The Secret Box (2 page)

3
Jax

I
pedaled so fast my thighs felt like they were on fire. Both the post office and the diner, where Mom worked, were on Main Street, which wasn't far. Why was Ethan so slow? He was the tortoise, I was the hare. Wait, back up. The hare loses the race, right?

“Come on!” I called.

The house we rented was on a shady street. All the houses around here were older. None of the driveways had fancy cars—not like in Ethan's neighborhood. There were no swimming pools, except for the kind you blow up. Most everyone had a dog, and they all barked as we rode past. The sun was shining and a few extra cars were parked in front of the Smiths' house, thanks to a garage sale. Smith is such a boring name. Names are important. That's why I insist that my teachers and friends never call me Jacqueline. Jacqueline sounds prissy and proper, which isn't me. Jax has a nice ring to it, and there are no other kids named Jax at my school. Malone is an okay name, but it's Irish and doesn't quite fit me.

I wonder what my dad's last name is.

Normally I would have stopped to see what kind of stuff was for sale. I would have searched through the boxes of books. People always get rid of old travel guides. I guess if you're looking for a hotel or a fancy restaurant, you want the latest version. But I only cared about the photos. Cobblestoned streets in medieval towns, chalets perched on snowcapped peaks, castles built on tiny islands that you can only walk to when the tide is low. Places far, far away from Chatham, New Jersey.

Don't get me wrong. Chatham is an okay place to live. We don't have bars on our windows and I can ride my bike most everywhere. The Passaic River winds past the town, and there's the usual stuff like a community swimming pool and some nice parks. But I've been here my entire life—I've seen every square inch. Other than the Fishawack Festival, nothing much happens around here. We should have a Yawn Festival. Seriously. At least that would be something different.

It was too warm for my purple leather jacket, but I wore it anyway. I'd tucked the extra set of keys into one of its seven pockets. That jacket is my signature look. People might not know my name but at least they can say, “Oh, you mean the girl in the purple leather jacket? I've seen her.”

We passed St. Patrick's Church. As I turned onto Lum Avenue, Ethan caught up with me. “I'm going to cut through the train station,” I told him.

“I don't think that's a good idea. It's Saturday.”

Why should it matter that it is Saturday?
I wondered. But then the pop-up tents of the Saturday farmers' market came into view. Biking through the crowd would be tricky, but it was the quickest way to catch up with Mom. Luckily, it was one o'clock and the market had closed. The only people left were vendors tearing down their stands and loading their trucks. Ethan stayed close behind. He always complained about being dragged into my adventures, but I knew he secretly liked it. Without me, he'd just sit around and read. We were partners.

I darted around a fruit stand, then around a honey vendor's stand. Down the aisle I pumped, passing a woman who sold homemade jam, a family who raised llamas, and a couple of old ladies who knit baby hats. I barely missed a woman who was placing an order at a coffee cart. “Hi, Jax,” she said with a wave. She was my English teacher, Ms. Buchanan.

“Hi,” I called back. Mom didn't understand why I got a B minus in English. I tried to explain that Ms. Buchanan didn't teach the English I'm interested in. In her class we read a bunch of stuff written by a bunch of old men who died a million years ago. Shakespeare? Hello? Nobody talks like that anymore. And then we read Homer. He wrote all this stuff about Greek gods. I almost had a stroke, it was so boring. Who cares?

“Watch out!” a man yelled as I narrowly missed a crate that held a live rooster. The rooster squawked and rustled its red feathers.

“Sorry!”

A few more swerves and I reached Main Street. After skidding to a stop, I turned around to search for Ethan. He'd decided to walk his bike between the vendors, his head down so he didn't have to make eye contact. He looked so serious, as if he was going to see the doctor about a brain tumor. I sighed. Seemed like I was always waiting for him to catch up. “You almost killed that rooster,” he said when he reached me.

“Wasn't even close.” I kept my balance with one foot. “So, do you see my mom?”

Ethan leaned on his handlebars, his gaze scanning the street. Then he pointed. Mom hadn't turned right to the post office. She'd turned left and was pulling into the diner's parking lot. That meant the package was still safe inside the trunk.

We locked our bikes in a rack outside the hardware store. Then we crossed the street and stood in the alley between the diner and the shoe store. “Uh . . . I'm guessing you have a plan?” Ethan said.

“A plan?
Moi?
”

He groaned.

“Just teasing. Of course I have a plan. You stand guard while I open the trunk.” When I needed someone to stand guard, Ethan was my go-to guy.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled, pulling a paperback book out of his back pocket.

“Oh no you don't,” I said. Ethan couldn't stand guard and read at the same time. I'd learned this when I'd tried to sneak a bag of garbage into Mr. Smith's can because ours was totally full. Ethan was supposed to be standing guard but he'd been reading. Shoving trash into someone else's can is against neighborhood rules. Mr. Smith caught me in the act. Grounded. One week.

“Yeah, okay.” Ethan tucked the book back into his pocket.

Why did he always look so serious? This was fun!

It was easy to see inside the Chatham Diner, thanks to the big picture windows out front. Most of the tables were full. The diner was the best place in town for breakfast, which they served all day and night. The pancakes with crumbled bacon inside the batter are my personal favorite. Mom, already in her apron and name tag, was filling glasses with ice water. Ethan started tiptoeing up to the entry. “Why are you tiptoeing?” I asked. “Tiptoeing looks suspicious.”

He frowned at me. Spying didn't come naturally to him. Then he crouched behind a newspaper kiosk. “Okay,” he called, peering around its edge. “I can see her. She's busy.”

“Whatever you do, don't take your eyes off her.” Then, after a deep breath, I walked
calmly
across the parking lot toward Mom's car. Even though my heart pounded and my palms had turned sweaty, I took slow, steady steps. If you act like you're up to something, then everyone will know you're up to something. I wouldn't have been caught on that magician's stage if Ethan hadn't been wringing his hands and looking totally guilty. Sometimes I have to remind myself that we're cousins, since we're so different.

With the key pinched between my fingers, I took a quick look around. Ethan gave me a thumbs-up so I slid the key into the lock.
Click
. The trunk popped open. My fingers felt electrified as I reached inside. I wanted that package more than I'd wanted anything in a long time. I kinda expected it to jump into my arms, like a puppy. We were meant to be together.

My plan was this—I'd carefully peel back the tape and unwrap the brown paper. If I found a card tucked inside, I'd keep it. Mom would never know. But the present itself would have to be resealed. If it turned out to be something boring, like a book I'd already read or another pair of socks, then I wouldn't care when she returned it to the post office. But if it was something amazing . . .

My fingers reached all around. Where was it? I leaned inside the trunk. A pair of running shoes, some canvas tote bags, an old first-aid kit, but nothing else. Where—?

“Hi, Jax.”

“Ouch.” My head bumped on the trunk's lid. “Hi. Jeez, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you.” Michael stood next to the car, his white T-shirt stained with grease, his hair covered by a blue bandana. He worked in the diner's kitchen during the summers when he was back from college. He was my favorite cook because he could scramble an egg so it was fluffy, not gooey. “What's going on?” he asked. As he yawned, he shifted a package to his other arm.

My package! Cue the choir.

“Nothing's going on,” I said, managing a casual smile. I glanced over at Ethan, who was totally distracted because he was reading the newspaper through the kiosk glass. He hadn't even noticed Michael and the package walk right past him. Yeesh. After closing the trunk, I slipped the key into my pocket. “What's going on with you?”

“I'm heading home to bed. These morning shifts are killing me. I don't know why we have to open at five
A.M.
It should be against the law to eat breakfast that early.” He yawned again.

“Whatcha got there?” I asked, pointing to the package. The words
Return to Sender
had been written across the front in red ink.

“Your mom wanted me to take this to the post office. See ya later.” Moving like a sloth, he headed for the sidewalk.

“Hey, Michael,” I said, following. The scent of bacon floated around him like a cloud. “I could deliver that for you. I'm going that way.”

Michael pressed the crosswalk button. His next yawn stretched every muscle in his face as if his skin was made of Play-Doh. “Yeah? You don't mind?”

I clenched my teeth, keeping myself from breaking into a crazy grin. “Mind? No, I don't mind. No problem.” I reached out eagerly, my fingers twitching.
Give. Me. The.
Package.

“Your mom kinda made me promise to do it myself.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I should—”

“I won't tell her,” I said. “She'll never know. You go get some sleep.”

“Sounds good to me.” He set the package in my hands. “I won't tell if you won't tell.”

When the brown paper touched my skin, I shivered as if I'd just been given a passport and a plane ticket to Paris. “See ya,” I said as Michael wobbled away, drunk on exhaustion. I couldn't have planned it better. I didn't have to tamper with the mail. I didn't have to reseal the package. And I didn't have to convince Ethan to stand guard outside the post office, which would have been tricky. I could keep it. It was the best of all possibilities.

Ethan was still hunched in front of the kiosk. How could I be mad at him? He liked to read. Seriously, a marching band could have strolled past and he wouldn't have noticed. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ahhh,” he blurted, nearly jumping out of his skin.

“Whatcha reading?”

“An article about global warming,” he said. Then he glanced at the package. “So, are we done?”

“Almost.”

We didn't say another word until we'd reached our bikes and the package was safely concealed in my bike basket, under my purple jacket. Now to find a place safe from prying eyes. “To the park,” I said.

We rode to Memorial Park and found an empty bench. A few people were walking their dogs and some kids were heading into the pool, but I didn't recognize anyone. Ethan sat next to me, his shoulder pressed against mine. I ran a finger over the return address. “Juniper Vandegrift,” I read. “Never heard of her.”

“Me neither.”

“She lives in New Hope, Pennsylvania,” I said, tracing the city and zip code.

I turned the package over. Was this the first birthday present Juniper had sent, or had Mom been returning them my whole life? Why would she do that? What was she protecting me from?

I began to peel back the strapping tape. A shiver made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The box wouldn't contain a pair of jeans, or striped socks, or a Starbucks card.

Somehow I knew that whatever lay inside would be anything but boring.

4
Ethan

FACT:
Strapping tape is stronger than masking tape because it has these filaments that are made from fiberglass.
Masking tape was invented back in the 1930s to help auto painters paint clean lines.

M
ost people think those kinds of facts are boring. My brain is loaded with them.

I sat next to Jax on the bench. Using her fingernails, she loosened one edge of the tape. She'd gotten the package without us having to break any laws, and it looked like we might not get grounded this time. But why was she peeling so slowly? She never did anything slowly.

“Want to use my knife?” I asked, pulling my Swiss army knife from my pocket.

“No thanks.” She tossed the first piece of strapping tape aside. Then she paused, her fingers lingering over the next piece. I think she was savoring the moment. I always did the same thing before scratching a Christmas lottery ticket. Until the truth was revealed, anything was possible.

I wiped my forehead with my sleeve. The bench was shaded by an elm tree but I'd worked up a sweat during the bike ride. Even though summer had just begun, it was already hot. According to that article I'd read about global warming, our local meteorologist predicted temperatures higher than normal. Weather patterns were changing all over the world. “Did you know the last two decades were the hottest in four hundred years?”

“Hmmm,” Jax said, still picking with her fingernail.

Sunlight glinted off the army knife. It was called the Swiss Champ, one of the most popular because it had almost everything—a can opener, a wood saw, a magnifying lens; it even had a fish scaler. My name was engraved on it. “You sure you don't want to use this?”

Jax ran out of patience with the tape and ripped the paper. “Ouch,” she said, holding out her finger. A perfect red line formed across the tip. “I hate paper cuts.” She winced and turned away as the first drops of blood oozed out. “Ethan . . .” she pleaded.

Jax could never be a doctor. She hates blood. The worst time was when we'd been riding our bikes home from school a couple of years ago and she fell off and gashed her knee on a rock. The blood drenched her pants and she got so grossed out, she vomited. I helped by wrapping my T-shirt around her knee. Blood didn't bother me. I'd been cursed with nosebleeds most of my life so I was used to it.

It's strange because Jax can do just about anything without worrying or getting freaked out. It doesn't make much sense that blood would be a problem. No one else in the family is like that. Mom says it's a phobia.

I grabbed some repair tape from my bike kit and wound it around her finger. “Thanks,” she said, color returning to her face.

“No problem.” I sat back on the bench.

“How 'bout a drum roll?” She jabbed me with her elbow. “Come on, do a drum roll.”

I glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Then I rolled my tongue and tried but a bunch of spit flew out. Jax giggled. “That sounds more like a fart. You do it like this . . .” She rolled her tongue and smacked her palms against the bench. Her drum roll was so loud, a few people turned and looked. Then she tore the rest of the paper and tossed it aside.

A metal box lay on Jax's lap, about the size of a small jewelry box with a little screen set into the top. “Looks like an LED screen,” I said.

“Do you see a card or a note?”

I searched around our feet and under the bench in case something had fallen out. “Nothing. Maybe it's inside.”

Jax tried to open the box but there was no obvious opening and no hinges. “You try,” she said, handing it to me.

I ran my fingers along the box and found a seam, perceptible only by touch. Then I found something else. “It's a button,” I said, pressing it.

We both gasped as the screen lit up.

Jax and I leaned close. A message appeared.

Attempt 1 of 10.

Those words disappeared and another message appeared.

190 miles from the right spot.

Jax looked at me, her eyebrows raised. “There's a right spot? What does that mean?” Then that message disappeared and the word
Good-bye
took its place. The screen went black.

Jax grabbed the box and pushed the button. The screen lit up with a slightly different message.

Attempt 2 of 10.
190 miles from the right spot.
Good-bye.

“Weird,” she whispered. She pushed again.

Attempt 3 of 10.

“Uh . . . maybe you shouldn't keep pushing it,” I said. She always does that, pushes buttons over and over as if it will make a difference. Like in the elevator. Or at a vending machine. It drives me crazy. The potato-chip bag will not drop any faster.

She pushed again.

Attempt 4 of 10.

“I don't get it,” she complained.

“Wait!”

Attempt five of ten.
190 miles from the right spot.
Good-bye.

I covered the button with my hand. “It said attempt
five
of ten. That means we only have five attempts left.”

“Five attempts to do what?”

“Uh . . .” I shrugged. “To open it?”

“Oh. That makes sense.” Her cheeks were a bit red and sweat dotted her nose. “I wonder what's inside.” She shook the box gently. Nothing rattled or moved. “Maybe we can pry it open with your knife.”

I tried to stick the blade into the seam but it wouldn't fit.

“Does your dad have an axe?” she asked.

“I don't think so.” I'd never seen my dad chop wood. Our fireplace was gas. I put the knife back into my pocket. “I think you'll have to solve the puzzle if you want to get it open.”

Jax smiled. “I'm pretty good at puzzles.” She set the box back on her lap. “Okay, let's figure this out. It said we're not in the right spot. That means the box has to be in a certain place before it will open. But how can a box know where it is?”

“It must have a GPS unit.” Fact: GPS stands for global positioning system.

“So then, how do we find the right spot?”

We sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the strange birthday present. A woman and her German shepherd walked past. A jogger stopped to tie his shoe. I tried to come up with an answer. “We could go to different places and press the button,” I said. “But that seems random. And the GPS reading only gives us distance, it doesn't give us direction. I bet there's some sort of formula we could use.”

“Formula?” she asked. “You mean math?”

“Yeah, math.” I frowned because neither Jax nor I liked math.

“Forget math. I'm going to get an axe.”

Jax threw the paper and tape into a garbage can. But she saved the upper left-hand corner, where Juniper Vandegrift's return address was written. She folded it carefully and tucked it into her pocket. Then she set the metal box into her bike basket, concealing it with her purple jacket.

We rode back to her house. As soon as we got there, we dumped the bikes on the lawn, then stood in front of Mr. Smith's house. The garage sale was in full swing. “He's got an axe in his woodpile,” Jax said. “On the side of the house.”

“I don't think hacking at the box is a good idea,” I pointed out. “What if you break whatever's inside?”

“I won't break anything,” she said. “I'll just whack the corner off, just enough to at least get a peek.” She stood real close and lowered her voice. “Okay, so you go over there and ask Mr. Smith a bunch of questions to distract him while I get the axe.”

“Uh . . . why don't you just ask him if you can borrow it?”

“Hello? He hates me, remember? He caught me cutting roses off his bush and didn't care that they were for Mom.” She gave me a little shove. “Go distract him. This is important.”

I hate doing stuff like this. I'd be perfectly happy to never cause a distraction.

Pulling my baseball cap real low, I walked into Mr. Smith's yard. What would I say? Would I pretend to be looking for something, like old vinyl records or comic books? Stuff was strewn all over the grass—wooden chairs, a rocking horse, a croquet set. A card table wobbled beneath the weight of vases, books, and mismatched plates. Mr. Smith was talking to a man about a rusty lawnmower. Sounded like they were bickering over price.

Crash.

I whipped around. The card table had toppled over. A toddler was standing next to it. He scrunched up his face and began to wail. His mom picked him up as Mr. Smith hurried over to see what had happened. The distraction had nothing to do with me. Jax raced around the house, then reappeared with the axe in her hand. I suppose that running with an axe is just as dangerous as running with scissors, but she didn't seem to care. She grabbed the box from her bike basket, then raced into her garage.

As Mr. Smith tried to bully the mom into paying for the broken vases, I made my escape. I expected to find the box all mangled, but when I got inside the garage, Jax was holding the box. The axe lay on the floor. “I couldn't do it,” she said, her face flushed. “I had this strange feeling. I couldn't hurt it.”

“Hurt it?” That seemed like a weird thing to say. “You mean
dent
it?”

“What if I ruined whatever's inside?” She ran her hand over the box. “What did you say about a formula?”

“I said that I bet there's some sort of math formula that will help us solve the puzzle.”

She peered out the garage door. “We need to find someone who can help.”

We both took a deep breath and said, at the same time, “Tyler.” Then we cringed. Because in a perfect world, we'd never have to see or talk to Tyler. My older brother.