The Red Blazer Girls (24 page)

Margaret sets her phone in his hand. “I'm
so
sorry, Mr. Eliot. I forgot that it was on.
Please
don't take it to the office. It will never happen again.”

“I'll tell you what. If Miss St. Pierre answers the question to my satisfaction, you get the phone back. If she blows it, it's mine.”

I immediately start spouting everything I can think of. “Pip turns into an irresponsible jerk. He spends all his money, and he is always going to Jaggers for more. And on top of that, he is becoming a snob. I mean, the way he treats poor Joe when he comes to visit—”

Mr. Eliot holds up his hand to stop me and hands the phone back to Margaret.

“Very nice, Miss St. Pierre. I notice that you don't have your books with you today. I trust that is also a onetime-only event.”

Margaret turns to thank me and mouths the words “That was Malcolm.”

When the bell rings, we rush into the bathroom to listen to his message. He was “a bit surprised” to hear from us, and “more than a little curious,” and he agreed to meet us at Perkatory at four-thirty.
And
he promised not to mention it to
anyone
, a condition Margaret had insisted upon.

“You still think we can trust him?” I ask.

Margaret puts her arm around me. “As far as I can throw him.”

At two-thirty, Margaret and I are on our way up to Mr. Eliot's classroom on the fifth floor to meet Leigh Ann for skit practice when the principal, Sister Bernadette, looking highly, um, unpleased, intercepts us.

“Just the two I'm looking for.” She places a hand on each of our shoulders. “Come with me.”

We march up the stairs and into her office. What now?

“Sit,” she commands, as if we are cocker spaniels. “I'll be right back.”

Sister Bernadette has a tough-but-fair reputation. She isn't one of those “wrath of God” nuns, but she isn't exactly the Mother Teresa type, either.

I look to Margaret. “You think Father Danahey told her?”

“Shhh. Here she comes.”

Sister Bernadette strides into the room, and rather than sitting behind her desk, she sets a third chair right in front of us and sits down. “Ladies, I just had a rather interesting conversation with Father Danahey, who called me from somewhere in Pennsylvania, of all places. Ah, Mr. Eliot. Join us. Thank you for coming. Here, take this seat.” She yields her chair to him and moves behind her desk.

“Hello, girls. Sister.”

“Hi, Mis-ter El-i-ot.” We are
so
obviously trying to act cheerful and sickeningly innocent.

“Father Danahey has just informed me that the night security guard in the church caught these two coming out from under the table on the altar.”

“He
what?”

We attempt to shrink ourselves down to microscopic size, but they can still see us. Sister Bernadette goes on with the distasteful tale.

“It was last evening. They
claim
to have been working on a ‘project’”—Sister Bernadette even uses air quotes when she says it!—“for their religion class. I have yet to check with their teacher about the existence of this mysterious project that allegedly has them crawling around the altar floor at all hours like church mice.”

Yipes
. I look at Mr. Eliot, my eyes begging him not
to betray us before we figure out how to weasel our way out of this one.

“You were
under
the table on the altar? Why?”

“We were hiding,” I say.

“From some guy who was sneaking around the church,” adds Margaret. “We were just looking around, not hurting anything, and suddenly there was this guy there. We got scared and hid under the table.”

Sister Bernadette scoffs. “What ‘guy’? And why did you feel the need to hide from him?”

Hmmm. A reasonable question. So, what would be a reasonable answer?

“Well, we knew that we weren't supposed to be in there, and when we heard him, we thought at first that it was the security guard. We didn't want to get into trouble,” Margaret explains.

Mr. Eliot leans in. “But it wasn't the security guard?”

“No. The man went into the dressing room at the side of the altar. And that's when we took off the other way and got caught by the security guard.”

Sister Bernadette holds up the stop sign. “I've heard enough. Strange men wandering in the church; girls—girls who should have been
home
—hiding under tables. I understand that Father Julian vouched for you, and that's why Father Danahey let you go.”

“Sister, we didn't have anything to do with those missing candlesticks,” Margaret says. “I swear. We would never steal anything, especially from a church.”

“I think I missed something,” says a bewildered Mr. Eliot.

“A pair of valuable candlesticks disappeared from the altar yesterday,” explains Sister Bernadette.

Mr. Eliot raises one eyebrow, first at me, then at Margaret.

“C'mon, Mr. Eliot. You know we'd never do anything like that,” I say.

Mr. Eliot sighs. Deeply. “Sister, I do know these two pretty well, and I really don't think they could have had anything to do with something like that. Of course, that doesn't excuse their sneaking around the church after closing, but—”

“All right, all right. But I can't let that go completely unpunished. I take it that they are both taking part in your Dickens event, Mr. Eliot?”

“Unfortunately,” he answers.

“Well, I'll suspend their punishment until after that, but starting Monday you each have one week's detention. The last thing I need around here is Father Danahey breathing down my neck because my girls are running wild in the church. In the meantime, STAY OUT of the church. Thank you, Mr. Eliot. You may all leave.” She just about shoves us out of her office.

“All right,” says Mr. Eliot when we are out of hearing range of the principal's office. “What haven't you told me? And by the way, I seem to remember you
promising me that you weren't going to go sneaking around the church.”

“Actually,” Margaret says, “we promised not to
break into
the church. We never said anything about sneaking around.”

“Staying out of trouble was the main idea, Miss Semantics. So, talk to me. Did you find the ring?” He is excited!

Margaret smiles. “We're
really
close.”

“And?”

“And you'll just have to wait and see. I don't want to jinx it any more than I already have.”

“Just promise me, please, to not get yourselves arrested.”

“We prom-ise, Mis-ter El-i-ot,” we singsong, running up the stairs, where we spend the next hour and a half on our
Great Expectations
skit. I kind of hope it is going to take my mind off of, well, everything. I do momentarily forget about my bag, but it isn't easy being around Leigh Ann. I can admit it: I act like a complete rhymes-with-witch to her during our rehearsal. She is trying to get me to give Herbert a stronger British accent, and I'm just not feeling it. She pushes and pushes, and I finally snap.

“Jeez, Leigh Ann, what
difference
does it make? It's just a stupid skit for a stupid fake banquet. Get off my back and out of my face!”

I don't mean it, not all of it. God, she looks crushed.

“Maybe we should just quit the whole thing,” she says.

Margaret gives me a what-is-the-
matter
-with-you look and then turns to reassure Leigh Ann. “We are
not
quitting. This is a
great
scene, thanks to you, and even if we don't win, we can still have fun. Isn't that important, too? Sophie just has a lot on … what's left of her mind. Let's move on to the next part, after Herbert leaves. Sophie's going to take a little walk and try to purge some of her stress—aren't you, Sophie? And while you're at it, call Rebecca and see if she's on her way.”

I skulk off and call Rebecca. She had gone home right after school to drop her brother and sister at an aunt's so she could come back for the Malcolm meeting and, if all goes well, to stay at my apartment for the night.

“This had better be worth it,” she says. “I'm going to be babysitting my aunt's kid for the next year for free.”

“The biter?”

“Yep.”

And I thought I had problems.

At four-fifteen, four glum-faced, red-blazered girls shuffle into Perkatory and take seats around an unsteady round table. Margaret pulls up an extra chair, and we wait silently for Malcolm.

The girl behind the counter, a redhead in a Hunter College sweatshirt, greets us. “Hi, guys. What's with all the long faces?”

Margaret tries to be cheerful in spite of all the opposition. “Long day, long faces.”

“You wouldn't have a Sophie at this table, would you?” she asks.

I lift my head. “Yeah, I'm Sophie.”

“Somebody was in looking for you about an hour ago. Really cute guy. Said his name was … Ralph, er, Raf? Does that sound right? Waited around for a while, then said he had to go.”

“You sure he was tooking for me? Not
her
?” I point my poison-arrow finger at Leigh Ann.

“Why would he be looking for me?” Leigh Ann asks, a perplexed look on her face.

I glare at her. “You're going out with him, aren't you?”

“With Raf? What gave you that idea?”

“The phone call? Remember? I was there when he called. I saw his number on your phone when I handed it to you.”

“Yeah, I remember—he did call me, but I'm not going out with him. He called me for his
friend
Sean. I met him at the dance last week, and I guess he's kinda shy, so he got Rafael to call and ask me out for him.”

Waves of about eight different emotions swell up and crash on the beach of my feeble brain. Rebecca thwumps me with her sketchbook. Margaret shakes her head and waggles her eyebrows at me.

“What is going on?” Leigh Ann asks, looking at us one by one.

“Sophie was mad at you,” Margaret starts, “because she likes Raf, and she thought you were going out with him. Which is crazy, because even if you were, I practically heard her give you permission.”

“Wait a second. This was all about Raf?” Leigh Ann tries to piece it together in her mind. “You know, I thought you were being kind of mean to me. If you like him, why didn't you just say something?”

“Because I'm a moron. God, I am so embarrassed.”

“You should be,” Rebecca says. “Who else thinks Sophie should buy the first round?”

The girl behind the counter raises her hand along with Rebecca, Margaret, and Leigh Ann, and then says, “How 'bout four of my specialty—a mocha float. It's got coffee, chocolate, and ice cream. I'll give 'em to you for half price.”

“Leigh Ann, I am so sorry. It's just that, well, you guys would make like the
perfect
couple.”

“Except he likes
you
, and you like him, and I don't like him. Not like that.”

“He doesn't like me.”

“You'll never convince her, Leigh Ann,” says Margaret.

“Am I interrupting something?” Malcolm suddenly materializes next to our table.

Margaret spins in her seat to face him.

Malcolm points to his shoes. “Soft soles. Better for sneaking about.” That sly, sly smile. But no smirk in sight.

I take a whiff; he is using the same stuff on his hair, and I'm still not sure I want my fate in hands that smell like the locker room after gym class.

Margaret points him to the empty chair. “Thanks for coming. Especially on such short notice.”

I check the door again. “Are you sure nobody followed you?”

This makes him chuckle, and for the first time, I see a twinkle in his eye—a twinkle that says: I'm not quite the bad guy you think I am.

Could I have been wrong? Again!

“My, my. Should I have been expecting someone to follow me? I had no idea I had wandered into such a shady underworld.”

“She's just a little nervous,” Margaret says. “There's really just one person in particular that we would rather not know about this meeting. Sophie had kind of a bad experience this morning with someone from last night.”

“Let me guess: Gordon Winterbottom.”

“How did you know?” Maybe he
can
help me.

Malcolm chuckles again. “Well, of all the people present last night, he's the one I wouldn't want following
me
. I don't blame you for being concerned about Mr. Winterbottom. As a matter of fact,
I'm
very concerned about him myself, for reasons I needn't go into right now. But tell me—what kind of bad experience are we talking about?”

Margaret takes a deep breath. “Okay, we're going to
tell you something, because we need your help, but I don't know if we have anything to offer you in return—so we're just going to have to take a chance that you'll do the right thing.”

Malcolm calmly folds his hands on the table in front of us. “Before you start, are you sure it is the
right
thing that you want me to do? Or is it merely the thing you
want
me to do? Are you sure they are one and the same?”

Oy. If he calls us young grasshoppers, I'm leaving.

Zen Master Margaret states her case: “Let me put it this way. To the best of my
knowledge
, it is the right thing. However, if my understanding of the facts is flawed, it is entirely possible that what truly is right and what we want, based on the information we now have,
are not
the same.”

“Fair enough. Girls, I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that this has something to do with the item we discussed last Saturday at the Met. An object aptly described by your young male friend as ‘the stuff that dreams are made of.’ Am I right?” We nod, and he continues. “And I'm going to climb a bit further out on that same limb by suggesting that our mutual friend Mr. Winterbottom has developed a keen interest in said item.”

“Did he say something to you about it?”

“Oh, no. Gordon's much too clever for that. You see, there's something about him that you don't know. From
the moment I met you girls in Elizabeth's foyer and got wind of what you were up to, I feared that this very situation would result.”

“But why?”

“Because every time you visited Elizabeth, he knew
exactly
what was said.”

“How? Does he have the place bugged or something?”