Mom is a research scientist at the CDC. That’s the Center for Disease Control. She studies weird diseases and stuff like that. Science-y stuff. Stuff I don’t really care about and stuff that scares me sometimes.
“Mom!” I yelled as I came in.
“In the kitchen, Birdie.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, stopping cold when I saw the multiple jars of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, jam, olives, horseradish, and other assorted hundred-year-old condiments laid out on our kitchen table.
“I live here,” she said.
“Very funny.”
She twisted off the lid of a mayo jar, took a sniff, and pulled a sour face. “Oh, that has got to go,” she said, placing the jar on the counter before looking back at me. “Hey, baby.”
“What are you doing, Mom?”
“Zora doesn’t feel well and she wanted me to come home.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“My professional opinion?” She lowered her voice. “I think she needs some mama love … and your dad could use a day to himself.”
“So why are you cleaning out the refrigerator?”
“Because I’ve discovered it’s not so much a refrigerator as a petri dish. You can’t imagine some of the bacteria that’s been growing in there.”
With Mom it always comes back to science. “Comforting to know,” I said, plopping down at the table. “Dad usually makes us lunch about now.”
“I can make lunch. Look at these olives,” she said with horrified delight as she held out the jar to me. I practically puked. “It’s fascinating what’s at the back of the fridge.”
“That’s so gross.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective. What kind of sandwich would you like? I was thinking—”
“No peanut butter and banana,” I said firmly.
“Oh,” she said, puzzled. “Then what?” She looked inside the open refrigerator door and pulled out a plastic bag of meat. “Turkey looks good.”
“Yes, please!”
As Mom stood at the counter making the sandwiches, I grouped the jars and bottles as neatly as possible to the far side of table.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked while dealing turkey slices onto three pieces of bread.
“A penny isn’t much.”
“Guess it hasn’t been adjusted for inflation since your nana used to say it to me. What should it be?”
“Ten dollars?” I said, hopefully.
“Dream on, kid. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“When were you born? What year, I mean?”
“Way back in 1975.”
“What was it like back then?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I was a baby.”
“I bet Aunt Lisa knows.”
“Yes, because Aunt Lisa is much older than me and she remembers everything.” She brought two plates of turkey sandwiches, potato chips, and pickles and placed one in front of me.
I examined the pickle. “Is this safe to eat?”
“I’m a scientist. You can trust me.” She took a huge bite out of her pickle.
I felt a sudden urge to tell her everything. About the box. About the ticket. About the Allman Brothers Band. But instead I asked, “Could you and Dad have been married if we lived back then?”
“When?”
“The 1970s.”
Mom paused. Whenever I bring up race stuff, she always gets really thoughtful. Unlike Dad, who will say practically anything.
“Not impossible. But I think it would have been hard. Especially someplace like here.” She meant Atlanta. The South. My mom grew up in Atlanta but my dad’s from Chicago.
“Is it hard now?”
“No. Mostly. But there are moments,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve seen how it can be sometimes.”
I thought back to that time in the grocery store when an older white lady complimented Mom on her beautiful daughter, Ally. When my mom corrected her and told her that I was the daughter, the woman huffed and walked away.
“But it doesn’t happen often,” Mom said. “Thankfully, the world is always changing.”
I nodded and took a bite of my sandwich.
“You’ve never asked me that before,” she said with a smile. “My girl is getting all grown up.”
“Birdie?”
I turned to see Zora standing at the door to the kitchen, thumb in mouth, and holding a miniature rocket in her other hand. Her knees were peeking through the holes of her Doc McStuffins pajamas and her soft ’fro was in tangles.
“Zora, we’ve gotta do your hair,” I said.
“I did her hair,” Mom said as Zora curled up in her lap like a three-year-old.
I smiled at my blond-haired, blue-eyed mom. She tries, but she’s terrible at black hair. I remember walking around in a matted mess until my dad’s mom taught me how to do it right. Then I finally got my braids and life became so much easier.
“Zora needs braids, Mom,” I said, partly because I’m tired of doing it and partly because Zora needs all the help she can get. “Professional ones.”
“Can we wait until she’s eight to talk about that? Can’t I keep one of my girls little for at least one more summer?”
“Do I have fever, Mommy?” Zora asked pitifully.
Mom felt her forehead. “No, sweetheart. No fever.” She kissed Zora on the cheek. “I know. Why don’t we play a game?”
“Mom, they’re waiting for me at the pool!” If Zora was sick, I could just hang out with my friends. We could even sneak away to the island for the afternoon.
“It’s just one day, Birdie,” Mom said. “Why don’t you stay home with us?”
I stared at them, Mom and Zora, and thought: What do you do when your mom’s home from work and your sister’s sick and your friends are at the pool and the great mystery of your life’s waiting for you in a box under your bed?
You play Candy Land.
For a dumb kid’s board game, it took longer than you’d think. Especially because we played it twice. After that, we baked chocolate chip cookies and sang to Zora’s favorite music. Finally, I texted Rose from Mom’s phone that I wouldn’t be back for the day, blaming it on sick Zora.
Once Zora curled up in front of a movie, I slipped upstairs and pulled the clue box out from under my bed. The bright day had turned ominous gray. I studied the clouds through the window. Cumulus coming in from the west (thanks, Science Mom). A gong of thunder threatened in the distance and rolled in like a surfer on a wave.
Cross-legged on my bed, I read the words again. For the hundredth time, I put on my Nancy Drew hat and concentrate on the clue, line by line.
If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. Okay, that’s pretty clear. Girl Detective buried the box before she was … dead. But who was supposed to be reading this?
Not me. We found it by accident. It must have been meant for somebody else. Somebody in 1973. Maybe an official somebody. But who? And why didn’t they find it back then?
R.D. is not alone anymore. That’s easy. R.D. is Ruthie Delgado. R.D. must have died. Or was murdered. But how? And what does the ticket have to do with it? And what about the mood ring that Ally thinks is haunted?
Because now I’m a dead girl, too. Even though this happened long ago, it’s hard to read this. Especially by myself, alone in my room. Girl Detective buried the box and left the clues. She once wore the ring and held the ticket in her hand. Why does she have to be dead, too?
I could have mailed this (I could have!) but … Well, that would have made it a lot easier, for sure. And much more efficient for whoever was supposed to read this in 1973.
I’m not going to make it easy for you this time. Couldn’t be less easy, but I can’t shake this feeling that she did tell someone. She solved the crime of Ruthie Delgado, told an adult (maybe the police), and they didn’t believe her. After all, she wrote the words I TOLD YOU SO. And what happens on every TV show when nobody believes you? You go after the killer yourself!
You know her address
. Whose address? Ruthie’s? I’ve looked for it online—I’m guessing she lived in the neighborhood, maybe?—but there’s no trace of her or her family. It’s like all the Delgados simply vanished.
Where feathers are hard. I still have no idea what that means. Little help, G.D.?
Keep following the clues! Okay, but we only have two. A ring and a ticket. But where are they taking us?
Because he’s still out there. Even though this clue was written in 1973, and he might not be out there anymore, I feel a shiver run through my body. Who is he? Who was he? And what did he do to Ruth Delgado?
I turn over the yellowed notepaper and stare at the words I TOLD YOU SO again. Yeah, she must have told somebody and they didn’t believe her. And our Girl Detective was mad, I just know it. Really angry that nobody listened. I’m a little angry for her now.
I’m about to flip the piece of paper back over when I see it. On the bottom right-hand corner of the page. Little ink marks. I’ve noticed them before but they were so small, I didn’t think anything of them. Just some inky scratches. But …
Hopping off the bed, I reach into my desk drawer and extract my magnifying glass. I hold it steady over the corner of the page. Squinting through the glass, I pull the image into focus.
It’s a tiny stick figure. Crudely drawn but unmistakable. A drawing of a little bird.
PART 2
A BIRD IN PLAIN SIGHT
7
“BUT WHAT do you think it means?” I say, pointing at the inky bird at the bottom of the yellowed page.
Ally studies it through my magnifying glass. “You sure it’s a bird?”
“Looks like a bird to me.”
“Let me see.” Rose grabs the glass and looks, too. “Could be.”
“It’s definitely a bird!” I exclaim.
We’re sitting on the island, much like we did the day we found the clue except today Rose is leaning against our willow. It’s strangely cool, gray clouds threatening overhead.
Rose hands me back the magnifying glass. “So it’s a bird. Are we any closer to understanding any of it?”
“Well, I’m sure she told someone,” I say. “Or else, why would she have written I TOLD YOU SO like that?” I point to the words as if entering courtroom evidence.
“Have you ever thought that the person she told—”
I cut in. “Maybe the police.”
“Maybe the police,” she says, “determined that Girl Detective was not so reliable. Or as I would say, probably cuckoo.”
“Why do you have to be that way about Girl Detective?” I say. “What did she ever do to you?”
“I don’t know,” Rose says. “Maybe it’s because it’s our last summer together and it feels like there are four girls on this island instead of three.”
Ally’s eyes meet mine. “It is our last summer together.”
I feel myself deflating. I know it’s our last summer together. I know we should just be having fun. But I can’t seem to help feeling like Girl Detective is real and somehow calling out to me.
“On a happier note,” Rose says with a sarcastic edge, “my parents have announced our move date. August 14.”
“That’s less than two months away!” I exclaim.
“Do you think it was always their evil plan to move me all the way across the ocean, bide their time, and then, when I’m practically American, rip me right back out again?”
“It’s so unfair,” Ally says, and I know she’s saying it for all of us. The unfairness of being separated. None of us ever asked for that.
“You know how traumatic it was when I first came,” Rose continues. “I didn’t know anybody. I was dressed funny—”
“Really funny,” Ally says innocently. But that’s not how Rose takes it.
“That’s what they wore in England, Al! I couldn’t help it!”
I remember. It was the middle of the year in Ms. Hillbrook’s first grade class. Ally sat in the desk beside me but we weren’t friends yet. When Principal Smith walked through the door with this little skinny girl with jet-black hair and enormous blue eyes, everybody stared at her. Even me. She was wearing a uniform that made me wonder if her last school had been Hogwarts.
Principal Smith cleared her throat and announced, “Class, I’d like to introduce to you a new student, all the way from the United Kingdom.”
Bethany Hopkins raised her hand from the second row and talked before being called on. “She’s from a kingdom? Like a princess or something?”
Everybody laughed and I saw small pink blotches sprout on the girl’s pale white face.
“No,” Principal Smith said. “This is India Ashcroft. She’s from England, which is part of the United Kingdom, which includes the countries of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland.”
The girl pulled on Principal Smith’s sleeve. “What is it, India?” she asked, leaning down to listen. “Oh,” Principal Smith said. “I apologize.” She turned to us. “This is Rose. She goes by Rose.” She looked down and Rose nodded. I will forever think of this as Rose’s first act of independence in the New World.
“Remember, she called you India?” I say to Rose as a breeze ripples through the willow tree branches. I found out later that Rose was her middle name.
“Yeah, I remember.” She wraps her arms around her knees. “They better not think they can call me that again when we’re back in England. Because they can’t. I am not a country! I am a human being!”
A rumble of thunder, like a brooding kettledrum, vibrates through the sky. Instantly, Rose jumps to her feet. We linger and Rose’s hands go to her hips. I don’t think it’s the moment to tell her she looks just like her mother when she does that. “Come on. Let’s buzz,” she says. “What are you waiting for?”
Rose is no longer that timid girl from first grade. She is fearless and bold and nobody gives her grief. Not anymore. By second grade she had buried her English accent so completely that no one ever guessed she was British. Not only did she blend in, she became the most popular girl in school.
That’s why it’s always a surprise to me when she’s so afraid of rain and thunder.
We follow Rose back to her house under gray clouds so swollen with raindrops they look like they hurt.
“Cuppa tea, girls?” Mrs. Ashcroft calls out from the kitchen as she hears us bolt through the front door. “Rain’s coming.” What I’ve learned from Rose’s mom is that every event—bad or good—is made better somehow by a cup of tea.
“No thanks, Mum,” Rose says. “Going up.” That’s how you can tell that Rose is actually British underneath it all. Because she calls her mom Mum. As we follow her up the stairs, my eyes glimpse the living room. The moving boxes are multiplying like jackrabbits in there.
As soon as we close Rose’s bedroom door, she says, “I want to show you something.”
Ally plops down on one of Rose’s twin beds and I stretch out on the other one.
“I wonder what Romeo’s doing right now,” Rose calls out from inside her closet.
“I hope he’s beating the crap out of Joey at cards or something,” says Ally.
Rose reappears holding a bathing suit up against her clothes. “What do you think?”
“It’s a two-piece.” My mouth falls open slightly because there’s so little bathing suit there.
“It’s a bikini!” Rose says. “Nobody calls it a two-piece, Bird.”
“I do. Your mom’s going to let you wear that?”
“She said.”
“My mom would stroke out,” Ally deadpans from the bed.
I grin. Because her mom would stroke out. Even Joey’s eyeballs would pop out of his head if he saw Ally in something like that.
Then I realize why the tiny bikini is okay with Rose’s mother. Because in some ways, Rose still looks like a nine-year-old girl. She used to joke, I’m light as a feather, flat as a board. She doesn’t say that anymore.
I fold my arms across my chest. Things are starting to change for me under there, but I h
aven’t told them yet. My mom is pretty flat-chested, but I don’t take after her. I know that already. I’m like my dad’s mom, my grandma—short waist, long legs, and other stuff I don’t have yet. Stuff that tells me if I were on a highway, I’d be approaching a sign that reads CURVES AHEAD.
“Do you think he’ll like it?” Rose asks as she models in front of the mirror.
“God, I hope not!” Ally beans her with a pillow.
“Al!” Rose yells and throws it back. She places the bikini on a chair and sits down on the foot of Ally’s bed. “If I weren’t moving,” she says thoughtfully, “I think Romeo would be asking me to the sixth-grade dance.”
A knot of guilt twists in my stomach.
The sixth-grade dance is in September at the new middle school where Romeo and I will be going. It’s where Rose would be going if she weren’t moving away.
“It’s not a real dance,” I say. “It’s after school. You’re not supposed to have a date or anything.”
“It would have been a real dance for us,” Rose says dreamily.
“Let’s listen to music,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Okay.” Rose goes to her computer. “What do you want to listen to?”
“Don’t care,” Ally says.
“Something good.” I lean back against the pillow and for the first time, I almost feel glad that Rose is moving. Because I know Romeo’s not going to ask her to the dance. And that would be horrible to watch. Then I’m struck with a panicky thought: What if he asks me?!
“Check this out,” Rose says, and the music starts. It’s a weird rock song. Twangy, almost country. Something Rose would never play.
Ally and I prop up on our elbows and look at Rose with questioning eyes.
She smiles. “The Allman Brothers Band.”
8
“DO YOU like the Allman Brothers Band?” I ask my parents at dinner that night.
“The Allman Brothers?” my dad asks, shaking his head and scooping more mashed potatoes onto his plate.
“What’s wrong with the Allman Brothers?” Mom says. “I like them okay.”
Dad shrugs. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Snob,” she says. “Zora, eat.” Zora’s playing with her planes instead of eating her dinner, and the rain is pelting so hard against the kitchen window it almost looks like someone’s spraying it with a garden hose.
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