Part 11 (1/2)

”Oh, Rowena. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.” (I'd been holding Rowena's hand in a grip so tight it would have put Arnold Schwarzeneg-ger to shame. I was petrified that she'd be kidnapped, now that I knew who the spy wanted.) I looked at my watch. It was time to meet up with my friends.

”Rowena,” I said, ”we have to go back.”

”But we didn't find a toy store.”

”I know. We'll go to FAO Schwarz soon. I promise. And I know you'll like it. It has more stuffed animals than I've ever seen. Some of them are bigger than you are!”

Rowena walked happily to our meeting place. (The thought of FAO Schwarz had satisfied her.) Stacey and Alistaire were waiting for us, but no one else had arrived yet.

”Stacey!” I cried, just as she cried, ”Mary Anne!”, ”What?” we both said. Then I added, ”You go first.”

”The guy is after Alistaire,” she whispered to me. ”I saw him three times.”

”No way. He's after Rowena. 7 saw him twice.”

Stacey and I stared at each other. ”What does this mean?” asked Stacey.

”I'm not sure. . . . He's twins? He's after you or me?”

”Well, I don't know about twins, but it's the kids he's after.”

”Both of them, I guess.” I wrung my hands. ”We have to tell Mr. and Mrs. Harrington,” I said firmly.

Stacey looked pained. ”Here come Jessi and Laine,” she whispered. I knew she meant, ”We'll talk about this later.”

We didn't have many chances to talk that day, though. Either Rowena and Alistaire were around, or our friends were. But at one point, when the others had walked ahead of us, and Kristy was pointing out something to the kids, Stacey nudged me and said quietly, ”We'll tell the Harringtons this afternoon.”

”Okay.” I nodded, swallowing hard.

Near four o'clock, Stacey and I were standing in the Harringtons' foyer, having returned safely with Alistaire and Rowena.

The housekeeper came to meet us. ”Mr. and Mrs. Harrington aren't home yet,” she said, ”but they told me to give you a message. They'll be having some time off. They won't need you again until Friday morning.”

I glanced at Stacey. All we could do was wait.

Claudia.

Chapter 18.

It was our seventh day of cla.s.ses at Falny. I had learned to dread them. All Mr. Clarke ever said to me was, ”Work slower,” or, ”Do it over.” Once he might have smiled, but I wasn't sure. It could have been a grimace.

When Mal and I arrived in Mr. Clarke's cla.s.s on Wednesday morning, he said, ”All right. Today is our day at the Cloisters.”

The Cloisters? Oh, right. The Cloisters. Mr. Clarke had mentioned the trip the day before, but somehow I had forgotten. Now I remembered. He had told us that the Cloisters, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, located in some place called Fort Tryon Park, features medieval art. Only it's not just a building where you go to stare at paintings and statues. I mean, it z's a building, but Mr. Clarke said it's unusual. And it looks out on the Hudson River. (Plus, since it's in a park, you feel like you're in the counitry.) Here's what's in the museum: a collection of art, plus parts of medieval chapels and monasteries - real ones from Europe. The structures had been taken apart, the stones were s.h.i.+pped to the United States, and then the structures were rebuilt.

(In case you're wondering, medieval does not mean ”halfway evil,” like I used to think. It means ”having to do with the Middle Ages,” which were the years 1000 to 1400 in Europe. And a cloister is part of a monastery or convent, or the monastery or convent itself. Okay. Enough of this stuff. It's too much like school. If it didn't have to do with art, I would be bored, too.) When our cla.s.s had a.s.sembled, we gathered our sketch pads, our charcoals, and our lunches. Then we boarded a bus. It was a special bus to the Cloisters, and some other people were on it, but most of the pa.s.sengers were us Falny students. And Mr. Clarke, of course.

Mr. Clarke sat with Mallory on the bus. They sat in the front. I sat in the back. Alone.

As soon as we reached the Cloisters, Mr. Clarke turned us loose. ”Just go sketch,” he said.

Goody, I thought. I'll stay out of his way. This looks like a big place. I ought to be able to avoid him.

My first hour was blissful. There seemed to be lots of places in New York that felt so un-New Yorkish you could imagine yourself in a different place, or even a different time. Mal felt that way about Chinatown. Kristy felt that way about Central Park.

And I felt that way about the Cloisters. It was, I think, the most peaceful place I have ever been in. So I settled down and began drawing. I found a part of a chapel that fascinated me. I began a series of quick sketches, one after the other. First I concentrated on angle, then perspective, then the texture of the stones. I was very excited.

I barely noticed when Mal sat down next to me. (I had settled myself on the floor.) In fact, I jumped when she said, ”I will go crazy if we have to do this all day. How can you keep drawing and drawing, Claud?”

”It's in my blood,” I said dryly.

”Oh.” Mal looked hurt.

I went back to my drawings.

The next thing I knew, Mr. Clarke was saying, ”Very nice.”

He couldn't be talking to me.

I turned around. Nope. He was talking to Mallory. Of course. Then I remembered: You have to escape him!

I stood up quickly. But not quickly enough.

”Let me see, Claudia,” said Mr. Clarke.

I closed my eyes briefly. Then I handed over my sketch pad.

Mr. Clarke looked at what I'd been working on. Then he flipped back a page - and another and another and another. . . .

”Claudia, what are you doing? Trying to set an Olympic sketching record? We're going to be here for hours. Would you please settle down and concentrate on one drawing? Just humor me for once.”

I didn't bother to answer Mr. Clarke. I took back my sketch pad, turned to a fresh page, moved to a different spot, and started drawing again. I was so angry that I worked on one drawing for three and a half hours. I almost forgot to eat my lunch.

Mr. Clarke didn't say another word to me the entire time we were at the Cloisters. He walked by me twice and checked out my work, but then he just moved on. Good. I was sending silent signals to him. The signals warned, ”Keep away. Don't talk to me. Keep away. Don't talk to me.”

They must have been pretty strong.

When the time came for us Falny students to leave the Cloisters, I was exhausted. I don't think I had ever worked or concentrated so hard. I staggered onto the bus. I wasn't sure where Mal was, and I didn't care.

Halfway down the aisle, I saw her. She was about to slide into the empty seat next to Mr. Clarke, but when he looked up and spotted me, he said, ”Oh, excuse me, Mallory.” He jumped up. ”Claudia, I'd like to talk to you.”

Oh, fabulous. This was just fabulous. What a way to end the day. I was only thirteen years old, and someone was going to tell me that my career as an artist was over - before it had even started.

I was an eighth-grade failure.