Lost in Cyberspace

by Richard Peck

  When the elevator got to twelve, Aaron stayed on for the penthouse. He said his job was to collate, diddle, and fiddle all night. I jammed the elevator door open with a foot. “Aaron, you’re leaving me with the hard part. If I’m going to turn Phoebe into an O Pear, I’ll have to tell a lot of lies to my mom, because she certainly isn’t going to buy the truth. I’m going to have to convince Heather. I’m in deep—”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, but his mind was already upstairs at his workstation. His foot nudged mine out of the door, and it closed between us.

  Nobody was home yet. Camilla Van Allen wasn’t even on my phone. I showed Phoebe around, pointing out Dad’s den where she’d sleep. She observed everything and checked a flat surface for dust. In the kitchen I talked her through the electric can opener and the microwave.

  “Have you a cook?” she asked.

  “Just us, when we get around to it. We mainly defrost things.” I showed her the freezer compartment at the top of the refrigerator.

  “Upstairs maid?” Phoebe’s eyebrows could get kind of high on her forehead, like Camilla’s.

  “We don’t have an upstairs,” I said.

  “Butler?”

  “We only have a doorman, Vince. But he’s downstairs. He doesn’t—buttle.”

  “Who cleans your grates?”

  “What are they?”

  “The hearths. Fireplaces.”

  “We don’t have any. We have central heat, central air.”

  “How very sad,” Phoebe said, “not to have a cheery fire to sit before in the evenings and let your mind drift.”

  “We have TV for that,” I said. We were in the living room, and I was trying to explain TV when the front door banged open. Heather. I know her bang.

  She appeared in the living room doorway on the way to her phone. She’d been shopping since school was out. She had three or four Bloomingdale’s bags.

  “Is Mom home yet?” she said. “Because I’ve got to get these things I’m wearing to Junior Saltonstall’s party hidden before she—”

  Heather caught her first glimpse of Phoebe. Phoebe folded her hands in front of her and lined up the points of her lace-up shoes. She had excellent posture.

  Heather blinked.

  I was beginning to get used to Phoebe, but she came as a surprise to Heather. Heather stared, starting with Phoebe’s feet. She seemed to approve of the shoes, which were retro-funky now. She wondered about the white stockings. I guess they were stockings. They probably wouldn’t be panty hose. Heather’s stare hung around Phoebe’s waistline for a while. She nodded cautiously at the starchy lace collar—more retro. Phoebe’s face was pretty, so doubt filled Heather’s. She ended up at Phoebe’s smooth hair pulled back in a knot behind.

  “Who—”

  The front door opened behind Heather, and she jumped. Mom.

  “Heather,” Mom sighed behind her. “Is my Bloomingdale’s charge card anywhere on your person?”

  “Look,” Heather said, pointing toward the living room.

  Mom came in in her Adidas, unwinding a long scarf from around her neck. Her nose was nipped red because she’d walked home from Barnes Ogleby. She saw Phoebe. Sometimes I can read Mom’s mind. This time it was blank.

  “Mom,” I said in a funny, high voice, “this is Phoebe. Au Pair Exchange sent her. They called up, and they—said she was coming. She might be a little jet-lagged. Au Pair Exchange said they were really sorry that Fenella and Feona didn’t work out. So they sent Phoebe. She’s like a—bonus. British Air lost her luggage. All she’s got is a toothbrush.”

  Phoebe had parked her feather duster in the front hall. “And a feather duster.” I’d been on a roll. Now I began to run down.

  Mom gazed at both of us. She was really dubious.

  “Phoebe,” I said in a screechy soprano like Lysander’s, “this is my mom, Mrs. Lewis. This is my sister, Heather.”

  “Good evening, madam,” Phoebe said. “Good evening, miss.”

  Heather gawked. Mom couldn’t take her eyes off Phoebe’s hands cupped together in front of her waist.

  “You’re English?” Mom said.

  “I am indeed, madam,” Phoebe said. “A loyal subject of His Majesty, good King George the Fifth.”

  Mom wondered. Heather swayed. Phoebe was such a jump from Fenella and Feona, Heather didn’t know what to think.

  “We’ve had our difficulties with Au Pair Exchange,” Mom said.

  “I hope I shall give satisfaction, madam.” Phoebe’s eyes skated down to Mom’s running shoes, which she didn’t understand. “I have most recently been in the employ of Mrs. Van—”

  “Phoebe’s O Peared a lot, Mom. Au Pair Exchange is sending a printout all about her. It’s in the mail. She’s seventeen and a recent ... school leaver.”

  “Thank you for sharing, Josh,” Mom said. Her mind was a mixture of suspicion and surprise.

  “We hope you’ll—make yourself at home, Phoebe,” she said. “I don’t know what we have for dinner. I could defrost—”

  “I shall see to it, madam, as you are rather short of staff at the moment.” Hands still cupped, Phoebe walked poker-straight out of the living room, heading for the kitchen.

  The three of us looked at each other. My face was blank.

  “At least you won’t be going to any discos on horseback with this one,” Mom said to Heather. “And Josh, you either know more about Phoebe than you’re telling, or less. When you can come up with a good explanation for your part in this, I’ll be glad to hear it.”

  I was in my room when my phone rang. For once it was for me.

  Aaron. “Is Phoebe still there?”

  “She’s here,” I said. “And get to work. If she—van—ishes, I’ll let you know. Don’t be calling every five minutes.”

  After a long time a strange smell began to seep in under my door. I couldn’t place it. It wasn’t anything burning. It was worse than that.

  I went out into the hall. Mom and Heather were already there. “Gross me out,” Heather said. “What is that?”

  “Cabbage,” Mom said. “I’d bought a head of cabbage for coleslaw. Phoebe’s boiling it.”

  “I’ll order a pizza and have it in my room,” Heather said. “I’ve got a conference call coming in from Camilla anyway.”

  “You’ll be at the dinner table with the rest of us, young lady,” Mom said. “If we have to eat it, you have to eat it. Josh, drop by the kitchen and see if you can do anything.”

  The boiling cabbage smell about knocked me out when I opened the kitchen door. Phoebe had found an apron. “Oh, Josh, did you say this microwave machine will cook anything in minutes?” She wiped her shiny forehead with a floury arm.

  “Sure.”

  “Then would you fire it up?”

  I opened the microwave door. A dish was inside with mashed potatoes on top. It didn’t look too bad. I gave it a few minutes full power.

  “Shepherd’s pie,” Phoebe said, “made from bits and bobs I discovered in the icebox.”

  “Refrigerator,” I said.

  “I’m a dab hand with pastry,” she said, whatever that meant. “I’ll do a proper job of baking tomorrow. If I am still here. I’ll do you a nice jam roly-poly for pudding.”

  “Sounds ... great,” I said. But the boiling cabbage smell was really cutting my eyes. “About the cabbage—”

  “An excellent winter vegetable,” she said. “I knew you’d like it.” She was still somewhat stunned by being here, but her training was taking over. She leaned nearer me. “Aaron seems to think I might go back suddenly, all on my own.”

  “He hopes,” I said.

  “But supposing I did? Wouldn’t your mother think it odd if I suddenly vanished?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “The other O Pears vanished pretty quick too. But there could be another problem—about you being a loyal subject of good King George Whatever.”

  Phoebe listened.

  “Heather wouldn’t have picked up on it, but Mom
wondered. You English people have a queen now. Good Queen Elizabeth the Second.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. “You mean ... the king—”

  “I’m afraid that king’s been gone quite a while. Aaron would know when.”

  Phoebe’s blue eyes filled.

  “Phoebe, you’ve got to remember. Things change.”

  The microwave bell rang. She stood up ramrod stiff and blinked away her tears. Mom was there in the kitchen door behind me.

  “Dinner is served, madam,” Phoebe said.

  When I woke up the next morning, hints of last night’s cabbage were still hanging around. But the smell of frying bacon was seeping in too. Which might also mean eggs. On my bedside table was a steaming cup of tea with milk already added. So Phoebe was still with us.

  Mom and Heather were out in the hall with cups of tea in their hands.

  “Some service,” Mom said. She was still in her robe, but she had her face on.

  “Wait till Camilla hears,” Heather said. “The Van Allens have a whole staff of servants, of course.”

  “Don’t think of Phoebe as a servant,” Mom said. But her heart wasn’t in it.

  16

  A Question of Time

  Aaron and I took the bus that Friday morning. “Is Phoebe—”

  “She’s still here,” I told him. “You up all night?”

  “Most of it,” he said. “How are things at your place?”

  “Not too bad. Mom’s suspicious.”

  “Moms are,” Aaron said.

  “Who was the King of England in Phoebe’s time?”

  “George the Fifth,” Aaron said.

  “That’s him. He’s dead, right?”

  “1936.”

  “I figured. Phoebe was upset about that. And she’s not too pleased about sitting at the table with us for meals. She says it isn’t proper. But cabbage tastes better than it smells. A little. Phoebe cooks. For tonight she’s fixing toad-in-the-hole.”

  Aaron looked up. “Actual toad?”

  “That’s what we were afraid of. But toad-in-the-hole is just an English term for sausages in a batter, microwaved. We’re having jam roly-poly for dessert.”

  “Sounds like a month’s worth of calories,” Aaron the herbivore said. “But hang in there. I’ll sign out of my morning classes. Mr. Headbloom will cover for me. By noon I might have some solid progress to report.”

  As soon as we got to school, Aaron headed toward the media center. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got some time before homeroom.”

  “Aaron, read my lips. I told you I wasn’t going near the Black Hole again.”

  “You want Phoebe to get back?” he said. “Your mom’s going to figure out Au Pair Exchange didn’t send her. It’s just a question of time. And the Vanderwhitneys are going to wonder where she is. She could lose her job at that end, you know. Besides, I’ve got a lot on my mind and too many digits in my head. We’re in this together, Josh.”

  “Aaron, you don’t even remember those digits you entered when Phoebe suddenly turned up. You were winging it, right?”

  “I’m closing in on a breakthrough,” he said, not answering. “I’m on the brink of finding a bidirectional fiber. I’m on the threshold of pinpointing a foolproof three-dimensional fax. You’ve heard of multicultural? I’m about to be multichronological. I’m—”

  “Aaron, your problem is you can get us into trouble, but you can’t get us out.”

  We were strolling past Mrs. Newbery’s desk. She was already at it. “Just a moment, Aaron,” she said. We froze.

  She handed over a Xeroxed sheet. “This is the last reference to the Vanderwhitney family I can find for you in the 1920’s New York Times Index,” she said, “except for an obituary, which is a real downer.”

  “Appreciate it, Mrs. Newbery,” Aaron said, cool as a cucumber. “This will be a big help for our Parents’ Night report next week.” We strolled on toward the Black Hole, taking our time. The BOTH COMPUTERS DOWN sign was still on it.

  Inside, we looked over the sheet. You could see the date on this one—November 1929: Palatial Home of Late Osgood Vanderwhitney to Serve as Wing of New Huckley School

  The Huckley School that has already acquired the properties of the Havemeyer, Huckley, and Van Allen families is proposing to purchase the home of Osgood Vanderwhitney from his estate.

  The house, called the most tasteful built in the city during 1921, has recently been the residence of Osgood Vanderwhitney and his son Cuthbert, aged fifteen and now at boarding school. Osgood Vanderwhitney’s tragic death has shaken the social and financial communities. See obituary for details of his leap from the window of his Wall Street office following the recent Market Crash.

  “What’s all this?” I said.

  “Osgood Vanderwhitney took a dive,” Aaron said.

  “I see that. But why had he been living in this house with just Cuthbert? That would make anybody jump out a window. What happened to Mrs. Vanderwhitney? What about Lysander? You don’t suppose Cuthbert ...”

  The Black Hole was dead silent. We glanced around. “Maybe little Lysander vanished without a trace,” Aaron said in a spooky voice.

  “Phoebe—”

  “Phoebe wouldn’t know yet. It would have happened after she ... came here.” Aaron gazed down at the floor like there could be a small body buried there. Bones now.

  “A rich kid disappearing would have made The New York Times,” I pointed out.

  “Not necessarily.” Aaron’s imagination was really on the move now. “The Vanderwhitneys might have covered up the crime to save Cuthbert and their reputation. They could have said Lysander went off to boarding school. Why not? He was probably way smarter than Cuthbert.”

  “Knock it off, Aaron.” When you get right down to it, he’s really safer working at the computers than when his mind starts wandering. The bell for homeroom went, and so did I.

  “Skip lunch and be here,” Aaron said.

  At noon I swung by the Havemeyer House lunchroom and bought us a couple of tuna salads on pita bread and some Snapple.

  When I passed through the BOTH COMPUTERS DOWN door, Aaron was hard at work. “I’m practically there. I’ve got a lock on that time Phoebe came from. My technology is really beginning to catch up with concept.”

  I gave him a tuna pita, but he didn’t have time for it. “Look, yesterday I entered these digits, combined them with a graphic, and—”

  “You zeroized.”

  “That didn’t get me anywhere. If I change that last digit to this—”

  It was like the room imploded. Fire flashed. Both computers wobbled. Snapple went everywhere. I grabbed for Aaron, but he stayed where he was. All his red hair was standing up. Air seeped back into the room.

  But we weren’t alone.

  “You two again,” a high voice barked. “Who do you think you are?”

  Aaron and I spun around.

  Cuthbert Vanderwhitney was standing there. We’d only seen him with his feather headdress. His hair was cut in a Dutch boy style. His pudgy fists were on his knickered hips. His freckles glowed in full color, and his lower lip was out a mile.

  Aaron’s head dropped on his chest.

  “What have you done with Lysander?” I said, because Aaron had me totally psyched.

  Cuthbert scowled. “I beat him up regularly. It keeps him in line.”

  “But—”

  But it wasn’t near 1929 yet. Cuthbert looked the same as the last time we saw him. He’d still be about fourth grade, though he was as big as me, bigger than Aaron.

  His eyes crackled. His feet in high-top shoes were planted wide. He wore long argyle socks, corduroy knickers, and a weird velvet-looking jacket with gold buttons and a big white collar. A wide tie circled his bulging neck.

  “You’re trespassing. And it’s not your first offense. My papa will have you thrown out.” He noticed Aaron’s tuna pita. He grabbed it up and smelled it. “I don’t eat this,” he said, and threw it against the wall.

  Th
e pita stuck where it hit. The wall hadn’t been there in his time. Cuthbert stared. “What have you done with my house? We’re Vanderwhitneys, you know.”

  Aaron was recovering. “Let me put it in a nut-shell for you, Cuthbert,” he said. “You’ve cellular-reorganized three-quarters of a century ahead of your time. Your family’s house is a school now.”

  Cuthbert trained mean, beady eyes on Aaron. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he said.

  Which was probably his favorite saying.

  “It’s true,” Aaron said. “Believe it.” With Cuthbert you have to be firm.

  “Aaron, for pete’s sake,” I muttered, “send him back.”

  “If it’s a school,” Cuthbert said, working this out, “who’s in charge?”

  “You mean like the headmaster?” I said.

  “Buster Brewster,” Aaron said, and he had a point.

  “Harrison K. ‘Blackjack’ Brewster from Ninety-second Street?” Cuthbert’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, Buster’s probably his grandson or something. Maybe a great-great nephew. Who knows?” Aaron said. “Just stand right there, Cuthbert.”

  Aaron turned to the computers and started entering digits. Four, five ... I was braced. But I looked around at Cuthbert because I really wanted to see him dissolve.

  He was already gone.

  “Aaron.”

  He looked around. “Hey, I didn’t even—”

  The Black Hole door was open. Cuthbert had walked out. He was at large in Huckley School. The bell rang, so lunch was over, and it was time for History. You can’t sign out of that because Mr. Thaw’s the teacher.

  Aaron and I ran into each other. Then we ran out the door. We streaked past Mrs. Newbery, but so had Cuthbert. The hallway outside was full of middle-school guys in Huckley dress code.

  “It won’t be hard to spot him,” Aaron said. “He’s dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

  “And what if we don’t?” I said. “He was trouble enough in his own time.”

  “We’ll get him,” Aaron said, looking everywhere.

  “Before History?” I said. “Because I don’t think so.”