13 Gifts (18 page)

I didn’t even know there
was
an attic!

“But why are you getting rid of it now?” he asks.

“Because the guy wanted it,” she says. “Honestly, Roger, it’s no big deal.”

“But why does he want it?” Roger presses. “Maybe it’s worth something.”

“I don’t know why he wants it,” she says, reaching for the door. “Why don’t you ask him?”

My heart stops. There weren’t supposed to be any questions! Easy in, easy out.

“Hi,” Connor says, smiling a bit too wide. “I’m here for the trunk.”

“And what exactly would you be wanting with it?” Uncle Roger asks, peering out at him.

Connor’s smile slowly shrinks. He glances at me for a second, but there’s nothing I can do. “Um, I need a place to store my video game collection?”

“Good enough for me,” Aunt Bethany says. “Come on in. Ray, will you grab it from the attic? It’s the black one with the gold latch. Not real gold, Roger,” she adds.

“Okeydokey,” Ray says. Then he winks at me and says, “Still practicing my American.”

“No one says ‘okeydokey’ anymore,” I tell him.

We stand around awkwardly while Ray bounds up the stairs. “Wait a second,” Connor says. I cringe. What is he doing? “Are you Roger St. Claire? The inventor?”

Uncle Roger’s face lightens a bit. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Oh, wow! It’s an honor, sir. I’m a huge fan of the Sand-Free Beach Towel. Genius!”

“Is that so?” Uncle Roger says, sticking out his hand. Connor shakes it. “Well, well, what do you know? I have fans!”

“I want to be an inventor when I grow up,” Connor says. “I’ve got every issue of
Inventors Digest
since I was eight.”

Uncle Roger steps over to me. “Well, you should meet my niece, then. She’s interested in the field, too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Aunt Bethany says.

“It’s, um, kind of a new interest.”

“Good to meet you,” Connor says, shaking my hand.

“Yeah, you, too,” I mumble.

Ray brings the trunk down and lays it in the middle of the foyer. Roger glances at it, touches the scraped-up yellow latch and the dented sides, and turns back to me and Connor. “Tara,
what do you say we show Connor my lab? Show him where all the magic happens?”

“Um, I’m sure he has to go.”

“No, I can stay,” Connor says. “I’d love to see your lab.” I’d kick him if I could get away with it looking like an accident.

“Roger,” Aunt Bethany says, pointing to Emily descending the stairs in her fencing outfit.

“Oh, right. Well, maybe Tara should stay and show the boy my lab.”

Aunt Emily puts her hands on her hips. “You’re suggesting we leave our thirteen-year-old niece with a strange boy you only met five minutes ago based on the fact that he doesn’t like getting sand on his beach towel?”

Uncle Roger shrugs. “You wanted her to make friends. Here’s a nice boy with the same interests.”

“I can keep an eye on ’em,” Ray offers.

“You’re sure?” Aunt Bethany asks.

“What about my match?” Emily asks, pouting.

Uncle Roger puts his arm around her shoulder. “Tara can come to the next one. You’ll understand when you get older.”

She looks over her shoulder at me as Uncle Roger guides her out the door. “But Tara likes …”

If she completes her sentence, I thankfully don’t hear it.

Aunt Bethany reminds Ray to offer us lemonade and says they’ll be back before dinner. She takes one last glance at the steamer trunk, and shuts the door behind her. I plop down next
to the trunk in relief. “Gotta say, Connor, I’m impressed! How did you know just what to say to get him to trust you?”

“I didn’t! I’m really a huge fan!”

“Seriously?”

“Yup!”

I sigh. “Ray, would you mind taking him up to the lab? I want to tell the others we have the trunk.”

“Okeydokey.”

“I think I liked you better when I didn’t understand you.”

The two of them go upstairs and I’m alone with the trunk. It’s easy to see why Uncle Roger wouldn’t want it. Angelina must not know the kind of shape it’s in or else she probably wouldn’t want it either. The latch is unhinged, so I push up the lid to make sure nothing has been left inside. Good thing I did, because it’s filled to the brim with what looks like old costumes. Long skirts, white peasant blouses, vests, and shawls. Even clunky black shoes in various sizes.

Wait, a shawl! I pull it out and keep turning it until I find the initials
ER
sewn into the corner. This is it! The last item on the list! I’m done! I can’t believe it! Now I can give Angelina all this stuff and be free and clear of her. Debt all paid off with three weeks to spare! I have enough money left to buy David a really nice gift, too.

I put the shawl aside and dig through the rest quickly. I wonder if Aunt Bethany knew all this stuff was even in here. Or if it would have made any difference. I dig through the clothes until I get to the bottom, which appears to be lined with old papers. I reach in and grab a few. They’re pages of a play. I push the clothes aside until I can get all the pages, along with a
thin, stapled playbill. The cover of the booklet is torn and wrinkled, but still I can still read it.

THE WILLOW FALLS
COMMUNITY PLAYERS PRESENT:
FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

Friday, July 13, 4 pm
Tickets on sale now at the Community Playhouse Box Office
Come see this once-in-a-lifetime performance!

My middle school put on the same play last year, and everyone had to see it or it counted against your grade. I remember sleeping through the dialogue and waking up for the songs. It’s weird enough that the play was performed in Willow Falls on my birthday, but the weirdest thing is that the woman on the cover, in the white peasant blouse and long skirt, is Emily.

Chapter Nineteen

 

I hold the playbill on my lap. Yup, still looks like
Emily. I hold it up to the hundreds of bulbs in the chandelier above me. Still her. I know it can’t be. And the girl in the photo is at least fifteen years older. But it’s really uncanny.

I open the playbill and see Emily’s face again. Only this time there’s a name underneath the picture:
E
MILIA
M
AY
R
OSE AS
T
ZEITEL.

The next two pages are filled with black-and-white photos of the other actors and scenes from the set. On one of them Emily/Emilia is sitting on top of the same black trunk I’m leaning against right now! It looks much shinier in the picture and not so dented. In another picture, a man with a white beard is dancing around a barn.
A
VERY
P
ITTMAN AS
T
EVYE.
I’m about to turn the page when a giant key leaning up against the corner of the barn catches my eye. A giant key! How many giant keys are there in the world? I look at another picture. A scene in a kitchen. And there, on the table, is my basket with the heart-shaped handles! My head is starting to swim. Picture after picture. There’s the knife on the table next to a long roll of bread. There are the pearls around an old woman’s neck. There’s the violin in the Fiddler’s hands! And on and on!

There is no denying it. Angelina had me collect all the props from
Fiddler on the Roof
! I sit back on the hard floor, utterly flabbergasted. Why? Why on earth would she do that? Is it her idea of a joke? Deep down, even though she had called them trinkets and bric-a-brac, I had hoped there was some significance to her choices, some greater plan that made it worth separating the items from their owners. But there wasn’t. They were just props in an old play. What are the others going to think? It’s humiliating.

I thrust everything back in the trunk except for the playbill, which I fold up and tuck in my pocket. What I really want to do is gather all the items so I can dump them on Angelina’s counter and storm out of her shop. But it would take too long to gather them up. I don’t even want to take the time to go upstairs and tell Ray I’m leaving. So I call instead while I get out my bike.

“You’re seriously calling me from downstairs?” he asks as he picks up.

“Yes. I have to run back into town for something. Can you ask Connor to bring the trunk to David’s? I’ll deal with it later.”

“Okey —”

“Don’t say it.”

“Dokey.”

Ugh. I hang up and pedal my heart out until I reach the alley. I leave the bike leaning up against the watch-repair shop and run down the street, only half aware of the effort it takes not to twist my ankle on the cobblestones. The store, of course, is dark inside, but that doesn’t fool me. I walk right in and stand in the middle of the room. I wait. I watch the last slant of
late-afternoon sun come in from the top of a small side window. It hits a glass figurine of a dancer, lighting her up for a moment like fire, then letting her die out to ice as a cloud passes.

I wait some more.

Finally, the door to the back office opens. “Hello, Tara,” she says, placing a small box under the counter. “I thought we agreed I wouldn’t be seeing you here until you have everything on my list.”

“I do have everything.” I am calmer now, and glad for it. I want to keep my wits about me.

“All thirteen?” she says. “Wonderful! And so quickly! Where are they?”

“I have to round them up from a few different places. I wanted to ask you a question first. Why? Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do what, exactly?”

“Why did you have me collect thirteen props from
Fiddler on the Roof
? Was it just a test? To see if I’d actually do it?”

She bursts out laughing. “
Fiddler on the Roof
? The old play? What are you talking about?”

That wasn’t the reaction I had been expecting. I step back a foot or so. “The props … in here.” I unfold the playbill and show it to her. “The objects from your list … they’re all in there.”

She looks down at the playbill and then hands it back to me. “Didn’t you use the list on the tape recorder I gave you?”

“Yes, of course I did. And those are the objects on the list.”

She shakes her head. “Not on my list. You must have listened to the wrong side of the tape.” Then she mutters to herself, “Should probably erase those old tapes one of these days.”

“But it was your voice I heard, I’m sure of it.”

“Probably was,” she admits. “I used to help out over at the theatre. Had a little crush on one of the musicians, to tell you the truth. So charming and dapper.”

A cold dread washes over me. “So what you’re saying is that I — along with people who trusted I was doing something important — just spent the last week convincing strangers to give up their things based on the wrong list?”

“Sure sounds that way from where I’m standing.”

“But … but you saw me buy the candlestick holder at the historical society. Why did you let me buy it if it wasn’t on your list?”

She shrugs. “I figured you liked it. Can’t keep up with young people these days and their trends.”

I just shake my head in disbelief. “But my debt is still paid off, right?”

She shakes her head. “Not until you finish the job.”

“But there’s no time. I can’t possibly find thirteen more things!”

She taps her chin in thought, then scratches behind her ear. She’s simply
got to
let me off the hook. She’s got to! Finally, she says, “Seems to me there’s only one choice … you must put on the play!”

My heart drops.
“Put on the play?
Are you serious?”

“Why not? You have all the props. Now all you need are actors, a director, a choreographer, an orchestra, a propmaster, hair and makeup people, costumes, and let’s see, what am I missing … oh, yes, a fiddler!”

My voice flat, I say, “You want me to put on a production of
Fiddler on the Roof
.”

“Yes.”

“Here, in Willow Falls.”

“That’s right.”

“Why? Why should I do this crazy thing?”

“Well, to pay off your debt of course, but more importantly, because if you do this, you will understand why you’re here in Willow Falls.”

That makes no sense. “I know why I’m here.”

“Do you?” she asks.

Something in her tone tells me not to bother trying to explain about the punishment. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but obviously the people in Willow Falls already did this play, like, decades ago.”

She shakes her head. “No. They didn’t.”

In response I wave the playbill in my hand.

“I was there,” Angelina says. “The show never happened. The star pulled out at the last minute, the big Broadway producer coming to see it changed his mind, and it all fell apart. Dashed many people’s dreams that day.”

“And me somehow getting this play to finally go on, that will magically fix things?”

“I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying only one thing … if you put on this play, you will understand why you’re here. And if you don’t figure that out, well, you risk reaching your thirteenth birthday without a complete understanding of who you are. And we all know what happens then.”

“Let me guess. My immortal soul gets trapped outside my body? Doomed to wander the earth without me?”

“You said it, not me.”

“And when am I supposed to do this impossible thing? I’m only here for the summer.”

“Oh, you won’t need that long.” She reaches over and pries the playbill from my clenched hand. Holding it up she says, “Got a perfectly good date right here.”

“My
birthday
?”

“That’s right!” she says. “What a perfect coincidence!”

Rory’s words come floating back to me.
There are no coincidences in Willow Falls.
I grit my teeth. “Fine.” I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.

“Wonderful,” she says. “I’ll be the first in line to buy a ticket.”

“I have to sell tickets?”

“Of course!”

“And where am I supposed to have it? My aunt’s backyard has a pool hole in it!”

“Now, Tara, you didn’t have any problem getting all these people to help you with my little project, I’m sure you can get them to pitch in again and help you with all these pesky details.”

“But I didn’t get them to do anything. They wanted to help.”

“Either way, I’ll see you Friday the thirteenth at four
P.M
. I’ll be in the front row singing along.” Then she starts twirling around the room singing:

“Matchmaker, Matchmaker,

make me a match,

find me a find,

catch me a catch.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker,

look through your book,

and make me a perfect match.”

Well, it is catchy, gotta say that for it. “Angelina?”

“You still here?” She stops singing, but keeps humming the tune.

“Does Amanda and Leo not talking have anything to do with me?”

She stops humming. “Everyone is on their own journey in this life. You have yours and they have theirs.”

“Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Any time.”

As I trudge toward the door, she serenades me with another song from the play:

“If I were a rich man,

Daidle deedle daidle

Digguh digguh deedle daidle dum

All day long I’d biddy biddy bum.

If I were a wealthy man!”

I can’t get out of the store fast enough. I’m only three steps away when the feeling of being watched washes over me. I look back at the store, thinking maybe Angelina followed me out and is planning on launching into another song. But the store is dark again.

I turn back around and find myself face-to-face with David. I’m so surprised to see him there — to see anyone at all in the
alley — that I instinctively back up and lose my balance on an uneven stone. He catches me right before I hit the ground.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You just surprised me,” I say, catching my breath. “What are you doing here?”

“Connor brought the trunk to my house and you weren’t with him. He said you told Ray you had to run off downtown somewhere. I’d been so curious to hear about how it went with the trunk, but you just left without even texting me.”

“I’m sorry, it all … it all happened so fast. What made you look here?” I ask, wondering what he sees when he looks at the store behind me.

“I saw your bike on the corner. Why were you inside that empty store? I’m surprised the door was even open.” He steps forward and reaches for the knob. I want to stop him, but an even bigger part of me is curious to see what’s about to happen.

“It’s locked,” he says, jiggling it a few times. “But weren’t you just inside?”

When I don’t offer up any explanation he says, “Look, I’ve been friends with Amanda and Leo and Rory for a while now. I know there are things going on in Willow Falls that I’m not a part of. After all, everyone’s on their own journey.”

Now
that
sounds familiar. When I don’t comment, he continues. “But if you’re going to involve me, it’s not nice to just leave me hanging.”

“You’re right,” I say, edging away from the store. Being this close to Angelina and David at the same time is making me anxious. “I should have texted you before I left. I don’t really
have much practice at it. Is it okay if we talk about this on the way home? This alley is giving me the creeps.”

While we make our way to Main Street, I sneak a peek at his face. His mouth is still set in a firm line. I guess I don’t blame him for being upset. The truth is, it’s not just texting that I’m not in the habit of. It’s thinking of other people at all. I should tell him that. Then I won’t have to worry about disappointing him. Or any of the others.

Then he reaches out for my hand, and that idea goes right out the window.