The Summer of Moonlight Secrets (14 page)

38

Allie Jo

I've filed all the vendor accounts and dusted Dad's office, including his desk, the pictures on the wall, and even the baseboards. Brass is next. Polishing brass is part of my regular chores, of course, but everything else I was forced to do as part of my punishment.

The morning started off all right; I woke up before Mom and Dad, left a note on the counter, and slipped out the door. Chef opens the breakfast buffet early on Saturdays and Sundays for the weekend travelers, and that worked out especially well for me because no one was on hand to see my leaning tower of blueberry pancakes and packets of syrup, which I whisked upstairs through the tunnels and up the north nanny staircase.

“Tara, it's me,” I whispered, putting my mouth right up to the corner where the door meets the frame. I shot a look down the hall; after all, I did live on this very same floor, just all the way down. “Tara!” I kicked the door softly, my hands being full.

The door opened and I saw a sliver of her through the crack.

Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Allie Jo!” The door shut and I heard her rattle the chain off before she opened it again.

I slipped in real quick, brandishing The Meriwether's Famous Blueberry Pancakes. Steam rose off them in disappearing swirls, and the butter melted like rays of sunshine down the stack.

“Breakfast,” I said, “is served!”

We sat at the desk, and I opened the to-go packet with a napkin, a fork, and a knife in it, folding up the napkin fancy so she'd know this is a five-star breakfast. I slipped out the extra plate and set up a place for myself.

She breathed in heavily. “It smells sweet, like nectar.”

“That's the blueberries,” I said, tearing open a syrup packet.

She watched me, then did the same.

I took the first bite, letting the blueberry goodness explode in my mouth.

Tara stared at me.

Motioning with my fork, I said, “Eat 'em while they're hot!”

With careful movements, she cut her pancakes, tapped them in the syrup, and put a bite in her mouth. “Hmm,” she said, keeping her lips closed.

“I know,” I said around a mouthful of pancake, then clamped my lips shut. I didn't want her to think I ate like a pig.

She finished that stack awfully quick and looked like she could eat some more, which got me to wondering if she'd been eating at all. I watched her rub her finger on her plate and lick the syrup off. I guess we are alike in some things.

With a satisfied belly and the good feeling I had from bringing her breakfast, I felt warm and cozy, like in a dream. Tara's manners were excellent, and I bet by the way she talked, she got As in English. Thoughts of school crowded in, even though I tried to push them out. I got As in English, but if it came to friends, I'd get an F. No, I'd get the kind of grade Melanie gets in PE—Doesn't Participate.

I put my hands between my knees and leaned forward against the desk. “Do you have a best friend?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Lots of them.”

My shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

“Why?” she asked, and licked the syrup from her pointer, middle, and ring fingers. “Do you have a best friend?”

“Melanie,” I said, slumping even more. “But she's on vacation for the rest of the summer.”

She stopped with the syrup and looked right at me. “What about your other friends?”

I looked right back at her, right at the way she peered into my eyes, and I knew I couldn't lie; I couldn't even fudge the truth. Looking down, I said, “I don't really have any other friends.”

I explained to her about how I ride the bus for a long way to school and how the closest other girls are Jennifer Jorgensen and her friends and how mean Jennifer is to me. “And I've never done anything to her,” I said. “But every time I see her, she either ignores me or says something and then she and her friends laugh at me. They're always with her.”

Tara leaned forward. “You are very strong. They come together against you because, alone, they cannot match you.”

Of course, this made me feel better. And when I thought about it, I couldn't even picture Jennifer without her followers. But still … she's Jennifer Jorgensen.

“Test her,” Tara said. “Test her when she's alone.”

“Well, that's not the only thing.” Then I explained the story of my life to her. How my dad has only a two-year college degree, and how my mom graduated high school, got married, and before you know it, I came along. They met while working here—Mom waitressing, Dad bellhopping—and I guess we just naturally worked our way into the hotel family.

Most of the kids in school have parents who work in tall buildings in the downtowns of nearby cities. And you can be sure they don't live in those same buildings.

A lot of people at school think it's weird I live in a hotel. They say hotels are just for vacations or weekends. Some people feel sorry for me, like I don't have a real home. Hardly any of them consider the fact that I
like
living here. I'd hate to live in one of those subdivisions where the houses all look the same and the only thing that makes them different is the house number. Do any of them live over tunnels or have secret staircases? Do any of them walk outside to crystal water bubbling from a deep underground cavern? Can any of them say they live in a five-star home?

But they don't think about that stuff. Not even the grown-ups, who're split between looking at The Meriwether as a historical jewel or wanting to declare the place condemned and raze it, which is a weird word because it sounds like you're building something up but the whole time it means tearing it down.

Tara sat straight as an arrow. “Knock it down?” Her eyes rounded with shock. “What of their fathers? The ghosts of the past are in these walls—I can feel them.” Then she looked shocked again, as if what she just said surprised her.

But I totally agreed.

I wondered if this was how it felt between Isabelle and Karen, talking about stuff and having the same feelings. Tara is so wise. I bet she'd make an excellent sister.

Housekeeping would be around soon, and I couldn't let them find Tara in the room. As soon as we were done talking, I poked my head out, saw the all clear, and let her run across to the north staircase. Then I shut the door. She'd been a neat guest, no towels on the floor or pillows thrown all over. You'd be surprised the shape some grown adults leave a hotel room in.

First, I threw out the plasticware, which is what you call silverware when it's plastic, the syrup packets, and one used mini shampoo bottle. Pulling the bag from the wastebasket, I tied it off neatly and grabbed the plates. I had to make up the room for the next guest.

I saw the service cart down the hall, but no housekeeper. Good. I ran down, threw the trash on it, and grabbed a new shampoo bottle. Back in the room, I neatened everything up and wiped everything down—I like doing a good job—and the last item of business was stripping the bed.

With all the sheets and pillowcases, my arms were full. I opened the door, but it wanted to shut on me, so I held it open with my butt, struggled out with my load, turned, and found myself face-to-face with Mary, one of our housekeepers.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the vinyl couch behind the closed doors of Dad's office. “What were you doing in there?” Dad yelled. Not loud, but for Dad, it was practically shouting. “You know you're not allowed to use the guest rooms.” He pressed his lips together and stared at me.

He'd never looked at me with that expression before. I tried to return his gaze, but his disappointment was too crushing. I tucked my chin into my shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“Did you take your friends in there?”

Without looking up, I shook my head.

He wanted to know why I changed the sheets, why there was trash to throw out, and what I was doing in there in the first place.

I bit my lip and stared at him. I had no answers. Tears filled my eyes, but my mouth stayed shut. I made a promise and I was going to keep it. Adults wouldn't understand about Tara—they'd have to
do
something about her; that much I knew.

I couldn't let that happen.

Dad looked down and shook his head. “You're in trouble, Allie Jo. You realize that, right?”

I nodded. My chin trembled a little. Though I sat on his couch and he sat on his chair, I felt like there was a big space between us.

He watched me, not with anger, but with love. That's the part that bothered me the most, that he hoped for me to say something that would close the gap.

A minute or two went by before he said anything, and when he did, it was to tell me my punishment and remind me of the rules.

I
know
the rules for the hotel. But breaking them this time wasn't wrong; I know that in my heart. I just can't tell Dad. I pour the Brasso, swab the rails with one rag, wipe them clean with the other rag. Fingerprints gone. Just wipe the rails clean and they shine good as gold. Wish everything were that easy.

39

Chase

The spell is broken when we see Allie Jo at the front desk. Her hair swings in front of her face like a curtain. She's polishing the brass rails and her whole body sways left and right, like someone standing on a ship in rough water.

“Hey!” I shout, expecting her to jump out of her skin like she did last night.

Instead, she turns with what seems like her last ounce of energy. “Ha, ha,” she says. “Hi, Sophie.” Then she goes back to her polishing.

“What's wrong with you?” I ask at the same time Sophie's saying, “What's wrong?”

Allie Jo glances between us. “I can't say right now.”

I realize she's been working without me. “Hey,” I say, “you leaving any brass for me? I want to get paid today!”

Sophie whispers to Allie Jo, and Allie Jo points her to the office. “Second door,” Allie Jo says.

She waits for Sophie to leave, then lowers her voice. “Tara.”

Leaning in, I whisper too. “What about her?”

Glancing at the door again, she puts the rags down and leans closer to me. Then she tells me this weird story about frogs and fish and Tara leaping out of the water and later manatees bumping her around and Tara saving her.

Then she tells the part I know, about giving Tara a room, only the story ends with Allie Jo getting caught. Now she's being punished.

“That stinks.”

“What stinks?” Sophie emerges from the office.

Allie Jo bends her head and starts polishing again. Sophie gets a quizzical look on her face.

“Oh, nothing,” I say. Then, to Allie Jo: “Want some help?”

She looks up from her rags. “That would be great.”

“I'll help too,” Sophie says.

I grab more rags and another bottle from under the desk. As I do, I spot a pink shirt in the Lost and Found. I think of Tara and her one outfit, so I jumble the shirt with the clean rags and deposit it behind the vending machine before leading Sophie to the French doors.

“Um, I don't really know how to do this,” Sophie says.

“C'mon, I'll show you.”

I give her a quick lesson on brass polishing. I notice the top of her head as I talk, the part on the side, the hair that's escaped the part.

Sophie flicks her hair with her hand. “Is there a bug in my hair?”

“No,” I say, and smile. “Your hair is just right.”

She smiles too. I smile and she smiles. We're still smiling when Allie Jo pops up from behind the desk and calls out, “I'm sure glad I'm not paying you today.”