Steve and I don’t see eye to eye on everything. It’s my dream to travel to places like New York and even Europe to visit the amazing art museums there. He thinks it’s just as good to look at paintings and sculptures on the internet.
It’s so obviously not the same. “Come on,” I wheedle. “Let’s take a trip. When’s the last time you and Mom went on vacation? I’ve never even been outside Serenity.”
“We have everything we need right here.”
“If I’m going to be an artist,” I persist, “I have to learn from the great masters. You can’t do that squinting at a screen. I have to walk on the same cobblestones as Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci!”
The next time I open up the computer, I find a virtual tour of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy.
“Steve!” I’m exasperated, but I’m laughing too. His stubbornness is part of what makes him my dad. It’s annoying, but deep down I realize I’m pretty lucky with the life I’ve got.
“I won’t be twelve forever, you know,” I tell him with a mischievous grin. “I’m going to Europe—if you and Mom won’t take me, then I’ll go when I’m in college. You guys can’t control what I do forever.”
That makes him look really uncomfortable. I guess it’s hard for any father to deal with the fact that his little girl is growing up.
Later that night, I notice Eli outside my window on Harmony Street. This isn’t a huge coincidence. In Serenity, you always see someone you know because you know everybody (except the Purple People Eaters, obviously).
Anyway, there’s Eli, walking up and down, looking kind of unsure of himself. I realize that the house he’s staring at is Randy’s—at least, where Randy used to live before he got sent to his grandparents. What a crummy piece of luck that was. Everybody feels bad about it, but that obviously goes double for Eli.
I abandon my mural and run down to join him on the darkened street. He looks a little embarrassed when I get there, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Have you heard anything from Randy?” I ask, because it’s obvious that something’s bugging him.
He shakes his head. “It’s been two weeks. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth.”
I frown. “What do the Hardaways say?”
“Just that he’s really busy and I’ll hear from him one of these days.”
“That’s doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” I muse. “How long does it take to shoot an email—Arrived in Colorado. Everything good?”
“He told me he’d write. It was the last thing he said before the car drove away.”
“He was probably really stressed that day,” I reason.
“Yeah, but he said it twice. He made a really big deal out of it.” He looks determined. “So I keep asking myself: Why would my best friend promise to write, put such a fine point on it, and then not do it?”
I wish I could help him somehow, or at least wrap my arms around him and tell him everything is going to be okay. (Ha—can you imagine if Malik found out about that?) But all I can manage is a shrug.
Eli answers his own question. “I think he did write. I think he wrote before he even left. There’s a message for me here somewhere.”
There are about a million things wrong with that logic. For example, if Randy already knew what he wanted to say before he left, why didn’t he just say it? What could be so secret? We don’t keep secrets here.
But I just say, “A message? Where?”
He doesn’t answer, but he’s looking past the house into the Hardaways’ backyard. “I don’t know,” he says finally, “but it must be someplace he thinks I’ll find it.”
I follow his gaze directly to the tree house.
“No problem, then,” I say. “I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Hardaway won’t mind if you look around.”
“I think the Hardaways are mad at me. It’s really weird. They don’t talk to me anymore. It’s like they talk through me. And when I come around, they make excuses that they have to leave.” He sizes me up, as if wondering whether or not he can trust me. “Besides, if Randy left me a hidden message, it was so his parents wouldn’t see it.”
Now I’m uncomfortable. “So you’re—”
“Going to check the tree house.” He smiles sheepishly. “At least, I’m trying to work up the guts to.”
“I’ll go with you,” I blurt, surprising even myself. Maybe it’s wrong, but there’s something intriguing, even irresistible, in the idea of this message from Randy to Eli (if it exists). What could this special forbidden information possibly be? I can’t imagine keeping a secret from anyone, much less Amber, my best friend. It’s almost as if seeing it will open a hidden door I never even knew existed.
“Randy kept an old coffee can in his tree house,” Eli confides in me. “When we were little kids, it was kind of his treasure box. He had a rodent skull, and this rock he was convinced was a rare fossil. There was a shark’s tooth I’m pretty sure was plastic. We haven’t looked at it lately, but I know the can is still there.”
“And that’s where the message is?” I ask dubiously.
“I don’t know. Probably not. Maybe there is no message. I have to try, though. But I don’t want Randy’s parents to see me.”
I understand his problem right away. The houses in Serenity have big windows and open rooms. We’ve got nothing to hide (at least I thought we didn’t). Even from here, we can see the flickering of the Hardaways’ wide-screen TV. For us to enter the backyard, we’d be parading ourselves right by Mr. and Mrs. Hardaway.
And then it comes to me. I can picture the layout of things from all perspectives. Obviously, it’s connected to being an artist, but it’s more than that. I understand how things work—like I can envision the finished puzzle before anybody puts the pieces together. It’s not anything I do; I just know.
So I place myself on the couch with the Hardaways, and design a route that will take us to the tree house without being noticed. We creep along the outside of the fence, and then climb over into the Hardaways’ yard once we’re under cover of the pool heater. From there, we’re up the ladder and into the tree house in short order.
Eli’s brought a small flashlight. He finds the coffee can right away. It’s nestled in a hole in the tree trunk. With trembling hands, he lifts the lid and dumps the contents of the can out onto the wooden floor.
There they are: the rodent skull, the plastic shark’s tooth, and a few other random items that someone a lot younger than us might have considered treasure. There’s a stack of three-by-five index cards held together with a rubber band. I take a look at the top one and frown in confusion. There’s somebody’s photograph at the top and scribbled notes underneath. The face in the picture seems kind of familiar.
“Isn’t that—?”
Eli snatches the pack away. “You’re not supposed to see these.”
But I’ve already identified the photograph. “That’s a Purple People Eater!”
Even in the gloom of the tree house, I can see his face is red as a tomato. “They’re Purple People Eater cards,” he confesses in a voice so low it’s like he’s hoping I won’t hear it. “Randy and I made them. You know, kind of like baseball cards, only with—”
“I get it,” I assure him, holding out my hand. Reluctantly, he gives me the deck.
I riffle through it. There must be two dozen cards, each one with a photo of a Surety agent (candid, obviously. Purples never pose. These must have been taken on a cell phone from behind hedges or around corners). The facts below are very much like what you’d find on sports cards, with the difference that they’re all made up, including the names—RUMP L. STILTSKIN, MIKE “ARACHNOPHOBIA” JONES, ALEXANDER THE GRAPE, SCREAMING MIMI, SECRET AGENT MAN, and even a couple of military titles, MAJOR NOSEHAIR and GENERAL CONFUSION. The “information” looks like real statistics, but it’s all crazy stuff, like winning pancake-eating contests and being twelfth in line to the Sultanate of Altoiletstan.
BARON VLADIMIR VON HORSETEETH
&
nbsp; Born: 0.003 seconds after the Big Bang
Hobbies: Tearing heads off live chickens, flatulence, knitting
Goal: To win Kentucky Derby
Major Accomplishment: Flossing
Favorite Foods: Hay, carrots, sugar cubes
Favorite Color: Thursday
I’m sort of shocked at first. At home and at school, we’re taught to practically worship the Surety for the job they do protecting our town. But after a few seconds, I feel the corners of my mouth curling upward. The cards are just—funny. And they fit some of the subjects so well, like Bigfoot, who must wear size eighteen shoes; or Mr. Universe, whose muscles bulge clear through the fabric of his purple tunic; or Sunshine, whose sour-pickle face is the exact opposite of his name. I must have passed Baron Vladimir von Horseteeth dozens of times and noticed those choppers the size of piano keys.
“These are amazing,” I tell him. “What gave you the idea to make cards?”
“It was all Randy. We passed one of them and Randy blurted out a nickname for the guy. We were laughing so hard that we kept going, dreaming up all these details. Then we decided to do the cards, so we ran around taking their pictures and brainstorming goofy stuff about them. . . .” He trails off, probably thinking about the great times he and Randy used to have.
I flip another card.
BRYAN
Hobbies: Marrying Mrs. Delaney
Favorite Quote: “Hey, Mrs. Delaney, will you marry me?”
“We never came up with much for Bryan,” he says apologetically. “Once they’re real people, they’re not that funny anymore. I wonder which one is Hammerstrom.”
“Hammerstrom?”
“Another one of the Purples,” he supplies. “Those are the only two names we have—Bryan Delaney and Somebody Hammerstrom.”
I replace the rubber band on the card pack. “The other kids have to see these, Eli. They’re too good to keep hidden.”
He’d probably say no, but he’s distracted by the search for this phantom message from Randy. I stick the pack in my pocket as he continues to riffle through the contents of the can again and again. There’s no note.
His disappointment is so clear that it almost has a heat signature. It’s like losing his best friend all over again. I’m disappointed, too, but I’m also relieved. Although we’re not technically breaking any rules, sneaking around doesn’t feel very honest.
“You know, people promise to write all the time,” I offer. “They get busy or they forget. It’s nothing personal. You’re talking about a guy who spends hours making Purple People Eater cards while he’s flunking math.”
“Sure.” He sits back against the wall of the tree house, utterly defeated. Poor Eli. He takes everything so seriously. It’s one of the things I like about him, but he can be very hard on himself sometimes.
I shift my weight, and suddenly I’m sitting on a sharp-edged object that makes me jump. I pull it out from under me. It’s a wooden boomerang, of all things.
Eli laughs. “Remember Randy’s challenges? Well, the latest one . . .” He frowns, a look of discovery coming over his face. “Think of it as our newest challenge . . .”
“Huh?”
He’s out of the tree house and starting down the ladder before I can ask him where he’s going.
I follow, whispering, “Careful!” I can see what he can’t—that he’s back in view of the Hardaways’ couch. At least he’s got the brains to keep low. I duck behind a deck chair as he leans over the edge of the pool and reaches into the filter. He digs around for a few seconds, his arm in the opening up to his shoulder. I catch a glimpse of his prize in the moonlight—a white envelope inside three layers of Ziploc bags. It’s dripping on the outside, but it looks like the letter is dry.
Eli moves to open the Ziplocs, and I stop him. “Not here!” I hiss.
We retrace our steps to the fence, and retreat the way we came in. Huddled together so close we can feel each other’s pounding heartbeats, we peel away the layers of plastic bags and examine the envelope. ELI is written on it.
“Randy’s handwriting,” he says breathlessly. He tears it open, and we begin to read.
Eli—
I’m not going to live with my grandparents. I’m being sent away to boarding school at McNally Academy in Pueblo, Colorado. I think it’s because of what happened when we went out on our bikes that day. I can’t explain how, but I get the feeling that some of the kids in Serenity—including you—are special, and I’m not. Nobody will say why, but somehow that bike trip was okay for me but not for you. I’m positive the answer lies in why you got sick and I didn’t. Maybe the special people can figure it out. I sure can’t.
Since you’re reading this, you were smart enough to follow the clues. Thanks for that. I’m not allowed to contact you, so I guess this is the only good-bye we’re ever going to have. Protect yourself, Eli. There’s something screwy going on in that town.
Randy
I stare at the tri-folded paper. “This is nuts!”
Eli’s white-faced. “There’s nothing special about me.”
“Wait a minute—you’re taking this seriously?”
He’s floundering. “Randy thinks there’s a connection between being special and getting sick . . .”
“Randy’s not thinking!” I explode. “He’s reacting! He’s angry because he had to move away from his family and leave the best place in the world to live on some farm with grandparents he barely even knows! You’d be angry too.”
“But he didn’t go to the farm,” Eli protests. “He’s at boarding school. His parents sent him away on purpose. That’s why they won’t talk to me.”
I take a deep breath. “Listen, I know Randy’s your friend, but I also know Randy. Who spent more time in trouble than any other kid we grew up with, including Malik? Who mouthed off to adults and even your dad? Who spent half his time in school sleeping and passing gas? Who threw a football at the Serenity Cup?” I pull the card pack out of my pocket. “Who made these?”
“I did,” he says harshly. “If Randy’s so terrible, then so am I. Ninety percent of what he did—I was right there with him.”
I relent. “I didn’t mean it that way. Randy’s not terrible. But you’ve got to admit he wasn’t the ideal Serenity kid.”
“This is different.”
“Don’t you see?” I persist. “If this letter’s the truth, it doesn’t just mean the Hardaways lied. At some point, every adult in town talked to us about Randy—Mrs. Laska, your dad, Mrs. Delaney, my parents, everybody’s parents. Did they all lie too? That would be crazy! So who’s lying? Is it the people who make it possible for us to live this great life? Or is it Randy because he’s sore about being sent away?”
Eli’s stubborn. “Maybe that’s what he means where he says there’s something screwy going on.”
“Be real, Eli! Of all the things you could say about Serenity—it’s a little bit small, it’s a little bit conservative, it’s a little bit dull. Screwy is the last thing you’d call it! I think there’s something screwy going on with Randy Hardaway. It doesn’t make him a bad person. But if he dreamed up a whole deck of cards just to make fun of the Purples, is it so hard to accept that he’d write one little letter to mess with you?”
“Maybe.”
I think I’m finally getting through to him. But he folds up Randy’s note like it’s something precious, and squirrels it away in his pocket.
I’d better keep an eye on Eli. I don’t like the look on his face.
7
ELI FRIEDEN
The Purple People Eater cards are a surprise hit at school.
Well, I’m surprised, anyway. I hang back in the corner of the classroom when Tori takes out the deck. The kids crowd around her, though, and I hear chuckles and a few out-and-out belly laughs.
“Yeah, I know that guy—the one with the giant head!”
“I saw Bigfoot a couple of days ago riding on one of the cone trucks.”
“Altoiletstan—is that a real co
untry?”
Wherever Randy is—with his grandparents or at boarding school—I can’t help thinking that he must be smiling. I’m kind of proud, even though most of the funniest stuff came from him.
Even Amber can’t keep the disapproving look on her face after reading Rump L. Stiltskin’s details, which are—among other things—that he was raised by a family of otters that rescued him from a freak canoeing accident, and that he can perform photosynthesis.
“Good morning!” Mrs. Laska’s voice silences the laughter.
Never before have I seen index cards disappear beneath shirts and into pockets so quickly.
Luckily, Mrs. Laska doesn’t seem to notice. She walks around the room, placing a crisp page facedown at each seat. “We’re starting with a geometry quiz today. I have a meeting with Mr. Frieden, so I trust you all to keep your books in your desks.”
As soon as she’s gone, Malik has his math text open in front of him.
“She said no books,” Hector stage-whispers from his seat.
“No, she didn’t,” Malik replies smugly. “She said ‘keep your books in your desks.’ My book was never in my desk. It was in my backpack.”
Amber is disgusted. “Someone should make a card about you.”
“Call Hardaway,” he replies cheerfully. “Oh, right—he’s gone.”
Don’t I know it.
Speaking of Randy, he’s also gone from the online town records. Our town is so small that it’s easy to keep a running census. The information is open access. Anyone can go on the internet and check out who lives here, who their kids are, and what their job is—except the Surety, who are kept anonymous. So Randy’s out, and Serenity is down to population 184. They sure do update fast around here. I wonder if Colorado is up by one.
That night, I’m in my room on my iPad, poring over the information on the town’s website. I’m not sure what I expect to find, but Randy’s words pass before me like a TV news crawl:
Some of the kids are special . . .
Is it true? Or is Tori right, and it’s just Randy messing with my head—a parting shot to drive me crazy while he rides off into the sunset? It wouldn’t be the first time, you know. And it would be just like me to fall for it. Last night I almost said, “Randy never lied to me.” But that’s not true. Randy lied about the mountain lion in the crawl space under our house; he lied about seeing UFOs because we’re so close to Roswell—which we aren’t; he lied about seeing Mrs. Delaney hula dancing at the Purple People Eaters’ luau; and, of course, he lied about the Purple People Eaters’ luau. For all I know, there was never any 1961 Alfa Romeo half buried in dust out there, and Randy just felt like a bike ride and wanted some company.