Close Your Eyes (14 page)

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’ve got to go back to work, honey,” said Pauline. Before leaving, she sat next to Sylvia and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” said Pauline kindly. “Don’t wait up,” she added.

Victoria met Sylvia by the Lark Academy entranceway the next morning. “Read this and then destroy it,” she said, looking both ways before handing her a sheet of notebook paper.

T
HE
C
ASE OF THE
S
O-
C
ALLED
B
REAK
R
OOM

Entered Room at 11:21
A.M
.

Ms. Neumann was smoking a cigarette! Drinking something from a mug.

Room filled with all the teachers.

Mrs. Drake was reading a book with a man with no shirt on the cover.

Mr. Henry was talking to Mrs. Moray—LOVE CONNECTION???

Gathered all evidence: matchbook from BUD’S BISTRO, Ms. Neumann’s mug, French worksheets in garbage can, man’s cardigan sweater that smells like BO.

DESTROY AFTER READING!!!!

During homeroom, Victoria kept trying to catch Sylvia’s eye, but Sylvia had lost interest in the game. She kept thinking about her mother and the lace slip. Her mother’s eager face made Sylvia feel hot with embarrassment and anger. She had wanted her mother to stay with her, feed her more soup and then ginger ale, even though Sylvia had been faking the illness.

After school, in her fancy room, Victoria lay out all the stolen items, and Sylvia pretended she cared. When Victoria said huffily, “What’s the problem?” Sylvia just shook her head. She couldn’t think of where to begin, how to explain what was wrong. When Victoria sat next to Sylvia and put her arms around her, Sylvia let her head fall into her friend’s shoulder. Victoria held her like a child, stroked her back the way Pauline had not.

Sometimes Sylvia was overwhelmed by envy. If there was a God, why did He give Victoria a rich family and parents who cared about her? Why did he give Sylvia only Pauline? Sylvia wanted to
be
Victoria, not just her friend. When Victoria suggested they solve the mystery of where Sylvia’s father was, it seemed like a good idea.

There were nights when Sylvia let herself believe that if she found her father, he would make everything okay. There was some explanation for his abandonment. Perhaps Pauline had hidden Sylvia from him, or maybe she had refused to let him contact Sylvia. Pauline’s story about Sylvia’s father was perfectly logical, but Sylvia couldn’t help dreaming that if her father met her and his wife died or something—a car accident? a fall from a building? someone mugging her? she could even be murdered, like the chauffeur in the movie of
The Hidden Staircase
—then Sylvia’s father would marry Pauline, and Sylvia would have a real family, like Victoria. Sylvia could bring lunch for the two of them sometimes, or ask Victoria to come and lie on Sylvia’s big canopied bed and eat homemade cookies.

The Case of the Missing Father began one night when Sylvia was sleeping over at Victoria’s apartment. Her parents were out, and unlike Pauline, they didn’t believe that nine-year-olds could be left alone without a babysitter. Victoria’s favorite babysitter was Casey, who lived in her building. Casey was in Grade X at Lark Academy, and she brought a bag of popcorn in her backpack and usually let them watch TV until they got headaches.

Over Mello Yello soda and takeout Maria’s pizza, Victoria asked Casey to help solve a mystery. “Sure, Vee,” she said. “What’s the deal?”

Casey loved talking about boys, so they had made a plan that they hoped would entice her to help but not alarm her enough to mention the mystery to any adults. “I met a boy this summer,” Victoria began. “At Popover’s. He was with his dad. Um, he likes strawberry butter, too.”

Casey put her chin in her hand, leaning toward Victoria. “Go on,” she said.

“Well, I just thought … I want to write this boy a letter,” said Victoria.

“Did you kiss him?” asked Casey. “You’re a little young for kissing,” she said, furrows appearing on her brow.

“Oh my God! No!” said Sylvia, exploding into giggles.

Victoria glared at her. “I know his father’s name,” she said. Sylvia felt a shock just hearing the name spoken aloud. “So how do I find this guy?”

“How do you know his father’s name?” asked Casey suspiciously.

“Um, Victoria looked at his credit card, when he paid … for the popovers,” Sylvia said.

“Right, right,” said Victoria.

“Have you tried the phone book?” suggested Casey.

Of course they had tried the phone book. Victoria’s shoulders slumped. “Can you think of anything else?” she asked.

“Maybe he doesn’t live in the city,” said Casey, taking another slice from the pizza box. “Maybe he’s B&T.”

B&T
meant
bridge and tunnel
. It was what they called kids who came into the city from the suburbs to shop at Antique Boutique or see
Cats
. Victoria’s eyes lit up. “How do we find someone in the suburbs?” she asked.

“There’s some phone number where you can search the whole state,” said Casey. “Nine-one-one? No, that’s emergency. It’s four-one-one, I think. You can search the whole country with four-one-one.”

Victoria had a big-button phone on the wall of her room. Casey had a pen with a feather on top. Sylvia was sitting on the rug, toes in the deep white shag, when Victoria said, “Write it down! I’ve got him.” She recited the address, hung up the phone, and hugged Sylvia too tightly.

That weekend, Sylvia and Victoria traveled incognito to Holt, New York. They wore disguises—ski hats and sunglasses from Victoria’s hall closet. Victoria had packed her father’s Nikon camera, and they bought Twix bars and magazines at Grand Central. It was early spring, so the stares they attracted might have been about their wool hats and long coats, but they imagined spies along the shadowy halls, bad guys intent on thwarting their mission crouched at the edge of staircases.

Victoria told the man at the ticket booth that they were sisters and their mother was getting a cup of tea to drink on the train. The man put his forearms on the counter in front of him and stared at them distrustfully. “What about
her
ticket?” he asked.

“She has a pass. Like, you know, a bus pass or whatever,” said Victoria.

“A commuter monthly?” said the man.

“Definitely, yes,” said Victoria. “A commuter monthly. For sure.” She looked at Sylvia, nodding way too enthusiastically. “Right, sis?”

“Right,” Sylvia said.

“You girls need a round-trip?” said the man.

“No,” said Victoria. “I mean yes.”

“Peak or off-peak?”

Victoria licked her lips. “Um,” she said, “how about off-peak. Definitely off-peak, for sure.”

“Off-peak, definitely,” Sylvia said. They had no idea what peak was all about—they had never left the city unaccompanied.

“Track nine,” said the man, taking Victoria’s cash and handing them tickets.

“That was a close call,” said Victoria as they walked across the giant lobby.

“Don’t talk so
loud
,” said Sylvia.

“Right, right,” said Victoria. She scratched her head. “My hair is hot.”

Sylvia laughed, and Victoria grabbed her hand and squeezed it. They walked down the stairs to the lower level and made their way to track nine. The steel-toned light in the train car was made even darker by their sunglasses; Sylvia smelled oil and sweat. She tripped and fell, and Victoria helped her up. They slid into an empty seat. Sylvia’s hands were red and a bit skinned. She was upset, close to crying.

“Maybe this isn’t—” she began, but Victoria was rummaging in her supply kit. She drew out a tube of first-aid ointment, and as the train pulled from the station, she began applying it to Sylvia’s scrapes. Sylvia kept her sunglasses on so nobody could see her tears.

It already felt like summer in Holt. As they stood on the platform with a bunch of babysitters and maids, Sylvia said, “I’ve got to take the hat off,” and Victoria nodded.

“Taxi,” she said, pointing at two cabs idling in the parking lot. She walked purposefully, and Sylvia hesitated. She knew in her heart of hearts that this was not a mystery. Her blood father lived with his real wife and family and wanted nothing to do with Sylvia. Seeing his house wouldn’t change anything. Most likely, it would make things worse. But there was no stopping this mission. Once Victoria decided on something, that was that.

“Come on!” said Victoria, who had already climbed into the taxi and confidently given the driver the address.

The driver nodded and began to drive. They whizzed along under a railroad bridge and past some shops and then some big houses and then some really big houses. Victoria rolled down the window, and Sylvia could smell salt water.

“Nice town,” said Victoria. “You could live here.”

“Right,” Sylvia said sarcastically.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder: what would it be like to leave the East Village, her grimy street? To wake up every day and smell the ocean, instead of the urine-stench of East Eleventh? To know where her mother would be every night—at home, safe. Sylvia wished this for her mother and for herself—some safety, some affection, a street that smelled like grass and the sea. Sylvia hadn’t shut off her gaping desires yet; she hadn’t given up, and hope was as painful as a knife.

They turned onto Ocean Avenue. The houses were neat, lovely, with shutters next to the windows and bright green lawns.

“Here we are, girls,” said the driver.

“Just hold on a sec,” said Victoria. She pulled out the Nikon, and the driver slowed in front of number twelve.

“Don’t go in the driveway,” Sylvia said. She was ice-cold, despite the high temperatures, despite the sun.

“Whatever you like,” said the driver.

Victoria began to snap, taking picture after picture. The house was white, with a picket fence surrounding it. “I’m getting out,” Sylvia said.

“Don’t get out,” said Victoria, but for once, Sylvia defied her. She pulled the wool hat on and pressed the sunglasses to her face. She opened the car door and walked to the edge of the fence. The front door was black, with a brass knob in the middle. There was a mailbox on a metal pole, and feeling calm, as if she were dreaming, Sylvia opened it. There was a bill from the phone company inside, and a copy of
The Economist
. Sylvia looked at the name, and it was her father’s name, and this was his house.

The yard was perfect. Sylvia went down the driveway and peeked into the back. There was so much grass, you could play soccer on that grass, or just lie in it and look at the sky. There was an oak tree in the corner that would be perfect—if somebody had a father to build one, who loved her enough to build one—for a tree house.

As they drove back to the station, Sylvia looked out the back window. Before they turned the corner off Ocean Avenue and onto Purchase Place, Sylvia thought,
I wish I lived in a house like that
.

And then she said it aloud.

“Maybe there’s a way,” said Victoria.

Sometimes Sylvia loved Victoria’s bullheadedness—the way she saw the world in black and white, the sense she held that anything was possible. But in this case, it made her furious. “There’s no
way
, Victoria,” she said bitterly. “Don’t be stupid.”

“There’s always a way,” said Victoria.

Sylvia snorted, staring out the taxi window. But a seed had been planted in her, and hope took root.

7

In Grade VIII, Sylvia met a boy in her building, Robert, and they began dating. Sylvia was crazy about her new boyfriend, but Victoria seemed skeptical, making comments about Sylvia’s “thug” and her “ghetto boy.” One night when Pauline was out, Victoria came over to watch
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
on the VHS player she’d given Sylvia for her birthday. As they ate ice cream after the movie was over, Victoria said, “You should break into Robert’s apartment while he’s sleeping.”

“What?” said Sylvia, crossing her Tretorn sneakers and holding her spoon midair. “Why would I do that?”

“To watch him,” said Victoria.

“That’s just bizarre.”

“Do you dare me to do it?” asked Victoria, finishing the Chunky Monkey and tossing the container into the trash.

“And get you arrested by his dad,
the cop
?” said Sylvia, hoping to laugh it off.

“Dare me,” said Victoria. “I’ll even get something to prove I was there.”

“No,” said Sylvia.

Victoria’s eyes blazed. She didn’t like it when Sylvia resisted her, but a dare was one thing, and breaking and entering was another. Besides, Sylvia thought she was in love with Robert. She was considering third base, having thoroughly enjoyed exploring first and second during the afternoons she spent entwined with Robert on Pauline’s couch, watching soap operas and
Donahue
.

“Vee, you’re being kind of a weirdo.”

“Word,” said Victoria, rolling her eyes. She got up and slung her bag over one shoulder. She had cut her hair to shoulder length and tied neon-colored netting in it to look like Madonna.

“Do you want to sleep over?”

“In the
closet
?” said Victoria dismissively, though they’d slept there countless times together.

“Bye,” said Sylvia. Victoria let herself out and clomped down the stairs. Sylvia watched part of
St. Elmo’s Fire
by herself and, humming the theme song, brushed her teeth. She wanted to call Robert but did not, afraid she’d wake his parents. She lay in bed thinking of him. He played football for P.S. 94. He wanted to be a guitarist, like Slash. His hair was brown, and his eyes were blue. He made fun of Sylvia for being a bookworm. Sylvia fell asleep wondering if she’d marry Robert and what she and her bridesmaids would wear.