The Art of Secrets (18 page)

More than a month later, on FRIDAY EVENING, MARCH 15, the sky is clear and full of stars, and

Saba Khan, sophomore,

retrieves the dusty notebook from under her bed in order to add one essential epilogue.

Today after school, I found Beti waiting at my locker, hands on her hips like I was in some kind of trouble. She reminded me that I
promised
we would hit the courts near the condo just as
soon
as it got
warm
outside. We've had about 5 minutes of sun so far, but Beti tapped the time display on her phone + pointed toward the exit, all like, “Hello?” as if the sky would fall on our heads if we don't play soon.

Until today, I haven't been in the mood. I've been in hibernation mode ever since winter break. But with Beti frowning in my face like that, the idea hit me that maybe I've been depressed or something because of all that's happened. It was scary to imagine that things had messed with my head more than I even thought. So I caved + told Beti we'd play tomorrow for sure.

In the gym, Coach P was rolling a volleyball post across the floor. When I told her I needed to grab my racket for the weekend, she called over her shoulder, “Ease into it + avoid injury!”

I let myself into the gym office, feeling suddenly strange. It was the 1st time I'd been in there since the day the paintings were stolen. The easel had been moved, closed up + now leaned against the greasy popcorn machine. I let my eyes rest on it, dreaming of what might have been, but only for a second.

My tennis racket was right where I knew it would be—the bright pink curve of the head was easy to spot in the back of the bucket.

When I pulled it out, the 1st thing I noticed was that something was fastened to the grip with a rubber band. An envelope.

I thought (weakly), a note from Steve? Yeah, right.

I pulled off the rubber band + looked at the front of the envelope. “Saba Khan ONLY” in shaky blue ink. Weird + weirder.

The envelope was sealed. Even before I tore it open, I knew: This was from Kendra. I'd actually been waiting to hear from her, anticipating a letter or an email from whatever poser's paradise she + her family have landed in. I expected some sort of confession—an honest acknowledgment of what she did. Even a simple apology along the lines of: “Yo, Saba, sorry we changed our minds + decided to keep the insurance money for ourselves. I guess we suck. See ya!” She owed me that, at least. An acknowledgment of the fact that she's a selfish, horrible person.

The envelope contained 2 folded sheets of paper: 1 of them was a note, the other a large color photograph. Computer printouts.

I looked at the photo. The quality isn't great. Cheap ink printer. The image is a tennis court, intense green, with some yellow trees in the background. Off to the right, in a loose team T-shirt + white sweatpants,
me
. My bright body nearly fills the frame, top to bottom. I have to say, it's an excellent shot of my backhand—perfect form, the expression on my face focused, fierce. It looks like I'm totally going to nail that sucker. Actually it's the kind of picture anyone likes to have of herself: kickass, the version of me I most want to be true.

The weirdest part was, I knew exactly which match it was. It was clear the second I looked at it. New haircut + yellow/red sweatband across my forehead = the match against Fenwick. The day of the fire.

How strange, I thought, that Kendra had this photo all the time + never showed it to me. + how
insane
that she would leave it for me now, after everything that's happened. As a consolation prize, this was pretty weak.

I looked at the note. I read it slowly. (Ease into it + avoid injury!) Then I read it again. It's a real work of art. It belongs here in this account.

No signature. No apology for keeping the insurance money.

Because keeping that money was always their plan? Pathetic.

I stood in the gym office, letting this information sink in. Kendra's mother had pretended to be the art expert . . . so the paintings were fakes? Or might have been fakes? Why? Initially, the point wasn't clear to me. All I knew was, our friendship was as big a fraud as anything.

What I couldn't figure out (at 1st) was the part about me being predictable. How was that even relevant?

I folded up the note, put it back into the envelope.

I returned to the photo, my hands trembling, thinking again how random it was that Kendra had left it for me. The 2nd time I looked at it, I noticed something peculiar: It's sort of fuzzy, but dead center in the background of the image, beyond the chain-link fence + under those yellow trees, you can see Ammi + Papa sitting on the hood of the car. Salman is sitting nearby, reading a book in the grass.

So it isn't a picture of me only. It's a family portrait.

I couldn't take my eyes off that detail. How bizarre that Kendra + her stupid ladybug phone had photographed my entire family at the precise moment our lives were changing forever—before anyone could have known it.

I refolded the photo + slid it into the envelope with the note. I needed to show these things to someone.

I hurried out of the gym office, nearly forgetting my racket. I walked down the corridor + out of the building, all the time wondering: Why had she left this note for me? The girl didn't seem sorry, not really.

After all, she wasn't my friend. She only used me. That fact was so obvious now. From the beginning, she had exploited my family's tragedy for her personal gain. On some level, I knew that already. Thanks to the fundraiser, Ms. Nobody Newcomer had become Ms. Happy Highsmith in record time. Now she's rich, too. What's the difference? Same selfish person.

I nabbed the only open seat on the express bus. All the way home, my brain kept adding more questions in an unceasing loop: Why had Kendra taken this picture? Of all those matches, why that particular one? Why hadn't she shown it to me, the way she showed me the 1000 other random photos she took?

Also: Who else had seen it? On the day the photo was taken, had Kendra pressed a little button on her phone + sent it to someone? Maybe to some idiot waiting near our old apartment with turpentine, rags + matches? Someone waiting for confirmation that my entire family was safely, predictably, at the park?

Kendra's note said: “From the very beginning, nobody got hurt. We made sure of that.”

Made sure
ho
w
? . . . By calling the freaking fire department?

Like flipping a light switch in my head, I went from total ignorance to being certain. That's how sure I was. It made me feel nauseated. For several minutes, I endured this stomach-turning flashback to how I felt on the day of the fire. I leaned forward, doubled over in my seat on the bus + struggled to breathe. The commuters sitting next to me must have thought I was having a panic attack.

Could the Spoons really have started the fire? The idea brought bile to my mouth. But if it was true, it would give us 1 more answer, at least.

At supper, Ammi + Papa told me I imagined things. Even when I made them read the note, they said I should stop guessing, stop inventing. “The child feels some guilt for keeping the money, as she should,” Papa said. “But she confesses to no specific crime. She admits no responsibility.” When I showed him the picture again, he waved it away, saying, “You are accountable only for your deeds, for your clean heart. Not for anyone else's.”

“Focus on today, not yesterday,” Ammi said. “You have homework this weekend, yes? Focus on that. Let God handle the rest.” She turned on the kitchen TV so that she could watch our neighbor, “Hannah from down the hall,” who now works the 6:00 news. “A promotion!” Ammi brags to her friends on the old street.

Salman watches with her, eager for any stories about guns or sports or someone else's fire. That boy's dreams are such boy dreams.

Who knows what makes people act the way they do? A person could go crazy trying to figure it all out. Maybe it's better to leave those questions to the social workers of the world + to the reporters, police detectives + fire marshals. But not me.

Papa's right: The only secret motives I need to keep track of are the ones in my own heart.

For now, I've tucked the picture into the frame of my bedroom mirror. In spite of everything, I do like the way I look in it: standing at the very edge of the court, dressed in clothes my father gave me, ready to nail that ball.

Kendra's note said, “Nobody gets everything they want.”

Says who?

I beat that girl from Fenwick last fall + I'll do it again this year. I'll work like hell at it, stay in shape. Starting tomorrow, Beti + I will practice all summer long at the free courts across the street. I'll tell you what's “top of mind”—winning.

Like the picture reminds me, the ball rarely comes straight to me. I have to run for it. So that's what I'll do.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This outsider novel has had the support of three welcoming insiders: Elise Howard, Emily Parliman, and Jennifer Laughran. I'm grateful for the opportunity and for the generous attention they gave to this project.

The students and staff at CICS Northtown Academy in Chicago inspire me every day. For helping me to tell this story, I owe particular thanks to Imran, Maria, Nawal, Salman, Sarah, Shan, Syed, and Tooba.

The Intuit museum in Chicago, the Milwaukee Art Museum, and the American Folk Art Museum in New York are three institutions, along with many others, that preserve and lovingly exhibit the work of Henry Darger. Jessica Yu's documentary,
In the Realms of the Unreal
(Genius Entertainment, 2004), tells the fascinating story of Darger's life. The many color photographs in the book
Henry Darger's Room
(Imperial Press, 2008) provided constant inspiration during the writing of this book.

The encouragement from my family and friends is a treasure that would be worth stealing if they didn't always give it so freely. Thanks especially to Mike, my partner, who handles more than his share of the dirty work.

In August of 2008, in a hotel room in Los Angeles, my sister Kate and I stayed awake very late plotting the basic story told in this book. If more dreamers had a sister like Kate by their side, more dreams would come true. (Or more crimes, anyway.) Thank you, Kate.

The Art of Secrets

JAMES KLISE

Questions for Discussion