To Hannah and Nell
M. J.
For Samantha and Carter
A. C.
CONTENTS
1 • Stuck Like Glue
2 • In the Bag
3 • The Routine
4 • Going, Going, Gone
5 • Telling Hubert
6 • Walking Tall
7 • Magic Movie Moments
8 • Candy Land
9 • Voice Tricks
10 • Story Time
11 • Phone Call
12 • Subway
13 • One Last Fling
14 • Jody
15 • Gum Quest
16 • Master Chewer
17 • Rhyme Scheme
18 • Chowder Bath
19 • Try, Try Again
20 • Halt way There
21 • Deep Doo-doo
22 • The Story
23 • Caught
24 • Revenge
Epilogue
1 • Stuck Like Glue
Even though I am almost eleven years old, my mother is stuck to me like glue.
It seems like kids everywhere else in the world are walking to school alone, scooting down to the corner store for a pack of gum, or going over to a friend’s house after supper for a game of basketball. But I live in New York! Home of muggers, dive-bombing pigeons, the subway, and people who talk to hydrants. I’ve noticed that grown-ups are delighted to list the countless dangers. And one of these days, I’m going to have to look after myself out there in the wilds.
When I read books about kids my age, I am amazed at how little their mothers have to do with their lives. They are either dead, or busy doctors, or famous actresses who have convenient world tours whenever the kid has an adventure. The fathers are either dead, or distracted professors, or away at sea for months at a time.
My father doesn’t live with us anymore, but my mother is with me every single minute of every single day of my life. We live in a loft, which is like an apartment except it’s all open. My mom has a real room with a door, but the rest is just a big, huge space divided by half walls and screens.
My sister, Jane, and I have to share the area next to the windows that look out on Broadway. This is not the Broadway with theaters and sparkly lights and people in tuxedos smoking cigars. This is the Broadway where trucks roar past all night long. So if Jane doesn’t keep me awake by grinding her teeth, there are horns honking and brakes screeching.
My only personal territory is the top bunk. I don’t bother to keep a diary because I have no private life to record.
My mother has the one job guaranteed to keep us in her sight: She is the librarian at our school and has not missed a day of work since she started the job four years ago. You would think that by the weekend, she’d be ready for a rest. But, even though we do get to sleep in, plus watch cartoons, we also have to have a weekly Family Excursion, and that means Together.
So, on the second Sunday in April, my mother decided to take us to Central Park for the first picnic of the spring. Central Park is the biggest collection of grass and trees in New York City and, since we don’t have a backyard, we like to go there. We usually start at the bottom of the park, at Fifty-ninth Street. We walk past the artists who draw dopey chalk portraits of tourists and then go along the path that leads to the zoo.
We only go into the zoo about twice a year, usually on an icy Sunday in February when going to the tropical house is like a vacation in Brazil. It’s like being inside a kettle just after the tea is made. Most often, we don’t pay to go in; we just hang over the fence and watch the seals being fed.
“Why do they like fish so much?” asked Jane.
“Because they live in the ocean, and that’s the only thing they can get their hands on,” I told her.
“You mean their flippers on,” she said.
We watched the trainer tossing slippery silver bodies into the air and the seals craning their necks just slightly to make the catch.
“Do you think they like French fries?” asked Jane.
“They would probably throw up if they had French fries,” said my mother.
“Oh, let’s try it next time,” said Jane to me. “I want to see what seal throw-up looks like.”
“That’s gross, Jane,” I said, giving her the tiniest push. She shoved me back, hard. I stepped on her toe, just on the edge, and she screamed as though I had cut off her foot with an axe and fed it to the seals.
My mother got mad and, of course, took Jane’s side and said I had to wait at the bottom of the first rock until Jane climbed ahead. She knew that would really bug me.
The best part of Central Park is the way huge rocks burst out of the ground like kid-size mountains. Some of them are covered in lichen or have trees growing out of the cracks. Some of them are just solid gray lumps, waiting to be scaled by heroic explorers. This is one of my favorite activities.
I sat with my back to my horrible mother and kicked at weeds. There was a broken bottle and a lot of ants crawling over sludge that used to be orange soda. I threw pebbles at a boulder, trying to make them land on the mossy patch on the top. I looked at my watch to see how many seconds had passed. I examined the sky, trying to see sideways how far Jane had climbed without actually looking in her direction. She had not gotten very far because she really needs me to be the leader on these expeditions. I could tell she was torn between wanting to show that she could climb by herself and being too scared to even try. I stood up and kicked some more weeds.
And that’s when I saw the bag.
2 • In the Bag
It was lying just behind the boulder, mostly hidden by the tall grass. It was made of pink quilted satin, printed with green flowers, which is why it stayed hidden. It was about the size of a paperback book. It must have dropped out of someone’s purse. I stood looking at it, not even bending over, thinking hard and fast.
I looked around. All the way around. I turned a slow, casual circle to check in all directions. There were a boyfriend and girlfriend on a bench in the middle of a sloppy kiss. There was a man with a dog walking away down the path. No one was watching me.
My mother was watching Jane with a parental glow. Jane was inching up the rock face and concentrating hard. I sat on the boulder so that my foot touched the bag and gave it a little nudge. It was heavy. I slid my backpack off and put it on the ground. I leaned over to adjust a buckle and deftly popped the bag inside.
I had to open my jacket. I was sweating under my arms. I never stole anything before. But this wasn’t really stealing. Finders keepers, right?
Another swift glance at the family confirmed success. I was the proud owner of a secret.
I shouldered my pack and strolled over to watch Jane climb. She was almost at the top and had a big grin on her face.
“I’d just like to say I’m sorry for being a bully, even though I wasn’t really, but I certainly did not mean to harm Jane in any way.”
My mother’s mouth actually gaped open.
“I’ll be going now,” I added, before there could be any discussion.
I lunged at the rock and climbed fast. My backpack was going to stay on my back, like a koala baby, for the rest of the day.
Jane stuck out her tongue when I caught up with her, but I was way past fighting with a six-year-old.
“Hey, Jane! You did a great climb!”
She wrinkled her nose in suspicion.
“I mean it. Plus look down there.” I pointed to the couple on the bench. “Smooch Alert! Smooch Alert!”
She collapsed with glee. I had won back her heart.
We climbed rocks until Jane skinned her shin. We listened to a folk singer beside the boat pond, who made my mother’s face go all moony. It seemed like I could
feel the little bag the whole time, burning like a hot-water bottle in the middle of my back.
We ate our lunch near the statue of Alice in Wonderland. We had peanut butter and jelly on bagels and cut-up melon and granola bars.
I thought I had a chance to look at my prize while my mother went to watch Jane climb Alice, but Jane just perched on one of the bronze toadstools, and my mother came right back to sit with me. My fingers lay inside my backpack, quietly stroking the satin.
We got ice cream from the man with one leg. We watched the miniature sailboats scud across the boat pond by remote control. When we finally got out of the park, my mother spent about seven hours looking at used books in the bookstalls on Fifth Avenue. She didn’t buy anything.
Hidden treasure was just a block away when we dragged our feet up the stairs of the subway station onto our very own street corner. So it was extra annoying that we bumped right into our neighbors, Sarah and Joe and their baby, Tucker, and got invited over for pizza.
More waiting. When the pizza got there, I ate two slices in four minutes.
“Mom,” I whispered. “Can we go home now?”
“In a few minutes, honey.”
“Really a few? Or a mother’s idea of a few?”
She raised her eyebrow in that mad-in-front-of-company way.
“It’s just that it’s a school night, Mom. Shouldn’t we be getting to bed?”
She felt my forehead, like I might have a fever. And then she said yes to more wine.
It was way past dark when we got back to our loft. I could tell Mom wanted to hustle us through the pajama-teeth-story routine, but I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I could not wait one more minute to have a look in the bag.
The zipper stuck a little when I pulled on it, but I held my breath and got it open without jamming.
Inside, it looked almost like my mother’s makeup pouch, but really used. There were three little black jars with pearly tops and a plastic case with three colors of eye shadow and a few Q-tips. The lid of the compact was cracked. There was a box of miniature soap, two lipsticks, and a sewing kit with The Plaza Hotel stamped on the side. There was also a bus pass and a Dr. Dingo’s Science Club membership card for somebody named Jody Greengard.
I opened one of the lipstick cases and rotated the bottom. It was bright coral.
“Billie?” my mother called. “Is everything all right in there?”
“I’ll be out in a minute, Mom.”
“Are you cleaning the bathtub with your tongue, by any chance?”
“Mom!”
“Jane has to pee, honey; could you hurry up?”
I stuffed the bag back into my pack and marched out of the bathroom. Jane crashed past me to the toilet.
“I’ll hang this up for you while you get into your jammies,” said my mother, scooping the pack from my shoulder.
“Uh, no, no, I’ll do it.” I grabbed toward my treasure.
“Billie Stoner, not one more word. Get ready for bed.”
I lay in bed, twitching. I could hear my mother brush her teeth and gargle a long gargle. I heard her drawers open and close and then the soft flap of her duvet.
Go to sleep. I was sending brain signals. I heard the click of the remote control and a burst of TV sound before she turned down the volume and watched the news, just to torture me.
I was trying to remember how many different things there were in the bag, counting them in my head. Trucks rattled by outside. Finally, the TV went off and her light went out. I practiced breathing like a burglar. I slowly counted to three hundred and then climbed down my ladder. I took eight steps. The floor creaked like in a haunted house. I took three more steps.
Suddenly the light flashed on and my heart jumped out of my ears. My mother stood in the doorway to her room with her eyebrows squeezed together.
“I’m thirsty.”
She glared. I hustled over to the sink and got a quick drink. I almost ran back to bed. My mother just stood there.
My bag might as well be in jail. I put a pillow over my head and begged for sleep.
3 • The Routine
My mother wakes us up in the morning, singing a cheery little song about greeting the sun. Jane likes it, but I think it is as annoying as the kitchen timer.
I slept through it this time, and she had to shake me awake. As soon as I was conscious, I had one goal in mind: Get alone with the bag.
Monday is early chorus rehearsal. We have to be there by 8:15.1 dragged on my jeans and purple sweatshirt in two minutes and combed my hair in two seconds. I snatched my bagel from the counter to eat on the way.
I took my backpack from its hook and quickly checked inside. Then I slid it onto my shoulders like an enchanted cloak, ready for anything.
“Come on, you guys!” I was already in the elevator while Jane was still nibbling her three bites of Cheerios. And she couldn’t just put on a jacket. She had to add a scarf and a bandanna and a purse full of rubber mice.
“Jane, that’s enough. You are a fashion disaster!” Even my mother was impatient today. She was taking a group of second-graders to the Central Library this morning. The idea is to introduce them to a real library, but mostly they want to climb on the giant stone lions beside the steps on Fifth Avenue.
Finally, we headed out into the world. Getting to school with Jane is like taking a pet snail for a walk. And we have to poke along at her pace because my mother goes crazy if I go even half a block ahead on the street. What if an out-of-control taxi jumps the curb and plows me over? What if a bad guy in a helicopter swoops down and kidnaps me? What if an earthquake cracks the sidewalk and she has to watch me being swallowed? You get the idea.
My best friend, Hubert, was already in the music room when we got there. He was leaning against the piano, chewing gum and looking through our favorite book, The Human Body. It has pictures of people with their skin peeled off, showing veins and muscles and eyeballs. It also has chapters on nasty diseases and babies being born.
Hubert is the one person on earth who has a name that is worse than mine. My name is Isobel. Isobel! In this day and age! What were they thinking? According to my mother, she had a great-great-aunt who was very, very rich, and when she was on her deathbed, she said if the firstborn was named after her, she would bequeath a fortune to the blessed infant.
“So where’s my fortune?” I ask.
“Her name was Rose,” she tells me.
Luckily, I called myself Iz-bill as soon as I could talk. And that turned into Billie. So that’s what I’m really called.
But poor Hubert. He is Chinese, and he claims that when his parents arrived in New York with their brand-new baby, a helpful government official with five daughters convinced them to give him his own “all-American” name, knowing it would be the last kid ever called Hubert.
My mother was gabbing to Hubert’s mother and Sam’s dad. I gave her my quality half smile, and she blew me a kiss. I ducked. She winked and went off happily toward the library stairs, leaving me to my own life for a few hours.
“Hubert,” I called from across the room. “I have something so important to tell you.”
4 • Going, Going, Gone
Hey, Bertie!” As usual, seeing us together, Alyssa couldn’t miss the chance to be mean.
“I said, Hey, Bertie!” she hooted, knocking his arm so that the book slammed to the floor. I stared at her coldly. Hubert’s problem is that he doesn’t stand up for himself. He’s too polite. He doesn’t even like to talk out loud to more than one person.
“Hey, Bertie. Did anyone ever tell you that your hair looks like a lawn that someone mowed in the wrong direction?” Hubert rolled his lips around and stood on one leg. I think his hair is cute. It stands straight up and looks like the glossy pelt of a panther you’d like to pat.
“Alyssa,” I snarl, “did anyone ever tell you that your face looks like oww!” Hubert kicked me. He was reminding me not to stoop to her level, as tempting as it might be.
“Hey, Be
rtie, good thing you brought your baby-sitter along. Too bad she’s got breath like a garbage dump.”
“At least I don’t sing like a seal.” I had to have the last word, even though she actually sounds like a real singer, all clear and trembly.
She smirked and turned away to look for other victims, flicking her perfect braid over her shoulder.
“What did you want to tell me?” Hubert retrieved the book from the floor. I signaled that Alyssa was lurking too nearby. He caught on quickly. That’s why I like him.
“Um, did you choose your country?” He changed the subject. He was talking about the Small World Project, which Ms. McPhee had been explaining on Friday. Each of us had to choose a country and do research to find out all about it and then pretend to be from there and tell the rest of the class everything we’d learned. We were supposed to be improving our research skills—using the encyclopedia and other information sources.
“Yeah, I got a really cool idea. I chose Liechtenstein because it’s the smallest country in the world and it has a population that is way smaller than New York City and I thought I could use that for a comparison.”
“Hey, and mine has the biggest population in the world! That’s cool!”
Everybody knew that Hubert was going to do China.
Mr. Belenky strode into the music room and immediately tapped his baton against a music stand.
“Places, please.”
I had one second to decide.
“Come along, sopranos, tidy up that row.”
“Hubert,” I whispered, “I’m going to the bathroom.”
I dashed for the door while Mr. Belenky fumbled with the song sheets. I suddenly felt hot all over my head. I went straight to the girls’ room at the end of the lower hallway.
One tap was dripping, a steady plink, plink, plink. Otherwise, it was completely quiet.
I stood between the two sinks and took the little bag out of my pack. The zipper stuck again but I teased it open. I unscrewed the lid of the first pearly pot. Inside was a pale green cream that smelled like cucumbers too long in the sun. The next jar held a buttery-colored lotion that smelled like pudding. The compact sprang open when I touched the gold clasp. The mirror inside the lid was shaped like a heart. The powder in the shallow dish was loose and shimmery.
The Invisible Day Page 1