When the Svindahls finally leave, I stand up and pull on my coat. “Okay, now it’s definitely time to leave.”
But believe it or not, Prunella’s still not done. This time, however, she has the sense to mutter under her breath—quietly enough that Livvy doesn’t hear, thank God.
“With a temper like that, she must be Irish. It’s a shame—she’s a pretty young thing, too.”
As we walk out the door and into the darkness of a November evening, we are uncharacteristically quiet—but, I’m convinced, more determined than ever.
The stuff nightmares are made of
An hour later, the Blazers are still filled with enough adrenaline to rock Perkatory from the sticky floor tiles to the stained and peeling ceiling. Before launching into our final number, however, I take the microphone in hand for a mysterious announcement.
“We’d like to dedicate this next song to a … well, she’s not really a friend, but she’s somebody I have newfound admiration for—somebody who did something really brave today. Um, that’s all I can say about it right now, but trust me, she did a good thing. This one’s called ‘You Rock,’ and it’s by our very own Leigh Ann Jaimes and Becca Chen!”
“Amen!” shouts Mbingu, who hits her cymbals like she’s imagining they’re Prunella’s face, I think. We all play with a kind of reckless abandon; it’s not our best performance, but it certainly is our most passionate.
As promised, Cam Peterson shows up right on time and sits at a table with Margaret and Andrew. Except for their Saturday morning quartet practice at my apartment—with my mom three feet away—it’s the only time those two get to see each other. And unfortunately for them, that situation isn’t likely to change for a while. Margaret’s dad is super-protective and old-fashioned in a way that would be charming if it wasn’t affecting my best friend’s love life, and has forbidden dating of any kind until she is sixteen. It’s only because of her status as our official manager that she’s getting away with these little Friday evening rendezvous. The final notes from “You Rock” are still hanging in the air when Alex, Leigh Ann’s gorgeous older brother, walks in.
Leigh Ann runs off the stage to hug him, and the disappointment shows immediately on Cam’s face.
“Don’t worry—that’s her brother,” I whisper in his ear. “He’s a senior.”
Cam’s face brightens. “Ohhh. Phew.”
Alex, who is a full head taller than Cam, turns to introduce himself and then kids Cam in a good-natured, protective-big-brother way. Leigh Ann blushes and pushes him away from the table.
“Alex! Leave him alone—he’s a really nice guy. And at least he got here in time to hear us play.”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. Slow train. I’ll make it one of these weeks.”
“Speaking of slow,” Becca says with a devious smile, “where’s Raf? Grounded again? Hee hee hee.”
“He’s not slow, Becca,” I say. “One time he got grounded for flunking one test. And for your information, he’s staying in tonight so we can go to a movie tomorrow night—the original Frankenstein. It’s one of his favorites. His mom is finally starting to crack. She’s giving him a whole extra hour. So there.” I stick my tongue out at her to punctuate my defense of Raf’s honor. “But I do have to go home early tonight, too. I promised Mom, ’cause I’ve been leaving her alone with Tillie a lot.”
Margaret and Andrew offer to walk with me, but I don’t want to spoil their once-a-week chance to talk in person. Besides, I have a lot on my mind, and I’m looking forward to the chance to just walk and think. That little scene with Prunella and Livvy really has me wondering. If Livvy hadn’t stood up and confronted that raving lunatic, would I have done it? Or would I have just sat there, fuming? I desperately want to be the kind of person who will do the right thing—who will stand up to injustice when I see it—but I’m not sure I have the courage. I did stand up to Livvy that one time outside the movie theater, when she was insulting Margaret, but that was different; I know Livvy, and Margaret’s my best friend in the world. Could I do the same thing for a complete stranger?
Another really good reason to make it an early night is that I have to be back at St. Veronica’s at five-fifteen on Saturday morning for a swim meet. At our practice Friday morning, Michelle told us about an important development. All the girls on the team come from either St. Veronica’s or Faircastle Academy. When the Faircastle kids announced that they’ll be leaving because their school is forming its own team, Michelle called Sister Bernadette to find out if we could work out a similar deal. Sister Bernadette loved the idea, so effective immediately, we are officially the St. Veronica’s School Swim Team. It’s not going to be much of a change; we’ll still be practicing at Asphalt Green, and we’ll still have red swimsuits, although maybe Sister B will pay to have the school name embroidered on them. We immediately start dreaming of matching warm-up suits and sneakers, but Michelle warns us not to get carried away. I guess the private luxury bus I requested is out of the question, too.
It promises to be a long day; our team, half the size it was a week ago, is taking a van to Haworth Prep, a school near Princeton, New Jersey, for an invitational meet. When Michelle shows me where we’re going on the map, I start to worry about being back in time to meet Raf at Lincoln Center for the movie. With all the stuff about Nate, the weird conversation outside Perkatory, and my practically hanging up on him the last time we talked, I can’t help thinking that Raf is a little annoyed with me—maybe even with good reason. Showing up late for the movie probably won’t help things.
The one good thing, if there is anything positive about getting up at four-thirty on a Saturday morning, is that no one expects you to talk. Even Carey Petrus, who, as Mr. Eliot would say, “could talk the ear off a brass monkey,” is basically comatose as we wait for Michelle to unlock the van. Livvy already has her hand on the door handle for the front passenger seat—the only one that reclines—and no one has the gumption to challenge her for it, especially at this time of day. Without a word to any of us, she closes her eyes and drifts off to Livvyland, which, if the smile on her face means anything, is a much happier place.
The meet itself is not such a great beginning for the St. Veronica’s School Swim Team. Haworth Prep looks like a college campus, and basically, we get our little red-swimsuit-wearing butts kicked by a bunch of snooty New Jersey kids. We win only three events: Livvy dominates in both the 200 and 400 backstroke, and our 400 medley relay team pulls out a victory—but only because the anchor swimmer for the other team took off too soon. To be fair to us, though, if the Haworth swimmer had waited and made a legal start, the finish would have been really close.
Despite our “crushing defeat” (as Carey, a wannabe sportscaster, has dubbed it in her running commentary), we’re all in good spirits for the van ride back to the city. In fact, it is an absolute blast; to someone passing our van on the New Jersey Turnpike, we must look like the crushers, not the crushees.
A funny moment occurs when Carey and Rachel are teasing Livvy—a dangerous activity most days—about how she’s so much better than the rest of us that she’ll probably ditch us to join a better team.
“And just think,” says Jill Ambrose, “of all those fresh new noses, just waiting for you to break them.”
There’s an awkward silence as everyone, including me, turns to see what Livvy’s going to say. After my return to the team following the Nose Affair, nobody ever mentioned it again (in front of me, at least), and they certainly haven’t ever talked about it in front of Livvy and me.
The corners of Livvy’s mouth turn up ever so slightly and I swear I detect a good-natured twinkle in her eye as she looks up at all the faces staring expectantly at her.
“That’s very funny, Jill,” she says. “But I’m just getting started on this team.” Her face lights up further as an idea strikes her. “Hey, Michelle, can you put me in the lane next to Jill at practice next week? I want to, um, help her work on her kick.”
Michelle, who has h
eard everything, looks up in the rearview mirror. “Sure, Liv.”
“Nooo!” cries Jill.
“What are you worried about?” Rachel asks. “I thought you wanted a nose job. This way, you’ll be damaged goods. Your parents will have to give in. Someday you’ll be thanking Livvy.”
“What do you think, Sophie?” Carey asks. “Will she be thanking Livvy?”
And suddenly the spotlight’s on me.
• • •
While we’re stuck in traffic at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, I get a text from Nate telling me that he’s definitely returning to New York on Friday to take Tillie off my hands. They have to shoot a few more scenes in the city before the whole production moves up to an old inn in northern New Hampshire, where there’s already snow on the ground.
Instead of being relieved, however, I’m saddened by the thought of losing Tillie. I’ve gotten used to her sleeping on my feet, to having her face be the first thing I see in the morning, to our walks, to … well, everything about her. I’ve even forgiven her for making an afternoon snack of my favorite sneakers. And I know I’m not the only one who feels this way; I caught my dad sharing a croque-monsieur with her, and when Mom stretches out on the couch to read in the evenings, she invites Tillie to lie next to her. The silly mutt is part of the family.
Half an hour later, Michelle pulls the van into a parking space across the street from St. Veronica’s. We all scramble out with soggy duffel bags slung over our shoulders, desperate to use the school bathroom after drinking way too much soda at a rest stop on the turnpike.
“Okay, girls, you have five minutes,” she warns. “I have to get the van back to the garage.”
What happens in the next few minutes is kind of a blur. After I leave the bathroom, I remember that I meant to take my math textbook home for the weekend, so I hop on the elevator for a ride up to my locker on the fifth floor. It’s after five o’clock, and the red glow of the exit signs, the only light on the floor, is not enough for me to read the numbers on my lock. While I struggle with it, straining my eyes, the elevator opens and Livvy gets out. She takes two steps into the shadowy void before she realizes she’s not alone.
“Oh! God, you scared me,” she says.
“Yeah, it’s kind of dark up here. I’m having trouble seeing my lock. You don’t have a flashlight, do you?”
“Um, yeah, I guess. A little one.” She sounds annoyed—the old Livvy. “It’s on my key chain.” She digs around in her coat pockets, uses it to open her own locker, and then shines it in my direction. “Here.”
“Thanks. I forgot my—”
But there’s no point in continuing; she’s engrossed in a message on her phone. Once again, I have ceased to exist.
I toss my math book into the duffel with my wet towel and swimsuit and head for the elevator at the end of the hall. Normally, I would just take the stairs, but a peek through the doors tells me that the stairs are even darker than the fifth floor, and climbing down several flights in the dim, nearly empty school sounds really scary to me. When the elevator arrives, Livvy runs down the hall toward me, shouting a good-bye to whomever she’s talking to on the phone.
I push the button for the first floor as the elevator door closes with its characteristic cha-clunk. We start our slow descent in silence—fourth floor, third floor … All of a sudden, the elevator jerks to a stop with an earsplitting ssscccrrreeeeeeeeeccchhh.
And then the lights go out.
“What did you do?” Livvy asks accusingly.
“I didn’t do anything. I just pushed the button.” I can’t see Livvy at all—the darkness is absolute. “Do you have that flashlight? There must be an alarm button on this thing.”
Once again, Livvy finds her key chain light and shines it on the control panel. The alarm button rings a surprisingly loud bell, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Michelle has to be able to hear that,” I say. “She’ll figure out how to get us out of here.” I ring the bell a few more times for good measure, then press my ear against the crack in the door.
“What are you doing?” Livvy asks.
“Listening.” I push the alarm button some more, and then try another tactic: when in doubt, scream. “Hello! Michelle! Can you hear me?”
Livvy and I stay perfectly still, not even breathing, listening for a sign that someone’s trying to get us out. But there’s nothing.
“Hmmm,” I say. Then I remember the last time I was trapped in a small space: Rebecca and I were locked in a closet that we’d crawled into when we were convinced there was a secret passage between Mr. Chernofsky’s violin shop and the apartment upstairs. And to get out we … my phone! Of course! Jeez, how did I not think of that sooner?
Although I’m sure she arrived at it in a very different way, Livvy has reached the same obvious solution at exactly the same time. The glow of her cell phone lights up the elevator.
“No service,” she says. “Super.” Which really sounds like the Livvy of old.
I look at mine. “Hey, I have one bar—oops, nope. Spoke too soon. Nothing. No service.” I don’t tell her that my battery is down to its last gasp, and that even if I had service, my stupid phone would probably die before I got through to anyone.
“Ring that bell thing again,” Livvy demands. “Michelle has to be there. She wouldn’t just leave us.”
She wouldn’t, right?
An hour goes by.
We’re sitting on the cold linoleum floor.
In the dark.
And neither of us has said anything for a long, long time. Occasionally, Livvy lets loose with a big, dramatic sigh and mutters something under her breath. She doesn’t want me to respond; she’s just making sure I know how miserable she is, and that she blames me for our predicament.
“I have some food in my bag,” I say. “My dad always packs me extra, just in case.”
“In case you get stuck in an elevator?”
“I guess,” I answer, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. “It’s just some veggies. You want some?”
“No.”
A few more seconds of silence, then, “Um, okay. A few.” She shines the light just long enough to see where I’m holding the plastic bag full of lukewarm carrots, celery, and red peppers.
We munch quietly—well, as quietly as you can munch raw vegetables—in the darkness and …
Another hour passes. It’s now almost ten after seven; I’m supposed to meet Raf at Lincoln Center in twenty minutes and I can’t even call to tell him I’ll be late. He’s going to hate me.
“This stinks,” I say.
“Uh, yeah.”
“I can’t believe they just left us here. We could be stuck in here till Monday.”
“Somehow I think your parents will start to wonder what happened to you long before then.”
“Well, I’m sure yours will be worried, too,” I say.
It feels like the right thing to say in this situation, even though I have no idea if it’s true.
Livvy scoffs, and in the dark I swear I can hear her eyes roll. “Ha. That’s a good one. My parents giving a crap about me.”
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says curtly.
After thirty seconds of silence, I suddenly blurt out, “I know it was an accident.”
“What was?”
“When you broke my nose.”
“Oh. That.”
Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen, or the ridiculousness of the situation—stuck in a school elevator on a Saturday night—but Livvy starts to giggle. Probably because I’ve never actually heard her make a happy sound before, my first thought is that she’s sobbing because she thinks her parents don’t care about her, and I freak out a little, because I have absolutely no idea how to deal with that. Should I ignore it? Offer a shoulder to cry on? Luckily, the second wave is undoubtedly laughter. Of course, her laughter makes me nervous, too; this is Livvy Klack, after all. In my experience, if she’s laughing, it must b
e at someone—and right now, I’m the only someone in the vicinity.
“What’s so funny?” I ask tentatively.
“I’m sorry, I have a little confession to make. It was an accident, I swear. I never meant to hit you. But after it happened … I didn’t feel guilty. At all. I felt good.” She giggles again, and this time, it’s contagious.
“Livvy! That is so mean.”
“I know. I’m terrible.” Giggle, giggle.
Wait a minute. What is happening here? Is it possible that Livvy Klack and I are … having a moment?
In which many questions are answered
Mr. Eliot is always yammering on about how “life imitates art,” and I’m afraid this whole wacky situation with Livvy and me and the elevator is a perfect example. Maybe I’d better explain.
Remember that short story that Livvy and I worked on together in Mr. Eliot’s class? The one where we made the really clever graph that he liked so much? The story is called “The Interlopers” by Saki, and it’s the story of two men who have hated one another their whole lives because of an old legal dispute over which of them owned a certain piece of land. One day—a cold, snowy day, in fact—they run into one another out in the woods, and just as they’re about to fight it out like men, a tree falls, pinning them both to the ground.
Sound familiar? Except for that part about the tree, that is. Weird, huh?
At first, they continue their bickering, each one threatening the other, bragging about all the bad things he’s going to do when his men show up. But they’re both lying. Nobody knows they’re out there, and nobody’s coming to rescue either one of them. And it’s getting darker and colder by the minute.
Finally, one of the men comes to his senses. He remembers that he has a little wine in his coat, and after a bitter struggle between his conscience and the half of him that still hates the man he’s trapped with (that would be, ahem, the internal conflict of which we spoke so eloquently in class), he offers to share it. At first, the other guy refuses, but I guess the cold finally gets to him, because the next thing you know, they’re chattin’ it up like a couple of, well, twelve-year-old girls stuck in an elevator.
The Mistaken Masterpiece Page 14