CHAPTER 17
I tried to concentrate during the next couple of periods, tried to listen to Mr. Randolph lecture on about the post–Civil War Industrialization Movement, and tried not to drop dead of boredom while Madame Booté reviewed—again—the rules of le subjonctif for the unenlightened.
But I honestly couldn’t stop thinking about Amanda—about the possibility that she might’ve left us a clue at that bookstore.
And so instead of going to the library for my last free period, I slipped out the side exit door behind the cafeteria. The door was open anyway; the janitors had been cleaning out a storage closet and making trips out to the Dumpster. I cut across the back parking lot, grabbed my bike, and rode into town, relieved to finally be doing the right thing.
About five minutes later, I pulled up in front of the antique bookshop—a tiny shack of a place. The OPEN sign was hanging crookedly in the window, and yet it looked dark inside.
I parked my bike and tried the door. It opened with a loud and whining creak. The inside of the shop smelled like a mix of mildew and cigar smoke. Still, it was just as I imagined. Books lined the walls on old and splintery shelves. A long center table served as a display for antique trinkets like candle holders and chunky costume jewelry. And there was an old, fragile-looking man there, too. He had to have been at least eighty years old, with a hearing aid behind one ear and a distinctive curve to his spine.
“Good day,” he said, looking at me from behind a pair of tiny bifocals.
He was just as I’d imagined, too, as was his desk. It wasn’t a conventional counter with a cash register, but instead a metal folding table with a calculator and notepad.
“Can I help you with something?” he wheezed.
“Not just yet,” I told him, eager to poke around on my own.
The man shrugged and went about his business, calculating a bunch of receipt totals. Meanwhile, I moved farther into the shop, nearly tripping over a ceramic statue of a crouching little lion.
A moment later, I saw it—the red velvet chair. I approached it slowly, noticing a stack of books on the table beside it. One of them was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.
My fingers trembled as I picked it up. I thumbed through the pages, able to picture Amanda standing at the front of the shop with the book tucked under her arm, contemplating a pair of emerald teardrop earrings, and then slipping a note of some sort between a couple of books on a shelf. Exciting as that was, I wanted to check in with the shopkeeper first.
I approached his desk. “Do you remember a girl coming in here recently? She’d be about my age, and she might’ve been sitting in that red velvet chair, reading a copy of Huck Finn?”
He thought about it for several long seconds before nodding his head. “Eh, yep. She might’ve been about your age.”
“And do you know anything about her?” I asked, feeling my pulse race. “Where she might be staying, or how often she comes in here? Did she say anything you remember?”
He chuckled. “I know I’ve seen that girl with so many different hairstyles: short and black one day, long and blond the next. I get dizzy keepin’ track of all her wigs.”
“So she comes in here often?”
“Often?” He tapped his shiny bald head in thought.
“When was the last time she was in here?”
“Well, that would have been a week or so ago, at least. She comes in here because she says she likes the smell of old books. She sits in that there chair”—he nodded toward the velvet one—“and reads for a good while.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me? Any particular books she favors?” I asked, wondering if there was a clue in one of the titles.
The man thought about it for a couple moments, scratching at the scruff on his chin with his fingernails. “Come to think of it . . . a few weeks back, she’d asked me to find a particular edition of a book. And, you know, we offer that service free of charge so long as you purchase the book once I find it.”
“Which book?” I asked, practically jumping over the table and cutting him off.
“Ariel,” he said. “By Sylvia Plath. I remember she wanted a first-edition copy. You know how rare that is? I told her it would cost her, but she didn’t seem to care. She said it was a gift for a special friend.”
“It was my gift,” I told him, plunking down on the floor. “It was for me.”
He nodded, pausing a moment to eye me over, as if maybe he knew something more. “Well, if you’re ever anxious to sell it back . . .”
“Do you know where Amanda lives . . . or where she might be staying?” I asked him again. “Did she give you any contact information as to how you could reach her once you’d found the copy of Ariel?”
“Amanda?” he asked, seemingly caught on the name. “That’s not right, is it?” He made a confused face.
“Maybe she went by something else?” I asked.
He gazed at one of those old-fashioned cat clocks—the kind that has the shifty eyes and the tail that tick-tocks back and forth. “My, if it isn’t two o’clock already . . . I think I might need to take a little break.” He removed his bifocals and rubbed at his eyes. “Sometimes my mind starts going a little wackadoo when I’m trying to keep track of all these details.”
“Please,” I insisted. “I really need your help. Amanda is missing. People all over town are looking for her.”
The man ignored me, picking up his stack of receipts. He slipped his glasses back on and resumed his calculations, as if I weren’t even there—as if taking a little break meant doing anything other than talking to me.
I moved toward the exit, catching a glimpse of a RARE BOOKS sign on the wall. It pointed to a short shelf of books. There were copies of old editions of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Scarlet Letter, and even a signed copy of Stephen King’s Christine. I ran my fingers over the bindings as I searched, my eyes stopping at the P section, where a pair of emerald teardrop earrings had been mislaid, just as I’d envisioned moments ago.
“Amanda,” I whispered, almost tempted to try them on. Instead I took a deep breath, and resumed looking for books by Plath, for where a copy of Ariel might’ve been kept.
And that’s where I found it. Amanda’s note. Stuffed between two books. It was a poem, handwritten in her distinctive penmanship:
Shattered
The rock’s been thrown.
The window is broken.
Shards of glass have torn through your walls of trust.
Do not think I am unaware that your perception of me.
Is shattered.
But one day.
In time.
I hope.
We can clean up this glass.
And mend the window.
And ease open the pane.
To look beyond what has broken.
To see what truly lies on the inside.
Only then can shattered glass ever be replaced.
My heart pounded just reading the words—just knowing Amanda wrote them. Below the poem was a tiny sketch of a coyote, Amanda’s totem, the trickster.
“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked once more. He stood up from his desk and looked to see what I was doing. “What have you got there?” he asked.
“Nothing. And thank you. I’m fine.” I folded the poem back up, stuffed it inside my coat, and left without another word.
CHAPTER 18
I raced back to school just as kids were filing out for the day, and rode around to the side parking lot, hoping that I hadn’t missed Callie or Hal.
Both of them were there, unlocking their bikes from the rack. I started in their direction, but then spotted a car pulling up beside them. It was an Alfa Romeo—a classic one from the 1970s in almost mint condition. I knew because my father used to keep one just like it stored in our garage.
The driver cranked the window open, and to my complete and utter surprise, it was West, the junior I’d met from Hal’s band. He and Hal exchanged some words. And my p
alms instinctively pooled with sweat.
It took at least a couple of minutes, but I worked up the nerve to say hello. Only before I got there, West drove away, leaving me in the Land of If-Only. Popu-lation: 1.
I grabbed Amanda’s note in my pocket, reminding myself of my priorities, and then I made a beeline for the bike rack.
“Hey, where did you come from?” Hal asked, spotting me just behind him.
“The bookshop,” I told him, unfolding Amanda’s poem and handing it over. “What can I say? I went with my instinct, and it proved correct. I will accept apologies for the lack of confidence later.”
Callie and Hal took a few moments to read the poem over. “Is it me,” Callie asked, “or does the point of this poem seem uncharacteristically clear?”
“Definitely.” I nodded. “Amanda wants us to find out the truth about her, but at the same time she’s feeling a bit guilty.”
“Guilty because our perception of her has been shattered,” Hal said slowly.
“But it’s not like she didn’t have reason to lie. I mean, right?” Callie asked.
“I don’t know,” Hal said. “I think I could’ve done without some of those bogus stories. I just wish she’d have trusted me enough to be honest.”
“Except she wasn’t necessarily lying to protect herself,” I reminded them. “She was also trying to protect us.”
“And one day she hopes to rebuild our trust.” A tiny smile of relief curled across Callie’s lips.
This was exactly what all of us needed: Amanda acknowledging her web of lies, concerned about what we might think of her, because she truly valued our friendships.
“Still, I just have one question,” Hal began, focused on me. “How did Amanda know you’d go to that shop? The only reason you did was because you touched a tarot card and a picture popped into your mind.”
“Right,” Callie said. “Plus, how did Amanda even know that Bea gave you that card?”
“For all we know, Amanda told Bea to give us the card,” I said. “Who knows if Bea was giving us the whole story?”
“So, do you actually believe that Amanda assumed you would go immediately to investigate an antique book place because you handled a tarot card?” Callie wondered, looking at me.
I shook my head, completely puzzled over it all myself.
Hal paused a moment to look at me—to really gaze into my eyes, making me feel suddenly self-conscious. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that maybe you were hiding something.”
“Like you did with the Ariel book,” Callie ventured.
“And like you did with Bea’s accident,” I reminded her, thinking how Amanda hadn’t been the only one to keep secrets. When it came to the subject of secret-keeping, we were all a little more like Amanda than we wanted to admit.
“I assure you,” I said finally, “I’m not hiding anything—not anymore. I honestly have no idea how or why Amanda assumed I’d go there.”
“Here,” Hal said, handing the poem back to me. “Do you picture anything when you touch this?”
“No,” I said, holding it longer to be sure.
“Books, plot plans, necklace charms, tarot cards . . .” Callie rubbed at the ache in her head. “I mean, talk about random . . . the objects you’re able to envision stuff from, that is.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more accommodating,” I said sharply. “And what’s your superpower?”
Callie ignored me and pulled a small, well-worn seashell coin purse from her bag. “Try this,” she said, wanting me to touch it.
I ran my fingers over it. “Sorry,” I said, giving it back to her, frustrated.
“So, maybe your power only works when the object is Amanda-related,” Hal said.
I shook my head, confident that wasn’t the case, thinking about the time I touched my grandfather’s old military hat or, more recently, Heidi’s phone.
“Maybe Amanda is able to envision things about you, too,” Hal offered, still focused on me. “Maybe that’s how she knew you’d eventually go to the bookstore.”
“Who knows?” I told them. “But we won’t get anywhere standing in this parking lot. Let’s go investigate that pharmacy once and for all.”
CHAPTER 19
We rode to the pharmacy with me taking the lead. On the way there, we stopped several times to examine the serpent-and-bowl markings on various buildings, including the bank, the post office, and the old courthouse. But, not surprisingly, none of them had the infamous onyx eye.
After about ten minutes of pedaling, we finally arrived in front of the tall brick building that Amanda and I had visited.
“Well, I can certainly see what you meant,” Callie offered. “This does sort of look like an apartment complex. I’ve passed by this place a bunch of times, but never in a million years thought it was a pharmacy.”
I peered up toward the serpent-and-bowl marking, noticing immediately that the eye had been taken out. I moved through the gate and up the front stairs for a closer look, convinced I was able to spot a bit of the residual adhesive in which the eye had originally been set.
“So, shall we go in?” Callie asked, stepping toward the door. She jiggled the knob, but it didn’t budge. “Locked.”
“Hold on,” I said, remembering that when Amanda and I had come here we waited a couple minutes before someone finally let us in.
Callie pounded on the door with her fist. “Are you sure this is the place? Oh, right, the serpent.” She nodded.
I looked up at the windows to try to detect movement or light, suspecting that if the onyx was gone, the business inside would be, too.
Finally, the door opened. “Can I help you?” a woman asked. Wearing a navy-blue suit and holding a clipboard, she had coarse black hair held back in a twist, but on second glance it almost looked like a wig.
“We’re looking for Waverly Valentino,” I said.
“Sorry, but I can’t help you,” she said, barely glancing up from her notes.
“Then could we buy some tea?” Callie ventured.
The woman gave us a confused look, her eyebrows knitting together. “I think you might be confused. This building is being put up for lease. I’m the Realtor, assessing its merits. We should have a sign outside, along with some listing sheets, by tomorrow.”
“What kind of property is it?” Hal asked.
“Are you interested, young man?” She smirked.
“No . . . but my parents might be.”
She eyed him up and down, as if trying to determine his honesty. “This place has a lot of potential,” she said, her voice throaty and deep. “It could be used as apartments, a small business, or private school . . . There’s even potential for a multifamily.”
“Or a pharmacy?” I asked, still fishing for information.
The woman cocked her head, almost bemused.
“What was this place?” Hal asked her. “Before the last lease ran out, I mean.”
“Apartments, mostly.”
“Mostly?” I asked.
“I’m assuming,” she said. “It was vacant during the walk-through. And my boss said the owners of the property are rather private, so she couldn’t really give me specifics. Apparently there’s some confidential history tied to the property, and the owners would like things handled discreetly.”
“Can you tell us the owners’ names?” Callie asked.
“Not in this case. Everything’s being kept under lock and key, so to speak.” She chuckled at her own lame joke.
“Everything?” I asked.
“It’s rare, but it happens. And we have to respect the owners’ wishes. We work for you at Ryder Realty,” she said, punching out the slogan. She gestured to her Ryder Realty pin: a gold-plated house logo on the lapel of her jacket. “But I thank you for your interest.” She flashed us a plastic Realtor smile—complete with pearly veneers and sheer pink lipstick—and then turned away.
“Wait,” I said, eager to ask her more.
“Of course,” she said, turnin
g back and reaching into her pocket. She handed Hal her business card: “My name is Whitney Vanderman. Have your parents give me a call if they’re interested. But don’t wait too long, or else you’ll wind up missing.”
My mouth dropped open in shock. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“You won’t know what you’re missing,” the woman said; a bewildered expression hung on her face, like she had no idea what my problem was. “Three floors, separate heating units, a brand-new boiler system, and central air to boot,” she continued. “Properties like this don’t come along often. I’ll give it two days on the market—tops.”
“Thanks,” Hal said, taking the card.
The woman wished us a good afternoon and then closed the door behind her.
“I don’t think she’s lying,” Hal said, showing us her Realtor card.
“Agreed,” Callie said. “She didn’t seem sketchy at all.”
“Even when she said that we might ‘wind up missing’?” I asked.
“Wait, what?” Hal’s face contorted in confusion.
“I heard it, too,” Callie said. “But I think it must’ve been a slip of the tongue.”
“So, what now?” I asked. “Should we call this woman and pretend to be interested in the property? Insist on knowing its history, and where the preexisting pharmacy moved to before we agree to buy it? And hey, anyone else notice that the real estate agent and Waverly Valentino share the same initials?”
“Whoa. Can that be a coincidence? I mean, I guess it could. But it doesn’t sound like she knows anything about a pharmacy,” Callie said. “And even if she does, it’s not like she or her boss would tell us.”
“You don’t seriously think they closed up shop just because of our phone call, do you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Hal said. “But maybe we should try calling that Waverly woman again—on the off chance that we did catch her at a bad time before. Maybe she’ll be more willing to talk. When did you come here before, anyway? Could the pharmacy have been gone for a while?”
“I suppose.” I thought about it. “It was probably a few months ago.”
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