Allie Jo
I’ve finished my blueberry pancakes and got a double portion of tuna for Jinx. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately—she’s eating more than she ever used to.
I snitch a peppermint on my way past the hostess stand, and when no one’s looking, I cross the hall, walk a few paces, and press on the chair rail, which is just a piece of wood trim. Strolling down the hall, you’d never notice the secret panel that opens up to the nanny staircase. It looks like every other part of the wall, with the wainscoting and chair rail, but press down, and—voila!—secret staircase.
I slip in real quick, shutting the door with my foot.
The grand staircase is wide and elegant, with curved handrails and turned balusters. The reason it’s so wide is—well, you have to think about those turn-of-the-century ladies wearing those big hoop dresses while trying to get through the place. In fact, it’s on account of those ladies that the stairs were built with huge landings between flights. Those poor ladies squeezed into corsets so tight, they could barely breathe, yet they had to walk up and down these stairs gasping for breath and no air-conditioning on top of it. That’s why fainting couches were available on each landing. And they were used mightily too.
The staircase I’m in is the secret nanny staircase. You might think this staircase would be wide too, since the nannies were ladies, or girls, and they wore hoop skirts and corsets too, and on top of that, they had a trail of children with them at all times.
But no, this staircase is narrow and dark. The landings are only big enough for you to turn up to the next flight of stairs. There’re a few lights in here now—though most of the bulbs burned out a long time ago—but the nannies had to find their way by oil lamps at night or window light by day. Of course, those windows are no help these days; they were painted black during the Second World War, when this place was used as a barracks and a hospital. I guess no one ever saw fit to strip the paint off the windows.
I turn the peppermint over in my mouth as I scrape the tuna fish into Jinx’s bowl. I’ll listen to Isabelle for a few minutes, then go do my chores.
“Hello.”
I scream and drop the container.
“You!” I say, trying to regain myself, which is hard to do after shrieking in front of someone.
“I’m Tara,” she says. She tips her head and waits.
Tara. It’s the sound of wind and branches blowing, dark and mysterious.
“Sorry,” she says, except it comes out as sore-y. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you all right then?”
“I’m all right.” Usually this room is invitation-only, but immediately I make an exception for her. I want to know why she was hiding, why she swam in her clothes, why she’s wearing that same outfit, and where the heck she’s been all this time. “I’m Allie Jo.”
She smiles. “I know.”
I sure do like her accent. “Where you from?”
Something changes in her eyes when I ask that, like a transparent shade coming down. I can still see her, but it’s like I can’t see in.
“Around, all over. I’m from a lot of places.”
“Military.” I nod my head. Military kids move all the time. No wonder she has an accent. In school, there’s a kid from an Air Force family who was born in England and has an English accent. When he turns eighteen, he gets to choose which country he’ll be a citizen of.
I study Tara carefully. “Are you eighteen yet?” I wonder which country she’ll choose.
“I’m sixteen.” She pulls her hair forward and strokes it.
Luminous. That’s the word I think of. I heard it on a shampoo commercial. Her hair is luminous; it shimmers in the light. She looks like a mermaid.
“You’re so pretty.” I slap my hand to my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.
She laughs, but not in an I’m-making-fun-of-you way. It’s a gentle laugh, a nice laugh, not snippy, which is how Jennifer Jorgensen would laugh. And this girl is way prettier than Jennifer—she’s beautiful.
“You’re pretty too,” she says, and smiles.
My face heats up a little. Well, where are my manners? “Whyn’t you sit down?” I sit on the carpet remnant, leaving the beanbag for her. But she sits on the carpet across from me, folding her legs like a dancer. Her posture is straight; without even thinking, I pull myself up out of my slouch.
Rain patters lightly outside, filtering through the jacaranda leaves; orchid petals float down with the raindrops.
Tara gasps. “The creature!”
“What?” I snap my head around. “That’s Jinx!” Jinx leaps down from the window and sidles up against me. I rub her back. She’s a little damp from the rain.
She slips out from under my hand and pushes her side into Tara’s leg. Tara laughs and pets Jinx. “Her fur is soft.”
It makes me feel good that she likes my cat and my cat likes her. Sophie did nothing but sneeze when I brought her up here, but it’s not her fault she’s allergic.
“I thought I saw you at breakfast the other day,” I say, “but it wasn’t you. Where’ve you been?”
She laughs, and it floats around me like dandelions—soft and breezy. “I wanted to see you,” she says. Though her eyes are black, they glitter with light.
I look up at her. “You did?”
“Yes. Just as you wanted to see me.”
I stop for a minute. She’s right. I did want to see her. “Wow …”
The sky outside darkens. A gust blows in and rustles the kudzu, causing a monarch to close its wings and hold on tight.
She tilts her head and watches me closely as she asks, “Did you keep our secret?” It’s a question, but she says it like a sentence. “Did you tell anyone about me?”
I nod. “I mean”—I shake my head—“I didn’t tell anyone about you.”
Thunder rumbles gently from far away.
She watches as Jinx pads up to the tuna and starts chowing down. I watch her watch Jinx; she licks her lips and swallows.
Turning to me, she says, “I’m hungry. The black shells have no meat in them, but the fish is delicious.” She steals a glance at Jinx and licks her lips again.
“Tuna salad,” I say. No wonder I never see her. She must hit the lunch buffet; I always eat lunch at home. “I don’t think Chef has turned over the menu yet, but we could go down and get breakfast.”
She shakes her head. “Too many people.”
“There aren’t too many people!” That won’t happen till Taste of Hope, when the hotel bulges with people staying over for the festival.
“Allie Jo,” she says, laying her hand on me. Her hair grazes my arm and a shiver goes right down to my feet. She holds me still with her gaze. “You’re my friend; I picked you. I feel strength and goodness in you.”
“You do?” I like strength and goodness. “Do you feel anything else in me?” If she does, I want to know—maybe it’s something really cool, like I discover a new planet or win the lottery. “Are you a gypsy?”
She throws her head back and laughs. “You ask a lot of questions.” Then her smile fades and she straightens up. Her eyes pierce mine deeply. “I’m just a girl, like you.”
Jinx leaves her bowl and climbs onto the beanbag. Spreading out her paws, she kneads it like dough, then curls up and settles into it. I become aware that the rain has stopped; plus, Dad’ll be expecting me for the brass. Polishing brass is one job I never miss because I actually get paid for it.
“I have to go,” I say, standing. She stands up too. “You don’t have to leave,” I quickly offer. I’d kind of like to think of her here, enjoying the place. A warm breeze swirls into the room, gently touching the leaves. The bark on the jacaranda branches has darkened from the rain, causing the light green of the leaves to stand out. “Why don’t you stay?”
“I would like that,” she says. “Allie Jo?” she calls as I head out the doorway. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here—do you promise?”
“You won’t get in trouble. I won’t tell your parents.” Isabelle didn’t tell her parents that Karen flunked a math test because Karen and her best friend were too busy passing notes in class to pay attention.
“But do you promise?”
I nod. I don’t do anything silly like pinky promise or cross my heart and hope to die. Her face is so serious I get the feeling the promise is about more than just her being on prohibited grounds. In fact, I’m sure of it.