Читать книгу Save the Dragons! - Martin Berman-Gorvine - Страница 5

Chapter 1

This must be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done—writing this letter on the blank pages of your diary and leaving it here for you to find. After all, I’ve never met you! All I have is your forgotten diary. Please forgive me for reading it…but now I know we must meet.

I paused with my pen over the page. Dope, what’s the point boring a stranger with my babbling? My hand cramped; I was too used to tapping away at my cell phone or computer to write with a pen for very long.

I sat in the new treasure chest I’d discovered, hidden away on a back street of South Philadelphia. I’ve never been in this street before, even though I grew up here. Finding “Gloria’s Gateway Books and Records” was like winning the lottery, especially after the extra-yucky day I had at school.

* * * *

I shivered and pulled my coat tighter around me as I walked through the blue-gray dusk. I was lost. It usually takes me fifteen minutes to walk home, and I take the same route along Snyder Avenue every day, turning right on 9th Street and then left on Wolf Street, where I live with my mom.

But here I was hurrying nervously along an unfamiliar cracked sidewalk, past low anonymous buildings. Must not have been paying attention. A lone orange streetlight flickered feebly to life overhead, and a cat yowled somewhere. No one was around, so I couldn’t even ask for directions. All the houses had peeling paint, the potholes were even bigger than usual for Philly, street signs were missing. Even the cars parked in the street looked more beaten-up than you usually see in my neighborhood, and it’s not like folks where I come from drive the latest model of anything. But these…they looked like cars out of some old movie, or in those pictures you see from Cuba where they’re still driving Studebakers from the 1950’s. The moon was only a foggy bright patch behind gray clouds, but I had a feeling that if it did come out, it too would look like a crumpled up scrap of paper.

Just where was I, anyway? I should come out on Moyamensing Avenue, but everything looked totally unfamiliar. I couldn’t read the shop signs in the darkness, and anyhow, they looked dark and deserted. Locked door followed locked door. There weren’t even cars driving on the street. Nothing moved but my twin shadows, the one in front of me looming longer and longer as I walked away from the streetlight behind me, the one behind me shrinking as I approached the next streetlight.

So the warm yellow light spilling from the building on my left came as a shock. A rainbow-shaped arch of chipped gilt lettering on a dusty plate-glass window said GLORIA’S GATEWAY BOOKS, with AND RECORDS written in a smaller arch inside it. On the blue paint-peeling door a little red sign said “HOURS” in white letters but was otherwise blank. What drew me in, besides the hope of warming up, were the heaps of books stacked right up against the window, books of all shapes, sizes, and colors. It was just like a bigger, better version of my bedroom, which was crammed full of books—some older, some newer, but fewer and fewer from recent years as everything migrates online. As if books were birds, flying to a warmer climate than dusty old shelves could offer them. Don’t get me wrong! I love my cell phone as much as anyone else, but I don’t want to read books on that tiny gray screen, with every author’s words looking exactly like every other author’s.

Speaking of cell phones, I had a special one—an especially annoying one, since my mom got some kind of advanced model from a friend of hers who works for one of the big carriers. It seemed to have a rudimentary intelligence, sort of like Mom herself. Now it wanted to talk to me—its screen flashed red to blue and back again—like a police car’s light. I shoved it in my pocket, not wanting to listen to it—of course Mom had programmed it with her voice. “Teresa, you’re an hour late for dinner! Teresa, Mom called three times in the past ten minutes, and she sent you five texts, why don’t you answer? Teresa D’Angelo, are you listening to me? All you have to do to get home is—”

Anyway I was so cold and tired I barged through that hourless door. On top of the heap of books in the window, just visible in the space between the two rows of lettering, an orange tabby cat dozed. A cowbell clanked overhead as the door swung shut behind me. Now awake, the cat leaped off the book heap and landed purring at my feet. I stroked her, scratching behind her ears like I used to do with my old calico Fuzz when I was growing up. My parents didn’t even tell me that Fuzz died when I was away at camp that awful summer before I turned thirteen, because they knew I’d be a wreck. They were right, too; they told me when I got back home, and I couldn’t go back to school until the middle of September, I was such a mess.

This cat had a little heart-shaped tag attached to her collar that looked as if it had been inscribed by hand. Tiferet. What a strange name. She rubbed against my legs, purring, and I immediately felt warmer. Then she looked up at me with her amber eyes, and, to my astonishment, she slowly shut her right eye, then opened it again.

“Did you just wink at me?” Well, of course she didn’t answer; with a sniff she darted around a row of shelves and disappeared. I followed.

Was that the rustle of a dress? Where’s it coming from? As I searched, I bumped into an old wooden countertop. On top of it sat an antique gilt cash register, and next to it sat a large, steaming mug of.… I sniffed. Hot cocoa! The marshmallows floating in it were starting to melt, just the way I liked it. I picked up the mug and underneath sat a note written in scarlet ink on plain lined paper. “For you,” it said in a curvy, feminine handwriting. “Please be careful not to drip on the books. When you find what you need, you will know what it is worth and what you must leave in exchange. Your humble servant, Gloria.”

I scratched my head. None of the books I’d peeked into so far had prices on them—no stickers, no penciled-in scrawl on the endpaper, and the publishers’ prices stamped on the dust covers had been blotted out with heavy, black ink. I walked around the counter and examined the cash register. A miniature silver-framed mirror sat where the keys should have been. I frowned at my reflection. Pudgy, pale, with acne scars on my cheeks. Mousy brown hair falling over my ears. And glasses. Nobody wears glasses these days, especially not old wire-rims, but I like them, so there.

A loud bang made me jump so high I almost dropped the mug. A hiss followed—an old steam radiator, like the one in Nana’s old house on Juniper Street, near the Methodist Hospital? But I couldn’t see one here. Another mystery.

I shook my head and finished the cocoa, putting the mug down carefully on Gloria’s note so it wouldn’t leave a ring on the counter. Then I started peering around in the gloom, until I spotted a passageway between the bookshelves and book-heaps. An irregular wedge of light danced with bright dust motes, like a tiny spotlight. The light shone through a gap between the top of a row of books that stood at about eye level (well, level with my eyes anyway, barely five feet above the floor) and the shelf above them. There must be a room back behind there. Was that where Gloria was? But nobody answered when I called. Still, there was something back there.

I removed the books blocking the light, stacking them carefully on the floor beside me, and glanced at a series of oversize volumes with marbled covers, which were stamped in strangely shaped gilt letters: New Almanack Of Khazaria, Tartary, Turkestan And The Lands Of The Caucasus. Where was Khazaria? I’d never heard of it, and I get A’s in geography.

A cool breeze wafted through the gap the atlas had left behind, smelling of ozone and salt water. But the space behind had no windows or doors and was lit by a bare light bulb with a chain. How could that wind come from the city outside? To find out, I had to empty three more shelves full of books, then lift out the shelves themselves and put them on top of the books. That made a gap so narrow I had to turn sideways and duck my head to get through. But it was worth it. I was in the secret room!

As well as books, there were shelves of antique vinyl records in their silly oversize cardboard jackets. I picked up a thick boxed set. On the front was an overhead shot of a huge crowd filling an enormous green space between skyscrapers. At the corners were circular photos of four middle-aged men. I giggled at their funny hairstyles. Printed across the top of the box was The Reunion. Central Park. September 6, 1983. The cover opened out, like a book, but the liner notes weren’t much help. “Greatest event in the history of rock and roll. The Fab Four come together again!” Yeah, right. Must be someone’s idea of a joke. Even I knew that the Beatles never played together after they broke up in 1970. And by 1983, John Lennon was dead.

Nana always used to talk about how hard she’d cried the day he was killed by a crazy fan. “I was twelve years old, Teresa, the same age you are now, when I first saw them on the Ed Sullivan Show” she’d said, ruffling my hair. Then she taught me the words to “Eleanor Rigby.” All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? I wiped away a tear. That was five years ago, when Nana was still alive, before my whole world blew up.

Even if this was a joke, now that I held the box in my hands, I couldn’t bear to put it down. So I clutched it under my arm as I browsed through the shelves of books. There was something thrilling about these books, as old as they were and despite the fact that many were in foreign languages I couldn’t read or even identify. Most of the ones in English were by writers I’d never heard of. I dawdled, trying to decide what to read first, until I spotted a bundle of papers on the floor and knelt down to pick them up, expecting to see Gloria’s handwriting again.

The paper had a heavy, old-fashioned texture, and the ink was like the stuff used to blot out the prices on all the books. Had the writer used an actual fountain pen? Or maybe a quill? The bundle was a section that had fallen out of a book—a lined journal from the looks of it. Excitement bubbled up. Was I holding part of a centuries-old diary? But then I turned to the first page. The date was just last week.

14 November

What luck to have stumbled upon this unknown bookstore. Or maybe it is a Dewey Lending Library, since there are no prices on any-thing. What shop owner does not want his shillings? None that I have ever met. I should say her shillings, since this place is called Gloria’s Gateway Books and Records. Touring King’s College last summer—Dad so hopes I will go to his old school, and I so much want to go farther away!—I already learnt that I am not nearly as well read as I thought I was, but this place! So many books I have never even heard of! The history section is especially confusing; it seems to be filled mostly with fantastic fiction about histories that never were, written as if they were straight fact. Imagine, America and England two separate countries! Napoléon defeated at some place called Waterloo! And most amazing of all, dragons as myths!

I wish I could find the owner or the librarian or somebody so I should feel right in taking a book home with me. Yes, there was a note on the counter beside the cash register and a nice hot cup of tea that said, “Please be careful not to drip on the books. When you find what you need, you will know what it is worth and what you must leave in exchange.” But I have nothing with me that could possibly be worth the book I have chosen—an elaborate fantasy about a teenage girl and her genius little brother, who have to rescue their father from a distant planet where he is being held captive…

Wait a second. That’s A Wrinkle in Time, one of my all-time favorite books! I read it my first year in middle school, with my all-time favorite teacher, Miss Keylor. Maybe I could find some clue about where this guy lived, or at least his name. But there were only a few more lines. Something about how he (I knew it was a guy, from his odd, neat handwriting) was worried about finding his way home, or actually, back to his boarding school, “for I was quite lost when I arrived here, in a blizzard that seems to have sprung out of nowhere. I’m afraid the staff will tell my parents I have run away after so many miserable weeks at St. George’s Academy, with that horrible Jeremy Adams lying in wait for me every day. Not that running away would not be a good idea. But I must be going!”

I closed my eyes when I reached the last line, the secret room tipping slowly around me, as if I was an astronaut in free fall. If I’d tried to imagine a guy right for me, I couldn’t have come up with anyone more perfect. And yet—dragons? Napoleon? Was this another joke, like the impossible Beatles reunion album? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to me. My face burned.

Last year I found a note in my locker from Kevin McCabe, the captain of the football team.

Teresa, I know this is stupid. I’m the big dumb jock who copies off you in chemistry class and you’re the brainiac nerd. But there’s no one I can talk to on the team, and Kylie’s pretty and all but she isn’t sweet and understanding like you. Those big brown eyes behind your glasses! Can you meet me after practice today?

Could I? I waited shivering under a December sky as cold and gray as a dead computer monitor, watching the boys slam into each other. As Kevin puffed off the field, I reached out and touched his sleeve. He frowned, then curled his lip, as if he’d found a rotten apple on his lunch tray.

“Who the hell are you?” he said, as laughter came from the girls’ locker room. They stood watching me, Kylie and all her crowd.

But could they think of a prank this elaborate? No way they’re smart enough, or hard-working enough. Besides, how could they create a whole mysterious bookstore and lure me into it?

Still, I stood. “Kylie? Heather? You can start laughing now. I fell for it!” Silence.

Tiferet appeared and rubbed against my legs, purring. My fat lumpy legs. How could I have the nerve to talk to any boy? Especially one I didn’t even know. Well, because I didn’t even know his name. And I wouldn’t be talking to him, I’d just be writing to him. If I never found the bookstore again, or if he never answered, what would it matter? Before I could talk myself out of it, I fumbled around in my bookbag, found a pen (a smeary cheap pink pen, but that was all I had) and began after his note stopped. Taking a deep breath, I ignored my racing heart and wrote—

I’ll be back Sunday afternoon at 3. Did you know Madeline L’Engle wrote four sequels to A Wrinkle in Time? I’ll bring all the ones I have in case Gloria doesn’t have them. See you then! Teresa.

I put the pages back on the floor and wormed my way out of the secret room. I must’ve moved too fast, though, and I brought down an avalanche of books that covered the opening. What a mess! Clumsy Teresa! I picked up a few books and reshelved them, but even more came tumbling down, and I backed away, biting my lip. Then my glasses slipped off and landed on the floor, and when I bent down, I caught a glimpse of the bookstore window. The black sky was full of swiftly falling snowflakes. Oh, no! How could it have gotten so late? Time to turn the phone back on and find out where the hell I was and how to get home. But when I powered it up, my phone was ominously silent. NO NETWORK blinked in large, unfriendly red letters on the gray screen.

“How can you be out of range?”

It just kept flashing NO NETWORK. My eyes filled and tears rolled down my cheeks. How was I ever going to find my way home? I paced back and forth, trying to find a magic spot where NO NETWORK would vanish, but the whole bookstore seemed to be a dead zone. I wiped my eyes. Maybe there was a street map behind the counter. I searched the counter and tried to lift the cash register. Maybe a street map was hidden under it. It was heavy, too heavy to lift, but I caught sight of a narrow slot under the mirror.

When you find what you need, you will know what it is worth and what you must leave in exchange.

Did I have what I needed? What I really needed right now was a map, but all I had was that impossible Beatles reunion album. And my useless phone. I shoved my phone into the slot.

Wait! What had I done? I tried to shove my fingers through the slot and retrieve my phone. Hopeless. I wiped away more tears. Mom was going to kill me. I slouched out of the bookstore. Guess I’d have to find my own way home.

The streets had turned bright orange with the light reflected off a new blanket of snow. Where had all this snow come from? It was already half an inch deep on the sidewalks. Flakes as big as my thumbnail were drifting down thick and fast. I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets, the album cradled under my left arm, and began walking as quickly as I could. Although my socks instantly got soaked, somehow the air seemed warmer than before.

I soon found myself on familiar streets, walking past saggy rowhouses with their weed-grown front yards. Be grateful you have a place to live, that’s what Mom always says, and I am grateful. Even though home is half of a century-old duplex, and you reach it through a shrieking gate in a chain-link fence, and the Peruzzos’ dogs start howling every time you walk by. Mom stood at the door, wearing the ratty old sweatsuit she uses for pajamas. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me so hard my braces almost came loose.

“Where were you? Do you know how late it is? I was so worried, and then it started to snow…”

On and on as we went inside, ending with “You lost your cell phone? Again?” And the usual tearful hug in the dark little kitchen with its hot plate and its dorm-size refrigerator the size of normal people’s TV sets, the TV set the size of normal people’s toasters, the table set with two chipped bowls covered with chipped salad plates to keep the macaroni and cheese warm. Because of course Mom couldn’t choke down her food when I was late, could she? What a mess. But at least I kept my head enough to toss the record album into the corner by my bedroom, putting my backpack down on top before Mom noticed it.

At last she calmed down, brushed graying hair out of her eyes and sat down to eat. I gulped my own food and headed to my room, scooping up my backpack and the album. My unmade bed was barely visible beneath piles of books, sort-of clean clothes, and electronic junk. I nudged aside an old computer monitor and flopped onto the gritty sheets. Despite my exhaustion I lay wide awake listening to Mom moving around the house, talking to herself, the words too low to make out. Eventually she went upstairs to her bedroom and the house grew still.

I waited what seemed like forever to make sure she was really asleep before tiptoeing out of my room. The coat closet by the front door was full of all kinds of old junk. A heap of old clothes, a blue raincoat and pink rubbers I had worn when I was in second grade, old cell phones, bits of plastic, a vacuum cleaner missing its hose… Finally! I lifted the bulky greenish-blue case and dragged it back to my room. Nana’s old record player. I opened it up, plugged it in, and blew the dust off the turntable and needle arm. Then I carefully removed a shiny black disk from the Beatles reunion album, and put it on the turntable.

A pop and crackle. The needle arm nodded slightly. A hiss. Then music. Some of the songs were the old ones Nana had taught me, sometimes in different versions; “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “Octopus’s Garden” were as bouncy and cheerful as ever, but “Eleanor Rigby” sounded more haunting than in the original version, with unfamiliar little guitar riffs running through it.

All the lonely people

Where do they all belong?

Between and around and under each song was a faint crackling like static and a much louder drumming. Like rain with a hint of something harder in it, maybe sleet or hail? No. The sound of a huge mass of people applauding.

“Thank you, thank you,” said a nasal voice in that Liverpool accent. A wise voice with undertones of sad laughter. I shivered.

John Lennon.

“Now we’d like to play a new song, something Paul and I wrote specially for this concert. It’s dedicated to my little daughter, Rosie—she’s two—” Another cheer. “It’s called ‘Courage.’” Applause rose, then died back to a near whisper.

Courage, girl

You’ll need courage for the road ahead

For the road full of dread

I’d give you more, girl

For this cold old world,

But all I can give you, girl,

Is your heart that’s oaken

Even when it’s broken

You’ll have your courage…

When the song was done and the applause had swelled and faded, the needle arm slid out of the grooves and bounced gently. I carefully lifted it and replaced it on the armrest. A single tear rolled off my cheek and fell on the label, staining it a darker orange. I lay down on my bed and looked at the ceiling. I’d just heard the impossible. There was another of Nana’s favorite Beatles songs, one of their early tunes, “I’ve Just Seen a Face,” a fun little song about a guy who’s just met a girl and is falling in love with her. There’s a line in it: “Had it been another day, I might have looked the other way, and I’d have never been aware, but as it is, I’ll dream of her tonight…” What if both things could be true? That the guy did glance her way and fall in love at first sight, but in some other place just as real, he did not glance her way and fell in love with someone else instead?

This idea made my head hurt. It was more incredible than magic, which I didn’t believe in. Magic was something that only happened in books, to fairy-tale people. But what else could explain my finding a bookstore that I’d never seen before in my own neighborhood, one that had a Beatles reunion album in it and the lost diary of a guy too perfect to be real? I know, I’m a fairy changeling, and my mean old mom isn’t really my mom! But now my fairy people have found me, and they’re going to take me away from here, so I never have to take a math test or look at Kylie’s sneering face again!

Little did I know that my first idea, the head-hurting one about “parallel worlds,” would turn out to be right.