The Explorers’ Gate by Chris Grabenstein Page A

as fast as I could in the opposite direction.
    When I neared West 77 th Street, my legs had turned to rubber. So I sat down on the bench behind Mr. Humboldt’s bust and pedestal and let the fear of almost being slashed tremble though my body.
    Oh, how I missed my mom.
    See, she never, ever freaked out. There was always this aura of serenity surrounding her. She was probably what they call an old soul—wise beyond her years.
    I took a deep breath and tried to be as tranquil as my mother would’ve been, even after staring at the serrated edge of a hunting knife.
    My big dream? To sit in the park with my mom again. To talk about anything and everything. To hear her calm answers to my scariest questions. To be together. Forever.
    My heart finally slowed.
    Thanks, mom, I thought. She was the one who taught me how to instantly chill when my instinct is to totally freak.
    I looked up, took another breath, and realized something: The bronze bust of Humboldt sitting on its pedestal directly in front of me was positioned in such a way that his big green head was staring straight across the street at the awning outside my apartment building.
    Humboldt was a statue! Just like King Jagiello. My heart started racing again.
    I stood up, walked around to the front of the bronze bust, and slipped on my red cap again.
    â€œUh, hello, Mr. Humboldt.”
    â€œGood evening, Nikki. Been off exploring?”
    So much for calm, breathing, and serenity.
    When a bronze bust starts talking to you—trust me—it’s extremely freaky. Especially since I didn’t know whose side he was on—the Krolls or the Lorkuses.
    I didn’t stick around to chitchat.
    I whipped off my magic hat and flew from the curb. Then I jay-walked like crazy across Central Park West, raced past the New York Historical Society building, made it to the service entrance for 14 West 77th, pushed open the gateway, and hurried down the steps to the narrow concrete corridor to our apartment.
    When I unlocked the door and stepped inside, I expected to find my father fast asleep on the couch, his final can of beer resting on his stomach.
    Instead, I saw him sitting on the floor. Sobbing. His cheeks were streaked with tears.

Chapter 15
    â€œWhere were you?”
    â€œAt a friend’s house. Up at 85 th Street.”
    My father looked down to his lap where he had an old photo album freckled with the brown edges of ancient tape.
    Dozens of photographs were strewn across the floor. The TV was glowing behind him. The eleven o’clock news gave his head a quivering halo.
    â€œThey fell out,” he said, pointing at the scattered pictures. “I opened the book and they all fell out.” His fingers fluttered through the air.
    He sounded so sad.
    I leaned over and picked up some pictures off the floor.
    My mom and dad in Central Park in a rowboat. Mom and Dad on Bow Bridge. Mom posing next to the obelisk called Cleopatra’s Needle. Mom riding a horse along the bridle path. Mom sniffing flowers in the Conservatory Garden.
    Dozens of pictures had tumbled across the living room floor.
    All of them showed my mom, happy in Central Park.
    â€œThis is the day we met,” said my father, holding a picture in his trembling hand. “I was playing softball down near the Sheep Meadow. The Heckscher Ballfields. It was like a dream. Your mother walked out of the forest, all dressed in white. She flashed me a smile, made me miss an easy pitch.” Now a smile made its way across my father’s face. He swiped it away with the back of his hand. “Don’t ever fall in love, Nikki. It’s not worth it.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He hauled himself up off the floor, found his balance and a beer can. He swirled it around. Heard some liquid swish. Took a swig.
    â€œThere’s only one way to make sure your heart doesn’t get broken, Nikki. Keep it locked up tight.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He shambled out of the