What Curiosity Kills (14 page)

  The club kids go wild. Money funnels in my direction down the length of the salad bar. My sister turns away, repulsed. She wants to leave me.

  The deli owner dumps Ben's breakfast out of the plastic bag and onto the counter. "Clean up on aisle one!" he shouts, flapping the bag.

  Don't ask me why Ben takes the bag and walks toward me. Maybe because the deli owner is an adult, the boss, and Ben can't defy authority without a note from Ling Ling's doctor mom. Maybe getting the mouse from me is Ben's last shot at bravery. Standing in front of me, holding out the open bag, he expects me to fork over the mouse like a Hershey's Kiss on Halloween. No way. This is MY mouse. I tilt my head back, open my mouth, and toss the mouse up like a piece of popcorn.

  A hand swipes the mouse from midair.

  Yoon grabs me. His arms, long and sinewy, are different from Nick's. They are ropes, tight and strong. His ribs press through the back of my coat. I struggle to break free, but Yoon is an upright railroad track, and he has me tied. He forces me to see what I've lost. I am so mad, I could scream.

Octavia does that for me.

  The mouse's tail twitches between Ben's closed lips. He hiccups, and the tail is gone. Before I can stop him, he swallows. He is showered with winnings that were rightfully mine.

The Webster Branch of the New York Public Library is a leftover, nineteenth-century mini-mansion. There are gas lamps to the right and left of the front door. The building is three stories, with giant vaulted windows revealing a children's reading room on the first floor. My sister goes to this library two or three times a week. I have not been inside a library in years.

  I say, "I don't want to go in. I can smell the cellophane book wrappers from here."

  "Get over it," Octavia snaps. "We're not going back to Yoon.
I told you
you're a hunter. I'm not letting him near you again. He'll bring out everything else that's bad about you. You're in my hands now."

  She yanks open the front door, and I shuffle past her through the vestibule.

  The circulation desk is manned by black and Hispanic teenage clerks. There are four of them scanning bar codes, unpacking transit holds, double-checking that the right number of CDs are with the proper audiobooks, and alphabetizing returns on the shelving cart. When they spot Octavia, they light up, wave, and mouth Hey, girl!

Octavia coos, "Haaaay!"

  The clerks never stop working while Octavia loiters and chats with them about books, movies, TV—specifically American Idol. They all have different opinions on who's going to make it to Hollywood Week and who's going to crack under the pressure of group sing. The clerks don't ask to be introduced to me, and Octavia doesn't offer. These are her secret, outside-of-school friends, and she wants them to remain private.

  Octavia asks, "Is Mrs. Wrinkles in The Cellar?"

  "Always. But what do you want with her?"

  Octavia motions to me.

  "Oh, it's like that," one of the girl clerks says.

  I'm not sure what she means, but apparently it is
like that
because Octavia doesn't say otherwise. My sister leads me down a wide marble staircase.

  The Cellar Used Bookstore is one of New York City's bestkept secrets. Located in the Webster basement, all proceeds go to support local libraries. Along the far wall are hardbacks. To the left—jammed two rows deep, two on top of each other—are paperback mysteries. To the right are biographies, dramas, and histories. Rounding out the front: romance and sci-fi. Aisles are divided by chest-level antique bookcases filled with out-of-print classics. Nothing has a penciled price of more than two bucks. The bookstore is run exclusively by volunteers—retired, old-school, bespectacled librarians who no longer want to spend their days shushing the public. They play Broadway soundtracks and bustle about in matching work aprons that are printed with the silhouette of a cat whose tail drapes an open book like a bookmark.

  "My dear!" a woman behind the sales counter exclaims. She beams at Octavia and clasps her hands together. She wears a cardigan over her work apron and has a handkerchief tucked up the cuff of her sleeve. Her hair is cropped short: a white, feathery swim cap. Large clip-on costume earrings dangle from her long lobes. Her glasses are tortoise shell and attached to a matching chain around her neck. Her face is a powder-dusted map of fine lines. Mrs. Wrinkles, I presume.

  She pulls a stack of books out from underneath the counter. The books are tied with string, the way a box of cookies is tied at a bakery. She presents them to Octavia. "For the Dalton debate."

  Octavia says, "You're the best."

  "Say, Thank you, Mrs. Wrinkles!"

  My sister repeats what the woman wants her to say softly— the softest I've ever heard Octavia speak. I can tell she's pleased with books—I've never heard of them and bet the Dalton debate team hasn't heard of them either—but Octavia's hesitant to take them. Her hand rests on the sales counter a few inches from the stack. The retired librarian nudges the stack toward Octavia's fingers, but Octavia jerks her hand away.

  "My dear, how many times must we go through this charade? We both know you'll take what Mrs. Wrinkles has found for you. There's no reason to resist. There's no reason to feel frightened. There's nothing wrong with taking help. You asked and were answered. That's what The Cellar is for!"

  I ask Octavia, "Does she do all your work for you?"

  My sister scowls. "Yeah, she puts on blackface and does my trigonometry."

  The older woman says to me, "You must need help if you're here with Octavia today. Tell me, my dear, what is it you need?"

  I look to Octavia to speak for me. I can barely hear her when she says, "Mrs. Wrinkles."

  "My dear, you need to see her?"

  I'm confused. I thought we were talking to her.

  Octavia says, "To be honest, I've never believed she was real."

  "You and so many others, my dear. Yes, Mrs. Wrinkles is indeed very real. And now you want to meet with her—after all these years. Why now?"

   "Something…weird…is happening to…someone I know." Octavia fiddles with the string on the bound lot of books. She's stumped over what to say next, how much more to say, or if she's already said too much.

  The woman prompts her. "This something is happening to a friend?" She knows my sister's talking about me but, under anonymity, hopes Octavia will go on.

  Octavia nods.

  "This something scares you?"

Octavia nods.

  "This something is something only Mrs. Wrinkles might understand?"

  Octavia looks too frightened to even make a motion of yes.

  "Oh, my dear, this must be serious."

  "It is, Miss Ryan." My sister bites her lips and looks up at the ceiling in an effort not to cry.

  Miss Ryan hurries out from behind the sales counter. She wraps her arms around my sister, who rests her head on Miss Ryan's shoulder, hides her face from me, and cries in earnest. Now I'm scared.

  Miss Ryan asks, "Do you want me to come with you to see her, my dear?"

  Octavia steels herself, draws her head back and shakes it
no. She brings
her coat sleeve to her nose, but Miss Ryan pulls her handkerchief from her sleeve, and Octavia blows her nose into that.

  Miss Ryan says, "Chin up, soldier on." She gestures to a closed door at the rear of the room.

  Octavia stares at the closed door but doesn't budge.

  I take her hand and tug to get us going. If someone has answers about what's happening to me, scary or not, I need to find out.

  Easing between antique bookcases, Octavia doesn't let go of my hand. Milk crates full of paperbacks line the aisle. We move slowly so as not to topple freestanding piles. I set my sights on a row of Stephen Kings against the far wall and give my sister's fingers a squeeze. She squeezes back. We're almost there. Whatever lies on the other side of that closed door frightens her more than me.

  Opening the door, we find a smaller, narrower room of books. A smaller, narrower retired librarian sits at a smaller, narrower desk. Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? rouge is applied in smudgy circles upon her cavernous cheeks.

  "Mrs. Wrinkles?" I ask.

  The retired librarian raises her painted eyebrows. She squints over her Trident gum–sized, rimless eyeglasses, propped on the tip of her nose. She lets her gaze linger on Octavia, who is a quivering mess.

  Octavia curtsies. So, I curtsy too.

  The woman removes her hand from the huge book she is reading. All the books in here are thicker than thick and look to be written in Old English. This is where such books come to die. The old woman keeps her grip on an index card she's been using to read line by line. When she lifts her arm, a name tag emerges from behind her wide work apron strap. Miss Gibbs points us toward a doorway without a door that is blocked almost entirely by a bookcase.

  This new chamber is equal to the size of my parents' bathroom but incredibly tall. Looking up at the skylight, I am at the bottom of a well. Perhaps this was once a terrarium. The room is tall enough to have housed a redwood. The shaft is bathed in daylight, but there is no artificial lighting. The shelves rise all the way to the top, but there is no ladder. All the books are coverless. A crumb of mortar falls along the wall. I peer into a sliver to find that the bookshelves give the illusion that the room is square, but it's circular.

  "Young lady, may I help you?"

  Octavia and I whip around to discover yet another retired librarian sitting on a swivel stool: an old man. We'd scooted right past him. He is inside this tower with us. He is no wider than the stool, and his three-piece, pinstriped suit makes him appear more elongated. His Windsor knot is as wide as his neck. No glasses. His eyes are thoughtful and rheumy. He clasps his hands over his crossed legs and bounces his top foot in want of an answer. He closes his eyes to better hear us, his dears. He smiles expectantly. Every line on his face grins.

  I dare to ask, "Are you Mrs. Wrinkles?"

  Octavia elbows me.

  He chuckles. "Young lady, you do need help! I am Mr. Charles.
This
is Mrs. Wrinkles."

  Placing his hand on his lapel, he opens his jacket a few inches from his chest. Out peeks the hairless head and shoulders of a sphynx.

  Mrs. Wrinkles is not completely hairless. She is fuzzy like a peach. You can't see the fuzz, but you could feel it if you touched her—and she wants you to. As soon as she spots us, she slinks out of Mr. Charles's suit jacket, prances up his crossed leg, and preens on his knee like a Swiss goat on an Alp. She lifts her head. Her face is all angles. Her ears are tall and pointy, like the tips of a tiara. She can't weigh more than six pounds. Her skin is the palest of pinks, with faded black spots. She looks like a washed out, sun-bleached box of Good & Plenty. She extends a bony paw.

  "Pleased to meet you," says Mr. Charles.

  Octavia cowers behind me. I can see why Mrs. Wrinkles would scare her. The cat is straight out of King Tut's tomb. But she's so friendly! She paws the air and tilts her head inquisitively.

  Mr. Charles says, "What, no fine-how-do-you-do's?"

  Not shaking the cat's hand may be construed as rude on my part, but I am not doing it. I remember what happened to my shin when Yoon first visited me as the deli cat and then what happened to my legs when Peanut Butter and Jelly had a go. This morning, a stray whisker sprouted out of the side of my head. The turning has started. How many more hours do I have as myself? My body is ripening. If I touch Mrs. Wrinkles, my fingertips will look like I just ate a bag of Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos.

  I say, "I'm allergic. My sister's cat-phobic."

  Mr. Charles says, "But Mrs. Wrinkles is no cat. She's a lady."

  I hear Yoon's voice: She's no normal girl, Father.

  I ask, "Is she human?"

  Octavia punches me in the back.

  "Is she what?" Mr. Charles chuckles. He rubs a faded black spot between Mrs. Wrinkles's eyes. The sphynx purrs. With no fur, her ribs vibrate like a xylophone. He says, "Well, she's as smart as any human I've met. She knows exactly what I'm saying, don't you, Mrs. Wrinkles? And beautiful to boot!"

  Mrs. Wrinkles lifts her narrow haunches to show off. She looks me up and down and sniffs. She must sense my inner cat like Peanut Butter and Jelly did, but she is indeed being a lady about it. No crying, no swarming, no pouncing, no hissing fits. The tip of her skinny tail runs up the center of her handler's face, but his eyes don't cross. He gingerly places his hands on her hips and rubs her like he's shining a shoe.

  He says, "Mrs. Wrinkles has lived in this library all her life. She's sixteen years old. Her great-great—you can't imagine how many greats!—grandmother was kept by Miss Miriam Webster. Mimi purebred exotics. When she died, she donated her entire estate to the city on the condition that her darlings—and their darlings—be allowed to continue to live here. Mrs. Wrinkles is the last of her line."

  Octavia peers out from behind me. "We need to ask her a question."

  Mr. Charles says, "Be my guest."

  "In private," she pleads.

  "You have all the privacy you need."

  "But you're here."

  "I am her chaperone."

"You'll see what she gives us."

  "Young lady, I have not seen anything since Jackie Kennedy was in the White House."