Kepler’s Dream (10 page)

The day we met, her mom was dropping her off, and her parents were obviously fighting. My grandmother had told me Miguel and his wife were “separated” not divorced, but there was still that thing where no one would look anyone else in the eye and there was a lot of angry talk in fast, low voices. After a minute a thin, pretty girl with long dark hair and a huge frown on her face got out of the car, her hands stuffed deep into her embroidered jeans. She wasn't looking at anyone—especially her dad. Or me.

There was one more quick exchange between Miguel and Rosie's mom, and then she drove off in a cloud of mad dust, leaving Rosie standing there with a backpack at her feet, her arms folded, her lower lip pushed out.

I felt bad about seeing this, because if there is one thing that's worse than your parents fighting over you, it is some random other kid witnessing your parents fighting over you. Maybe I should have just gone back into the house as if I had never been there at all, but I couldn't help wanting to lay eyes on this kid, so I stayed there with my peacock pals and waited to be introduced.

It didn't go well. Whether Rosie hated me for being the boss's granddaughter, or for my lousy haircut, or for the fact that she was going to hate anyone at all on a day her parents were at each other like cats and dogs, I wasn't sure, but there wasn't a lot of sunshine in the whole experience. I knew Miguel was trying to be nice to me by suggesting that I go riding with them up at the ranch, but from the look on his daughter's face he might as
well have asked if she minded if some toddler came over and broke all her toys.

So after the Rosie disaster, I tried to get excited instead by the fact that there were going to be two high schoolers coming to work for my grandmother. Maybe, I figured, I could strike up a friendship with them?

I'm not sure what I was imagining. That we'd all kick a soccer ball together around the former pond, now dustbowl, and talk about what music we had on our iPods? That they'd lend me their laptop so I could play a few online games, and stay sane? Once I actually laid eyes on Tweedledum and Tweedledee, though, and realized that for them some eleven-year-old girl held about as much interest as a mosquito, I gave up a few more of my big dreams.

They were really called Jackson and Jason, and I wasn't sure why Grandmother confused them, because they did look different from each other. One was tall and skinny with floppy blond hair, and ate a lot of sunflower seeds, then spat the shells out everywhere, like a bird. That one was Jackson. The other one, Jason, was short, with dark hair in the shape of a helmet. He found it hard to look anywhere other than at his phone. His thumbs were on it all the time, moving at the speed of light, and then he'd sort of grin and mutter to it, too, like it was more real to him than anyone else. Which was probably true.

The first day they came they ended up disappearing with Grandmother into the Librerery, and I was back to square one for entertainment. The night before, I had finished a book about
a haunted pet store, and that morning I had gotten halfway through another one about a school for werewolves, so I was pretty well done with the paranormal for a few hours at least.

I don't know where you want to draw the line between being “nosy” and being “curious.” Or whether “curious” is even always a good thing. When we were doing our science fair projects, Ms. Nelson told us that curiosity was an important quality for a scientist; on the other hand, look at how much trouble that famous monkey George gets into, even if things usually work out for him in the end. As for nosiness, I never appreciated it when my mom occasionally went investigating in my room and found my secret stash of Halloween candy, or some dumb teen magazine I was embarrassed for her to see. “That's private!” I'd protest, and she'd just give me a look, like,
Not anymore, it isn't.

Anyway, I started poking around the House of Mud. While Tweedledum and Tweedledee were off shuffling books around with the GM, I decided to set off into wild, unexplored territory. I went with Ms. Nelson's line: I was just trying to be a good researcher. I had a pad and paper with me, and was beginning to take notes for my map drawing of the House of Mud.

There was one whole side of the house past the kitchen that we never went to; it was like the dark side of the moon. After the kitchen, there was a big echoey dining room, where the GM and Edward must have fed their ghost-guests in the olden days, though a layer of dust coated all the surfaces now. I called that the Room for Imaginary Diners, since I didn't think anyone had eaten there since the era of the horses and the Aguilars. Then
there was a small room with paintings and other art that seemed like a Hall of Mirrors, and finally, at the end, sharing a wall (I was pretty sure) with my musty old bathroom, was a packed place I thought of as the Chamber of
Tchotchke
s—a word I got from Abbie's mom, for trinkets and, ahem!,
stuff,
which the Lunzes also had a lot of. It was in the Chamber of Tchotchkes where I hoped to make some great discovery. A cure for cancer, maybe, or a magic wardrobe; or at the very least, more information about Edward.

So far the only thing of interest I'd turned up, though, besides an old gray rubber ball, was from a big drawer of photographs. I found one of the same silvery Edward, standing with his arm around a kid who looked a lot like the Haitian Room's penciled boy. The penciled boy, if my grandmother was to be believed, was my father, Walter. Who hadn't, I noticed, featured a whole lot in my grandmother's conversation.

I took the picture back to my room, and like a dog burying a bone I hid it under my pillow. I admit I felt like a thief, but I wasn't up to asking the GM for permission. And I wanted one small piece of proof that my dad had once had a dad of his own.

The day after I wrote my mom, a car pulled into the driveway. I was outside playing fetch with Lou with that ball from the Chamber of Tchotchkes. For all I knew the thing was an antique from England or Timbuktu—it sure didn't have a lot of bounce left—but it was good enough for fetch.

This was a regular white car, not a pickup or a delivery truck. The peacocks immediately swarmed all over it. The driver cut
the engine but didn't get out right away. He was probably trying to figure out how to handle the birds.

“Don't worry,” I called. “They won't peck your eyes out or anything.”

The car door opened. Since the GM had called Abercrombie's store “antiquarian” I had been imagining the guy himself as ancient, hobbling around with a cane, but out stepped a short, round man with a white suit, a straw hat and a beige goatee. With his black briefcase and cagey expression, he looked something like a stage magician, getting ready to put on his show. All he needed was a white rabbit.

“You must be Ella!” The man waved—like someone in a play, pretending to be friendly. “How d'you do?”

He put out his hand and I shook it, though mine was kind of disgusting with dog spit. I saw him reach for a handkerchief and wipe his off afterward.

“Christopher!” sang a voice from the screen door. And there was the GM, decked out in a royal-blue dress, her hair done, her cherry lips smiling. Jewels at her ears and neck. She sparkled.

“Violet!” He bustled over. “How marvelous to see you. You look ravishing as ever.” He stood up on tiptoes to kiss my grandmother's cheek. She was about half a foot taller than him. “And how is sweet little Brunhilda?” He stroked the dog's toy head.

“As delighted to see you as I am.” Grandmother kept smiling. Her teeth looked a little like fangs. “Welcome to our humble abode. Come in.”

“The hacienda! At last. I've always wanted to see the Von
Stern collection in situ.” He sneezed, inspiring a “Gesundheit!” from the GM and another outing for his handkerchief. Then he rolled himself and his bags in through the screen door.

They seemed to have forgotten about Lou and me. I shrugged. “Well,” I said to Lou, picking up fetch where we had left off, “I guess Abercrombie Books isn't going to be our new best friend, either.”

“Ahem!” My grandmother lingered in the doorway, and by now I could figure out just by her head tilt, without her telling me, that she wanted me inside. I wasn't going to get off easy, I guess. “Come in, Ella—come meet Our Guest.”
Ours
—as if I had anything to do with inviting him.

We all sat awkwardly in the kitchen, sipping iced tea, but Abercrombie Books and I used up our small talk fast. He asked me what grade I was in, so I said I was going into sixth (“Sixth grade! How marvelous!”), and he asked me whether I had any “hobbies” so I told him soccer (“Ah, yes. ‘Footie'!”). I asked him how he liked living in Canada and he said, “I like it a great deal.” Finally he leaned forward and with that same fake friendliness said, “And, Ella, I understand from your grandmother that you're quite a reader. I think I know who you get
that
from.”

The man annoyed me. Whatever play he was in, I didn't want a part in it. “My mom loves to read too,” I told him. I still found the idea of me inheriting anything from the GM highly unlikely. I had only recently met the woman. I knew genetics didn't depend on that, but still. “We usually walk to the library once a
week or so. It's only a couple of blocks from our house in Santa Rosa.”

“Well, here it's even closer, isn't it?”

“Christopher is
dying
to see the Library,” Grandmother put in. “We'll take him on the grand tour tomorrow, Ella, shall we?”

I agreed. “We can show him the Kepler book.”

“Kepler?” Abercrombie's face quivered, exactly the way Lou's does when he's seen a squirrel.

“Sure, you know—the
Dream of the Moon
.” I liked sounding like I knew what I was talking about. “The one made by Morris,” I added airily.

“Good Lord, Violet,” he said in a low voice, as if somehow I might not hear him. “You don't let the child handle the volume, do you?”

I wanted to
Ahem!
him for calling me a child, but the GM just said, “Certainly I do. I was showing her the Library.”

“But the Morris Kepler!” He sounded as though he was talking about the Crown Jewels. “You should have it in a locked case. Even Jason and his friend, while they work on the cataloging project, might be tempted—”

“Tempted?” Grandmother snorted. “No, I don't think so. I'm sorry to tell you, Christopher, but those two boys are roughly as interested in my books as Hildy is in my stamp collection.” She gave him one of her stern looks. “And in any case, I don't believe in shutting away such a treasure where it can't be enjoyed.”

“There are only twelve of them in the world, you know,” I
piped up, but instead of Abercrombie being impressed by my knowledge, he just smirked.

“Yes, Ella. I know.”

“It was Christopher,” my grandmother told me, “who sold the book to me, Ella. Years ago. When you were just a little girl.”

“Not that Walter was too happy about it.” Mr. Books had this slippery smile on his face that I found obnoxious. “I gave you a good deal on it, as I recall. Good Lord, what must it be worth now—ten or twenty thousand—?”

“Ahem!”
My grandmother cut him off. “It is impolite to discuss numbers, don't you think?”

Abercrombie looked away, as if he had a different thought running through his mind, but before he could say anything else, in came Miguel carrying logs for the fire, Hildy and Lou at his feet. The two dogs still weren't sure about each other—Lou thought Hildy was a wimp, and Hildy considered Lou a mutt, which he was—but they ran around the woodpile and had a good time in spite of themselves.

The two men traded brief hellos, and then Abercrombie excused himself to go to “the Gents.”

“By the way, Mrs. V,” Miguel said as he built the fire, “I talked to my brother today.”

“Your brother?” She frowned.

“Carlos, I mean.” He coughed. “
Carlos
. Anyways, he's happy for me to take Ella over to the ranch tomorrow, for a ride.”

“Ah.” She turned to me. “And you'd like to do that, Ella?”

“
OK. Sure.” I tried not to actually drool over the possibility.
Escape!

“I imagine it won't break your heart to miss showing Christopher the Library … ,” she said, but by now my ear was tuned in to her sarcasm, and I knew I was allowed to agree. “Fine. She'll be ready in the morning, Miguel. You'll want to go before it gets too hot, I imagine.”

“Thanks, Mrs. V.” He raised his hat at me. “I'll see you in the a.m., Ella. You and me and Rosie will have a great time.”

Luckily he couldn't see the GM's wince at his grammar.

I got up practically at dawn the next morning, I was so eager. I put on my jeans and the new boots Abbie's mom had bought for me, and though I didn't have a cowboy hat, I hoped a Giants cap would do. I went outside after breakfast to find Miguel.

The person I found was Rosie.

She was wandering around out by the empty pond, kicking stones, popping bright pink bubble-gum bubbles. When I said “Hi,” she looked startled. “Hi,” she replied, with about as much enthusiasm as if I were a peacock.

She seemed different from the one other time we'd met, though. Tougher. That other afternoon, when she was being dropped off by her mom, Miguel's daughter had been in a dress, her hair in a long braid down her back. She wore pretty sandals, and a small gold stud in each ear. She was a girly kind of girl, in other words, the kind I was not, with my still-growing-out hair and my jeans-and-T-shirt combo that I had by then been
granted permission to wear. One of my theories about why Rosie hated me was that she didn't like my style. Too sporty. The other one was probably truer—Rosie was just in a bad mood about her parents' separation and not about to think of the boss's granddaughter as anything but a spoiled brat.