A cowbell rang as Pete pushed the heavy glass door open. A gust of spring wind held it open as I entered. I liked the fact he opened doors for me too.
“How can I help you?” asked a college-aged kid sitting on a bar stool behind the counter. He wore an ODU sweatshirt that had seen better days and extra-geeky black-rimmed glasses, and had a skull earring dangling from one ear.
“I was wondering if you might know if Jet magazines from 1956 are worth any money,” I asked hopefully.
Pete beelined toward a comic display underneath a flying Superman cutout suspended from the ceiling, leaving me to fend for myself.
“Hm, not my area of expertise, but I can tell you that the condition of the magazine is much more important than the age.” He put down the Green Arrow comic he was reading and stretched. “Jet, you say?”
I nodded.
“Hey! Howie!” he bellowed toward the back room. “Ya got a minute?”
Behind College Guy, framed in a glass case, was a 1978 Cerebus the Aardvark comic with a $500 price tag. I didn’t see what appeal the sword-wielding, talking aardvark held, but I figured if people were willing to pay good money for old Cerebus, somebody would want my old Martin Luther King, for a price.
A tall African American pushed through the curtains separating the store from the gaming area. He was about the age of College Guy but sharply dressed in gray slacks and a maroon button-down shirt. His skin reminded me of coffee with just a smidgen of cream.
“Wassup?”
“Kid wants to know if Jet magazines are worth anything.”
I bristled a little at being called a kid. It was fine when I said it, but I didn’t appreciate someone just a few years older referring to me that way.
I’m no kid. I’ll just show him how mature and smart I am. I glanced around and noticed my backup, Pete, sat on the floor, engrossed in reading. That was fine. I could make my own lasting first impression.
“Is it mint?” asked Howie.
“I didn’t lick it or anything,” I said in a disgusted tone, immediately realizing I sounded more boneheaded than brilliant.
“Mint means it has hardly been handled and looks brand new. What kind of condition is it in?” Howie asked with a trace of bored amusement in his voice.
Once again I tried to sound sophisticated. “It came out of a time capsule that’s been sealed since 1956. The penny that was in there looked brand new—er, mint condition.” I didn’t mention I had scrubbed it to that gleam.
“A time capsule?” Howie’s eyes lit up like I’d said “free all-you-can-eat pepperoni pizza.” “Where? When? What was in it?”
He took a step closer and leaned on the counter. I took his enthusiasm as a good sign.
“A guy taking out old sound equipment found it tucked away in the eaves of our school auditorium. It was in an old flour canister. One of the envelopes had a postmarked three-cent stamp, same as the magazines and the penny, so I surmise”—I threw that in for sophistication’s sake—“we’re talking 1956.”
“That’s incredible. Where had it been mailed from?”
“Montgomery, Alabama. But the weird thing was both addresses, the return and the regular one, have been erased off.”
“I’d like to take a look at everything that was in there. I’m studying about that stuff in college.” He rummaged behind the counter and pulled out a worn paperback entitled Old Magazines: Identification & Value Guide.
As he thumbed through, I casually positioned myself to look over his shoulder so I could see the values myself. No way was I going to let him tell me something less than book value.
He didn’t even try.
“Could be ten dollars apiece, but before you sell them you really ought to talk to Dr. Hinkley at HU.”
“Who’s he?” I wanted to add, “What’s HU?” but figured my ignorance of that tidbit might make me look like an uninformed kid.
“He’s a historian at the Hampton University Museum. I had him for a couple of American history classes. He knows his stuff. They are always looking to add to their collections.”
A brief image of dancing dollar signs passed before my eyes.
“Give me your phone number, and I’ll try to put the two of you in touch.”
Was this guy trying to pick me up?
“My boyfriend’s standing right over there.” I raised my voice and looked around for Pete. He was nowhere in sight.
Howie laughed. “I’m in college. I don’t hit on high school kids.”
I was instantly embarrassed but managed to hide it and not blurt out that I was in middle school. A snappy comeback jumped to mind. “I thought he might have something to write on.” I rolled my eyes and held out my empty hands.
“Oh.” It was Howie’s turn to have some embarrassment crossing his face. He reached back around the counter to produce paper and pen. “Use this.”
I jotted down my number, name, and “Jet magazines, 1956,” and handed it back. He slipped it in his back jeans pocket.
“So what is this museum?” I asked.
“It’s the nation's oldest African American museum, founded in 1868. The only one with a gallery devoted to chronicling the history of African American art.” The pride in Howie’s voice was evident. “Because I’m double majoring in art and history, I intern there two Saturdays a month for practical experience. Eventually I’ll pursue a masters in museum studies so I can be a curator somewhere.”
“Very cool,” I said in my best mature, I-am-a-high-schooler voice.
I could only guess at what museum studies were. Maybe you learned how to unwrap mummies or read hieroglyphics.
“What do you recommend to clean up a rusted flour tin?” I asked, sounding so professional and mature I couldn’t help but congratulate myself.
“Nothing! Don’t do anything to anything until you talk to Professor Hinkley.” Howie’s eyebrows shot up, and he sounded positively panicky. “Amateurs can unintentionally ruin an otherwise pristine artifact by cleaning it.”
I scrounged my brain for a snappy retort to being called an amateur. That’s when I noticed Pete glaring at me from the other side of the room, eyes peeking over the top of a Thor comic.
“I got your number,” Howie called, retreating back behind the curtain.
Pete slapped the comic he’d been reading onto a pile and shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. As he stomped toward me, his eyes narrowed, glaring at me from under eyebrows drawn so close together he looked like he had a unibrow.
“What was all that about?” He jerked his head toward the back room, his mouth hardening into a flat line. Pete’s stare frosted over, and if I hadn’t blinked, his gaze would have frozen my eyeballs to solid ice.
“I was just . . .” I began, but Pete turned on his heel and went out the door without holding it open for me.
Why is Pete so upset? He doesn’t think Howie and I . . . ?
I hurried out after him, a thousand thoughts swirling. My brain frantically hunted for something to say to make things right, but without knowing exactly what I’d done wrong, it was impossible.
Pete stopped so suddenly I crashed into him. I stepped back, mumbling an apology, hoping against hope Pete would do the same. Instead he turned slightly and pointed, his teeth gritted and eyes hard.
Our front tires were still locked securely to the street sign, but the back tire on Pete’s new bike had vanished.
CHAPTER 10
My senses immediately went on full alert. Glancing right and left, I caught a glimpse of someone carrying what might be a wheel disappearing around the corner. I sprinted after the suspect, assuming Pete was right behind me. Rounding the corner at full speed, I plowed into a skater, knocking us both to the ground.
“Yo, share the walk, idiot.” The skater scrambled to grab his board before it rolled into the street.
I clambered up as the suspect turned another corner into the alley that ran behind the stores. By the time I apologized and rounded that second corner, the alley was empty
of human life.
I finally noticed Pete had not followed me and trudged back to our bikes rubbing a bruised elbow. My bike and most of his were still there, but Pete wasn’t. I checked every store on both sides of the street, thinking he’d ducked inside one to call for a ride or the cops.
Nothing. He’d vanished.
I pondered my predicament in the fading sunlight. My bike was still locked up, and I didn’t fancy walking home. Pete and I had exchanged combinations, but all I remembered was that it began with three. Again, I made mental notation to work on memory.
I didn’t want to waste time standing around for him to show up. Besides homework, chores, and saving my mom’s job, I had to track down information on Hope.
Maybe Pete had gone down the other street parallel to the one our suspect disappeared into in an attempt to head the culprit off. I jogged down and around. The alley was still empty.
When I returned to the bikes, Pete was undoing the lock. I stopped myself from asking where he’d gone and asked what I really wanted to know.
“Pete, are you mad at me about something?”
“Nah. Just the bike. Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
Relief washed through me. We were all good. Of course he was mad about his wheel being stolen. Perfectly understandable.
“You better go before it gets dark, since you don’t have a light. I’ll call you,” Pete said, pulling his hoodie on top of his head.
“How are you going to get home? I can’t just leave you here stranded.”
“It’s okay. I got it covered.” He gave me a peck on the cheek.
Heat rose on my face as I wondered how many people behind the glassed storefronts had just witnessed that. Not that I had any reason to be embarrassed. It was just . . . way public.
Flustered, I hopped on my bike and headed home. I was halfway there when it hit me.
Pete was upset before he discovered the missing tire.
I U-turned, planning on confronting him about it. If something was up, I wanted to know. Honesty was important in relationships. Otherwise they could go south fast.
I pedaled faster, recalling everything else I had read in Teen Time about situations like these. Unfortunately, my memory retained more images of pricey cosmetics and cute but impractical shoes than stuff from the advice column.
For the forty bazillionth time this week, I resolved to improve my memory and cobbled together what I would say to Pete. Should I be direct? Beat around the bush? I fretted because nothing sounded right.
I need not have bothered. When I rounded the final corner, Pete and his bike were gone.
***
I ran the whole scenario past Becca that evening on the phone as I readjusted the fluffy pillow between my head and my bedroom floor. My feet were propped up on my bed, and I stared past my gingham curtains at a squirrel skipping across the limb of the honey locust outside my window.
Squirrels have it easy. Gather nuts, sleep all winter, repeat.
“Gabby, it might be nothing. Just ask him about it. You can even do it at lunch, and I’ll watch for any subtle nuances you might miss.”
I considered and then dismissed her suggestion. “I dunno. Seems wrong to bushwhack him in front of an audience.”
“Then call him. Or wait until after school. Speaking of which, any progress on the missing bike or your monologue?”
I was about to protest about the change of topic but decided she was right. I needed all the help I could get with both investigations.
“Nothing yet,” I grumbled.
“You’ll be fine. You have lots of leads in the letter, and you’re practically a junior detective.”
I grinned at Becca’s detective. It carried the same warm, fuzzy feeling as the labels “girlfriend” and “star of stage and screen” did. The only problem was I had no idea how to proceed with any of the leads.
“Becca, how can I do research? It’s not like I can check out a library book on tracking down people with Hope as a first name.”
“No, but I bet Mrs. Gibson has ideas.” Mrs. Gibson was Oceanside Middle School’s friendly, super-helpful media specialist—the fancy new term for librarian. She was not only a walking card catalogue, but she also remembered which books you liked and which you hated so that her recommendations were perfect 99 percent of the time.
“Plus, maybe that Dr. Hinkley will help. How cool would that be to work with a college professor?”
“True.” I mentally fussed at myself for not getting his contact information from Howie and decided I’d show Mrs. Gibson the letter tomorrow to see what she’d advise me to do.
“Sixteen thirty!” boomed Becca’s ex-marine dad in the background.
Over the years I had gathered that “sixteen thirty” was military talk for 8:30 p.m.
“I gotta swish, jellyfish,” Becca grumbled.
“Chop chop, lollipop.”
“See you later, alligator.”
“Pretty soon, Becca Baboon.”
I debated whether to call Pete or wait for him to call me. I didn’t want to seem desperate, but I did want to know if he got home all right. Curiosity won out.
I dialed and his little sister Suzy picked up.
“Can I talk to Pete, please?”
“Pete can’t come to the phone now. Bye.” Click.
My mouth hung open at her abrupt termination of the call. I redialed, planning to give the little brat a lesson in phone etiquette. After punching the fourth number, I stopped and got hold of my temper.
It made no sense to take my frustration with the Pete situation out on a seven-year-old. I would wait until tomorrow and deal with this thing in person.
CHAPTER 11
Pete seemed to be taking a lifetime to get through the lunch line. It made me wonder if he was purposely avoiding me.
“Who’s Alvin Ailey?” Becca asked, looking adoringly at Brandon.
“Just the greatest dancer, choreographer, and dance company founder ever.” Brandon’s voice oozed with admiration and pleasure. “You talked to Mrs. Baker, didn’t you?”
“No,” Becca admitted. “Gabby told me.”
“Guilty as charged. But you don’t get the prize for weirdest request. I do.” I filled him in on what I was planning to do as Pete finally arrived.
He avoided eye contact, fiddling with his milk carton like he’d never opened one before.
“So, who will be the other chipmunks?” asked Paulette, another one of our BFFLs. Her parents were super rich and she was super pretty, so it made no sense at all she’d be hanging with us. Except for the facts we were all in drama club together and I’d helped locate her dog when it disappeared.
Despite everything Paulette had going for her, she was a little slow in the brains department. Or maybe she just processed information differently. It took me and everyone else a minute to figure out Paulette was still on the Alvin-the-dancer part of the conversation. We all looked at each other, unable to piece together what chipmunks had to do with anything.
Then it hit me.
She must think Brandon is talking about Alvin and the Chipmunks. A mental image of Brandon dancing in a chipmunk costume flashed through my mind, and I started giggling. Brandon’s laughing eyes met mine. He’d gotten it too.
“Not Alvin and the Chipmunks,” Brandon explained through his chuckles. “Alvin Ailey. He revolutionized American modern dance by melding traditional dance forms with the unique dances of African Americans. Plus, he pioneered the idea that the arts should be put back into education.”
Everyone except Becca, who was mesmerized by anything Bran the Man said, looked just as clueless as Paulette did with that explanation. I felt a tap on my shoulder. Amy Snyder thumped a cream-colored envelope up and down to get my attention as if touching me or just standing next to our table might give her social cooties.
I turned and took the envelope, asking, “What’s this?”
“Donabell said you needed it to find her bike.” She backed away a step before fleeing back
to the safety of her own clique.
I turned back around to discover Pete had dumped his tray and was leaving. I raised my eyebrows at Brandon, hoping he could give me some answers.
“Do you know if anything is going on with Pete?” I tried for bored casual, but my apprehension oozed through. I hoped I didn’t sound desperate. I crossed my fingers under the table, waiting for Brandon to get done chewing and answer.
Brandon’s green eyes met mine. Instead of the dazzling emerald amusement that melted Becca’s heart every time, I saw . . . discomfort? Sorrow?
He shrugged vaguely. “Gotta run. Catch you all later.”
I opened my mouth to call him back, but not a sound peeped out. I slumped back into my seat, my stomach starting to churn.
“That wasn’t good,” Becca muttered.
She was right. Things were bad.
But things could always get worse.
CHAPTER 12
“Open book pop quiz,” announced my civics teacher, Mr. Cicorelli, as he raised the map of the United States to reveal the five questions lurking behind it on the whiteboard.
My heart plummeted into my already agitated stomach.
I had no book. I had forgotten to retrieve it from the auditorium after I’d stuffed it under the seat there. When I looked at the questions, I had no hope of earning a passing grade.
1. Which court case ended with the ruling “separate but equal”?
I had no idea. I glanced around. To my right, students were flipping through their books, pausing to thump a finger down as a placeholder. To my left, pencils skittered madly across paper. Why hadn’t I remembered to pick up my book?
I raised my hand.
“What is it, Gabby?” asked Mr. Cicorelli. He looked perplexed, his bushy brows drawn together like kissing caterpillars.
“I left my book in the auditorium by mistake.”
My teacher shook his head and looked ready to launch into a lecture when his face brightened with the intensity a normal person’s would have if they had just stopped world hunger or discovered a cure for leukemia.
The Bungled Bike Burglaries (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries Book 3) Page 4