The Explorers’ Gate (2 page)

This time, I got a grunt and a nod.

My father was dressed in his dark-green work shirt and matching dark-green work pants. A cluttered key ring was hooked to his belt and sort of buried beneath his muffin-top belly.

If I showed you pictures of my dad from when my mother was alive, you wouldn't recognize him. Back then he was buff. He had swagger and a sly grin. He was the handsomest prince in the whole kingdom, my mother used to say.

Now?

Well, let's just say he took mom's death even harder than I did.

I slathered gobs of peanut butter on top of his toast, figuring it might be the only solid food he ate all day. Then I sat down to make sure he ate it.

By eleven-thirty, I was at the Naumburg Bandshell at the northern end of the elm-lined Mall, a long, shady stretch in the middle of Central Park.

The Bandshell—which looks like a small capitol rotunda cut in half so it can bounce back sound—has been the stage for all sorts of famous performers over the years. Today, it would be the setting for the Park Smarts trivia contest.

I was dressed to win in my cleanest jeans, high-top sneakers, and official “Imagine” T-shirt decorated with the mosaic you'll find in a patch of Central Park called Strawberry Fields. It was named in honor of John Lennon, who used to live in an apartment building right across the street from the park.

On the side flaps of the tent where trivia contestants were already signing up, the Friends of Central Park had hung two huge vinyl banners. One was a pretty cheesy shot of Mr. Drake, the bald billionaire with the squinty eyes. The other was a blowup of the historic 1870 Guide Map. I dug under my collar and pulled out my necklace charm to compare it to the map.

“Huh,” said a tall boy standing beside me. “I have one of those, too.”

He reached under his sports jersey and pulled out a two-inch square with a rounded knob at the top and a curved notch at the bottom.

“Mine shows the middle part,” he said with a shy smile. “Which one did you get?”

“The top.”

The boy, who had to be at least six feet tall, pulled his necklace chain up and over his head.

I did the same.

“You think?” he said.

“Maybe.”

He handed me his puzzle piece and I lined it up with mine.

They fit perfectly.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“My mom gave it to me when I was little,” he said.

“Mine, too!”

“Wow. My brother, Willem, has the third piece. By the way, I'm Garrett Vanderdonk.”

“Nikki Van Wyck.”

“Of course! You're Nikki! My grandfather always says, ‘Nikki Van Wyck has the missing piece.'”

“Wait. Your grandfather knows my name?”

“Yep.”

“And when, exactly, does your grandfather say that thing about how I have the missing piece?”

“Whenever I ask, ‘Hey, where's the third piece, Grandpa?'”

“Did your grandfather know my mother?”

Garrett shrugged. “Don't know. We never talked about that. But Grandpa did say we might need to find you. Fast.”

“Huh?”

“For the Crown Quest.”

“The what?”

“It's this thing that might be happening real soon.”

“What kind of thing?”

“A very important, super-serious kind of thing.”

I looked at Garrett's sports-team jersey. His holiday ham–sized arms. His neck that reminded me of a thick stump.

“So, um, do you play football, Garrett?”

“Nah. Football is for babies. I wrestle.”

“I see.” I realized Garrett Vanderdonk, sweet and strong as he was, would never be the one to answer life's big, important questions. “So, is your brother here?”

“Willem? I don't think so. But we're going to do a practice run. Tonight. Are you free at nine?”

“What?”

He wiggled his puzzle piece. “You're the third leg of our team!”

“Um, are we talking wrestling, because …”

“No, Nikki,” he said with a laugh. “
The Crown Quest!
Do you know how to find the Explorers' Gate?”

“Sure, but …”

“Well that's where we'll meet for our first official full-team training session. Tonight. Nine o'clock.”

“Training?”

“Yeah. Grandpa will hide a pretend crown and we'll have to go find it following clues and junk.”

“Is this some kind of scavenger hunt?”

“No, it's a Crown Quest!”

I nodded so I could escape. “Oh-kay. Great.” Then I changed the subject. “So, are you signing up for the trivia contest?”

“No way. I don't want him to win.”

“Who?”

Garrett nudged his huge head at the blow-up of David Drake. “
Him
.”

“Mr. Drake? He's not competing. He's the judge.”

“Whatever. I gotta run. I can't wait to tell Willem I found you! Woo-hoo!”

The big guy bustled off, happier than anybody I think I have ever seen—except maybe Homer Simpson when he finds a dozen free doughnuts.

Of course, I was extremely curious about our interlocking puzzle pieces, not to mention Garrett Vanderdonk's grandfather, who knew my name and maybe knew my mom. But before I could think about these strange new Vanderdonk people who had suddenly leapt into my life, I had to go win the Park Smarts trivia contest.

Forget the Crown Quest (whatever it might be);
this
was the contest I had been training for my whole life.

A long stretch limo crawled up the wide, tree-lined Mall, a promenade the guys who designed the park called “an open-air hall of reception.”

(I hoped that would be one of the trivia questions!)

The chauffeur held open a door and out stepped Mr. David Drake himself. He was dressed in a classy business suit, crinkly alligator shoes, and a slick silk tie. His bald head was so shiny it looked like he had just had it buffed.

If the judge had arrived, that meant the contest was about to begin. I needed to sign in. Now!

I hustled around to the registration line. My heart was racing.

“Next.”

I smiled when I realized that the lady handing out contestant numbers was Mrs. Grimaldi, the tour guide I helped out sometimes.

“Hello, Mrs. Grimaldi!” I said. “Remember me?”

She made a face like I do when I sniff a carton of Chinese takeout food my dad has left in the fridge way too long.

“Good morning, Miss Van Wyck. Do you wish to compete in today's trivia contest?”

I was so excited I think my cheeks were glowing. “Yep, I sure do!”

Mrs. Grimaldi slowly fingered the pile of official number cards stacked in front of her. Once you were registered, you were supposed to pin your number to the front of your shirt like you would if you were running around Central Park in one of the races sponsored by the New York Road Runners club.

I held out my hand.

Mrs. Grimaldi did not give me a number.

“Did you know that Jonas Blauvelt will be competing today?” she asked, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes.

“Really?
The
Jonas Blauvelt? The man who wrote
The Definitive & Exhaustive Ultimate Guidebook to Central Park
?”

“Yes. That one.”

“But,” I said with a smile, “I thought this contest was for kids.”

“That's right. Eight to eighteen.”

“So how come Mr. Blauvelt is competing?”

“He's sixteen.”

My jaw flew open so wide Mrs. Grimaldi could've given me a dental exam.

“Wow,” I mumbled. Then I gulped. “Sixteen?”

Now Mrs. Grimaldi was the one beaming. “Yes. The young man is a genius. A true savant! His guidebook is
the
definitive source for all the information we use in our tours.”

I just nodded.

“So, Miss Van Wyck: Would you still like to register for the competition? Or, perhaps, you'd be happier in the audience.”

I hesitated.

But only for a second.

“No. I'd still like a number. I mean, if it's okay and all. If I'm not too late.”

“Fine,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk. “Good luck.”

I took my number and pinned it to my shirt, careful not to cover up the Imagine graphic. As I turned away from the registration table, I grinned—just a little.

Hey, if Mrs. Grimaldi based her tours exclusively on information she found in Blauvelt's book, I figured
Blauvelt
might get some stuff wrong, too!

Have you ever really,
really
wanted to do something—maybe sing, or dance, or tell jokes—and then seen somebody do it way better than you ever possibly could?

Welcome to my world.

I was waiting in the wings, at the back of the Bandshell, watching Jonas Blauvelt, the sixteen-year-old Central Park Whiz Kid, answer each and every question in mind-boggling detail.

Blauvelt had curly brown hair that completely covered his ears and the sidepieces of his glasses. He was sort of pudgy with chubby cheeks that might've looked cute if he wasn't frowning all the time. His soft skin was paler than a raw mushroom, probably from staying indoors all day working on his computer so he could become smarter than me.

“When was the Central Park Carousel first put into operation?” asked the quizmaster behind her podium.

“1871,” said Blauvelt, just like I would have. “It was originally powered by a blind mule …”

I knew that.

“… working underneath the floor of the ride.”

Knew that, too.

“The current Carousel, which, by the way, is the fourth, has only been in place since the fall of 1950, when it was moved from Coney Island to Central Park after a fire destroyed the previous carousel.”

Everybody
probably knew that.

“Thank you, Jonas,” said the quizmaster.

“I'm not finished,” droned Blauvelt, using one finger to slide his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “The current Carousel was originally constructed by Stein and Goldstein in Brooklyn for a trolley terminal.”

Okay. I did not know that.

“There are fifty-two jumpers, five standers, and two chariots.”

Even if I knew that, it wouldn't matter. Over at the judge's panel, I could see Mr. Drake smiling from ear to ear.

“Is there anything else you'd like to add, Jonas?” he asked cheerily.

Jonas sighed. “The outside horses are three-quarters the size of actual horses.” He sounded like a sad, sullen robot. “Two Russian immigrants did all the carving. The carousel's music comes from a Ruth & Sohn 33 band organ—
not
a Gebrüder—playing Wurlitzer music rolls. The carousel and all its figures are hand painted.”

I'd basically heard enough.

“You can go on in my place,” I whispered to the girl standing beside me.

“No thanks,” she whispered back. “I'm quitting, too.”

We both crept out the Bandshell's back door. I unpinned my number from my shirt and tossed it into the first trash barrel I could find.

Which, of course, just happened to be standing right outside the registration tent.

Mrs. Grimaldi was still inside, behind the table.

Yep. She was still smirking at me.

Hanging my head, I walked out of the park and headed home to 14 West 77
^th
Street.

“Hey, Mr. Humboldt,” I mumbled when I shuffled past his statue outside the Explorers' Gate.

Just because I was in a loser mood was still no reason to be rude.

That morning, I had thought winning the Park Smarts trivia contest was where my whole life had been heading. Now, I realized, my “fanatical obsession” had been a colossal waste of time.

Twelve years wasted.

Okay. Only eleven. I didn't learn too much about Central Park when I was in diapers. Just where all the swing sets were, I guess.

I crossed Central Park West when the light changed but slowed down when I reached the far side of the avenue because I saw Brooke Billingsley and three of her girlfriends strolling out of our building to stand under the emerald green awning while Charlie, the doorman, stepped out into the street to blow his whistle and flag down a passing taxi.

It was a little after one on a Saturday afternoon. I imagined Brooke and her friends were on their way to catch a matinee of a hot new musical on Broadway. Or maybe they were heading over to the Upper East Side and Dylan's Candy Bar, where they could buy all kinds of sugary treats like chocolate-covered gummy bears. Maybe they were going to another friend's birthday party or high tea at the Pierre hotel.

When you're the janitor's daughter in a fancy Manhattan apartment building, you see all sorts of girls your age with way better hair and clothes—not to mention a ton more money. Usually they don't invite you to join them for tea and chocolate-covered gummy bears. Usually they try to ignore you and you try to lower your eyes if you accidentally bump into them in the lobby.

After Brooke and her BFFs giggled and squirmed their way into the taxi, I trudged up the sidewalk to 14 West 77
^th
.

“Good afternoon, Miss Van Wyck,” said Charlie, who wore a uniform like the Wizard's doorkeeper up in Oz.

“Hi, Charlie.”

“Beautiful day.”

I put on my best smile. “Sure is. Well, I better go see if dad is hungry.”

“That's a neat shirt,” he said.

“Thanks.”

And then he sang. Way off key.
“Imagine all the people, living life in peace …”

Okay. Now I was really smiling. Charlie has a way of making you forget how terrible your day has been up until the point you bumped into him.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” said Charlie, taking a bow. “I'm here all week.”

I laughed and kind of skipped into the building like I was six again.

Yeah. Charlie will do that to you.

Remember how my father spends his Friday nights drinking beer and sleeping on the couch in front of the TV?