Now You See Me ... (5 page)

“How many times have you watched your dad make jam?” Abby asked, arching an eyebrow.

“About a gazillion,” Lena answered. She tried to duck around Abby's arm to grab the Impulse off the counter, but Abby shifted again — right into the center of her path.

“So, you know how to do it, right?” Abby prodded.

Something in her tone made Lena stop trying to get around her and look into her face instead. “Yeaah …” she said slowly.

“So, I bet we could make a batch ourselves,” Abby concluded. “To help him out.” A slow smile crept across her face. Any trace of a smile disappeared from Lena's.

As if we aren't already in hot water,
Lena thought. But Lena had been cooking and baking in their kitchen since she was ten, and once Abby had an idea in her head there was no stopping her. Lena had seen Abby's determination lead to some amazing successes, like first place at the science fair in fourth grade, and the bake sale sellout earlier this summer. But she had also been witness to some spectacular failures, such as (but not limited to) the front yard ice-skating rink catastrophe and the doggie day-care disaster. With the way things had been going lately, she was pretty sure that the great jam session would fall into the “failure” category.

Forty minutes later, the girls were wrist-deep in peach peeling and pulping. Lena picked up a blanched yellow ball and easily peeled the skin away. She split the peach in half with her fingers, let the peach halves fall into a giant bowl of already-peeled peaches, and dropped the peel and the pit into the compost tub.

“That's peach number five hundred and sixty-two,” she groused.

“Oh, come on, this is fun,” Abby corrected as she dumped a giant pile of peach chunks into a
flat-bottomed dish for mashing. “And besides, I'm already pulping.”

It was true. With both girls working they were making good time.

Abby finished her cutting and walked over to the sink, using her elbow to turn on the faucet. Her peachy hands reminded Lena of scrubbed-up doctors, only it was peach juice instead of disinfectant. What they really needed were spikes on the tips of their fingers. Peeling peaches was slippery business.

“You get back here!” Lena called as a peach slid out of her fingers and onto the floor. It hit the tile with a
sploosh,
skidded across the kitchen, and wedged itself under the fridge.

Abby retrieved it and rinsed it in the sink. “Nobody has to know,” she said with a giggle as she finished washing up. They were finally ready to make jam.

Lena measured several cups of peach pulp into a big pot and set it on the stove. Behind her, Abby excitedly ripped open a box of pectin.

“So, how much of this stuff do I put in?” Abby asked, gazing into the pot of peach pulp. “Mmm, smells good already.”

“Check the directions,” Lena said. “They're in the box.”

Abby pulled out the little paper envelope and peered into the cardboard container. “No directions here,” she said, turning the box upside down and giving it a little shake to demonstrate.

Lena let out a little groan. No directions? Bummer. How many times had her dad told her that eyeballing quantities was for professional jam-makers only, and risky no matter what?

About a hundred thousand …

Abby ripped open the paper envelope of thickener. It came loose with a jolt, and white powder rained down on the edge of the counter.

Lena looked into the pot. “I've got five cups of pulp,” she said. “So I'm pretty sure we put in the whole thing.” She tried to picture her dad doing this. “Maybe two,” she mumbled. Pectin made the jam thicken, and she wanted it to hurry up and work so they could get out of there. She felt sticky all over. But there was something she was forgetting…. Her eyes drifted to the Impulse, waiting patiently on the counter.

Abby poured in a second packet of pectin. “There. What now?”

“Turn the stove on pretty high. We need it to boil….”
Oh no!
Lena thought. It wasn't just the jam that was supposed to boil. The jars were supposed to be boiled, too!

Thank goodness Dad doesn't process the jam in a boiling water bath like most jam-makers do
, Lena thought, chewing a nail.
That would be a double whammy!

“We were supposed to boil the jars!” she exclaimed.

Pushing the Impulse aside, the girls scrambled to get eight empty jam jars into a pot and cover them with water. The filled pot was so heavy, it took them both to put it on the stove. The water sloshed, soaking Lena's sleeve.

Lena stirred the just-started-to-boil peach mixture on the stove, then added the sugar and boiled it for a minute before turning it down. It was looking gloppy, and not as bright as her dad's usually did. Lena didn't have the heart to tell Abby her dad's secret to great jam: quick cooking time. This was not going to be her dad's jam.

“So … what are we going to do while we wait?” Abby asked. She pulled herself up on the counter,
her shoes making a sticky noise when they left the floor.

Lena lifted the camera. She licked her thumb and wiped off a shiny blob of peach. Abby wrinkled her nose. She'd obviously had enough picture taking.

“Okay, not that,” Lena agreed, feeling disappointed. She was tired, and hungry, and irritable. She wished the jam were ready, already. It had been sorta dumb to take on such a big project before dinner.

Finally, the jars were boiling.

Abby swung her legs and jumped gracefully off the counter to peer inside the pot that bubbled on the stove. Her face crumpled.

“What? What is it?' Lena looked, too, her eyes widening. The jam had turned a sickening color somewhere between mud and algae. It smelled scorched and bitter.

Abby looked utterly disgusted. “I give up,” she said.

Lena was shocked to hear those words come out of Abby's mouth. Any other day she might have been really worried. Today, though, she was relieved. She turned off the giant pot of jars and slipped on a pair
of oven mitts. Carrying the jam pot to the sink, she turned on the water and let it liquefy. Watching the gooey mass disappear, she mentally added their failed jam making to the list of things she didn't want to think about.

Lena shut off the water and picked up the phone. “Let's order pizza.”

“Makeover time,” Abby sing-songed. The pizza place said forty minutes for delivery, so they had time to kill. She steered Lena out of the kitchen so fast, Lena barely had time to put down the phone and grab the camera.

In the upstairs bathroom, Abby lifted her huge makeup bag onto the counter and began pulling out tubes, compacts, pencils, and jars. Abby was constantly getting new products that she just had to try out. It was pretty clear that tonight it was Lena who would be the primary guinea pig. She usually resisted, preferring to watch. But right now Lena thought it might be nice to be someone else … for a little while. So she sat down on the closed toilet seat and presented her face to her friend.

“I'm focusing on eyes this month,” Abby explained as she went to work frosting Lena's lids with a soft mauve. “I'm going to stick with brown tones for you because I think they really bring out your green eyes,” she babbled while she dabbed.

“Whatever you say, beauty queen,” Lena retorted.

Abby whacked Lena playfully on the arm. “That's Queen Beauty to you,” she said, shaking her coiled braids slightly and looking up at the ceiling for dramatic effect.

Lena giggled and turned toward the mirror. She was more than a little curious.

“Oh no you don't,” Abby scolded, turning her away. She picked up a liner pencil. “I'm not finished yet.”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Can you hurry it up a little?”

“You can't rush an artist!”

Lena sighed and resigned herself to another ten minutes in the hot seat.

Finally, Abby set her last beauty tool down on the counter. “Ready?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Lena replied, and stood up to check her face in the mirror.

“Oh my gosh.” Lena stared at her reflection. She didn't look ugly. Or totally wacky, as expected. But the dark eyebrow pencil Abby had used on her usually ultralight brows had changed her look entirely. She didn't look like herself. But she looked like someone….

Lena squinted, trying to figure out
what
about her new look was so familiar. She turned her head from side to side, sucking in her cheeks and looking serious — like an angry model.

Abby was staring at her handiwork, too. “You know, you look a little like that guy,” Abby said. “The one in your pictures.”

Lena stopped goofing and looked closer. Bizarre as it sounded, she actually did. Abby had nailed it. It wasn't exactly that she looked like him though. It was more like he was looking out of
her.
The longer she looked, the more she thought she saw someone else staring out of her eyes.

“You're right,” Lena said with a shudder. Her voice was practically a whisper.

Downstairs the doorbell rang, startling them both. Lena let out a whoop and Abby jumped, knocking the box of tissues to the floor, which startled them both again.

“I'll get the pizza,” Abby said, recovering first and shoving the tissues into Abby's hand. “You get that stuff off.”

Lena didn't argue. She doused a tissue with makeup remover and began to scrub. Several minutes later her brows were their strawberry-blondish selves. Dropping the tissue into the trash, she hurried down the stairs and tried to focus on pepperoni pizza.

Despite the comforting sound of Abby snoring softly, some bad TV viewing, and a bellyful of pizza, Lena could not get to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the boy in the pictures, or worse, her own reflection with his miserable eyes. Was he becoming part of her? Would she be haunted forever?

Lena shuddered and sat up in the dark. The more she tried to ignore what was going on with the camera, the creepier things got. She may as well try to face it head on….

Lena pulled a flashlight out of her bedside table and grabbed the day's photos off the top. Being careful not to shine the light in Abby's direction, she laid
them out on her bedspread. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but was desperate to find
something.

Unfortunately, there were no clear signs spelling out cries for help in today's shots, and things that didn't exist were not popping up. She looked carefully at each picture, but not even spooky shadow boy was visible.

“All right, we need to talk,” she whispered. “If you want help, you need to stop creeping me out and making weird stuff happen all the time. Got it?” She closed her eyes and tried to relax a little. She must be totally freaking out — she was up in the middle of the night talking to a ghost!

The lack of sleep must have been making her extra nutty. Sighing, Lena moved the beam of light slowly across the row of photos one more time. She paused on a shot of Abby leaning on a tiny, old convertible car. There, in the side-view mirror, was the reflected face of the boy. He
was
there after all! And looking as scowly as ever.

“There you are,” Lena whispered. “So what do you want from me? What are you trying to make me see?”

The boy's face was tiny in the small mirror, and
yet remarkably clear — the most in focus he had ever been. Looking closer, Lena could see that he was staring intently at something. She followed his frozen gaze, her own eyes traveling down to the license plate on the outer edge of the shot.
A license plate?
What could be special about a license plate? It wasn't even the entire plate — just a single number: 9.

“Numbers?” she whispered. “You want me to look at numbers?”

Lena's flashlight skimmed over the photos yet again. There were numbers in almost every shot. Quickly, holding the light in her teeth, Lena rearranged the photos in the order they were taken — something she should have done in the first place. “Okay.”

Taking them one by one, she wrote down each number she came across on a small pad. The library pic had the number 3 above the door. The shot Abby took in front of the yogurt hut showed three quarters of the address, or 131. The license plate shot included the number 9. And the five-and-dime advertised several 98-cent specials.

Jotting each one down, she came up with 3.1.3.1.9.9.8.

Seven digits. Could it be a phone number? She didn't know of any 313 exchanges in her area, but was considering dialing it to see what happened when the last four numbers — 1998 — jumped out at her. Hadn't the librarian said that the tower was torn down in the late 90s? Wouldn't 1998 qualify?

A shiver ran up Lena's spine. She was suddenly certain that something important had happened on March 13, 1998.

“Can we just talk about something else for five minutes?” Abby asked through a mouthful of Life cereal. “Like school, or Victor Duenas, or how I am going to convince Mr. Bettendorf to let me codirect the fall theatrical production?”

The girls were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Lena had barely slept after she'd made her discovery, and it had taken every ounce of her will not to wake Abby up at three thirty in the morning to tell her. But she had resisted, deciding instead to wait until breakfast.

Lena sighed. Clearly, Abby was tired of the Impulse and her theories about being haunted. But Lena's heart had been racing since she'd opened her eyes. She felt wired, ready for action.

In fact, she was surprised she had any appetite at all. She slurped the last bit of milk from her bowl with a nod. “I know this is driving you crazy, but I need to figure it out.” She pointed to the row of pictures lying in front of them on the table. “See these numbers? I think they make a date: March 13, 1998. I can't be sure, of course. But I think we should check it out. I mean, it's not like a billion other clues are falling into our laps.”

Abby sighed and looked Lena in the face. “This is really eating you, isn't it?” she asked.

Lena nodded, even though she knew the answer was obvious.

“All right,” Abby agreed. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “All right, I'm in. Let's blow this pop stand and head over to research central. But here's the deal: We have got to crack this thing today. Or let it go.”

Lena laughed a little nervously.

“I'm serious,” Abby said. “That camera and this creepy kid are bumming me out. If we can't figure this out TODAY, we are gonna ditch that thing.” She thumped the camera, which was (of course) nestled on Lena's lap.

“Bu —”

“No buts,” Abby said firmly. “It's outta here. I'll find you another Impulse myself. I'll pay for it. Heck, I'll even go on eBay.”

Lena sucked in her breath. Abby really
was
serious. Breaking their strict “no eBay” rule was for genuine emergencies.

Lena swallowed and nodded, but put her hand protectively on top of the camera. One day. They had to sort it out in one day.

You've done impossible things before,
she reminded herself, looking around the kitchen.
Like getting this place cleaned up last night.
Between the floor and the stove and the counters and the glop that was supposed to be jam, it had been no easy feat.

The girls loaded their dishes into the dishwasher, waved to Lena's lingering-over-the-newspaper mom, and made their way out the door (escaping before her dad appeared and noticed that half of his last flat of peaches had disappeared). It was a little cooler today, thanks to a few clouds and a breeze that kept the air from becoming too stifling.

Strapping on their helmets, the girls hopped on their bikes and zoomed down the driveway onto the
elm-lined street. Seven minutes later they were locking their bikes to the bike rack in front of the gray stone building.

“There's nobody here,” Abby said, looking around. Usually, they had to squeeze their bikes onto the library's jam-packed rack, but today it was empty.

Lena whacked her forehead with the palm of her hand, feeling like an idiot. It was Labor Day, a federal holiday. The library, like the banks and the post office and every other government facility, was closed. “Dang it!” she shouted in frustration. School started tomorrow. She only had one day to put a stop to this haunting business. Besides Abby's twenty-four-hour time limit, being haunted and having to deal with homework would be completely impossible.

“What do we do now?” She turned to Abby, only to discover that she wasn't next to the bike rack anymore. “Abby?” she called.

“Over here,” Abby replied. She was at the library door with her face pressed to the glass. “I think someone's in there.”

Lena hurried over and followed suit, smashing her nose against the glass. Sure enough, there was a
light on inside, and someone was behind the information desk.

“Can you tell who it is?” Lena asked, squinting. Only a couple of lights were on, and it was hard to see.

“Oh my gosh!” Abby cried, jumping back from the window. “It's him!”

Lena's blood ran cold. “The boy?”

Abby barked out a laugh. “No, no,” she admitted. “Not
him,
him. It's the cranky library guy.”

Lena let out her breath and let in her disappointment. So much for that. “Oh,” she said.

“I don't care who it is,” Abby declared. “We need to get to that microfilm. It's do-or-die.” Not waiting for her friend to reply, she pounded on the door.

“This oughta be good,” Lena mumbled under her breath. She knew from past experience that Weird Beard was lacking both a razor and a sense of humor.

The man behind the desk glanced toward the door, then got back to whatever it was he was doing.

Abby pounded again. The librarian looked up a second time and frowned. But he set aside the book he was holding and started toward the door.

“Let me do the talking,” Abby said, squaring her shoulders and looking formidable.

“Sure thing,” Lena replied nervously. She was not anxious to be grumped at by Captain Whiskers.

It took the man what seemed like forever to unlock the door. “We're closed,” he blurted. “See the sign?” He pointed to the neatly printed sign:
CLOSED IN OBSERVANCE OF LABOR DAY
.

“I know,” Abby said. “And we're so sorry to bother you. But we have an important research project to complete, and were here yesterday but didn't get enough time with the microfilm. Is there any way we could come inside for just a little while? We don't need to check anything out.”

“We're closed,” the man repeated flatly. His graying whiskers stuck out at all angles.

Lena adjusted the duffel on her shoulder and, feeling disheartened, stared at the stain on the man's shirt. She'd seen similar splotches on her dad's jamming aprons — a fruit stain, probably strawberry.

Hmm.

Before she could think twice, Lena reached into Abby's bag and pulled out a jar of peach jam that Mr. Giff had given her. “Could you open for us, for just a little while, in exchange for a jar of homemade
peach jam?” she asked, holding it out and smiling widely.

Abby looked offended.
That's my jam!
her eyes shouted.

I'll get you another one,
Lena tried to tell her telepathically.

The man eyed the jar, his expression changing. “Peach, eh? My mother used to make peach.” He took the jar and held it up to the sunlight. The yellowy-orange preserves practically shimmered in the daylight. “Only question is, what kind of peach?” He raised an eyebrow like it was a trick question.

“Fay Elberta,” Lena replied without missing a beat. “Picked on Friday, and jammed on Sunday.”

The man closed his hand around the jar and smiled. His sky-blue eyes twinkled. “I figure this jar of jam is worth about an hour of Labor Day microfilm time. After that I'm going home to have toast and jam for lunch.” He winked and held the door open wide.

Abby gave Lena a “you're a miracle worker” look as she slid inside the building.

“Thank you!” Lena said gratefully as they made a beeline to the little room and the microfilm file cabinet.

“Nice job,” Abby said as she pulled the first half of 1998 out of the drawer and carried it to the machine. “But you
definitely
owe me a jar of jam.”

“Don't worry, I know where there's a fresh supply,” Lena replied with a laugh.

“How'd you know that would get him, anyway?”

“The strawberry stain on his shirt,” Lena boasted. “My dad has a zillion of those.” The sweet success made her a little giddy and she checked herself, remembering why they were there in the first place.

Abby slid the film into one of the machines and switched it on. “What's that date again?”

“March thirteenth,” Lena said quickly.

The film zoomed forward at a dizzying rate. Abby released the lever a bit so she could check the headers. February 21. She sped it forward. March 2. Forward again. Lena could feel her heart pounding. March 18. Back. March 14. Back again. March 13.

GARBAGE STRIKE AVERTED
read the headline. Lena scanned the front page. There was an article about a business merger, and another about city plans for a new bike path in Narrowsburg. Nothing about a young boy.

Lena exhaled her disappointment. She'd been so sure….

“Hey, wait,” Abby said. “If the thirteenth is the date that something important happened, it wouldn't be reported until …”

“The next day.” Lena's pulse quickened as Abby slowly moved the film forward.

And there it was, in huge, bold letters. Just looking at it made shivers run up Lena's spine.
ACCIDENTAL DEATH A TRUE TRAGEDY
. The face in the photo next to the headline was unmistakably the boy who had been showing up in their pictures — the only difference was that he was smiling.

“Robert Henson,” Abby read the name of the ghost who was haunting them.

Robert Henson,
Lena repeated the name in her mind. It felt good to put a name to a face.

According to the paper, Robert Henson fell to his death on the evening of March 13, 1998, from the Phelps water tower. “Police cite unusually slippery conditions on the metal structure due to the icy rain that had fallen that day,” the article read. It went on to say that Robert was an only child, who lived with his mother in Phelps. “A quiet boy who kept to himself, Robert did well in school and loved photography.” Lena's skin prickled as she skimmed the rest of the article. “We are very proud of our
Robbie,” his grandmother stated. “We will miss him very much.”

“The poor kid,” Abby breathed. “And look at this.” She pointed to the next article on the screen.

PHELPS WATER TOWER: TREASURED LANDMARK OR UNNECESSARY HAZARD?

Apparently, the people of Phelps had been arguing about the removal of the water tower long before the boy fell off of it. Some felt it was an important historical landmark of the area. Others maintained it was a safety hazard — an unsafe place where teenagers inevitably gathered. It was likely, the article said, that Robert Henson's death would lead to the tower's demolition.

Everything was connected! The end of Robert was the end of the tower. Still nothing was explained — it was just all tied up.

Lena looked back at the first headline, her eyes resting on the picture. The dark eyes were unmistakable, even without the scowl. And though Lena was glad to see that the boy wasn't always miserable, seeing his smiling face made her realize just how miserable his ghost was.

“Robbie Henson,” Lena said, aloud this time.

“I feel like I've heard that name before,” Abby said. “Like, recently.”

Lena drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Robbie Henson … Robbie Henson.” She closed her eyes and pictured the name spelled out in her head. For some reason the words appeared typed, but not like they were in the newspaper article. It was kind of an artsy font….

Lena opened her eyes. “The photo contest!” she exclaimed. “He's the guy who won the contest two years in a row!”

She jumped to her feet and pulled on Abby's arm. “Come on — we've got to get to the gallery.”