You’re a goddess, too, a voice whispered in my head. Not a voice—my voice. And suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be on the same team as Hera, Athena, and Apollo.
“This was long ago,” Clio tried to explain further.
“But it doesn’t make it right,” I said.
Clio finished folding up the tapestry. “You are correct. Just because something we know is bad now happened many years ago, doesn’t mean it wasn’t bad then, too.” She closed the dusty box and wiped her hands on her pants. Then she came over to me and put her hands on my shoulders. “But we are here now to make things right.”
I didn’t realize it, but my arms were still tight across my chest.
“Clio, I should probably get going,” I said. “Lots to pack back at my place, too. The Big Apple awaits!” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
Clio patted my cheek softly. “Of course. You’ve got a big summer adventure ahead of you. Here, take a brownie for the road.” She wrapped one up in a napkin for me, and I slid it into my pocket for later. “I’ve got lots to do, too. Including fixing the Great Bed of Ware,” she said with a wink.
“Oh,” I said, my stomach sinking a little. “You know about that?”
“I know lots of things. Run along now. I’ll see you in New York.” With that, Clio returned to the messy piles all over her office, and I started toward the door but then stopped again.
“Clio, did you mean what you said about how all of us muses are meant to be here? To be muses? Even if the muse finder clock chimed?”
Clio looked at me with those sad eyes again. “Yes, Callie. I believe this with all my heart.”
“Then why is there a tenth muse? It doesn’t make sense.”
Clio looked thoughtful, then she shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see what answers we can find on our own.”
My eyes rested on Athena’s tapestry, and another idea came to mind. “What if it’s a test, like the weaving contest? What if the gods are testing all of us? Or one of us?”
Clio straightened the files on her desk into a neat column. “A test can be passed or failed,” she said, then looked at me. “And I won’t let us fail, I promise you.”
Walking back to my entrance point, I tried to really focus on my surroundings, saying goodbye to the V and A in my head. But I couldn’t concentrate. The Arachne story and everything I’d heard about the gods’ punishments kept cutting in. I felt nervous all over.
I got to the Great Bed faster than I’d hoped. I patted its scratchy bedcover, grabbed on to one of the wooden posts, and whispered, “Goodbye, Great Bed. I’ll miss you,” before blinking back tears (stupid, stupid tears) and sliding underneath.
As I closed my eyes, I remembered four things that made me even more nervous:
I forgot to ask Clio what had been on Arachne’s tapestry—the winning tapestry.
I’d just had two freaky spider-related things happen to me in less than three hours.
There was a chance one of the nine muses wasn’t going to be a muse for much longer.
This time tomorrow I’d be in New York City.
Chapter 5
Lost in LaGuardia
It was my first time flying. When the plane took off, I gripped the armrests tightly. Before I knew it, Miami was just a map far below me, the highways marking off the city into grids. Every house was a small shoebox, and in the distance, the blue ocean sparkled.
The flight attendant, a blond woman named Roxy, came by every so often to check up on me. Roxy was the kind of grown-up who perched her hands on her knees to ask a kid a question. “How old are you?” “What’s your favorite school subject?” “Ever been to New York?” She brought me cookies and a soda, and even though I turned twelve in May, she gave me a little pilot’s pin to wear, then booped my nose.
I watched an episode of Zombie Beach on the plane (through my fingers, of course), and then dozed off, waking up with a jolt when the plane landed and everybody started clapping. I clapped, too. We’d made it. I was in New York!
But when I got off the plane, I couldn’t find Roxy. She was supposed to walk with me to the exit once we landed at LaGuardia Airport, but in the crush of passengers, I lost her. Panicked, I got onto a courtesy shuttle and ended up in Terminal B. It felt like I was going in circles, pushed around by people and their rolling luggage. I couldn’t even hear myself think! Airline employees on microphones kept saying things like “We board by group,” and “Sorry for the delay,” and “This flight is overbooked,” and every time one of them talked, people shuffled about, shoving me out of the way.
Mami had said, “Don’t be nervous. Read the signs overhead. Call your papi when you land.”
I’m here, I texted Papi.
Yay! he texted back. Exit your terminal. I’ll be waiting for you there.
Oh-oh, I thought. Which terminal? Where was the exit again?
I can do this, I told myself.
I sat in a corner and blew out great big puffs of air, trying to stop myself from panicking. I pulled out my phone, but now I didn’t have any service. Waving my phone around in the air didn’t help either. I scanned the signs overhead. Where were the exit signs, anyway? They read “Gate 24,” or “Ground Transportation,” or “Baggage Claim,” but not one said “Exit This Way.”
How do I get out of here? I wondered. A woman with a toddler on a leash glanced at me on the way to the restroom. Without thinking, I pictured her helping me out, hoping she would.
The woman stopped, turned around, hoisted her little boy onto her hip, and approached me. “Need help?” she asked kindly.
I silently thanked the gods for magic and the kindness of strangers.
“Yes, please,” I said. “How do you exit this terminal?”
“Follow me,” the woman said with a wink. Over her shoulder, the toddler blew wet raspberries at me, and I crossed my eyes at him. “Voilà!” she said, pointing at the exit. “Now where are those toilets,” she muttered to herself, and rushed back into the terminal.
Flooded with relief, I took a good look around. I saw Papi before he saw me, his dark eyes scanning the crowd for a girl in a Yankees hoodie.
“Papi!” I called out, and my dad turned his big eyes on me.
“Callie!” he said, and came running. He put his heavy arms around me and hoisted me a few feet in the air. “My girl. How I’ve missed you!”
I had forgotten what he smelled like (ink and tobacco), and how strong he was (very), and how his rumbly voice shook something loose in my chest. Oh, Papi. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him.
And you know what?
It felt like home.
Papi and I took a bus from LaGuardia to his house. Actually, the bus dropped us off directly in front of the Hall of Science—our new muse headquarters! I could see it just past a stand of tall trees, thick with leaves. Off to one side there was a rocket, as tall as a building. Beside that was the museum itself, with the words “New York Hall of Science” in big silver letters above glass doors.
“We live just down the block,” Papi said, tugging me away from the museum. We turned off 111th Street and onto Forty-Ninth Avenue. I kept my eyes on the signs, trying to remember the street names. Papi and Laura didn’t have a car, and I knew that if I wanted to get around, I was going to have to walk, ride a bus, or get on the subway like a real New Yorker.
“So this is Queens?” I asked.
Papi nodded. “Yes. And the neighborhood is called Corona. When we visit Manhattan, we can catch the 7 train at 111th Street station just a few blocks that way.” He pointed vaguely to the right.
“Got it,” I said, though I didn’t really. Not yet, at least. Two-story brick houses lined both sides of the road. Wires crossed overhead, and here and there sneakers dangled by their laces from the wires. The air was hot and smelled a little sweet. Windows were open on some of the houses, and I could hear people talking in Spanish. Off in the distance, one block over, I spotted some shops—a nail salon, a small grocery store, a tattoo
place.
If I swapped the brick for stucco, and the tall trees for palms, Corona would be a bit like Miami, I thought.
We stopped in front of a house that looked different from the rest. Instead of brick, this house had wood panels across the front, and they were painted a cheery yellow. The paint was peeling in places, and someone had tied plastic daisies to the railing around the front porch. The flowers were faded and missing a lot of petals.
“Home,” Papi said, hoisting my suitcase in the air to climb the porch steps.
I’d never lived in a house with stairs! I already imagined sliding down the banister. And was there a basement? Or an attic that wasn’t just a crawl space? Miami homes didn’t have any of those things. I started to feel a little flutter of excitement. This was going to be so cool!
But then Papi opened the door, and we were staring directly at a very narrow and dark staircase. “We’re on the second floor,” he said, leading the way.
“So you don’t live in the whole house?” I asked.
Papi made a sucking sound. “You wouldn’t believe how high the rents are in New York. We can only afford half a house, but it’s still home,” he said.
Off to the right was a tight hallway and another door. Beyond the door, I could hear someone laughing while a television game show host told a joke. Those would be the downstairs neighbors, I guessed. If there was a basement, we wouldn’t have access to it anyway.
I followed Papi up. The stairs creaked really loudly, and I realized that there wasn’t a bannister, or even a handrail. The walls were dingy from people’s handprints, too. At the top of the stairs was another door. Papi unlocked it and pushed inside.
“Welcome home!” Laura shouted. She was wearing a paper crown. In one arm, she held my brother, Rafael Jr. In the other hand, she had a fistful of pink confetti, which she tossed up into the air. A glittery banner behind her read “Welcome!” The place smelled wonderful—like onions, garlic, and ground beef simmering in a pot somewhere.
I stepped into the apartment, which was bright, clean, and very modern.
Laura grinned at me, confetti stuck to her hair and the baby’s.
“Hi,” I said, stepping forward to give Laura a kiss on the cheek.
“I made you a welcome dinner. And we can go get ice cream afterward. You’re going to love New York, I just know it!” Laura said.
“This is Rafaelito,” Papi said, taking the baby from Laura and handing him over to me.
“Hey,” I said. Rafaelito, not Rafael Jr. So that’s what they called him. I had been mad when I first heard about the baby, just like my brothers were. I’d thought Papi would forget all about his Miami kids.
But now, looking at Rafaelito, I had a hard time finding that angry feeling. His eyes were big and brown, and he smiled at me right away, drooling a little on his tiny chin. I nuzzled the top of his head and took a deep breath. He smelled like Cuban baby cologne—agua de violetas. I still had a bottle in my room back in Miami. Laura must have just doused him in the stuff. Rafaelito looked like Papi. I could already tell he was going to have Papi’s thick eyebrows, and his sticking-out ears. But his eyes were Laura’s, and his hair was a lighter brown than mine and Papi’s.
A small, chubby hand came to rest on my cheek.
“He loves you already,” Laura said.
I didn’t say anything, but I could feel it inside—I’d do anything for this kid.
On the spot I came up with Callie’s Muse Rule #427: Baby brothers are worth fighting for.
I handed Rafaelito back to Laura.
“Can I use the bathroom? Wash off the airplane germs?”
“Claro,” Papi said. “I’ll take your bag to Rafaelito’s room.”
“We set up a bed for you,” Laura added.
In the bathroom, I washed my hands. There was honey-scented soap at the sink, and the towels were gray and monogrammed in silver with Laura’s and Papi’s initials. The grout in the shower sparkled. The faucet was sleek and shiny. The house in Corona might have looked run-down on the outside, but the inside was nice, and Laura really had a knack for decorating. I could hear her running the vacuum, already making the confetti disappear. I made sure the hand towel was neatly folded when I finished with it.
I left the bathroom, went down the hall, and found the room I’d be staying in. It was Rafaelito’s room, painted in a soft green. There was a forest mural on the wall opposite his crib. A navy blue rug took up the center of the room, and it was so soft that I had to touch it. There, under the window, was my bed.
“Sorry. A pin-pan-pun is all we could fit in here,” Papi said from the doorway.
Back in Miami, we had a pin-pan-pun, or a foldaway bed, stored in the garage. Mami said they’d once used it for relatives who’d come from Cuba long ago, back when people showed up unexpectedly and needed a place to stay for a few months while they got themselves sorted in a new country. She said it was called a pin-pan-pun because you could open it up in three steps. Pin! Pan! Pun! And because it creaked in a way that sounded like those words.
Pin! Pan! Pun! went the bed when I sat on it. But it was comfortable in spite of the noise.
“I’m sorry,” Papi said again. “The couch might be comfier if you prefer. Or we can get an air mattress. Whatever you want, mi niña.”
“It’s okay. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
Papi smiled, threw an arm around me, and we walked off to the small kitchen, where Laura had prepared a feast. We ate picadillo and white rice, and Laura even put raisins in the ground beef, just how I liked it! There were plantains to eat, avocado and tomato salad, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Halfway through the meal, Laura made a toast. “To Callie,” she said, holding up her glass.
“Callie. Home in New York,” Papi said.
Rafaelito gurgled in his high chair, smashing his hands into his rice.
“Okay. To me, then,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable, but loved and full.
After dinner, Laura loaded Rafaelito up into a baby sling that she wore across her front, a contraption that Papi called “el canguro.” And he was right, she did sort of look like a kangaroo carrying a joey around.
We left the apartment and walked a few blocks for that ice cream Laura promised. I was expecting an ice-cream shop, with a long cooler in front loaded with buckets of ice cream in all kinds of flavors. I expected sticky floors and a teenager behind the cooler, ice-cream scooper in hand.
Instead, we stopped in front of what looked like a convenience store. A sign out front read “The Queen of Corona,” with neon crowns on top of the Q and the C. Outside the store, fresh flowers sat in buckets of water. Signs in the windows advertised $2.99 bags of coffee, and another sign read: “We Accept Food Stamps.”
“Ice cream?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” Papi answered.
We went inside. It definitely was a convenience store, but not like one I’d ever been to.
“It’s a bodega, Callie,” Laura said.
I felt something warm brush against my legs. Looking down, I saw an orange tabby cat, purring like an engine around my ankles.
“And that’s a bodega cat,” Laura added with a laugh.
The place was packed with stuff—there were about forty mops leaning against one another on one wall, a shelf full of candles, three aisles of canned food, an entire corner dedicated to fresh fruit and vegetables, toys on one end of the store, refrigerators packed with drinks against another wall, and a lot more. Who knew such a small place could hold so much?
It was also full of people. Three women chattered over tomatoes, while another two were taking turns sniffing air fresheners. I could hear the rackety noise of dominoes in the air and searched the place until I found a small table in the back, where four men played a game in silence, the tiles clattering loudly as they swirled them around on the tabletop. A couple of kids my age—two boys—were in the chips aisle choosing snacks.
“Callie, over here,” I heard Papi call.
<
br /> I found them in a little room off to the side. There they were, the coolers full of ice cream! And so many flavors. Dulce de leche, and pumpkin, and marshmallow, and café con leche, and banana, and caramel, and apple pie. I’d never seen so many flavors.
“Hard to choose, right?” said a girl behind the cooler.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s amazing.”
“Thanks,” she said. Her name tag read ARI, and she looked about my age. Her hair was very dark, long, and parted down the middle. Her skin was very pale. She wore a black T-shirt and black jeans. And she was wearing lots of black eyeliner, too. The only spot of color was on her wrists, which were full of bright friendship bracelets.
“You work here?” I asked. She didn’t seem older than twelve or thirteen.
Ari shook her head. “Just killing time. My aunt owns the place. She’s around here somewhere. So what do you want?”
“Huh?”
“Ice cream. Which flavor, I mean. I’ll load one up for you.” Ari waved a scooper at me.
“Um, dulce de leche,” I said.
Papi got the same, and Laura chose banana. There was nowhere to eat the ice cream except right there in front of the coolers. But Ari didn’t seem to mind. I watched as she rinsed the scooper. Then she dried her hands and pulled a half-made friendship bracelet out of her pocket. This one was orange, green, and white. Ari started making knots really quickly, and I understood why she had so many bracelets.
“So, Ari,” my father interrupted between bites of ice cream.
Ari looked up, her eyebrows raised.
“You go to Corona Arts Academy?”
Ari put a hand on her hip. “What are you? Sherlock Holmes?”
My heart skipped a beat. This kid just back-talked to my dad like it was nothing. Nobody back-talked Papi. Ever.
Then Papi cleared his throat, and he pointed at a backpack on the floor by the sink. It, too, was black, but it read “Corona Arts Academy” in hot pink letters.
Ari looked to where he was pointing, then smirked. “Wondered what gave it away.”
The Mystery of the Tenth Page 4