Here’s what’s crazy:
Before the soles of his Nike Cross Trainers touched the first step of Percy Percentile’s marble staircase, Kyle Parker had never broken a rule. He’d never crossed the street against the Don’t Walk sign. He’d never snuck an extra piece of bubble gum. He’d never talked in class unless he raised his hand. He’d never cut in line. He’d never smoked cigarettes. He’d never spit.
And, yeah, he was planning on swiping a copy of Love in Autumn. But planning it and doing it are two different things. And just look at how much of a daze he’d been in since the idea first hit him. Because, basically, Kyle was a good kid. Or, at least, he tried to be a good kid. Perfect even. Mostly because his mom and dad always seemed so unhappy with one another that Kyle wanted to make sure they never had a reason to be unhappy with him. But it wasn’t easy being perfect. Too much pressure. For too long a time. Until something had to give. Which it did. Right then.
Big-time.
You see, Percy had a rule. One rule. Which he announced to anyone and everyone who entered his house:
“Never climb the stairs.”
He didn’t explain the rule. He didn’t apologize for the rule. That was it. No discussion. End of story. And it worked. Or had. For seventeen years. No one but Percy or Shakespeare had been above the ground floor of Percy Percerville’s town house since before Kyle was born. Not Mrs. Bentley, who cleaned on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Or Fred, who delivered meat and fish on Mondays and Thursdays. Or the plumber. Or the painters. Or the mailman. Or even a friend.
If Percy Percerville had any friends.
The neighbors didn’t take a poll or anything. But everyone up and down Twentieth Street pretty much agreed that if there was an exception to this rule it was probably Kyle. He had a key to the front door. He could come and go as he pleased. So, even if he’d never been invited upstairs, Kyle could have waited until he was sure Percy wasn’t around and, you know, peeked.
But Kyle never peeked. He never even thought about peeking. In fact, Kyle didn’t know anything more about Percy Percerville’s town house than the baker at the Chelsea Bakery, or the shoe shine girl at Sam’s, or anyone else who’d never set foot inside 324 West Twentieth Street. Except that the entrance hall walls were covered with bookshelves filled with sculptures of whales and bears and caribou and musk oxen and lots and lots and lots and lots of books. Because that was all Kyle could see from the chair two feet to the right of the mahogany front door. Which was as far into Percy’s town house as Kyle had ever been. Which was the deal. Struck with a handshake on Kyle’s first day of employment:
“You shall remain in the entrance hall. Only in the entrance hall. Never any farther than the entrance hall. Am I making myself clear, dear boy? No matter if the house is on fire. No matter if blood drips from the ceiling. You stay here. In this chair. And wait for Shakespeare’s return. For he shall return. And I shall pay you to read. Or play with your Palm Pilot. Or do whatever boys your age do when they sit in chairs and wait for dogs.”
And that was it. The last they spoke. From that moment on, Percy communicated only through notes.
As in:
Shakespeare seems wistful when I bring up the stock market. Best keep him clear of the Museum of Modern Art for a while. We wouldn’t want him to start wearing berets.
Or:
Shakespeare fell asleep with his legs crossed last night. Bravo, dear boy! The yoga lessons are paying off in spades!
These were jokes, of course. Kyle figured that out. But they were something else, too. Something serious. Not the words. The words were silly. But the idea that Percy wrote notes instead of talking to Kyle reinforced the idea that Percy was private. Which, of course, reinforced the rule. The Never-Climb-the-Stairs rule. Which made it even more spectacular when Kyle broke it. Though Kyle wasn’t thinking about breaking anything when his foot hit that bottom step. And he heard the creak. And felt the blood vessels in his head constrict. Or expand. Or do whatever blood vessels do when they remind you they are there. Throbbing. As Kyle raced halfway up the stairs.
And froze.
At the sound of Percy Percerville’s voice. Which was exploding from the open door of his office. Which Kyle couldn’t see. Or even know was an office. Because Kyle wasn’t far enough up the stairs to see anything but the final seven steps. Certainly not the second floor. The forbidden floor. Or even know why it was forbidden. But Kyle knew this much. He knew his heart was doing laps around his rib cage. He knew his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out. Because, yeah, Kyle couldn’t see Percy. But somehow, some way, Kyle figured Percy must be able to see him.
In other words, Kyle thought he was caught. For one hideous, horrible moment, Kyle thought Percy must be hovering above him or about to pop up like a jack-in-the-box from the top of the stairway.
Like I said, Percy was screaming, all right. But he was screaming at Frank Cutter, senior editor at Barcourt Publishers. Not in person. Percy was screaming into a speakerphone on top of his desk:
“No, dear boy, you may not speak with Cynthia Marlow at this or at any other time! You may speak to me! Do I make myself clear, dear boy? Me! Only me! Percy Percerville! Her literary agent. A relationship about which you are sworn—I repeat—sworn to secrecy. For if word leaks out I am her literary agent or if I ever catch anyone—anyone—connected to Barcourt Publishers either following me or in any other way clandestinely trying to discover the exact identity of Cynthia Marlow, all legal agreements signed heretofore with Barcourt Publishers by Ms. Marlow shall be considered null and void with a vengeance!”
Did Kyle faint?
Run away?
Nope.
He just stood there. Not blinking. Or breathing. Or doing much of anything. Except trying to picture that name.
Cynthia Marlow.
He knew it. He was certain he knew it. He just couldn’t remember where he’d seen it. Or heard it. Not while he was scared senseless halfway up Percy Percerville’s marble stairs. Until it hit him. The word literary. It was like literature. Which was like books. Which was when Kyle remembered that he’d seen the name Cynthia Marlow all over the magazine covers in the supermarket checkout line: WHO IS CYNTHIA MARLOW? WHERE IS CYNTHIA MARLOW? CYNTHIA MARLOW—BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF ALL TIME—NEVER SEEN IN PUBLIC! Which he stopped remembering. At least, for the moment. Because Percy Percerville had started screaming again:
“This is exactly why she hired me, dear boy. To ensure she’ll never be subjected to the horror of a television or radio or magazine or newspaper or any other type of interview! So put it out of your mind! For it will never happen, dear boy! And consider yourself blessed that after two blockbuster books a year, every year, for the past seventeen years running, she isn’t demanding a bigger percentage of the royalties and that, out of the goodness of her golden heart, she keeps cutting you in on the profits from her movies!”
“Errrrrrr!”
This wasn’t Percy. Percy didn’t whimper like a dog. Nor did he tuck his tail between his legs as he crept down the stairs. Percy didn’t have a tail. And he wasn’t the kind to creep. But Shakespeare was. And did. Kyle put his finger to his lips and practically swallowed his tongue as he watched Shakespeare shiver and shake his way down each stair, one nervous paw at a time.
“Errrrrr!” repeated Shakespeare.
There was something in Shakespeare’s mouth. Which wasn’t surprising. When Shakespeare was nervous (and Shakespeare was always nervous), that was the way he greeted you. With something in his mouth. This time it was a sheet of paper. Which he dropped at Kyle’s feet. So close Kyle didn’t have to pick it up to see it was a title page. To a manuscript. Of a book. Not his dad’s book. Not Love in Autumn. But a different title page. To a different book:
The Mists of Amore by Cynthia Marlow
That’s right. The same Cynthia Marlow that Percy had been screaming about over the telephone. Plus, this title page—the one at Kyle’s feet—wasn’t printed by a computer. It was written by hand. And not just any hand. But the same hand that had written Shakespeare’s silly stock market and yoga lesson notes. You know, the notes that had been left on the chair. In Percy Percerville’s entrance hall. Two feet to the right of the mahogany front door.