Vanishing Acts
Authors: Leslie Margolis
ContentsFor Lucy and Leo
Life imitates art far more often
than art imitates life.
âOscar Wilde
Everything started in October on what I thought would be a typical Tuesday morning. It was cold. Not teeth-chattering, I-can't-feel-my-toes-and-my-nose-is-an-icicle cold, more like I-wish-I'd-already-broken-out-my-winter-coat-because-this-flimsy-fleece-isn't-doing-the-trick cold. Not even paired with my thick wool scarfâstriped and hand-knit by my best friend, Lucy Phan.
Cool wind whistled through bare trees. Dried leaves danced at our feet as my twin brother, Finn, and I raced to schoolârunning fast and running late because he'd pressed the snooze button on our alarm clock one too many times. (It was the third time that month, and I was
totally
counting!)
We were still a block from school when suddenly, out of nowhere, I got clobbered by a bloated guy in a top hat. He plowed right into me, making me scream, more from shock than any actual pain.
“What the . . .” I didn't finish my sentence because I don't like to swear. Not out loud, anyway.
As I blinked, he bounced to the ground, then rolled past a parked car, and, wait a second . . . People don't bounceâat least not more than once or twice. But this guy ricocheted across the sidewalk like a beach ball.
Then things got weird. Finn chased after the dude and picked him up with one hand and no obvious sign of struggle.
Once I got closer I realized why. He wasn't a bloated guy in a top hat at all. He was a life-size blow-up doll. Balloon-like and puffy, with eerily realistic-looking features: black mustache, rosy cheeks, thin lips, and tiny, pale pink ears. Someone had dressed him in a black suit with a matching tie. He looked like a chubby Charlie Chaplin, minus the derby cap and cane.
“You okay?” asked Finn.
“Fine.” I brushed myself off. “Just surprised. And kinda creeped out.”
“Just kinda?” Finn teased.
The two of us gazed at the doll, both thinking the same thing. Not because we're twins and we have super telepathic powersâwe don't. Only because there's merely one possible reaction to this situation: extreme confusion.
“Where did he come from, do you think?”
“Don't know.” Finn shook his head. “Nor do I know where he's going.”
“Probably with those two.” I pointed to two more blow-up dolls that tumbled by. These ones were made up to look like women, with long hair and long skirts trailing behind them as they drifted into oncoming traffic.
Someone in a Smart Car slammed on the brakes. Tires skidded to a loud angry stop and horns blared. Passersby on the sidewalk stopped passing by to stare as the pair continued down the street. They bounced buoyantly, totally oblivious to the hazards they caused.
Finn turned back to the doll in his hand. “Uh, think we should keep him?”
“It's not like we can bring him to school,” I replied.
“Right. Good point.” Finn let go.
The doll began to drift, but before it got very far I grabbed it and was surprised at how light it really was. “We can't just let him sail away. He could cause an accident. His friends almost did.”
“So what do we do?” asked Finn. “We're totally gonna be late, and Ms. Murphy would never believe us if we told her why.”
I looked around, noticed the empty trash can on the corner, and stuffed him in. “There!” I said.
The doll filled up the entire barrel. He peered straight at me with dull brown eyes. For someone with plastic
features, he seemed surprisingly unhappy about his fate. The corners of his mouth turned down. His mustache drooped with disappointment. But what could I do?
“Sorry, dude, but it could've been worse. We could've deflated you,” I said, before turning to Finn and calling, “Hurry up or we'll get detention!”
We ran the rest of the way. Missed the late bell, but managed to sneak into homeroom without anyone noticing.
“Plenty of time,” Finn whispered as we slid into our seats.
“We got lucky,” I replied as I retied my ponytail. “And tonight the alarm clock is moving to my side of the room.”
Yes, Finn and I share a room but it's not as weird as it sounds. A giant bookcase divides his side from mine, and it offers plenty of privacy. Case in pointâI didn't even notice him pressing the snooze button.
Finn shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
After homeroom, I breezed through math, English, and social studies, almost like the wind propelled my schedule, too. So before I knew it, it was time for lunch.
Lucy was already waiting for me at my locker. She wore her long dark hair in a single braid, which told me she had music after school. (Her teacher is way strict
and makes her wear her hair back so it doesn't get in the way.) And if I couldn't tell by her hair, she was also carrying her violin, because it doesn't fit in her locker.
“Hey, what's up?” she asked.
“Did you happen to run into any giant plastic dolls on the way to school this morning? Or, more to the point, did any giant plastic dolls happen to run into you?”
Lucy frowned and raised her hand to my forehead. “You feeling okay, Maggie?”
“I'm fine,” I said. “Justânever mind.” It seemed too complicated to explainâat least at the moment, while I was starving. “Let's eat. Are you carrying or buying?”
“Like you have to ask,” she replied, holding up her lunch sack. “I'm packing spaghetti, but I'll come with you.”
“Cool.”
We headed outside with a swarm of other Fiske Street Junior High School seventh and eighth graders. Sixth graders aren't allowed to leave campus for lunch. And being a fairly new seventh grader, I still enjoyed the novelty of leaving school in the middle of the day.
We headed to Henry's so I could pick up a banh mi, which is a delicious Vietnamese sandwich that Lucy finds disgusting, even though she's half Vietnamese.
“I'll wait outside,” she said once we got there. “I don't even like the smell.”
“Someday you're going to want to eat more than spaghetti,” I said.
“Ugh, you sound just like my mother!” said Lucy. “Last night she tried to get me to eat rice with clams in it, claiming it's my great-grandmother's long-lost recipe and that a single, mystically infused bowl will cause good luck. Can you think of a more obvious ploy?”
“You have no idea how good you have it!” I said. “My parents are working so much these days, they never cook. Finn and I have had pizza three nights in a row.”
“That sounds so much better than having to eat leftovers from my parents' restaurant,” said Lucy. “And I don't even like pizza.”
After I got my sandwich, we headed back to the cafeteria and sat down at our usual table. But before I had the chance to nibble on even one sliver of pickled carrot, an eighth grader came up to me and asked, “Are you Maggie Brooklyn?”
She wasn't just any eighth grader, either. Her name was Charlotte Ginsburg, and she's totally popular. Not mean-girl, tease-you-to-your-face-or-trash-talk-you-behind-your-back popularâI don't think. She's just your standard, eighth grade, run-of-the-mill, pretty, cheerful kind of girl.
I looked up but didn't speak. I just didn't know what to say. Last time I saw Charlotte, she was walking down
Sixth Avenue with her three best friendsâgirly girls with bright smiles and shiny hairâtheir arms linked, taking up the whole sidewalk. They were so focused on one another that they didn't even notice me approach. No one moved over to make room, and I had to jump into the gutter to avoid running into them. And they weren't even being meanâjust oblivious, because they could be. They're so used to people getting out of their way.
So obviously I couldn't figure out why she'd ventured to my table. For one thing, I'm in the seventh grade. Also, there's way less hair flipping, giggling, and gossiping on my side of the cafeteria.
Maybe she tripped and fell and hit her head this morning and now had amnesia. It was the only logical explanation, considering we were over a month into the new school year. Space at the cafeteria had been mapped out, invisible but powerful lines drawn. If you wanted to switch tables at this point, forget it. It was too late. Your friends were your friends, and there was nothing you could do about it for the rest of the semesterâprobably the rest of the year.
But it's not like I needed to explain this to Charlotte, who stood over me, puzzled and waiting for a response.
A response other than a confused, silent gaze, I mean.
“Yes, I'm Maggie Brooklyn,” I said finally.
“The dog-walking detective?” she asked, her tone all business.
Suddenly everything became clear. I recently found some missing dogs. And not just someâFinn says I need to quit being so modest. I rescued seven dogs from an evil dognapper posing as an identical-twin veterinarian, and lots of people found out about it, which made me legitimately popular for an entire week, then just semipopular the week after that.
Three weeks later everything went back to normal, meaning most people didn't really notice me. Which is not just okay by meâI actually prefer it. I love solving mysteries, and being inconspicuous helps in a major way.
I'm tall, but not too tall, with long, dark, wavy hair and eyes that are green or hazel, depending on who you ask. Basically, I'm your average twelve-year-old girl, and no one expects that an average twelve-year-old girl could be capable of serious detective work.
“I'm not a professional or anything,” I told Charlotte. “I don't even have business cards. But I do walk a few dogs after school, and I have solved some mysteries.” (By “some” I meant two, because besides finding the missing dogs, I'd also tracked down my landlady's long-lost fortune.)
“That's good, because I need some help, and my dog does, too,” said Charlotte.
“I'm not allowed to walk any more dogs,” I said. “I already have four clients, and that barely gives me enough time for homework.”
