SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET Page 8

  CHAPTER

  15

  The next morning, Hero wandered morosely into the kitchen to prepare herself before confronting Mrs. Roth. She took a pint of chocolate ice cream from the freezer and set it on the countertop, fishing in the drawer for a spoon. Her parents sat at the kitchen table, separated by the stack of Sunday newspapers and the colorful litter of inserts.

  “Hero,” her mother protested, “you haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

  “This is breakfast,” Hero answered. She took a heaping spoonful of chocolaty ice cream and savored the cold sweetness on her tongue.

  “At least put it in a bowl,” her mother said. “It’s almost all gone anyway.” “Well, have a glass of orange juice with it.” Her father made a face. “With ice cream?”

  “She needs something nutritious—”

  Hero left them disagreeing and carried the carton of ice cream out the back door into the cool morning. She sat on the driveway, dangling her spoon over the asphalt and watching the chocolate drops stain a pattern between her sneakers. She concentrated on writing her initials. The neighborhood was silent, a Sunday morning stillness broken only by the shrill twittering of a bird somewhere overhead. Soon, Hero knew, people would be leaving for church, or tennis games, or shopping. But for now it was quiet.

  Beyond the fence, she heard Mrs. Roth’s door swing open and then her gentle footsteps on the porch. She looked up.

  “Is that you, Hero?” Mrs. Roth crossed the garden.

  “Yes.” Hero stood up and walked over to the fence. She avoided the overgrown rosebush, looking for a spot not choked with branches.

  “Well, why don’t you come over?” Mrs. Roth asked, smiling. “I’ve been wondering what happened yesterday. How did you fare with your search?”

  Hero paused. “I didn’t find anything.”

  “And where did you look? Did you inspect all those lovely built-ins?” Mrs. Roth stepped carefully between the plantings to the fence. “Hero? What’s wrong?”

  Hero looked away. She took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me he was your husband? Why didn’t you tell me you were Mr. Murphy’s wife?”

  Mrs. Roth stood still. Her face tightened. “Ex-wife,” she said softly. “I am his ex-wife.” She rested one hand on the fence, her mouth a thin line. “I didn’t tell you because it doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” Hero demanded. “Of course it matters! It changes everything.”

  She felt a surge of anger that surprised her. They had been in this together, she and Mrs. Roth, trying to find the diamond, helping each other, solving the puzzle. It had been their secret. But now it wasn’t true. And wasn’t the whole point of a secret that it was true, so true and private you couldn’t tell anyone, or at least couldn’t tell anyone except a friend you could trust?

  Mrs. Roth gripped the fence. “It doesn’t change anything.” Hero saw her knuckles turn white. “Now listen to me, Hero. I’m sorry you had to learn that particular piece of information from someone other than myself. But it has no bearing whatsoever on anything I’ve told you about the Murphys or the diamond.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I did not. If you had asked me about Arthur, I would have told you the truth.”

  “Oh, sure. Like I would have thought to ask that. Like anybody would! You don’t even have the same last name. It’s crazy. You live next door to your ex-husband and you’re best friends with his new wife? Who’d believe that?”

  “No one.” Mrs. Roth looked away, dropping her hand from the fence. “Which is why I didn’t tell you. I went back to my maiden name years ago, though I never quite gave up the ’Mrs.’ At any rate, I was surprised when the police found out. But then, I suppose that’s their job.”

  Hero shook her head bitterly. “It must’ve been a lot easier to fool me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to fool anyone. Hero, stop this.”

  “What else haven’t you told me? I bet you already know where the diamond is. It’s not like you were so upset about your friend dying that you couldn’t even think about it.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Hero regretted them. Something in Mrs. Roth’s face changed, crumpling, closing. She stepped back from the fence.

  “All right, Hero. That is quite enough. I’m sorry you believe that I lied to you. It was never my intent to deceive you.”

  Mrs. Roth turned away. She slowly retraced her steps through the thicket of shrubs and flowers, stiffly climbing the porch stairs. Her short silver hair capped her head like a soldier’s helmet, glinting in the morning sun. She walked into the house, closing the door behind her.

  Hero was left to stare at the jubilant tangle of the garden, dewy and sparkling in the morning light. She wondered why she suddenly felt so bad. She wasn’t the one who’d lied. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

  She walked slowly back to the house. Hero ducked through the kitchen before her parents could waylay her and climbed the stairs to her room, flopping backward on the bed. The colorful glass bottles on the window seat caught her eye. Mrs. Roth would like those, too, Hero realized. She would fill them with her flowers.

  She stared at the ceiling, studying the etching of roses on the old light fixture, all the while thinking about Mrs. Roth. It had been so exciting, to imagine the diamond, to consider its hiding place. It had been the one good thing about moving here, the only good thing. And now it seemed to be something else entirely: a lie, a scam, a hoax. Probably Danny’s father was right. The diamond wasn’t here anymore. Mr. Murphy and Mrs. Roth had taken care of that long ago.

  Hero glanced at the green book on her nightstand. Much Ado About Nothing. That’s the story of my life, she thought.

  Beatrice leaned her head in the doorway. “Can I borrow your jean shorts?” she asked.

  “No.” Hero rolled on her side, looking out the window.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then let me borrow your shorts. Mine are in the laundry.”

  Hero sighed. “Okay. But leave me alone.”

  “What are you so mad about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve been in a bad mood since yesterday. What’s the matter? Is it Danny?” Beatrice stripped, pulled on the shorts, and tried to see herself in the dresser mirror.

  “No,” Hero said firmly. “Danny’s a jerk.”

  “No way. Danny’s great. And he’s totally into you.”

  Hero rolled over to see Beatrice’s face, certain she was teasing. But Beatrice was absorbed in the contents of the dresser drawer, sorting through Hero’s clothes for other possibilities.

  “What about these black ones? Can I borrow these?”

  “I guess. But you’re wrong about Danny. He’s a jerk, and if you see him at school, you can tell him that from me.”

  “Sure, like I’d ever do that.” Beatrice snorted. She glanced up. “Hey, you can tell him yourself. He’s standing in the driveway.”

  “What?” Hero bolted upright and looked out the window. There was Danny Cordova, skateboard in hand, walking toward the house. She groaned. “Oh, geez. What does he want now? Triss, you go. Tell him I’m not here.”

  “He’ll never believe that. It’s not even ten o’clock. Where would you be?”

  “Tell him I’m at church.”

  Beatrice laughed loudly. “Really?”

  “Just do it. I don’t want to talk to him.”

  Beatrice shook her head and shoved Hero affectionately. “You’re crazy, you know that? But okay, I’ll tell him.” She pulled on Hero’s black shorts and a T-shirt, ran her fingers through her hair, then trotted down the stairs.

  Hero heard her open the front door and call to Danny. She walked quickly to the landing, straining to hear what they were saying. She thought she heard Danny laugh. Beatrice wasn’t closing the door to come back upstairs; she was standing outside, talking to him. Making him laugh. Hero fidgeted, leaning over the banister. She couldn’t see an
ything, but there was no sign of the conversation ending, just the faint back-and-forth of their voices. What could they be talking about? Was he telling Beatrice about Mrs. Roth? About the diamond? In a flood of panic, Hero ran downstairs.

  Danny and Beatrice were standing in the front yard. They both looked at her in surprise.

  “How was church?” Danny asked, a slow grin lighting his face.

  “Fine, thanks,” Hero answered coldly.

  “I didn’t know you went to church.” He was still smiling, waiting for her reaction.

  Hero glared at him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  He kept smiling. “Whatever.”

  Beatrice stretched. “I’m going to get some breakfast. See you later, Danny.” Shooting a quick glance at Hero, she crossed the yard and went inside.

  Danny pushed the skateboard with his foot, sending it careening across the driveway. It thudded softly against Mrs. Roth’s fence. “So, are you going to talk to Miriam?”

  Hero glared at him. “I already did.”

  “Did you ask about Mr. Murphy? Why she never told us she used to be married to him?”

  Hero shrugged, looking at Mrs. Roth’s house. She didn’t answer.

  “Oh, come on, Netherfield. What’s up with you? You’re acting like such a ... girl.”

  In spite of herself, Hero almost smiled.

  “What did she say?” Danny asked again.

  Hero relented. “It didn’t go very well. We kind of got in a fight.”

  Danny looked at her in amazement. “Really? I would’ve liked to see that. I can’t picture Miriam yelling at anybody.”

  Hero sighed. “She didn’t yell. It was mostly me.”

  “Oh, okay. That I can picture.”

  Hero frowned at him, but he only laughed. “I gotta go. Ben’s waiting for me.” He kicked the skateboard in front of him and pushed off, gliding to the end of the driveway. “See you later, Netherfield. Let me know if you find out anything.”

  Hero watched him turn neatly onto the street. Danny Cordova might be a jerk, but he certainly kept things interesting.

  CHAPTER

  16

  When Hero walked into Mrs. Vanderley’s classroom the next morning, she saw a knot of girls gathered at the desk behind hers. They looked at her when she came through the door, a deliberate appraising look, and immediately stopped talking. It was the group from the cafeteria: Kendra, Megan, some others. The popular kids. Hero was so startled by their attention that she almost forgot where to sit. Now what?

  Kendra leaned forward as Hero unloaded her books from her backpack. “Hey. Didn’t I see you riding your bike with Danny Cordova on Saturday afternoon?”

  Hero didn’t know what to say. She considered denying it, but that seemed likely to provoke more questions. She swallowed and said quickly, “Probably.”

  Megan smirked. “How do you know him?” The others were watching her closely, clearly waiting for something.

  Hero hesitated. “He lives near me.”

  “But what were you doing with him?” Kendra asked. “Where were you going?”

  “Oh, nowhere. We were just hanging out.” Hero turned away nervously. She tried to busy herself with her homework, checking for her name at the top of each sheet.

  “Hanging out?” Several of the girls giggled. “My sister says Danny Cordova wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with a sixth-grader,” said Megan.

  Kendra persisted. “You have a sister in eighth grade, right? Is he her boyfriend or something?”

  Hero felt a flash of irritation. “No,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Is he your boyfriend, Hero?” someone asked. They were laughing openly now.

  “No,” Hero started to protest, but in her heart she knew it was hopeless.

  “Ooo, he’s Hero’s boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “So what were you doing together?” Kendra asked again. “What was he doing with you?”

  “Nothing,” Hero repeated. She blinked back tears, her cheeks hot.

  At that moment, Mrs. Vanderley walked in. “What’s going on here?” she demanded. “Let me remind you that there will be a spelling test first thing this morning. If you’ve finished putting away your things, I suggest you review your vocabulary list. I want this room quiet. Now.”

  The laughter subsided. Hero took out her spelling notebook and tried to focus on the long list of words. She wished she’d never met Danny Cordova. What had she been thinking, letting herself become friends with him. How could she have thought nobody would notice?

  If the day stretched on interminably, the rest of the week only got worse. Soon Hero noticed that not just the girls but the boys were talking about her, laughing and then growing suddenly quiet when she passed by. She wasn’t really surprised—that was how it worked. Something happened, something small like the dog joke, and they made fun of you. Then, because they’d made fun of you, you became a target. Anything you did was fair game.

  There was no reason for it, not really. Or maybe there was. Maybe Kendra had a crush on Danny, or Megan’s sister had a crush on Danny. And Hero had crossed some forbidden line, violated an unwritten law of the social order. She was the new kid with the weird name, not the type of girl who should be hanging around with the cutest boy in the eighth grade.

  It wouldn’t do any good to tell anyone. Beatrice had no experience with this kind of thing. Danny was the cause of the teasing, so it was better to leave him out of it. And Hero hadn’t seen or talked to Mrs. Roth all week, not since their argument. She still had the heavy English history book in her backpack. She’d been lugging it to school every day, thinking about the initials on the pendant, wondering when—or if— she’d ever have a chance to tell Mrs. Roth about Anne Boleyn and the necklace.

  By the time Hero boarded the bus to go home on Friday it seemed that the whole school knew about her and Danny Cordova, whatever there was to know. She leaned her forehead against the window and through the streaked glass watched the students flood out of the front doors of the school in their noisy, animated clusters. As they dispersed to buses and carpools and harried parents, Hero watched the fluid couplings and uncouplings of friends, the casual chatter and goodbyes. It looked so easy, but in the end it was as mysterious as anything. As mysterious as the Murphy diamond, even.

  Aaron interrupted her thoughts, squeezing into the seat behind her, clearly pleased with himself. “Hey! Guess what,” he said eagerly. “I saw your name today! And you know what? I read it all by myself.”

  “You did?” Hero asked, not interested.

  “You know how I knew it was your name?”

  “No, how?”

  “Because I see it all the time on that tag on your backpack. And then, when I saw the same letters, I knew it was your name. That’s how.”

  “Oh,” Hero answered. But seeing his flushed, proud expression, she tried again. “That’s really good, that you can read.”

  “Yeah, it’s really good. I’m one of the best readers in my whole class. The teacher says so. And I read your name, lots of times.” He added solemnly, “You’re famous.”

  Hero turned to look at him, suddenly paying closer attention. “What do you mean, famous?” she asked warily. “Where did you see my name?”

  “In the boys’ bathroom.”

  “The boys’ bathroom? My name? Are you sure?”

  “H-E-R-O. I told you, I read it myself.”

  “Oh.” Hero shuddered. This was unbelievable. “Aaron, try to remember, what else did it say?”

  Aaron thought for a minute. “I don’t know,” he said. “I couldn’t read the rest. But it was your name, lots and lots of times. So you’re famous.”

  Hero sighed. “That’s not famous. Famous is a good thing,” she said wearily. “When someone writes your name in the boys’ bathroom, it’s not a good thing.”

  “It’s not?” Aaron looked surprised.

  “No, never,” said Hero.

  The bus stoppe
d at their corner, and they gathered their things and stepped down to the sidewalk. Hero felt overwhelmed by despair. What had the boys written about her? And how many kids had already seen it? Was that why everyone was laughing?

  She thought about Anne Boleyn, about Hero from the play. She remembered what her father had said: “Done to death by slanderous tongues.” Shivering, she hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. Without thinking, she headed straight toward the dingy white fence that bordered Mrs. Roth’s garden.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Mrs. Roth was sitting on the front stoop in a bright patch of sun, with the newspaper draped over her lap. Hero trudged up the path toward her, still feeling numb. She sank onto the porch steps, burying her face in her hands. Mrs. Roth said nothing, just shifted slightly to make room for her. Hero sat in silence, listening to the stillness of the garden, the breeze stirring the flowers, the faint hum of insects, the crackle of the paper. The smell of the flowers was thick and sweet and overpowering. It cleared her head of everything else. She understood suddenly why someone might love a garden.

  “Six letters, beginning with M,” Mrs. Roth said. “The clue is ’distinctly obvious.’”

  Hero thought for a minute. “Don’t know.”

  “Hmmm, I don’t either. What about four letters, ’crowd protest’?”

  “Riot?” Hero suggested.

  “Oh, yes, of course. That makes it m-blank-r-blank-blank-blank for the first one.”

  Hero raised her head and looked at the grid, which was covered with Mrs. Roth’s neat print. “How about ’morbid’?”

  “Well, it would fit, but it has nothing to do with the clue. Let’s see . . . aha! ’Marked.’”

  “Oh, good.” Hero scanned the remaining blanks, trying to concentrate. They traded the pen back and forth for a while, filling in what they could. Eventually Mrs. Roth folded the newspaper and set it aside.