open like a pro and they all said their good nights.
Ruthie’s dad always wanted to hear all about her day. Oh, she so badly wanted to tell him everything! He would love the adventure she’d had—almost going back into history, knowing what it felt like to lie down in a sixteenth-century bed. She knew she couldn’t, though; if she did, they’d probably send her to a psychiatrist or something. So she told him about going to the museum with Jack, about helping Lydia cook dinner and about talking to the wonderful Mr. Bell.
“That’s a name I haven’t heard in years. He was quite a well-known photographer in those days. Leave it to Lydia to rediscover him! She’ll be getting him an exhibition in no time!” Her father had a lot of admiration for Jack’s mom. He had often commented that artists like her create their lives rather than letting other people set the rules. Ruthie was beginning to understand what he meant by that: if you want something badly enough, you have to make it happen.
A SECOND ATTEMPT
J ACK PICKED UP RUTHIE AT her apartment a little after ten the next morning. They had told her parents that they needed to go buy new notebooks for a unit Ms. Biddle was starting in social studies on Monday. They’d only be gone an hour or so.
“I got the key copied already—I didn’t know how long it would take and I knew your parents wouldn’t want you to be gone long,” Jack said. “So we’ll just bring Mr. Bell’s key back to him. I got the notebooks too. In my backpack.”
“I hope he’s not suspicious,” Ruthie worried out loud.
They wanted to take the fastest route possible to Mr. Bell’s building. Jack knew the neighborhood like the back of his hand and had explored all the alleyways, learning which ones were cut-throughs and which ones were dead ends. They passed Dumpsters, garages, storage sheds and driveways with cars parked in impossibly tight spaces. Itwas often much more interesting than walking along the sidewalk.
“This is the building,” Jack said as they approached it. They walked around to the front door, which was recessed beneath a massive arch chiseled out of large whitish stones. Some of the windows had old stained glass in them. They looked at the names on the metal intercom plate.
“E. Bell, 10B,” Ruthie read from the list. She pushed the buzzer and in just a moment they heard the voice of Edmund Bell.
“What a surprise,” Mr. Bell said through the intercom as he buzzed them in, with directions to turn right after the elevator brought them up to the tenth floor.
They had planned to take not even one step inside the apartment; Jack would hand him the key at the threshold. But then Mr. Bell opened the door and the two of them got a quick glimpse past the tall man and into the space spread out behind him.
“Twice in twenty-four hours,” Mr. Bell said. “Won’t you come in?”
“Wow, this is a nice place!” Jack exclaimed. “Please, have a look around.”
“Maybe just for a second. We have to get back soon—we have homework,” Ruthie answered, trying to sound casual. But she was truly impressed with Mr. Bell’s apartment and wanted to look around. He lived on the top floor of the building. It wasn’t a big apartment but it wasn’t small either; the furniture looked comfortable and lived-in. Theapartment had huge arched windows through which you could see almost the entire skyline of the city, and Lake Michigan beyond. Besides the wonderful view, his home was filled floor to ceiling with art of every shape, size and style. “You’ve got a lot of art!” Ruthie said.
“Yes, I guess I do,” Mr. Bell agreed modestly. “All made by friends of mine from way back. We all traded each other’s work.”
“My mom does that too.” Suddenly Jack realized that he hadn’t explained the reason for their visit. “Oh, here,” he said, fishing through his backpack. He pulled out the key and handed it to Mr. Bell. “I found this on the floor of our closet. I
Ruthie’s dad always wanted to hear all about her day. Oh, she so badly wanted to tell him everything! He would love the adventure she’d had—almost going back into history, knowing what it felt like to lie down in a sixteenth-century bed. She knew she couldn’t, though; if she did, they’d probably send her to a psychiatrist or something. So she told him about going to the museum with Jack, about helping Lydia cook dinner and about talking to the wonderful Mr. Bell.
“That’s a name I haven’t heard in years. He was quite a well-known photographer in those days. Leave it to Lydia to rediscover him! She’ll be getting him an exhibition in no time!” Her father had a lot of admiration for Jack’s mom. He had often commented that artists like her create their lives rather than letting other people set the rules. Ruthie was beginning to understand what he meant by that: if you want something badly enough, you have to make it happen.
A SECOND ATTEMPT
J ACK PICKED UP RUTHIE AT her apartment a little after ten the next morning. They had told her parents that they needed to go buy new notebooks for a unit Ms. Biddle was starting in social studies on Monday. They’d only be gone an hour or so.
“I got the key copied already—I didn’t know how long it would take and I knew your parents wouldn’t want you to be gone long,” Jack said. “So we’ll just bring Mr. Bell’s key back to him. I got the notebooks too. In my backpack.”
“I hope he’s not suspicious,” Ruthie worried out loud.
They wanted to take the fastest route possible to Mr. Bell’s building. Jack knew the neighborhood like the back of his hand and had explored all the alleyways, learning which ones were cut-throughs and which ones were dead ends. They passed Dumpsters, garages, storage sheds and driveways with cars parked in impossibly tight spaces. Itwas often much more interesting than walking along the sidewalk.
“This is the building,” Jack said as they approached it. They walked around to the front door, which was recessed beneath a massive arch chiseled out of large whitish stones. Some of the windows had old stained glass in them. They looked at the names on the metal intercom plate.
“E. Bell, 10B,” Ruthie read from the list. She pushed the buzzer and in just a moment they heard the voice of Edmund Bell.
“What a surprise,” Mr. Bell said through the intercom as he buzzed them in, with directions to turn right after the elevator brought them up to the tenth floor.
They had planned to take not even one step inside the apartment; Jack would hand him the key at the threshold. But then Mr. Bell opened the door and the two of them got a quick glimpse past the tall man and into the space spread out behind him.
“Twice in twenty-four hours,” Mr. Bell said. “Won’t you come in?”
“Wow, this is a nice place!” Jack exclaimed. “Please, have a look around.”
“Maybe just for a second. We have to get back soon—we have homework,” Ruthie answered, trying to sound casual. But she was truly impressed with Mr. Bell’s apartment and wanted to look around. He lived on the top floor of the building. It wasn’t a big apartment but it wasn’t small either; the furniture looked comfortable and lived-in. Theapartment had huge arched windows through which you could see almost the entire skyline of the city, and Lake Michigan beyond. Besides the wonderful view, his home was filled floor to ceiling with art of every shape, size and style. “You’ve got a lot of art!” Ruthie said.
“Yes, I guess I do,” Mr. Bell agreed modestly. “All made by friends of mine from way back. We all traded each other’s work.”
“My mom does that too.” Suddenly Jack realized that he hadn’t explained the reason for their visit. “Oh, here,” he said, fishing through his backpack. He pulled out the key and handed it to Mr. Bell. “I found this on the floor of our closet. I
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