Easy, Soph. It’s not that big a deal. All I did was prove that you got lucky. It was fate; Tillie had a choice of two baseballs to eat, and she ate the ‘right’ one.” She pushes me off her and picks up the other ball, still damp from Tillie’s mouth. “And now, thanks to Tillie, we know that this is the real baseball.”
Upon hearing her name, Tillie trots back into my room, tail wagging like mad. She sniffs the air until she locates what she’s looking for: the baseball that we so cruelly and unfairly took from her.
“No way, Tillie,” Margaret says, laughing. Then she tucks the ball into her book bag. “Under the circumstances, perhaps it’s best if I hold on to this.”
I glance at the devil-in-a-dog-suit named Tillie. “I think you’re right.”
“Woof!” says Tillie, who has already shrugged off the loss of the baseball and moved on. Her nose is buried in one of my school blazer pockets, and she sniffs, snuffles, and whines until she finally manages to pull out the folded “Sorry about your nose” note from Livvy—the note that I had purposely not mentioned to anyone. She then stretches out on the floor, holding the paper between her front paws, and starts to lick it.
“What is that?” Margaret asks. “It must smell really good to her.”
I take the note from the very disappointed Tillie and hold it out for Margaret to read.
“You see, Sophie? Even Tillie knows the rules: no secrets!”
A series of inexplicable events
The next couple of days fly past, with only one strange event to report. I’m having a really nice conversation with Leigh Ann on the phone when … she bumps me for another call. I don’t even have a chance to protest; she just blurts out, “HeyIhavetotakethisI’llcallyoubacklater.”
But here’s the weird part: right after Leigh Ann hangs up on me (which is the way I choose to interpret what happened), I call Rebecca, who is on another line with someone—she doesn’t say who—and then she bumps me off to go back to her first call, promising to call me as soon as she finishes. Which, to her credit, she does, ten seconds after Leigh Ann calls me back. Oy.
Neither one has a reasonable explanation. Leigh Ann mumbles something about having to talk to a classmate about an assignment, and Becca insists she was on with her mom, but I’m not buying either story. My imagination starts to run wild, and it’s no time at all until I have convinced myself that they’re mad at me because I said something nice about Livvy, and now they want me out of the band.
They’re up to something. I’m sure of it.
On Friday, the Blazers have our regular gig at Perkatory, and we’re trying to learn a new song, bringing our repertoire up to four, including my own “hit” song—the one inspired by that fateful English project on apostrophes. Our drummer, Mbingu, has been working on the lyrics for a few weeks now, and she is finally satisfied with them, so we can debut the song Friday. This week’s show, however, has an added attraction: Nate Etan is coming to Perkatory to see the Blazers.
Wednesday afternoon, we’re jamming away in Elizabeth’s basement when I get a text message from him:
In NY Fri 4 a few hrs can I c Tillie 7pm.
Rather than try to explain everything in a text message, though, I just tell him yes, and to check his email later for all the details. Movie star or not, we’re not going to cancel our Perkatory gig, so if he wants to see Tillie, he’s just going to have to come and see us at the coffee shop. Which is a little terrifying, but only slightly more so than an ordinary Friday night.
“Did you tell him about the baseball?” Becca asks.
“Or the howling?” adds Leigh Ann.
Mbingu points at my feet, where my red Chuck Taylors should be. “Or your shoes?”
“No, no, and no,” I say. “I don’t want him to feel guilty. He’s got enough on his mind already. I’ll tell him later.”
“You don’t think he’s, you know, taking advantage of you—just a little?” Mbingu asks. “I don’t know him, but it seems a little weird that he would ask you to do all this stuff for him when he hardly knows you.”
Becca, who had been as excited as anyone to meet him on the set, nods in agreement. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still totally going to marry him, but it is a little strange, Soph.”
“You guys are crazy,” I say. “He asked me for a favor. And I’m doing it. That’s what friends do.”
That’s me: friend to the stars. And the fifty dollars a day he’s paying me? Absolutely nothing to do with it.
Friday night, ten minutes after seven, and no Nate. Seven-fifteen. Seven-twenty. We can’t put off our set any longer because Mbingu has an eight-thirty curfew. (Hey, give us a break. We’re twelve.) Leigh Ann steps up to her microphone and says, “Hey, everybody. Welcome to Perkatory. We’re the Blazers.”
And by the way, we’re wearing our faux red blazers—T-shirts painted by Becca to look like punked-up versions of our school uniforms. Très cool. We open with our old standby, “Twist and Shout,” and just as we get started, the door opens and in walks … Cam Peterson, Nate’s co-star—the one who was so rude to us on the set. He’s with a college-age guy who, frankly, doesn’t look old enough to be a manager, tough enough to be a bodyguard, or smart enough to be a tutor. After sizing up the place for a few moments, they sit at an empty table next to the one occupied by Margaret and Andrew (the cello player i
n her string quartet and the recipient of her first-ever kiss), along with Raf and his friend Sean, who has a huge crush on the not-at-all-interested Leigh Ann. Becca and I look at each other, shrug, and keep playing. Cam doesn’t exactly seem comfortable, but by the end of the song, he’s smiling and cheering along with everyone else. Of course, by then, all of the kids from school have realized that there’s a minor celebrity in the audience and are staring in his direction, and to be honest, I’m not sure if they’re cheering us or him.
We follow up with the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” followed by my song, and then wrap things up with Mbingu’s creation, which has kind of a reggae beat that the crowd really gets into.
And still no Nate.
Cam Peterson’s head turns toward the door every time it opens, as if he’s waiting for someone, too—although my brain is having a hard time grasping just whom he could be waiting for in a tiny coffee shop on the Upper East Side on a Friday night.
With my guitar safely returned to its case, I join Margaret, Andrew, Raf, and Sean at their table. There are only four chairs, so I guess I’ll just have to share one with Raf. Bummer.
“You were great, as usual,” Raf says, giving my hand a little squeeze under the table. “So, where’s this big movie star you guys are all so in love with?” He uses air quotes around “movie star.” “And where’s Tillie, anyway? I thought that’s why he was coming.”
Wait a second. Raf’s voice has that same tone again, just like the last time the topic was Nate, and it finally occurs to my marble-sized brain that he really is jealous! (Now, can someone please explain why that makes me so happy? Seriously—I don’t want to be one of those girls.)
“Shhh! Tillie’s in the back with the manager’s kids. We have to keep her out of sight until the other customers are gone. And I don’t know what happened to Nate.” I check my phone for messages for the seventeenth time, but there’s still no word from him.
Becca and Leigh Ann find chairs at the table next to ours, and a few seconds later Cam Peterson makes his way toward us.
The Mistaken Masterpiece Page 7