The Vanishing Violin (27 page)

A few minutes later, I open a new document on my computer and start typing in the clues we have gathered from the four different challenges.

And for those of you who didn’t figure out the other two grid clues on your own, here they are:

When I finish, Margaret slides onto the chair next to me and makes this chart:

“Guys, Sophie’s going to print out three of these—the chart and the seven clues—one for each of you to take home and solve. Remember that there are five musicians, and for each one, there are five possible addresses, streets, and apartment numbers. Slice o’ strudel for three smarty-pantses like you!”

“‘Pantses’? Really?” Rebecca says. “And what about you?”

“I worked it all out last night,” Margaret says. “But I knew you’d want to be able to solve it on your own. Much more fun than having someone else just give you the answers. Just ask Ms. Klack.”

“I think my brain just got smaller,” Leigh Ann says.

“I’ve been feeling that way for the past five years,” I say.

Margaret ignores our self-pity party. “What you’re looking for is the address and apartment number of the violin player so that you know where to take the key. But see, you won’t know that until you have solved almost everything else. I have so much confidence in you all that I’m leaving a note saying we’ll all come to the apartment on Sunday afternoon.”

“Aren’t you supposed to leave the note on somebody’s watch?” I ask.

“Fred Lebow’s. You know that statue of the guy who is looking at his watch in the park at Ninetieth Street? That’s him. How does one o’clock Sunday sound?”

I quickly calculate the travel time needed to get to my other commitment for the day. “Can we make it
noon? I need to be at Asphalt Green for swim team at three.”

“If I can’t solve the puzzle, can I still come?” Leigh Ann asks.

“You can solve it,” Margaret says confidently. “It really is simple compared with figuring out how someone was able to walk through the walls at Mr. Chernofsky’s.”

“Why, Margaret Wrobel,” I say. “I do believe you are bragging.”

Rebecca joins in. “Yeah, isn’t this that hummus thing you were talking about?”

“That’s hubris. Hummus is that spread made out of chickpeas—you know, tastes good with pita bread. But the answer is no. I’m simply confident of my abilities, that’s all. There is neither hummus nor hubris.”

“Still, I think I might bring some pita with me on Sunday,” I say.

Thursday is a blur of classes, band practice, homework (thanks, Mr. Eliot, for assigning an essay due on Friday—that’s a big help, really), constantly checking myself out in the mirror in my new jacket, and texting back and forth with Raf about a million times. As if he weren’t in enough trouble already, his mom got a call from his French teacher saying he was in danger of failing.

I call him immediately. “Raf,
je parle français
. I can
help you. Why didn’t you tell me you were flunking? I’m never going to see you again.”

“I failed one stupid test. And I got a ninety on the next one.”

“So, what about tomorrow? Can you get ungrounded? The Blazers are playing at Perkatory.”

“Don’t worry. When I tell my mom I’m going to see you and Margaret, she’ll let me go. She thinks you’re a good influence on me. Wait until I tell her it was your idea to take the scooter across town. I’ll get a ridiculous curfew—probably, like, nine o’clock—but I’ll be there.”

Friday nights are usually quiet at Perkatory, but with word out that the Blazers are doing a free concert, tables start to fill early. (And if you pull this leg, it plays “Stairway to Heaven.”) Seriously, Aldo, the manager, seems pleased. He should be; he’s selling a lot of coffee, and he doesn’t have to pay us a dime. Now all we have to do is not chase everybody out the door by stinkin’ the place up.

Livvy and two of the Klackettes are taking up precious real estate at one of the best tables. Although Ms. Lonneman couldn’t technically prove that the girls had cheated, parents were called, tears were shed, and punishments were handed out. Becca heard through the grapevine that Livvy was grounded for months, had her cell phone taken away, and has to spend an hour after dismissal every day tutoring kids in
the lower school. And Becca’s story about a second grader puking on Livvy’s brand-new shoes? Just a tiny bit delicious.

Livvy is her usual charming self to Margaret when she and Andrew arrive together. She asks Andrew—loudly enough for us to hear—why he’s “slumming” with a bunch of losers.

And that, finally, is the last straw for Andrew.

“Livvy, you moron, Margaret is my friend. I know friendship is a strange concept to you, but do me and everybody else a big favor and just shut up.”

We cheer wildly as Livvy and her “friends” skulk out the door. Margaret immediately snags their table for my parents, Becca’s mom, and Leigh Ann’s family, all of whom walk in a few minutes later. Margaret invites Jaz, who has the night off, to sit with her and Andrew, and when Mr. Eliot comes in (sans phantom wife, yet again), he sits with Sister Eugenia, Ben, and Mr. Chernofsky. Then Ms. Lonneman, who waves as she hurries inside, joins them, too. Just as I’m starting to worry that Raf isn’t going to make it, he and his friend Sean—who looks like he stole Bart Simpson’s hair—show up and squeeze in at Margaret’s table.

Malcolm and Elizabeth share another prime table with Caroline and her husband, Roger, and daughter, Caitlin. I do a minor bit of meddling when I rearrange people so that Malcolm, Caroline, and Alejandro Jaimes can be seated near one another. “Malcolm and Caroline
are both professors of archaeology at Columbia,” I say to Alex. “You know, it’s the only Ivy League school right here in New York. Malcolm, I’m sure I’ve mentioned Leigh Ann’s brother, Alejandro, to you. Oh! And what a coincidence! He just got asked to take part in some math program at Columbia. Probably has a million questions for you.”

And so my work there is almost done.

Leigh Ann drags me back to our “backstage”—a closet-size storeroom—where Becca is psyching herself up. “Guys, we have a little problem,” Leigh Ann says. “Mbingu’s not here. I tried calling her, but I can’t get through.”

“Have you heard anything, Bec?” I ask.

“Nope. Haven’t talked to her since rehearsal the other day.”

“Well, what’s the plan if she doesn’t show?”

“If who doesn’t show?” Mbingu sticks her head in the door, smiling sheepishly.

“Mbingu!” we all shout.

“I’m so sorry! My papa surprised us—he arrived from Tanzania a day early—and I almost forgot! I ran from the subway station.”

“Did your parents come?” I ask. “I can make some room for them up front—”

“No, they need some time to relax together. Papa has been away for six months.”

“Wow. What was he doing?” I ask.

“He still works there. He is a safari guide—you know, driving people around to see the lions and giraffes.”

“So, have you ever seen a lion that was, like, not in a zoo?” Becca asks.

Mbingu laughs. “Many. And leopards. And cheetahs.”

“That is so cool. The only wild animals I’ve ever seen are pigeons and rats.”

“That’s not true, Rebecca. Sometimes there are squirrels. And seagulls!”

“And cockroaches!” Then she reaches into a plastic grocery bag and tosses something to each of us. “If you don’t like ’em, we don’t have to wear them,” she says with a very un-Rebecca-like shrug.

I hold up a lipstick red, long-sleeve T-shirt painted to look exactly like my school blazer. It has the pockets, the crest, the buttons, and a triangle of plaid “skirt” showing at the bottom; it even looks like there’s a white button-down blouse with a red tie underneath. I was planning to wear my new denim jacket, but this thing is just way too perfect not to wear, and besides, it’s not just about me. It’s about the band.

“Holy smokes,” Leigh Ann and I say together.

“You like ’em?”

“You made these?” Mbingu asks, incredulous.

“They’re awesome,” Leigh Ann says. “They must have taken forever.”

More shrugs. “Eh. Gave me something to do instead
of homework. I hope you don’t mind—I added the ties. Makes it a little more—you know, punk. And check out the crest.”

“Semper Rock,” I read.

“It’s the only Latin word I know.”

“Becca, you never cease to amaze me. All that grumbling and complaining, and look at you!”

“Yeah, well, I’m still annoyed with you.” She tries, but fails, to keep a straight face.

We pull the shirts over our heads and smile, smile, smile … and, um, smile.

“You know, we are totally ready for this,” I say.

“Let’s rock,” Rebecca growls.

But first, a group hug. Hey, rockers do that. Don’t they?

Venimus, vidimus, rockimus
(that’s “We came, we saw, we rocked,” for you non–Latin speakers out there)

Okay, first, about that group hug. I know what you’re thinking, and I agree 100 percent. We have some cooling up to do if we’re going to be real rockers.

We take our place on the “stage” (aka a corner of the coffee shop). I throw my guitar strap over my shoulder and try not to look at the crowd. Everyone is clapping and shouting our names, but the blood pumping through my brain is making so much noise I can’t hear a thing. Leigh Ann, who has been through dozens of dance recitals and has starred in several school musicals, calmly steps up to the microphone, looking like she’s been doing this all her life, which, in a way, she has.

“Hey, everybody. Thanks for coming to check us out. I’m Leigh Ann, and this is Sophie on guitar, Becca on bass, and Mbingu on drums, and we are … the
Blazers.” She takes one step back to make sure Becca, Mbingu, and I are ready. “Two, three, four …”

It’s the Blazers’ first public performance, and “Twist and Shout” goes almost perfectly. At first, I’m in such a state of sensory overload that everything seems blurry—my vision, my hearing, even my sense of touch. My fingers feel a little rubbery, and I flub a couple of notes. Halfway through the song, though, I start to have fun. I sneak a peek at Becca, who, despite her attempts to be the cool, unflappable bass player you’ve seen in a million bands, is grinning uncontrollably as she plays and sings along with Leigh Ann. My fingers begin to belong to me, and my pulse finally slows enough that I can hear not only my own playing, but the sound of the crowd singing along. And suddenly—I’m at Madison Square Garden, and twenty thousand fans are standing and cheering as we play the final notes of our opening number. Oh yeah. I like this rock-star stuff.

We exhale and do fist bumps all around, and then Leigh Ann returns to the microphone. “This next song was written by our very own Sophie St. Pierre.” I try my hardest to fight off my very un-rock-star-like blushing and smiling when Margaret and Raf start chanting, “So-phie! So-phie!”

I signal to Mbingu to start playing, and then Leigh Ann sings: