The Sixty-Eight Rooms (8 page)

“Mr. Bell, let me show you
my
favorite.” She turned immediately in the other direction. Fortunately, Mr. Bell followed. Ruthie had no idea, really, which room to show him; she just knew it had to be one around the corner. She walked him to a New England bedroom. She stood in front of it, explaining to him what she liked about it, stalling for time and hoping that Jack would take the opportunity she was giving him.

Jack put his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear a thing;
either the coast was clear or it was a soundproof door. Since he couldn’t stay back there much longer without Mr. Bell getting suspicious, he opened the door again, just a half inch at first, and then slipped out. He shut the door, heard the lock catch and then walked around the corner to Ruthie.

“There you are,” he said, faking impatience. “Where’ve you been?”

They stayed a little longer in the exhibit, but Jack wanted to move on to something more productive than just looking.

“While we’re here, Ruthie, we need to get more info—you know, about what happens around here at night.”

“You mean like about the security system?”

“Yeah. If we’re gonna try to stay in the building after it’s closed we need to know as much as we can.”

Ruthie had an idea. She proposed that they interview a guard—but not Mr. Bell—as if they were doing a school project. They could say they had an assignment to find out about different jobs; that would give them an excuse to ask all kinds of questions. They went back to the coat check, retrieved a notebook from Ruthie’s backpack and began interviewing.

They talked to six different guards all over the museum. One of them wouldn’t talk much, but the others seemed happy to have the day broken up with conversation. They sandwiched their questions about the security system between other questions about the works of art.
By not asking too much of any one guard, they were able to piece together quite a bit of information. Ruthie wrote down answers as they went. After an hour or so they had loads of valuable details; they sat on a bench near the main stairway, going over Ruthie’s notes.

“Okay. So we learned that the museum is guarded at night but by fewer guards than during the day and that those guards are only near the really valuable stuff,” she started.

“Yeah, and the cool thing about the camera system—did you get that?” Jack asked.

“Yep. There are cameras throughout the museum and there’s a room with security guards watching on monitors. But some parts of the museum are covered by motion detectors that turn the lights on automatically if they’re triggered,” she read from her notes.

They’d also learned that after the museum was closed to the public a lot of activity still took place, like special fund-raising parties or the installation of new exhibitions. And they were told that sometimes those events lasted late into the night.

It was still snowing by the time they left the museum. Jumping over snowdrifts, they made their way to the bus stop for the ride home. Even though they had not managed to get into the rooms on this trip, Ruthie knew they had gotten a step closer. Now they had to figure out their plan.

R
UTHIE STOMPED HER FEET HARD
to shake the last chunks of snow off her boots before she entered her apartment. The heavy nuggets that had stuck to her hat, scarf and coat were beginning to melt, so she took the wet things off and left them in a lump in the hall. Opening the door, she noticed right away that the apartment sounded different. It was a little quieter than usual and she heard something that she ordinarily wouldn’t have heard: the sound of her mother crying softly in her bedroom. Claire appeared in the entryway to meet Ruthie.

“Why’s Mom crying?” Ruthie was very concerned.

“Her old professor from college—you know, the one she always talks about, from St. Louis—he died yesterday and she just got the phone call about an hour ago.”

“Oh,” Ruthie uttered, relieved it wasn’t something really horrible. “That’s sad.” Mostly she was sad that her
mother was sad. She’d never known the professor, even though her mom had kept in touch with him. She had called him her mentor.

“You and I are gonna make dinner, okay?” Claire was taking charge. “Let’s be super good to Mom.” Ruthie agreed.

Actually, it turned out to be nice, making dinner with her big sister—they so rarely did anything together without their parents. They made an easy dish—spaghetti—with Ruthie sitting on a kitchen stool reading the recipe while Claire did the actual cooking. With the blizzard roaring outside and the warm smells wafting through the air, Ruthie felt contentment—something she hadn’t felt much of since the discovery of the key. When their dad came home, they filled him in. He kissed them both on the forehead.

Over dinner—which everyone agreed turned out to be not bad at all—Ruthie felt uncomfortable. She had never seen her mother in this state and it bothered her that she didn’t know what to say to make her feel better. Why couldn’t she be more like Claire in moments like this?

“Mom,” her older sister began, “what is the thing you remember best about him?”

The question made her mother brighten. “I guess it’s how he treated his students. He inspired me to become a teacher.”

Her mother talked about her old professor for a while. Ruthie listened quietly.

Then something surprising and fantastic occurred and Ruthie had a very hard time not acting overjoyed in the face of her mother’s sadness. Her parents had decided that they would go to the funeral in St. Louis—this weekend! Claire couldn’t go because of the SAT on Saturday morning.

“Ruthie, what about you?” her father asked. “Do you want to come with us or keep Claire company? It will just be two nights.” Claire and Ruthie had stayed home alone together only once, several months earlier, when their parents went to a weekend conference. That had been a big deal, but they had proved they could be responsible.

“I guess I’ll stay here,” she said. It was all she could do to stay in her chair and finish dinner. She couldn’t wait to tell Jack the news.

As the week progressed, they made their plan. Ruthie’s parents were leaving for St. Louis right after school on Friday and would be gone until Sunday evening. The museum closed at four-thirty on Fridays—that didn’t give them enough time to get from school to home to the museum, and if for any reason her parents got a late start the whole thing could be thrown off. Their overnight would have to be Saturday night, which would mean that they could get their homework out of the way on Friday night. Ruthie would tell Claire that she was spending the night at Jack’s and Jack would tell his mom that he would be with Ruthie. She had already told her parents that Lydia had
agreed to help out while they were away. They worked very hard at keeping the parents from actually talking to each other about the arrangements. They were absolutely confident it was going to work, for two reasons: Ruthie was sure Claire wasn’t really going to pay any attention to her this weekend and Jack had spent the night at Ruthie’s several times when his mom had to be out of town. But Ruthie felt guilty about lying to Lydia and her parents.

“Look,” Jack said, “if we could tell them we would. Anybody would do the same thing.” Ruthie knew Jack was right but she still didn’t like it.

They would go to the museum around four o’clock; that should give them enough time to get into the corridor. Then they would hide quietly until the museum closed at five. They knew they couldn’t bring backpacks through the museum, so they decided to load up their pockets with food in case they got hungry overnight. Ruthie wondered if her cell phone would work as a miniature. Jack was going to wear extra layers of clothes since he would be sleeping in the corridor. He could roll up a sweatshirt for a pillow and use his coat for a blanket. He was the kind of person who could sleep almost anywhere.

By Thursday, Ruthie could hardly bear the waiting anymore. She went home with Jack after school so that they could work on a math assignment together. Lydia had made brownies for them; she said brownies helped to get homework done. They sat on the floor in Jack’s room. Ruthie hated story problems—which Jack didn’t mind—but
was really good at equations and calculations. Between the two of them they could get it done fast. They put the finished assignment in their notebooks, shoved them into their backpacks and put school out of their minds. Ruthie pulled out the catalogue of rooms, which she’d been keeping in her backpack all week. She still hadn’t decided which room to sleep in.

“Maybe I’ll just have to try out all the beds before I decide on one,” she mused out loud. Then she had a thought that had been nagging her all week but that she hadn’t dared bring up. “Jack, do you think there’s any chance that it might not work anymore?”

“What do you mean? The key?”

“Yeah. What if it was a one-time-only thing?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I guess we’ll find out Saturday.”

“Let’s try it now, just for a second.”

“My mom might see—it’s too risky,” he answered, as though that were final.

“No, it’s not. Besides, it’s not your decision alone, you know,” Ruthie said, a little annoyed.

“Okay, okay; you’re right,” he reluctantly agreed.

Jack reached under his couch and pulled out a plain shoe box. It was filled with odds and ends: shoelaces, cool markers and pens, a deck of playing cards, a whistle, some batteries. Jack had deliberately decided not to keep this very special key with the others in his key collection. He wanted to hide it in a place no one would ever look. He
dug through the various objects and found the key. Ruthie wasn’t sure, and even though it still looked special compared to all the junk in the box, she thought she remembered that it had glowed more intensely the last time she saw it.

“Wait a second,” Jack said, walking over to the window that looked out into the main loft. His mom was not in sight. “Okay, now—but just for a second or two, and then drop it. Promise?” He held the key tightly before handing it over.

“I promise,” she said solemnly.

Ruthie stayed sitting on the floor—that way if his mother came around the corner she wouldn’t see Ruthie. Jack opened his fist and let the key drop into her palm. Almost immediately she felt the familiar warmth spreading out to her fingers. Her hair began to move with the light breeze blowing only on her. They heard the odd sound of the metal creaking. But then the process stopped. She didn’t feel her clothes adjusting; she didn’t feel even an inch smaller. Her hair stopped moving and the key cooled off. They stared at each other. Ruthie had never felt more disappointed in her whole life.

“It’s not working!” She almost couldn’t get the words out. She handed him the key as if she never wanted to see it again.

“Did you feel anything at all?”

“I think so. I mean, the key warmed up in my hand like before and I felt that breeze. But that’s it. It just stopped!”

“Here, try it again. Maybe you need to concentrate or
something.” He handed her the key. The same thing happened. It was as if it were only working on half power, like when a flashlight’s battery is dying and the bulb slowly fades out.

Just then the door buzzer sounded. Someone was coming up in the elevator. Jack grabbed the key, stashed it in the box and shoved the box back under the couch. After a minute someone knocked and his mother headed toward the door. She looked through the peephole and sighed before opening the door.

“Hello, Lydia. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Hello, Frank. I guess I was expecting you.” Frank Murphy was their landlord. Jack got up and stood in the doorway of his room.

“We’ve really got to do something about this problem you’re having,” Mr. Murphy said.

“Yes, Frank, I’m aware of the problem. I need another month. I have a show coming up soon and I’m sure I’ll have the money for you then. And I have some paintings almost finished.” Mr. Murphy had been an artist himself but had given it up; he’d bought this building a long time ago and rented the floors out to artists. Usually he was pretty nice.

“I can give you one more month, but then … To be fair, I want to tell you I’ve had offers for triple what you’re paying and I have to think about paying my bills. You know how it is.” Ruthie thought he sounded like he was feeling a little guilty.

After he left, Lydia sighed again and looked at Jack. “Don’t worry, Jack, okay? It’s going to turn out fine,” she said. Ruthie thought the look in her eyes said something else.

It was very quiet in the loft for several long minutes. Ruthie was unsure what to say—or if she should even say anything at all. In the past ten minutes her world had turned upside down: the key did not work as expected and Jack’s situation had taken a turn for the worse. But then the buzzer sounded again, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“That must be my dad,” Ruthie said, trying to put a normal tone in her voice. “I still have to get my stuff together.”

“Jack, go bring him up so he doesn’t have to wait in the cold,” Lydia suggested. Ruthie gathered her books and folders and put them in her backpack. She was just about finished by the time Jack and her dad came in. After the hellos and how-are-yous, another near disaster occurred that threatened the entire plan.