D. Michael Beil

by The Red Blazer Girls (v5)

  “I never said she was bad. I said she was driving me bananas.”

  “Well, she seems nice to me.”

  “Sophie, you've known her for two seconds. Go for a walk around the block with her, then tell me what you think. Or take the subway. Yesterday she started singing—in Polish—on the train.”

  “I seem to remember that you liked singing with her.”

  “Past tense. I was six.”

  “C'mon, let's go. We can call Rebecca later. Maybe she can sneak out for a while.”

  Margaret digs into her book bag, excavating her copy of Great Expectations. “What about Leigh Ann? Should we call her?”

  I respond with a typical parent answer. “Maybe later.”

  We enter Central Park at Ninety-seventh Street and find a nice spot to read and soak up the sun on the rocks near the ball fields in the North Meadow. Rebecca shows up about forty-five minutes later, sketchbook in hand and dressed in all black. We tease her about taking the whole artiste thing a little too seriously, which leads us to Ms. Harriman, which leads to the fourth clue. And guess what? Margaret just happens to have a sheet of paper on which she has printed the clue in great big letters.

  It says:

  “I've heard of David Copperfield, and I know Scrooge,” Rebecca says, “but who the hell are all these other people?”

  “I think they're all from Charles Dickens's books, but I'm not a hundred percent sure,” says Margaret. “I've only read David Copperfield (Harvard Classics, fiction, volumes seven and eight) and now, part of Great Expectations (which, much to Mr. Eliot's dismay, is not included in the Harvard Classics). And by the way, you know Pirrip, too.”

  “I do?”

  “That's Pip. His real name is Philip Pirrip, remember?”

  “And I know Drummle, too,” I say. “He's the guy Pip hates. Jaggers calls him the spider. Bentley is his first name.”

  “And Uriah Heep, Thomas Traddles, James Steer-forth, and David Copperfield, obviously, are all from David Copperfield,” Margaret adds. “Which leaves us with … Guppy, Summerson, and Squeers that we don't know anything about.”

  “We can fix that in like five minutes if we go online,” I say.

  “Does every name on the list have a double consonant or a double vowel?” Rebecca asks.

  “Yep. Six with consonants, four with vowels,” Margaret answers. “Two with three syllables, five with two, and three with one.”

  “Could it be something about the characters themselves?” I ask. “Like, are they good or bad? Or their job, maybe?”

  “Hmmm. Possible. But a lot of that is kind of vague,” Margaret says. “For example, is Scrooge good or bad? It depends—in the beginning or at the end?”

  “Why don't we just get all their first names and then just go around to all the pews,” Rebecca suggests.

  “We could, but somehow I don't think that would be as easy as you think. First of all, there are hundreds of pews, and second—”

  Suddenly Margaret snatches the paper from my hands. “It's Copperfield!”

  I look at the list to see if it will miraculously jump out at me, too. No such luck.

  “Why Copperfield?” Rebecca asks.

  “Because he's the only title character on the list. David Copperfield. We need to look for someone with the last name of David.”

  “Well, that was easy,” I say.

  Margaret agrees. “Almost too easy.”

  Maybe Everett Harriman wasn't all that after all.

  Half an hour later, we are back in the church, straining our eyes in the dim light to read the worn brass plaques at the end of all the pews. There are a lot more than we expected; each pew has been donated in ten-foot sections, and each section has its own plaque. We start in the back and work toward the altar, pacing back and forth, back and forth. About a third of the way through, Rebecca and I shout, “Got it!” at the same time. The problem is that we are about a hundred feet apart.

  “‘Gift of Anthony David,’” I say. “‘In memory of Althea David.’”

  “Mine says ‘Gift of Anthony David, In memory of Annabelle David,’” says Rebecca.

  “Uh-oh,” says Margaret. “Mine says ‘Gift of Anthony David, In memory of Anne Marie David.’ It was supposed to be a single pew, according to the clue. I'm sorry, guys. I must be wrong.”

  She looks so crushed.

  “It's okay, Margaret,” I say. “No big deal. I'm sure we'll get it.”

  “But I was so sure—and still wrong.”

  She always is. Welcome to my world, kid.

  On our way back uptown, I come up with a solution. “Look, it's a literature clue. Let's just ask Mr. Eliot. He was born to solve this piece of the puzzle.”

  “But then we'll have to wait until Monday morning,” Margaret says. “And besides, I want to solve it without anybody's help.”

  “How is using Mr. Eliot different than using the Internet?” Rebecca asks.

  She has a point.

  “I guess we could e-mail him,” Margaret admits. Mr. Eliot had given us his e-mail address, which we are permitted to use for school-related communication. (“I don't want you filling up my mailbox with a bunch of stupid jokes—or worse,” he said.)

  “We can do better than that,” I say. “I just happen to know where he lives.”

  Ten minutes later, we are in the lobby of Mr. Eliot's building. The doorman rings his apartment, telling him that there are three young ladies waiting downstairs and that they insist it is really important that they speak with him. Then the doorman, Freddy, as his badge indicates, listens while nodding his head before hanging up the phone without another word.

  “He says he'll be down in a minute. You can wait in the lobby. You girls students of Geor—er, Mr. Eliot's?”

  We all nod.

  “He's a good guy, always bringing me books to read on the overnight shift.”

  “Lots of Charles Dickens, right?” I guess.

  Freddy smiles. “No, not really. Mysteries, mostly. He loves those old ‘whodunits’—Nero Wolfe, that kind of thing—but lately he's been bringing me these graphic novels. You know, the ones that look like comic books, only thicker. And with a lot more blood.”

  “Oooh, I love those,” Rebecca says. “The gorier, the better.”

  “You would,” I say. “You probably like all those dead teenager movies, too. All that Nightmare on Elm Street and Halloween and I Know What You Did Last Summer crap.”

  “Crap! Those are classics!”

  “Prime examples of fine filmmaking,” notes Margaret.

  Before the conversation can sink any deeper into a discussion of who is more evil, Jason or Freddy (Krueger, not the doorman), Mr. Eliot steps out of the elevator.

  “Hello, girls. Are you bothering Freddy?”

  “No, no, George,” says Freddy. “They're fine. We've just been having a literary discussion.”

  “I'll bet. Okay, what is the big crisis that has caused you to breach my sacred domicile?”

  “Wait, where's your wife?” Rebecca asks. “I was hoping she'd come down, too. We want to meet her.”

  “She's upstairs, probably scared to death that my students know where I live. And probably wondering, as I am, why they've come to my apartment building on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.”

  “Well, it's about the puzzle,” Margaret says.

  “Oh, for crying out loud. That's the big emergency?”

  Margaret points at the tastefully decorated seating area in the lobby. “We'd better sit down, Mr. E. This may take a while.”

  We move to a very comfortable leather couch and chairs. Mr. Eliot listens and actually seems impressed by our resourcefulness and tenacity.

  “And now you're up to the fourth clue, which is something to do with literature, and you think I can help you.”

  “Exact-e-ment,” I say, exaggerating my French accent.

  “Well, before I agree to help, tell me more about this Malcolm fellow. I just want to make sure you haven't gotten yourselves involv
ed with some lunatic.”

  “Oh, I don't think he's dangerous or anything like that.” Like I'm an expert on human nature or something. “I just think he's skeevy.”

  Margaret shakes her head at me. “He's not skeevy. Soph, you just don't like him because you think he snooped on us.”

  “He did snoop on us! And you could tell he didn't think we would ever be able to find the ring. He was like, there's no way you silly little girls from St. Veronica's are going to be able to find it without my invaluable help.”

  “He said that?”

  “Well, no. But you could tell that's what he was thinking.”

  “So now this is about your wanting to prove him wrong. And you don't think you're all getting just a little bit obsessed with this story and this ring?”

  “What is that line you quoted to us the first week of school?” Margaret asks. “Something some coach said? ‘You've got to get obsessed and stay obsessed.’”

  “Margaret, I can't believe you remember that,” Mr. Eliot says. “It was a coach—not a real coach, but Coach Bob, a character in The Hotel New Hampshire, one of my all-time favorite books.”

  “So a little obsession is a good thing, right?” Margaret would make one heck of a lawyer.

  Mr. Eliot concedes the point. “Okay but two things before I agree to help. One, be careful. If this Malcolm guy says anything that sounds even the slightest bit threatening, call me, call your parents, or better, call the police. And two, when you think you've solved this thing, please don't just start pulling up floor tiles in the church. Father Danahey would be most displeased with you—and with me, if he knew I had anything to do with it. Promise?”

  “We promise.”

  “All right then. We're agreed. Now tell me about this clue number four.”

  Margaret unfolds the clue and sets it on the coffee table before Mr. Eliot. “Which name doesn't fit?”

  He picks up the paper and squints at the list of names. The lines in his forehead get deeper and deeper. He doesn't say anything for a couple of minutes, and then a slight smile creeps in. “Okay I've got it.”

  A long pause.

  “Well?” Rebecca says. “Tell us!”

  “You really want me to just give you the answer? You don't want to try to figure it out on your own?”

  “Just tell us, please,” I say. “We promise to be good the rest of the year.”

  “How good? I should make you figure it out for yourselves. It's not that hard, really. Actually, knowing that you figured out all those other clues, I'm a little surprised you didn't get this one.”

  Now Margaret is miffed. “I never said we couldn't figure it out. I'm—we're just starting to get concerned about the time.”

  “Okay, okay. I didn't mean to question your abilities. Boy, you take this sleuthing stuff seriously. It's—”

  Margaret holds up her hand. “Wait! Before you say it, just tell me this: who are Guppy, Summerson, and Squeers?”

  “Guppy and Summerson are both from Bleak House. William Guppy, I think, and Esther Summerson. And Wackford Squeers, of course, is the evil schoolmaster in Nicholas Nickleby. Sort of a … personal hero of mine.”

  “Did you say Esther Summerson?” Margaret's eyes race down the page. “The only female. Aaaauugghhh. I should have known that.”

  “Easy, Margaret,” says Mr. Eliot. “You're twelve. You can't know everything. Yet.”

  “Trust me, she's working on it,” I say. “So, you're telling me that Esther is someone's last name?”

  “Hey, I saw that one!” Rebecca shouts. “I think I even remember where it is.”

  “You're not going to break into the church to look for this tonight.” He looks us all in the eyes. “Promise me, girls.”

  “We're not going to break into the church,” Margaret assures him. “Jeez, it's like you think we're criminals or something.”

  “When really we're just three innocent little schoolgirls.” I bat my eyelashes for emphasis.

  “Uh-huh. Seriously, ladies, stay out of trouble with this. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “But… let me know when you find it, all right?”

  Oh, yeah. He is hooked. And, later, using my trusty and well-worn nail file to remove the screws, we find a piece of paper folded perfectly to fit beneath the brass plaque that says “Gift of Dr. Ricardo Esther, In memory of Gloria Esther.”

  You know, I've got nothing against farm animals, but isn't “dumb ox” redundant? I mean, are there any smart ones out there?

  In which I learn that ice cream saves lives

  Monday morning brings me back to reality. My teachers are in the midst of some kind of inhumane testing frenzy; I have an essay due in Mr. Eliot's class; and the Dickens banquet is Friday night—and so far, all we have is a script. How in the world am I ever going to find time to solve clue number five?

  And then there is Leigh Ann. Who thinks Raf is cute. And nice. And funny. And available.

  Deep breaths.

  We meet after school in an empty room to work on our skit, which Leigh Ann finished on Sunday, adding several pages. Our simple five-minute skit has turned into a ten-minute play let.

  “I just thought it needed, you know, more flair, some artistic touches,” Leigh Ann says as she hands out the copies.

  I leaf through the pages. “Um, Leigh Ann, you realize this thing is Friday, right? This is a lot of flair and art to absorb in four days—a whole lot of flart.”

  “I can only stay till three o'clock,” says Rebecca. “And I'm not memorizing anything. You promised.”

  “You don't have to memorize, Rebecca. You're just going to read a letter,” Leigh Ann promises. “Guys, I've done this a million times. We can do it. C'mon, I'll show you.”

  Leigh Ann is a one-person production company: director, producer, actor, writer, costumer, makeup artist. She may have been selling tickets during lunch. She tells us how she has been in several plays outside of school, promises to work us like dogs to make everything perfect. Hell-bent on turning us into thespians, she doesn't even like the way we walk. (I wiggle. Margaret prances.) Or the way we talk. (Too fast! Too Nuuu Yawk-y!) Faster! Slower! With a little more feeling! Not that much feeling! It is maddening, and a bit terrifying, but somewhere along the line, I stop worrying about making a fool of myself and start to have fun being Master Herbert Pocket.

  And then Leigh Ann's phone rings.

  It is almost five o'clock, and we are starting to gather our things together to leave. I am closest to her phone when it rings, so she asks me to hand it to her. I reach for it, and in letters that burn into my retinas, the name RAF—in all caps—appears on the screen.

  Stunned, and feeling the color drain from my face, I can't get rid of it fast enough. I toss it to her and go back to closing up my book bag.

  Her side of the conversation goes something like this: “Hi! … [laughing] … [more laughing] … At school … working on a skit for this banquet thing … Yeah, they're—… [really loud laughing] … I know! … Yeah, I remember … Really? Um, okay … Saturday? What time? No, I had a good time, too—”

  And this is all I can take. I am hyperventilating as I run out of the room, yelling, “I've got to go!” to a very surprised and confused Margaret. I run down the hall, down five flights of stairs, and out the front doors, where I stop to take one breath before running down the sidewalk. I am halfway home when Margaret finally catches up with me, pushing me against the window of a sushi bar at Seventy-fifth and Third.

  “Sophie, what is the matter with you!” She has a tight grip on my blazer as I try to wriggle away. “Didn't you hear me calling your name? And why did you just run out of the school?” Then she sees my face and stops. “Oh my gosh. Are you crying?” “Her phone,” I sniff. “Leigh Ann's phone? What about it?” “That was … Raf.”

  She lets go of my blazer. “How do you know?” “I saw it—his name, when I gave her the phone.” “Are you sure? Why would Raf call—you don't think—”

  “T
hey're going out. I knew it. I am such an idiot.”

  “C'mon, Soph, you don't know that. It could be totally innocent. And what about all that stuff you were just saying? How he wanted to stay and hang out with you on Saturday.”

  “I was wrong. C'mon, you heard her! All that laughing and talking about getting together on Saturday night,” I blubber.

  Margaret puts her arm around me. “I'm sorry, Soph, I really wasn't paying that much attention. I mean, I heard her laughing, but I still think you might be jumping to conclusions. Give it a little time. Come on, let's get you some ice cream.”

  “I'm not hungry. I just wanna go home.”

  “My darling friend, you don't eat ice cream because you're hungry. It's therapy that just happens to come in a bowl—with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. And frozen yogurt just isn't going to cut it. You need the real thing.” She flags down a taxi, and we climb in. “We're going to Serendipity.”

  The driver takes a good look at my puffy red eyes as the always-prepared Margaret hands me a much-needed tissue. “Sometimes ya jus' gotta have some ice cream.”

  “You see?” Margaret says. “Everyone knows.”

  It is going to take more than two scoops of double pistachio to pull me out of my funk, though. I sit with my chin in my hands and pout while Margaret does her best to cheer me up. It just isn't fair. What has Leigh Ann done to deserve him? I've been his friend for years—helped him with homework, hung out with him after school, e-mailing, texting, everything. And what do I have to show for it?

  “A really good friend?”

  “I hate that.”

  Margaret's phone rings, reminding me to check mine for messages and that I need to call Mom and let her know I haven't been run over by a bus or something.

  Suddenly Margaret is waving wildly, trying to get my attention. She mouths the words, “It's Raf,” and my stomach does a double somersault. With a twist.

  “I am not here,” I whisper. I look at my phone—dead. I have forgotten to charge it again.

  “Oh, I'm at home,” Margaret lies. “Sophie? I don't know. So, you only call me to find out where Sophie is? Thanks a lot, Raf.”