Pish Posh Page 3

“When someone tells you their name, it’s generally the custom to tell them your name back. ”

  “You look familiar, ” Clara said in an accusatory way.

  “Yeah? Well, I have that kind of face. ”

  “No,” Clara persisted. “I’m good with faces. I don’t mix them up. I’ve met you before. What school do you go to?”

  “What school haven’t I gone to?” And as Annabelle began naming all the schools she had attended, it turned out that she had been to the Huxley Academy just a few months before, which was the very school that Clara attended.

  “Why have you gone to so many schools?” Clara asked.

  “I have a tendency to get suspended,” she said, shrugging. “It drives my father insane. He’s a genius himself, and he can’t accept the fact that school and Annabelle just don’t get along. ”

  “A genius?” Clara said, always interested to discover a Somebody she had never heard of. “What sort of genius? What does he do?”

  “Dad?” Annabelle tucked a hank of floppy hair behind her ear and smiled. “Oh, he’s a thief.”

  Clara looked at Annabelle for a minute, wishing suddenly that she had her sunglasses on—it was always easier for her to tell if someone was lying when she was wearing her glasses. She inspected Annabelle’s dark eyes but determined only that they looked steady and honest and even, much to Clara’s surprise, quite intelligent.

  “What does he steal?” Clara asked.

  “This and that. It’s changed over the years. He started by stealing cars, years and years ago, before I was born. Then he met my mom and she didn’t like the hours he was working—when you steal cars you mostly have to work nights—so he started robbing banks. That way he could be home for dinner. But the problem with bank robbing is that you generally have to work with other bank robbers, and they’re not the most reliable people in the world. They’ll show up late for a robbery, or they’ll forget to bring the masks, and sometimes they’re really mean to the bank tellers. And besides, right after he became a bank robber, my mom divorced him, which meant the hours didn’t matter anymore. Then my father became a jewel thief ... so he’d be around a better class of people, you know? I started working with him a couple of years ago. ”

  “You’re a thief, too?”

  “Hello! You’re a bright one.”

  Clara didn’t know which to be more shocked at—the fact that Annabelle was a criminal or that she had the nerve to speak to her in that way. But then she considered that it had been pretty thickheaded of her not to realize it. After all, Annabelle had fourteen police officers trying to arrest her while she was prowling around a rooftop in the middle of the night.

  “What were you doing on the roof?” Clara asked again, swallowing back her pride.

  “My dad and I were at a party on the thirtieth floor, and I had just robbed an apartment on the thirty-third floor. Dad broke into an apartment on the twenty-ninth floor. That’s generally how we work. We get ourselves invited to parties in high-security buildings and then slip off and break into as many apartments as we can. But somebody must have had some kind of snazzy alarm system, because all of a sudden the police showed up and I had to scramble. ”

  “But how do you get into the apartments?”

  “Different ways. With this apartment building it’s really easy. The terraces are close enough together that I can climb up from one to the next. You wouldn’t believe how often people leave their terrace doors unlocked. Then I just swipe all the really good stuff ”—she patted her fat backpack—“and climb back down to the apartment where the party is going on. Bing bang. Nothing fancy. You just can’t be afraid of heights. ”

  Clara squinted hard at Annabelle. “Why are you telling me all this? I could go to the police, you know. ”

  “You?” Annabelle studied Clara for a moment. It reminded Clara of the way she watched the customers in the restaurant, which made her squirm a little.

  Finally, Annabelle shook her head. “Nah, you’re not the type. Well, I better get back to the party. Dad’s probably done by now, too.” Annabelle stuck out her hand again, which Clara now took. “Thanks, buddy. I owe you one. Nice hat, by the way. ”

  Then she hitched up her backpack and climbed down the tree.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clara sat in the tree awhile longer, pondering what Annabelle had told her. Much as she tried to feel insulted, she was secretly pleased that Annabelle thought she was not “the type” to go to the police. Clara had always felt that, deep down, beneath her stylish black dresses and her good posture, she was bold—as bold as a girl like Annabelle. She smiled and snapped the straps of her overalls with her thumbs, in the same cocky way that she had seen fearless, wild country children do in the movies.

  Thoroughly and delightfully exhausted, she climbed down and went to her bedroom. But just as she put on her nightgown, she noticed that the lid of her jewelry box was open. She walked over to it and looked inside. It was completely empty. A moist queasiness churned in her stomach. The Tahitian pearl necklace, the one she had been saving to add to her everyday outfit once she turned sixteen, was gone. She had searched high and low for the right pearls and finally found them a few months ago: pink-hued, nearly perfectly round pearls. Now they were gone.

  Annabelle! She must have swiped them! In fact, she bet that it was her own “snazzy” alarm system that had tipped off the police.

  She picked up the phone to dial 911. If she told them Annabelle’s first name and the fact that she had once attended the Huxley Academy, they would certainly be able to track her down. But then she remembered that she had actually helped Annabelle escape into the tree, and that the only reason she knew Annabelle’s name was that they had had a pleasant, casual conversation while the police were frantically searching the roof for her—a fact that would make Clara look very foolish indeed.

  Her face reddened. Annabelle had been right. Clara wasn’t the type to call the police. Not because she was too bold, but because she was too prideful. Annabelle had seen right through Clara, just as Clara saw through the customers at Pish Posh, and the realization was unpleasant to say the least.

  She climbed into bed and pulled the covers over herself. For a long time she lay there, eyes open, while she nibbled at the ends of her hair, a thing she always did whenever she was deep in thought.

  She thought about how that lousy, thieving Annabelle had sat in the tree with her, chatting to her like an old friend. And the worst of it, Clara had to admit, was that she had actually liked Annabelle. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had liked someone.

  She must have been laughing at me the whole time, Clara thought bitterly. She’s probably lying in her own bed right now, thinking about what a sucker I am as she toys with my pearls. I can’t stand the thought of it!

  Clara hopped out of bed, opened up her closet, and pulled out a box that was on the top shelf. It contained stacks of old book reports and homework, school play programs, and yearbooks from the past two years. Sitting on the floor, she slowly and methodically went through everything, searching for Annabelle’s last name. But there was nothing. It appeared that the girl had never gone to school long enough to have her name put on anything.

  Never mind. I’ll find her, Clara decided.

  After that she fell asleep quite soundly, because she knew that when she was determined to do a certain thing, that thing was as good as done.

  The following morning, after putting on Simple Black Dress #96 and adjusting her sunglasses so that they perched exactly a quarter inch down on the bridge of her nose, Clara buzzed the cook on the kitchen’s intercom and informed her that she would be skipping breakfast. But as she passed the dining room and saw the customary pile of newspapers neatly stacked on the table, she changed her mind. She would not shirk her daily duty, not for some petty thief. She rang for the cook again and told her she would have breakfast after all, and in a few minutes’ time the cook appeared at Clara’s dining room table with a single poached egg, sourdough toas
t cut into triangles, and a glass of tomato juice.

  Clara picked up the newspaper on top of the pile. It was the latest copy of Hither & Thither, a daily paper that tracked the comings and goings of all the important people in New York.

  Recently they had added an amusing column called “Ask Ms. Mandy,” where people wrote in with a famous person’s name and Ms. Mandy would find out who their ancestors were. Today, someone had asked about a famous countess who lived on Park Avenue and bred Pekingese dogs.

  “Well, folks, we have one naughty, naughty countess on our hands!” Miss Mandy replied to the letter. “Having researched her ancestors, it turns out our countess is not a real countess at all! Her family comes from New Jersey and her parents work in a hair dye factory. Perhaps she should ‘fess up about her ‘roots’!”

  Clara snorted with disdain and not a little satisfaction. A good start to the day, since the fake countess was a customer at Pish Posh.

  Not for long, Clara mused happily as she bit into her toast.

  She went through all the papers very carefully, as she did every morning, watching for any other mention of Pish Posh customers. It was tedious work, true, but how else could she keep on top of things? And in the end, she was glad she had not skipped her morning ritual, because she found yet another article about a Pish Posh customer in the Daily New Yorker. It seemed that the well-known news anchorman John Sickle had been covering an earthquake in Japan. The accompanying film clip showed an injured woman lying on the ground with a rescue worker bending over her. Unfortunately, the rescue worker’s pants drooped and a portion of his behind was visible, so when John Sickle had to say, “Witnesses reported several huge cracks,” he burst out into uncontrollable giggles. The network quickly broke away to the sports segment, but angry phone calls immediately came pouring in from viewers. Sometimes there was an extremely fine line between a Nobody and a Somebody, and John Sickle had crossed it in the space of a few seconds. That could happen, if people weren’t careful.

  After she had finished going through the papers, Clara headed outside. The day was cool and fine, with fragments of bright blue sky peeking out between the buildings.

  The Huxley Academy was about half a mile downtown. Clara considered taking a taxi, but she was still in high temper over Annabelle, and she thought that a walk might be just the thing to calm her down.

  She walked past Pish Posh, which was closed now, and cut across Washington Square Park. The park was not really a square. It was more like a rectangle that was skirted by a wrought-iron fence. At its entrance was the great marble arch, which Clara’s father liked to look at wistfully through the small kitchen window, sighing about how one day he would return to his beloved Paris, where the kitchen workers were not all so revolting.

  Today, as Clara passed through the arch, she suddenly, out of the blue, remembered something Dr. Piff had told her when she was younger. More than two hundred years ago, he’d said, Washington Square Park was a burial ground for slaves and poor people, many of whom had died of yellow fever.

  “Whenever I enter the park,” he’d said, “I always tap my foot twice on the ground. Just so those old New Yorkers know that I’ m thinking of them. ”

  How odd that she’d remember something so trivial. And what a silly thing to do, on Dr. Piff’s part! She frowned. It was unfortunate that Dr. Piff had popped into her thoughts when she had managed to block him and his mystery out of her mind all morning.

  The park was crowded as usual. Some people were playing chess, others were watching a man juggling sneakers in front of the fountain, and dozens of people sprawled out on the grass, eating soft pretzels with salt the size of hailstones.

  “Come have your portrait sketched!” called out a very short, slight man to anyone passing by. He was standing under a huge elm tree, surrounded by charcoal sketches of celebrities. The tree was very tall and ancient looking, and Clara had always been mesmerized by it. True, it wasn’t nearly as tall as her climbing tree, but it had a strange, wizened look that made Clara wonder what it had seen in its long life. She found herself staring at it now, and the artist, encouraged by the fact that she had stopped near him, waved his arm wildly for her to come closer.

  “Yes, come here, little one! I will draw your portrait. I will make you look like a movie star. Like her!” He held up a drawing of June Loblolly, a movie actress whom Clara had recently banished from Pish Posh. It was rather a good drawing of Ms. Loblolly, too. Her hair was whipping around her face in pale tendrils, and she looked terribly sad, as she always did in the movies.

  “Ah, the extraordinary June Loblolly!” the artist exclaimed when he saw how intently Clara was studying the sketch. “She does not belong to our world, no?”

  “I don’t see what you mean,” Clara said curtly, embarrassed that she had been caught staring.

  “Why, she has a face that belongs to the ancient world, does she not?” he said, apparently amazed that she did not see this for herself. “You may see her likeness on the marble busts of Greek goddesses, gilded on Egyptian sarcophagi, carved into fertility fetishes unearthed in Peru. Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of wisdom, full of sadness, full of mercy!”

  Clara was silent for a moment, and then drew herself up. “She’s an actress. She can make herself look however she wants. ”

  And with that, she turned and walked away, while the artist called after her, “Ten dollars for the drawing of June Loblolly, and a bargain at that! No? Okay, nine dollars!”

  Perched on the edge of the fountain was a group of kids about her own age, talking with great animation. What in the world did they have to say to each other? Clara pondered. Nothing important, certainly. Yet she suddenly wondered if Annabelle sometimes sat with groups of kids like this one. Maybe she’d tell them about the stupid girl who saved her from the police, right after she had stolen the same girl’s own pearls. This fired up Clara’s temper once again and she began to walk faster, nearly crashing into a woman on Rollerblades.

  After she crossed the park, she made her way up two avenue blocks to the Huxley Academy. The academy’s building had been an orphanage for little girls years and years ago, and it looked a little like a miniature castle, with its heavy gray stone walls and its massive oak doors, over which crouched sinister gargoyles. It was the sort of place where one might expect to see tapestries hanging on the walls and footmen holding candles and maybe a princess or two passing through the dimly lighted hallways. But instead, the school was remarkably ordinary inside, with excellent lighting and no footmen.

  The halls were very quiet, but Clara could hear the faint murmur of voices somewhere. It was an eerie sound that made her think about the orphans who used to live here more than a hundred years ago. She imagined for a moment that she was hearing their ghostly voices now, drifting sadly through the hallways, and the image was so vivid that she nearly succeeded in frightening herself right back out of the building. But then she came to her senses and reminded herself that the voices were coming from the end of the hall, and that they belonged to the kids who had failed courses during the year and were now being forced to repeat them over the summer.

  She headed down the hall to the main office, a small cubicle where the principal conducted his business. She tried the door, but it was locked and, peering through the little window in the door, she could see that the room was dark and empty.

  “Can I help you?” asked a tall, long-limbed woman with a mass of unkempt light brown, curly hair. She had stepped out of the teacher’s lounge, across the hall from the principal’s office. She was wearing a gaudy red-and-green-striped pantsuit and was carrying a mug of coffee. “Oh! Clara Frankofile! Well, it’s been an age!”

  “Hi, Ms. Blurt,” Clara said unenthusiastically to her former art teacher.

  “I was just thinking about you ... just the other day. I was reading something ... hmm, now what was it? ”

  “I need to talk to the principal, Miss Blurt, ” Clara cut her short.

  “Ooh, the principal,�
� Miss Blurt said. “Mmm. Nooooo. Nope! He is on vacation, our principal. He went to ... now where was it? ... Someplace where there is water ... and fish! Yes, many, many fish ... but I can’t for the life of me ... Now, what was I reading the other day when I thought of you, Clara?”

  Clara sighed. This was not working out as she had planned. Once again she had a vision of Annabelle laughing at her, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.

  “I need to find out where one of my old schoolmates lives, Ms. Blurt. ” Clara said, trying to muffle the anger in her voice. “She was a friend of mine. We lost touch when she left the school. ”

  “Fizzelli!” Ms. Blurt thrust her coffee mug in the air victoriously, and some of the coffee sloshed out onto the floor.

  “No, her name is Annabelle.”

  “I mean the article I was reading. Caleb Fizzelli. Yes, that’s it! I was reading about Caleb Fizzelli, one of my favorite painters of the nineteenth century. Sadly, he isn’t very well known. In fact, I doubt most people have even heard of him, but there was an eensie little article in one of my art magazines that mentioned him. And guess what that article said?”

  Clara sighed. “Really, I have no idea. ”

  “The article said that he lived in the very same spot where the Pish Posh restaurant now stands, way back in the 1800s. ‘Pish Posh!’ I said to myself. ‘Well, that’s the restaurant that Clara Frankofile’s parents own.’ Isn’t that marvelous!”

  “Ms. Blurt,” Clara tried again. “Do you remember a girl named Annabelle? Tall, thin. Raspy voice.”

  “Mmm. Ann-a-belle. Yes, I do remember a girl ... very untalented artist. She did something odd with people’s nostrils. Drew them very large and piglike. Don’t know why—”

  “Do you remember her last name?”

  “Oh, my. You know, I can remember the names of artists who have been dead for hundreds of years, but I do have such a difficult time with the names of people who are still alive. The curse of an art teacher, I suppose!”