by Sheela Chari
My brother shook his head no.
Then I had an idea. “Cheetah, I need your help.”
“You do?” he asked.
“Yeah, you have to go back and do lookout. Like if you see Mom and Dad coming up to check on me, you have to stop them. Make up something, but just don’t let them see I’m gone.”
“I’d rather come with you,” Cheetah said. “No kidding,” Peter said, smirking. “Trust me, I know what lookout is.”
I gave Peter a sharp glance and said, “Cheetah, I’m serious. Will you do it for me?”
At first he didn’t want to, but I was able to change his mind. “After two hours, I get worried,” he warned. I nodded, and he went back inside.
“What took you so long?” I asked Peter.
He pulled out a piece of paper. “We finally got our computer and printer hooked up so I was printing out a map of Dobbs.”
“You don’t need a map. I know where everything is.”
“Well, this has the places I think we should target.” He showed them to me: the library, the Historical Society, the horse trough, the Masters School, the Cedar Street Café.
“All those places?” I squeaked.
“You can still back out. I don’t need help. Or maybe you can do lookout with your brother.”
“Very funny.”
“Plus I got you this.” He took something out of his pocket and gave it to me. “There were so many in the attic, I thought you’d like to have one again. The hard part was figuring out which one to give you.”
I turned the necklace over. “It says ‘keeper’ like the old one.”
He nodded. “I thought about you and your wall with all the papers on it. Then I decided you had the right one all along. If anybody’s a keeper, that’s you, Myla.”
I swallowed. It was weird how happy it made me that he’d thought about it, and who I was. “Thanks,” I said softly. I put the necklace on. This time I wouldn’t lose it.
I knelt down and took out the spray cans I had stashed under a bush. We had a total of three. Peter’s hoodie was bigger, so he carried two, and I carried one. Then we set off down Cherry Street, trying to walk casually as if we weren’t about to spray-paint Dobbs Ferry.
“Tell me again about MOST14,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to talk about tagging just before doing it, but I was getting nervous, and maybe it would be good for Peter to talk about something else, too.
“He was maybe fourteen or fifteen years old when it happened.” It was surprising how clear Peter’s voice was even when he whispered. “I don’t know if ‘beautiful’ is the word to describe a tag, but his was. Randall uses orange, right? MOST14 used pink. Not exactly manly—but along with black, MOST14 stood out from all the other tired-looking tags. You’d be on the other side of the street, or in a bus going somewhere, but soon as you saw one of his tags, you’d go Damn. Because MOST was king for getting noticed.”
I sighed. “If I was going to tag on the street, that’s what I’d want.”
“To be MOST?”
“To be noticed. To have people say ‘damn’ about me.” I blushed because I’d never sworn in front of someone and I sounded stupid, not down like Peter. But somehow I didn’t care. I knew he’d understand what I meant, because Peter understood about tags.
But then he gave me this look like I was from another planet. “You’re talking like my brother and his crew,” he said. “And most of the time they’re talking crap.”
“What?” I asked, surprised.
“Tagging isn’t what gets you noticed. Like, I notice you plenty.”
“You do?” I blinked. “Because in school . . .” But I wasn’t sure I could explain the years of feeling short and small and in the shadows. Not without feeling something else I hated: tears in my eyes.
“I notice you helping me,” Peter offered.
I sniffed. But hopefully he didn’t notice that. “So what happened to MOST14?” I asked.
“Well, here’s the thing. You talk about being noticed. And some people think it’s all about how much you tag. The more the better. But MOST14’s trick was that he was limited. You didn’t see a lot of his tags. One here, one there, but that’s what made you keep looking. If one popped up on the Bronx River Parkway, you’d be sure to notice it every time you went by. It was ironic, him being MOST, when what he did was the least.”
A car passed by at the end of the street, and we both paused until we saw it keep going.
I glanced up. We had stopped in front of Ana’s house. All the lights were off downstairs, but Ana’s room was lit. “You know who lives here, right?” I asked.
Peter gave a half smile. “Yeah. I know.”
I suddenly wanted to tell him it was okay if he liked Ana, and if he thought she was pretty. And that it was okay if she liked him back. I wanted to tell him, but somehow I think he knew. Or maybe it wasn’t anything I had to say out loud. So I just said, “Okay, just checking.”
We continued walking.
After a while I asked, “So then what happened to MOST?”
Peter nodded. Maybe he was relieved we weren’t delving into girl talk. “MaxD understood that MOST’s tag stood out because it was rare,” he went on. “So that’s why he bombed MOST14 everywhere. And MaxD did a lousy job. Even with the right colors, it looked trash. After a while, the bad copy of MOST’s tag was everywhere—all the gas stations and the A&P, and even on a church. Not only that, there were so many MOST14 tags, now the cops noticed. Then MOST got caught. He got fined for every single tag, including all the ones he didn’t do. It was so much, I hear he’s all-out broke, and stopped tagging, period. And that fool MaxD won.”
“That’s terrible! Is that what we’re doing by painting all these Om tags?”
“Nah. We’re not trying to get rid of the tag. We just want to confuse everybody else.”
I nodded. “Yeah, more Oms, and people won’t know which is the real one.”
“Exactly.”
Peter fell silent as we turned onto Walnut. I had so many other questions—like how long did it take to paint a tag, or what happened if the word didn’t show exactly right? But most of all, was he scared like me? And if we got caught, what would we do? He’d told me to throw down the paint and run as fast as I could if a cop came. But that didn’t cover the part about actually getting nailed.
I could feel the adrenaline flowing in my blood, like every single cell was opening up inside me. I glanced at Peter and I could tell he felt the same way. At the end of Walnut, there would be fewer trees, less cover, and we’d be half a street away from our first stop, the Historical Society. It was a beautiful house, and it was about to become less beautiful in a few minutes.
“Peter,” I whispered. I was about to tell him what I was feeling, the misgivings inside me. But just then a car pulled around the corner, and this time it came down our street. Peter reached out to stop me with his hand. We stood there, not knowing what to do. It wasn’t a cop car, was it? Like one of those undercover ones?
The car came slowly, and it seemed it was coming toward us. I felt a sudden panic. I hadn’t counted on this—a cop, maybe, but not a stranger in a strange car approaching us. Automatically Peter and I stepped backward, off the sidewalk, onto the grass, although there was nothing there to hide us. Peter pulled at my arm, signaling for us to turn around and run, but then the car came to a stop about twenty feet from us, and the front passenger door opened.
Peter froze, staring at the guy who was on the sidewalk, then walking toward us. I had been at the train station, I had seen the newspaper, so I knew who it was. Even then, I couldn’t believe my eyes, that he was here before we’d even sprayed the first drop of paint.
He stopped in front of us, and glanced at me. Then he spoke. “Nike told me what you planned to do, Petey. It doesn’t make any sense. Just go on home and we’ll forget about this.”
Peter was breathing in and out hard. Then I saw something that surprised me. His hands balling up into fists. W
asn’t he happy to see Randall?
“You’re here to stop me?” he asked quietly.
Randall broke into a grin. “Sure I am. You’ll get caught faster than you can say jackass. I know you, Petey. This isn’t your thing.”
I barely had time to look at Randall’s face—that easy smile that reminded me of his tag, bright and sunny and superconfident. But that smile quickly turned to shock as Peter lunged forward and shoved his brother to the ground.
I never felt so much rage coursing through my body. Something about Randall’s smart-aleck grin made me want to punch him in the nose. And I’d never punched anyone in my life. “Who do you think you are, telling me what I can’t do!” I hollered as he scrambled off the sidewalk and stood on his feet, gawking at me.
“Petey,” he said, “man, you’re really losing it.” Behind him for the first time I noticed Nike was there, too. He’d been riding in the car, and he was standing right behind Randall. There was also somebody else, a man I hadn’t seen. He was the one driving the car, and he stood outside, leaning against the driver’s door. I ignored them both and turned to Randall.
“All this time, I’ve been busting myself trying to get you back. I’ve been telling myself, us brothers got to stick together. But you know what, Randall? You’re right. I don’t need to be tagging on your behalf. I don’t need to be doing anything on your behalf. You can move to Timbuktu, all I care.” I turned around, ready to walk away from my brother, his stupid dreams about the diamonds, and every other crazy thing he’d ever thought was more important than me or Ma.
Then I heard Nike’s voice. “You sure know how to say the wrong thing, Mighty.”
“Petey.” Randall’s voice was different now, softer, and cracking in the middle. Then I felt him pulling me back, tugging on my arm. I turned to glare at him. But something strange had happened. It was like he was somebody else, somebody smaller, a deflated balloon.
“Petey, I’m—I’m sorry.” He tried to stand taller, look like he always did, but the truth was it was hard for my brother to say sorry to anybody.
“That’s not enough,” Nike said. “Tell him you love him.” For this, Nike got a shove from Randall. Behind them, the strange man was getting restless.
“You guys sorted through everything?” he asked.
Meanwhile, where was Myla? I looked around, then saw her halfway up the street. She was standing in front of the old house that Uncle Richard was working on, reading a sign in front. From a distance she didn’t even look like herself, with her curly hair stuck under that cap. She looked like a small girl, lost inside a hoodie, and it reminded me of the way I felt wearing Randall’s. But that was going to change. Soon as I got home, I was tossing my brother’s hoodie away.
“Give us a minute, Tops,” said Randall.
I jerked my head up. This was the legendary Tops? The guy with a belly? I looked at him carefully and saw the restlessness in him, the tight way he was holding himself. Something else was going on. I took a step back.
“Just why did you come back here?” I asked quietly. “Are you fooling with me?”
Randall made a face. “No, Petey, you got it wrong. Don’t you see? I was on High Bridge, and I swear to you, something changed. Something changed in me.”
“You look about the same.”
“I don’t mean how I look. I mean, I had a revelation, know what I mean? Like a moment.”
But I wasn’t ready for Randall’s moment, whatever it was. I searched for a bone of contention. “Then why is he here?” I pointed with my face. “You’re bringing more people in? Wasn’t your crew bad enough?”
Randall glanced behind him. “Oh, that’s Tops. He’s cool.” But something in his eyes told me he wasn’t. “He brought me here.”
He was about to say more when Myla came running back to us.
“Peter, you have to see this. It all adds up. We’re on the Aqueduct Trail!”
“Aqueduct Trail?” Randall repeated. He and Nike looked at each other.
“Come over there. Here I thought it was just some old haunted house, but it’s part of the Aqueduct. It was built in 1857, and that’s where one of the Keepers of the Aqueduct lived. The house had many different names, but look what it was finally called. It must have been called that before your grandma Rose died.”
“How does she know about Grandma Rose?” Randall asked.
“Come, see for yourself,” Myla insisted. She dragged me up the street to the sign, and everybody else had no choice but to join us. “Look at the name now.”
RESTORATION OF THE KEEPER’S HOUSE
The New York City water supply system is one of the great municipal water supply systems in the world. During the active days of the Aqueduct, Keepers were provided with houses on or near the section of the tunnel for which they were responsible in its maintenance. Here remains the last such house on the Aqueduct Trail. Known previously by different names, this Italianate-style home is now called the Keeper’s House, and is a designated landmark.
“Okay,” I said. “I don’t get it. Why is it important?”
“Keeper’s House,” Myla said slowly. “Keeper . . . shouse. That’s what the necklaces spell.”
“Whoa,” I said.
“And you say we’re on the Aqueduct Trail?” Nike asked.
That’s when I noticed a dirt path cutting past the Keeper’s House and continuing on the other side of the street. I’d never paid attention to it before.
Meanwhile, Randall was pulling something out of his pocket. “That’s what my map is for,” he said. He unfolded the sheets. “Anybody got a flashlight?”
Tops had a mini one on his key chain. He flashed it on top of the map. Shadows danced around, but we found everything: High Bridge, Croton Dam, and in between, the Keeper’s House.
“I don’t believe it,” Randall said. “It was here all this time.”
“It was in the black book, too,” Myla said.
“What?” Randall asked, surprised.
Myla’s eyes shifted to mine. “Well—that’s what Peter told me,” she finished uneasily.
“Look, who cares?” Nike asked. “Sounds like this place was what your grandma meant. It’s now up to us to get inside and check it out.” He turned to Randall and Tops. “And we can use our feet to get in.”
They looked at each other, then at the second-floor ledge of the dilapidated house.
“The house could fall down,” Tops said. “It looks pretty shaky.”
“We might fall down,” said Randall. “I don’t know if I can make the height.”
Nike shrugged. “The worst is we fail. Or break our legs. So what? You in?”
Tops thought a moment. “Yeah, I’m in.”
Randall nodded. “If these fakes hold up.”
I watched as they circled the house, three silhouettes against the crumbling walls. Seeing them, it was like some kind of mysterious, silent dance, where only they knew the moves. Part of me wanted in on it, while part of me was scared of what I was about to see. In the distance I heard a ferry horn as the three of them ran, one after the other, and leaped into the night.
Wow wow wow! When Nike said they would use their feet, I had no idea what that meant. Like maybe they were going to kick in the door? I was about to tell them to stop. Graffiti was one thing, but breaking private property was another. Plus somebody might hear us. But for once I decided to keep quiet.
Then I couldn’t believe what I saw: first the middle-aged guy ran at the wall, and before I knew it, he’d climbed up and stood on the ledge. Then Nike followed, and finally Randall, though it took him a few tries, and for one scary moment I thought he’d fall and land on his head. But he finally got himself up. I’m still not sure how they did it. They ran and just kicked themselves up like acrobats. I stared at Peter in wonder.
He shrugged. “Parkour.”
“You mean you’ve seen this before?” I asked, astonished. What else was I going to find out about Peter’s family before the night was through? Meanw
hile, the three of them were scaling the ledge around to the other side, where there was an open window, and one by one, they climbed in. “Come on,” I told Peter. I went around the back of the house, seeing if there was another window on the first floor they could open to let me in.
The house was crumbling, but it was sturdier than I thought. All these years Cheetah and I had imagined it haunted, and we’d dared each other to go as near the house as we could. Once I came as far as the back window and peered in. It was dark, with rubble on the floor, and that was as much as I could see before I ran back to the street where Cheetah was waiting. Now I was here standing next to the same window, and I could hear voices inside that seemed to be coming down a staircase. I rapped on the window so they’d know I was there. I called softly, “Hey, guys, over here.” I rapped some more until the window came up.
Nike’s head poked out. “You don’t like to be kept waiting, do you?”
I flushed. “Just wanted to help,” I said.
“Well, it’s not easy climbing up an ancient house without the ceiling giving on you,” he said. “Maybe you can just wait outside some more?”
I stood there, not knowing what to say, but worried I’d somehow pissed off this guy.
“Cut it out, Nike,” said Peter. “Let Myla in.”
Nike broke into a big smile. “Can’t take a joke, either of you.”
I looked more closely at him as he helped me in through the window. His hair was a tight, wiry brown, and he was wearing a bandana wrapped around each wrist. His shirt had a picture of a shark fin on it, and he had long, sinewy legs. “Why is your name Nike?” I asked after we were in. “Like the shoe company?”
“Actually, no,” said Nike. “I’m winged victory. Like in the Greek story.”
I widened my eyes. “That’s cool. But isn’t Nike a girl?”
“Say what?” asked Nike.
Next to him, Randall burst out laughing.
“Ha-ha, that explains a lot,” he said.
“Stuff it,” Nike told him.
We started picking our way through the rubble in the dark. It was hard to see much of anything. Tops had that tiny flashlight, but that wasn’t enough inside the house. Gradually my eyes got used to the darkness, and some of the streetlight came in through the uncovered windows. The floors were bare except for the rubble, and the walls were mostly peeled away, except for the front entrance where an old parlor mirror hung, probably the only remaining furniture in the whole house. But most surprising of all, the walls were covered with graffiti. Everywhere I saw words scrawled on the wall in marker and pen. There were words like Hippie and World Peace, different sets of initials—that kind of stuff.