screamed and Raymie let out a whimper, and in Alice Nebbley’s dark and tragic room, Beverly stood quietly without jumping or moving at all. And then, slowly, she reached out and took hold of the hand.
“Ooooooohh,” said Louisiana. “She took the hand. Now that woman is going to pull Beverly into the grave. She is going to kill her and use her to fashion a new soul.”
Raymie had not imagined any of these gruesome outcomes in particular, but she did feel a very deep sense of dread.
“No, no,” said Louisiana. “I can’t stand and watch.” She dropped Raymie’s hand. “I’m going to go and find someone to help.”
“Don’t,” said Raymie.
But Louisiana was gone, running down the hallway, her sequined dress glowing and glittering in a purposeful way.
Raymie stood alone, watching as Beverly, still holding Alice Nebbley’s hand, sat down on the bed.
“Shhh,” said Beverly.
Alice Nebbley stopped screaming.
“It will be okay,” said Beverly. And then, incredibly, she started to hum.
What was Beverly Tapinski — the safecracker, the lock picker, the gravel beater — doing sitting on Alice Nebbley’s bed, holding her hand, telling her it would be okay, and
humming
to her?
It didn’t seem possible.
And then Louisiana was standing next to Raymie again. Her small chest was rising and falling. A wheezy sound was issuing from her lungs. “I found it,” she said.
“What?” said Raymie.
“I found it. I found your Florence Whatsit book.”
“Nightingale,” said Raymie.
“Yes,” said Louisiana. “Nightingale. Nightingale. It’s in the janitor’s office. I went in there to see if the janitor would help Beverly fight the goblin, and then surprise! I found the book! Also, I let the bird go.”
“What bird?” said Raymie.
“That little yellow bird. In the cage in the janitor’s office.”
At this point, someone somewhere in the Golden Glen screamed, and it wasn’t Alice Nebbley.
“I had to climb up on top of the desk to do it,” said Louisiana. “And then I had to leave in a hurry, so I forgot your book. I don’t think that birds should be in cages, do you?”
There was another scream and the sound of running feet.
Beverly came out of Alice Nebbley’s room.
“What happened?” she said.
“I’m not sure,” said Raymie.
“I found the book!” said Louisiana.
A small yellow bird came whizzing down the hallway and sailed over their heads.
“Was that a bird?” asked Beverly.
In her room, Alice Nebbley was completely silent.
Raymie hoped that she wasn’t dead.
The janitor came running down the hallway. His keys were jangling, and his janitor boots were making a very authoritative sound as they hit the polished floor of the Golden Glen.
The janitor had a determined look on his face. He didn’t seem at all like a man who would play mournful music on the piano. His fingers were too thick. Also, he didn’t look very much like someone who would own a yellow bird.
“Oooooh,” said Louisiana. “Hurry. Follow me.”
Louisiana led them down the hallway. “In here,” she said. “Right there.” She pointed at a small room with the door open. Inside the room, there was a desk, and right in the center of the desk was
A Bright and Shining Path: The Life of Florence Nightingale.
“Is that it?” asked Beverly. “Is that your stupid library book?”
Above the desk, there was a birdcage, rocking back and forth. It was empty. The little door to the cage was open.
Something about the open door on the cage made Raymie feel sad.
At home right now, Raymie’s mother was probably sitting on the couch, staring into space. Mrs. Borkowski was probably in her lawn chair in the middle of the road. And Mrs. Sylvester was surely at her desk, typing, the giant jar of candy corn in front of her trembling slightly from the hum and clatter of the electric typewriter.
And Raymie’s father? Maybe he was sitting in the diner with the dental hygienist. Maybe they were both holding menus.
“Ooooooohh,” said Louisiana. “She took the hand. Now that woman is going to pull Beverly into the grave. She is going to kill her and use her to fashion a new soul.”
Raymie had not imagined any of these gruesome outcomes in particular, but she did feel a very deep sense of dread.
“No, no,” said Louisiana. “I can’t stand and watch.” She dropped Raymie’s hand. “I’m going to go and find someone to help.”
“Don’t,” said Raymie.
But Louisiana was gone, running down the hallway, her sequined dress glowing and glittering in a purposeful way.
Raymie stood alone, watching as Beverly, still holding Alice Nebbley’s hand, sat down on the bed.
“Shhh,” said Beverly.
Alice Nebbley stopped screaming.
“It will be okay,” said Beverly. And then, incredibly, she started to hum.
What was Beverly Tapinski — the safecracker, the lock picker, the gravel beater — doing sitting on Alice Nebbley’s bed, holding her hand, telling her it would be okay, and
humming
to her?
It didn’t seem possible.
And then Louisiana was standing next to Raymie again. Her small chest was rising and falling. A wheezy sound was issuing from her lungs. “I found it,” she said.
“What?” said Raymie.
“I found it. I found your Florence Whatsit book.”
“Nightingale,” said Raymie.
“Yes,” said Louisiana. “Nightingale. Nightingale. It’s in the janitor’s office. I went in there to see if the janitor would help Beverly fight the goblin, and then surprise! I found the book! Also, I let the bird go.”
“What bird?” said Raymie.
“That little yellow bird. In the cage in the janitor’s office.”
At this point, someone somewhere in the Golden Glen screamed, and it wasn’t Alice Nebbley.
“I had to climb up on top of the desk to do it,” said Louisiana. “And then I had to leave in a hurry, so I forgot your book. I don’t think that birds should be in cages, do you?”
There was another scream and the sound of running feet.
Beverly came out of Alice Nebbley’s room.
“What happened?” she said.
“I’m not sure,” said Raymie.
“I found the book!” said Louisiana.
A small yellow bird came whizzing down the hallway and sailed over their heads.
“Was that a bird?” asked Beverly.
In her room, Alice Nebbley was completely silent.
Raymie hoped that she wasn’t dead.
The janitor came running down the hallway. His keys were jangling, and his janitor boots were making a very authoritative sound as they hit the polished floor of the Golden Glen.
The janitor had a determined look on his face. He didn’t seem at all like a man who would play mournful music on the piano. His fingers were too thick. Also, he didn’t look very much like someone who would own a yellow bird.
“Oooooh,” said Louisiana. “Hurry. Follow me.”
Louisiana led them down the hallway. “In here,” she said. “Right there.” She pointed at a small room with the door open. Inside the room, there was a desk, and right in the center of the desk was
A Bright and Shining Path: The Life of Florence Nightingale.
“Is that it?” asked Beverly. “Is that your stupid library book?”
Above the desk, there was a birdcage, rocking back and forth. It was empty. The little door to the cage was open.
Something about the open door on the cage made Raymie feel sad.
At home right now, Raymie’s mother was probably sitting on the couch, staring into space. Mrs. Borkowski was probably in her lawn chair in the middle of the road. And Mrs. Sylvester was surely at her desk, typing, the giant jar of candy corn in front of her trembling slightly from the hum and clatter of the electric typewriter.
And Raymie’s father? Maybe he was sitting in the diner with the dental hygienist. Maybe they were both holding menus.
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