The Jewel and the Key (2 page)

Oh, no. This was what she'd been afraid of.

Whaley was fighting the guy who had brought those knuckle-draggers to heckle his band last night. Kirk. That was his name. Big and dumb. The type who didn't know when to stop. Of course, Whaley had probably been all too willing....

Her stomach clenched as Kirk grabbed Whaley's shoulders and bashed him into the side of a car. Under his shock of reddish hair, Whaley's narrow face was pale, but he was grinning like a madman. The second he hit the steel door, he twisted away and punched Kirk in the stomach, darting and dancing. But Kirk, slower moving but more powerful, turned like a Sherman tank and just came at Whaley again.

Addie spotted Whaley's bandmates, Cam and Enrique, in the crowd and rushed over to them. “Can't you guys break it up?”

“No way,” Enrique said.

“This is Whaley's business,” Cam told her. “It's his band.”

“It's your band, too!” But she knew they were right. Whaley was the one who searched out the bookings, made the posters, wrote the songs. The way he saw it, if the band was disrespected, it was his job to defend its honor. And she knew that everyone would laugh if Whaley's friends dragged him out of this fight. She turned back to watch, every nerve in her body jumping.

Whaley was dodging Kirk's blows well, but his guard was slipping. He stumbled, and Kirk's fist smashed into his face. Blood sprayed from his nose.

Addie flinched and forced herself not to cry out.

Kirk flung himself at Whaley as hard as he could and slammed him onto the hood of a Subaru Outback. But then Kirk lost his balance and floundered onto the hood as well. Whaley leaped up, grabbed him by the waist, and smashed him into the windshield. The glass cracked. Kirk rolled over, flattening Whaley beneath him.

“Ooooh!” went the crowd.

Addie couldn't stifle herself any longer. “Stop it! Stop, now!”

Whaley twisted his head around from under Kirk's bulk and gave her a bloody-mouthed grin. “Hiya, Ads!” Distracted, Kirk turned too, and as he did, Whaley wriggled away from him and rolled to the ground. Before Kirk knew what was happening, Whaley yanked his legs out from under him.

“Whaley—”

Before she could finish, Cam and Enrique burst into cheers. Whaley had won. It happened so fast, Addie wasn't even sure how. But suddenly Kirk was down in a puddle, moaning, and Whaley had him pinned.

“Give up?” He was pressing Kirk's head to the ground.

“Unh.” Glaring, Kirk gave a short nod.

Enrique and Cam helped Whaley to his feet. The three of them were crowing and high-fiving one another. People were slapping Whaley's back; some guy was pretending to be a fight announcer; and girls were snapping their fingers in the air.

Whaley was laughing, accepting their congratulations, already pulling out his tobacco tin and paper for a celebratory smoke. Addie just drew a shaky breath and turned away.

She crossed the street to the park and kept going until she reached the top of the hillock, where the benches hid among the cedars. It was later than she'd thought. In the west, a slab of sunlight poked through the mass of clouds hanging over the Olympics, painting the sides of the houses fiery colors. She took a deep gulp of air. Late crocuses poked through the mud. Purple irises were furled against the cold. Spring was here.

But the thought didn't cheer her. She drew her coat tighter over the gorgeous troll dress, thinking she'd left home this morning as shimmering silk but was coming back as nothing but boiled wool.

“Hey ya, McNeal!” Whaley had crested the hill behind her. His face glowed with triumph. He tossed aside his rollie and stamped it out.

Addie smiled, warmed that he'd left his cheering fans to find her. But then she got a closer look at him. “Oh, wow. Look at you! Let me clean up that blood.” She pulled a bandanna from her bag and went over to the water fountain to wet it. He followed and stood patiently, stooping a bit, as she dabbed at the caked streams of blood under his nose. “
And
you're getting a black eye.”

Whaley touched his cheekbone gingerly. “Looks worse than it feels, I bet.”

“Turn around. Let me see your back. Is there any glass in it?”

“I love it when you're Nurse Addie.” Whaley grinned, looking more ragged and snaggletoothed than ever. “Naw. My back's okay.” He winced a bit. “More than I can say for the Subaru.”

“Did you leave a note or anything? So they can contact you?”

Whaley's eyes widened. He smacked his forehead. “Oh, crap.”

“What?” Addie eyed him warily. “What is it?”

“Its just ... I just realized.” Whaley looked over her head, as if he were examining a peak of the Olympics in minute detail. “I think that was Mr. Nguyen's car.”

“The
principal's?”
Mr. Nguyen was not a touchy-feely, let-bygones-be-bygones guy. He'd nail Whaley to the wall for this.

“Don't freak! I'll offer to fix it or something. I know how to replace a windshield.”

“You do? But—” She remembered the last big fight Whaley was in. “What if Dad finds out?”

“Then I'll be in the doghouse,” Whaley said mournfully. He caught Addie's eye, threw his head back, and howled.

Addie nearly laughed but managed to stifle it. Whaley had too many people charmed already and not enough people to tell him the hard truth. “You can't keep getting in fights, Whaley! Not after they suspended you the last time. Don't you care?”

“About school? What do you think?”

Addie didn't have to think. She knew. “Well, do you care about Dad?”

“Of course I do. If it wasn't for him, I'd still be sleeping on that bench right there.” He looked down at his old Doc Martens and then back up at her. “And if it wasn't for you.”

It was true. She'd been shocked to find him sleeping in this park last September after his stepmom had kicked him out, his head propped on his guitar case and his possessions stuffed into a bag at his feet. Since they'd been friends so long, it hadn't been hard to convince her father to let him move in with them. Dad was a sucker for strays.

“You can't let him see that big bruise,” she said more gently. “You promised no more fights, remember?”

“It's a black eye, Addie. I don't think I can hide it.” But he looked worried.

“Hmm. Actually...” She thought a minute. “Maybe I can.” Here was one thing, at least, she could salvage from today's audition fiasco. “But you have to let me turn you into a troll.”

“A troll?” He broke off, looking slightly abashed. “Oh, man, I
am
a troll. I forgot your audition. Did you get the part?”

Addie ignored the question. “Wait here. I need to get something.”

She sprinted down the hill and ran along the street until Victrola Books came into view. Upstairs, on the second and third floors, where her family lived, the lights were out. But in the warm glow of the lamps inside the secondhand bookstore on the ground floor, Zack was curled up in the window seat reading one of his Redwall books, with Magnesium asleep on his lap, a swirl of soft white fur. Dad's prized antique gramophone gleamed on the shelf above him. She caught a glimpse of Dad behind the counter, but thankfully he was reading the paper and didn't notice her.

She darted around the side of the building before either of them could spot her, went in the back door, ran up to her room, and dug out the tackle box. Dad had given it to her for a makeup kit, back when she'd staged
The Hobbit
with the neighborhood kids in the adjoining backyards. The face paint she'd been messing around with last night was in there, and pancake makeup with brushes and sponges for applying it.

She may have blown her audition, Addie thought as she left with the tackle box in her hands, but she could at least keep Whaley out of trouble by transforming him into the troll king.

An hour later, they came home from the park, shivering. The bookstore was closed, so they had to walk around to the back door to get into the house. Shedding their muddy shoes in the hall behind the store, they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Smells of tomato sauce and oregano floated out of the kitchen as they headed to the living room, the largest space in the house, where everyone ate and hung out and did homework. Looking nervously at the glittery silver and green designs she had painted over Whaley's battered features, Addie hesitated before going in. She wasn't sure how successfully she'd concealed his injuries, and she didn't feel ready for a confrontation if she'd failed. Whaley hung back, too. Gathering her nerve, Adie flashed him a quick smile and peeked around the door frame.

Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace. Its warm light glowed against the dark paneling. Their neighbor Mrs. Turner was sitting in one of window seats that overlooked the street. Even from way back here, Addie could see her bright lipstick vying for attention with the latest dye job she'd inflicted on her gray hair. Mrs. T. was stout, well dressed (in a flowing-crepe-fabric kind of way), and dynamic, especially for her age, which Addie thought to be about sixty. Dad and Zack were at the big oak table; Zack had his colored pencils spilling everywhere, and Dad's round glasses were gleaming behind a newspaper with the headline
CONGRESS VOTES FOR WAR FUNDING; FIRST OFFENSIVE EXPECTED SOON
. He was reading the article out loud. Mrs. Turner was gripping an unlit cigarillo between her fingers, listening intently.

“‘Despite war costs set to top one trillion dollars for ongoing operations, Congress has authorized war funding for the new theater of conflict, citing credible intelligence of imminent threats. This despite opposition from a vocal minority in Congress.'”

Addie glanced at Whaley. She knew he'd been following this a lot more closely than she had. He always got worked up over military stuff. It was hard to gauge his reaction under the heavy makeup, but his eyes glowed with interest.

“This can't be happening,” Mrs. Turner burst out. “Not again! Are we sure the intelligence is accurate this time? Reallysu re?”

Dad lowered the paper. “I doubt it, don't you?”

“And is there a single reason to think it will do any good? Any reason in hell...” Mrs. Turner pulled out her lighter, flicked it, and then remembered she couldn't smoke in the house. She dropped it back in her pocket with an impatient gesture. “It makes me mad! We've all been working so hard to stop this from happening—”

“Hey!” Zack spotted Addie and Whaley. “What are you guys hiding for? Is Whaley in trouble again?”

Whaley sliced a finger across his throat, but Zack only laughed and stuck out his tongue.

Addie gave Whaley a final once-over. Even the thick makeup couldn't completely hide the worsening swelling under his eye. Still, you had to be looking for it, she told herself, and Dad probably wouldn't be. Not with all the war news.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, stepping into the room. Whaley followed. “Hi, Mrs. T. Isn't Almaz here yet?”

“Not yet.” Dad glanced at the paper one last time and then shoved it aside. “What's with the face paint, Whaley? I thought Addie was the one auditioning.”

Mrs. Turner put a hand on her chest and drew in a deep breath to compose herself. She crossed the room, gave Addie a quick hug, and looked Whaley up and down. “I know I should be the last to comment on anyone's makeup, but why, dear boy, is your skin the color of bread mold?”

“Just letting Addie practice on me. What do you think?”

There's blood on his shirt, Addie realized. And mud. It was a nondescript lumberjack shirt, a murky reddish-brown plaid, but you could see the stains if you looked closely.

The back door slammed and they heard feet thumping up the stairs. Almaz burst into the room, her hair in the elaborate shuruba braids she reserved for big occasions. She was wearing a purple skirt, a dark scoop-neck top, and a long white scarf.

“Hey, everyone!” She pulled off her scarf and twirled around happily, waving the scarf like a flag. “Guess what!”

“What is it, Supergirl?” Whaley was grinning at her. “Why are you dressed up?”

She waved two fingers in the air. “Respect and praise to the King County math silver medalist!”

“Almaz! That's great!” Addie exclaimed. Whaley grabbed the end of her scarf and tugged on it. Almaz laughed and yanked it out of his hands. “Whoa! What are
you
supposed to be, Whaley? The Tin Man?”

“If he only had a brain,” Addie stage-whispered. Almaz giggled.

“Do I look like the Tin Man?” Whaley went over to the mirror that hung over the mantel.

“Nah.” Zack stuck a crimson pencil in his mouth. “You look like a mushroom.”

“Well, good,” Addie said. “That's the effect I wanted.”

“You wanted a mushroom? Why—”

“Speaking of mushrooms,” Dad interrupted, “go throw the pasta in, Addie. The sauce is already made.”

“I wanted a troll,” Addie told Zack. “Same palette.”

Whaley scrunched up his nose at his reflection and burst out laughing. “You're right, Zack. I
am
a mushroom.” Abruptly, he crossed the room to pick up his acoustic guitar he'd left in the corner. He threw the strap across his shoulder and began banging out blues chords, singing in a scratchy tenor:

 

Well, I'm a mushroom, babeee,
From Planet Zay-am!
Not no shiitake mushroom, babeee,
Like they got in Japan!
Don't you know I'm a mushroom, baby?

 

“You're a
troll
,” Addie said.

Whaley dropped down into the rocking chair, picked up the tempo, and shook his head wildly.

 

Some girls love a fungus
Some girls love a spud
But I'm here to tell you
That I ain't no dud
—