Vanishing Acts (7 page)

“Because I rented a lovely garden flat,” said Isabel. “And this will fit perfectly, but there's something tacky about having just a single pink flamingo statue.”

“I didn't realize that's what made pink flamingos tacky.”

Isabel nodded knowingly. “They need to be in pairs. Like shoes and mittens and chocolate truffles—one will simply not suffice.”

Sometimes it's best to just let Isabel talk without questioning her logic, especially when one is short on time, which one—I mean
I
—was. I leashed up Preston, who seemed desperate to get out, maybe because he needed a break from the blare of French language tapes. Did I mention how loud they were? And that dogs have extra-sensitive hearing? Poor Preston!

“I'm going to turn this down a little, okay?” I asked, heading to Isabel's ancient and dusty stereo system that was made up of five components, two gigantic speakers, and not even one iPod dock.

Suddenly Isabel looked out her window and clutched her chest. “Oh dear. Maggie, something horrible has happened! My car is gone!”

I rushed to the window and looked at the empty spot in front of our building.

“I must call the police. Now where's my phone? Last time I saw it, I was watching
Glee
.” She looked in her potted plant. “I could've sworn I left it right—oh, that's where that went.” She picked up her remote control and brushed off some dirt. Then she turned toward the kitchen.

“Didn't you sell it last week?” I asked.

“My phone?” asked Isabel. “Why would I do that?”

“No, your car. You said dealing with parking would be too much of a hassle when you were out of the country. And it's old, and you'd rather just buy a new one when you come home next summer. I had to help you look for the spare keys and registration, remember? They were sewn into your pink satin throw pillow.”

“The one that I took from Prince's dressing room!” said Isabel. “Of course. Now I remember. That lovely little landscape designer bought it. And I think he recognized me, too. You know—from my last great production.”

I met the guy who bought Isabel's car, and he was maybe twenty years old. Isabel hasn't acted professionally in about that long, but I didn't point this out. Instead I headed for the door with Preston following at my feet. “I'll see you later, okay?”

“
Au revoir!
” Isabel called. “That's French for good-bye.”

“Those lessons are really paying off,” I said.

“
Oui,
” said Isabel. “That's French for—”

“I think I figured that one out,” I called, before closing the door behind me.

I headed in the opposite direction of Second Street, still rattled from earlier this afternoon.

Getting yelled at by a famous movie director had been bad.

Being thrown off the movie set had been worse.

But being accused of stalking Seth Ryan? That's just plain humiliating. And creepy. I'm no stalker. Yet that's exactly what his security guard accused me of being after he grabbed me and literally carried me off the set. I tried explaining to him that
Seth
had been trying to talk to
me
, but even I knew how crazy that sounded. I'm just a regular kid. Seth Ryan is a megastar.

There's no way Seth would want to talk to me. Except he had. But why? Now I'd probably never know.

At least my walk with Preston was uneventful. After I brought him back to Isabel's, I helped her find her oven mitts, her corkscrew, one striped sock puppet, and the red bandanna she wore to her last Springsteen concert. Then I walked the rest of my dogs.

I got home twenty minutes past curfew, but no one seemed to mind. Finn had called to say filming was running late, so he wouldn't make it for dinner. He was going to eat at Lucy's. I guess she was having everyone over after the shoot. I thought about heading there, too, except I hadn't exactly been invited. I stared at the phone and thought about calling Milo again. But what would I say? How was your chess tournament? Guess what—I got accused of being a stalker this afternoon?

I don't think so.

I kept forgetting to move the alarm clock to my side of our room, so Finn and I had to run to school again on Thursday. But luckily Ms. Murphy was too distracted to notice us sneak into homeroom late. It's because she was getting everyone ready to embark on our first field trip of the school year.

“Now, if everyone will just get into a single-file line at the door, I'll do attendance in the hallway,” she said. We hadn't even left the room and she already seemed stressed out.

“Lucky break,” said Finn, joining the line. “Where are we going?”

“Prospect Park, remember?” I asked. “We're meeting up with Cindy Singer, the artist who did the treehouse sculptures. She's giving the entire seventh grade a tour of her work.”

“How do you know this?” asked Finn.

“I pay attention,” I said. “Plus, Mom got all excited when I asked her to sign the permission slip last week. She's a big Cindy Singer fan. She even tried to get me to read her biography.”

“Listen up, everyone,” said Ms. Murphy. “I expect you all to be on your best behavior for Ms. Singer. No talking when she's talking. No wandering off. No chewing gum. No texting, no e-mailing, no tweeting, no IM'ing, no 3G-ing. Everyone pays attention. Got it?”

Half the kids looked up from their cell phones to agree.

I thought about raising my hand and asking what 3G-ing even meant, but decided against it.

We joined a few other classes in front of the building, but apparently we were getting tours in shifts and none of my friends were in my group, so I stuck by Finn. Ms. Murphy led us into the park via the Grand Army Plaza entrance, where the artist Cindy Singer waited.

Cindy was tall and skinny with lots of freckles, big black-framed glasses with thick lenses, and a British accent. She was way older than us (obviously), but seemed younger than our parents. “Hello, Fiske Street School students,” she bellowed, extending her arms like she wanted to embrace us in a gigantic group hug. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Like we had a choice!” Finn whispered.

“Shh!” I said.

She pointed to the structure above her—a tree house made out of sticks and suspended about twenty feet in the air. “This is my first installation on this side of the pond,” she said, as everyone looked around, confused, since we were nowhere near the pond.

“And by ‘pond' I mean, of course, the Atlantic Ocean,” Cindy continued, laughing at what I guess was supposed to be a joke. “I live in London, and I've only ever shown my work in Europe until now. And I know what you're all asking yourselves: why would an extremely successful artist bother coming to Brooklyn to show her work? Why not skip this less exciting borough and go straight to Manhattan, which has so many more museums, as well as a rich history of patronage to the arts? Well, I've got two words for you: the monk parakeets.”

“Actually, that's three words,” said Finn.

I giggled and shushed him.

Cindy cleared her throat. “The monk parakeet is small and green, with gray tufts of feathers around its neck. They are native to Argentina, and back in 1975, someone tried to ship a large crate of them to a pet store in New York City—except the parrots broke out of their crate and flew the proverbial coop. Yes, that's right—they all escaped. And they must've decided that
it was too much trouble to fly home to Argentina, so they made their home right here in Brooklyn. That's right—these very exotic South American birds decided to take up residence in Brooklyn, New York.”

“I think Dad covered this in that documentary he did on birds,” Finn whispered.

“Really?” I asked. “I must've been sleeping through that part.”

“It's their quest for freedom and adventure that intrigued me,” Cindy went on. “I remember first reading about them in some ornithological book years ago. I've been thinking about them forever, and only just recently came up with the perfect homage to them: human-size tree houses.”

She chuckled to herself. And when she noticed the blank stares of our class, she continued. “Anyway, I wanted to give the children of Brooklyn something they don't have. And what better than a tree house? Since most kids in Brooklyn don't have trees in their backyards. Or backyards, for that matter. Or any type of yard.”

“So we can really climb up there?” asked Finn.

“Oh, no,” Cindy replied, rolling her eyes. “It seems that the city of New York does not agree with my vision. Or at least, the Parks Department didn't want to purchase the insurance necessary to allow these tree
houses to be open. So I had to build them without ladders. They are for display purposes only. Shall we continue?” she asked, and then turned and walked farther into the park, not waiting to see if anyone followed.

We all did, staying on the path all the way to Third Street, where we turned left into the Long Meadow.

Cindy stopped when we reached a tall oak tree. Then she turned around and spoke again. “This second piece is made of brick, and installing it was quite the engineering feat. The first tree I selected for the work was not strong enough. But then we found an older, stronger tree, and
voilà
! Here it is.”

She pointed up. In a tree, also about twenty feet up, was a small brick house. Four walls, windows on each side, and one door. It seemed heavy and out of place, but in a cool, quirky way.

“This representation is significant because . . .”

As Cindy went on, I tried to pay attention, but often when people talk about art I get a little lost along the way. Or, as was the case this morning, distracted.

I looked around, thinking that if these tree houses
were
in use, they'd be a good hiding place for the dog-egger. Except he or she wouldn't be able to get inside, since Cindy herself said she built them without ladders. Plus, the eggings happened nowhere near these tree houses.

“Does anyone have any questions?” Cindy asked.

Suddenly I felt a sharp jab in my side. Finn had elbowed me, because Cindy was staring straight at me.

I stood tall and nodded, as if I'd been following her all along.

“Yes, dear, what is it?” she asked me.

Oops. My nod was supposed to signify that I'd been paying attention, not that I actually had a question. My stomach fluttered with panic, but luckily Finn jumped in to save me. “How long did this thing take?” he asked.

“About three years to build—from inspiration to installation,” Cindy said.

“Interesting that you say three,” said Ms. Murphy. “Given what I know about you, I figured there would be three tree houses.”

Cindy smiled. “Obviously you're familiar with my work. And there were supposed to be three, but let's just say things didn't work out as I planned. Well, not exactly. And I'm afraid I can't say anything more about that. So thank you for your time, everyone.” She gave us a small wave and said, “Ta-ta.”

Ms. Murphy thanked Cindy, and we all gave her a round of applause.

“This really was wonderful,” said Ms. Murphy. “A true honor and privilege, and you'll be happy to know
that the entire seventh grade is going to be writing reports about your life and work.”

“That's lovely!” said Cindy, ignoring the groans from my classmates.

I wish I agreed with her. But more than that—I wish I'd paid better attention.

After school and dog walking and a fruitless search for the egger, I was exhausted and starving. When I got home, I found Finn playing video games in the living room. Our apartment was silent except for the bleeps and whirs of his game; something involving a track meet in space.

“Hey,” I said.

“Mom and Dad are both working late, but they left us money for pizza,” Finn reported.

I sat down next to him. “Want to order?” I asked.