Gertie's Leap to Greatness (15 page)

“Come in,” she said.

So Gertie stepped across the threshold and into the housiest house on Jones Street.

She looked around and saw that she was standing in a big entryway. The faded
For Sale
sign was propped against a wall. The sounds of clinking forks and glasses filled the house, and behind her, the door closed with a soft
click
.

Rachel put a hand on Gertie's shoulder and steered her down a wide hall and into the kitchen. The counters sparkled. An iced cake sat on a giant crystal plate.

It would've looked like a magazine kitchen except for all the cardboard boxes stacked in a corner. They were sealed with packing tape and labeled with marker.
Cookbooks. Cups. Tools.
Gertie turned away from the boxes and snuck a closer look at the cake. It said,
Happy Birthday, Lacy!

“Who's Lacy?” Gertie asked.

Her shoulders tensed. She realized, too late, that she didn't want to know.

“I'm going to call your aunt,” Rachel said behind her.

“No!” Gertie spun around. “Wait—”

“Shh.” Rachel glanced at a door. A little girl laughed in another room, and Gertie's shoulders drew up even further.

“I came to talk to you, and Aunt Rae'll just…” Gertie began, but Rachel was already dialing the number.

Even though she was sweating in her jacket and her fingertips were tingling as if her mission was static in the air, Gertie couldn't help but admire how her mother punched the phone buttons with purpose. Rachel Collins was one of those people who made every action seem important. For instance, the businesslike way she put one hand on her hip and tilted her chin down while she talked into the phone.

“Hello? This is Rachel.”

She looked strange in the kitchen, Gertie thought. Her clothes were too nice, and her jewelry was too sparkly to do the kind of kitchen work that always left Aunt Rae covered in dishwater and flour.

“Yes, she's here,” Rachel said. “Gertie's here. She just showed up.” She paused. “Okay. Okay. I understand.” Rachel put the phone back in its cradle and turned to Gertie.

“Rae says you've been gone more than two hours. She's frantic.” Her eyes moved over Gertie's face like she was looking for something there—something besides a biggish nose and freckles. “She said she'd be here as soon as she could.”

Gertie was running out of time. She squeezed her hands into fists. “I came here to tell you that I'm going to be in a play.”

Rachel brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“I got the best part,” Gertie explained. “Evangelina.” Only, it sounded all wrong when she said it. The lights were supposed to grow brighter and Gertie was supposed to grow taller and Rachel Collins was supposed to drop her mouth open in utter shock at the amazingness of it all.

Instead, the icemaker in the refrigerator door clacked and popped.

“Okay
.
Thank you for telling me?” Rachel said. It sounded like a question. She didn't look impressed, and she didn't look regretful about leaving Gertie.

Gertie's fingers uncurled. It wasn't working.

She was supposed to give the locket back to her mother now. She reached for the collar of her shirt and felt the hard lump where the necklace lay beneath the fabric. That was the last phase.

But she couldn't do it. Because as long as she had the locket, it was like Rachel couldn't go. As long as the locket wasn't packed up in those cardboard boxes, she wouldn't be able to leave. Gertie let her hands fall and hang by her sides.

“Will you come to the play?” she blurted.

“What?” Rachel tilted her head. “I can't. I mean, I don't think that's a good idea.”

“You can.” Gertie hadn't planned on inviting her to the play, but now she knew. Rachel had to come. She had to get out of this house and come to Gertie's school and
see
Gertie as Evangelina. She had to
see
that Gertie was a star. Then she would understand everything. Then the mission would work like it was supposed to.

“I made a decision to leave years ago, and I can't change that now.” Rachel shook her head. “Even if I wanted to.”

Gertie's breath caught. Did that mean she
had
wanted to come back? “You didn't
leave
leave,” she said. “You're right on my bus route.”

Her mother pursed her lips but didn't answer.

“Rachel?” a man's voice called. “Rachel, where've you gotten to?”

“Just a minute!” Rachel called. She looked at Gertie. “I have to go. They drove all the way here for the party. I don't want to keep them waiting.” She stood up straighter. “I at least need to be there for the candles. I'll be right back.” She lifted the cake and hurried out of the kitchen, the heels of her shoes clicking on the hard floor.

Gertie stared at the door Rachel had disappeared through and wondered why she had left her here. Did she think Gertie would misbehave or have a conniption or something? Because she wouldn't. She could eat cake and sit at a table as proper as any adult. She should march right after Rachel and tell her that.

She went slowly to the door and pressed her ear against it, listening to the sounds of gasps and talk and shushing and singing. She pushed it open a crack.

Rachel's back was to Gertie. A man—it must've been Walter—was holding his tie against his chest as he leaned over the cake, slicing it with a knife. Two little girls clapped their hands. And Gertie knew that one of them must be Lacy. They looked like a family, she realized. They looked perfect, like Audrey's Waltons.

Gertie had never liked that show.

Then Rachel Collins turned her head to smile at one of the girls, and without even thinking, Gertie stole a tidbit to add to her collection of things she knew about her mother: Rachel Collins was the kind of person who, when she smiled, had eyes that crinkled up at the edges.

Gertie backed into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut. She backed all the way to the refrigerator, and when her jacket bumped it, she slid down and sat cross-legged on the floor and held her chin in her hands, turning over the image of crinkled brown eyes. Walter had two little girls. Gertie hadn't known. Nobody had said anything about it. But Walter had two daughters, and Rachel Collins wanted them.

The icemaker made a low, steady whine, and Gertie dug her fingernails into her cheeks. And she waited because Rachel Collins had said she would be right back.

But she was still waiting when the front door slammed and the party got quiet. She pushed herself to her feet and went to the kitchen door. When she opened it, she saw Aunt Rae, her gray windbreaker on inside out over her flowery housedress, stomping through the dining room.

Rachel put herself between Aunt Rae and her new family like she could shield them from the sight of her. “If you'll just come to the kitch—”

“You get yourself”—Aunt Rae put her finger in the middle of Rachel Collins's chest and pushed her backward—“out of my way.”

Rachel sputtered.

“What's going on?” asked Walter.

Then Aunt Rae saw Gertie standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. She made a low sound and put her hand to her chest. “Let's go home, Gertie,” she said.

Gertie walked through the dining room, past the staring girls, with her head as high as she could lift it. Slowly, she turned back to Rachel.

She didn't need a mother, she reminded herself. That was what she'd come here to tell Rachel Collins—that she didn't need anybody at all. But somewhere along the way, she'd started to
want
a mother.

“The play's in two weeks,” she said. “That's a Friday.”

Rachel looked at Gertie with the same expression she'd had when she'd almost waved in the grocery store. It was like she was split into two people, one of them telling her to say yes and the other telling her to say no. And then she said it. She looked right into Gertie's eyes, and she said, “Okay.”

“Who's that?” asked one of the girls. “Daddy?”

Gertie didn't wait to hear how Walter answered. She followed Aunt Rae out of the house. The Mercury was parked and running in the driveway. Audrey was strapped in the back. Gertie climbed into the front and wrapped her seat belt around herself.

“I was like church mice,” Audrey whispered, her swinging feet kicking the back of Gertie's seat. “I didn't tell,” she said when Gertie didn't respond.

“I know,” Gertie said.

Aunt Rae settled into the driver's seat and held the steering wheel for a long time. The engine growled, and the vents blew hot air on Gertie's face. The Mercury's headlights shone on Rachel Collins's garage door until Gertie began to wonder if Aunt Rae was going to sit here all night. She glanced behind her at Audrey, who shrugged.

Gertie looked back at the house, and she realized something. “I forgot to tell her what time. She doesn't know what time the play is.”

Aunt Rae finally looked up from the steering wheel. She grabbed the shifter and put the car into reverse. “It's at six,” she said, without looking at Gertie. “Your play's at six.”

They started to back down the driveway.

“Ahhh!” Aunt Rae shouted. She slammed on the brakes so hard Gertie's body whipped forward. Audrey shrieked.

“Lord have mercy!” Aunt Rae slung the shifter into park. She was staring into the rearview mirror.

Gertie twisted around and looked through the back windshield. In the weird red glow from the brake lights, Junior's eyes were enormous.

 

22

How
Will
I Carry On?

Behind Carroll Elementary, on the playground, on a swing, Gertie sat with her hands in her lap. She scuffed her shoes in ditches that had been dug deep by children's feet.

Junior whooshed past her.

“It was”—he swung backward—“so scary.” He sailed forward, and Gertie's hair blew into her face.

Junior had already told her the story six times that day.

Yesterday, after he and Gertie had seen the awful
SOLD
sign and he'd made it home and gotten off the bus, he had been minding his own business—eavesdropping on the ladies who were getting their hair done—when the phone rang. His mom had answered it.

The first time Junior had told the story, he just said that his mom had answered the phone. The third time he told it, he added that her face had gone pale. This time, as he swooped past on the swing, pumping his legs, he said, “She gasped, and I knew immediately that something was wrong. I knew it.”

*   *   *

“Hang on,” Mrs. Parks said into the phone. “I'll call you back.” She put the phone down and yelled, “Junior!”

She pushed him into one of the salon chairs and stomped the pedal, raising the chair until they were eye to eye. “Junior,” she said, “do you know where Gertie is?”

“No,” he said. “No, ma'am.”

All the ladies looked at him over their magazines.

“Rae Foy just called.” His mother grabbed the arms of the salon chair and held it still.

Junior hadn't realized that he was swishing it from side to side until she stopped him.

“She can't find Gertie,” Mrs. Parks said.

“Gertie's missing?” Junior stared at his mom.
Missing.
Missing was bad. Missing meant gone. Missing meant kidnapped and cut to pieces and put in canned cat food. The hair-dye fumes burned his eyes.

“Did she say anything to you about running away?” his mom asked.

The women in the other salon chairs had put down their magazines and were leaning toward him, tugging their neck aprons off. “Oh, that child,” said one. “Rae must be a wreck.”

“No,” said Junior. “She wouldn't run away!” She wouldn't run away from home without telling
him
. At least he didn't think she would.

“What happened at school today?” His mom never looked worried, but she looked worried now.

Junior tried to think. “We had auditions. She got the Evangelina part. I didn't get any part. I didn't even get the Potato.”

She asked him who Evangelina was. She asked him question after question. But he didn't know anything, because it didn't make sense that Gertie could be missing. She wasn't the kind of kid who went missing. She was the kind of kid who rescued other missing kids.

His mother patted his knees. “Okay, baby. I'll call Rae back and tell her we don't know anything. Don't worry,” his mom said. “She'll turn up. She's probably gone off on some crazy adventure and lost track of time. Don't worry,” she said again.

She left and went back to the phone. She had forgotten to let the salon chair back down. Junior jumped out of the chair and staggered into a haircutting station. He went past all the ladies who were fluffing their curls and blowing their wet nails and talking about the Foys.

Junior shut the salon door behind him and collapsed on the stoop. His best friend in the whole world was missing. He laced his fingers between his knees. What if his mom was wrong? What if Gertie didn't turn up? And the worst part was that if she was really missing and gone, she would never get to complete her mission. She wouldn't be there to stop her mom from moving away. And …

And Gertie wasn't missing. She was still on her mission! She had gone to Jones Street to the house with the
SOLD
sign to see her mom and tell her that she was the greatest fifth grader in the world. And now everybody
thought
she was missing, when really she was just on her mission. Really she was fine.

Except, except … what if something went wrong? Always before when she'd done a mission she'd had him and Jean. And then she'd only had him. And now she didn't have anybody. What if she got lost? What if she got attacked by a rabid coyote? What if she got her foot caught in one of those drains under the sidewalk and she couldn't get it out and she fell in and nobody heard her yelling?