Open If You Dare Page 12

  Martin is dead. I stand there staring at Clara, not knowing what else to say. I wasn’t expecting this. How can you solve a murder mystery when the murderer is dead?

  I tell Rose and Ally what Clara told me on the bus ride home and they look, well, relieved.

  “I’m glad it’s over,” Ally says.

  “Yeah, but it’s actually not. We don’t know exactly what happened,” I say.

  “We know something bad happened to Ruthie Delgado and to some weird girl who buried clues for a living,” Rose says. “He’s dead. They’re dead. Do we have to know the details?”

  “I really don’t want to know the details,” Ally says. “And meeting that old guy was…”

  “Disturbing.” Rose fills in the blank.

  I agree. Meeting Henry Smith was disturbing. But I don’t say it.

  Ally and I are sitting together and Rose is leaning over the seat in front of us.

  “We came all this way, Bird,” Rose says. “I know you wanted to figure this out but we may never figure it out. It’s kind of a dead end and, well…”

  “But didn’t you see,” I say, “he thought I was her.”

  “Who?” Ally asks.

  “Mr. Smith. He thought I was Girl Detective.”

  They glance at each other.

  “She must have had red hair,” I say. “She must have come to see him about Martin. Maybe confronted him. Don’t you get it? She was our age. Just a girl. And then someone killed her.”

  They stare at me until Ally’s eyes drop. “I wish we never found that dumb box,” she says.

  My eyes dart to Rose. “It was a long time ago,” she says with a shrug.

  “But what does that matter?!”

  Rose sneaks a look at Ally. “I guess what we’re saying is…”

  “Can we be done now?” Ally’s words prick like needles on my skin. Can we be done now? Seriously?

  “Sure,” I manage. Because what else can I say? As weird as the trip to Decatur was, it solved part of the mystery. Could that be enough?

  As we fall into an awkward silence, I stare out the bus window. The telephone poles, passing one after the other, blend together, and I can’t stop thinking about the girl who came before me, the girl who must have had red hair and who must have questioned Mr. Smith about Ruthie Delgado’s murder, too. Mr. Smith thought I was some other twelve-year-old. He thought I was Girl Detective.

  And even though I may never know what happened to Ruthie Delgado, I feel a deep desire to solve the mystery of her. Was Girl Detective the drowning girl with the waving hair in my dream? The girl with blue eyes who I couldn’t save? I look down at the mood ring on my finger, now also blue, and wonder if she wore this ring when she faced Henry Smith all those years ago. Whether my friends want to help or not, I need to solve the mystery of this girl. The girl from the past who is somehow like me.

  PART 4

  MEG IS WAITING

  23

  THE FUNERAL procession is quite orderly, considering.

  “You really think this is an appropriate response?” Ally asks.

  Rose spins around, eyes blazing. “Yes, I think it’s an appropriate response! It’s the only response as far as I’m concerned!”

  I decide to say nothing and just watch the rising flames float downstream. A Viking funeral in the middle of July.

  This was a bad idea.

  It started on the afternoon after the nursing home. After we got back from our journey, Rose called her mom from Ally’s house to ask if she could spend the night. My parents were fine with it, but Rose’s mom said Rose had to come home to practice first. As Ally and I listened, what began as a regular conversation escalated into a full-on battle. I could never imagine speaking to my mom like that. Or vice versa.

  Twenty minutes later, Rose’s mom showed up. She marched Rose out of Ally’s house and we didn’t hear from her for three whole days.

  Rose showed up at Mathematics Camp on Tuesday like nothing had happened. She was carrying a backpack, though, and that was unusual. Especially because she didn’t open it or refer to it in any way.

  Later, on the way to the pool, Rose still hadn’t said anything about the backpack over her shoulders. As we passed Mrs. Hale’s house, I reached my breaking point. “What’s with the backpack, Rose?”

  “You’ll see,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling in the bright sun.

  As we approached the pool, her pace quickened. We passed by the pool courtyard and descended onto the path that led to the woods. This was the first time in our lives that Ally and I struggled to keep up with her.

  Once in the woods, we followed Rose downstream. I assumed we were heading for our island but when we passed the tree bridge and left our island behind, I glanced back at Ally. “Where are we going?”

  “Almost there.” Rose marched on, our personal pied piper. Weaving through trees and brush, she hiked on, her backpack bouncing every step of the way.

  Downstream, the creek became flat and calm. The water flowed evenly under lush green tree limbs that draped overhead.

  Rose finally stopped when we hit the little beach at the shallows. It’s not a real beach with waves or sharks or anything. But it’s sandy and the closest thing this muddy creek will ever have to one. We’ve been here before but not in a long time. She dropped her backpack on the sand. “We’re here.”

  “What’s with all the mystery?” I asked.

  Rose kneeled down beside the backpack. “My parents sold the house, I hate my mum, and I’m never playing the violin again.”

  “Oh, crap,” Ally said.

  “Al, you’re a poet,” said Rose. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Ally and I catch each other’s eyes. We fall on our knees in the sand beside her.

  “There’s no getting out of this. I’m definitely going back to England.”

  We sat there silently, leaves rustling above. “We’re really going to miss you,” I said.

  “Yeah,” added Ally. “A lot.”

  Rose tried to smile. “I’m going to miss you squares, too. But I was thinking, I’m kind of an American now. And when Americans are fed up, we do things like the Boston Tea Party. Acts of rebellion are in our blood. We throw things off boats. We burn things.” She eyed us both, then said, “And on that note…”

  She unzipped the backpack and pulled out her violin. Solemnly, she said, “I’m not taking everything with me.”

  “What are you doing, Rose?” I asked warily.

  Rose looked us as calmly. Too calmly. “Don’t worry. Not all things were meant to last.”

  She laid her violin reverently on the sand. She reached in the backpack again, pulled out a hammer, and smashed a hole right in the middle of it. The strings whined and groaned. One popped off completely.

  “Dude!” Ally shouted.

  “It’s okay,” Rose said. “It’s like a Band-Aid. Had to be ripped off.”

  Stunned, Ally and I just watched as she pulled more supplies from her backpack. Some newspaper. A box of matches. A bottle of lighter fluid.

  “What the—” I almost said a bad word. I stopped myself, but seriously, Rose. Lighter fluid?

  “It’s just from the grill. There’s hardly any left.” She handed me the metal container. “Here, shake it.”

  “That’s not the point.” But I shook it anyway. She was telling the truth. “But it’s lighter fluid! That is against the rules!”

  “It is,” Ally echoed.

  “I know,” Rose said. “And I promise, I’ll never do it again. Just this once.”

  We watched Rose fill the hollow violin with crumpled newspaper. Then we watched her shower the newspaper with lighter fluid. And I thought this: As much as I will miss Rose, and I will miss her so much, in some ways it might be better if she goes. Because it’s hard for me to say no to her even when she does questionable things. We aren’t even in middle school yet and she is about to set a fire using lighter fluid. What will she be like in high school?

  Rose gr
abbed a match and held it up defiantly. “The tyranny I have lived under and by extension, you, my dearest friends, have had to endure is coming to an end.”

  I felt Ally sneaking a peek at me. I dared not look back.

  “Today marks the end of Mum’s rule,” she said, and went to strike the match.

  “Wait!” I exclaimed. Rose stopped and stared at me. “If you kill yourself, I’m going to be really mad at you.”

  Rose nodded. “That’s fair, Bird.” Her lips turned up slightly. “Totally fair.” Then she slid the match against the matchbox. It ignited, combusting in blue, red, then orange. She grabbed the long neck of her violin and lowered the body of the broken, lighter-fluid soaked instrument into the creek. As she pushed the violin from shore, she tossed out the burning match and, like something out of a Norse legend, the flame hit the target.

  Whoosh. The violin practically exploded in flames. We leaned back, surprised by its fast fury.

  “Lighter fluid really works,” Ally said.

  “Yeah,” was all I could manage.

  The current claimed the burning violin like a wooden ship pushing out to sea. This is how the Vikings did it. In old Norse times, they would place a dead warrior or nobleman on a ship laden with wood (no lighter fluid in those days), send it out to sea, and set it ablaze, sometimes by shooting it with a flaming arrow. The dead guy wasn’t alone on that floating funeral pyre, though. His treasures from life went with him to keep him company on his way to Valhalla (the home of the gods).

  As black smoke unfurls from the burning pyre that used to be Rose’s violin, I wonder what treasure is being sacrificed with it. I fear we are witnessing Rose’s love of music, her innate talent, floating away, too. Floating to Valhalla. And I wonder if, someday, Rose will regret this.

  We watch the burning violin grow smaller and smaller. As it disappears around the curve in the creek, I can speak again. “What will you tell her?”

  “Not sure.” Rose says, her eyes fixed downstream. “Maybe I’ll say I lost it.”

  “She won’t believe you,” says Ally.

  “I know.”

  24

  IT’S BEEN three days since the Viking funeral, and this is how Rose decided to play it. The first day after the violin was gone, Rose acted like she couldn’t find it and pretended to be very distressed. The next day (yesterday) she doubled down on her lie. Since her mom doesn’t always lock the front door and Rose practices in the front living room, Rose announced that her violin must have been stolen. And that it was her mom’s fault for leaving the door unlocked!

  Breathtaking.

  Today, the three of us have been at the pool all morning, mostly talking about the violin incident while standing shoulder-deep in pool water. When Ally points behind me, I turn and see Dad walking toward us. He’s got Zora by the hand. She’s wearing a bathing suit, and he’s not. I know what this means.

  “Just an hour,” he says, looking down at me, Ally, and Rose. “It’s good babysitting experience—for all of you.”

  “Birdie!” Zora screams, and jumps in wildly.

  As she sinks to the bottom, Ally pulls her up with one hand. “It’s too deep here. Let’s go where you can touch the bottom.”

  I squint up at Dad. “Okay. I’ve got it.”

  Dad looks at Ally, then back at me. “Well somebody’s got it.”

  Playfully, I splash him. “We’ll see you at lunch.” He waves at Mrs. Franklin sitting on the lifeguard stand and points toward us. She waves back and gives him a thumbs-up. Before he leaves, though, he turns to me seriously and says, “Remember, you’re in charge.”

  I’m a model big sister for at least an hour. We play Marco Polo and Underwater Tea Party. I help Zora practice swim strokes and everything.

  Then Joey starts up. “You coming to the big game, Blondie?” He drops this little bomb while he, Romeo, and Connor walk past toward the deep end.

  Ally seethes.

  Joey is psyched about the charity game. Partly because everyone at the ballpark attends and winning the big charity game somewhat assures his position as the sixth-grade middle school pitcher. And partly because he gets to torture Ally with it.

  “Come on,” Rose says, and Ally follows her out of the water. “Who died and left you king of the jerks,” I hear Rose yell at Joey from across the pool.

  For just a minute, I get out of the pool to join them, leaving Zora playing happily on the shallow steps.

  “King of the jerks?!” Joey exclaims. “I’m king of the mound.” He looks at Ally pointedly. “Cuz only kings, not queens, belong there.”

  Okay, that’s enough! I glare at Romeo, who reaches his arm out casually and pushes Joey into the pool.

  We all laugh—me, Rose, Ally, Romeo, even Connor. Not Joey. He pops up from the water like a hissing snake and is out of the pool in seconds. “You’re dead, Romeo!”

  Romeo smirks, but as Joey’s feet hit the concrete, Romeo starts to run. He circles the deep end, sailing past the diving boards, Joey on his tail.

  A loud whistle blasts and instantly, they downshift to fast-walking. “No running,” Mrs. Franklin shouts from the high lifeguard’s chair.

  “We’re not running,” Joey cries defensively, and walks faster.

  She blows the whistle again. “Mr. Wachowski! Stop moving now!”

  Joey obeys but I can see it’s killing him. Romeo walks on, turns the corner of the pool, and glances back at Joey nonchalantly.

  “It’s not fair,” I hear Joey whine while I watch Romeo, not a care in the world, stroll along the other side of the pool, on his way back to us.

  As Joey sits in “tween time-out” by the side of Mrs. Franklin’s lifeguard chair, his feet dangling in the water, Romeo rejoins us. He waves at Joey, tauntingly, and Joey groans. Ally waves, too, a big smirk on her face, then we all join in, laughing and smiling. Poor Joey.

  “You never get in trouble,” I say to Romeo. It’s true. He hangs out with the most troublemaking boy in school but trouble never sticks to him.

  He smiles broadly and shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe Joey’s just a bigger target.”

  “Much bigger,” Rose quips.

  Ally cocks her head and looks thoughtfully at Joey. “But look at him, all sad and in time-out. He’s kind of cute.”

  “For a big-boned boy.”

  “Come on, Rose,” I say.

  “Yes, Miss Adams,” she teases, and I feel my face turning red.

  Rose whispers, “Blush much?”

  I whip around. “I am not blushing!”

  “Are, too!”

  My eyes are steaming. I want to be mad at Rose, but she’s right. I am blushing. Because Rose called out my teacher voice in front of Romeo.

  Suddenly, I’m done with swimming. Done with all of it. It’s got to be lunchtime by now. I walk toward the shallows to pick up Zora.

  “Where are you going?” Rose calls out. “Come on. Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m hungry.”

  Rose catches up with me. “Don’t be a liar.”

  I stop and turn to her. “You’re calling me the liar? That’s hilarious, Rose.”

  “I don’t lie to you.” Even though I’ve seen her lie a thousand times, when it comes to me, I know she’s telling the truth. Romeo looms behind her. I look away. Because I’m the liar by not telling her about Romeo.

  I cast my gaze over the shallow end looking for my sister. Zora is always easy to find. But I don’t see her. “Zora!” I shout. “Let’s go.” She doesn’t answer. So I check the stairs, where I left her. She’s not there. “Do you see Zora?”

  Rose looks out at the water with me. I see lots of little white kid heads but no Zora head.

  “What’s wrong?” Ally says, pulling up beside us.

  “Where’s Zora? I can’t find her.”

  “She’s probably in the bathroom,” Ally says. But I know she’s not. Zora doesn’t go to the pool bathroom without me.

  That’s when I start to freak out. “Zora!” I yell.r />
  “Chill,” Rose says, “we’ll find her.”

  “Yeah, she’s around.” It’s Romeo, coming to help.

  We’re searching the shallow end when I hear Mrs. Franklin’s whistle break out in three urgent bursts. “Birdie, look!” Ally exclaims.

  I turn to see Ally pointing. Toward the deep end. And then I see her. Zora. By herself. Standing at the top of the high dive.

  “Zora!” I yell, and start running.

  As Mrs. Franklin’s whistle goes frantic, everyone clears out of the deep end. My sister stands absolutely frozen at the end of the high board. I don’t take my eyes off her.

  Zora is only seven. Truth be told, I didn’t jump off the high dive until I was eight and it practically scared me to death. If Ally hadn’t double dared me, I’m not sure I would have done it yet.

  “Zora!” I call out. But she doesn’t answer. Her terrified eyes are locked on the water below. “Zora, talk to me!”

  Ally and Rose rush to my side. “Come on, Zora,” Ally yells.

  I know Zora better than anyone. So I know she’s not moving. Once Zora freezes with fear, you practically need a blowtorch to thaw her out.

  “Zora, come down off the board,” Mrs. Franklin calls out over her loudspeaker. And I can feel Zora tense up even tighter. Giving Mrs. Franklin a pleading look, I hold up my hands to stop her from doing that again as I run to the high dive ladder.

  It’s twenty-two steps. I’ve counted them before. I count each one of them now, trying to calm myself down. As my head rises above the back of the diving board, I see her. “Zora, it’s Birdie,” I say softly. “I’m coming up.”

  Zora doesn’t turn around. And I think, How’s she going to fly to Mars if she’s scared of the high dive? Maybe I’ll have to go to Mars with her.

  I step up onto the diving board. It’s flat and solid, unlike the springboard below. As I walk out, holding on to the rail, I see every eye in the pool area watching us.

  “I’m right behind you, Zora-pie,” I say and keep walking. As I pass the end of the rail, I move across the open board, which hovers over the deep water.