The Girl Is Trouble (2 page)

He was right—I’d been lucky. That was the thing I had to keep reminding myself: Pop had been doing this a lot longer than I had. Detecting was in his blood. “Maybe I could’ve pointed to a passerby, said they were my mother, and gone running after them.” I should’ve used the old lady. Surely he’d seen me talking to her.

Pop pondered this for a moment and nodded. “I like that. Safety in numbers. It would’ve been good if he thought you weren’t alone—just in case.” A funny little pang squeezed my chest. Creating an imaginary mother made me miss my real one all the more. “I want you to write up a report of everything you saw today, okay? Just like I showed you.” Pop was big on keeping written records of every move he made. It wasn’t just to let the client know they were getting their money’s worth; he also said the information could be invaluable to the investigation. You never knew what details that initially seemed insignificant might prove important later on. “Good job, Iris.”

I should’ve been swelling with pride, but the parts of the story I hadn’t told Pop were still playing in my brain. This hadn’t been easy. What if I wasn’t cut out for detecting? What if the next time something worse happened?

“Is something bothering you?” asked Pop.

I couldn’t tell him my doubts. There’d be no hope of his sending me out on my own if I did. And I needed to be out there, because stuck at home, with little to occupy me, sent my mind in other dark directions. “I saw this book,” I said. “In one of the shops on Fifty-sixth Street. The author says we should get rid of all Germans and make it impossible for more to be born.”

“And what does he consider a German?”

“Anyone with a drop of German blood.”

“That’s a rather extremist view,” said Pop. “What do you think?” That was Pop for you—he rarely shared his opinions about the war, even when the perfect opportunity presented itself.

If it took only one drop of blood to make you German, that meant Mama wouldn’t have been the only one eradicated—I would’ve been on the list as well. “I think Mama would be mortified.”

Pop didn’t say anything. He rarely mentioned Mama. I knew he missed her—he’d owned up to that weeks before—but ever since then he’d seemed determined to try to put her out of his mind. I couldn’t do that. If I was going to forgive her for what she did, I had to remember the good things about her; otherwise, the way she died eclipsed everything.

“How can someone think every single German is evil?” I asked.

Pop fished change from his pocket. We both approached the enormous glass-fronted Automat machine and lingered in front of the sandwich section as we took in our options for lunch. Pop deposited his money and pushed the button beside the tuna on rye. The door lifted up and he removed his selection, plate and all, while another one slid into place behind it. “I haven’t seen the book, Iris, but there is an idea in war that you must paint the enemy with a broad brush. Otherwise, you’ll spend so much time worried about whether the person standing before you is the exception to the rule that you’ll never fire your gun. That hesitation can cost you your life.”

“But he wasn’t just talking about soldiers. He was talking about
everyone
.”

He passed a dime and two nickels my way. “Sometimes, the enemy doesn’t wear a uniform.”

I wanted to believe he was wrong, that it was easy to separate good from evil, but experience had already taught me that the people you thought you could trust were the ones you needed to be the most afraid of. Even still, I never imagined in a million years that the person I would come to fear would be my own mother.

CHAPTER

2

“SO THEN WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“What else could I do?” I said. “I ran.” My best friend, Pearl, and I were entering P.S. 110 together. I’d spent the walk to school recounting my job with Pop while Pearl listened in silent awe.

“But you got the photo?”

“I guess. I mean, Pop didn’t show it to me after he’d developed it.” I hadn’t asked to see it, either. I knew better.

“I wish I could’ve been there,” said Pearl. Ever since Pop had agreed to let me work with him, Pearl had been dropping hints that she wished she could do it, too. Part of it was boredom, I’m sure, but I also thought Pearl had a predilection for detection. Not only was she observant, but she knew how to get information and use it to her advantage.

One of these days I’d mention her skills to Pop. But not yet. Not when I was still trying to figure out if I had what it took to get the job done.

A girl walked by us, her face a mess of running makeup and bleary red eyes. “Her brother?” I asked Pearl.

“Yep,” she said. “Guadalcanal.” No further words were needed. The fighting on that tiny island in the South Pacific had ramped up the last few weeks, and more and more casualties were being reported. I saw the numbers on the front page of the newspapers, but, like Pop, I avoided the detailed lists of dead and wounded that populated the inner pages. Pop did it because he feared there would be friends and former colleagues listed. I’m not sure why I did.

Pop used to be in Naval Intelligence, a job that had allowed him to continue his family’s legacy of detection while serving his country. It’s also the reason he was at Pearl Harbor on that fateful day and lost his leg, which was why he was now willing to accept my help on cases.

Pearl Harbor. The name of that once inconsequential Hawaiian landmark smacked me in the face wherever I looked these days. The posters were everywhere at P.S. 110:

Remember
PEARL HARBOR!

Commemorate the one-year anniversary of our entrance into the war

SCHOOL-WIDE CONVOCATION

Monday, Dec. 7, in the Auditorium

Immediately following lunch

December 7 was only a week away. Had it really already been a year since Pearl Harbor? How had the date snuck up on me so quickly?

“Hi, Pearl,” said a boy from across the hall. Pearl gave him a tentative wave before bidding me farewell. I stopped at my locker to exchange one cumbersome textbook for another. The boy who had greeted Pearl lingered, even after she was gone.

“Are you Iris?” he asked.

I looked him up and down, trying to place him. He was my height and wore a heavy pair of horn-rimmed glasses that were at that moment sliding halfway down his nose. He pushed them back into position without ever leaving my gaze.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m Michael Rosenberg. I’m a friend of Pearl’s.”

I nodded, uncertain what, if anything, I should say. Pearl’s halfhearted wave hardly spoke of an intimate friendship with Michael.

“Well … I mean I’m a friend of her brother’s. But I know Pearl, too.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. He smelled vaguely fishy. “I hear you’re good at finding stuff out.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I said.

He cocked his head toward the row of lockers across from us. I caught his meaning, let’s continue this conversation over there, though why he thought it was more discreet I couldn’t begin to guess. “Paul said your old man is a detective. He said you work for him.”

Boy, howdy—so that cat was out of the bag. Not the detective thing: everyone at P.S. 110 knew what Pop did for a living after he’d helped track down a missing student earlier that year. But Pearl was the only one who was privy to what
I
was doing. My role with the agency was supposed to be on the Q.T.—Pop’s rule, not mine. There were a lot of reasons for that, not the least of which was that I was only fifteen years old.

“You heard wrong,” I told Michael. I started to walk away, but he snagged the sleeve of my sweater to keep me from going. I looked at where he touched me and he released his hold like I was on fire.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just … I’m desperate.” He made another attempt to push his glasses up his nose. Cat fur clung to his sweater vest. “I found this in my locker the other day.” He passed me a folded piece of paper. “Read it.”

I opened the note, then closed it just as quickly. That’s all the time I needed to read the words: “Kill the Jews Before They Kill Us.”

“I’m not the only person who got one. Another member of the Jewish Student Federation got one, too.”

I gave him back the page. “I’m sorry, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. My pop’s a detective, not me.”

“I can pay you,” said Michael. The bell rang, signaling that we had five minutes remaining to get to our first class.

“This isn’t about money. I’ve got to go.”

Michael said something else, but his words were lost as I disappeared into the crowd of students rushing to get to their homerooms.

*   *   *

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOUR BROTHER,”
I told Pearl over lunch.

“What did Paul do now?”

“He’s got a slow leak. He’s going around telling everyone I’m working for Pop.”

“Oh.” She immediately looked guilty. “I told him a long time ago.” She meant before I actually
was
working for Pop. There was a time when I was a little flexible with the truth with everyone. After all, I was the new girl at P.S. 110. I would’ve said just about anything to keep people from thinking I was a drip. “I’ll tell him to stop.” Pearl made a move like she was going to march over to his table right then and read him the riot act.

I waved her off. “It’s too late now. And besides, what are the odds he’d actually listen to you?”

Someone walked by our table humming the melody to “Remember Pearl Harbor.” Pearl turned beet red.

A year ago, right after the event that would make all of us aware of that Pacific landmark, everyone at school started calling her Pearl Harbor. In their eyes she’d become a bit of a sad sack after the death of her oldest brother, Peter, the kind of girl whose doom and gloom could make the lights dim when she entered a room. No one ever called her that in front of adults, who would’ve found it shamefully inappropriate no matter how they tried to explain it.

And the truth was, Pearl
was
strange. I don’t know what she was like before Peter died, but in the time since I’d known her she’d been an odd duck who talked to few people other than me, and then only if it was absolutely necessary. Paul used to coddle her, but he’d passed the torch to me in the last few months, probably because his girlfriend, Denise, preferred it that way.

There were times when it seemed like Pearl would rather disappear than be seen, that the discomfort with being in her own, increasingly pudgy body was so immense that she would rather be invisible than face her awkwardness for another minute. I understood her impulse even if I didn’t feel it for the same reasons. After all, none of us were happy with ourselves. That was the nature of being fifteen. But while I was starting to understand that I would grow and change and get beyond who I was now, Pearl seemed certain she’d be trapped as the same person in the same uncomfortable package for the rest of her life.

Another boy walked by, imitating the sound of a bomb striking its target. Pearl receded further into herself. I gently kicked her under the table and shook my head at her once I had her attention.
Be strong,
I silently urged.
Don’t let them get you down
.

“I’m going to be so glad when this anniversary has come and gone,” said Pearl.

“You and me both.” Pearl Harbor would always mean more to me than anyone else I knew. It was the day Pop lost his leg. A few short weeks before Mama did the inexplicable and killed herself. The moment my entire life was turned upside down. I changed the subject. “Who was that boy you waved at this morning?”

She frowned for a moment, trying to remember who I was talking about. “Oh, that’s Michael Rosenberg. He’s the head of the Jewish Student Federation. His dad owns the A and P on Delancey.” The federation was an after-school club for Jewish students. Both Paul and Pearl belonged. They’d tried to get me to join as well, but I told them from the get-go that I wasn’t interested. “Why do you want to know?”

“He’s the one Paul squealed to. He cornered me right after you left this morning.”

“Well, he’s a nice guy, despite the company he keeps.” She rolled her eyes toward where Paul was sitting with Denise Halloway. “Did he say what he wanted?”

I told her about the note he’d shown me. She gripped her fork until her fingers turned red. “Did he tell the principal?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I can’t believe someone would do that, and right before Hanukah, too.” The mention of Hanukah stirred guilt deep in my stomach. Pop had changed our surname from Ackerman to Anderson years ago and we had never been an observant family. That changed last year, right after December 7. I don’t know if it was the United States entering the war or hearing that Pop had been hurt, but Mama and I lit our candles for the eight days of Hanukah, blindly believing that religion could make everything better.

When it didn’t, it was easy to discard it again.

“You’re going to help him, right?” asked Pearl.

“I don’t know how,” I said. “What am I supposed to do—analyze the handwriting? Check the paper for fingerprints?”

“We could stake out the lockers. If two people in the federation got notes, I’ll bet there are more coming.”

Her “we” didn’t escape me.

From across the cafeteria, laughter rang out at the table the Rainbows occupied. They were a gang of fast-living upperclassmen who, if gossip was to be believed, were behind everything that ever went wrong at P.S. 110. It was easy to see why everyone thought that. The girls in the group wore tight sweaters, bright lipstick, and a knowing grin that would’ve made a nun blush. And the boys slicked back their hair with Brylcreem, wore their wallets on waist chains, and peppered their speech with the latest slang straight out of Harlem dance halls. I used to be friends with them, until they found out I was trying to get information for a case for Pop. I’d made peace with some of the group, but the rest of them still wanted nothing to do with me. Or Pearl. Once a rat, always a rat, I guess.