Sunday morning, the phone rings and stops, rings and stops, slowly tugging me out of sleep until I’m awake enough to wonder why Dad isn’t answering it.
I sit up and look at my desk. The white box from Yum Li’s is gone, and there’s a message from Mom:
The phone starts up again.
“Today’s the day, Georges. Mr. X went out this morning. We’re going to find whatever the key opens. This is it.”
“No,” I say. “There’s no way either of us is going back into that apartment.”
“Last time, Georges. I promise. Scout’s honor.”
“No.”
“Have I ever asked you for anything?” Safer says. I walk to the fridge, where Dad has left a note that says @ the hospital.
“Are you kidding?” I ask Safer. “You asked me to be your lookout the other night while you committed a crime.”
“You said no,” he points out.
“And then you tricked me into going into a stranger’s apartment.”
“That was purely voluntary. Very brave. Anyway, you said you forgave me.”
“You asked me to stall your mom when you were going through Mr. X’s laundry. I looked like an idiot and got brown goop on my leg.”
“Besides that.”
You asked me to lie to my dad, I think.
“Well, I’m asking for something now,” he says, as if we’ve just established that he’s a saint who’s never asked a single person for anything. “I need you to back me up on the lobbycam. That’s all, Georges. It’s hardly anything.”
“And I’m saying no.”
“This is the last time, Georges. I’m going to hang up and give you a few minutes to think about it.”
I eat a bowl of cereal.
The phone rings.
“The answer is still no,” I say.
“Don’t you ever say hello?” It’s Bob English Who Draws.
“Sorry! I thought you were—”
“Someone else. I know.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Again?”
“Very funny. Look, I figure the taste test will probably be Tuesday or Wednesday. The unit is almost over.”
He’s right. In two or three days, I’ll officially be the biggest steaming pile of spaz in the seventh grade.
“So if you’re absent on Tuesday and Wednesday, you’ll almost definitely miss it.”
“You mean skip class?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying if you’re not feeling well or something.”
“I feel fine.”
“Think about it.”
I tell Bob I’ll think about it. As soon as I put the phone down, it rings again.
“I know what I’m looking for this time,” Safer says. “But I would feel a lot better if you had my back. I’ll give you some more time to think about it.”
I get dressed, telling myself I won’t answer the phone when he calls. But then I do.
“Do you have my back, Georges? Can I count on you?”
I stand there holding the phone. What I’m thinking is that Safer is the only actual friend I’ve got, unless you count Bob English Who Draws. Should I count Bob English Who Draws?
“You still there?” Safer asks.
“I’m here.” I walk over to the lobbycam. Standing in my own private hallway looking at my own private intercom can’t be against the law, can it?
“Fine,” I tell him. “But this is the last time. The lobby is all clear. You’re good to go.”
“I knew it, Georges! Knew I could count on you. Look—forget banging on the pipe. I’m on Pigeon’s cell phone, so I’ll bring it with me and we can keep talking. If you see Mr. X on the lobbycam, just give me a shout.”
Great. Burglary by telephone. I’m probably about to take one giant step toward the definition of conspiracy.
I hear a swish-swish sound through the phone and I know Safer is on the move—it’s the same sound I hear when Dad sticks his cell phone in his pocket and it accidentally calls home.
Swish-swish.
Swish-swish.
Then nothing for a little while.
Then Safer’s voice: “Okay, I’m in.”
“So what are you looking for, exactly?”
“A book,” he says.
“A book that locks?”
“Yes—I did some research online. I think it’s a key to a diary—something old. He must lock it for a reason. Maybe he keeps a list of his victims or something.”
“Just make sure you don’t end up on that list.”
“Why are you whispering, Georges?”
“Because this is crazy!” I say. “It’s the middle of the day. What if he comes home and walks in on you?”
“Now you’re whispering and yelling at the same time. Who knew you were so talented? Anyway, that’s what you’re there for, Georges. To protect me.”
Which makes me feel vaguely sick.
“Okay,” Safer says. “There are a couple of bookshelves, and then I have to go through the desk drawers and stuff. I’m sticking the phone in my pocket, but I’ll leave it on so you can hear me.”
My mouth is dry, but I don’t want to risk the thirty seconds it would take to get water from the kitchen sink. Think of Safer, I tell myself. He’s crazy, but he’s your friend. And he’s up there with the handsaw, alone.
“Okay, the bookshelves have just regular books,” I hear him say. “I’m checking the desk drawers.”
Swish-swish.
“Nothing in the desk drawers. I’m going to check over by his bed.”
Swish-swish.
Swish-swish.
The intercom turns itself off, and I push the button to reactivate it. When the picture comes back, there’s someone in the lobby. A tall man in a black jacket, with a suitcase.
“Safer,” I whisper.
Nothing. Not even a swish-swish.
I realize I’m whispering into Safer’s pocket.
“Safer!” I yell.
Nothing.
The tall man has let himself into the lobby. I start pushing random buttons on my phone, thinking it might make Safer’s phone beep and catch his attention. The tall man is waiting for the elevator.
I run to the kitchen and grab a big spoon. I start banging on the heating pipe, three quick, three slow, three quick. I drop the spoon and push more phone buttons. “Safer, Safer!” I yell.
I hear a dial tone. I must have disconnected the call by pushing so many buttons. Stupid. So stupid! I don’t even know Pigeon’s cell phone number, so I can’t call him back.
On the lobbycam, the tall man is getting into the elevator, dragging his suitcase behind him. I give up on the phone and run out our front door, into the hallway. I take a deep breath and push the elevator button. I can’t let Mr. X find Safer in his apartment. I have to stall him. And if I’m there, the guy can’t kill him, because there’ll be a witness.
Unless he kills both of us.
The elevator is coming. Maybe it isn’t Mr. X, I think. Maybe this is someone completely different, here to stay with a friend. Maybe it’s some French person visiting Mr. Gervais on the fifth floor. I breathe.
The elevator door opens. The tall man is standing there in his black jacket next to his suitcase. I notice his pants are black too. Lots of people wear black, I remind myself. Probably French people, especially.
The man smiles at me. “Going up?”
No trace of an accent.