New York, New York! Read online

  And I certainly didn’t ask Stacey’s father why his apartment wasn’t protected by an alarm system.

  Then came the time to decide who was going to stay at Mr. McGill’s and who was going to travel across town to Laine’s. I almost asked, “Does Laine’s apartment have a burglar alarm?” But I didn’t. I knew the Dakota had excellent security — guards and all — and that Mr. McGill’s building didn’t even have a doorman. But I was afraid to go out again. Besides, I wanted to stick with Stacey. I felt safer with her.

  Wouldn’t you know — just my luck — everyone (except me) wanted to go to Laine’s to help Kristy, Mary Anne, Jessi, and Mallory settle in. I thought about asking Mr. McGill if he wouldn’t mind a little company that afternoon, but before I could say anything, he announced that he needed to run errands. I quickly decided to go with my friends to the Cummingses’. We were probably safer in a pack.

  * * *

  Boy. It seemed that all during Saturday I would just start to feel sort of safe somewhere — and we’d leave. After my friends had unpacked their things at Laine’s, we returned to Mr. McGill’s apartment. We were there long enough to gulp down sodas (or in my case, orange juice with seltzer in it; I like to eat healthy), and then Mr. McGill took us out to dinner. The restaurant seemed reasonably safe, especially since I positioned myself against a wall, facing the door, and watched who came in and went out. But of course we couldn’t stay there all night.

  “How about more coffee?” I kept saying to Stacey’s father.

  After his third cup he smiled and said, “I’m going to float away. Stacey, do you want to signal the waiter for our check?” (Stacey just loves doing that. It’s as if she and the waiter know a secret code.)

  Ten minutes later we were outside again. And soon Stacey, her father, Claud, and I were back at Mr. McGill’s.

  “Where do you guys want to sleep?” asked Stacey. “There’s a futon in my room that unrolls into a pretty comfortable … bed. Well, mattress. And the couch in the living room opens into a double bed.”

  “I’ll take the futon,” said Claud. I knew she thought that she was doing me a favor. But I didn’t want to sleep alone in the living room.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll take the futon,” I told her grandly.

  “No, really. You sleep on the bed.”

  “Come on, guys, don’t argue about it,” spoke up Stacey.

  So I ended up on the sofa bed. All alone in New York City. Sleeping right next to a window that opened onto a fire escape.

  When I had stayed in Stacey’s other apartment — the one she and her parents lived in before the divorce — I hadn’t been nearly as scared. That apartment had been in a nice, big doorman building, on a very high floor, with indoor fire stairs. There were no fire escapes at the windows, which in my opinion was a blessing. As far as I’m concerned, a fire escape is an open invitation to a burglar. It says, “Hey! Come on in. Crawl right through the window. Take our VCR and our CD player. Help yourself.”

  I glanced uneasily over my shoulder at the window. I nearly screamed. Was that a figure standing outside? No. Just a shadow.

  Ker-thunk. What was that? I listened. I heard crashes and banging in the street below. I could hear everything: voices, car horns, sirens, a screech of brakes, a car alarm going off. The alarm didn’t ring like most normal alarms. Instead, a mechanized voice growled over and over, “Burglar, burglar, burglar.” (The crashes and banging turned out to be a garbage truck.)

  What a dreadful night. I barely slept.

  And guess what happened in the morning. My friends deserted me.

  When breakfast was over, Stacey jumped up from the table and said, “Well, gotta go. Rowena and Alistaire are waiting.”

  Claud jumped up, too. “I’ll ride over there with you. I think I’ll see what Laine’s up to today. Are the stores open on Sunday?”

  Stacey giggled. “Some of them are. Shopping already?”

  “I’ve only got two weeks — and a whole city full of stores. Besides, starting tomorrow, I’m going to be really busy with classes.”

  “What about you, Dawn?” asked Stacey.

  I glanced at Mr. McGill. “Um, I don’t know.”

  “I’ve got to put in a few hours at the office,” said Stacey’s father. (He’s a workaholic.)

  “So come to Laine’s with us, Dawn,” said Claud.

  “Oh … that’s all right. I think I’ll stay put.” I couldn’t bear to go outside again.

  In the end, I was left alone. But not for long. Kristy took pity on me. Around lunchtime she appeared at Mr. McGill’s, saying, “Okay, Dawn. Here I am. Your personal baby-sitter.”

  I just love waking up in New York City. I love the noise. I love the sound of dogs barking and the breeze rattling the venetian blinds. I love trucks rattling down the street, and children calling to each other and laughing. I’m not being sarcastic. I really do love these sounds. When I’m in Connecticut, I like the quiet. But when I visit New York, I appreciate the noise.

  Swish, swish, swish. I opened my eyes just as a street cleaner whooshed by Dad’s apartment building. I ran to the window. “Good morning, New York!” I called.

  On the floor beside me, Claudia stirred. “Close the window,” she mumbled.

  “It’s too hot. You’ll melt,” I told her. “Go back to sleep.”

  And she did. I tiptoed out of my bedroom, down the hallway, through the living room (where Dawn was sound asleep, even though she said later that she hadn’t slept a wink because of the fire escape), and into the kitchen.

  “Morning, Dad,” I said.

  His face lit up. “Morning, Boontsie.”

  “Ugh. Dad, I’m much too old for that baby name.” But I gave my father a hug. “How long have you been up?” I asked him.

  “Just long enough to make coffee,” he answered.

  Dad and I sat down at the little table in the kitchen.

  “This is nice,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “This.” I gestured around the room. “Everything. It’s early, we’re the only ones up, the coffee smells great…. We can have a private visit now.”

  Dad smiled. “What are you and your friends up to today?”

  “I’m not sure about everyone else, but Mary Anne and I are going to take care of Alistaire and Rowena.”

  “So you’ll be busy most of the day?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  “I thought I’d go to the office for a few hours.”

  “Again? On Sunday? Dad, can’t you take some time off? You work too hard.” Dad was pouring himself a cup of coffee, and I was slicing a bagel.

  “I only went in for a few hours yesterday,” he replied. “I need to make up for that.”

  “But yesterday was Saturday. Most people don’t go to work then.”

  “I do.”

  “Would you go if I didn’t have any plans today?”

  “Of course not.”

  Well, that was something. But I had the vague feeling that Dad was glad I had plans so he wouldn’t have to entertain me. I sighed. I think this must have been one of the problems between my parents. Now I understood how my mother had felt when she was married to Dad.

  I knew Dad loved me, though, and that in the end I (not his work) came first. He’d shown me that the last time I was in the hospital. So I set aside my worries and got ready for my first job with the Harrington children.

  “What are you going to wear?” Claud asked me later, as she and Dawn and I were getting dressed in my bedroom.

  “For a day in the city with two little kids? My grubbies.”

  Claud laughed. “I didn’t know you owned grubbies. Besides, do you really think Rowena and Alistaire will be dressed in grubbies?”

  Good point. “No,” I admitted, and opted for casual clothes, something between grubbies and matching, spotless sailor outfits.

  Not much later, Claudia and I headed out of Dad’s apartment, reluctantly leaving Dawn behind. After my father left, Dawn would be on her
own.

  “What’s she going to do all day?” Claudia wondered.

  I shrugged. “She’s got Laine’s phone number. She can reach you guys if she decides to venture outside.”

  * * *

  “Hullo! Hullo!” called Alistaire.

  Mary Anne and I were standing in the foyer of the Harringtons’ borrowed apartment. The housekeeper had let us in, and now Alistaire was running toward us, followed closely by Rowena. Once again, the kids were pretty dressed up, but I was relieved to see that at least they weren’t wearing white. White is not the most practical color for New York, especially if you are four or seven.

  “Good morning, Stacey. Good morning, Mary Anne.” Mrs. Harrington joined us in the foyer. Talk about dressed up. What were she and her husband doing? They’d said they had to work.

  Mrs. Harrington smiled. I must have been gaping at her outfit. “Lots of events today,” she said. “Since we’re here for just two weeks, our schedule is quite full. We may be able to spend some time with the children next week, though. For now — show them the city. They’re very excited.”

  “I read about New York in a book,” said Alistaire. “People call it the Big Apple. I want to see the tall buildings.”

  “I want to see the apple,” said Rowena, and everyone tried not to laugh.

  Mrs. Harrington handed me a wad of bills. “For expenses,” she said. “I know Rowena and Alistaire will have much more fun with you two than with some stuffy grown-up.” She smiled. “Don’t give them too many sweets,” she warned. “But show them the city the way a child would want to see it.”

  Mary Anne and I grinned.

  “No problem,” I said. “I grew up here.”

  “And I know all about New York,” added Mary Anne.

  “All right, then. Can you bring the children back by four o’clock?” (Mary Anne and I nodded.) “Lovely.” Mrs. Harrington turned to Alistaire and Rowena, who were waiting patiently by the doorway. “Be good,” she said to them. “Mind Stacey and Mary Anne. And have fun!”

  Mrs. Harrington kissed the children. Before I knew it, Mary Anne, Rowena, Alistaire, and I were leaving the Dakota. We came to a stop on the sidewalk.

  “What do you guys want to do today?” asked Mary Anne. “See tall buildings?”

  “Oh, I can see tall buildings right here,” Alistaire replied solemnly, looking up. “Rowena and I would very much like to go to Central Park, though.”

  “We saw pictures of it in Alistaire’s book,” added Rowena. “We saw a lovely carousel and animals in a zoo —”

  “And a man selling toys that were tied to sticks!” interrupted Alistaire.

  “Okay. A day in Central Park,” agreed Mary Anne cheerfully.

  “Is it very far away?” asked Rowena.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her so that she was facing Central Park West. “Look across the street,” I said. “See those trees?”

  “Yes,” said both Rowena and Alistaire.

  “Well, that’s the park.”

  “Oh!” cried the kids. “Brilliant!”

  I snuck a peek at Mary Anne. I could tell she was as enchanted by the Harringtons as I was. Rowena and Alistaire spoke with wonderful accents. They were endlessly polite but didn’t seem stuck-up. They were eager and curious and delighted by each new sight or activity.

  The four of us walked through the park.

  “Want to go to the zoo first?” asked Mary Anne.

  “Oh, yes!” cried Rowena. “I want to see some bears. But no snakes, thank you.”

  The walk to the zoo was on the long side, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. They ran ahead of us (not too far, though), and once I saw Alistaire jump up, swat at a leafy tree, and cry, “We’re in Central Park!”

  We reached the children’s petting zoo before we came to the main part of the zoo. “Would you like to pet some animals?” asked Mary Anne.

  The kids did, of course, so I forked over forty cents (the petting zoo costs just ten cents per person, and always will), and we walked through a narrow building and out into the sunshine again.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Rowena immediately. “A goat!”

  Alistaire and Rowena ran from pen to pen and exhibit to exhibit. When they had had their fill, we left to explore the rest of the zoo. On the way, we passed several vendors. Most of them were selling food — ice cream, pretzels, sodas, hot dogs. But Alistaire barely noticed the food (although Rowena looked longingly at the Good Humor stand). Instead he exclaimed, “There’s the man selling toys on sticks! It’s the man from my book!”

  Well, naturally, there are probably thousands of people who sell inflatable toys tied to sticks, but apparently the only one Alistaire had seen until now was between the covers of a book.

  “Would you like to buy a toy?” I asked the kids. Then I added generously, thinking of the bills in my purse, “You can each have one.”

  With great excitement, and after much discussion, Alistaire chose a rocket ship and Rowena chose a coiled snake.

  “I thought you didn’t like snakes,” Mary Anne said to her.

  “I don’t like real ones. Blown-up ones are all right.”

  Before we walked on, Alistaire turned to the toy seller and said, “I loved your book.” (The man looked thoroughly confused.)

  We spent more than an hour in the zoo. Despite the lovely weather, it wasn’t crowded, which was a miracle. As the kids explored things, I kept seeing the same people over and over again — a young man and his very noisy little girl; a couple and their baby, who was riding around in a pouch strapped to the mother; a tall man wearing sunglasses and a rain hat; and a mom with two little boys wearing identical outfits but who didn’t look a thing alike. This is one reason I New York. All the different people.

  When Rowena and Alistaire tired of the zoo, we walked out, coming to the big Delacorte clock just as it struck the hour and the animal orchestra (statues) moved around and around while music played. We bought lunch from the vendors and ate on a bench in the park.

  By the time three-thirty rolled around, the kids had ridden the carousel, oohed and aahed over the statue of a cougar by the roadside, climbed all over the Alice in Wonderland “playground” (another sculpture), and listened intently to a lively brass band that had set itself up on a grassy lawn.

  “What did you think of the park?” Mary Anne asked the kids as we were walking back to the Dakota.

  “It’s great,” said Alistaire.

  “Can we move into the zoo?” asked Rowena.

  I had more news all right, but it wasn’t any good. Falny turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. I was sure of that by the time we broke for lunch. What had happened? I suppose I might as well give you the gory details of my sad story.

  * * *

  I don’t know about Mallory, but I was up at the crack of dawn on Monday morning. If roosters lived in New York, they would have been crowing when I first woke up. (At least, I think they would have been. I am not all that familiar with roosters.) Anyway, the first time I looked at my watch, it read 4:06. “Four-oh-six!” I muttered. “I don’t believe it.” I felt wide awake, but soon I drifted to sleep again. When I awoke the second time, my watch read 5:33. Does anyone actually get up at this hour?

  I could not go to sleep. I was jumpy, as if a kangaroo were in my stomach. And all I could think about was McKenzie Clarke. If I closed my eyes, I imagined HIS face. I bet, I thought, that he has kind, twinkly blue eyes and looks a little like Santa Claus, except for the cherry nose. If I opened my eyes, I found myself daydreaming about art class. I would impress Mac with my swift and accurate sketching. He would flip through my drawings and say, “Goodness! Where did you study before?”

  “Oh, nowhere really,” I would reply.

  “Nowhere? But this is the work of a creative genius.” Then McKenzie Clark would phone my parents, tell them what a find I am, and ask their permission to allow me to study with him privately. He would become my mentor (I think that’s the word I’m looking fo
r), and I, after just a few months of study with Mac, would become —

  “Claud?” murmured Stacey’s voice from among the pillows on her bed. “You better get up now. You don’t want to be late for your first day of classes.”

  * * *

  Mal and I entered the doors of Falny feeling pretty nervous, as you might have guessed. But my nervousness faded quickly.

  As someone once said, “What … a … dump!”

  I whispered that to Mal, and she smiled, but she was too scared to speak.

  In all honesty, Falny wasn’t a dump; it just wasn’t what I had expected, which was a grand, Gothic building with a fancy entryway, or maybe something that looked like the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The entrance to Falny was just a set of glass double doors, with brass letters reading FALNY set above them. However, we were somewhat more impressed by the huge classrooms we found on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. Mac’s room was #414. We walked inside slowly, Mal clinging to the back of my shirt, like a kindergartner on her first day of school.

  “Cut it out!” I whispered loudly.

  Mal’s response was, “What’s with the boxes?”

  The two of us came to our senses and walked into the room like the mature young adults we are.

  In a ring around the room were our drawing tables. Piled into the center of the room were about thirty cardboard cartons. They weren’t stacked neatly, though. They looked like they’d been thrown in and had landed in a tumbled heap. Some boxes rested crookedly inside others, some sat squarely on the floor, some were perched precariously on top of two or three or four cartons.

  I looked at Mal and shrugged. Then we settled ourselves at the tables that seemed to be nearest the front of the room. We wanted to work as close to Mac as possible. Other students drifted in and took seats. Nobody said much.

  “Do you think I’m dressed okay?” Mallory whispered.

  “You look fine,” I replied — just as HE entered the room.

  Mal gasped. “That’s him!”

  “SHHHH!” I nudged her elbow. (I don’t think Mac heard us.)