The Red Blazer Girls (16 page)

Hmm—let's find out.

Sadly, the answer to my question is a resounding yes. It's not like junior high kids in New York have these amazing social lives (at least, not the people I know), but come on, we are sitting in front of a whiteboard in Margaret's apartment learning new math concepts. On a
Saturday
night.

I call an official time-out from the Xs and Ys because I need to hear about Rebecca's afternoon in Chelsea with Ms. Harriman. (I am also dying to hear Leigh Ann's version of events from the dance, but I don't want to be the one to ask.)

“What was she wearing? Another cowgirl wedding dress?” Leigh Ann asks.

“She went with more of a Goth look this time. It was a long, lacy black dress with a spider web in the back. I almost didn't recognize her because she had her hair all
pulled up under a hat. And she had black gloves on—up to her elbows!”

“How about the shoes?”

“Black Chuck Taylors. I kid you not.”

“All right! Chucks
rule
.” I just happen to be wearing a red pair.

“So I show up at this gallery, and there's like a million people because it's the opening of a show for some artist whose paintings I don't get at all, and I swear Elizabeth knows everybody. The mayor's there, and some rapper I've never heard of, and a couple of the Yankees. And she's introducing me to everybody like
I'm
her long-lost daughter, and I feel like a total schlub with my stupid sketchbook that I am
just praying
she doesn't ask me to show to these people.”

“Did she?” I ask, cringing.

“No, thank God. After about an hour, the place empties out—like
that
—and we go into her friend Alessandra's office. She owns the gallery and is like the total opposite of Ms. Harriman. She's wearing this chic little black dress, perfectly normal. So, Ms. Harriman tells her about meeting all of us, and how impressed she is with my drawings, blah, blah, blah, and this lady—Alessandra—takes a look at them, and, and … she likes them, too! She wants me to come there for this special program for supposedly gifted young artists—for free!”

“Oh my gosh. That is great, Becca,” says Margaret. “When do you start?”

“In a couple of weeks. She showed me the studio upstairs. It's amazing. Every year, she finds about ten kids and brings in friends of hers who are artists to do the teaching. I saw some of the things they're working on, and wow! I can't wait.”

“What did your mom say?” I ask.

“I haven't told her yet.” Suddenly the excitement drains out of her face and she falls backward onto the bed. “Oh, man. My mom's job. I'm not gonna be able to do it.”

“What!” cries Leigh Ann.

“What
about
your mom's job? Did she change shifts?” Margaret asks, very concerned.

“It's not just that, she's—” I blurt out before remembering my promise not to tell.

“She's
what?”
Margaret has me by the arm.

“Sorry, but I'm telling them, Becca.”

So I spill. Even the part about her possibly leaving St. Veronica's.

“That's completely unacceptable,” Margaret declares. “Did you tell Elizabeth about all this?”

“No way,” says Rebecca. “Why?”

“Because, people like Elizabeth Harriman can make things happen,” Margaret declares. “Look at you—you're twelve years old and on your way in the New York art scene.”

“My mom would
kill
me if I told a complete stranger about family stuff.”

“She's not a
complete
stranger,” I say.

“She is a little
strange
, though,” says Leigh Ann.

Rebecca waves both arms at us. “Everybody stop! I don't want to think about it anymore. Let's talk about somebody else's problems. C'mon, Sophie,
you
must have a problem.”

“Nope. Not a one. Everything's perfect.”
Did Margaret tell her my secret about you-know-who?

Before anyone has the chance to go nosing around in my life, Leigh Ann stands and takes charge. “I have a better idea. Why don't we work on our skit for the Dickens banquet? We're all here; if we put our heads together, we can write our script tonight, and we'll have a week to practice. I want to
win
this thing.”

“Win?” I ask. “It's a contest?”

“Of course. The best solo act and the best skit win prizes.”

“Books, Sophie,” says Margaret. “For your collection. Dickens. Hardcovers.”

Ooooohhhh
. I rub my hands together.

“I already have a good scene in mind,” says Leigh Ann. “It's from chapter twenty-seven, where Joe comes to visit Pip in London.”

“I'm only up to chapter twenty,” I say.

“I've read about twenty
pages
,” said Rebecca. “And don't include me in this, anyway. My mom wants me home right after school every day to babysit, so she doesn't have to pay for day care, and besides, I doubt I can go to the banquet this Friday.”

Leigh Ann isn't giving in that easily. “You can be Biddy. It's a small part. And you don't have to memorize it. You can read your lines, because it's supposed to be a letter that she writes to Pip. It's perfect. Come on!”

Rebecca slaps her palm to her forehead. “Aaaiiiiyyyyy.”

Margaret shakes her head at her. “When are you going to learn, Rebecca? We
never
give up. We're permanent. Like a tattoo. Attached, like leeches.”

“So, what's the scene about?” I ask. “Give me the SparkNotes version.”

Leigh Ann explains. “Pip gets a letter from Biddy telling him that Joe is coming to visit, and Pip is kind of bummed, because he's afraid Joe will embarrass him. Joe shows up and has dinner with Pip and Herbert, and … oh, you'll see. It's really funny, but it's also kind of sad.”

“You know, classic Dickens,” Margaret adds.

Now to the nitty-gritty. “And who am I?”

“I was thinking you could be Pip's roommate, Herbert,” says Leigh Ann. “Margaret can be Pip, and I'll be Joe. I mean, if that's all right with you guys. I don't want you to think I'm taking things over. I know I'm still the new girl.”

Margaret pats her on the back. “It's
good
that you're taking charge. I've been kind of preoccupied with this puzzle, and, um, other stuff that's going on here. We haven't even thought about the skit.”

“How are things going with your grandmother, anyway? Any better?” I ask.

Margaret sighs. “’Bout the same. It's just—well, let me give an example from this morning. Mom asked me to go out to Gristedes for some milk, so I asked Babcia—that's my grandmother—if she wanted to go with me. We hardly get out the door, and she's stopping at every garbage can on the block, looking for empty cans and bottles. Somehow she found out that they're worth a nickel apiece, and she's telling me how in Poland, she could live on what the people in my building throw away.”

“She's probably right,” Rebecca says.

“Yeah, but some of our neighbors saw us, and I wanted to crawl under a parked car.”

“Aww, she's just from a different world, Margaret,” says Leigh Ann.

“I know, I know. I mean, when I think of what she's been through—the Depression, the war, the Holocaust, communism—I'd probably be the same way. But she's still embarrassing.”

“Well, are you sure you're okay playing Pip in this skit?” Leigh Ann asks. “Because, you know, he's—” She stops herself, smiling ever so slightly.

Margaret moves to her computer. “Absolutely. You talk, I'll type. And while I get set up, tell us all about the dance.”

My ears and everything else perk up.

“Oh, I didn't stay that long,” Leigh Ann starts. “Not that many kids from St. V's were there—but that girl
Bridget…” Her big, beautiful, dramatic eyes widen. “She is
wild.”

Without looking up from the keyboard, Margaret says, “Raf told us that part.”

Leigh Ann instantly smiles at the mention of Raf's name. “Oh, yeah, I ended up hanging with him and his friends for a while—he's funny—”

Grrrrrr
. He's
funny?

“—and so nice. And he's
really
cute.”

Just kill me now. Please. Get it all over with.

“So, what's his deal, anyway? Is he, you know—”

“Available?” Margaret asks without looking up from the computer.

Leigh Ann gives us kind of a shy shrug. “Um, yeah, I guess.”

Margaret turns to face me. “I don't know. What do
you
think, Soph?
Is
Raf available?”

I stammer for a second, and then a voice that comes from somewhere inside my amoeba-size brain says, “As far as I know.”

Leigh Ann's dimples deepen. “Good to know.”

I am stupid, stupid, stupid.

On Sunday mornings, Dad makes me my favorite breakfast of crepes with Nutella and bananas, along with this totally decadent coffee, chocolate, and whipped cream concoction that he
claims
he invented. After a night of tossing and turning imagining Leigh Ann and Raf having a fabulous time at the dance, it is just what I need. She thinks he's
funny. Grrrr
, again.

Dad sets a perfectly folded crepe on my plate and my mind drifts back to the museum and the legend of the ring.

“Dad, what's the name of the town where you grew up?”

“Ste. Croix du Mont.
Pourquoi, mon petit chouchou?”

I giggle. I love it when he calls me his “little cabbage.”

“Oh, I'm just wondering. Me and Margaret are
doing this project. Have you ever heard of a place called Rocamadour?”

“Ah,
oui
. It is maybe one hundred kilometers east of Ste. Croix du Mont. A very famous place.”

“Do you know anything about some rings from there? With special powers, supposedly.”

“Of course.
Les bagues de Rocamadour?
St. Veronica, like your school,
n'est-ce pas?”

“That's right! So, it's true? The legend, I mean?”

Mom lowers the Arts section of the Sunday
New York Times
. She looks quizzical. “What legend?”

“The rings were a gift from Veronica,” I begin. “You know, from the Bible. They're wedding rings, and—”

“Legend says that if a person wears the ring and prays to St. Veronica, she will appear in a dream and will answer their prayers,” Dad finishes.

“Nice. And
where
is this ring?”

“One of them is in the Met,” I say. “But that's the man's ring. The other one is, well, that's what we're kind of trying to find out.”

“It disappeared a long time ago,” Dad says. “There are many theories, but no one knows for sure where it is. Probably still on someone's finger, dead and buried.”

Or in a church on the Upper East Side.

“Mom, if the ring was for real, and you had it, what would you wish for?”

“Sophie, it is not a wishing well.” Dad takes his legends seriously.

“All right, what would you
pray
for?” I stick out my tongue at Dad.

“Nothing. I have everything I need right here at this table.”

Geez—that is
such
a Mom answer.

It is a perfect New York City September afternoon. After I finish breakfast, I go to meet Margaret's babcia. The doorman lets me go up without buzzing the Wrobels. Outside their apartment door, I hear Margaret playing the violin, so I wait until she gets to the end of the piece. After the clapping and the shouts of “Encore!” I knock quickly.

Mr. Wrobel answers the door. “Sophie! So good to see you! Come in, come in. Margaret is entertaining us with a little Chopin. He was Polish, you know.”

“Um, yeah, I think I heard that. It sounded
great
, Margaret.”

“One day soon—Carnegie Hall!” Mr. Wrobel practically shouts.

“Papa! That's a long way off. Besides, Sophie doesn't want to hear you bragging about me, do you, Soph?”

“Ummm, no, it's okay. He's right, you'll be playing in Carnegie Hall, and I'll be in some smoky dive in the East Village.”

Mr. Wrobel pulls me into the living room, where Margaret's mom and grandmother sit in matching wing
chairs. “This is my mother.” He says something to her in Polish; I catch my name and Margaret's.