Chapter 19: The Secret Room

It almost ends happily-ever-after.

I step through the doorway, which five seconds ago was a bookshelf, and into a bedroom. A child’s bedroom, in fact, with toys and a small bed, next to which sits a plump, golden stuffed unicorn.

A young girl is seated on the floor, before a Victorian dollhouse.

“Hello Philippa,” I say. The excitement within me is so strong, I want to leap in the air and kick my heels together. But I don’t want to frighten her (or fall flat on my face), so I keep my voice low and steady. “I’m Detective Mason. I’ve come to take you home.”

Philippa blinks up at me with wide brown eyes. “But this is my home. I got…adopted.”

Oh great. Turns out that Chloe fed the kid some cock-and-bull story that Chloe was her new adoptive mother. I crouch down and try to explain to her in a gentle, kid-friendly way that Chloe wasn’t telling the truth. “Ms. Browning and your friends are really worried about you,” I say. “And Eloise can’t wait to play with you and Goldie again.”

Philippa glances at her unicorn. “Do you think Eloise will mind that I changed Goldie’s name?” She sounds concerned. “Now I call him Beaners.”

I keep my voice serious. “I don’t think Eloise will mind one bit. Ready to get out of here?”

Philippa breaks into a huge smile. “You mean I get to finally go outside the house. Yay!” She bounces on her toes. I take her hand, and I’m about to suggest that we run downstairs to get away from her kidnapper as quickly as possible. But just then, something bizarre happens.

One second, I’m looking at a thin girl with olive skin and long black hair. Then bam! A round, pink-cheeked girl with short brown hair is looking back at me. “What the— ?” I stumble back, holding up my hands as though to protect myself. “What…where did Philippa just go?”

“Silly,” said the girl-who-was-not-Philippa. “I am Philippa.” Then she stops, mouth falling open as she stares at me. “Oh my god…Al? Al Becerra?”

It’s like when you’re stuck in a dream where everything seems real, then you jerk awake and realize that you were asleep the whole time.

I am not Mason Hughes.

“Oh my god,” I repeat. I rub my eyes. “Oh my god! Melissa?” I squint down at her. It can’t be! But now, even though she’s many decades younger, I recognize the sparkling blue eyes, the stubborn, pointy chin. “What on earth happened to your hair?”

She rolls her eyes. “Look, my mom used to cut my hair with the kitchen shears, okay? I didn’t get to go to a real hair salon until I was in high school.”

The voice of Chloe floats in from somewhere downstairs. “Mason?”

I drop my voice. “We’ve got to go, kid. I need to deliver you to the orphanage.”

Melissa snaps back into the body of Philippa. “Can’t I just go home with you, so we can start searching for the phone booth?”

I shake my head. I want to explain that I haven’t yet found Richard, so the booth won’t appear, and that my housemate is a vampire who might eat her up. But there isn’t enough time. Chloe’s footsteps are growing louder, coming our way.

“I’ll collect you as soon as I can,” I promise. She clutches Beaners under her arm, then we step into the hallway. Chloe is standing there, fuming. “Run for it!” I tell Melissa-who-is-Philippa, and she bolts past Chloe and down the stairs.

“Come back here!” Chloe races after her, and I follow, fumbling for my phone at the same time. I dial emergency, then jump in front of Chloe, blocking her from getting near Philippa, who is cowering near the front door, unable to twist the old-fashioned locks to escape.

“You will never again steal another child,” I tell her, pouring my anger and disgust into each word. “You…you mime!”

The word describes her perfectly.

I guard the criminal until the police arrive, then Philippa and I head out into the night.

“I won’t forget,” I say in a quiet voice as I leave her in Ms. Browning’s care at the group home. “As soon as I’ve found Richard, I’ll come for you.”

She nods. She has the face and body of a child, but her eyes are filled with the wisdom and understanding of someone who has lived many years. “And then,” she says, “we’ll return home.”

Man, I hope she’s right.

Chapter 18: My Girlfriend is a Freaking Mime

I’m missing something. Some vital clue that would help me to locate the missing girl. But what? I sit, and I think. I pace, and I think. I go for a jog around town to help me clear my head (and that’s saying something, because I never jog). But nothing comes to me – no alarm, no light bulb, no earth-shattering revelation. I had scoured every inch of Raven Creek, and investigated everyone from janitors to baristas. There’s nothing left. It’s time, I know, to face the grim reality.

Little Philippa had either been kidnapped by some stranger passing through town, or she’s dead.

I’m not ready to face up to either possibility, especially the idea that her remains could be buried in some sicko’s basement right now. I decide to head to Chloe’s house for comforting. Maybe after a night in her arms, I’ll be ready to call it quits on the search.

“It’s after midnight,” she says, rubbing her eyes. She doesn’t look happy to see me. “I was about to head to bed.”

Still, she lets me in and listens patiently as I share my worries about Philippa. “Cases like this make me think about changing careers,” I say.

“I’ve changed careers like, five times,” says Chloe. She starts listing all the jobs she has, and I’m barely paying attention, until all of a sudden, she says something I can’t believe.

“Say that again?” I rub my ear, hoping that I heard her wrong.

She grins. “I said that I used to be a mime. For around six years. Once in a while, people still hire me for birthday parties and stuff.”

I resist the urge to shove her away from me right then and there. A mime? My girlfriend is a freaking mime!

Now I understand the feelings of uncertainty I’d been having lately whenever Chloe and I were together. Somehow, my instincts must have known that something about her was off. No one can be a mime and be a stable, rational human being. This honeymoon is definitely over.

“Hey Chloe.” I try to keep my voice bright. “Would you mind making me a cup of tea?”

“Now?” She sounds incredulous.

“It’s been a long day.”

“Well…I guess so.” I wait until she disappears into the kitchen. Then I put on my detective hat,  figuratively speaking, and begin to search the one place in Raven Creek I had neglected to search: Chloe’s house.

I creep from room to room, scanning for anything I may have missed while head-over-heels for Chloe. Then I head upstairs, cringing when one of the steps groans under my weight. I pause, certain that Chloe has heard and will come running out of the kitchen to see what I’m up to. But she doesn’t.

The upstairs bedrooms are dark and silent. I flip on the light switches and glance around, but see nothing out of the ordinary. I’m filled with disappointment. Not that I want my girlfriend to be a kidnapper or anything, but at least the idea gave me a glimmer of hope for finding Philippa alive.

I’m about to go back downstairs when I notice something odd. At the end of hallway, there’s a huge bookcase against one wall. My first thought is, Chloe can’t stand to read, one of the differences between me and her. My second thought is, who puts a massive bookcase in a narrow hallway? My detective spidey senses are tingling.

I walk over and examine the books, which are an eclectic mixture of how-to manuals and classic works of literature. Nothing too out of the ordinary there. But then, I hear a small sound from behind the books, and I swear it sounds like a sneeze. What the…?

Now I’m convinced – this is not a mere bookshelf. I flip through the books, searching for a button to press, a handle, or something. Then I push gently on a row of books. There is a click, and a sound of a motor humming.

A panel opens up in the bookcase, revealing a doorway to another room. Without hesitation, I step inside.

Chapter 17: My Housemate Really Sucks

Things in Raven Creek are not at all what they appear to be.

For starters, I am about ninety-nine percent sure that my housemate, Lloyd, is a vampire. Which is impossible, because vampires don’t exist, right? But the other night, I accidentally wandered into Lloyd’s bedroom while fumbling around in the dark, searching for the bathroom. Lloyd was fast asleep. But get this – he was sleeping on a hard slab of stone, which looked an awful lot like a coffin.

Now, maybe that wasn’t so unusual. Plenty of people have unusual fixations. Maybe Lloyd is just really fond of the macabre, or maybe the hard granite is good for his bad back. Who knows? But the very next day, I stepped inside the house just in time to see him hypnotize a visitor. I stood there blinking for a moment, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. But the visitor’s eyes went glassy, and his body went kind of slack. Next thing I knew, Lloyd was having a snack from the visitor’s jugular – vampire style. Then, as I stood there in horror, he managed to convince the visitor that nothing unusual had just happened.

I backed away, still having gone unnoticed by Lloyd, and pretended to have just come through the front door.

After that incident, I have kept my distance from my roommate. I don’t want to be the only one in the room when he gets a sudden snack attack! On the other hand, maybe he already has snacked on my blood, but has made me forget all about it. The idea makes my insides curl.

I try to shove my roommate’s secret identity out of my mind, though, because I have other work to do. Now that Chloe and I have discovered the little bedroom hidden in Scotty’s Toys, I know that I must investigate Poindexter Scott again. He had seemed so innocent, and genuinely concerned for the missing child when I questioned him in his shop. But it would have been so simple for him to hide Philippa in the little bedroom, locked away from shoppers. Only one question remains – if he had been keeping Philippa in the hidden bedroom, then where is she now?

I wait until nightfall to approach the toy seller’s house; a small cottage that reminds me of the gingerbread house in the story of Hansel and Gretel. Just right for luring children, I think, shuddering.

I creep around the grounds, looking for anything unusual, and rummage through his trash bins, looking for discarded Goldfish crackers, juice boxes, anything that might indicate that a child may be within these walls. But I find nothing.

And then, the porch light snaps on. Scotty himself is standing there, peering down at me. “Can I help you, Detective Hughes?” he asks.

I step away from the trash can. “Yes. I have a few more questions regarding the disappearance of Philippa Jordan.”

Scotty holds open his front door. “Then please, come in. I dare say that will be more productive than searching through my rubbish.”

“Do you mind if I look around?” I ask as I follow him inside.

“By all means.”

I search the house, finding nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until I descend into Scotty’s basement. It is used as a workshop, it seems, and toys are scattered throughout. Many of the toys are unfinished, or covered in a layer of dust – most likely not touched by a child or anyone for a very long time. I turn to leave, and then I spot it. A single, gold-colored stuffed unicorn sits on a high shelf against a wall. Goldie. Tucking the unicorn under one arm, I head upstairs to confront Scotty.

“You told me that Philippa’s toy unicorn was the only golden unicorn,” I say. “So how do you explain this?”

Scotty shakes his head. “You misunderstood me. Philippa’s toy is the only golden unicorn I sold. However, there were two in all. This, the second golden unicorn, is my own personal property.”

I thank Scotty for his cooperation, then leave, gritting my teeth in frustration. I had been so sure that the seemingly innocent toy seller was a twisted kidnapper in disguise. But I have no evidence of that. I had been sure that my housemate was a semi-normal human being until I discovered he was a vampire. Is there anything or anyone in this town that I can be sure of?

Not Chloe, says a small voice in the back of my mind. Chloe cannot be trusted, either.

 

Chapter 16: Cherry Pie & French Fries

If my life were a dark basement, then Chloe Vargas is like a fluorescent light. Okay never mind. Bad analogy. But the thing is, this dismal, depressing town was beginning to make me feel trapped, stifled. Then Chloe showed up, the fresh air I needed in my lungs, a wide swath of unexplored land. She has this way of walking, swaying her hips and arms like she’s a model on the runway instead of an ordinary twenty-eight-year-old barista.

Scratch that. Chloe is anything but ordinary. She reads Ayn Rand and Kafka. She listens to 1920s jazz while washing dishes by hand. By hand! She doesn’t even own a dishwasher, or television, or computer. She’s a vegetarian, but the cherry-pie and French fry sort of vegetarian, not the soy and salad kind.

She’s amazing.

Two weeks after we meet, Chloe becomes my partner in crime-solving. Well, okay, she becomes more than just that. Way more.

But besides all that, she becomes a huge help in solving the Philippa case. I mean, I still haven’t found Philippa or anything, but with Chloe’s great ideas, I think I may be on the verge at last.

“The problem is,” she tells me, “you’ve played it too safe so far. You’ve checked all the normal places. All the safe places. But let’s face it – things may not have turned out too well for this poor kid.”

She’s right, of course. So I roll up my sleeves and begin to scour the town like never before. I check the crumbling, abandoned warehouses.

I explore rotting shacks, storm cellars, caves. I even poke around the tombs at the cemetery, all while shuddering at the idea that someone might entomb a young child at such a place.

There is no sign of Philippa. But Chloe doesn’t let me grow discouraged. “Is there any clue at all? Anything that bears checking out twice?” she asks. “Think, Mason, think!”

I stroke my chin, very detective-like. “I still think there may have been something fishy about Mr. Scotty at the toy store,” I say slowly.

Her eyes dance. “Then let’s go have another look!”

I glance at my cell phone. “It’s almost midnight. We’ll have to wait until the shop opens tomorrow.”

She raises her eyebrows so high, they practically disappear into her hairline. “Are you a detective, or aren’t you?” she says. With a cat-like grin, she whirls around and begins sashaying toward the toy store. I follow her lead, filled with awe at her boldness and disbelief that I was about to break into a store.

Using the lights from our phones, we examined every inch of the shop, but found nothing unusual, nothing out of place. “I guess that’s it then.” I turn to leave, filled with both disappointment and relief. I was hoping the toy store guy was innocent, even though I want to find the missing girl.

“Hey wait! Check it out.” Chloe has discovered a door, which is partially hidden behind a shelf of toys. She tries the knob, and the door swings open. We step inside a small bedroom, furnished with dark, heavy furniture. But the strangest thing is that perched upon the small table beside the bed is a doll. “Now what would an old man like Scotty be doing with a doll in his room?” Chloe clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Busted.”

It sure looks like we may have a real, genuine suspect. This room would be a perfect place to hide away a child. But if Philippa had been held captive here, where is she now?

“Maybe he—” Chloe starts to say.

I hold up a hand. “Don’t say it. We can’t lose hope. Not yet.”

It is time to confront the toy man.

Chapter 15: Scotty’s Toys and Novelties

I’ve been in Raven Creek for five days now, and it’s starting to get to me. The constant blanket of fog has crept into my bones and settled there, filling me with a heavy sense of dread. Each morning, I drag myself out of bed and take a long, hot shower, trying to shake off the chill.

Find Philippa, becomes my daily mantra. It wakes me from my stupor, helps me to focus on the reason why I came here. Find Philippa, before it’s too late.

With no leads, and a dead-end police report, I have no option but to begin investigating random citizens. This is easier said than done. Half the citizens of Raven Creek are as cold and reclusive as my roommate, Lloyd. And the other half, while cooperative, are eccentric and boisterous.

“Sure, I saw a little girl who looked like that,” says a man whose braided hair is dyed the same garish shade of orange as his shirt. “Back in… oh, what year was that? I can’t remember, but I had to be around fourteen years old…”

“Never mind,” I tell him, then move on to speak to a few people who seem to have the same sunlight deficiency as Lloyd. I sit at a table with a quiet pair of guys for at least twenty minutes before one of them finally looks up from his book to suggest, “Why don’t you try searching some place where little kids tend to hang out?”

I hate that I didn’t think of that first.

Over the next couple of days, I take the guy’s advice. I question every staff member at Philippa’s school, including the janitor and cafeteria staff. I scope out the playground, the ice cream parlor, the library. No one is able to recall seeing Philippa. It’s as though the whole town has amnesia. And then, while wandering through the shopping district, I stumble across Scotty’s Toys and Novelties. A toy store – of course! What more likely place for a young child to have spent her time?

The décor of the toy store is as dark and old-fashioned as many other shops in town. However, the heavy furnishings and wallpaper are offset by brightly-hued throw rugs and wall-hangings, and shelves and shelves of colorful toys and games.

As I scan the rows of miniature cars and fashion dolls, my eyes fall across a shelf full of stuffed animals. Unicorns, to be exact. Like Goldie, I think, recalling the words of Philippa’s best friend.

“Excuse me,” I say, waving over the man behind the counter.

“Yes?” Everything about the man screams purple, from his purple bowler hat and suit to his purple-tinted hair and moustache. Yet my senses are no longer shocked by such an appearance, thanks to my exposure to the rest of the town’s citizens. “How can I help you?”

“Do you know if this store has ever sold a golden unicorn that looks like these?” I point at the stuffed toys.

“Of course,” says the man. “Let’s see…I have sold exactly one golden unicorn since I opened this shop twelve years ago.”

“You opened this shop?” I raise my eyebrows. “Then you must be—”

“Why yes, indeed. My name is Poindexter Scott, owner and proprietor of Scotty’s Toys and Novelties.” He sweeps into a full bow, and his hat falls to the floor.

I ask Mr. Scott a few questions, but he insists that he hasn’t seen a child who looks like Philippa around his shop. “At least, not lately,” he adds. “I am sure that I have seen this child before. She came into my shop two years ago. Just a tiny little thing carrying a small sack full of coins, which she’d collected all by herself. She was the child who bought my only golden unicorn.”

That was Philippa all right, I am sure of it. I thank Mr. Scott for his time and ask him to contact me at once if he thinks of any additional information. Then I return to my search, no closer to finding Philippa than I had been when I began. Who would have a motive to kidnap a young orphan girl? Some deranged local or passing traveler? A desperate couple with no children of their own? I am running out of ideas, and fearful that Philippa, wherever she is, is running out of time.

And then, I meet Chloe Vargas. And that’s when everything changes.

 

Chapter 14:The Detective of Raven Creek

I arrive in Raven Creek shortly after five in the morning, and it has begun to pour rain. The house is enormous – much larger than in the online description, with gray stone walls and Gothic era windows. It would look bizarre in a more metropolitan area, like Chicago, New York, or Los Angeles. But here in this dreary, rain-drenched town, it looks perfectly normal.

As I approach the gate leading to the house, the front door opens, and a man steps onto the porch. “Hello! Are you…uh…” I consult the name in my cell phone. “Lloyd Miller?”

“I am he.” The man displays no warmth in his greeting. “I assume you must be my new renter?”

“Yeah, I’m Mason Hughes. Detective Hughes,” I correct myself. I’m standing directly in front of Lloyd now, whose clothes are as formal as his manner of speech, and whose skin is a ghastly shade of white, almost greenish. I wonder whether he’s anemic or if he could just use a few hours of sun.

Lloyd motions for me to step inside. “Allow me to show you to your room,” he says. “Your luggage arrived yesterday, by the way.” As I follow him through the house, which is dimly lit and smells like dust, he goes over a list of tenant rules. The usual stuff, like no loud music, no pets, blah blah blah. I know the whole spiel, having lived in twenty different rental rooms in the past five years. The cities change, the faces change, but the rules don’t change much.

I must admit, though, that this is the most unusual house I’ve ever stayed in. The dark heavy furnishings and ornate woodwork are so archaic, that I am momentarily shocked when I set up my modern computer system and it works.

My latest job is a serious one. Many people contact me to seek out old acquaintances, or to spy on their ex-partners to satisfy some jealous rage. But this time, my client contacted me to search for a missing person. A child, to be exact.

After a few hours of shut-eye, I set out to visit my client. Sue Browning is a plump, middle-aged woman and the head of a group foster care home. Her face is set into a permanent scowl, etched with deep lines. But when she addresses the children in her care, her voice is gentle and kind.

“Philippa is a nine-year-old girl, with long black hair and brown eyes,” says Ms. Browning. “She was last seen leaving her school three weeks ago. She never made it onto the school bus.”

“Have the police found any clues to her possible whereabouts?” I ask.

Ms. Browning sneers. “The police,” she says, spitting out the word as though it tastes bad, “barely did anything more than take her name and photo and promise to do the best they can do. As far as I’ve seen, all they did was scout around town for a few days and scour the woods. They think she could have fallen into the lake, but they refuse to drain it, because it’s too costly.” Her eyes well with tears, and she reaches for a tissue. “Excuse me,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s just that these children are like my own family. And I just miss Philippa so much.”

After I gather as much information as I can from Ms. Browning, I interview the other children. One of the kids, a skinny young girl named Eloise, tells me that Philippa is her best friend. “Me and her and Goldie always play together,” she says. “But she got stolen. And Goldie, too.”

I frown. “Goldie was stolen, too? Is that another friend of yours?”

“No, silly,” Eloise shakes her head, smiling. “Goldie is a golden unicorn.”

“I see.” So Goldie is an imaginary creature. Too bad. I was hoping to have more solid leads.

I leave the foster home, heading for the town center. My plan is to investigate all the places Philippa usually goes – her school, the park, everywhere. And if that doesn’t help, I will interview every single one of the 3,000 residents of Raven Creek. If that little girl is hidden somewhere in the vicinity, I am going to find her.

Chapter 13: Football Fails and Future-Thinking

She is dressed in Donna’s clothes, but the girl standing there is not Donna. Another name drifts into my mind – a name that brings with it a rush of memories. “Melissa?” As soon as I’ve uttered the name, I clamp my teeth together. Donna, she’s Donna, I tell myself. People can’t transform into other people.

But they can, says that other voice. This time, the voice is familiar. It is Al’s voice. No, my voice, I correct myself as once again, Raymond’s memories are muted, and my own thoughts take over. They are foggy, though. I wonder how much time I’ll get before I lose myself again. Maybe the longer I inhabit someone else’s body, the more I become suppressed inside them.

Donna-Melissa is nodding. “Yes, it’s me.” Her eyes sparkle in the light of the streetlamp. “Are you Al or Richard?”

“Al, of course.” I frown. How could she possibly get me mixed up with Richard? Even though I have never shown her a picture of Teenage Me, surely my appearance doesn’t even resemble Teenage Richard’s.

She laughs. “I’m kidding. So, how do you like this trip?” She waves a hand around in the air. “Isn’t it a hoot?”

I snort. “Easy for you to say. I mean, look at me!” I point down at my leather jacket and rolled-up jeans. “I look like Pony Boy, for crying out loud!”

“I think you look adorable,” she says. “And you play a mean guitar.”

“Yeah?” I grab her around the waist and pull her toward me. “That’s not the only trick I’ve got up my sleeve.” Before she can respond, I kiss her. Greaser-style.

“Well,” she says as we pull apart. “I hope you don’t forget how to kiss like that when we finally get back home again.”

Oh yeah. Home. “Any idea of who Richard could be?” I mean, I would happily jump back into the phone booth and leave Richard stranded. But I have the feeling it doesn’t work without the three of us together.

She grins. “What if he’s Principal O’Reilly?”

“Oh, I know!” I say, laughing. “Maybe he’s my mom!”

“Or your girlfriend.”

“Ugh!” I’m so repulsed by the thought, I forget to remind her that Helen is not my girlfriend.

The mystery doesn’t remain unsolved for long. Melissa invites me over her house to “tutor” her the next day. We’re actually planning to sneak off to her room and make out for awhile, and maybe more (I mean hey, technically, we’re both consenting adults). But 1957 rears its ugly head.

“Donna, you know that boys are not allowed in your room,” her mother tells her in a loud whisper after she intercepts us in the hall. Then she turns to me, smiling. “Raymond, dear. I’m sure that Dean is available if you boys would like to go outside and toss around the football.”

“Want to?” asks Dean, jumping up from the sofa with the enthusiasm of a dog who’s been offered a game of fetch with a tennis ball.

“Football?” I try to paste a polite smile on my face. I don’t play football as 1957 Raymond or present day me. “Sure. That’d be…swell.”

With a horrified look toward Donna, I follow Dean out to the lawn, where there’s already a football waiting for us in the grass. I pick it up with a grimace, then cross the lawn. Dean is waiting for the throw, hands poised to catch it. I try to remember how to hold the ball, then rear back one arm and throw it.

The ball does not sail through the air in a perfect spiral. Instead, it flops across the yard in a lazy arc, landing easily in Dean’s hands.

“Wow,” he says, laughing, “you really stink at this.” All of a sudden, he shifts. Now Teenage Richard is standing there in Dean’s letterman jacket, still laughing at me. I guess some things never change.

“Richard!” Melissa runs over and throws her arms around his neck. For a sickening moment, I think she’s going to kiss him. But maybe she remembers that in this reality, he’s her brother, because she steps away.

Richard looks stunned. “Melissa?” He looks over at me. “Alan?”

I let out an exasperated huff. “My name is Al,” I say. “Not Alan.”

The Wonder Triplets were together again. So, I’ll just fast-forward a couple of days, to when we manage to find our magic phone booth. At least, we assume it’s our magic phone booth, since it’s parked in the middle of a grassy field and all.

“Maybe we need to try something different to control this thing,” I suggest. “Like think futuristic thoughts. Visualize Apple Heights or something.”

The others agree. “Just try not to get us transported back to the Jurassic era,” says Richard, smirking. “I’m not in the mood to get eaten by a dinosaur.”

“I’ll try my best,” I say, then climb into the phone booth. As it starts its whirling, dizzying spin cycle, I try to think of present-day thoughts. My grandkids. Melissa’s art. The mediocre food at Sleepy Meadows Retirement Home. Then everything goes still.

 

 

Chapter 12: Why Do Fools Fall in Love?

“Hi there.” Donna’s smile is really pretty. “Come on in.”

I feel like Tony is beating on his drums inside my chest. I’m in Donna Wagner’s house! I’m going to tutor Donna Wagner in math!

Her big brother, Dean, smirks as I sit down at their kitchen table and pull out my book. “I didn’t know greasers did algebra,” he says.

I give him a hard stare. “I figure we greasers can do whatever we want. Same as you.” I hope he’ll go away and let Donna and me be alone, but he lingers in the kitchen, eating while we work. Once in a while, he interrupts to ask a question.

“Hey, you’re pretty good at this stuff,” he says when at last we close our math books. I raise an eyebrow, trying to catch the sarcasm, but he actually sounds sincere.

I should be pretty good at it, says that weird, nagging voice at the back of my mind. I aced three semesters of calculus courses back in college.

Calcu-what? I shake my head, trying to clear my mind of crazy talk.

I’m about to head home, but Dean invites me to stay and watch TV, which I do, because it means more time to be near Donna. And besides, Dragnet is on, and that’s a swell show.

Would be even better on a color screen, and with surround sound, says the crazy voice. I keep swatting at it, like it’s a fly, but it keeps coming back again and again. My name is Al Becerra, not Raymond Garrett!

I’m so distracted by Donna’s presence and the crazy voice, that I forget to invite Donna and Dean to Roxanne’s the next night, to hear my band play. It turns out to be a great show, too. Lots of people stop by to listen and dance along. Some people even drop coins in my guitar case. I keep hoping that the door will swing open, and Donna will appear, but she doesn’t. Which is maybe a good thing, because I forgot all about Helen.

Now first off, Helen is not my girlfriend, no matter what she says. Yeah, she’s always hanging around me and the guys. Yeah, she sends me flower-scented love notes at school, which I do not answer back. And yeah, sometimes we go to the movies and hold hands, and even neck a little. But never once did I ask her to be my girl. Never once did I ask her to wear my jacket.

But still, better not to make her jealous. The girl’s a wildcat. There’s no telling what she might do.

All the disappointment I feel for Donna missing the show fades away the next night. I waltz into Roxanne’s, and there she is, blowing flavored bubbles at the bubble counter. Her face lights up when she sees me. “Want to join me?” she asks.

I perch on the stool beside her, feeling kinda stupid as I blow giant orange and cherry-flavored bubbles into the air. But Donna seems to be enjoying herself.

When she grows tired, of bubble-blowing, I treat her to a Coke, then put my last nickel in the jukebox.

“Oh, I love this song!” Donna claps her hands together as Why Do Fools Fall in Love begins to play.

I swallow. “So uh…do you want to dance?”

“Okay, sure,” she says. Then before I know it, we’re dancing. Not very well, but Donna doesn’t seem to care. We just shimmy and sway and hop, singing along with the jukebox, having a grand ol’ time.

Too soon, the music fades away. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m out of money.”

“That’s okay.” We just stand there for a moment, staring at each other. Her eyes are a warm golden brown, like maple syrup. Kiss her, dummy! The crazy voice nags.

I almost do, too. But then, a different, shriller voice cuts into my thoughts. “What is she doing with you?”

Oh no. Helen is here. She glowers at Donna, her hands balled into tight fists. “Get away from my boyfriend!” she shrieks.

“I’m not—” I start to say. But Helen draws back her hand and strikes Donna across the face. Donna gasps and clutches her cheek, which turns bright red.

“Helen, no!” I cry, but Helen ignores me. She attacks Donna, who fights back. Other kids come running to watch the whirlwind of nails, hair, and pummeling fists, until at last, a man pries the two girls apart.

“You young ladies should be ashamed of yourselves,” he scolds. “I have a good mind to call both of your mothers. And you.” He whirls around to frown at me. “You’d best beat it, kid.”

It wasn’t my fault, I want to say, but the guy is pointing toward the door, and I can tell he means business. I shove out into the cold, not daring to look back at Donna. She must hate me right now. I make it about a block away from Roxanne’s when I hear her voice calling out behind me. Only, she’s not calling my name.

“Al!” she says. “Al, wait!”

Al? I turn around, curious to see who this Al kid is. Then I stop. I can’t believe my eyes.

 

11: The Principal’s Office

It can’t be true, I tell myself as I rush to the bathroom. But one glance in the mirror confirms that it is true. I, Al Becerra, am now trapped inside the body of a sixteen-year-old kid. A guitar-playing, leather-wearing, greasy-haired punk of a teenage kid, named Raymond.

How long have I been here? My head is spinning as I wander into the living room, where Ma – I mean, Mrs. Garrett, is seated on the sofa. Raymond’s life and memories are a vivid swirl of color and sound in my mind, while memories of my own life are as faded as the ancient, black-and-white television Mrs. Garrett is watching. I was old once. An elderly man, playing chess in a retirement home. I was married before that, and had kids of my own, who were all grown up. But that all feels like it had happened centuries ago. Was it even real?

“Aren’t you up rather late, darling?” Raymond’s mother twists around to look at me.

“I-I was just practicing,” I hold up my guitar, which I’m still clutching. “For the big show this Friday night.”

“Okay, well, I hope you got your homework done.” Ma – Raymond’s Ma, I correct myself – gives me a little smile, then turns back to the TV. It occurs to me how tired I am. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m forgetting something. Something important. But for now, I head to my room – Raymond’s room, crawl into the messy bed, and go to sleep.

When I wake the next morning, my little wind-up alarm clock shows that it’s already eight o’clock. “Shoot!” I leap out of bed and pull on the same rumpled clothes I’d left in a heap the night before. Ma has already left for work, and I hadn’t set my alarm clock. Maybe that’s the important thing I’d been forgetting.

The school bus is long gone, so I half-walk, half-run to school, arriving just as the last bell is ringing. My sneakers squeak against the polished floors as I race through the hallway, then slip into my first-period math class. Mr. Hanks is writing a math problem on the blackboard and doesn’t even turn around as I sink into one of the back seats.

“You’re late,” Eddie Yarrow is smirking next to me.

“Aw, shut yer yap,” I whisper back, then pull out a pencil and paper.

Just as I’m beginning to relax, a nasally, female voice comes through the crackly loudspeaker. “Raymond Garrett, please report to the principal’s office.” Raymond Garrett – that’s me! My face burns as everyone, including Mr. Hanks, turns around to look at me, mouths forming surprised Os. The principal’s office?

I rack my brain as I walk toward the office, trying to think of something awful I’d done, but the only thing I could think of was being late for school today. Mostly, I’m a keep-your-nose-clean kind of guy, you see? People only think I’m a troublemaker on account of my clothes and hair. Which is kind of dumb, when you think about it.

The secretary waves me into Principal O’Reilly’s office, which is full of uncomfortable furniture and about a million books. As I take a seat on a hard wooden chair, I let out a sneeze. Probably on account of the dust on all those books.

The first thing Principal O’Reilly says is, “No need to worry, young man. You’re not in trouble.” I don’t even notice I’m holding my breath until he says that, then I let it out in a rush. It turns out that the principal heard of my outstanding scores in math.

“Of course I have outstanding scores,” I blurt out. “I used to be a video game developer.”

I wince the moment I say it. Why did I say that? And what the blazes was a video game developer? Principal O’Reilly leans forward, squinting at me, maybe trying to figure out if I should be locked up the loony bin. And maybe I should be locked up, because all of a sudden, my minds starts flashing with images of colorful, cartoon-like creatures on a screen like a TV. Exploding spaceships. Scaly monsters. Hulking soldiers shooting at each other with enormous guns. Video games, says an impatient voice in my mind.

I’m only half aware that Principal O’Reilly has started talking again. I blink away the crazy thoughts that don’t make any sense, and try to focus on what he’s telling me.

“Sir…are you saying that you want me to tutor this other student? In math?” I ask.

“Yes. Here is the address. She will be expecting you starting today after school.”

I want to say, “Are you sure about this? You know, most kids don’t think too fondly of us greasers.” But instead, I just take the slip of paper and shove it into my jeans pocket.

After school, I hang out with the gang at Roxanne’s for a little while, goofing around and planning our upcoming gig. Then I remember the tutoring job and hightail it outta there. As I follow the address on the slip of paper, I realize that I didn’t hear Principal O’Reilly say the name of the student I’d be helping with math. Only that it was a she.

I ring the doorbell at the girl’s house, then yank my comb from my back pocket and smooth it through my hair. Maybe whoever it was would look down her nose at me, anyway, but at least I could look presentable. Then the door swings open, and there she is. The girl I’ve been assigned to tutor. The prettiest girl in town. Donna Wagner.

 

Chapter 10: Greasers, A Gig, and a Girl

Today, I’m over the moon.

Go ahead, ask me why. Because me and the gang get to play our very first gig, that’s why! Ain’t that a kick?

Yesterday after school, the boys and me met up at Roxanne’s. That’s the usual hangout, on account of their Cokes are never flat, and their jukebox has a bunch of the good songs, like stuff by The Platters and Frankie Lymon. None of that boring junk my mother and her friends play at their Tupperware parties.

“You’ll never guess what!” said my friend, Spots. (His name is really Mitchell, but we all call him Spots on account of his face looks like somebody spilled a bowl of freckles on it).

“Your brother Hector let you drive his car,” said Tony.

Spots guffawed. “No, dummy. Even better. I got us a gig! Right here at Roxanne’s, next Tuesday.”

I gaped at him. “No joking?”

He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Hector snorted. “Get a load of Boy Scout Spots.”

I grinned. At last! Our band, The Goobers, had been practicing in my garage for nearly two years. And now, we were getting a chance to play for our first live audience.

That wasn’t the only good thing that happened. As I swaggered over to the counter to order me a Coke, she was standing there. Donna Wagner. The prettiest girl in school. No, the prettiest girl in town. I thought about saying Hi, I’m Raymond Garrett. I sit behind you in Mrs. Hicks’ English class. But just thinking about it made my hands start shaking so bad, I almost dropped my Coke, and gee, wouldn’t that have been embarrassing?

So that’s why I’m over the moon. A real, live gig, and a Donna Wagner spotting. Our band is pretty good, you know. Especially me on my guitar. I mean, I ain’t no Elvis or nothin’ – I don’t have any illusions like that. But I’m not half bad. And now everybody else in Hillview will get a chance to hear us play. Who knows? Maybe a talent scout will be hiding in the audience, just waiting to hand us a record deal. Boy oh boy!

While I’m still thinking about all of this and smiling like an idiot, I head into the garage where our band equipment is still set up.

Then I freeze.

It’s like a big whiff of wind comes along and blows the clouds away from the sun. I am not Raymond Garrett.

This is not my life.