New York, New York! (10 page)

"If you like the grass, you should see the backs of these places," said Richie. "In the middle of the blocks are amazing gardens and terraces. People have planted trees and flowers. They can sit outside on their patios or porches. I'd trade our fire escape for a garden any day." From Chelsea, we took a couple of subways and somehow wound up in a very different neighborhood that Richie called SoHo.
"SoHo?" I repeated. "That's a funny name." "It stands for 'south of Houston Street/ " said Richie. (And by the way, he pronounced "Houston" the way it looks — house-tun — not like the big city in Texas.) On Houston, we wandered in and out of art galleries and stores. One store, a clothing store, was overrun with actual live animals, which was weird, since it felt a little like a jungle to begin with. You'd thumb through a rack of safari outfits and find yourself facing a tree, a large parrot perched in its branches. And dogs and sleepy-looking cats roamed everywhere. Strange.
When Richie needed a rest, he said, "How about some cappuccino?" "Sure," I replied, so we found a restaurant with small round tables set out on the sidewalk. We sipped our cappuccino and watched the world go by.
"It's sort of like eating at a cafe in Paris," I said, and Richie grinned.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted, and I thought Richie's foot was going to fall off. We had sampled Indian food at a tiny restaurant in the East Village. We had wandered through the maze of little streets in the West Village. (Once, Richie got lost.) We even took the subway to Chinatown. When I told Richie I'd already been there, he said, "Well, have you been to Little Italy?" "No." We walked, like, two blocks and found ourselves in a world of Italian restaurants. A street fair was in progress and Richie urged me to sample a cannoli, even though it was filled with sugar. Hard to believe that just a few blocks away were Chinese restaurants, egg rolls, pagoda-shaped phone booths. . . .
"What do you think of the city?" Richie asked when we were finally heading home, our stomachs stuffed.
"It's full of food," I replied.
Richie laughed. "No, really. What did you think?" "It's amazing. I've never seen it this way." "I know. You've seen Central Park, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the World Trade Center, right?" "Right," I agreed. "And those were fun experiences. But you're the best tour guide I've ever had." I realized that I had not been scared once all day.
Mary Anne.
Chapter 17.
O had never been to South Street Seaport and I was dying to see it. It's an area in lower Manhattan that during the 1800s was known as the "Street of Ships." It was the shipping hub of the city, a busy place, swarming with seamen, merchants, and immigrants, and a harbor crowded with all kinds of sailing vessels. Over the years, the seaport deteriorated, but it has now been restored and is an area of museums, restaurants, and shops contained in waterfront buildings from the 19th century. There are things to see: street performers and fabulous ships, as well as plenty of special events such as fireworks. You can go to the seaport to eat and shop, or you can go there to discover history.
Discovering history was what I had in mind when I suggested to Stacey that we take Alistaire and Rowena to South Street Seaport on Monday. Stacey thought that was a great idea. (Even she had only been there a couple of times, and she wanted to go back.) Then the rest of our friends decided that they wanted to come with us. Mal and Claudia couldn't, though, because of their art classes.
"I wish Mr. Clarke would let me go with you and sketch ships, but we're probably going to have to do something like draw a statue for eight hours," said Claudia grumpily.
"Oh, chilly!" exclaimed Mallory.
Claudia glared at her so fiercely I thought flames would shoot from her eyes.
Anyway, in the end, Stacey and I, Alistaire and Rowena, and Kristy, Laine, Jessi, and Dawn traveled downtown to the seaport.
"Cool!" I cried as we stood on Fulton Street and looked around. We could have been transported to another century — except that the people were wearing blue jeans or leggings, black cowboy boots, silly T-shirts, and these green foam Statue of Liberty souvenir headdresses. On one side of us was Schermerhorn Row, an old-looking building with tall chimneys and lots of windows. Across from it stood the Fulton Market Building.
"Hey, a craft collection!" said Laine.
"A Laura Ashley store!" said Dawn.
"The Athletes Foot!" said Kristy.
"The Body Shop!" said Jessi.
"World of Nintendo!" shrieked Alistaire.
"I wonder where Benetton is," said Stacey.
"Isn't there a toy store?" asked Rowena.
"Oh, no. It's the guy in the hat," I whispered to Stacey.
"What?" "Shhh! Don't scare anyone." "Well, where is he?" "He's right over there by ... Well, he was right next to that trash can." "Are you sure?" "Positive." Stacey looked worried. But finally she just said, "He's gone now. Let's try to have fun. I wonder if we can find a toy store for Rowena." "We should really go to the museums," I said. "Expose the kids to some New York culture. Look. This pamphlet says there's a Museum Gallery here, something called the Small Craft Collection, oh, and a Children's Center. Let's go there first. We can take Rowena to FAO Schwarz any day. And we do not need to go into every store. There are stores all over New York. Not to mention the rest of the country." Too late. Half of our group was heading into Schermerhorn Row, which is full of shops.
And Alistaire was pulling at my arm, crying, "Oh, brilliant! There's a place called Sweet's!" "It must have sweets then," said Rowena. "Lots of them." "You guys, this isn't exactly what I had in mind," I was saying, when Stacey suddenly elbowed me.
"There he is again!" This time we both saw him. He was disappearing into a crowd of people.
"All right. We have to do something," I said.
"I'll handle this," Stacey replied. "Hey!" she called. "Laine! Jessi! Everyone! We're going to take the kids to the Children's Center. Let's meet back here in an hour. Then we can have lunch." Laine waved to Stacey. "Okay!" she called.
"What are you up to?" I asked her. Then, before she could answer, I exclaimed, "Oh, my gosh! I just realized something. Have you — " "The kids are listening," Stacey hissed.
"Buy them ice cream," I replied.
So we walked until we found a place called Minter's Ice Cream. We bought Rowena and Alistaire each a scoop in a cup. (Cones were too messy, considering the kids were not dressed in anything even approaching play clothes.) Then Rowena and Alistaire busied themselves with their treats while Stacey and I held a whispered conversation.
"Okay/' I began. "Have you noticed that we only see the guy when we're with Rowena and Alistaire? I mean, did you notice him when we went to Chinatown? Or any time we've gone out to dinner with your dad?" "No . . ." Stacey answered.
"So obviously he's not after us. He's after the children." "Or maybe," said Stacey, "just one of the children." "Right. It would be easier to kidnap one child than two." "That's not what I mean. I was thinking," Stacey said slowly, "that maybe this guy was on the plane from England with the Harring-tons. And maybe — you know, like in those spy movies — he needed to smuggle a roll of microfilm to the United States, so he dropped it into Alistaire's backpack or Rowena's tote bag or something. And now he has to get it back, so he's following the kids, waiting for just the right moment to snatch one of them and get back the microfilm — or maybe the diamonds." "Stacey, you sound like me!" I exclaimed.
"Well, it's no wonder. You made me start thinking like this. And it is weird that the guy turns up everywhere." We paused.
We watched Alistaire and Rowena, who were stirring their ice cream into vanilla soup, and giggling.
Then I said, "All right. If that man really is after one of the children, then we ought to find out which one." "Okay." "So I think we should each take a kid and split up. The guy won't be able to follow both of us. So we'll see who he does follow." "Hey, good idea," said Stacey. "Okay, I'll take Alistaire, you take Rowena. Tell her you're going to look for a toy store. I'll tell Alistaire we're going to do something special at the Children's Center." "Okay." Stacey and I waited until the kids had finished their vanilla soup. Then we split up. "Meet you with the others in about half an hour," I said.
Stacey nodded. She and Alistaire went in one direction, Rowena and I in another. I tried not to look too conspicuous about keeping my eyes open for the spy/kidnapper.
"Where's the toy shop?" asked Rowena.
"I'm not sure there is one," I answered honestly. "Let's just look around. There are a lot of shops to explore." Rowena and I wandered everywhere, up and down streets — Beekman Street, Water Street, Front Street, John Street. We passed a boat-building shop, a museum shop, and the Titanic Memorial Lighthouse. Rowena kept her eyes peeled for a toy store. I kept my eyes peeled for the guy.
I saw him twice.
Okay, I thought. He's after Rowena. How sad. She's such a little girl.
"Ow!" Rowena cried suddenly. "Mary Anne! You're hurting me." "Oh, Rowena. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." (I'd been holding Rowena's hand in a grip so tight it would have put Arnold Schwarzeneg-ger to shame. I was petrified that she'd be kidnapped, now that I knew who the spy wanted.) I looked at my watch. It was time to meet up with my friends.
"Rowena," I said, "we have to go back." "But we didn't find a toy store." "I know. We'll go to FAO Schwarz soon. I promise. And I know you'll like it. It has more stuffed animals than I've ever seen. Some of them are bigger than you are!" Rowena walked happily to our meeting place. (The thought of FAO Schwarz had satisfied her.) Stacey and Alistaire were waiting for us, but no one else had arrived yet.
"Stacey!" I cried, just as she cried, "Mary Anne!", "What?" we both said. Then I added, "You go first." "The guy is after Alistaire," she whispered to me. "I saw him three times." "No way. He's after Rowena. 7 saw him twice." Stacey and I stared at each other. "What does this mean?" asked Stacey.
"I'm not sure. . . . He's twins? He's after you or me?" "Well, I don't know about twins, but it's the kids he's after." "Both of them, I guess." I wrung my hands. "We have to tell Mr. and Mrs. Harrington," I said firmly.
Stacey looked pained. "Here come Jessi and Laine," she whispered. I knew she meant, "We'll talk about this later." We didn't have many chances to talk that day, though. Either Rowena and Alistaire were around, or our friends were. But at one point, when the others had walked ahead of us, and Kristy was pointing out something to the kids, Stacey nudged me and said quietly, "We'll tell the Harringtons this afternoon." "Okay." I nodded, swallowing hard.
Near four o'clock, Stacey and I were standing in the Harringtons' foyer, having returned safely with Alistaire and Rowena.
The housekeeper came to meet us. "Mr. and Mrs. Harrington aren't home yet," she said, "but they told me to give you a message. They'll be having some time off. They won't need you again until Friday morning." I glanced at Stacey. All we could do was wait.
Claudia.
Chapter 18.
It was our seventh day of classes at Falny. I had learned to dread them. All Mr. Clarke ever said to me was, "Work slower," or, "Do it over." Once he might have smiled, but I wasn't sure. It could have been a grimace.
When Mal and I arrived in Mr. Clarke's class on Wednesday morning, he said, "All right. Today is our day at the Cloisters." The Cloisters? Oh, right. The Cloisters. Mr. Clarke had mentioned the trip the day before, but somehow I had forgotten. Now I remembered. He had told us that the Cloisters, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, located in some place called Fort Tryon Park, features medieval art. Only it's not just a building where you go to stare at paintings and statues. I mean, it z's a building, but Mr. Clarke said it's unusual. And it looks out on the Hudson River. (Plus, since it's in a park, you feel like you're in the counitry.) Here's what's in the museum: a collection of art, plus parts of medieval chapels and monasteries — real ones from Europe. The structures had been taken apart, the stones were shipped to the United States, and then the structures were rebuilt.
(In case you're wondering, medieval does not mean "halfway evil," like I used to think. It means "having to do with the Middle Ages," which were the years 1000 to 1400 in Europe. And a cloister is part of a monastery or convent, or the monastery or convent itself. Okay. Enough of this stuff. It's too much like school. If it didn't have to do with art, I would be bored, too.) When our class had assembled, we gathered our sketch pads, our charcoals, and our lunches. Then we boarded a bus. It was a special bus to the Cloisters, and some other people were on it, but most of the passengers were us Falny students. And Mr. Clarke, of course.
Mr. Clarke sat with Mallory on the bus. They sat in the front. I sat in the back. Alone.
As soon as we reached the Cloisters, Mr. Clarke turned us loose. "Just go sketch," he said.
Goody, I thought. I'll stay out of his way. This looks like a big place. I ought to be able to avoid him.
My first hour was blissful. There seemed to be lots of places in New York that felt so un-New Yorkish you could imagine yourself in a different place, or even a different time. Mal felt that way about Chinatown. Kristy felt that way about Central Park.
And I felt that way about the Cloisters. It was, I think, the most peaceful place I have ever been in. So I settled down and began drawing. I found a part of a chapel that fascinated me. I began a series of quick sketches, one after the other. First I concentrated on angle, then perspective, then the texture of the stones. I was very excited.
I barely noticed when Mal sat down next to me. (I had settled myself on the floor.) In fact, I jumped when she said, "I will go crazy if we have to do this all day. How can you keep drawing and drawing, Claud?" "It's in my blood," I said dryly.
"Oh." Mal looked hurt.
I went back to my drawings.
The next thing I knew, Mr. Clarke was saying, "Very nice." He couldn't be talking to me.
I turned around. Nope. He was talking to Mallory. Of course. Then I remembered: You have to escape him! I stood up quickly. But not quickly enough.
"Let me see, Claudia," said Mr. Clarke.
I closed my eyes briefly. Then I handed over my sketch pad.
Mr. Clarke looked at what I'd been working on. Then he flipped back a page — and another and another and another. . . .
"Claudia, what are you doing? Trying to set an Olympic sketching record? We're going to be here for hours. Would you please settle down and concentrate on one drawing? Just humor me for once." I didn't bother to answer Mr. Clarke. I took back my sketch pad, turned to a fresh page, moved to a different spot, and started drawing again. I was so angry that I worked on one drawing for three and a half hours. I almost forgot to eat my lunch.