we
never
find them, the house will always look different."
And he was right. I had always thought that our ordinary, shingled, unglamorous house was much like every other house on the block. It was no more interesting than Nancy Brinkerhoff's; we had a porch swing and the Brinkerhoffs didn't, but they had a chiming doorbell and ours was only a dull buzz. Even Mrs. Bostwick's house was ordinary, now that she had died and it had been sold to a young lawyer and his wife; they had painted and repaired it, planted flowers in the once unkempt yard, and today their baby's playpen stood on the porch, the way Stephie's had always stood on ours until she outgrew it. Ours had always been an ordinary street of ordinary houses filled with ordinary things and people.
Until now. Now our house was special, because Claude had come and gone, and now, somewhere, we had a treasure.
9
"Hey, Lulu," Tom called from his room. "Come in here a minute, will you?"
"The name is Louise," I said automatically, and folded the piece of paper on which I had been rearranging the letters of Claude's mysterious message. I put it into the drawer of my bedside table and went to the hall. Tom was standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
"What do you want?" I asked him.
"I want to talk to you. Marcus, too. Where is he?"
"He's in the attic. I'll call him." I went to the attic stairs and summoned Marcus, who shook his head at me as he came down, streaked once again with dirt. Nothing. He had found nothing.
We went to Tom's room, and I marveled once again, as I always did, how someone fourteen years old could be so tidy and organized. Mother was not
as good a housekeeper as Tom. His books were arranged alphabetically, and if you borrowed one without asking and put it back in the wrong spot, he knew; and you were
dead.
His clothes were always hung up; his bed was always made; and even his baseball cap was on a shelf and his sneakers were lined up neatly side by side below it.
Marcus and I sat down on Tom's bed, and Tom sat at his desk, facing us, the way I imagined that a doctor would when he told you that you were going to die soon. And Tom had that same look on his face, the look that the doctor would have: grave, no-nonsense, and very concerned.
"I have a stone in my shoe," I announced, "and it's been there all day. I bet anything I'm going to have foot gangrene." Changing the subject was the way I handled anything that made me feel apprehensive, and Tom's look was making me feel apprehensive.
"If you do," Marcus said, "they'll have to cut your foot off. But they can make pretty good artificial ones."
"Listen, you two," Tom said, ignoring my foot gangrene, "I was talking to Joyce Stratton at school today."
I leaned over to investigate the stone in my shoe more thoroughly. Joyce Stratton was Kenny's older sister, and she was just as skinny and boring as Kenny, but I sure wished that Tom hadn't been talking to her.
"So?" Marcus said.
"So. She said that Kenny knew about that key, and that he had shown it to you kids, and that all three of you had been in the Leboffs' house."
"So, you know what that proves, Thomas Frederick Cunningham? It proves that Joyce Stratton knew about it, too! And maybe she was the person who robbed the house!" I drew myself up, prepared to testify against Joyce Stratton till the end of time.
"Yeah," Marcus added. "Joyce Stratton hangs around with that whole gang of junior high girls, and maybe they all did it together. Heck, maybe you even did it with them, Tom!"
Tom leaned back in his chair with a patient sigh. "Look, pip-squeaks," he began.
I interrupted him angrily. "Don't you dare call us that! Only Father calls us that!"
Tom tried again. "Okay, I'm sorry. But look, you guys. I know you didn't steal the stuff. And Joyce and Kenny didn't steal the stuff. I'm only trying to tell you that you could have gotten yourselves into a lot of trouble, breaking into the Leboffs' houseâ"
"It wasn't breaking into," Marcus said.
never
find them, the house will always look different."
And he was right. I had always thought that our ordinary, shingled, unglamorous house was much like every other house on the block. It was no more interesting than Nancy Brinkerhoff's; we had a porch swing and the Brinkerhoffs didn't, but they had a chiming doorbell and ours was only a dull buzz. Even Mrs. Bostwick's house was ordinary, now that she had died and it had been sold to a young lawyer and his wife; they had painted and repaired it, planted flowers in the once unkempt yard, and today their baby's playpen stood on the porch, the way Stephie's had always stood on ours until she outgrew it. Ours had always been an ordinary street of ordinary houses filled with ordinary things and people.
Until now. Now our house was special, because Claude had come and gone, and now, somewhere, we had a treasure.
9
"Hey, Lulu," Tom called from his room. "Come in here a minute, will you?"
"The name is Louise," I said automatically, and folded the piece of paper on which I had been rearranging the letters of Claude's mysterious message. I put it into the drawer of my bedside table and went to the hall. Tom was standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
"What do you want?" I asked him.
"I want to talk to you. Marcus, too. Where is he?"
"He's in the attic. I'll call him." I went to the attic stairs and summoned Marcus, who shook his head at me as he came down, streaked once again with dirt. Nothing. He had found nothing.
We went to Tom's room, and I marveled once again, as I always did, how someone fourteen years old could be so tidy and organized. Mother was not
as good a housekeeper as Tom. His books were arranged alphabetically, and if you borrowed one without asking and put it back in the wrong spot, he knew; and you were
dead.
His clothes were always hung up; his bed was always made; and even his baseball cap was on a shelf and his sneakers were lined up neatly side by side below it.
Marcus and I sat down on Tom's bed, and Tom sat at his desk, facing us, the way I imagined that a doctor would when he told you that you were going to die soon. And Tom had that same look on his face, the look that the doctor would have: grave, no-nonsense, and very concerned.
"I have a stone in my shoe," I announced, "and it's been there all day. I bet anything I'm going to have foot gangrene." Changing the subject was the way I handled anything that made me feel apprehensive, and Tom's look was making me feel apprehensive.
"If you do," Marcus said, "they'll have to cut your foot off. But they can make pretty good artificial ones."
"Listen, you two," Tom said, ignoring my foot gangrene, "I was talking to Joyce Stratton at school today."
I leaned over to investigate the stone in my shoe more thoroughly. Joyce Stratton was Kenny's older sister, and she was just as skinny and boring as Kenny, but I sure wished that Tom hadn't been talking to her.
"So?" Marcus said.
"So. She said that Kenny knew about that key, and that he had shown it to you kids, and that all three of you had been in the Leboffs' house."
"So, you know what that proves, Thomas Frederick Cunningham? It proves that Joyce Stratton knew about it, too! And maybe she was the person who robbed the house!" I drew myself up, prepared to testify against Joyce Stratton till the end of time.
"Yeah," Marcus added. "Joyce Stratton hangs around with that whole gang of junior high girls, and maybe they all did it together. Heck, maybe you even did it with them, Tom!"
Tom leaned back in his chair with a patient sigh. "Look, pip-squeaks," he began.
I interrupted him angrily. "Don't you dare call us that! Only Father calls us that!"
Tom tried again. "Okay, I'm sorry. But look, you guys. I know you didn't steal the stuff. And Joyce and Kenny didn't steal the stuff. I'm only trying to tell you that you could have gotten yourselves into a lot of trouble, breaking into the Leboffs' houseâ"
"It wasn't breaking into," Marcus said.
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