Uncovering Sadie's Secrets (19 page)

But hey, this had to be a record—thirty-eight and a half hours since I’d uncovered Sadie’s identity. Nearly forty hours! And I had-n’t told a soul. What self-discipline! Maybe there was hope for me yet.

Connie pulled up in front of Kerrie’s home but didn’t park because there were no spaces.

“I know who Sadie is,” I said, grabbing my tote bag from the back. I said it kind of cavalierly, like “Oh, and you mean you haven’t figured it out yet? What’s taking you so long?”

Connie’s mouth fell open. I am not making this up. At least I got a tiny crumb of my gratification-cake.

“You
what
?” she asked, incredulously. “Who
is
she? How’d you find out?”

“I’ll explain later. But I know she’s really Sarah McEvoy, Melinda McEvoy’s daughter. And she’s eighteen, not fifteen. Look, I’ve got to go.” I pointed to the cars behind her that couldn’t get down the narrow street until she moved.

“You better explain! I want to know how you found out.” Then she smiled as she gripped the stick shift to push the car into gear. “Way to go, Bianca. I’m impressed.”

Wow. Another little piece of my fantasy coming true. Connie telling me I impressed her. This was weird.

On that high, I walked up to Kerrie’s house and gave the brass knocker a few sharp whacks.

Kerrie’s house was tiny but pristine. The brick front had been stripped of its multi-colored formstone, and sand-blasted to an unnatural cleanliness. The door was painted a shiny gray-green, which Kerrie once told me was a special paint mixed after computers replicated a paint chip found on the original door dating back to 1810. The windows were new and secure, but they had been specially made to copy old paned windows, which were lovely, but hard to clean. Trust me, I know. I clean ours.

Kerrie came to the door in a few seconds, ushering me in with a kind of breathless excitement. I said hi to Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, Kerrie’s mom and dad, who were reading in the living room, looking as if they were posing for a magazine spread on peaceful parenting.

We went first to the back of the house and the kitchen. There the smell of cider and pumpkin bread and other good fall things made me drool. While we had a quick snack, Kerrie went over her decorating schemes. Her mother briefly showed up to offer help, but Kerrie sweetly shooed her away.

Then, it was up to Kerrie’s room for my hair treatment—a perfect time to share what I knew about Sadie with Kerrie and to discuss how to bring Sadie to whatever help she needed.

All in all, it promised to be a perfect afternoon—filled with exciting anticipation, juicy gossip, and social responsibility all at the same time.

K
ERRIE COULDN
’
T
have had a better day for her party if she’d ordered it up special. The afternoon was bright and warm, but not so hot that the evening wouldn’t be perfect.

Halloween time was an iffy weather proposition in the Baltimore area. Well do I remember the years when Mom had made me a nice warm costume, and then I’d been forced to sweat through trick-or-treating under layers of bunny fur. Then there were the years when I was garbed in thinner fabrics during unpredictable cold snaps—I remember a really pretty princess costume I had to cover up with a ratty parka because of the chilly night air. That still brings a tear to my eye.

Well, not really.

It wasn’t Halloween night, of course, but I figured this gorgeous evening was kind of a compensation for all those Halloweens I’d suffered through because of Baltimore’s fickle weather.

Kerrie decided to set my hair in pin curls, which we did in her room shortly after I arrived. Her room was a teenager’s dream. No fluffy pink pillows or bed sheets, no ruffled curtains and stuffed animals.

Well, okay, so she had a few teddy bears (none imported from China or third-world countries using slave labor). But the rest of the room was in red and gold, her bed set beneath a canopy of filmy fabrics purposely suggesting an Arabian nights theme. Her windows didn’t even have curtains. Instead, she had dark maroon shades to keep out the light, and multi-colored beads strung above and around the window. She had her own TV and phone and computer, all set on pieces of furniture that looked like they’d been made just to house those items.

Although it was small, Kerrie’s room felt comfortable. Everything had a place, and she kept everything in its place. Whenever I left Kerrie’s room, I always had an irresistible urge to redecorate (and clean up) my own humble space.

While she fooled with my hair, I gave her the scoop on Sadie’s identity.

Kerrie stood, slackly holding a hairbrush in one hand.

“What in the world is she still doing in school if she’s eighteen? I mean she’s in our class. She’s a sophomore! Who in their right mind would want to repeat all that?” Kerrie asked, shrugging.

“Good question,” I said, hoping the answer would come to me. I’d learned that sometimes just talking was a way to get at a question, so I thought I’d try that technique, and started babbling away. It worked in class sometimes when the teacher caught me off guard. Even moderately coherent rambling would eventually lead me to some sort of conclusion, usually with a few well-placed and helpful prods from the teacher. Maybe the same thing would happen here.

“She could be hiding,” I said, “and high school is where she’d hide easiest.”

“Bianca, if she’s hiding, high school kind of locks her in. She’d be better off getting a job or something.”

“She doesn’t look like she needs a job,” I said, offering more details of Sadie’s living arrangements as far as I could make them out. “Unless, of course, she’s living on borrowed time.”

Kerrie sucked in her breath and pulled tightly on a strand of hair.

“Ouch.”

“Well, that’s creepy,” Kerrie said. “You make it sound like she’s got some incurable disease.”

“No, I meant maybe she only has a certain amount of money and she needs to make more.”

“Right. So why isn’t she working?”

“Because she wants to finish her education? Isn’t that what we’re all told—stay in school and get a better job, or have a better career, or be all you can be?”

“That’s the Army. But yeah, you have a point.” Kerrie neatly twirled my hair into a perfect pin curl, securing it with a bobby pin. “Maybe she never finished high school.”

“Hey! We could find out, couldn’t we? Now that we know her name. If she’s eighteen, she would have graduated from one of the schools in Salinas, right? And a lot of schools post their graduates’ names, right? Maybe on their web sites?”

“That would take a lot of digging.” Kerrie pulled yet another strand and did the curling routine.

“That’s what investigative work is all about, Kerrie. It’s not all glamorous, Nancy Drew stuff.”

“Nancy
who
?”

I said nothing, waiting for the moment she finished with my hair. When she did, she immediately logged onto a search engine and I stood in back of her, directing her through various web sites. Man, oh, man this was luxury. Unlimited time on the computer. No half-hour rules. No fear of the executioner’s axe coming down on your neck. And a screaming fast line, too.

We managed to find a few schools, including the one from which Sadie ostensibly “transferred.” No Sarah McEvoy was listed in the “We’re proud of our graduates” pages.

“She’s a drop-out,” Kerrie said firmly. She turned around and looked at me with wide, serious eyes. “And she’s getting her high school diploma by pretending to be younger than she is.”

“This kind of jibes with something I’ve felt about Sadie for awhile.” I sat on the edge of Kerrie’s bed and grabbed one of her teddy bears to hold in my lap. “She always seems to me like she’s starting over, like she’s got a second chance at things and she does-n’t want to blow it. I’m not exactly sure why.”

“I’m in a bunch of classes with her,” Kerrie said. “She always gets her work in on time, and it’s good from what I’ve seen of it in oral presentations. And another thing—she actually gets stuff done early. If we have two weeks for an assignment, Sadie’s done in a couple days. I’ve seen her hand in papers that have been typed and ready for weeks.”

“Wow, Kerrie. Since when did
you
turn into Ace Snooper?”

Kerrie hit me good-naturedly with a feather by her desk. “I’m just observant, that’s all. But I agree with you. I get the impression she wants to do really well, and not to please the teachers or parents or anything like that. She wants to do well for herself.”

“She’s coming tonight, right? You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be. Why?”

“I think we need to confront her. I can’t think of one good reason why she’d be running this scam. I think she’s in trouble. I think we should offer to help.”

To my surprise, Kerrie didn’t immediately agree. She cocked her head to one side and twisted her mouth as she thought about it. “What if we mess it all up for her?” she said at last. “I mean, what if she
is
starting over? Maybe we should let her finish her studies and get on with her life. If we confront her, we might scare her away.”

“I have a feeling she’s scared about something to begin with. And I think she might like a helping hand. We won’t rat on her. Just encourage her to seek help. And maybe I’ll think of a way to do it so that she won’t be afraid we’ll tattle. Okay?”

“Okay. It’s a deal.” Kerrie stood. “Come on, we have to start decorating.”

B
Y THE
time we were done, the house looked like it was ready to be featured on a Martha Stewart Halloween Special. Kerrie had thought of everything. She had twinkly orange and white lights strung up in the dining room, kitchen, and the small yard. She had a shrieking, movement-activated, spider hanging right outside the front door. She had candles and balloons and lights set in paper bags that were cut out with pumpkin designs.

And yes, she had pumpkins—scads of them, in all sizes, some cut into fantastic faces, some plain. And corn husks and stalks, and even a couple of bales of hay to sit on in the yard.

Her father helped us wire the stereo so it could be heard both inside and outside. Her mother helped mix up a special punch, and set out soda, cider, cups, and plates on a picnic table.

Our planning may have been fantastic, but we had so much fun decorating that we lost track of time. Only thirty minutes were left until zero hour and my hair was still in pin curls and Kerrie was still in jeans and t-shirt. Well, so was I, but the hair is the important thing.

Kerrie’s mom shooed us upstairs while she finished with the food. There wasn’t much left to do anyway. We were ordering in pizzas.

In a few breathless minutes, we were both shrieking and screaming as we donned our costumes and put on make-up. Kerrie’s costume was as spectacular as mine. Layers of muted chiffon covered her legs, while a red beaded top with little cap sleeves edged in gold came to her midriff. She pulled her hair up in a bun and capped the whole thing off with a tiny hat adorned with veils that draped becomingly around her face.

“Now, on to you!” she said with a flourish, removing my pin curls as I sat in front of her vanity.

I was scared. Hair styling was serious business. When Kerrie pulled her brush through the mass of curls, I became even more scared than any scary movie could make me. All of a sudden, I felt like I’d made a big mistake. My hair was like a giant frizz ball, standing out a good three inches from my head in a white girl’s Afro.

It was a veritable hair explosion, and I could swear there were casualties.

“Kerrie,” I said softly, trying hard to hide my dismay. “Do something. Maybe flatten it with some water.”

Kerrie was unruffled. With a deft pull on the brush (that nonetheless made me cry out in pain), she started smoothing my hair down. She grabbed a can of styling mousse and squirted on some foamy stuff, then brushed and brushed and brushed again until I thought she was trying to calm the frizz by brushing the hair out of my head. Literally. As in “pulling the hairs out with the brush.” It certainly felt that way.

I couldn’t look. I closed my eyes and let her do her best. If all else failed, I was going to run into the shower, smear the whole thing down with water, and then hide it all under the cloche hat. Skillful make-up would have to bring out my other features.