The Seventeenth Swap (13 page)

“I'll take the white one,” he said before he could change his mind. A moment later he broke into Debbie's passionate gratitude and congratulations by adding, “Could I take that toy, too?”

“Oh, sure! But she'll play with
anything.
Like feathers. She
adores
feathers. And she's smart! Why, the other day I—”

“You don't need to go on talking me into it,” Eric said kindly. “I've decided. Only thing is, I can't take her until Thursday. Is that okay?”

Debbie eyed him. “Well—if you
promise—”

“I promise. Honest. Hey, we better start back.”

“My mom'll bring me. I've got to eat my lunch. You'll
sure
get Snowflake on Thursday?”

“Sure. Positive! Right after school! So long.”

Eric bounded up the walk to the street again, and headed back toward Rivershore and school, feeling triumphant and scared in about equal parts, and hoping he had not just become the sole and permanent owner of a white kitten. His dad didn't care for cats.

At 3:40 he let Angel catch up with him as he stood waiting for the Lake Street light. She started talking before she quite got to him.

“Hey, Eric! I hear you took one of Debbie Clark's kittens! I thought you said you couldn't have a cat because your dad . . . How come you chose the white one? I like the stripey one best, I think he has the prettiest eyes. Are you going to call him Snowflake, like Debbie did? That's a kind of dumb name, I think. My sister said she'd name it Minimal if it was her kitten. You get it? Minimal? I didn't at first, but she says her art teacher at Iron Mountain High says there's a whole school of artists who paint pictures that're just all white, or all black or all gray or something, and they're called “Minimalists.” I don't know why they do that, it sounds dumb to me. If I was going to paint a picture I'd want it to be
of
something. A tree or something. I—”

It was just as if they'd never had a hostile telephone conversation. One thing you had to say for Angel, she never stayed mad. On the other hand, she'd probably get mad again, just as fast or faster, if he so much as mentioned her little box. Maybe if he so much as mentioned
any
little box, he thought with a sudden clutch of stage-fright, feeling as conscious of the little Chinesey box in his jacket pocket as if it were radioactive and outlined in pink neon.

The moment had almost arrived to bring it
out—to put his whole scheme to the test. He swallowed hard. What if it didn't work?

All at once the thing fell apart on him. His perfect, logical, A-to-Z plan seemed utterly silly, wobbly, ridiculous. Every single bit of it depended on every other bit, and not one of them was certain or even especially likely. He must be going bonkers, as Cholly would say. He was losing his sense of perspective, as Dad would say. He must've already lost his grip on plain common sense to think nothing mattered except those boots. Better quit right now, before he went any further. He could tell Debbie he'd changed his mind about the kitten. He could forget about the box. No use banging his head against . . . But
that
was what Dad would say, too.

In fact, everything he'd been thinking was just what Dad would say—what Dad would be thinking if it were Dad's plan, and Dad's project. I wasn't going to do that, Eric reminded himself, feeling bewildered but draggingly uncertain. Dad knew more about life than he did—he
must.
Maggie would probably say, “Ahh, what've you got to lose?” But Maggie was kind of impractical. Wasn't she?

“—so d'you want to go with us?” Angel finished, and waited. “I have to know pretty soon,” she added impatiently. “Because of Daddy making the arrangements and all. He told me to find out today.”

“I—I—” I'll just say I don't want to go, Eric thought hurriedly. Wherever she's talking about. No, I'd better say I
will
go, then try to find out . . .

“You haven't even been listening,” Angel accused him, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

“No.” Eric sighed. “I was thinking.”

“You mean about the May Day picnic?”

“No. Why would I be thinking about the May Day picnic?”

“Because that's what I've been
explaining
about! My daddy can borrow a big van from where he works, to take a whole bunch of us, and if you want to go—”

“Oh. Yeah! I'd like to. Thanks. Let's see—that's . . . what day is the picnic?”

“May Day.
The first of May,” said Angel, slowly and distinctly, staring Eric in the eye. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Eric Greene.”

“Yeah, me too,” Eric muttered.

They turned and walked on. Angel said, “What
were
you thinking about, then?”

Eric made no conscious decision, one way or the other. He simply said, “My botanical collection,” and stepped over to a little tree they were passing, frowned at it consideringly, and plucked a leaf.

“Botanical collection? I didn't know you had a botanical collection,” said Angel. “What are you going to do with it? What kind of stuff are you collecting?”

“Botanical stuff,” Eric told her. He came back to the sidewalk, sliding the Chinesey box out of his pocket with a hand he kept somehow steady. Unhurriedly he removed its lid, dropped the leaf into its shiny interior, put the lid back on, and with his heart dropping like a stone, returned the box to his pocket.

“Where'd you get the box?” asked Angel.

Eric's heart climbed back to its usual position. “This?” he said casually. He produced the box again, giving a careful rub to the gold-lacquer design as he held it for Angel's inspection. “Somebody gave it to me
a long time ago to keep things in. It's sort of an antique.”

Angel's eyes widened.
“Really?”
She looked dubiously at the box. “I thought antiques were like silver teaspoons, and furniture and stuff.”

“There's all kinds,” Eric told her. He crossed two fingers of the hand clasped around his schoolbooks, because he was about to tell a whopper. “The lady who gave this to me called it a beautiful antique Chinese lacquer jewel box with a mysterious design in gold.”

Angel looked from the box to his face then back at the box—still dubious, in fact downright skeptical. “It just looks like a kind of worn-out lacquer box to me.”

“It does to most people,” Eric said. “Unless they know a lot about antiques.”

Angel thought about this, then inspected the box again. “Of course it's awfully
pretty,
” she said. “Really
different.
I mean, the more you look at it . . .”

“It's handy to keep things in, too,” Eric remarked.

“Yeah. It's just the right size for my cocktail picks.” Suddenly Angel's eyes flew open; she fixed Eric with a bright, suspicious glance. “But you needn't think I'll swap my little cigar box for it, because I won't!”

“Oh, I wouldn't swap
this,
” said Eric just as quickly. “I meant to tell you—I guess I don't want the cigar box now. My friend who collects them thinks he can get one somewhere else. He says they're pretty common.”

“Oh,” said Angel.

“Well, here's where I turn off,” Eric added briskly, halting at the Third Street corner. “See you tomorrow.”

“Where you going?” Angel stopped too.

“Just over to Diamond Street. To see my artist friend. That is, if he's home.”

“Your artist friend? A
real
artist?”

“Yeah, sure. Robert Sparrow. He illustrates kids' books and things. I've seen some of 'em—right there in his studio. He's got whole walls full of drawings.” Absently, Eric added, “He's going to draw my picture sometime.”

“Really?”
Angel was impressed. “Hey, can I go with you to see him?”

Eric let his expression cloud over with uncertainty. “Oh—I dunno. He might not exactly . . . I mean—”

“Pooh, he wouldn't mind!” exclaimed Angel, sure as always of her welcome anywhere, by anybody. “I'm coming along.”

“But he might not even be there!”

“So? We can find out, can't we? Come on.”

She started energetically down Maple Street, her forelock bouncing, leaving Eric to follow, which he did with an artistic air of having been overruled against his better judgment.

“How come he's going to draw your picture?” Angel asked as he caught up with her.

“I dunno, he just offered to. He does lots of portrait drawings of kids. Charges twenty dollars for them usually. I thought I'd give mine to my dad for Christmas or something.” He crossed his fingers again.

“Good idea,” Angel said vaguely. Other people's plans and parents weren't quite real to her; Eric had often noticed it.

He added, “Instead of a school picture. I didn't bother with those. And since Robert Sparrow wanted to draw me anyway—”

This penetrated. Angel turned to him with an arrested expression. “Heyyyyyy! D'you s'pose my mother might like one for her
birthday?
Wonder if he'd draw
my
picture?”

“I guess so—for twenty dollars.”

“Oh.” Angel's enthusiasm cooled. “The school ones are only fifteen—and you get all those wallet-sized ones along with the big one.”

“That's true. Better stick with those.” Eric waited a moment before adding carelessly.
“My
school photos never turn out any good.”

Angel didn't reply, but he could see her remembering that her last ones hadn't, either. She had complained bitterly at the time that they made her look like a baby seal. She'd had her hair cut into that forelock shortly afterwards. “Of course, I might not think the drawings were any better,” she said rather crossly.

“No,” Eric agreed. Then, as they reached the Garden Shop courtyard, “Here's your chance to find out!”

Angel stopped in surprise. “He lives
here?”

“Up there—above the old garage. Come on.”

He led the way up the stairs, whistling, trying to act as if he came here all the time. Since it was Tuesday, one of Robert Sparrow's days to teach in the city, he was not afraid of intruding. As they passed the roof-balcony window he stopped, pointing to the display of portrait drawings inside. “That's the kind he does for twenty dollars. I think they're real good, myself.”

“Wowwwww!” Angel breathed. “So do I!” She pressed her nose against the glass. “Hey! There's Martha
Gettner
! The one up there in the top corner! It looks just
like
her!”

“I don't know Martha Gettner,” Eric said.

“She's in my dancing class,” muttered Angel. She was still scanning the portraits, one by one, but apparently found nobody else she knew. She turned away abruptly. “Let's go in! I like those! I bet my mother'd just love one for her birthday. I wonder if he'd make me one for fifteen dollars instead of twenty? I don't
have
to order the school pictures. Eric, d'you think he'd—what's the matter?”

“I don't think he's home,” said Eric, who had already knocked once on the door. He knocked again, louder.

“Oh,
no!
” Angel wailed.

“I told you he might not be.” Eric shrugged. “Never mind, I'll ask him about it, next time I see him. Maybe next week.” He started back down the stairway.

“Next
week?
Why not tomorrow?” demanded Angel, clumping hurriedly after him.

“I have my job tomorrow. I suppose I could come by Saturday afternoon, if you're in a big hurry or something.”

“I am! I want to
know!
Ask him Saturday, then, okay? Promise?”

“I promise to
ask
him. I can't promise what he'll say.”

“Okay,” Angel agreed reluctantly. “But phone me
right away,
as soon as you find out!”

“I'll try. Well—I've got to go look up stuff in the library. You can come along if you want, but I may be a while.”

“Oh. No thanks,” said Angel, as he had known she would. With a last frustrated glance up at the artist's
balcony, she started toward home, and Eric headed in the other direction, walking buoyantly on the balls of his feet.

That wasn't really a lie, he was assuring himself. He really
might
drop by the library—after a quick visit to the Hobbyhorse Shop to ask Maggie Teggly some questions. A lot depended on the answers, but the past hour had made an optimist of him, and done wonders for his self-confidence. Then, tomorrow morning on his way to school—if Maggie's answers were the right ones—he'd make a three-block detour into Diamond Street and ask Robert Sparrow a question too. And when could he talk to Mr. Lee? Tomorrow afternoon was Jimmy-day. All right—tomorrow at lunch hour he'd go see Mr. Lee. And after that, Angel again, at school. That left only Cholly to call on—to proposition, to convince—before the action started Thursday.

He felt like somebody trying to organize a troup of untrained acrobats into one of those tidy pyramids, with everybody standing on everybody else's shoulders. Untrained? They were blindfolded. He could only hope they'd hold their poses long enough for him to climb on top.

His steps slowed a little as he examined his own thoughts with a touch of uneasiness. He didn't want to
trick
anybody. Not his friends. He reviewed his plan one last time, and the people involved in it: Maggie and Cholly and Mrs. Panek, Mr. Lee and Robert Sparrow— Debbie and Dad. No, he wasn't tricking a single one. And so far everything was going perfectly—going his way, for a change. Angel he had in the palm of his hand.

Am I tricking Angel? He put the question severely to himself.