New York, New York! (12 page)

And then I stopped drawing. I stared at my page.
I loved it.
But Mac would not like it.
I labeled the drawing Field Mice'in Deep Trouble.
I really wanted to finish it, but I knew what I had to do. I returned to sketching the stuff in the Cloisters. I sketched for the rest of the day. I was bored to death. The highlight of the day was our lunch break.
At lunchtime, Mac and us Falny students took our food outside. I sat next to Clau-dia. What a terrific-looking lunch she had packed — a Fluffernut sandwich, Oreos, a couple of chocolate chip cookies, and some Fritos. It was not necessarily healthy, but it was tasty.
"How was your morning?" I asked Claud.
"Fine." "Your lunch looks — " "Hey, you're not my mother. There's nothing wrong with this lunch. Anyway, I packed apple juice. And there are raisins in the chocolate chip cookies," she added defensively.
"I wasn't going to ... Oh, never mind." Sometimes Claudia was not worth talking to these days. I stood up and left. I didn't see Claud again until we were boarding the bus to go back to Manhattan.
She sat with Mac! I thought she didn't like him, but they talked during the entire bus ride.
And then a horrible thought occurred to me: Claudia was in trouble. Mac was telling her that her work was no good. I thought her work was great, but I'm no expert. Uh-oh. If Mac was telling Claudia that her career had reached a dead end, she would probably never speak to me again.
While Mac and Claudia talked, I twisted my hands nervously. I played with my hair. Life with Claudia was going to be torture.
But when we reached Falny, Claudia looked happy. No, she looked radiant. She was beaming. She smiled at me. And as we got off the bus, she actually spoke to me. I mean, spoke nicely.
"Mac and I just had the best talk!" she exclaimed.
"What were you talking about?" "Oh, my art." "Yeah?" I said hesitantly. "What did Mac say?" "Just that he thinks I'm" (I prepared myself to hear the worse) "very talented. He says my work is really good, especially for someone my age." "He did? That's terrific!" "He also said I have to concentrate on discipline and stuff, but I can live with that." I nodded. I felt confused, though. Mac had been hounding Claudia since our first morning at Falny: "Do it over." "Work more slowly." And he had said that my drawings were "nice" or "good." But he had never said I was very talented or anything like that. What was going on? I needed to talk to Mac.
"Claud?" I said. "I — I forgot something in our classroom. I'll be right back." I ran to our room at Falny and found Mac gathering up some sketches and putting them into a portfolio. "Mac?" I said.
He glanced up. "Mallory. I thought you'd gone home." "Well, Claudia's waiting for me downstairs, but I have to ask you something." "Yes?" "Am I really a good artist?" Mac stopped what he was doing. "You're dedicated," he replied. "Yes, you're good." "But am I going to be a great artist one day? And have shows in galleries?" "You're only eleven, Mallory. It's a little early to tell. But if you're asking me whether you have Claudia's talent, the answer is, I don't think so. If you keep drawing, though, I'm sure you'll become a better artist." "Good enough to illustrate books?" "Maybe." I thought about my field mice, Ryan and Meaghan. I liked them a lot. I was sorry they were in Deep Trouble. Then I thought about the actual drawings of Ryan and Meaghan. I knew they were good. Good for dressed-up animals, anyway, and good for an eleven-year-old.
"Thank you, Mac," I said, turning to leave.
"Mallory, I'm sorry. I know you're disappointed." "It's okay," I said.
And it really was. As I walked outside to meet Claudia, I thought, There are lots of different kinds of art, and I don't enjoy Claudia's kind or Mac's kind. I like my own kind. And I like writing even better.
I thought of Ryan and Meaghan again, only this time I imagined them in New York City.
They went to the Museum of Natural History and scaled a brontosaurus skeleton. They snuck into Radio City Music Hall and watched all the shows for free.
By the time Claud and I were zooming back to Stacey's in a cab, I was writing a New York mouse story in my head. I was happy. I was excited. I had a terrific idea.
I planned to write a book soon.
Jessi.
Chapter 21.
On Thursday, I saw Quint again. We went to another special performance of a ballet. This time we saw a production of Coppelia, which I have actually danced in myself. When the show was over, Quint said, "Want to get a soda or something?" "Sure," I replied. (Anything to lengthen the afternoon.) Quint walked me to a nearby coffee shop.
I ordered a diet soda.
Quint ordered a vanilla egg cream.
I changed my mind and ordered a vanilla egg cream, too.
In case you've never tasted one, an egg cream is a wonderful drink. It's made of soda and milk and either vanilla or chocolate syrup. (Surprisingly, it does not have any eggs in it.) I have never had one except when I've been in New York.
The egg creams arrived and Quint and I sipped them slowly.
Quint didn't say much. He looked thoughtful.
So I spoke up. "There are lots of good parts in Coppelia for guys," I said.
"I know." "If you went to a professional school, you could dance in Copptlia. I have." "Yeah." "Yeah what?" "You know what, Jessi. It's everything we've already talked about." "I want to hear you say it again." Quint sighed. "Okay. I know I'm a good dancer." "You're better than just good if your teachers think you can get into Juilliard." "All right, I'm better than a good dancer. I would like to perform onstage in front of a big audience someday. Just like you have." "So?" "Come on, Jessi. You know all this stuff." "Tell me again." "I'm not going to audition because if I do get into Juilliard, I'll never be able to walk down my own street again. Not even with the bowling bag. I just don't think I can take all the comments and yelling and stuff." "There are all kinds of prejudice, Quint," I said. "I've lived with it. You've lived with it. My friend Claudia has lived with it because she's not such a great student. Mallory gets teased because — " SJtAsviS "I know what you're saying, Jessi." "And you're going to deprive America of your talent because of a few jerks?" Quint smiled. "Well, when you put it that way ..." "Do you want to go to Juilliard?" I asked.
"Yes, but — " "So go! I mean, at least audition." Quint stared into his egg cream for, like, an hour or something.
"Quint?" I finally said.
"I'm thinking." After some' more staring and thinking, Quint shifted his gaze to me. "You convinced me. I'll audition. If I get in, then I'll decide what to do?" "You'll audition?" I screeched, forgetting where I was.
"Shhh. Yes." "All right!" "On one condition." "What?" (I should have known there was a condition.) "That you'll come home with me now while I talk to my parents. I'm not sure what they're going to think about this." I thought I knew, but if Quint was worried, then I would give him moral support. It was the least I could do.
Maybe someday I would be credited with having pushed the famous Quint Walter into the spotlight when he was afraid to go ahead with his career.
We walked back to Quint's apartment. We reached it just as his father was coming home from work. Quint and I glanced at each other.
"Dum, da-dum, dum," sang Quint softly. Then he said, "Hi, Dad. How was work? Did you have a good day? Can we have a talk?" Mr. Walter put down his briefcase. "Hello yourself," he said to Quint. "Hi, Jessi." He kissed Mrs. Walter and was then tackled by Morgan and Tyler.
"How was the ballet?" Mrs. Walter asked Quint.
"Fine, but I really need to talk to you and Dad. I want Jessi here, too. But not . . . you know . . ." He gestured toward his brother and sister.
I'm sure Quint's parents thought we were going to tell them we wanted to get married, or something equally serious. They looked awfully worried. Maybe this was a good thing. Because when Quint said, "It's about my dance lessons/' his parents lost around twenty pounds, just by letting their breath out.
"What about your dance lessons?" asked Mrs. Walter.
"I sort of want to take more." "That's okay." "They'll be expensive." I was going to say, "Quint, you're avoiding the issue/' when his father asked, "How many lessons each week?" "A lot?" replied Quint.
I nudged him.
"What's going on?" asked Mr. Walter.
Quint looked helplessly at me, but I just looked back at him. I was not going to tell his parents about Juilliard for him. He had to do that himself.
"Go ahead/' I said finally. "Tell them." "Tell us what?" asked Mrs. Walter.
Quint gathered himself up. "I want to audition for Juilliard/' he said. "I mean, if you can afford to send me there." "Juilliard!" exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Walter at the same time.
"Yes," said Quint. "My teachers think I can get in. So I'd like to try." "All right/' said Mr. Walter. "I think we can manage it. Especially if you look into scholarships." "All right?" repeated Quint. "You mean you don't care?" "Of course we care," Mrs. Walter replied. "We're so proud of you. And if you got into Juilliard, well, just imagine." "Besides, we're behind whatever you want to do," added Mr. Walter. "We'll stand behind Tyler and Morgan, too." "That's not what I meant," mumbled Quint. "I'm glad you're behind me. And I'm glad you're proud of me. I really am. But do you realize what's going to happen if I go to dance school every day? Do you?" "You'll develop huge muscles in your legs?" suggested Mr. Walter.
"Dad, this is serious!" "Okay. I know some of the kids tease you. You have to decide whether you want to put up with that. Or else, you have to find a way to change things." "Right," said Quint. He didn't smile. He stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets. He walked around the room. At last he came to a stop in front of me. "Thaf s pretty much what Jessi said." "You're not worried about the audition at all, are you," I said.
"Nope." "Just the kids?" "Yup." There was a moment of silence. Then the four of us began to laugh.
"Get through the audition first," said Mrs. Walter.
"Yes, Mom," Quint replied politely.
"Hey, Ma!" yelled Tyler from somewhere in the back of the apartment. "Can we come out now? We can hear you guys laughing." Tyler and Morgan were allowed back in the living room.
I looked at my watch. "Oh! I have to go!" I exclaimed.
"I'll walk you home," said Quint. He turned to his family. "See you later. I'll be back soon." Quint and I left the Walters' apartment. We stepped into the hallway. "Will I see you tomorrow?" I asked as we waited for the elevator. "I have to go back to Connecticut on Saturday morning." "Saturday morning?" Quint looked dismayed. "I don't believe it. We're going to visit my grandparents tomorrow. We won't come home until Saturday afternoon. Or maybe even Sunday." "That means we have to say good-bye now/' I whispered.
"Yeah." The elevator had not arrived yet. Quint and I were leaning against the wall, our shoulders touching. Slowly, Quint turned to face me. He took my hands in his. Then he tipped my chin up ... and kissed me gently.
My first kiss.
"We'll keep in touch, won't we?" I asked.
"We better," Quint replied.
Stacey.
Chapter 22.
Our Friday outing with Alistaire and Rowena turned into quite an affair. First, Laine and the rest of my friends decided to come along with us. Mal and Claudia were finished with their art classes and, after all, it was our last day together in New York. This was not the morning surprise, though.
The morning surprise began when Mary Anne and I entered the Harringtons' apartment to pick up Alistaire and Rowena. (The two of us went by ourselves. We thought we would overwhelm the kids if all eight of us showed up. Also, we wanted Mr. and Mrs. Harrington's permission for our friends to spend the day with us.) As you might imagine, Mary Anne and I were pretty nervous. We had to have "the talk" with Alistaire and Rowena's parents. We knew we did. Rowena and Alistaire were being followed, and the Harringtons should be aware of it. What if the guy followed them back to England?
"Let's just hope Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are at home," I said to Mary Anne as we waited for someone to answer the doorbell.
"Do we have to hope?" asked Mary Anne. "I don't want to give them this news. It's too weird." "We already decided," I said. "We're going to do it." At that moment, the door was unlocked and opened.
In front of us stood Mr. Harrington.
"Hullo!" he said cheerfully.
I stiffened. Mary Anne took a step back.
Poor, poor Mr. Harrington, I thought. This could be his last happy moment. In a few seconds, he would find out that his beloved children were in mortal danger, being followed by a kidnapper, a dastardly criminal, possibly an international spy.
"Hi," I said in a small voice.
Mary Anne and I entered the apartment. We stood rigidly by the door.
"Well, now. What's on the docket for today?" asked Mr. Harrington.
Mary Anne just stood stock-still. So I answered, "Oh, a lot of things. But Mr. Harrington?" "Yes?" "Mary Anne and I need to talk to you about something." "Is it your pay?" asked Mrs. Harrington. She bustled into the living room, fastening her earrings as she spoke.
"Oh, no," I said. "I mean, we do need to be paid today, since we leave tomorrow, but the amount you mentioned is fine. See, it's . . . There's a little problem," I said, faltering, and wishing that Mary Anne would speak up. I knew she wouldn't, though.
"With the children?" asked Mr. Harrington, frowning.
"Well, yes — " "Are they misbehaving?" "Oh, no! They're wonderful. The problem is ... well, it sounds sort of hard to believe. ... I guess the best thing is just to come out and tell you." I paused. "Someone is following Rowena and Alistaire." The Harringtons glanced at each other. I knew it. They thought I was crazy. If only Mary Anne would open her mouth, then they'd think she was crazy, too. I wouldn't be the only one. Oh, well. I'd started this and I had to finish it.
"It's a man," I went on. "We see him everywhere. But only when the children are with us. That's how we know he's following them and not us." (The Harringtons were smiling by this time, but I continued anyway.) "The guy wears sunglasses and a rain hat, no matter what the weather. He's never done a thing to the kids — he hasn't even come near them — he's just always around. I know we should have told you about him sooner, and we were going to. Honest. But we weren't sure we were being followed, and we didn't want to accuse anyone of something awful like that if it might not be true." I was rushing on, talking like a record playing at fast speed. Frankly, I was blabbering. "Maybe we should have told you, but we just weren't sure. I'm sorry if we put the children in any danger, and I hope you aren't mad at us. See, it wasn't until Monday that we thought about the microfilm and the diamonds and the airplane and stuff. And we were going to tell you that afternoon, but you weren't home and you didn't need us again until today and I guess we could have called you but we didn't because we thought we should tell you in person so — " "Stacey!" exclaimed Mrs. Harrington. Laughing, she held up one hand. "Slow down. You and Mary Anne didn't do anything wrong." She turned toward the hallway that led to the back of the apartment. "Bill?" she called.