Chapter 27
April 30
I might have known Jonah’s plans would involve me making an idiot out of myself. He borrowed a Girl Scout uniform from a girl who goes to his temple, and is now shoving me into my parents’ room to get changed.
“It’s the only way, Edmund. You can totally pull it off. You’re a much better actor than I am. And you’re thin enough to fit into the dress. All you need is a wig, which I know your mother has from last Halloween. People love the Girl Scouts. You’ll be inside their apartments in no time!”
“Why can’t we do your pizza idea?” I whine.
He gives me an incredulous look. “And buy five hundred pizzas? Cookies are where it’s at. It’s the promise of future cookies that gets you in the door. Chocolate, mint, coconut, peanut butter . . .” His eyes glaze over, fantasizing about peanut butter cookies. He’s a total addict. Shaking the image from his head, he stuffs the uniform into my hands and firmly closes the door. “Now, change!” he demands.
I groan and strip out of my clothes. The dress slides on easily, a perfect fit. It’s unbelievably itchy and hot. What cruel person decided wool was a good idea? I have a newfound respect for girls and their wardrobe sufferings.
From behind the door Jonah jabbers at me about our mission. He’s made a list of the properties we’re going to hit, prioritizing them on probability of success: “The wealthiest-looking buildings first. Apartments with a buzzer system. Then brownstones. Doormen are last. Avoid doormen at all costs.”
He claims it’s a system based on statistics, but I know it’s because he’s scared of doormen. He broke a vase in his building’s lobby once, and Grigore the doorman went postal on him. Now whenever we walk through to get to Jonah’s apartment, Grigore starts muttering in Romanian and gesturing to the new vase in the lobby. Post-traumatic vase syndrome.
The Girl Scout uniform is on and the mirror tells all: Right now I look like a skinny cross-dresser who was attacked by a swarm of mosquitos. I can’t stop scratching at the horrible material.
Itching away, I dig through my mom’s stuff in the closet, locating her long brown wig under some sweaters. Last year she went as Beyoncé to a costume party, and literally stopped traffic.
“Are you done yet?” Jonah’s muffled voice calls from the other side of the door.
“Just a minute,” I grumble. Why do I have to be the guinea pig? Then I see myself with the wig on. Jonah’s right; I do look like a girl.
Terrific.
I pin the hair back with one of my mom’s hairclips. Not bad, I think, turning to the side and checking out my new look. I am innocent. A sweet, geeky girl, perfect to let into your house and catalog your most expensive possessions.
I open the door. Jonah stands there, eyes bulging out. A strange noise gurgles in his throat. Clutching his pants, he turns on his heel and sprints down the hallway. I hear the bathroom door slam, followed by peals of laughter. He better not have peed on the floor mid run.
As his laughter continues, I sigh and take off the wig. Back to the drawing board.
May 7
“Did you switch meds?”
“No,” Jonah yawns in a cotton-filled voice. “I think I’m getting sick.” He puts down his binoculars to blow his nose. We’re out on Lexington Ave. again, crouched behind the same stupid trash can.
Great. The clock is ticking, he’s getting sick, and we have an über-lame plan to find the Picasso. Of course, I couldn’t come up with a better idea, so I can’t complain.
We’re pretending to be students doing a survey about art in the city, complete with questionnaires, clipboards, and paper coffee cups. (The last prop is for effect. According to Jonah, people who do surveys are up all night performing caffeinated number crunching.)
Jonah thinks it’s a brilliant plan. “Why not just ask people, point-blank, Do you own a Picasso?” he says as we begin to walk the block. “They’ll think it’s normal. Why would we, two young kids, be checking out their homes for robbery? They won’t think of it. They’ll believe us, trust me.”
This is getting us nowhere fast. How many people live on this block? Eight hundred? A thousand? And who wants to talk to some coffee-drinking kids about art?
After climbing a set of stone steps, Jonah rings the first apartment on the list, pressing the buzzer with purpose. I stay back a few stairs, my heart beating fast. We’re actually doing this. No turning back now.
“What are you boys doing?” An elderly lady with purplish hair and a turquoise silk scarf is glowering at us from the sidewalk. Her wrinkled face is pinched with suspicion.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Jonah says in a smarmy voice. “We are students doing an art survey for our history class. May we have a moment of your time, please?”
“No, you may not. Now leave these steps at once or I will call the police!” She huffs by me up to the landing, brandishing a key like she’s holding a knife. Jonah touches her arm. Big mistake.
“Unhand me, you ruffian!” she screeches, whapping him over the head with her purse.
“Ow!” he yelps, stumbling down the stairs. The woman slams the door with gusto. This time I’m the one who loses it laughing.
“What are we going to do now?” asks Jonah, rubbing his head, a pout forming on his face. He sits down on the bottom step like a dejected puppy dog.
“I don’t know,” I manage to pant out. Tears are running down my cheeks. I can’t stop laughing.
Jonah glares at me.
A middle-aged brunette woman is strolling toward us on the sidewalk. She pauses, and tilts her head to one side. “Is there a problem, boys?” She has a pleasant smile and is wearing large pearls that could probably pay for Senate. One for every year.
I collect myself, for Jonah’s sake. “My friend and I are trying to do an art survey for class, and a lady from this building just hit him with her purse.” I gesture in the direction of Jonah, who’s still massaging his curly red dome. Looking quite pitiful, I might add.
She chuckles. “You must have met Matilda Swayne. Mean old bag, isn’t she? No pun intended. I live here as well.” She gestures to the fancy apartments. “What sort of survey are you doing? Maybe I can help.”
Jonah brightens. “We’re doing a project about private art ownership. Asking people if they have any famous works in the family, like a Picasso for example.”
“I don’t own anything like that,” she says. “But the lady that hit you? She’s got three Picassos. So I hear. She doesn’t ever let anyone in her place. Just yells at us if we dare to walk by her door.”
Jonah turns to grin at me.
Three Picassos?
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you’re a kid and you want to solve a police investigation, you need a boatload of dumb luck.