What appeared to be a low wall from the skater side is a high wall from the other side. It’s one of those concrete-block retaining walls that separates the ground into two levels. The lower level is the flat surface of a soccer field. It’s perfect. I can glimpse Shahid’s head above me as I take up my position.
“Shahid,” I hiss. “Can you hear me?”
“Yesss,” he hisses back.
“Can you see Rachel in the mirror?”
“Yesss.”
I’m so delighted, I could dance a jig. Not that I dance jigs, but if I did, I would.
“Excellent. What is she doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does it look like she’s doing?” I ask.
He whispers, “It looks like she’s staring at my back.”
“What?”
“I said,” he says, “she’s staring at me.”
This is worrisome. “Has she been doing that the whole time?”
“No. Before this, she was unpacking art supplies. Paint and stuff.” There’s a pause before he adds, “And also looking at the sketchbook.”
I’m delighted again. “Did you see what was in it? Were there drawings of faces?”
“I couldn’t tell. There were drawings, but…” He stops. And then he says, “Gack.”
“Huh?”
And a girl’s voice says, “Excuse me. I was wondering—how long do you think you’ll be here?”
“Uh,” Shahid stammers. “I can’t say for sure. But going by statistics, I’ll be around for another seventy years.”
There’s a gap in the conversation, and then the girl laughs. “Very funny. I meant, how long will you be standing in front of this wall?”
“Oh. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.” Even from a distance, I can hear Shahid swallow. “It’s not something I generally do.”
Another space of silence follows. Then the girl asks, “You don’t generally stand in front of walls, or you don’t generally think?”
“Walls,” Shahid blurts. “That’s what I meant. Thinking, I do all the time.”
This seems like the right answer to me, but the girl sounds disappointed. “Oh. That’s too bad. I find thinking interferes with life.”
“Really?” Shahid squeaks.
“Yeah. Thinking gets in the way of the pure experience, you know? The mind can be such a fake place.”
“Fake? But…but,” Shahid stammers. “Oh. Huh. I guess that would make you the opposite of a mentalist.”
“What did you say?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” Poor Shahid. He’s not himself.
“That word,” she mutters. “Mentalist. It rings a bell. Oh!” And suddenly, there she is—Rachel. She’s leaning over the wall, looking straight down at me. Beneath the violet hair and the blue mask, her mouth is smiling. “You must be Angus.” She turns to Shahid. “And you’re his friend, right? Ella told me to watch for you.”
I’m stupefied. This makes no sense at all. I can’t speak, but that’s okay because Rachel keeps going. “She didn’t tell me you two were so…cute. And artsy.”
“Artsy?” Shahid’s voice is faint.
Rachel nods. “Definitely artsy. I’ve never seen shades like yours. They make such a large statement.”
“They do?” Now Shahid sounds really confused. “What are they saying?”
She giggles. “You tell me.”
“I can’t,” he says. I know that Shahid means this literally.
It’s time for me to step up and save him. I try out my voice, and it works. “Ella told you about us?”
“For sure,” Rachel says. “She told me you’re a—what was the word again? A mentalist. And that you’re helping her find her sketchbook. She said you’d be checking around.”
I can’t believe this. Ella needs more help than I thought. Tipping off the suspects is so…naïve. “Yeah, well,” I mutter. “I guess you know how important Ella’s drawings are to her.”
“They’re very important,” Rachel says. “She’s really good. Way better than me. You should see how pathetic mine are.”
Aha. She may think by offering to show me her art, I’ll think she must not have anything to hide. But I can’t be thrown off so easily. I tell her, “I doubt your drawings are pathetic. I’d be happy to see them.”
“Really? Then come on up here and I’ll show you.” She disappears from view.
I whisper to Shahid, “Are you okay?”
“No,” he says. “No, I’m not.”
“I’ll be right there,” I tell him.
I don’t have to go far to find my way around the retaining wall. I hike up a little slope and march toward Rachel. Scattered on the ground at her feet are felt pens, spray-paint cans and a sketchbook. She picks up the sketchbook and holds it aloft as I approach. Once I’m there, she flips it open.
“See? These are my graffiti ideas.”
The drawings are almost as bad as something I’d do. They’re nothing more than rough, blocky shapes. “Huh,” I mutter. “Graffiti ideas?”
“Yeah.” She points at the retaining wall. “That one is mine. The park people are letting us do our own thing around here.”
“Oh.”
“Cool,” Shahid croaks. “I guess that’s why you were wondering how long I’d be standing in your way.”
“You got it. But hey, no worries. I’m glad I got to meet you two.”
I mutter, “Likewise.”
“Maybe you’ll come back sometime and see how it turns out?” she asks. She’s looking at Shahid.
“Yes,” Shahid answers solemnly, like he’s making a promise. “I will.”
“Good. Are you guys done with the wall?”
We nod.
“Then I’m going for it.” With a grand gesture, she tosses back her green cape.
Shahid and I mutter, “Good luck.”
We’re almost home when Shahid says, “Her legs were painted orange.” His tone is one of wonder.