Too fast.
Way too fast.
Kyle hadn’t had time to think. Or even catch his breath. Plus, the elevator doors didn’t open onto an empty hallway, but smack dab into the middle of a reception area. With an Oriental carpet covering the floor. The kind you’d see in a Gypsy tent. If the Gypsy tent was the size of the Taj Mahal.
On the far wall hung a photograph. A huge photograph. Black and white. Of a charging elephant. Which shook Kyle up. You bet it shook him up. Until he caught his breath. And realized it was only a photograph. And anyway, there was a receptionist’s desk between him and those tusks.
Did I say desk?
It looked more like a banquet table. I mean, there were no drawers. Nothing underneath. Just legs and a top. Cool legs, sure. Not chrome. Black. Or flat black. Or matte black. Or whatever you call that cool kind of black that didn’t shine and never would, not even if you turned a klieg light on it. The top was glass. Of course it was glass. With the sides buffed so you could see right through it. Like it wasn’t even there. Except it was. You could tell. Because sitting on the glass was this space-age telephone and a slick, sleek computer screen as thin as a supermodel’s smile.
And that was it.
No manuscripts. No pens. No pads. No paper clip holder. No clock. No Rolodex. No nameplate. No elbows belonging to the receptionist. No receptionist.
Yeah, I know.
The receptionist wouldn’t be on the desk. He or she would be in the chair behind the desk. Which was also see-through, by the way. That’s right. Made out of Plexiglas. Kyle could tell because he saw right through it. Because it was empty. As in no receptionist. That’s right. Not on the desk. Or in the chair behind the desk. He or she was gone.
Which was all Kyle needed to know.
Because he didn’t push his luck. He didn’t wait for the receptionist to return. He dumped the pizza into the matte-black trash can next to the reception desk and turned right.
Why right?
No reason. I mean, he wasn’t looking for Mercedes Henderson’s office. Not then. Not yet. He was looking for a restroom. That’s right. A restroom. Because editors had to go to the bathroom too, didn’t they? So there had to be a restroom somewhere on the floor. Which either locked from the inside or had a stall. In other words, he was looking for a hiding place.
Because now, without the pizza box, Kyle may as well have been wearing moose antlers, he looked so out of place. I mean, the Boykin Books Building was definitely a non-kid-friendly environment. I mean, kids probably made the scene every year or so, but only as a prop. You know, like a month-old baby to be cooed over or a daughter who just pitched a shutout or a son who finished runner-up in the state tuba contest. Never some kid with a backpack cutting in and out of this cubicle maze all by himself. Because, yeah, it was after six o’clock. But the place was still filled with people. Adult people. Like, a zillion of them. Reading manuscripts. Scrolling their computer screens. Talking into headsets as if they were about to parachute out of an airplane. In other words, they were serious. Really serious. And really busy. Too busy to pay attention to Kyle.
Or so he thought.
“Can I help you?”
Her name was Maureen Turkle. Which, of course, Kyle didn’t know. Would never know. The same way he’d never know she’d graduated less than six months before from Bryn Mawr and had a botanist boyfriend living in Argentina who e-mailed her every day, twice a day, and would one day create a vaccine for the West Nile virus (which, of course, Maureen Turkle didn’t know either).
All Kyle knew was that she was someone with great big bunches of blond hair who probably worked for Boykin Books and could probably get Kyle kicked out of the building before he made it to Mercedes Henderson’s office if he didn’t come up with some kind of answer in the next half second. Which meant Kyle wasn’t really noticing her blond hair. He was too busy staring at her eyes. Which were staring straight back. And the longer they stared the more Kyle could almost hear those pale green pupils asking, “You lost or something, kid? Or are you trying to get a book published?”
Ha-ha!
It was a joke.
Her eyes were telling a joke. Because she was certain Kyle couldn’t be anything more than what he appeared to be—some kid trying to find his mom or his dad or the bathroom or an elevator. Never a secret agent on a mission to sneak into her boss’s office and drop off a manuscript. Which was good.
No, it was perfect.
If the woman with green eyes wanted Kyle to act like a kid, he’d act like a kid. So he winced. And squeezed his legs together. And winced all over again. He didn’t hop up and down. He didn’t go that far. But by the time he balled his fists and pressed his forearms across his stomach, the woman with green eyes got the picture.
These weren’t the words Kyle wanted to hear. He wanted her to point. Or say, “Over there.” Or something that would mean she’d let him go on his own. He didn’t want an escort. He didn’t want someone waiting outside the restroom. He wanted to slip into the stall, slide the lock behind him, catch his breath, call Lucinda, find out if Mercedes Henderson had already left the building, sneak into her office, drop off the manuscript, and beat it out of there before the guard in the lobby remembered there was a pizza delivery boy who’d taken the elevator up but hadn’t taken it back down.
“Who are you visiting?” the woman with green eyes said.
Whoa!
The worst.
I mean, Kyle should have expected this. He did expect it. But that didn’t mean he had a good answer. Or any answer, for that matter. So he said nothing. And, instead, scrunched his face into a look of excruciating pain that was meant to tell the woman with green eyes he dared not speak because at that very moment it was taking every bit of his concentration not to wet his pants. Which, of course, was a kid thing. A five-year-oldkid thing, sure, but either the woman with green eyes didn’t know much about kids or wasn’t that interested in the question in the first place. Because she didn’t push it. She simply smiled knowingly and said:
“Well, you won’t have to hold it much longer.”
And nodded.
To the left.
At the door marked MEN.
And Kyle still said nothing. Not even “Thanks.” But instead, scrambled. Or waddled. Or whatever you call it when you keep your thighs pressed together and move your feet forward. Kyle knew he looked stupid. But he didn’t care. It was all part of the show. A show, by the way, Kyle happened to be proud of. Since he hadn’t opened his mouth. Which meant he hadn’t given anything away. And maybe the woman with green eyes would leave him alone now. Maybe she wouldn’t be waiting for him when he came back out.
The door swung open. There was no lock. The restroom wasn’t made for one person at a time. However, there were stalls. Three stalls. Kyle took the far one. The one next to the wall. And reached for his cell phone. But before he could pull it out of his pocket it began to vibrate.
“Lucinda?” he whispered into the mouthpiece.
“Kyle?” his mom said. “Kyle? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Mom.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I didn’t know I was.”
“Well, you are. What’s wrong?”
“Well, something’s wrong. You sound terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t be cute. Talk right.”
“I am talking right. Maybe it’s the connection.”
“It’s not the connection. And you’re not talking right. And if this is supposed to be funny, I’m not laughing. And by the way, young man, where are you? Why aren’t you home?”
Hmm.
Some spot, huh? I mean, let’s pretend you’re Kyle for a moment. What do you say? How do you answer? “I’m sitting on the toilet in the third stall on the fifty-sixth floor of the Boykin Books Building, about to sneak into Mercedes Henderson’s office and drop off the manuscript Dad told me never to touch”?
“Is everything okay in there?”
That wasn’t Kyle’s mother. That was the woman with green eyes sticking her head inside the bathroom door and asking Kyle a question.
“What was that voice?” Kyle’s mom shouted into the phone.
“Everything’s fine!” Kyle said much louder than he intended.
“What do you mean ‘everything’s fine’?” shouted his mother. “First you whisper. Then I hear some stranger’s voice in the background. Then you nearly rupture my eardrum shouting at the top of your voice.”
“Is someone in there with you?” asked the woman with green eyes.
“No!” Kyle said.
“‘No’?” his mom repeated. “No doesn’t answer my question.”
“I heard you talking,” the woman with green eyes said.
“I always talk when I go to the bathroom,” Kyle said.
“You do what?” Kyle’s mom said.
“Oh,” the woman with green eyes said. “Sorry. I’ll see you in a minute.”
“You’ll see who in a minute?” Kyle’s mom said.
Beep!
“Call waiting,” Kyle said.
“Don’t you dare—” Kyle’s mom started.
But that was as far as she got before Kyle cut her off.
“Luanda?” he said.
“Mercedes Henderson hasn’t left,” Lucinda said.
“But Mercedes Henderson always leaves at six o’clock!” Kyle said. “Newsweek said so!”
“You know magazines,” Lucinda said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kyle said.
“It means get out of there,” Lucinda said.
Beep!
“My mom’s on Call Waiting,” Kyle said.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Kyle said.
And he cut her off too. But he didn’t punch his mom back in. Not right away. First he took a deep breath. And stared at the blinking light. And pictured himself as one of those dogs who has just broken free of his leash and is being called back by his master so that the dog is now looking back and forth between his master and freedom, all the while knowing (or at least appearing to know) that if he runs away he will have to pay for it later, and, of course, running away anyway.
Which was exactly what Kyle did.
No, he didn’t run away.
He turned off his phone.
And took another deep breath. And told himself this was it. By the time he made it home his mother would be so furious she wouldn’t let him leave the house for the rest of the summer, so he had to come up with something other than sneaking into Mercedes Henderson’s empty office and dropping off his dad’s manuscript with the note. You know which note. The one Lucinda had written during recess. The one Kyle asked her to write. The one she hadn’t signed:
Mercedes,
Isn’t it time we gave the old folks a love story? I believe this W. J. Parker has something here. I loved it. You will too.
Like I said, it wasn’t signed. It was just a note. On a Post-it. Stuck to the title page of Love in Autumn under the name W. J. Parker.
Why?
So Mercedes Henderson would think one of her assistants had already read Kyle’s dad’s manuscript and was crazy about the story. That was the beauty of it. The no signature part. Because Mercedes Henderson wouldn’t know which assistant. Which meant she couldn’t ask about the book. She’d have to read it herself. After Alexa Blake told her about W. J. Parker. After Mrs. Gomez talked to her at Mr. Frederico’s. In other words, Mercedes Henderson would be pumped. She’d be primed. She’d be excited about Love in Autumn even before she read it.
Wouldn’t she?
Wouldn’t she?
Yes, Kyle believed she would. Which was what he was doing there. In that building. On that floor. Locked inside that restroom stall. Only Mercedes Henderson hadn’t left her office at six o’clock the way she always left her office at six o’clock. Which meant Kyle couldn’t drop off the manuscript into her empty office. Which meant Kyle was stuck. Since he couldn’t wait around much longer. Since the woman with green eyes was bound to become suspicious if he did.
So, yeah, this would have been an awfully good time for Kyle to start to feel sorry for himself. Or panic. Or just plain give up. I mean, his mom was furious. His plan was shot. The woman with green eyes was standing right outside the restrooin. And he doubted he’d be able to get away without answering her questions this time around. Because the questions would come. Because the woman with green eyes wasn’t about to leave him alone. And there was no window to sneak out. Or air vent big enough to crawl through. And maybe James Bond never had to walk out of a restroom with his hands in the air to be sent home to his mother, but it sure as heck looked as if secret agent Kyle Parker was about to do that very thing. Which, of course, was embarrassing. All over the place. Which is why Kyle thought of Percy Percerville.
No, not his “It isn’t what you are that matters; it’s what people think you are.”
Not Percy’s saying.
The other thing.
The Cynthia Marlow thing.
What if Kyle made a deal with Mercedes Henderson? What if he walked right into her office and told her he could give her the writing scoop of the year if she’d just publish his dad’s book?
So, okay.
So as soon as Kyle thought of it he felt ashamed. Not only because he’d promised himself he’d never sink that low but also because it meant he didn’t believe in his dad’s book.
Or in himself.
Sure, he’d run into a bit of a snag. Sure, things looked bleak. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn things around. I mean, look where he was. Look how far he’d come. All he needed was one more—
Whoa!
I mean—Whoa!
I mean, that pep talk he’d just given himself must have paid off. Because it hit him. Like, POW! Like, it almost knocked him over. An idea so wonderful and goofy he almost did wet his pants.
The truth.
Yeah, you heard me. And, yeah, it was crazy. Kyle knew it was crazy. Even as he flushed the toilet. And unlocked the stall. And walked across the tiled floor. And pulled open the door. And squared his shoulders. And, without blinking, stared straight into those green eyes.
“I’m Kyle Parker,” he said in a voice so calm he nearly checked over his shoulder to see who was doing the talking. “My mother and father don’t work here. I snuck past the guard in the lobby. Which I know was wrong. And I’m sorry. But I had to. I had to say good-bye. To Philip Harris. He was my hero.”
Did I say “the truth”?
It was more like the lie of the century.
I mean, the guy was barely in his grave. And here Kyle was saying … well, you heard what he said. I can’t even bring myself to repeat it. I mean, I’m appalled. Horrified. Except, of course, if you’re going to lie, why not lie about a dead man? I mean, it wasn’t as if Kyle had called Philip Harris a thief or a coward or a cheapskate. Nothing Kyle had just said would hurt Philip Harris’s reputation. As a matter of fact, it would help it.
For instance:
One day the woman with green eyes might have children. And one day she might tell her kids about the young boy who snuck into Boykin Books to pay his last respects to an editor. An editor! Just like she wanted to be. And probably was by the time she was telling the story. And her kids would be proud of her. And she would be proud of herself. Even more so than she was right now. Peering down at this fine young man. This lover of books.
“A minute in his office alone,” Kyle pleaded. “It would make all the difference. It would be something I’d cherish the rest of my life.”
It was a good thing Chad wasn’t there. He probably would have stuck his finger down his throat. But Chad wasn’t there. And Kyle didn’t drop his eyes. Or gag over the words. And, yeah, he was laying it on a bit thick even for the lie of the century Except these last words weren’t a lie at all. I mean, if he could be left alone in Philip Harris’s office it might just make all the difference. And he would cherish it. Although not quite the way the woman with green eyes probably envisioned.
“Please,” Kyle said.
And blinked.
And sighed.
And blinked a second time.
And hit pay dirt.
Because Philip Harris really was Maureen Turkle’s hero. Almost from the time she was Kyle’s age. Which meant she didn’t see it as any kind of a stretch that Philip Harris would also be someone else’s hero. Nor that someone would like to spend time alone in Philip Harris’s office paying his last respects, since Maureen Turkic had spent quite a bit of time alone in Philip Harris’s office the past few days paying her last respects.
“Shh!” She put her finger to her lips. “Follow me.”
This time Kyle wasn’t upset that the woman with green eyes said, “Follow me.” Well, he wasn’t, and he was. He wasn’t because she believed him. But he was for that very same reason. Which sounds like mumbo jumbo, I know. But think about it.
He was going to do what he set out to do. Or, at least, he was going to get a chance to do what he set out to do.
Why?
Because he lied. And, remember, Kyle wasn’t used to lying. Or trespassing. Especially in a dead man’s room. No, don’t worry. Kyle didn’t believe in ghosts. He wasn’t worried Philip Harris’s mojo would put a hex on him and his father’s book for the next seven generations. It was a matter of respect. Pure and simple. Which Kyle seemed to be lacking at the moment. For Philip Harris and for the woman with green eyes. Which made Kyle’s gut and heart and throat feel the way they always feel when you don’t respect someone who deserves your respect. At the same time, however, he was showing a great deal of respect for his father. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. While he also kept telling himself that life had gotten a lot more complicated the past few days.
“We’re here,” said the woman with green eyes.
And they were.
The room had no number. I mean, I’m sure it had a number. It just wasn’t written on or anywhere near the door. Only the name. PHILIP HARRIS. Printed in black on a clear plastic plaque. Which, surprisingly enough, impressed Kyle more than gold leaf or a neon light flashing EDITOR IN CHIEF.
The woman with green eyes caught her breath. And covered her mouth with her hand. Nothing showy. She wasn’t making a big deal of it. But Kyle could tell she was getting ready to cry.
Which, of course, was all he needed. Another reminder of the stunt he was about to pull. But he had to block it out. He had to focus. He had to tell himself she would never know. Not if he pulled this off. As a matter of fact, Kyle could even have given you a pretty good argument at that very moment why it was important he didn’t tell the woman with green eyes what he was really up to. Because it would only hurt her. It would only make her feel embarrassed she’d let her guard down in front of Kyle and shown just how emotional she felt. Which Kyle realized was about as backward an argument as you could make. But that didn’t make it any less true.
“You have one minute,” the woman with green eyes said.
And then she pulled a key out of her skirt pocket.
And slipped it into the lock.
And turned the knob.
And opened the door.
“Not a second more,” she said.
Kyle didn’t pay attention to the dark wood bookshelves covering three of the four walls. He didn’t realize the frieze on the wall was from ancient Rome. Kyle didn’t even know what a frieze was. Not that it would have mattered. Since he didn’t even glance at it. Or the Mayan gold statue of the square-headed woman. Or the fragment of an Egyptian pot five thousand years old.
Instead Kyle closed the door. Fast. Then he looked at the desk. No, he stared at the desk. Hard. As hard as he ever stared at anything in his life.
Why?
Because he needed a pen. And a sheet of paper. A whole sheet. With Philip Harris’s letterhead. As if everything had been planned. Not by Kyle. By Philip Harris. Who Kyle figured had always planned everything in detail and never left anything to the very last second.
But there was no pen.
Or paper.
The top of the desk was empty. Which meant the drawers. Kyle had to open the drawers. But what if they were locked? Or stuck? Or made some squeaky kind of noise that the woman with green eyes would hear? But Kyle couldn’t think about that. Because, no matter what, Kyle had to try to get those drawers open. He had to risk it. He’d come this far. He’d made it this close. And no, he wasn’t counting. But he knew at least seven of his sixty seconds were already gone.
Whish!
The top drawer opened. Easily. No sound. Kyle barely had to pull. And there it was. A pen. One pen. The pen. Old. You could tell by the way it was worn that Philip Harris had been using it for the past fifty years. The barrel was thick. The top twisted off. It wasn’t a ballpoint. It was one of those fountain pen things with a cartridge that held its own supply of ink.
The second drawer had stamps, paper clips, a stapler, a box of extra staples, and even the broken band of a wristwatch. But no paper. Paper was in the third drawer. Thick paper. Heavy paper. Paper with a watermark. Of an eagle. Kyle made out the wings under Philip Harris’s letterhead the moment he held it up to the light.
Twenty-three seconds.
Kyle’s hand was in his backpack. He was pulling out the manuscript. No zippers. No Velero. No sweat. All two hundred and sixty-three pages came out on the very first try. Same as he had rehearsed it. Only he’d rehearsed it for Mercedes Henderson’s office. With Luanda’s note already written. So all he had to do was drop it on the desk and leave. But the note was no good. Philip Harris would never have left an unsigned note to Mercedes Henderson in his own office on a Post-it.
No way.
But still …
Kyle almost chickened out. He almost left the note where it was and dropped the manuscript in the drawer and hoped for the best. But he couldn’t. He wanted to. He wanted to take the easy way out. Or the safe way out. But no go. Not even close. Because he knew. Even before he saw the pen or picked up the paper. That Philip Harris would never, not once—not if you offered him ten best-sellers in a row—have written an unsigned note on a Post-it using a ballpoint pen!
Thirty-eight seconds.
Kyle’s hand shook. His eyes went blurry. Adrenaline shot through his body so fast all of his major organs felt as if they’d entered a Mexican jumping bean contest. Except for his brain. Which froze. Totally. Ice age frozen. Woolly mammoth frozen. If you asked Kyle what his name was, he couldn’t have told you. If you asked him what he was doing in Philip Harris’s office, he would have asked you who Philip Harris was.
For seven seconds.
Seven seconds!
Which was, like, forever when you only had twentytwo. Which was how many seconds Kyle had left before his brain froze. Now he only had fifteen. Which was, like, nothing. I mean, fifteen. I mean, even Vin Diesel couldn’t do what Kyle had to do in fifteen seconds. Unless he took it one step at a time:
Fiiit!
Grab hold of the pen.
Fiiit!
Put the pen on the paper.
Fiiit!
Like a gunslinger reaching for his six-shooter:
Short. To the point. Nothing sentimental. No gushy stuff. If Kyle knew one thing about Philip Harris, Kyle knew Philip Harris wasn’t sappy.
Fiiit!
Pull the Post-it off the title page.
Fiiit!
Place the note on top of the manuscript.
Fiiit!
Hide the manuscript in the bottom drawer.
Fiiit!
Screw the top back on the pen.
Fiiit!
Put the pen back in the top drawer.
Fiiit!
Swipe a sheet of Philip Harris’s thick letterhead paper with the watermark of an eagle.
Fiiit!
Slip the paper into your backpack.
Fiiit!
Slip the backpack back onto your shoulders.
Fiiit!
Make sure all the drawers are closed.
Fiiit!