The Mistaken Masterpiece
Page 22
“Wait. Back up a second. I told you to meet me here? Um, I don’t think so. You’re the one who sent me all this stuff. Aren’t you?” Suddenly I’m not so sure.
“What stuff? What are you talking about?”
“This stuff. My copy of The Secret Garden. A big brass bowl. A bird.”
Raf looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I’ve never seen any of this before. No, wait—the book. That’s the one that I took from your desk a couple of years ago. It was one of those days when all us boys came over from our school for some assembly at St. V’s. I completely forgot that I had it, and then one day, Margaret said something that reminded me. But I gave it to her to give back to you a long time ago.”
“You stole my copy of The Secret Garden?”
“ ‘Stole’ is such an ugly word. I borrowed it. I got tired of hearing how great it was from you all the time, so I wanted to see for myself. I just didn’t want anyone to know I was reading such a girly book.”
“A likely story,” says a familiar voice from behind the bushes.
“Margaret! What are you doing here?”
“The same thing we are,” Leigh Ann says, pushing Becca out in front of her.
“Spying on you two losers,” says Becca.
“How did you … You mean, it was you guys all along? What about all that ‘Scout’s honor’ and ‘I don’t know who could have been in our locker’ stuff? And that argument—you all …”
“All lies,” Margaret admits with a shrug. “But sometimes the means do justify the end.”
“Oh yeah? What is the ‘end’? What are you up to?”
She points at the statue on a pedestal in the center of the pool. I’ve seen it before, but had never really noticed how beautiful it is. A young girl is standing, holding up a birdbath with both hands while birds rest in it and on her shoulder. Next to her is a boy, his elbows resting on a large stone as he plays the flute.
Mary and Dickon.
“Okay. I like it. What about it?”
“Anything seem familiar?” Leigh Ann asks.
“Wait a second. You want us to …” My eyes go from Raf to the statue and then back to Raf. The blank look on his face tells me he has no idea what’s going on. “Why?”
“Because I have to do this ‘living art’ project for my class,” Becca explains. “I’m supposed to re-create either a famous painting or a sculpture with real people. So, are you ready? I found the perfect spot, and the sun’s shining on it right now. There’s even a rock about the size of that one for the boy wonder to lean against.”
“Is somebody gonna tell me what’s going on?” Raf asks.
“Sure,” says Margaret. “Basically, you and Sophie are going to use all the stuff in Sophie’s bag—the bowl, the flute, and the bird—and you two are going to pose exactly like the two kids in the statue.”
“And then I’m going to take a bunch of pictures,” Becca announces. “And turn them into a painting.”
“You’re what?” Raf protests. “No. No way. Do you know what would happen to me if my friends found out about this? I can see it now: pictures of me posing like that guy in the statue—with that stupid flute—posted all over the Internet. No way.”
“We thought you might say that,” Leigh Ann says. “So we brought along something to convince you. Hey, Cam, come on out.”
Cam Peterson comes around the bushes carrying a large package wrapped in brown kraft paper. “Hi, Sophie. Hey, Raf. Good to see you again.”
“Is anybody else back there?” I ask. “This is getting ridiculous.”
“I’m the last one, I promise,” Cam says.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the package. “Don’t tell me it’s a fake Pommeroy. If I never see another one of those, I’ll be happy.”
“Nope—not a Pommeroy, and this time, it’s not for you, Sophie,” Leigh Ann says. “We figured you would go along with the plan without putting up much of a fight, and Becca has promised to give you the painting she’s going to do, but we had a feeling Raf might need a little extra convincing. And Cam has some interesting connections; it’s amazing what he can get.”
Cam hands the package to Raf. “I think you’re going to like this. When I first saw it, I really wanted to keep it for myself. Open it up.”
With the five of us standing there watching and waiting, he doesn’t have much of a choice, so he tears off the paper.
“No way,” he says when he realizes what he’s looking at. “This is the real thing, isn’t it?”
Cam nods. “And look—it’s signed by Humphrey Bogart.”
Raf turns to me and says, “Do you realize what this is? This is an original lobby card for The Maltese Falcon.”
“I thought we were getting him a poster,” Becca says.
I nudge her. “A lobby card is a poster.”
“I knew that.”
“Leigh Ann told me you’re really into the classics from the thirties and forties,” Cam says. “I looked for one from the original Frankenstein—I heard you talking about going to see it with Sophie—but posters for that are impossible to find.”
“Yeah, and they’re worth, like, three hundred grand,” Raf says.
The kid knows his movie memorabilia.
“Margaret remembered that you like this one, too,” Leigh Ann says. “She said you quoted some line from it once.”
“It’s the stuff dreams are made of,” says Raf, doing his Sam Spade imitation. “Trust me, this is perfect. It’s amazing. You’re serious—this is really for me?”
“Absolutely,” says Cam.
“Told you,” Becca says to Margaret. “I knew it would push him over the edge. He’d pose in a tutu if we asked him now.”
“Don’t push your luck, Becca,” Raf says.
Five minutes later, I’m standing nice and tall, holding the bowl at eye level. I’m trying my hardest to look serene, but it’s not easy with all those people shouting directions at me. Finally, I resort to my hasn’t-failed-me-yet technique of taking several deep breaths. I gaze down at Raf’s reclining figure as he plays a little tune on the flute.
“Beautiful,” says Becca, snapping a picture.
“You guys are perfect,” Leigh Ann adds.
I couldn’t agree more.
Oh, you knew this was coming. There’s always an epilogue
For exactly one week, my life is wonderfully, remarkably, surprisingly, boringly normal. Not that I’m complaining. It was actually … nice.
There were:
No new broken bones.
No dogs waking me in the middle of the night, howling at the moon.
No masterpieces dangling from open windows.
The good news is that I have time to work on some new songs for the Blazers, which is what I’m doing when Mom walks into my room with the day’s mail. She flips an envelope onto my bed.
“This one’s for you, Soph.”
My name is printed in blocky letters that look like they were done by a first grader while riding in the backseat of a car—on a bumpy road.
“Oh, great,” I say. “Now what are those guys up to?”
“What guys?”
“Margaret and everybody. This looks a lot like the lettering on all those packages they sent me.” I tear it open, and I almost drop my guitar. “No. Way.”
“What? Something good?”
“No. Something great,” I say. “It’s from Nate. An invitation to a movie premiere next Thursday night. It’s animated, and he did one of the voices in it. He says it’s dumb.”
“A school night?” Mom asks.
“Well, yeah, but, Mom … this is like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Nate Etan wants us to go with him!” I hand her the note, printed in those same, barely legible letters.
Sophie,
Looking for dates for this premiere—can you and your friends make it? I’ve got eight extra tickets, so invite whoever you want. Let me know.
Nate
Mom hands it back to me, unimpressed. “He’
s not going to make you watch his dog again, is he?”
“So I can go, right?”
“I’ll talk to your dad.”
Whew! I know Dad will let me go. When I remind him what a good customer of the restaurant Nate is, he’ll have no choice.
• • •
The night of the premiere arrives at last. Margaret, Becca, Leigh Ann, and I leave our red blazers at home, because tonight we are the Red Carpet Girls. The limo doors swing open in front of the theater, and we do our best to look graceful as we crawl out. First to hit the carpet are Nate and Rebecca, who has declared herself to be his “official date” for the night. Next out is Cam Peterson, who takes Leigh Ann’s arm in his, followed by my date, the dashing Rafael Arocho. He reaches into the limo and takes my hand, and suddenly I just can’t stop smiling, smiling, smiling.
And finally, Margaret and Mbingu, whose fathers’ attitudes about dating are strikingly (and tragically) similar, join us as we prepare for the long walk down the red carpet.
But wait! I forgot someone. My newest friend steps out of the limo and smiles at me.
“This is so cool,” she says.
I take her by the hand and we start down the carpet. “Get used to it, Livvy. This is just a typical day in the life of a Red Blazer Girl.”
About the Author
Michael D. Beil’s first Red Blazer Girls installment, The Ring of Rocamadour, was hailed as “a PG Da Vinci Code … with a fun mystery, great friends, and a bit of romance” (School Library Journal). The second Red Blazer Girls mystery, The Vanishing Violin, was similarly lauded, with Kirkus Reviews saying, “The red blazer gals feel and act like real tweens while tackling everything that comes their way with logic, humor and refreshing savoir faire.”
Mr. Beil, who teaches English and helms the theater program at New York City high school, has, in his own words, “too many hobbies to count.” When he’s not teaching or writing, he loves reading, skiing, sailing, cooking, playing cello, and hiking—including climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. He finds literary inspiration in everything from classic films to Charles Dickens to that beloved barrister, Horace Rumpole.
In a starred review, Booklist called for “more Red Blazer Girls, please!” Mr. Beil, never one to disappoint, is pleased to continue the series with a fourth adventure in the works (this one Christmas-themed).
He and his wife, Laura Grimmer, share their Manhattan home with dogs Isabel and Maggie and cats Cyril and Emma.