13 Gifts Read online

  I shake my head. “I always figured if I had a sister we’d hate each other.”

  She grins and marches into the hall. “You shouldn’t say ‘hate.’ “

  I smile at the back of her head, and the tightness in my chest loosens just the littlest bit.

  Chapter Five

  Instead of heading downstairs for dinner, Emily leads me past the stairs to the opposite end of the hall. She stops in front of the last door, where big black letters tell us to KEEP OUT. Ignoring the warning, she opens the door and marches right in. I hesitate. I hadn’t planned on breaking any rules within my first hour of arrival.

  Emily yanks me inside and shuts the door behind us. It’s dark. It’s also colder than in the rest of the house. I shiver. She flips on the light and my eyes instantly widen.

  Long wooden shelves cover all four walls, from floor to ceiling. As far as I can tell, the stuff on the shelves is a mixture of toys, action figures, old-fashioned candy and chocolates with labels in other languages, comic books, bobbleheads, baseballs and footballs and soccer balls with autographs scribbled on them, and cookie jars covered in a thin layer of Bubble Wrap. Other than the balls, which are in plastic containers, everything else is still in its original packaging. A long, rectangular table sits in the center of the room with a single computer, a printer, and enough packing supplies to keep a small post office afloat for a year.

  Emily trails her hand along one of the spotless shelves. “Pretty wild, right?”

  “What is this place?” I whisper.

  She laughs. “Why are you whispering?”

  “The sign on the door?” I point out, voice still low. “I figure that means we don’t want to get caught.”

  “Dad doesn’t mind if I come in here. As long as I don’t touch anything.”

  My eyes scan a row of Star Trek toys. “I thought your dad was an inventor.”

  “He is. But not everything is as big a seller as the Sand-Free Beach Towel or the Odor-Absorbing Sock Monkey. So a few years ago he started buying and selling collectibles. Mostly buying.” She gestures to a shelf full of neatly stacked comic books. Each one is tucked inside a plastic slipcover. “He has two or three of each of these. He doesn’t like giving anything up.”

  An astronaut Barbie Doll with the words LIMITED EDITION sprawled across the box stares down at me from the top shelf. “Don’t you ever want to play with any of this stuff?”

  Emily shakes her head. “I’m too busy. Between school and fencing and trying to solve my math theorem, I don’t have much time for toys anymore.”

  In the bright light I can see gray smudges under both her eyes. I wonder if she stays up very late reading those thick books of hers. “Um, maybe we should go down for dinner? I know my mom always gets really mad if whatever she made gets cold.”

  “It’s not really like that here,” Emily says, opening the door. “You’ll see.”

  It seems like at least one of the many closed doors we pass on the way back down the hall should be a spare bedroom. It also seems like the smell of food should be in the air. But even when we reach the bottom of the stairs, the only thing I smell is lemon-scented furniture polish.

  The pile of delivery menus on the kitchen table explains a lot. I see Chinese food, Japanese, Thai, Mexican, Italian, and a place for deli sandwiches. Who knew Willow Falls was so multicultural? Aunt Bethany walks in from the adjoining laundry room with a stack of towels. “I ordered pizza. It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “We can wait on the porch for it, if you want,” Emily offers.

  Aunt Bethany hands her the money. “Don’t forget the change. Last time you gave him a ten-dollar tip!”

  “C’mon, let’s go out the back way.” Emily leads me through the laundry room and out the back door. She steps onto a large patio with a barbeque grill and table at one end, and a large vinyl shed at the other. Most of the rest of the backyard is taken up by the huge hole where the pool is supposed to be.

  “My mother told me you like to ride bikes,” Emily says. She makes no mention of the gaping pit of dirt, earth, and rocks with the hastily constructed plastic barrier around the edges that doesn’t look imposing enough to keep even a chipmunk away.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Mom told them stuff about me, but I am, a little. “At home I used to ride every night after dinner.” I don’t tell her how hard it’s going to be not riding. I already miss feeling the wind on my cheeks, that sense of freedom, of using my muscles and feeling strong.

  She opens the latch on the shed and the door swings open easily, letting out a musty smell. “You can use mine while you’re here. I never use it.”

  My heart leaps. “Really? That’d be great!” Then my eyes land on the bike. It’s pink. Like bubblegum pink. Knotted tassels hang limply from the handlebars, a white wicker basket secured between them. Stickers of Clifford the Big Red Dog cover the banana seat. One gear, no hand brakes.

  “I know it looks small,” Emily says, “but if you raise the seat you’ll be able to use it.”

  My thank-you comes out a bit forced, but Emily doesn’t seem to notice.

  “You can go for a ride right now, if you want, while I wait for the pizza guy.”

  I eye the bike, which looks like something I would have ridden when I was seven. “Um, that’s okay. I’ll just wait with you.”

  “No!” she says, so forcefully that I take a step back.

  She seems just as surprised herself, because she quickly adds, “I mean, it’s fine, I can do it myself.”

  “Okay. I’ll, um, go unpack.”

  “Okay,” she says, visibly relieved that I’m not going to follow her. She shuts and latches the shed.

  I watch until she disappears around the side of the house. Have I worn out my welcome already? Maybe I should have made a bigger deal over the bike. I’m tempted to climb down into the hole and hide out there until the summer is over. I peer over the edge and am sorry to see that the mixture of dirt, tree roots, and slabs of wood doesn’t look very inviting.

  So I push open the laundry room door, only to hear a male’s voice say, “Oomph!” and a second later, the sound of glass shattering on the tiled floor. I peek in to see Ray staring down at the remains of something green.

  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you. I hope that wasn’t a really expensive … bowl? Vase? Glass frog?”

  “Bowl,” he says cheerily. “No worries. It wasn’t exy. Only cost a few quid. And that one was just for practice anyway.”

  “Practice for what?”

  “I’m a glassblower,” he says, thumping his chest. “ ’Tis a noble profession.”

  “A glassblower? I thought you worked here, for the St. Claires.”

  “I am a wearer of many hats.”

  I’d expected Aunt Bethany to come running when she heard the crash, but now I can hear her on the phone somewhere else in the house. “Guess we should clean this up.”

  “Too right!” Ray grabs a dustpan from the shelf above the huge washing machine. He carefully picks out the larger shards and sets them aside, then starts sweeping up the smaller pieces into the bin. I stand there, feeling useless. He ducks into the kitchen to dump the bin into the trash and comes back with one of those ziplock freezer bags. He instructs me to hold it open while he puts the larger pieces inside. When we’re done he says, “I’ll go over the floor in here one more time with the mop, make sure I didn’t miss anything. You can throw that out under the sink.”

  I nod and head over to the sink, where I slide out the garbage can. I’m about to drop the bag in, but something about the way the glass catches the light from the window makes me feel a little dizzy. I stare down at the bag, at the jagged, beautiful shards, and am reminded of how the sun had transformed the leaves into shimmering glass outside the train station.

  I don’t know why, but I can’t throw it out. I close the cabinet and without turning to see if Ray is watching, I take the bag and run upstairs. I hide the bag of glass inside Grandma’s hatbox, then
close the suitcase back up, still unable to unpack.

  Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion. The long, strange day has finally caught up with me. I start to move everything from the bed, carefully at first, but then just sweep it off with my arm. I climb on top of the pale yellow blanket and close my eyes. I’m sure Emily will come get me when dinner comes.

  In the haze of half sleep, I imagine I can hear the glass tinkling inside the bag, trying to fit itself back together. But of course that’s impossible. You can’t unshatter a bowl any more than you can unsteal a goat.

  Chapter Six

  The sound of my stomach growling startles me awake. I expect to see Emily’s messy room but instead I find myself in darkness. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. How did it get dark in the ten minutes I’d been lying down? I catch sight of my alarm clock on the night table and groan. 2:13 A.M.! I am clearly the worst houseguest ever. On the other side of the room, I can just make out Emily asleep on her back, a book open on her chest.

  I tentatively lift the corner of my own blanket and am relieved to see that even though I’m now barefoot, my clothes are still on. It would have been really embarrassing if Aunt Bethany had put me in my pajamas like I was a little kid. She must have plugged in my clock, though, which means she was in my suitcase. I wonder what she saw.

  I realize I have no idea where the bathroom is. My bladder tells me I can’t wait till morning to find out.

  Creeping across the room on my tiptoes, I do my best to step around the piles that I can just make out thanks to the full moon shining through the blinds. I make it to the door without Emily waking up.

  The closed doors up and down the hall mock me. Seeing no other option, I put my ear up to the first door I come to. I don’t know what I’m expecting to hear but it’s not like I can knock. After a few seconds of hearing nothing, I open the door to reveal a closet full of sheets and towels. Gentle snoring wafts into the hallway from the next room. I hurry past it, glad I hadn’t tried that knob. Barging into my aunt and uncle’s bedroom in the middle of the night would really not be a step in the right direction.

  The room next to theirs is the one where Uncle Roger keeps his collectibles, so I turn around and start down the other side. A faint ray of light peeks out from underneath the first door. Just like a night-light in a bathroom would! I lean close to it, and, hearing only silence, eagerly push it open.

  Nope. Not a bathroom. Judging from the blueprints, charts, magazine articles, and newspaper clippings fluttering on the long white walls, along with the most random assortment of stuff I’ve ever seen, I’m pretty sure I’ve just stumbled onto Uncle Roger’s lab. Every surface is covered with machinery of some kind, from tiny screws to what looks like an airplane engine but probably isn’t because who has an airplane engine in their house? Huge rolls of cloth in every color line the left side of the room. One corner is full of beakers and test tubes and jars marked DO NOT DRINK. Lamps and vacuum cleaners and tires and tubes, bundles of wire and row upon row of metal filing cabinets fill the rest of the space. It’s as unorganized as the Collectibles Room is tidy.

  I trace the light source to a tall lamp next to the desk. Or what I’m assuming is a desk since I can’t see the surface of it. Emily must feel very at home in this room.

  Should I turn off the light? I probably should. Waste of electricity and all that. I take a few steps toward it, careful not to trip over the stack of magazines in the way.

  “Going on walkabout?” an amused voice asks from behind me. “And I thought they only did that Down Under.”

  My body tries to take a step backward and whirl around at the same time. As a result, I get tangled in my own legs and fall right over the magazines, which splay out in all directions.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Ray says, bending down to help me. “Just came to check when I heard noises up here.”

  “Why are you always sneaking up on me?” I grumble. “Because here in America, it’s considered impolite.”

  “Oh, it’s impolite Down Under, too. It’s just fun.”

  “I was trying to find the bathroom.”

  “In here?”

  I sigh. “Can you just show me where it is?”

  We walk out into the hall. “Last door on the left,” he whispers.

  I lower my voice, too. “Then what are all these other doors?”

  “They all open into the lab. Your rellies knocked the walls down to make it one big room.”

  I should have realized that. “Hooroo,” Ray says and leaves me at the bathroom door with a wave. I figure that either means “good night” or is Australian for “Don’t wander into your uncle’s lab again or I’ll be forced to tell him.” Or maybe it’s his imitation of an owl. If he weren’t so cute, I would have lost patience with him three conversations ago.

  By the time I get back to the bedroom, Emily’s blankets have become a tent. The only sound is the rustle of pages turning. I’m about to tell her she doesn’t have to hide under there on my account; the glow of the flashlight wouldn’t bother me. Then I hear “But if the square root of the integer is nine …” and I decide to tiptoe past her bed instead. I wouldn’t want to disrupt a genius at work.

  Only when I’ve climbed back into my bed does it occur to me to wonder why Ray would be here in the middle of the night.

  The next time I wake up, it’s to the sound of my alarm playing “light rain.”

  “Rats,” Emily mutters sleepily. “It’s raining.”

  I reach over and shut it off. “It’s just my clock, see?” I lift the blind to show her the sun outside, but she has already rolled over and doesn’t respond when I call her name.

  Even though it’s only seven o’clock, I’m wide awake. Except for my brief journey in the middle of the night, I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours. I may be hungrier than I’ve ever been. I slip on my shoes and sneak past Emily again. The other doors are still closed and no one’s in the kitchen when I get there. I’m halfway through my third bowl of Rice Krispies when Ray strolls in eating a roll and carrying a newspaper.

  “G’day!” he says with his mouth full. “Not to be a knocker, but you must really like that outfit.”

  I look down. I’m still in the black pants and black T-shirt I wore on the train. Instead of commenting on that sorry fact, I ask, “Do you, like, live here?”

  “In the guest room down the hall,” he says, then shoves the rest of the roll in his mouth.

  The guest room that should be mine, I can’t help thinking.

  He sits down across from me and opens the paper. I quickly finish my cereal and bring the bowl to the sink.

  “See you later,” I say, turning to go back upstairs.

  “Getting ready for your party?”

  I stop in my tracks. I’d forgotten all about that! The cereal in my belly congeals into a solid lump. “Do you think I can ask them to cancel it? I’m really not a party person.”

  “Nope. Your aunt loves to throw parties.”

  “I, um, I think I need fresh air.” I hurry outside and over to the shed. I need to be riding. It always helps me sort things out. Tools of all shapes and sizes hang from metal hooks that run the length of one wall. I find a wrench and raise the bike seat as high as it will go. A few swishes with an old rag and the spider-webs are gone. The tires are completely flat, but a bike pump solves that. I check under the seat to make sure no spiders are lurking, then walk the bike past the giant hole and around to the front yard.

  The tires are a lot thicker than I’m used to and it’s hard to build up any real speed on the flat streets. But the air on my cheeks feels good, and I can move around easier without all the usual reflective gear.

  After a few minutes, I can relax enough to put the looming party out of my head and take a look around. The houses are all pretty large, larger than the ones at home, but none as large as Emily’s. Not too many people are outside yet, only two dog walkers and a little kid on his bike. The kid and I nod at each other as we approach
on opposite sides of the street. He glances at my bike and then up at me and then down at my bike again. I pretend not to notice and keep riding.

  After a few more times around the block I figure I better get back in case anyone’s looking for me. As soon as I enter the backyard, I hear a very strange sound. Not chanting, not singing, but a combination of the two. The voice is male. I don’t know what language it is, but it’s definitely not Australian. And the voice isn’t deep enough to be Uncle Roger. The only thing is, I don’t see anyone.

  I walk the bike as silently as possible through the still-damp grass. The voice gets louder and louder. I look around for a hidden tree house, but see only leaves and sky. There’s only one other option. But who would willingly hang around the bottom of a pool pit? Maybe the boy fell in and it’s up to me to rescue him. I don’t have much practice in the rescuing department. I glance up at the house. The upstairs rooms are still dark. Guess it’s up to me. When I reach the edge of the hole, I kneel down and peek over, afraid of what I might find.

  A boy around my age with short, spiky brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses is sitting cross-legged on one of the wooden boards. His eyes are closed, and he’s swaying slightly as he chants/sings. Sometimes the words are really hard and guttural, and sometimes they’re soft. It’s not unpleasant, just … different. Almost like it’s from another time and definitely another place. As far as I can tell from this distance, the boy doesn’t look wounded in any way. I think I’m off the hook on the rescue.

  I start to back up before he spots me, but of course my sneaker catches on a rock and sends a bunch of dirt and pebbles skittering down the side. The singing stops abruptly.

  “Is someone up there?” he calls out.

  Would it be really bad to just leave? Probably. So I step into view. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  He scrambles to his feet. “No, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  I shake my head. My experience talking to boys my own age is pretty much zip. That goes double for boys chanting in a foreign language from a really big hole in the ground.