Save the Dragons!. Martin Berman-Gorvine
was a 950-page history of the twentieth century by someone named Janusz Spiegelman, which seemed to have been all different after 1916—the Allies had won World War I two years ahead of schedule, and nobody had ever heard of Hitler or Stalin—and it looked like it was very important, but not a lot of fun.
But there were two other books I liked so much I had a hard time choosing between them. Race To Mars was “the authoritative account” of how four American astronauts beat the Russians to the Red Planet during the Bicentennial in 1976, at the end of President Robert F. Kennedy’s second term. It had a fold-out poster with a detailed blueprint of the ship, the Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr., nicknamed “Joe-Kay.” NASA would love that, but why would they listen to me?
The other book was The Ultimate Aubergine Cookbook, which had more ways to cook an eggplant than even Nana knew about. It was published by something called the Brook Farm Collective in Massachusetts. “To celebrate our Sesquicentennial—150 years as a model for these Cooperative States of America!—this humble cookbook is offered to our friends in all the phalansteries and cooperatives from Nova Scotia to Key West.” (CSA? Phalansteries? Even Wikipedia probably never heard of some of this stuff.) Maybe I could use that book to get Mom interested in cooking again, instead of microwaving Ramen noodles all the time. As it is, I have to do the cooking if I want anything fancier, but I only know the hearty Italian basics Nana taught me. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but it would be great to try something different for a change—and to get Mom to help out.
I took my time, because I loved the cozy safe feeling of being in the bookstore with Tiferet around somewhere, and also I was afraid of walking home through the cold, strange streets. Once I got home, of course, Mom would want to know where I’d been. Italian mothers are the worst!
“You said you were only going out to South Street for an hour,” she’d say, “it’s been dark for hours, where were you?”
What normal 17-year-old girl has a sunset curfew, I wanted to ask her? But I wouldn’t because I hated seeing her get all frustrated and then crying. Still, better thinking about that than the fear in my guts, growling softly.
Suddenly there was a scrabbling and a thump. I looked up, startled, as Tiferet padded into the secret room.
“Where have you been, puss?” I asked, stroking the cat, which mewed and darted away. “Okay, I’ll come see what you want,” I said, following her out.
I stopped short when she came to the counter where the cash register sat, because there was a handwritten note there, just like last time.
What you have brought is enough for both of the books you want, dear. And don’t worry so much about walking home now, or finding your way back next time. Don’t try so hard. Relax and enjoy the walk. Your feet will take you where you need to go.
“That’s ridiculous,” I grumbled aloud. Wait. How did Gloria know what I had brought with me and what I was thinking? Chilly bugs walked up and down my spine. How had Gloria even known I was interested in two books? I wasn’t carrying them—oh yes, I was, they were tucked right under my arm. All right, then.
I walked around the counter, glanced at myself gloomily in the mirror, and slipped the spelling bee certificate out of its frame. Tucked behind it was a picture of Nana tickling me when I was a baby. Oh, Nana. Tears trickled down my cheeks, and I quickly put it in my pocket. No way is Gloria getting that!
The certificate, however, fit easily in the slot. What should I do with the empty frame? Sneaking it out of the house had been hard enough, and I didn’t want to risk bringing it back and having Mom spot it and ask a lot of questions. There wasn’t a trash can, so I just left it on the counter. Now I had to face the night walk home. I took a deep breath and pushed my way out through the door into the cold and damp.
Chapter 4
It was not at all difficult for my parents and Jodie to note that something was bothering me all Union Day week-end. I had been taciturn ever since Tuesday evening, when I had stood and waited under the statue of Sir Andrew, the mighty conqueror of West Florida, for an hour and a half as the cold bit deeper and deeper at my fingers and the tips of my nose and ears.
Mum would have shouted at me for half an hour at least had she known that I had braved the cold without the mittens she had knitted me. She still wanted to protect her poor baby against the Arctic cold of a Philadelphia winter. Well, that may have been how she saw it, but what seventeen-year-old bloke is going to go out wearing handmade baby blue mittens, with little brown harry bears on them, yet? Nor could I explain that to her and hurt her feelings.
So instead I practically got frostbite waiting for this imaginary Teresa to show up, which of course she failed to do. The time passed slowly as I clapped my hands together and watched the M.P.s in their frock coats or long skirts and the Lords in their periwigs and ruffled shirts strut past, along with businessmen, tourists, and students like myself.
As a diversion I eavesdropped on a honeymooning couple from Louisiana. I am a good student in Madame Dantès’ class, but it is not her fault that she teaches Parisian, not the dialect they speak out West, which she calls with a sniff “Créole jargon.”
Some parts of their conversation I could understand fairly easily, while other times I could only make out maybe one word in three. Jean-Pierre could not find their passports, it seemed, and Anna-Louise berated him.
“We came all the way from Nouvelle Orleans to be arrested in Philadelphia?”
“Don’t be silly, girl, the British don’t arrest you for not carrying your papers. It is not the Imperium here. You know what they are like.” And he started talking through his nose, doing such a good impression of a Continental accent like Madame Dantès’s that he soon had Anna-Louise giggling. “Your papers, if you please, monsieur. Where do you think you are, among the red savages of the Grand Massif? This is a civilised country here, and you must carry your papers!”
But Jean-Pierre soon found the passports in his inside jacket pocket, and the two of them walked off happily arm in arm.
When Big Benjamin struck six-thirty, I gave up and made my way back to St. George’s. The streetcar was late and by the time I returned I was tired and hungry and ten minutes late for curfew, which is at seven o’clock on weeknights in winter. Worse luck, Hartles was on duty that night.
From half a block away I could see him skulking around the gate, just waiting to catch any unfortunate tardy soul, so I sneaked around to the back. Luckily for me, Curtis was there snogging Martha, and they helped me through a well-known gap in the stone wall, where the ivy grows thick and the streetlight has been out for months, if not years. Every time it is fixed somebody puts it out of commission again.
I was grateful, but before I could thank him Curtis sneered, “Out with a girl?”
“Actually, yes. I was out to meet a girl.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Martha cried, patting my arm. “What’s her name?”
“Teresa,” I said.
Curtis stared at me in open disbelief. “Indeed? What did you two do?”
“I met her in Parliament Plaza and we went to see ‘Florida Homecoming,’” I improvised. Which was the kinetoflick I had planned to see with Teresa, if she had kept our appointment.
Curtis would not leave me alone. “A war ’flick on a first date?” he said.
“Well, Teresa is no ordinary girl. Not that you are,” I quickly added for the sake of Martha, who proceeded to question me about what Teresa looked like, where she lived, where she went to school, and heaven knows what else. I cannot even remember all the lies I told. So when Thursday finally came and the family carriage pulled up at the gate of St. George’s, like a liberating armored chariot in the Latin Wars of Independence, I was not as happy as I should been. My little sister was first out.
“Hi big brother!” she cried, bounding right up, her dirty blond hair flying all around, as she threw her right arm around my neck. She didn’t have to reach up very far to do it, either. She had grown