The Red Blazer Girls

by D. Michael Beil

  “We didn't read it,” I assure her.

  Ms. Harriman smiles at that. “That's very kind of you, but it would have been all right if you had. I trust you girls.”

  Okay. Very nice. Touching, even. But if someone doesn't open that stupid envelope in the next ten seconds, I am going to explode. Ms. Harriman picks up a mother-of-pearl-handled letter opener from the desk and slices the envelope open. She pulls out a folded note card embossed with the initials EMH and reads:

  In which I determine that King Tut lives

  in the blue pyramid and smokes

  unfiltered Camels

  The shiny wheels in Margaret's brain are whizzing at maximum speed by the time Ms. Harriman finishes reading the letter.

  “Does this make any sense at all to you?” she asks.

  Ms. Harriman is indeed a portrait of confusion as she reads the note over again to herself. “Well, I certainly remember Professor Ressanyi. He was a famous archaeologist. I believe he was with Howard Carter when they opened the tomb of Tutankhamen in 1922, but his area of expertise, like Father's, was early Christian artifacts. And this puzzle, these clues … I can tell you that both Father and Caroline loved brain teasers, logic problems, crosswords, anagrams—puzzles of any kind. But the treasure part, well…”

  Ms. Harriman pauses for a second too long, and Margaret jumps in. “Is there something else we should know about this?”

  “Well, I was just remembering something that happened after Father passed away. His original will mentioned an item of some value that he had intended to go to the Metropolitan Museum—a ring, I believe, from somewhere in France—and gave its location as a case he kept in his office at the university. When we went to find it, however, we found in its place a codicil to his will—a change he made a few days before he died, in which he deleted that one particular gift. No other changes to the will. At the time, we didn't think too much of it. We simply assumed that he had done something else with it; he was always donating items to various museums, university collections, and such around the country. But now that I think of it, Malcolm knew about this ring and where Father kept it, and he was certain that Father hadn't given it away.”

  “Maybe he knew that your father planned to give it to Caroline?” Margaret suggests.

  “An interesting idea, Margaret,” says Ms. Harriman.

  “Ohmigosh, did you see the way he looked at me when I said ‘We found it’?” I say. “I wonder if he thinks that's what we found.”

  “With Malcolm, anything's possible. I'm sure he would love to have it—especially if it is something important or that could advance his career. Pompous old twit.”

  Leigh Ann, sitting next to me on the couch, elbows me. I try to ignore her because I am listening to Ms. Harriman, and I am also a little afraid that she is going to make me laugh. She elbows me again, harder.

  “What?” I hiss.

  “Don't turn around,” she says, under her breath, “but that housekeeper lady is spying on us.”

  “Where?” I start to turn my head.

  “Don't look! I can see her in that mirror over by the stairs. She is totally snooping.”

  I scooch over on the couch in order to get the same angle Leigh Ann has, and sure enough, there is Winifred, standing behind a pillar at the entrance to the living room, her head cocked in a classic eavesdrop ping pose.

  “See?”

  “I sure do.”

  “What should we do?”

  New to this world of spies and secrets, I can only come up with: “Dunno.”

  “About this letter,” Margaret continues. “Do you want us to start trying to solve the puzzle, just in case the ring is still where your father left it?”

  “Well, you certainly have a better chance of finding it than I do. Heavens, I'm outfoxed by simple crossword puzzles. I wouldn't have the foggiest notion of where to begin.”

  “It's like the first time you read a word problem in algebra. It makes no sense,” I say, keeping one eye on Winifred. “But after a few minutes, you start to see it. It's the same thing with those goofy logic problems. You know, the ones where they tell you that Aaron smokes Lucky Strikes, and Betty lives in a green house, and Cameron lives next door to Aaron, so then who drives a red Ford? It always seems like they haven't given you enough information, but when you sit down and organize it, there always is just enough to solve it, and you figure out that Doug quit smoking and lives between Betty and Cameron and drives a purple Chevrolet.” I take a much-needed breath and point at the letter. “This is just like that.”

  “But when I look at that clue, and those equations or whatever they are, I don't see how they can tell us where something is hidden,” Margaret says.

  I take a peek in the mirror and see Winifred still in position, straining to hear every word. I then turn to Ms. Harriman. “Obviously Caroline was really brainy, right? And your father was a professor at Columbia. And it sounds like he was pretty sure that she could figure it out, based on what she knew. I mean, she was almost the same age as us—okay, a couple years older. But c'mon, Margaret, how much more could she know? What about all those books you read? Don't they count for anything?” (I'm on a roll.) “Look how fast you found this envelope. It took you like five minutes to figure that one out. I'd still be in the library, flailing through the shelves. So, what do you think?”

  The fortunate combination of her own insatiable curiosity and my unique ability to be a royal pain in her butt wears her down.

  “You actually trust us to do this?” she asks Ms. Harriman.

  Ms. Harriman laughs. “I do trust you. All I ask is that you keep this between us.”

  “And Mr. Eliot, our English teacher,” I say. “He helped us find the book, so he knows a little already. But he's cool; he'll keep it secret if we ask.”

  “Well, then. I guess you girls have another puzzle to solve.”

  Back in the foyer, we are saying our good-byes when Ms. Harriman points to Rebecca's ever-present sketchpad. “I noticed that you did some sketching while we were chatting.”

  “Yeah, I'm sorry,” Rebecca says. “I don't mean to be rude. Sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it.”

  “Okay if I take a quick peek?”

  Rebecca instinctively hugs the pad closer to her body but then slowly relaxes her death grip as we start to hound her. “Um, okay.”

  Ms. Harriman opens it very carefully, turning the pages as if each holds a masterpiece. “Rebecca, dear, these are quite remarkable.”

  “Told you she was good,” I say.

  “Well, you were only being accurate.” She pauses, staring at a drawing of the famous Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, her fingers hovering over the delicate pencil lines. “Gracious.” She turns a few more pages, stopping at a page filled with a number of smaller drawings—the very ones Rebecca had been working on a few minutes earlier.

  “Oh, those are just—” Rebecca starts, trying to close the pad.

  “Why, that's me,” says Ms. Harriman. “And there's Winifred. And Margaret. Goodness, Rebecca, you have a gift. Have you had any formal training?”

  “N-no. I mean, just some art classes at school.”

  “My dear, there is someone I must introduce you to. What are you doing Saturday afternoon?”

  “Um … babysitting, probably. My brother and sister.”

  “Well, I'll tell you what,” Ms. Harriman says, moving to a small table arranged with stationery and a gold-tipped fountain pen. She writes down an address and hands it to Rebecca. “This is the address of a gallery in Chelsea, owned by a very good friend. I would love for her to see your work and for you to talk to her. She loves to help budding young artists, and I'm sure she'll have some good advice for you. I'm meeting her there at two-thirty—please try to make it. Bring your sketchbook and anything else you've done.”

  Now we are all gathered around Rebecca, staring and making her completely squirmy. She backs away. “I—I'll try, but I—”

  “Jeez, Becca, I'll watch your br
other and sister for you, if that's the problem. You have to go.”

  “I'll be there.”

  “Wonderful!” Ms. Harriman smiles. “Saturday, then.”

  The second the red door to Ms. Harriman's closes behind us, Leigh Ann and I are both right in Margaret's face.

  “Did you see her?” Leigh Ann asks.

  “See who? What are you talking about?”

  “Winifred,” I say. “The housekeeper—”

  “—spying on us!” Leigh Ann exclaims.

  “Spying? Are you sure?”

  “Completely,” I say. “It was totally obvious. She was hiding behind one of those pillars, but we could see her in the mirror.”

  Margaret is skeptical. “Rebecca, did you see anything?”

  “Rebecca couldn't see her where she was sitting.”

  “You're sure she was eavesdropping and not just waiting for Ms. Harriman to ask for more tea or something?”

  Leigh Ann and I look at each other, shaking our heads emphatically.

  “Definitely snooping,” I say.

  “Well, that makes two interesting … occurrences involving Winifred,” Margaret says. “We will have to keep our eyes and ears open.”

  Hmmmmm. A twist on the old “the butler did it” theory. The housekeeper did it? (Did what?)

  In which “the boy” makes his first

  appearance and I make a bold move

  Well, I've made it this far without mentioning “the boy,” which must be some kind of a record for a seventh-grade girl. Sooner or later, I guess I have to introduce him. For now, let me just say that “the boy” is Rafael Arocho, and he is seriously hot. Raf (rhymes with “laugh”) started out at St. Andrew's School, which is the boys' school right next door to St. Veronica's, but when his family moved across town at the end of sixth grade, he transferred to St. Thomas Aquinas, a boys' school on the Upper West Side. Rebecca and I have known him since kindergarten, and Margaret has known him since the third grade, when she moved to the city. Kids from the two schools were always being thrown together for assemblies, Christmas pageants, and other important events, so we got to know Raf and the other St. Andrew's boys pretty well. Up until fifth grade, we hated him; he was totally obnoxious, a typical boy. In the sixth grade, though, everything changed—he stopped acting like a total idiot and we started to appreciate some of his other qualities, if you know what I mean. And you do, right?

  Here's how he enters the story: Margaret has just called to tell me she is on her way over when my phone rings again. It is Raf. After the usual complaining about how much homework the teachers are giving us, the subject changes to the upcoming dance at his school. The ones at St. Thomas Aquinas are rumored to be pretty entertaining.

  “I'm going, but Margaret can't—her parents won't let her go to dances yet. Besides, she has Polish school on Saturday mornings, and she usually studies on Friday nights. I've got a couple of other friends, though, who are coming with me.”

  “Ah, Miss Sophie St. Popularity, never alone. Always draws a crowd.”

  “So, am I going to see you there? Or are you too cool for that sort of thing?”

  “Well, yeah, of course I'm too cool for it. But I'll be there.”

  With that tantalizing nugget confirmed, I change the subject again. “Now, how are you at puzzles?”

  “Like jigsaw puzzles?”

  “More like word problems. Not crosswords, though. Remember those logic problems that Margaret used to torment us with?”

  “Oh, yeah, those things. Like, Larry has three brothers, Shemp is taller than Moe, but Moe is taller than Curly, so who's the tallest. That kind of thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “Yeah, I'm actually pretty good at them. Why?”

  “Meet me at Perkatory. Tomorrow, about four-thirty?”

  “Wait. What's the big secret?”

  “Just come. All will be revealed.” And I hang up.

  Hey, hold on a second. Did I just ask a boy out?

  In which Margaret reveals her human side

  Since the clutter in my room is too much of a distraction for Margaret, I usually go to her apartment when we study together. (Much easier than cleaning.) It is a bit of a surprise, then, when she offers to come over that evening to study for a history test. I still have the phone in my hand when she plops down on my bed next to me.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Raf.”

  “Ohhhh.”

  “Whaddya mean, ‘ohhhh’?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Just ‘ohhhh?’”

  “Yep.” She smiles. “Just ‘ohhhh.’”

  “Ohhhh-kay What's up with you? You hate studying here.”

  “I do not.” She glances around the room at my books, some neatly stacked, others distinctly not. “All right, the, uh, disorder does trigger my OCD, but I have a solution.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she closes her eyes and turns her palms upward, pretending to meditate. “Ohhmmmmm … Sophie's mess will not distract me … her ohmmmmess does not bother me … ohhhmmmmess …”

  “We can go to your apartment,” I say.

  “Ooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm—nope!”

  I tackle her, pinning her shoulders to the bed. “Margaret Wrobel. What is going on with you?”

  She tosses me off her. (For a skinny kid, she's freakishly strong.) “It's kind of nutty and crowded over there right now, with my grandmother, and my brother, and my parents. There's no privacy. It's more peaceful here.”

  “Right, I completely forgot about your grandmother. You haven't said anything since she got here. Is she sleeping in your room?”

  Margaret's grandmother, eighty-four or eighty-five or eighty-six (no one seemed to know exactly), had recently arrived from Poland and was staying with them for a few weeks.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought she was your favorite. What did you call her?”

  “My babcia. And she was my favorite. She is. I'm just…” Margaret rolls off the bed and starts to zip open her book bag. “Nothing. Forget it. Let's study. Where's your book?”

  “Wait, for five years, all I've heard was Babcia this and Babcia that. About how wonderful and amazing she was, and about all the things you did together when you were back in Poland, and how much you missed her—and now she's here, and you haven't even introduced us yet.”

  Margaret looks miserable. “I know, I'm sorry. When my mom and dad told me she was coming, I was so happy. When I was a little kid, Babcia and I did everything together. She gave me my first violin and paid for my first lessons. I used to sit on her lap and fall asleep while she read to me. I remember riding the bus with her into Warsaw, singing our favorite song, and sometimes the other people on the bus would sing along with us. Almost all of my best memories from Poland are connected to her.” She takes a deep breath and puts her head in her hands. “And now I just can't handle her.”

  “Why? What is she doing?”

  “Well, for one thing, she talks nonstop. Since my grandfather died, she lives by herself in Poland, and I guess it's a treat having people to talk to. She goes to bed at seven-thirty so I can't turn on the light or use my computer. And she keeps rearranging all my stuff! She says my skirt is too short and my shoes look like the ones the prostitutes in Warsaw wear—which is definitely not true. And every day, she tells my parents that I'll be ruined because I have a cell phone.”

  Hmmm. Doesn't sound that bad to me, but I want to be supportive. “Maybe she's still settling in, you know, still getting over the jet lag, and once the novelty of having people around to talk to wears off, she'll be fine. Give her some time. In the meantime, we can hang here more often.”

  “Okay but how about we straighten up those piles?” “You mean you want to rearrange my stuff?” I am whacked in the head with a pillow. Twice!

  In which a certain green-eyed character

  makes an appearance

  During our review of the finer points of the French and Indian War, I clue Margaret in to my includin
g Raf in our efforts to solve the puzzle. After all, if we can trust Leigh Ann, who we've known for like ten minutes, we ought to be able to trust an old friend like Raf, right? It takes a little convincing, but in the end she agrees that we aren't betraying Ms. Harriman. Having one more decent brain put to the task can't hurt. Never once do I let the fact that he seems to get better looking every time I see him or that I (kind of) miss having him around enter my decision-making process.

  The next day, we walk into Perkatory a few minutes after four-thirty, and there he is, feet propped up on a scuzzy coffee table.

  “Hey, losers. You're late.” He flashes his gleaming white teeth at us.

  We hug him anyway and squeeze in beside him on the couch.

  “Where's Becca? I thought you three did everything together, like the Three Stooges.”

  “She had to stay home, but she knows what's going on,” I assure him.

  Leigh Ann walks in a few seconds later and takes a diet soda from the cooler. She catches a glimpse of us as she pays the cashier.

  “Oh, hi, guys. What's up?” She smiles right at Rafael.

  You should see the way they are looking at each other. And most unfortunately, Leigh Ann is kind of the female equivalent of Rafael. Face it, she's beautiful—the whole package. She's from the Dominican Republic and has this totally amazing skin and big brown eyes. Guys just go all stupid over her. She and Raf look like they just stepped out of a catalog.

  Margaret, whose crush on Rafael is more theoretical and whose manners are way better than mine, introduces them. “Leigh Ann, meet our friend Raf. He used to go to St. Andrew's, but now he's over at Aquinas. Leigh Ann is new this year, but she's already part of the gang.”

  “Like Shemp,” I say.

  “Hi,” says Leigh Ann.

  “Hey,” says Raf.

  Genetically fortunate? Yes. Sparkling conversationalists? Not so much.

  Boo-hoo, Leigh Ann can't stay! Alas, she has dance class and has to pirouette her way downtown. An awful shame. As soon as she leaves, I shove Raf on the shoulder. Hard.