Firecracker Page 20

  A large guy with a greasy face opened the door. He had a cat under one arm and a powdered wig and a Victorian collar in his fist. It was clear that weird stuff went on in that apartment. “My name’s Jake,” the greasy guy said.

  “Oh. I’m—”

  “You’re Astrid Krieger.”

  “So I am.”

  “Yeah, I know who you are. I figured you’d come here eventually. He said you wouldn’t. I don’t even know you, but I still knew you would. He called. You saw he tried to call, right? Don’t be too hard on him, okay? He’s not that bad.” He called out to the back of the apartment, which was about the size of a small thumbnail. “Noah!”

  And then Noah was right there.

  I decided to get right to it. “Listen. I’m not here to settle anything. I’m still mad at you. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being mad at you. If you can’t deal with that, fine. But I need your help with something. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t absolutely need your help. So—”

  And just like that, Noah was out the door. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you need, Astrid.”

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>

  We walked to the subway station, took the two trains to Grand Central Station, and from there the Metro-North to West Ashton and a taxi to Southboro to the front gate of Bristol. All in all, we went about eighty miles and it took us, I don’t know, seventy-three hours. That’s an exaggeration, but it felt like forever.

  We didn’t talk for the first nine days of our journey to Bristol (again, an exaggeration, but those trains sure are slow). Eventually, though, Noah started talking.

  “I need to explain some things,” he said.

  “I’m not interested in listening.”

  “Well, just let me talk. You don’t have to listen.”

  “My ears aren’t eyes.”

  “Huh?” he said.

  “I can’t close them.” I turned away from him, but I listened.

  “So after I graduated from high school, I began to work at Krieger Industries. It was this program that my high school guidance counselor found where you intern for a scholarship. I didn’t know too much about the place, other than the really negative things, but my guidance counselor told me that there was no such thing as a good company, and it was a way for me to pay for college. It was the first of a few things I have done that didn’t feel right, but I did them anyway. I did what I needed to do for me. You of all people have to understand that.

  “I worked through the summer. I saw you a few times. You came in some afternoons. You used the copy machine and would say things like, ‘The receptionist’s sweater makes it look like she’s being strangled by a parrot.’”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That sounds like me.”

  “Those were some of the few interesting moments of the entire summer. Most days, I would sort mail. And get coffee. And then get mail. And sort coffee.

  “But one day, my supervisor said that the boss wanted to see me. I had no idea what boss he was referring to. Everybody who worked there was basically my boss. I was the least important person in the whole company. I was surprised when I was brought into your father’s office. He wasn’t paying attention to me. He was playing with a model airplane.”

  “That’s pretty much all he does. Sometimes he wanders around the office telling his employees how to make a perfect cup of coffee. He’s always like, ‘You don’t have to smell a coffee bean to know how it’s going to taste.’”

  “I thought you weren’t listening.”

  “Well, I don’t know what he means when he says that, so it’s not like I’m helping you,” I said and turned my head back away from him.

  “Your grandfather was in a wheelchair near a bookshelf in your father’s office, and he asked if I could push him around so we could talk. He asked me what I thought of this place, the company. I don’t know what came over me, but I told him the truth. He had this way about him; I knew he would see right through me if I lied. I said, ‘I think what you do here is basically evil. I’m bored to death and I work here because I was out of options.’ So he said, ‘Good, you’re perfect. I got a special job for you.’

  “It’s like one of those be-careful-what-you-wish-for things, because nothing was worse for me than high school. I was only a year out, and now I was going back. I thought it was worth it, but I still didn’t feel good about it. When I was in school, kids threw garbage at my head. My nickname was ‘Gay Noah,’ even though there was another kid named Noah and he actually was gay. I hoped that going to this school wouldn’t be as bad. It turned out to be worse, but for a different reason. Your grandfather’s people forged a transcript saying I was younger than I was, and I started school. I knew I was doing the wrong thing the moment I saw you in that class. I knew that I didn’t want to lie to you. But I did it. I did it every day. I could’ve stopped. I could’ve quit. But I didn’t.

  “He didn’t tell me why I was watching you. At least at first. He just said I needed to be your friend, listen to you, keep an eye on you. And then when you went to the bar before your sister’s wedding, he told me. He said he was dying. He had a bad heart, and he needed surgery. Instead of getting the surgery, he’d decided that he was done. He was ready. His only regret was you. He’d spent the duration of your life teaching you how to be like him, and then he looked at himself and he was sorry. He had been wrong. You were better than he was. He needed to fix it before he was gone. He sent you to public school, made a lot of rules, and hired me. He thought all that together could stop the damage he’d caused.

  “He said, ‘If I’m gone soon, I need you to tell her something.’”

  I perked up and turned my head toward Noah, who was looking right at me.

  “I asked if I should write it down,” he said, “but he said that I should remember it. I hope I did.

  “So your grandfather told me, ‘I was always alone. And that was fine with me, but then suddenly it wasn’t fine anymore. I was wrong about that. That’s one. I took things my whole life, but in the end, I just have things. Should’ve given more. Should have done more. Shouldn’t have been such an ornery asshole. That’s two. I love that kid, and I’m going to miss her when I’m gone. I wish I didn’t push people away. I hope she doesn’t do the same. I never thought I would ever care about anyone more than I care about me. But that’s no longer true, is it? Surprises me every single day. That’s three.’

  “And then he said, ‘Astrid, she’s going to be better. She’ll do whatever she wants. And whatever that is, watch out, ’cause it’s going to be great. She should let herself care about things. She’s gonna matter. He then said to tell you, ‘I love you, Monkey. Always.’”

  I smiled and rested my head on Noah’s shoulder.

  “He said that my business with him was done. He took out his checkbook and said that he could make sure I never had to worry about money again.”

  “You made a wise business decision,” I said.

  “Did I?” he asked.

  “Someone should cash in on my grandfather’s offer. I never wanted to see you again anyway. I’m glad you got paid.”

  “I didn’t take the money,” he said.

  “That’s stupid. You’re a terrible businessman, Noah. A real idiot.” And then I said, “Thank you.”

  “I screwed everything up,” he said. “I know I did. I screwed everything up with you. With everything.”

  I nodded. He was right. He did screw a lot up.

  “I hope whatever it is you need my help to do, it’s not too hard because I’ll probably screw that up too.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “It’s probably the most important part of the entire plan.”

  Lisbet had a hard time acting the part of Lisbet in the alumni meeting at the beginning of the day. I reminded her that she called herself an actress, and playing herself should have been much easier than playing someone else. She told m
e that I didn’t understand the craft of acting, and she would be able to get a handle on it if I allowed her to do it with a British accent. I decided that while this was very weird, sure, whatever, who cares. Lisbet would simply have to explain to Evangeline Roubaix and whoever else was in the meeting why she was suddenly from a different country. She told me that challenges like that were what made theater interesting.

  I wrote out a small index card of what Lisbet needed to say, and even then I wasn’t sure she could handle it. Lisbet’s job was the easiest thing anyone had to do for the entire day. Thankfully, that part ended up working, so maybe I hadn’t given her enough credit. In a soft British accent, she raised her hand and said, “The ceremony can’t be at two. It needs to be at eleven thirty. Because of the sun. It shan’t be too cold.” Not brilliant stuff, by any means, but she did what she had to do.

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>

  More than anything, I needed Pierre out of my way. It was nice of him to want to help, but I needed to keep him busy so he didn’t spend the whole day rubbing my shoulders. That was a thing he liked to do. I didn’t know why. It didn’t make my shoulders feel any better, as his massage technique felt like Velcro on a melon.

  So I told him it was essential to my plan that he spend the morning putting together a picnic. And he did. He made a basket full of sandwiches. And then he ate them.

  Noah and I couldn’t quite decide how he should look, considering neither of us knew Martin Rein Jr. In pictures, Martin Jr. wore a scarf and sunglasses even when he was inside. He wore madras boat pants and wing tip shoes.

  Noah assured me that if he was wearing any of those things, nobody would believe for a second that he was anything but a person in a costume. Noah said that he couldn’t even wear a baseball hat without looking like one of those little kids who had to wear a helmet because the back of their head was flat. After a little bit of debate, it was decided that Noah would go to the meeting looking pretty much exactly like himself, but with his arm inside his jacket sleeve.

  “Do you know what to say?” I asked.

  “I hope so,” Noah said.

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>

  I’m not sure why Ben, Cadorette Township’s student council president, wanted to help me at all. We weren’t friends, and he didn’t owe me a favor. He said he had always wanted to visit Bristol because the poet Yoseph Blahblahblah teaches there. That’s not the name he said, but I lost interest after he said “poet.”

  I told him that he didn’t have to help. He could just leave and listen to poetry, but he said, “No, you need someone who understands sound equipment.” He said he understood that stuff intimately “because of all the gigs I play with my band, Wandering Baskets of Rainbow Bear Destruction Hula Hoop Sunglasses.” Okay, I made that name up, but it was something like that. He had more expertise in microphones and soundboards than I did. I only really understood them as ideas.

  He attached a lavalier microphone to the inside of Noah’s jacket and said, “It’s a go.” That was microphone talk.

  Ben hooked a receiver to the soundboard in front of the stage. Moments after noon, he was to turn the receiver on. A simple switch. The sound coming into the lavalier microphone on the other side of the campus would then take over.

  Joe Flemming was running the soundboard for the day, and while I’d known him for as long as I’d been at Bristol, I’d never known that much about him. I knew he was good at technology, and I knew that he was loyal to me no more and no less than he was to whoever else paid him.

  Beer Shirt (who, again, wasn’t wearing an actual beer shirt) sat down next to Joe Flemming. I told him a bunch of things that he could say. I told him to be threatening, but not too threatening. It never got that far. He said, “I’m sitting here now.”

  And Joe Flemming said, “Fine with me.” And he left.

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>

  Summer Wonder wore a short, choppy wig. She was wearing short shorts and a T-shirt where one side was on her shoulder and the other side was off the shoulder.

  I had a picture of Talia, which I showed to Summer’s friend with the red hair. I said, “Make her look as horrible as this.”

  The redhead said, “Really? I like this. I think this girl is pretty.”

  So I said, “Fine, then. Make her look exactly this pretty.”

  I asked Lucy if she’d ever done any breaking and entering before. She laughed until she realized I was serious. She hadn’t, and I told her that I wasn’t going to make her join me. I didn’t want her to get in trouble for anything that had nothing to do with her. I didn’t know how an arrest record would look on a college application. (I do know now, but only with my own arrest record and my own college applications. It doesn’t look great, but you can sometimes talk your way around it if you are as persuasive and charming as I am.)

  Lucy said that she didn’t mind. She found all of this exciting.

  “Are we going to steal something?” Lucy wanted to know.

  “Breaking and entering is a waste of time if you’re not going to steal something,” I said.

  Mason stood in the bushes near the chapel with Melty. I called it running surveillance. Mason was standing in a hedge with his younger brother’s walkie-talkie. It was covered in crayon marks. We certainly weren’t the CIA, but Mason and Melty’s task was still important.

  Across the campus, I wore a lumpy earpiece. I needed to know what was happening on the other side of campus even though it mostly sounded like static and an AM Christian talk radio station that I picked up only half the time. I wondered for a moment how I’d fallen so far.

  In my earpiece, I could hear Dean Rein welcome the students and alumni. His speech was about the future, the past, mountain climbing, eagles, brains, and money. If no one stopped him, he might have still been giving that speech. After seven minutes, his microphone started making this horrible noise. It was the sound of cats dying and/or making love. Ben made it sound like an accident, a weird technical glitch. But it shut Dean Rein up. He turned the assembly over to the freshman and his poem.

  I had the metal part of the cap of a Uni-Ball Roller in one hand (an excellent lock-picking tool, and they are not paying me for the endorsement), and I was wiggling a paper clip with the other. Lock picking is an art. But, as with any sort of art, sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn’t. This lock was not happening. I had been wiggling pieces of metal around for three minutes, and I was running out of time. If I had had my campus master key, I wouldn’t have had this problem. But the campus master key was precisely what we were stealing from Talia’s room. The master key I had bribed a janitor for my first year at Bristol had gone missing the previous year. For someone to get their hands on those old tests that had been sent to Dean Rein, they must have that key. I never kept the tests. I shredded them, along with all copies. To compile that evidence, someone would have needed access to faculty lounges, computer labs, copy rooms, and file cabinets. I had decided that Talia stole my key. That was how she orchestrated my expulsion. I needed that key back. If by tomorrow I would once again be at the top of Bristol, I needed the means to go wherever I wanted.

  “This used to be your room, right?” Lucy said.

  “I’m trying to concentrate, Lucy.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just saying that, well, maybe they didn’t change the lock.”

  Lucy was smarter than I gave her credit for. She was right. You don’t always need the key that unlocks every door. Not if you have the key that unlocks the door you need unlocked. It was good advice for a lot of situations that weren’t even about keys and doors.

  I took my key chain out of my bag. The dorm key was still there.

  “For a rich girl,” Lucy said, “you have a lot of keys.”

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>

  At the exact same time that Talia Pasteur was supposed to be across campus having a secret meeting with Dean Rein’s son, Dean Rein called Talia Pasteur to t
he stage. The program said that she was going to sing a song. It was supposed to be something from The Little Mermaid. Talia herself thought she was supposed to take the stage at two. No one had told her that the ceremony had been switched. Lisbet had made sure of that, just as I had instructed her.

  Nobody watching the stage had any idea that the girl walking to the microphone wasn’t Talia Pasteur. Those who knew her recognized her short blond hair and her makeup. They were about to hear her voice, and anyone who knew her knew her voice. Way after the events of that day, people still had no idea that the girl in front of the microphone wasn’t Talia Pasteur. Even though everyone now knows how poorly my plan went, the fact that an essential detail ended up working was actually kind of impressive.

  Noah stood behind a tree until it was time for his role. He took a deep breath, and then he walked out of the shadows to meet Talia Pasteur.

  At the very same time, I slid my key into my old dorm room’s door and opened it. Lucy and I walked inside.

  “So where is this master key?” Lucy asked.

  “I can’t be sure, but I know where I kept it.” There was a small compartment in the headboard of the bed. No one would ever find it unless they lived in that room. I never got to check, though. I never got past the bed. Talia Pasteur wasn’t meeting anyone outside the chapel. Talia Pasteur wasn’t singing a song from The Little Mermaid. Talia Pasteur was sitting in her room, staring at me.

  I heard a rumbling of static, a Bible verse, and the tail end of whatever Mason was saying in my ear. Specifically, I heard “SHHHHHHHHH—ye also are become dead to the law by the body of Christ— . . . not what was supposed to happen, Astrid.”

  “What are you doing here?” I said to Talia. I knew I wasn’t making a lot of sense to her. This was her room.