ContentsTitlePageALSOBYGENNIFERCHOLDENKODedication
SanFranciscoJanuary1,1900
PartOneChapter1:The
Cook,theMaid,OurHorse,andPapaChapter2:The
Doctor’sDaughterChapter3:SoMany
DeadRatsChapter4:Our
Cat’sinaDrunken
TizzyChapter5:The
SecretBoyChapter6:Second
HelpingsChapter7:
ChocolateBrusselsSproutsChapter8:Mama’s
Daughter
Chapter9:QuarantineChapter10:Orange
TomChapter11:The
MiracleofDogSpitChapter12:The
MysteryoftheChamberPotChapter13:
BackwardDayChapter14:Astral
DogChapter15:DohjeChapter16:Monkey
intheGardenChapter17:A
HundredandOneRulesChapter18:Noahin
MyRoomChapter19:ChickenChapter20:The
WolfDoctorChapter21:A
HarebrainedPlanChapter22:Button-
HeadLionChapter23:The
EmptyRoom
PartTwoChapter24:The
EggTrickChapter25:Toiland
Toil,OurMaggyDoyleChapter26:Pung
YauChapter27:Gus’s
Idea
Chapter28:TheNightRideChapter29:
HonoluluChapter30:The
ServantsVanishChapter31:Rhymes
With“Persons”Chapter32:
Roumalade’sTriage
Chapter33:Billy’sSecretChapter34:
PolishingtheMotorcarChapter35:Sugar
WaterChapter36:Too
ManySecretsGlossaryAuthor’sNote
NotesChronologyAbouttheAuthor
Copyright
ALSOBYGENNIFERCHOLDENKO
AlCaponeDoesMyShirtsAlCaponeDoesMy
HomeworkAlCaponeShinesMyShoesNoPassengersBeyondThis
PointIfaTreeFallsatLunch
PeriodNotesfromaLiarandHer
Dog
ToKai—whoknewitwouldbesofuntohavea
daughter?
I
SanFranciscoJanuary1,1900nthePalaceHotel,electriclights blaze as ladies in
shimmering gowns andgentlemeninblackwaistcoatswaltz in a ballroom gildedwith gold. On thecobblestones of Market
Street, revelers janglecowbells to ring in the newcenturyforthecity,thePearlofthePacific.In the bay, a steamer fromHonolulu is fumigated,scrubbed, and smoked—fromthe silk-seated parlors to thestinking steerage—and givenentry to the port of SanFrancisco.At the dock, thick with thesmellof fish, rats slipoff the
ship. They scurry onto thewharfandclimbthesewerstoChinatown.One.Two.Three.Four.
PartOne
I
Chapter1
TheCook,theMaid,OurHorse,
andPapa
findaspoton thebench infront of the line of
carriages, buggies, and onestalled motorcar facing thewrong direction, trying mybest to ignore theothergirls’whisperedplansastheyclimbinto each other’s buggiesafterschool.They’regoingtowear split skirts and bicycleinGoldenGatePark,orcarryparasols and wear hats andgloves to shop at theEmporium, or go to eachother’s houses to try on new
cotilliondresses.Icrackopenmybookasmoregirlssweepby. A book is a friend youtake with you wherever yougo.Gemma leans on her
crutches next to the bench,resting her black-stockingedtoe on the ground. Hersprainedankleisbandagedina crisscross pattern—verydifferent from the way myfather does it. Gemma has
blueeyes,reddish-blondhair,and full cheeks that alwayslook feverish. “What are youreadingabout?”“Mucus,” I tell her. “Did
youknowyournoseproducesa flask full of mucus everyday?”Gemma makes a face. “A
flask full … Don’t tell meyoudrinkit?”“Actually, I do. Everyone
does.”IknowIshouldn’tsay
things like this. AuntHortensesaysItryhardtobepeculiar. But she’s wrong; Icomebyitquitenaturally.“DidSpenceraskyouyet?”
Hattie with the pouty lipscallstoGemma.Gemma turns to answer. I
don’t hear what she says. Itisn’t intended for me.Nothingtheysayeveris.It’s been a long time since
I’ve had a friend my age. I
shouldbeusedtoitbynow.Iwas eleven when AuntHortense insisted I enroll inMiss Barstow’s School forYoungWomen, where everygirl learns the virtues ofpatience, the proper use ofcalling cards, and how tomarryamanofstature,whichmeans he has money. Lastyear, Clara, my friend fromchurch,movedaway,andmybig brother, Billy, turned
mean and stopped lettingmetagalongwithhim.Now I’m thirteen, and my
friends are the cook, themaid, our horse, and myfather. Luckily, tomorrow Iget to go on callswith Papa,so Iwon’t have to faceMissBarstow’s for three wholedays. I’ve been assisting myfatherforonlyafewmonths,butI’vetakentoitlikebuttertobiscuits.
What Papa does is a lotmore interesting than whatwe learn in school. There’snoscienceatMissBarstow’s.Nomathafterthirdgrade.Wetake subjects deemednecessary for cultured youngwomen destined to run ahousehold of servants—French, elocution, dancing,music, geography, etiquette,andentertaining.I like geography the best,
then French and elocution.Etiquetteandentertainingputme to sleep, and dancing ispureagony.When I look up again, Jing
is here in our black buggywith our filly, Juliet, who’ssnortingandprancinglikeshehasn’tbeenoutinawhile.Jing waggles his eyebrows
atme, and I climb up besidehim.Heflapsthereins,andJuliet
trots forward into the street.Bits of foam fly where thelines rub against her shinybrownneck.Jing doesn’t have a long
braidorwearbaggypantsandwhite socks the way mostChinamendo.Hedresseslikemy father and speaksformally, never in pidginEnglish. We say he’s ourcook,buthealsotakescareofour garden, our two horses,
our nine chickens, and ourcat,OrangeTom.Butnottheparrot, Mr. P. Our maid,MaggyDoyle,looksafterMr.P. Maggy does the work ofthree maids, but she haspeculiar ways. “Addled,”Billycallsher.We take the route by the
sign that says PAINLESSPIANO-PLAYING DENTIST.Painless, my foot. Papa saysheplays thepiano sonoone
canhearhispatientsscream.Jing smiles slyly. “See
anythinginmyear?”Ileanin.“No.”He turns his head. “How
abouttheotherone?”Ipeerinthatear.“Nope.”“Ahhh…what’s this?” He
pretends to pull a tiny frogoutofhisrightearandhandsittome.Igrinathim,inspectingthe
live frog in my hand. It’sbright green with a blackmask.Jing always has something
forme.Asmoothblackstone,a white feather or cookiesbaked in the shape of myinitials.Ikeephisgiftsonmywindowsill, except for theonesIeat.He asks me how Miss
Barstow’s was today, and Itrytothinkofastorythatwill
makehimlaugh.“Miss Barstow bought a
newduncecap.Shetrieditonto demonstrate what willhappen if you flunk yourFrench vocabulary test, butherhairpingotcaughtandshecouldn’t get it off. MissAnnabellehadtohelpher.”“Stuckdumb,”Jingsays.“Dumbstuck,” I say, and
laugh. “It serves her right. Ihate that thing.Not that I’ve
everhadtowearit,butstill.”We pass a workhorse
pulling a big dray. On thecorner, white-ribbonedtemperance ladies pass outflyers, and newsboys hawkpapers.“Orange Tom has
disappeared again. I have ahunch he has a lady friend,”Jingsays.The frog hops in my lap. I
cup my hand over him to
prevent escape. “I hope hisladyfriendlikesrats.”Orange Tom loves to hunt,
buthekillsmorethanhecaneat.He’sfondofleavingdeadrodents in Aunt Hortense’sfountain, in the backseat ofUncleKarl’sbrand-newauto-machine, on our front step,andontopofPapa’smedicaljournals.The farther we get from
MissBarstow’s,themoremy
mood improves. I settle backand enjoy the short ride upthehilltohome.Aunt Hortense and Uncle
Karl’s house on Nob Hill isenormous—five times thesize of ours—and built tolook like a palace in Paris.Crystalchandeliers,paintingsof angels, marble busts offamous old men, goldcandelabras held up by goldcupids with gold twigs in
theirgoldhands.Everynightit’slitwithallelectriclight.Aunt Hortense and Uncle
Karlownourhouse,whichistiny compared to theirs butplentylargeenoughforPapa,Billy,andme.AuntHortensemarried sugar money. Hersister, Lucy, my mother,married a doctor who willcareforpatientswhethertheycanpayornot.My mother died five years
ago. It started with astomach-ache; Papa thoughtshe had parasites, but it wascancer. No cure for that.MaybeIwilldiscoverone.Whenmyfather isawayon
calls, AuntHortense steps intooverseeMaggy,Jing,Billy,andme.I’vetriedtoconvincePapa that now that Billy issixteen, he should be incharge.Billyisbad-tempered,but I still prefer him toAunt
Hortense.Ihaven’tbeenabletopersuadePapayet.AuntHortenseneverletsup
—I’m not to come or gowithout her permission. Iguess it’s because she can’thavechildrenofherownthatshethinkssheownsus.I watch her walk down the
stepsfromherhouse,wearinga yellow dress that soundslike a bristle brushwhen shewalks.Shehasonwhitelace-
up boots and carries a pearl-handled parasol.Most of herclothes come from Paris. Afew weeks a year, Frenchdresses are brought to theFairmont Hotel for ladies topurchase.Jing reins in Juliet so I can
climb out. I like it betterwhen I get tohelpunharnessher, but I can’t do that withAuntHortensestandinghere.I still have the frog in my
hand, and contemplatehanding it to her.How she’djump! Aunt Hortense isterrified of amphibians andreptiles.She’sallergictocatsanddoesn’tlikedogs.She peers at me. “Oh, for
goodness’ sake, Elizabeth.What did you do to yourhair?”“Trimmedit,ma’am.”“Withameatcleaver?They
have better hairstyles at the
almshouse.”“Really? Well, I’ll sign
myself up,” I say under mybreath.“I heard that,” Aunt
Hortense snaps. “Don’t youknowwhataprivilegeitistogo toMiss Barstow’s?Whatdidshesayaboutyourhair?”“That I ought to keep it
pinnedup.”My father comes out the
kitchen door with his brown
medicalbaginhisrighthandand his black bag in his left.Papaistall,likeme,withhairthe color of piecrust, andbrowneyeslikemine.“Hurryandchange,Lizzie.I
just got word Mrs. Jessen ishavingherbaby,”Papasays.Aunt Hortense frowns.
“Mustyoutakeherwithyou,Jules? It was bad enoughwhenyoutookWilliam.”“Shelikesgoing.”
“Where do the Jessenslive?”AuntHortenseasks.“Larkspur.”“Larkspur? She’ll miss
schooltomorrow.”“She’ll make up what she
missed, won’t you, Lizzie?”Papaasks.“Yes, sir.” I lean down to
hide my smile, release thefrog,andthenrunupthepathtoourhouse.Aunt Hortense shakes her
headatPapa.“Evenso,Jules…”“It’s okay, Aunt Hortense.
Childbirthisnotcontagious,”Icallback.“I’mjusttryingtokeepyou
safe, Elizabeth. Don’t youknowthat?”
J
Chapter2
TheDoctor’sDaughter
ingdrivesus to the ferry.In the sky, plumes of
yellow smoke shoot up fromChinatown.Theair isyellow
andsmellsofrotteneggsandburning trash. I’m glad wearen’tgoingthatway.We’ve just pulledup to the
dockwhenIspotBilly.Billylooks like Mama in Papa’sextra large size. He has herdark hair, and eyes so blue,they’re almost violet. Hedoesn’t have huge feet theway I do, but he has bighands—eachthesizeofaloafof bread. Aunt Hortense has
to send to New York to getgloves that fit. ApparentlyNew York is full of peoplewithbighands.Billy has his jacket off and
his shirtsleeves rolled up.He’s headed toward a crowdof young men watching astreetfight.Iraisemyarmtowave, thenyank itback.Ourfatherwon’tbehappyBillyisdown here. If I say hello,Billywillaccusemeoftelling
Papaonhim.I watch Papa out of the
corner of my eye; he hasn’tspotted Billy. But the wayJing’s eyebrows move, I’mprettysurehehas.After the ferry ride across
thechoppygreenwater,Papaand I rent ahorseandbuggyfrom the livery. Just as weclimb up, the rain begins tocome down. By the time wedig our slickers out, we’re
soaked. The wind howls;water and mud splash upfrom the road. Steam risesfrom the warm horses. Evenwith a hat on, my hair isdripping wet by the time wetie the horse outside theJessens’ little house andtrampinside.Luckily, Papa knows Mrs.
Jessen. Some ladies wouldratherdiethanhaveastrangedoctorexaminethem.
In the small cabin, Mrs.Jessen’s five-year-olddaughter, Caroline, standsholding her swollenmisshapenarm.Hermotherisscreaming like her hair iscaught in the hooves of agallopinghorse.Papa has an established
order of who to help first—triage, he calls it. Children,then women, then old men,then young men. But who
comes first in this case?Thebaby inside Mrs. Jessen, orCaroline? There are nograndmothers hovering, nohired men in the yard, noneighbors offering a helpinghand. Nobody but CarolineJessen,hermother,myfather,andme.Papa carefully inspects
Caroline’s arm. “It’s afracture. How’d you hurt it,littleone?”
“Fell,”Carolinewhispers.“My daughter, Lizzie, will
take good care of you,” hetellshergently,thenturnshisattentiontoMrs.Jessenashetalks me through settingCaroline’sarm.“Get some chloroform and
the gauzemask. Come showme when you have it,” hecalls.Thisismorethanhe’sasked
of me before. Did he forget
I’monlythirteen?“Move,Lizzie!”heshouts.Mrs. Jessen’s screams are
gainingonuslikethewhistleofanoncomingtrain.Papa has two doctor bags:
the black satchel full ofmedicine, the brown onepacked with instrumentswrapped in soft cloth. Thechloroform is in the blackone, along with mustardpoultices,camphor,ammonia,
liniment,andrubbingalcohol.I dig through the brownbag,looking for the gauze maskunder the bandages—oldsheetscutandrolledbyJing.WhenIdon’tfindthemask,
Iplowthroughagain,makinga mess of things. Papa isn’tgoing to like this.But then Ifeel the cool smooth edge ofmetal…themask.PapaseesIhaveit.“Isthere
a piece of wood around?
Threeinchesbyseven?”“Seven inches.Dowehave
aruler?”Iask.“Justguess.You’lluseitas
a brace.” His voice is calmand encouraging, but I knowhewon’tbehappyifImakeamistake.Iheadoutside.Therainhas
let up. It’s misting now, thewater hanging in the air.Myboots stick in the mud,making a sucking sound as I
pullthemout.I run to the boathouse and
thencutaroundtheback.Theboat’s paddles are on oneside, firmly attached to theboat hut. They’re too large.Besides,Ican’tgetthemoff.TheterrorinCaroline’seyes
makes my mind spin like abicycle wheel with no chainattached.Inthereedsstandsanegret,
slenderandelegant.Iwatchit
and try to calm myself.Where am I going to findsomethingtouseasabrace?Notrees;it’sallmarshhere.
Monterey pines grow in theback, behind the house, butthey are full of gnarlybranches.Weneedsomethingflat.The egret lifts its
pterodactyl wings and takesoff, its thin legs danglingbehind. And there—just
beyond the bird—I see abroken oar in the reeds. Itrudge through themuck, tugthe paddle pieces from themud. There is one about theright size! I wash it in thebay, the water sloping intomy boots. Then I run up tothehouse toboilwater.Papamakesmeboileverything.On the porch, I notice a
spittoon, along with smallcages of animals. Mice,
squirrels,araccoon.In the back room,Papa has
clean sheets and towelsaround Mrs. Jessen. He’stalking to her in thatcomfortingwayhehas.Caroline is huddled in the
corner of the front room, herbrownhairmattedwithsnarlsand snot, her eyes wide. Apulse beats in her smallforehead. My father says apatient must have faith in
you. But how do you earntrust? If Caroline is anythinglikethegirlsatschool,I’minbigtrouble.“You’regoingtobefine,”I
say.“Getaway,”shespits.Papahashishandsfullwith
Mrs. Jessen. If Caroline runsfromme,there’snowayIcanget the metal form with thegauzemaskoverhernose sothatIcanpourthechloroform
one drop at a time. Papainstructed me precisely howto use it—chloroform can bedeadly.I move closer. Her arm
hangs like a Z. How can anarmlooklikethat?“You ain’t a doctor.” Her
wholebodycavesaroundherarm,protectingitfromme.“I can do this. I’ve done it
before,”Ilie.“Leave me alone. My
father’s a policeman,”Carolinekicksoutatme,herfootcatchingair.“Calm her down,” Papa
calls from the back room.“Then give her thechloroform,carefully!”Caroline cowers behind an
oldloom.“Stayaway.”My eyes search the house
for clues about her. Then Iremember theanimalson theporch. “What is your
raccoon’sname?”Shewon’tanswer.“Isyourpapaapolicemanin
Larkspur?”Iask.“San Francisco.” I can
barely hear her over hermother’s moans. Tears floodCaroline’seyes.ThenIunderstand.Caroline
ismoreafraidforhermotherthansheisforherself.Iknowhow that feels. For a splitsecondIfeelasting,because
Caroline’s mother is herewith her and mine is dead.Then I whisper, “He won’thurther.”Caroline quivers. “He’s
hurtin’hernow!”“She’s having a baby. It
hurtsalot.Buthe’llhelpher.He knows how.” I work atmakingmyvoicecomforting.The tears spill down
Caroline’s cheeks, makingpink lines in her dirty face.
“No,” she hiccups, hershouldersconvulsing,buthereyesarewatchingme.“Yes,” I say. “It’s always
this way. It’s painful whenthe baby comes.” I try tosound calm. I’ve neverattended a childbirth before,butIknowthismuch.Caroline eyes me. “God’s
doingthistoher?”“No. God’s taking care of
her. Some things in life just
hurt. But your mama’s ingoodhandsnow.”Isenseheragreeingwithme
morethanIseeit.“Mypapa is agooddoctor.
He’llbringherthroughthis.”Hereyesabsorbthis.“He will. He’s delivered
hundredsofbabies.Heknowswhat he’s doing,” I say as Iprayforanormalbirth.She nods. The hand of her
good arm creeps forward,
fingerbyfingertotouchme.I take the last step to her,
wiping the hair gently fromherface.
W
Chapter3
SoManyDeadRats
e’reuphalfthenight,pullingasmallperson
out of Mrs. Jessen, which islikegettingaboulderoutofa
pickle jar. Impossible… butsomehowithappens.After my father finishes
cleaning the afterbirth, thecreature looks more like ababy and less like a gnome.Papa says they don’t crymuch the first day, but thisbaby’s cries pierce holes inmyeardrums.Myfatherisn’trightabouteverything.Mr.Jessenishomenow,out
back chopping wood in the
morning light. Mrs. Jessenand the new baby, Thomas,are sound asleep. I wasasleep, too, curled up in achair, when Papa woke me.“We have to get going, orwe’ll owe another day’schargeforthebuggy.”Mr.Jessenisabigmanwith
a hearty handshake. “Muchobliged, Lizzie,” he tells mewhen he comes through thedoor,bringinginthesmellof
choppedwood.“Lookslikeyougotyourself
some help there,” Papa says,and nods toward the backbedroom.Mr.Jessengrins.“Gonnabe
awhilebeforeIcangetmuchworkoutofhim.”“Trueenough,buthe’sgota
finesetoflungs.Icanvouchforthat.”“That he does. Thanks,
Jules. I know it’s a slog for
you to come all the way outhere. But given what’s beengoing on in the city, thefartherawaythebetter.”“Something I should know
about?”“Restaurant downonSutter
stinks to high heaven. Gotincense burning to mask thesmell. Finally opened up thewall. Eighty-seven dead ratsinthere.”Papa rocks back on his
heels.“Anyexplanation?”“Rats dying in a wall …
happens.It’sthequantitythatbothersme.”Papa sighs. “Could be
anything.”“I know it.Keep your eyes
open.That’sallI’msaying.”“Isleepwiththemopen.”“I’llbetyoudo.”
BeforeIleave,Icheckonmypatient, Caroline. She’s
sleeping peacefully, her hairfanning out over the pillow,her arm set on the brokenpaddlepiece.Jing’sbandagesare rolled neatly around herarm, anchored by her thumb.Not bad for my first brokenarm. I only wish Carolinewent to Miss Barstow’s. Iimagine her telling the othergirls. This would impressthem,wouldn’tit?I climb into the buggy,
badgering Papa withquestions. “How was Isupposed toknowhowtoseta broken arm and calm aterrifiedlittlegirl?”Papa’slonglegssearchfora
comfortable spot in thecramped buggy. He has toduck when going throughdoorways and punch extraholesinthestirrupleatherstomake them long enough forhis legs. I hope I don’t get
thattall.“Youfigureditout,though,
didn’tyou?”I can’t help smiling. I like
beinggoodat this. “Whyareyou teaching me? Billy wassupposedtobethedoctor.”“Whyareyoulearning?”“There are no girls in
medicalschool.”“There are a few.” He
smilestenderly, takingalockof my hair and putting it on
the right side of my part.“Youdidwell.”Isoakthisup.“Just don’t forget that
everybody reacts tochloroform differently.Alwayspaycloseattentiontothesmallthings.”“Are there charts that tell
youexactlyhowmuchbyageandbyweight?”“Yes,butdon’tbeaslaveto
charts.You don’twant to be
one of those physicians whooperate with an open atlasbeforethem.”“I’mtooperatenow?”He flashes a boyish smile.
“Notthisweek.”I know what he’s saying,
butwhatifImakeamistake?Toomuchchloroformcankillaperson.“Does Dr. Roumalade have
charts?”Dr.Roumaladeisthedoctor
for people who live on NobHill. He makes house calls,like Papa does, but he alsohas an office, with a roomjust for people to wait. Youhave to be a high-muck-a-muck to see Dr. Roumalade.If you’re a railroad king andget sick, he’ll move in withyouuntilyougetwell.“Yes, but I’m certain he
uses his eyes and ears morethanhischarts.”
I bet he doesn’t get paid inblackberry jam and hand-wovenblankets,thewayPapadoes. It’s easier to get yourfee if the outcome is good.Forhishealthybabyboy,Mr.Jessen probably gave Papa afew dollars besides the jamand the blanket, but I don’tknow for sure. Grown-upsdon’t give straight answersaboutmoney.“Why is Dr. Roumalade
Aunt Hortense’s doctor, notyou?”“It would be awkward,”
Papasays.“And what was Mr. Jessen
talking about, anyway?Eighty-sevenratsdying.”“Hygiene is not what it
could be in some of oureatingestablishments.”“Butsomany!”“I’ve got my hands full
worrying about human
diseases.Ican’tkeeptrackofratailments,too,Lizzie.”
After the boat ride throughthickwetfog,JingappearsinfrontoftheFerryBuilding.I scurry ahead of Papa and
climb up into the buggybehind Jing. “How’d youknow what ferry we’d beon?”“Magic,” Jing says, and
smiles. His eyebrows move
an awful lot. They tell youmorethanhislips.The buggy rocks as Papa
climbs in.He slides his bagsundertheseat.“DoesDr.Roumaladetravel
asmuchasyoudo?”Iask.“Nope.” Papa gives me a
dry smile. “He sendsinconvenientpatientstome.”Jing slaps the lines, and
Julietleapsforward.“Everythingokayathome?”
Papa asks aswepass amuleand wagon. Hee-haw, themulewarns;we’ve come tooclose.“At home, yes, sir. But
Chinatown is underquarantine.”“Chinatown.” Papa shakes
hishead.I watch up ahead, where a
policeman on horsebackmanagestheoverflowinglineof people waiting for the
cable car. “What’s thequarantinefor?”“Theplague,”Papasays.“The plague? Right, Papa.”
Ilaugh.“It’s true. The fact that
nobody’s seen hide nor hairof it is apparently beside thepoint. A lot of Sturm undDrangfornothing.”Jingnods,butIdon’t.What
isSturmundDrang?“Why is the quarantine
happening,then?”Iask.“Just the word shakes
everybodyup.Plaguevictimsdieaharddeath.”“Dotheyalldie?”“Death rate is fifty percent.
Nearly wiped out EuropeduringtheMiddleAges.”“Isitbecauseoftherats?”“Don’tjumptoconclusions,
Lizzie.Youknowbetter thanthat.”
“Theremustbesomereasonthey think we have theplague.”“There was an outbreak in
Hawaii.Buttherehasn’tbeenasingleconfirmedcasehere.”“Why did they quarantine
Chinatown?”“Well… they’re not going
to quarantineNobHill, now,arethey?”PapawinksatJing.Jingsmiles.
AuntHortensehurriesoutthesecondsheseesus,likeshe’sbeen watching through thewindow. Sometimes shelooks somuch likeMama, itfeels like a twist of theforceps on my heart. Butwhen she opens her mouth,she’s Aunt Hortense again.“Thank goodness you’resafe,”shesays.“Do you think I’d let
anything happen to my
Lizzie?”Papaasks.“Promisemeyouwon’ttake
her with you for a while,”AuntHortensepleads.“What are you concerned
about, Hortense?” Myfather’s voice is patient, asalways.“When was the last time
theyquarantinedapartofthecity?”“Ican’trecall.”Papaclimbs
down from the buggy after
me.AuntHortensefansherface.
“Mypointexactly.”“IsKarlworried?”“Notabit.Look,humorme,
Jules. I don’t want to takechanceswithourElizabeth.”Papa nods. “Of course.
She’ll stay home until thisdiesdown.”“Thanks.” Aunt Hortense
kisses Papa lightly on thecheek.
“Wait … Papa!” I whisperwhenweareoutofearshotofAuntHortense.“Wedidn’tgonearthequarantinetoday,andwe’re not going tomorrow,either,arewe?”“Nope.”“Then there’s no reason for
her to be worried. Come on,Papa.WhatamIgoing todoathome?”Papaslipshisspectaclesoff
and cleans themwith a cloth
hekeepsinhisbreastpocket.“Yourauntdoesa lot forus.If a small thing like this canmakeherhappy…”“But you’re thedoctor, and
you’re not worried. Why dowehavetolistentoher?”“Because she’s your aunt
andshelovesyou.”One word from Aunt
Hortense and my wholeweekend is ruined. Ikick thecobblestones so hard it hurts
mytoe.
S
Chapter4
OurCat’sinaDrunkenTizzy
aturday morning I hearthe snap of Papa’s bags
closing without me. I watchthrough my window as he
hurries across to the barn,hunchedforwardinthefoggymorning,abag ineachhand.A few minutes later, thebuggy wheels squeak andJuliet’shoovesclick,clackonthecobblestone.Great.I’mstuckhereallday
withnothingtodoandnoonetodoitwith.ForasecondIwonderwhat
thegirlsfromMissBarstow’saredoing.ThenIcometomy
senses and take out myjournal.Iliketowritepoems,just as my mama did. ShewroteapoemaboutmewhenIwaslittle.It’soneofthefewthingsIhavefromher.
IhavealittlegirlnamedLizzie,Sobusyshemakesmedizzy.ShethinksourpetsareillAndprescribesadoctor’s
pill.Nowourcat’sinadrunkentizzy,AllbecauseofourlittleLizzie.
I’mgladMamahadasenseofhumor, but Iwonderwhatelse she thought about me.Too tall?Tooawkward?Toomanyfreckles?Wouldshebehappy that I can saddle myown horse and put together
the loose bones in Papa’sbonebag tocreateaskeletonbymyself?Papa saysMama letme do
as I pleased more than AuntHortense thought she should.FunnyhowwhenMamawasalive, I never thought abouther.Shewaslikethebackofmy head—my parietal bone.Always a part ofme. Now Iwish I’d paid more attentiontoher.
After she died, Billy and Idid everything together. Weputonmagic showsof tricksJing taught us. I was hisassistant.He tried to sawmeinhalffortheneighborkids.Ihad to stay rolled up in anapple crate while he sawedaway. Other days, I sawedhim. We won twosarsaparillas and a bag ofbutterscotch candy for thatonce. He taught me how to
ride bareback, how to climb,andhowtokeepfromhurtingmyself when I jump downfrom the loft.NowBilly is agrouch who won’t even eatsupperwithus.He’s trying to earn money
for a horseless carriage, andthat’s all he thinks about. Idon’t know why he wants astinky oldmotorcar when hecanhaveahorse.Iwatchhimtestabikehe’s
repaired. He rides it acrossthe cobblestones, then comestoaskiddinghalttocheckthebrakes.Hechargesanickeltochangeabicycletire.Hewillhave to change an awful lotof tires to buy anautomachine.ItakeJohnHenryoutofhis
stallandbeginbrushinghim.Billy hops off the bike and
leansitagainstthebarndoor.“Don’t make Aunt Hortense
crazy,” he says. LastThanksgiving,AuntHortensecaughtmeridingJulietinmyoveralls. She was so mad,you’d think I’d robbed abank. Papa started takingmeon his calls after that to getme out of Aunt Hortense’shair.“I’m just grooming, not
riding.”He snorts. “I’m taking him
anyway.Whyareyouhere?I
thoughtyou’dtakenmyplaceasPapa’slittlehelper.”“Aunt Hortense pitched a
fit,soPapasaidIhadtostayhome. She thinks I’m goingtocatchsomething.”Orange Tom skulks by. He
has dirty pumpkin-coloredfur,eyesthecolorofoverripepears, and a paw with anextrafinger.Billy goes into the tack
roomfortheharness.
“Quit following me,” hebarks.“I’mnotfollowingyou.I’m
walking in the samedirection.”Billy lifts the collar over
John Henry’s head. He canharness John Henry to thewagoninhissleep.It’sharderthanitlooks.I’vetried.Iwatchhimloadthebicycle
he fixed into the back of thewagon,climbup,andpickup
thelines.“Where are you going?” I
ask.“Nowhere,”hesnaps.“Gosh, Billy, can’t you at
leasttellmethat?”“Nope.”
In the house, I unlace myboots,slipthemoff,andslideinmystockingfeet toPapa’slibrary. I kneel on the rug tolook at the bottom shelf of
journals, searching forarticles about interestingdiseases. I dream of the daywhen the girls at MissBarstow’s come down withcholera and I’m theonewhosavesthem.I look up the plague. The
antidotesarewild.Eatsnake,wear camphor or dried toadsinalocket,fillanamuletwitharsenic, keep your farts in ajar, and take an ice water
enema. I look up “enema.”“The injection of fluid intothe rectum.” I can’t wait totellAuntHortense.Jing has gone to market;
tall, curly-haired Maggywhisks thecobwebsfromtheceiling of Papa’s library.“Miss Lizzie wishes shecould go with Mr. Doctor,”Maggymutters.“Isuredo,”Itellher.“What
about you,Maggy?What do
youwish?”She doesn’t answer. What
doesMaggywishfor?Ihavenoidea.There’sgottobesomething
better to do than watchMaggy dust. I take thejournals up to my room andkeep reading. Maybe if Iknow all about the plague, Ican convince Aunt Hortensethere’s nothing to worryabout.
Symptoms, I write. Fever,swelling in lymph nodes,black-and-blue marks, chills,headaches.
When the clock strikes four,Papa, Jing,andBillyare stillgone. Papa is often out oncalls for days at a time. Idon’tworry about him.Billycomes home late a lot ofnightstoo.ButJingshouldbebackbynow.
I’mreadingTheAdventuresofHuckleberryFinnyetagainwhenIhearanoiseuponthethirdfloor,wheretheservantslive.MaggyDoylehasawayof being everywhere at once,like a dust storm. Still, Ithoughtshewasdownstairs.“Maggy!”Iyell.Notasoundfromupabove.Could Papa be back? I
would have heard him in thebarn.MustbeJing.Ijumpoff
the bed and head for thestairs.Maggy appears in the hall.
“MissLizzie?”“IsJinghome?”“No.”Sometimes houses just
creak. Maggy’s curly headdisappearsdownthestairway,and I go back to reading inmyroom.Butthereitisagain—more like shuffling thancreaking.
Rats?Mice?Orange Tom usually takes
careofthem.Itiptoedownthehalltothe
stairway that leads to theservants’ floor.Thestairsarenarrow, dark, and steep, andthestairwellisstuffy.The door at the top is
closed. I turn the crystalhandle, and the door swingsopen.The third-floor hall looks
likethesecond-floorhall,butthere’s no furniture, nopictures, and the rug iswornthin. Heat rises, so this floorshould be warm, but thewindows are wide open. Infront of Maggy Doyle’scloseddoorisamat,asifthisistheoutside.Jing’sdoorhasapaper lanternhanging fromtheknob.What if there’s a burglar?
What if he climbed in the
window?WithBillyandPapagone,it’smyresponsibilitytofind out. Aunt Hortensewouldn’t agree, but sincewhendoIdowhatshesays?And then a girl whispers:
“Lizzie.”Thehairon thebackofmy
neck standsup straight.Whois this? I don’t know thevoice,butthisgirlknowsmyname.I don’t believe in ghosts. I
watchedPapaexamineadeadperson before. The dead aregone.Theycan’treturn.“Lizzie.” It’s coming from
Jing’sroom.“How do you know me?”
Myvoicetrembles.The bevels in the crystal
doorknob flicker in thesunlight as the knob turns,making a kaleidoscopepatternonthefloor.Thedoorswings open, and a boy
standsbeforeme.
M
Chapter5
TheSecretBoy
y knees shake. I openmymouthtoscream.
Butwait…he’sjustakid.He’sChinese,withasquare
face anda sturdybuild.He’s
a little shorter thanme, withstraight black hair. Hewearsa white shirt and a tie.Threads of color hang fromhissleeve.“Who are you?” I try to
soundcalm.“I’mJing’sson.”He’s lying. “Jing doesn’t
haveason.”“Yes,hedoes.”“IwouldknowifJinghada
son.Hewouldhavetoldme.”
Theboy squints atmeas ifmyanswerpainshim.“What?Hewouldhave.”He sighs. “Youdon’t know
anything,”hewhispers.“You can’t talk to me that
way.”“I’m sorry,” he mumbles,
thoughitdoesn’tseemlikehemeansit.The way he moves his lips
and his eyebrows isshockingly like Jing. Could
he be telling the truth? Is heJing’sson?“What’syourname?”“Noah.”“Howoldareyou?”“Twelve.”“Whatareyoudoing inmy
house?”“Ilivehere.”“Livehere?”“Idonow.Inhere.”I survey the room,which is
clean and smells of almondsandcookedrice.Acotwitharedsilkquiltrestsagainstonewall; a large dragon tapestryhangs fromanother.Anunlitcandle and blue-and-whiteceramic bowls sit on abookshelffullofbooks.“Wheredoyousleep?”Noah lifts up the quilt and
pullsawhitepad fromunderthebed.Igoinsidetosee.“I thoughtyouwereagirl,”
Isay.“Well, I’m not,” he shoots
back.“Does anyone know you
livehere?”Heshakeshishead.Maggy’sroomisnextdoor.
“NotevenMaggy?”“No.”“Whyareyoulivingherein
secret?”He sucks his lips in. “I’m
notaservant,”hewhispers.I try to think if I have
known any Chinese who arenot servants. The vegetablepeddler? Themenwhoworkatthecleaners?“Doyougotoschool?”Henods.“The Chinese school?” I
sawtheChineseschoolonce.The kids wore silk skullcapsand silk trousers. He’s notdressedthatway.
“Yes.”I kneel down and run my
fingeralongthespinesofoneshelf of books. The BrothersKaramazov, Around theWorld in Eighty Days, TheOrigin of Species. Is Noahreadingthese?“I also do piecework. Five
centsadozen.”Hepicksupastack of buttonhole strips,which explains the coloredthreads hanging from his
sleeve.Theyareneedleswiththread. “Baba doesn’t wantme to get used towaitingonpeople.”“WhoisBaba?”“Jing. ‘Baba’ is ‘Papa’ in
Chinese.”HegetstocallJing“Baba”?
“Whydoesn’thewantyoutowait on people?He waits onpeople.”“Yes, but he says it makes
youinvisible.”
“Jing, invisible? Never!” Istare at him. “Are youcrazy?”His eyes go cross-eyed and
he sticks his fingers into hismouth to stretch it out like aweird jack-o’-lantern. “Do Ilookcrazy?”I shake my head; I can’t
helpsmiling.He bites at his lip. “Baba
shouldbebackbynow.”He’s right.Going tomarket
takesafewhours,notallday.“Do you know where he
is?”Iask.“I’m afraid they caught
him.”“Caught him? Who? What
areyoutalkingabout?”“Thepolice.”I sit back on my heels.
“Whywould the policewantJing?”“Thequarantine.”Hewalks
to the window and pulls theblind back just enough topeekout.“TheywantusallinChinatown.”“Jinglivesherewithus.Not
in Chinatown. He alwayshas.”“Thatdoesn’tmatter.”“Ofcourseitmatters.”“You know so little,” he
whispers.“Iknowalot!”
“MissLizzie?”Maggycallsfromthedistantdownstairs.Noah takes a step closer.
“Wait. Will you find outwhereheis?”“Me?HowamIgoingto—”“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy
opensandclosesthedoorsonthe second floor as if shethinks Imight behiding in acloset.“Andpromiseyouwon’ttell
anyoneI’mhere,”hepleads.
Firstheinsultsme.Now…Whoisthiskidanyway?“They’llfirehimifyoudo.”Jinghasworkedforussince
I was three. He has madeevery one of my birthdaycakes for as long as I canremember. He bakes asurprise in each one—chocolate filling,strawberries, licorice,peppermint candies. Eachyear I look forward to what
he’s baked inside. Hemakesmelemonadeonhotdaysandhot cocoa on cold ones. Hecuts me big slabs of breadwarm from the oven andslathered with honey. Once,whenIsprainedmyankle,hereadmeallofSaraCrewe,orWhat Happened at MissMinchin’swhileIsatwithmylegproppeduponpillows.When I come home from
MissBarstow’s,whereIhave
sat by myself, worked bymyself, read by myself, it’sJing who makes me laughwithhisimitationofamarketmerchant trying to sell apigeon as a goose, or theiceman’s horse who has acrushonJuliet.“NoonewillfireJing.”“They will.” Noah’s
whisperisstrained.“Never!”Isay,but…Aunt
HortenseandUncleKarlown
our house. They won’t behappy about a boy whodoesn’t work for us livinghereinsecret.I nod. “I’ll keep quiet …
untilPapacomeshome.”
T
Chapter6
SecondHelpings
heupstairsissosilent,itseems impossible that a
boyisupthere.DidIimaginehim? How long has he beenhere? Where is his mother?
Howdoeshesneakinandoutforschool?Isitonmybed,lookingout
atthesky,whichisdarkgray,litorangeat thehorizon.Theyardisahazypink.I turnonthe electric light, which isunreliable. Uncle Karl sayssoonwewilluseonlyelectriclights.Ihopenot,becausethegaslightsworkmuchbetter.Why would Noah say he’s
not going to be a servant?
Doesn’t he understand thewaythingsare?AndwhereisJing,anyway?“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy
breezes through, the brightgreenparrot onher shoulder,my mended bloomers in herhand. She smiles at me.“Supper’sready.”“Supper’s ready! Supper’s
ready!”Mr.P.squawks.My stomach grumbles.
Supper without Jing will be
dullindeed.Wait.WhataboutNoah? How will he getsupper?In the kitchen, Maggy has
warmedJing’sbeef stewandladledit intoabowl.Shehascut Jing’s bread and spreadbutteronitforme.“Where’sJing?”Iask.“Atthemarket.”Maggysets
thebowlatmyplace.“It’stoolateforthat.”Maggydoesn’t answer.She
knowsthatifJingisnothere,shemustwarm supper.Doesshethinkbeyondthat?Sunday afternoon is Jing’s
time off. Sometimes hedoesn’treturnuntillateinthenight, but today is Saturday.HenevertakesSaturdayoff.WhenMaggy heads for the
drawing room to get theskeinsofribbonsshefashionsinto bows for my hair, Ireturnwhat’s leftofmystew
to the pot. Then I slip backinto my seat and ask forseconds.She ladles more hot stew
into the bowl and spreadsanother slice of bread withbutter.“I’m going to eat this
upstairs,”Itellher.She looks up from where
she stands at the counter,blackgrosgrainribbonwoundaround her fingers. “Miss
Lizziesick?”“I just want to eat in my
room.”Shegetsa trayfor thesoup
and bread, pours a full glassof milk, and then carries thetray up the stairs and sets iton the bedwithout spilling adrop. Maggy would doanythingintheworldIasked.Once,shestayedupforthreenights to finish the smockingonapinaforeforme.
“Thankyou.”Ibeamather.I listen for her footsteps
down the stairs, the swingofthe door, and the squeak ofher stool. Then I pick up thetray and head for theservants’stairs,awareofeachstep and how it rocks themilk.Outside Jing’s door, my
heartbeats loudly.“Noah?”Iwhisper.Noah cracksopen thedoor.
Hiseyesshiftbackandforth.He looks down at the tray.“Youbroughtsupper?”Inod.He moves out of the way,
andIslipinside.Where do I set the tray? I
almost laugh, thinking aboutasking Miss Barstow thisquestion, given all the rulesI’m breaking. Entering aboy’s room, not announcingyourself with a calling card,
servingaservant.Noah sees me hesitate. He
takes the tray and sets it onthe silk blanket. I’m not assteady with the tray asMaggy. A little of the milkhasspilled.Noah’seyesarehungry,but
hetakesastepback,offeringthestewtome.“I’ve eaten.” I spot a chair
piled high with books. Noahclears the chair, and I sit
down.Heclimbsbackintothenest
ofbooksandbuttonstripsonhis bed and tucks into hisstew,nibblingathisbreadasifhewantsittolast.Hehasahabit of pushing his hairbehind his ears after everyfewbites.“One thing I don’t
understand…Why did JinggotoChinatown?”“He’satranslator.”
“Whatdoeshetranslate?”Noah looks at me like I’m
an idiot. “Chinese toEnglish.”“Of course.” I turn red.
“Papa isn’t home. I don’tknowifhe’llbebacktonight.I’m going to talk to UncleKarl.IfJinggotcaughtinthequarantine, Uncle Karl willgethimout.”“How?”“Uncle Karl is in the
newspaperbusiness.Heownsthe evening Call and S&SSugar. People like to be onhisgoodside.”Noah stops chewing. His
eyes watch me warily. “Areyou going to tell him aboutme?”Ishakemyhead.“No.”He lets out an uneasy
breath. “Baba will be mad Itoldyou.”“Jingnevergetsmad.”
Noahlaughs.“What?Hedoesn’t.”“Not with you,” he
whispers. “He works foryou.”Isthistrue?Isthereanother
Jing I don’t know about?“What does Jing say aboutme?”Noahthinksaboutthis.“He
trusts you. He says you’rekindtoMaggyDoyle,but…you’re your own worst
enemy.”What? I’m my own worst
enemy? “Why does he saythat?”Noah shrugs. “But he loves
you. I thought you’d be thepersonIcouldtrust.”“NotBilly?”“Baba thinks Billy has lost
hisway.”“Hehasnot,” I say. Idon’t
want this strange boy talkingaboutmybrother.Istarehard
atNoah.Howcanheknowsomuchaboutus?
Downstairs, I’m putting onmyboots togo talk toUncleKarl when I remember thatit’s Jing’s job to feed theanimals. The horses are bothgone—JulietwithPapa, JohnHenry with Billy. OrangeTom feeds himself. Maggyfeeds the parrot, but thechickens…
“The chickens need to befed,”ItellMaggy.Maggy scrambles for her
coat.Shepicksupalantern—no electricity in the barn—andthebasketofstalebread.I follow her outside, wherethemoonisalopsidedcircle,abirdhoots likeanowl, andthedarkshapesofthehedgescreatespookymoonshadows.Maggy shines the lantern onthepath.
Thepathisasfamiliartomeasmyown feet, but it seemsdifferent tonight. I glance upat Noah’s window. Is hewatchingme?I leaveMaggy tossing stale
breadinthecoopandwalkupthe path to the Sweetinghouse, all four floors litbrightly.When I go in, maids in
black uniforms are justremoving the supper dishes
from the long dining roomtable.Thewaythey’retalkingand laughing, I know AuntHortense isn’t nearby. Whenthe maids spy me, thegiggling comes to an abrupthalt.Uncle Karl is in the
smoking room, a brandysnifterinhishand.He’sdeepin conversation with a manwhohasahalf-moonofblackcurly hair circling his shiny
baldinghead.I’mnotallowedintheleather-walledsmokingroom—no girls are, not evenAunt Hortense. I wait for abreakintheconversation.“Hearst put it on the front
page,”themansays.Uncle Karl groans. “Only
Hearst would sanction thisridiculousescapade.”“The plague sells papers.
They’re flying off thestands,” the balding man
says.“It’sbadforthecity.We’ve
allagreed.Can’tsomeonegetHearstonboard?”UncleKarlasks.“Good luckwith that.”The
baldingmansteadieshisglassas Uncle Karl fills it from acrystal carafe. “You don’tsupposeanyofthisistrue,doyou?”“There isn’t a doctor in the
statewhobelievesitis.”
“Still. If it were, theprospectis…”“Unthinkable. But I don’t
build my business onspeculation, any more thanyou do. You got somethingyou’renottellingme?”“Nope.”Themanclinkshis
glasswithUncleKarl’s.“Then we’ll leave the
scaremongering to Hearst. Itwill backfire soon enough. Italwaysdoes.”
They’resilent.“Uncle Karl?” I call from
thedoorway.“Excuse me, will you?”
UncleKarlappearsoutofthesmoke. “Why, Lizzie.” Hetakesapuffofhiscigar.“TowhatdoIowethispleasure?”Uncle Karl’s jackets fit
better than Papa’s or Billy’s.Aunt Hortense says there isonlyonetailorinthecitywhoisskilledenough tosuithim.
No matter the time of day,UncleKarlisfreshlypressed,as if he just stepped into hisclothes.Hehasgrayhair,anda kind face with sharp blueeyes. Aunt Hortense is tallerthanheis.“Jing is gone. He went to
themarket thismorning, andhe hasn’t come back. I’mworried he got caught in thequarantine.”“The quarantine? Darlin’,
you shouldn’t worry yourpretty little head about suchthings.”I can’t help smiling at this.
NoonesaysI’mprettyexceptUncleKarl. “Butwhat aboutJing?”Uncle Karl clicks his
tongue. “He’s a grown man.There’s no telling where heis.”“Hewouldn’tgooffwithout
telling us. It’s not like him.
He must be in thequarantine.” I wish I couldtellUncleKarlthatJing’ssoniscertainJingisthere.Uncle Karl holds his cigar
and his glass with his lefthand.Withhisright,heslideshis gold pocketwatch out ofhisvestpocketandglancesatit. “It’s possible,” heconcedes. “I’ll make somecallstomorrowandseewhatIcanfindout,butonlyforyou,
Peanut.”Hewinksatme.“Whatabouttonight?”He swirls the brandy in his
glass.“WhatcanIdoatnineo’clockatnight?I’lllookintoitfirstthinginthemorning.”“Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank
you.”“IsBillyhome?”“I’mnotsure,”Imumble.His sharp eyes cut through
me.“You’renot sure,oryou
don’twanttosay?”Iwagglemyheadbackand
forth.“Alittleofboth,sir.”“I wish your father would
letme buy Billy amotorcar.Then your brother wouldn’tbeout trying tomakemoneyevery hour of the day andnight.”“Papa wants him to earn it
himself.”“I know he does. Your
fatherisanobleman,butthe
world is not nearly as nobleas he is, Peanut, and don’tyouforgetit.”“Papa wouldn’t agree with
youaboutthat,sir.”“No,Iexpectnot.”What would my father say
about all of this? I stop tothink.“He’dsayit’suptousto shape the world. And nottheotherwayaround.”“And what do you think,
Peanut?”
“I think Papa’s way isnicer.”“Hah,yes.”Hechuckles.“It
most certainly is, darlin’. Itmostcertainlyis.”
I
Chapter7
ChocolateBrusselsSprouts
walkbacktomyhouse,thewind blowing the fog like
ghosts chasing through thestreets. No light in Noah’s
window.Isthereenoughlightcoming under the door forhim to read, or does he haveto go to bed when the sungoesdown?Maggy’s light is on. Too
bad.IwanttorunupandtellNoah that Uncle Karl saidhe’d help. I miss havinganother kid in the house. Iwish for the thousandth timethat Billy would be like heusedtobe.
AssoonasIwakeup,IruntoPapa’s room, but his coat isnot hanging from the knob,his pocket watch and loosechangearenotonthedresser.Hisbedisuntouched.Billy’sdoorisclosed.When
Iwaslittle,weusedtosneakout to ride before AuntHortensegotup.NowIdon’tdareknockonhisdoor.He’lltear my head off if I wakehim.
Downstairs, I hear thefamiliar sound of coal beingshoveled. Jing! I run out thedoorandaround to thecellarstairs. The door is open, butMaggyisshoveling,hercurlyhair pinned to her head, astreak of soot on her cheekand perspirationmarks underher arms. She smiles up atme.“Jingisstillgone?”She nods. I run out to the
barn to see if John Henry isback. If he’s here, Billy is,too.JohnHenry stands with his
lower lipso loose,youcouldcollect pennies in it. I slipintohisstallandputmyarmsaround his fuzzy brown-and-white neck. I open a bale ofhayand tosshima flake.Heplodsover tohismangerandroots around.When his headpopsup,hisforelockislaced
withalfalfa.Usually on Sundays, Billy,
Papa,AuntHortense,andIgotochurch.UncleKarldoesn’tlike church. He says, Goingto church doesn’t make aperson aChristian anymorethan taking a mule into abarnmakesthemuleahorse.He ridesout toOceanBeachor down to the racetrack toget stories for his newspapercolumn.
Lastnighthesaidhe’dfindoutaboutJingfirstthing.ButUncleKarl’sfirstthingcouldbe a week from tomorrow.Still,thisisanemergency.Heknowsthat,doesn’the?In the kitchen, Maggy has
madeoatmeal,buteverythingshe cooks tastes like boiledpotatoes.It’smessytocarryabowlof
hot cereal up two flights ofstairsandthenbringthedirty
bowl back down. I fill apitcher of water, then maketwo apple butter sandwiches,grabajarofpeachesandtwoforks,androlleverythingintoa kitchen towel. Noah won’tlike Maggy’s boiled-potatooatmealanybetterthanIdo.While Maggy is in the
chicken coop gathering eggs,Irunuptothethirdfloor.“Noah,” I whisper,
knockingsoftly.
Nooneanswers.Iknockagain.Stillnothing.Isheasleep?If I knock too loudly,Billy
might hear. But I can’t justleave Noah’s breakfastoutsidehis door.HowwouldIexplainthattoMaggy?WhatamIsupposedtodoin
a situation like this? Again Ithink of Miss Barstow’setiquetterules.“Noah,” Iwhisper, opening
thedoor.Inside,theroomisstill.The
dragon wall tapestry. Theblack lacquer table. Thepitcher and washbasin. Thered silken bedcover. Thebooks.“Noah,” I whisper, a little
moreloudlythistime.Tick-tick. The closet door
opens. Noah ducks out fromundertheshirts,hoppingoverakerosenelantern.
A flicker of joy flashes inhiseyes,and thenhescowls.“This ismyroom!Youcan’tjust barge in anytime youwant.”It’s not his room. Uncle
Karl andAuntHortense ownourhouse.“Well…Iwasbringingyou
breakfast.”“Youscaredme.”Hechews
onhislip.“Iheardfootsteps.”“We need a way for me to
know it’s okay to come in. Ican’tbeknocking.”“No,”heagrees.“Wecould
hangsomethingonthedoor.”“Maggymightnotice.What
would she think about thingsappearing on Jing’s doorwhenJingisn’there?”“Howaboutthewindow?If
we drape something smallover the blind? Would shenoticethat?”“Probablynot.”
He opens the closet, standson his tiptoes, and runs hishand along the high shelf.Dustmotes fill theair; aballof red yarn falls down. Hepullsout agoldbraidedcordwithatasseloneachend.“That’s good,” I say, “but
what if it’s not safe to comeup? Is there a way to get amessagetoyou?”Noah’seyes rove the room.
“OrangeTomcomesuphere.
We can attach messages tohiscollar.”“What if someone finds the
message? What if they readit?”“We’ll have to be careful
whatwewrite,” he says as Iunroll the kitchen towel andtake out the apple buttersandwiches and the jar ofpeaches. He spreads a clothon his bed, as if we arehavingapicnic,andIset the
sandwiches on it, open thepeaches,andhandhimafork.His eyes widen. “You’re
goingtoeatwithme?”“Sure,” I say. I don’t want
himtoknowI’venevereatenwithJingorMaggybefore.I take a bite of my
sandwich.Noahtriestostabapeachwithhisfork.“I talked toUncleKarl.He
saidhe’dhelp.”Some of the stiffness in
Noah’sshouldersmeltsaway.HestaresatthedoorasifJingwill come through at anyminute.Isitmeantotellhimthatit
may be a while? Papa saysnever give a patient moreinformation than he canhandle.“InChinatown, do you live
withyourmother?”“Mama’s in China. I live
withmyuncleHan.”
At the wharf, I’ve seenpeople coming off thesteamships from the Orient.Women in bright Chineseclothes,men inblackderbiesand baggy pants carryinglacquer chests, spices,bamboo,boltsoffabric,largejade figurines, teak furniture.Everyone comes here. Doesanyonereturn?“ShewentbacktoChina?”“She never came over. It’s
hardforwomentoleave.”“I’msorry,” Isay.“Doyou
writeher?”“No.”“Whynot?”IfIcouldwrite
mymother,Icertainlywould.Heshrugs, then takesabite
ofsandwich.Iwaitforhimtosaymore.FinallyIoffer,“Mymamaisgone,too.”He nods. “Baba talks about
hersometimes.”
“He does? What does hesay?”Noah’s mouth bunches to
oneside.“Shewaskind.Shehired him even though he’dneverbeenacookbefore.”My mother was kind. It
feels good to hear this. Papadoesn’t talkaboutMama.Hemisseshertoomuch.“She liked to play practical
jokes, and she lovedchocolate.Chocolatecookies,
chocolate ice cream … Sheeven had chocolate sauce onbroccolionce.”“Chocolatebroccoli,” I say,
laughing. “And chocolate-covered brussels sprouts,too.”“It was your mama’s idea
forhimtobakethingsinyourbirthdaycake.”“Really?”Henods.Mama celebrates my
birthday with me. Am I justlike the Lizzie I waswhen Iwaslittle?Wouldshelovemenow,thewayshedidthen?“Baba said she adored you,
and when she realized shewas going to die, she madehimpromisetostayuntilyougrewup.”My mouth drops open.
“What?” Itneveroccurred tome that Jing would everleave. Familymembers can’t
decide they won’t be familyanymore.But of course, Jingis not family. He’s stayingbecausehepromisedMama.Noahnods.I look around Jing’s room.
Thewallsarethesameasthewalls inmy room.The floor.The doorframe. The closet.But the room is filled withforeignthings.“Why are you here?” I ask
Noah. “You came before the
quarantine,didn’tyou?”“We heard that it might
happen. Baba wanted meout.”“He was worried about the
plague?”“HewasworriedI’dstarve.”“Starve!”“Everything is closed off.
Nothing is allowed in. A lotof people think it’s away togetridofus.”
“Who wants to get rid ofyou?”“Peoplelikeyou.”“Me?Idon’twanttogetrid
of you. I just brought youfood.”“Notyou.”Who would want Jing to
starve?Jinghasmadealmostevery meal I’ve ever eaten.There was always enough. Icouldn’t stand it if Jingwerehungry.
Noah stops chewing.“What’sthematter?”Papa says you shouldn’t lie
to a patient, but you needn’taddtotheirworriesbypilingon your own. “I’m worriedaboutJing,too.”He sinks his teeth into his
sandwich. “My name inChinese is Choy, whichmeans ‘wealthy.’ When Igrowup, I’mgoing toownabankwith lots ofmoney and
freefood.”“ShallIcallyouChoy?”“Youshouldcallmebymy
Americanname.”I nod. “How are you going
to get the money for yourbank?”“I’m thinking on that.
MaybeI’lllearnincollege.”He’s going to college? I
can’tevengotocollege.“DoChinese people go tocollege?”
“Some,”hesays.“Some women go to
college,too.”He snorts. “Don’t tell me
youwantto.”“Ido.”I’veneversaiditout
loudbefore.His brow furrows. “It’ll be
hard.”“YouthinkI’mstupid?”“You’re not as smart as I
am.”
“What? That’s not a nicethingtosay.Howwouldyouknow,anyway?”“You’re a girl. You’ll get
married,likeallgirlsdo.”“I’m not getting married.”
Theflushrisesinmycheeks.“Wives have to do whatthey’retold.”“Maybe you could marry a
stupidhusband,and thenyoucouldmakeallthedecisions.”I frown. “What would I do
withastupidhusband?”“Ifyougottiredofhim,you
couldtakehimtoanauction.”“A stupid-husband
auction?” I ask. “Would theamountofmoneyyougotforhim be based on how stupidhewas?”“Yes, so you’d have to
prove his stupidity,” Noahsays.“Myhusbandissostupid…
hefillsthesaltshakerthrough
thelittleholesinthetop.”Noahgrins.“Maybeyouare
smartenoughforcollege. I’llhelpyouifit’stoohard.”“I’ll help you if it’s too
hard.”He laughs, then screws the
top onto the jar of peachesandhandsitback.“Keep it. In case you get
hungrylater.”He frowns at me. “Okay,
but … I just want you to
know, I don’t have girls forfriends.”“Whynot?”“Girlslie.”“Theydonot!Well,maybe
some,butnotme.Whywouldyousaythat?”“InChinatownthere’sagirl
wholies.”“That’s just one.Not every
girllies.”“I suppose not.” His eyes
search my face. “Are youtelling me everything youknowaboutBaba?”I meet his gaze squarely. I
want this boy to like me. Ihope he can’t see just howmuch.Butdoesn’thehavetolike me, because I’m whiteand he’s Chinese? “I don’tknowanything.”He wraps a thread around
histhumbsotightly,thefleshbunches out in little puckers.
“Your uncle Karl said he’dfindout.”“Iknow.Hewill!”“But you’re not sure,” he
finishesforme.“He said he would,” I
whisper. “I just don’t knowwhenexactly.”Noah weaves the thread
aroundtherestofhisfingers,and then pulls tight. “Youcould be my friend”—hiseyes are on his fingers—“if
you tell me a secret aboutyou.”“Andyou’lltellmeasecret
aboutyou?”“You already know one
aboutme.”I lean forward. “I want
another.”“Youfirst.”I take a big gulping breath.
“I don’t have any friends,” Iwhisper.
“Whynot?”“I don’t know. I’m just …
different. I don’t like whatthey like, and the second Iopen my mouth, I stick myfootintoit.”Itfeelsgoodtoletthisout.He sighs as if he knows
what this is like.“Is thatall?Because that’s nothing. Wecanfigurethatout.”“How?”He smiles his crazy smile.
“Is there one girl you likebetterthantherest?”“Notreally.”“Thereis.Therealwaysis.”“Well,maybe,”Iadmit.“Next time you go to
school, look around. You’llsee which one she is. Startwithher.”Inod.“Okay.Nowyou.”“InChinatown thereare six
companies that run theplace.
And there are six of us boyswholeadthekids.Ifyoueverneed anything from a kid inChinatown, say you’re afriendofSixofSix.”“Fine, but not that kind of
secret.Somethingpersonal.”“Oh,youmeanagirlsecret.
Idon’thavegirlsecrets.”“Itoldyouagirlsecret.”“Of courseyoudid.You’re
agirl.Minewasbetter.Minewasuseful.”
I laugh. “Come on. Youhaveone.Iknowyoudo.”“Okay.” He leans in and
whispers, “Idon’tknowhowtothrowup.”“What? Everyone knows
howtothrowup.”He shakes he head. “Nope.
Never done it. Don’t knowhow.”“You want me to give you
lessons?”Iask.We laugh. Pretty soon I’m
demonstrating and we’regiggling so hard, we’ve gotour hands over each other’smouthstokeepquiet.Istandup.I’vebeenonthe
thirdflooralongtime.Idon’twant anyone coming to lookforme.“Tell me the second you
hearfromUncleKarl,okay?”NoahwhispersasItiptoeintothe hall. “And, Lizzie …come back as soon as you
can.”
A
Chapter8
Mama’sDaughter
fter church, I hoveroutside Billy’s door.
Why is he still asleep?He’llbecrabbyifIwakehim,butIneedhishelp.
When I knock, he barks,“What?”“CanIcomein?”“I’msleeping.”I crack open the door. He
grabs his extra pillow andpullsitoverhishead.“Billy,Ineedyou.”“For what?” His voice is
muffled.“To takeme to Chinatown.
WehavetofindJing.”
“Why?”“He’s caught in the
quarantine. If we tell themhe’sourcookandhedoesn’tlive in Chinatown, maybethey’lllethimcomehome.”“You’remakingthisup.”I pluck the pillow off his
head. A purplish-red half-moon rings his left eye. Hislower lid is red and swollen.Thewhiteofhiseyeispink.“What happened to your
eye?”His hand covers his face.
“Ran into a doorframe,” hemumbles.I pull his hand away and
gentlyinspecthisface.“Where?”“Wherewhat?”“Wasthedoor?”“Don’t ask so many
questions.”“It’s onlyone.This doesn’t
looklikeitneedssutures.Putsomeiceonit,”Iadvise.“I’mnotgoingtotakeyou.”“ButwhataboutJing?”He pulls the pillow back
over his face. “What abouthim?Look,I’vegotthingstodo.Nowgetoutofhere.”Outside his room, I cross
my arms and stare down thedoor.JingtaughtBillyhowtojuggle, rideabike,andmakecoins appear out of thin air.
Jing played hide-and-seekwith us in the barn everynight before bed. Jing savedus the butter-frosting bowlevenwhenPapasaiditwasn’tgood for our teeth. Doesn’tBillycareaboutJingatall?I’m going to find Jing.
Mama would want me to. Iknowshewould.Thewagon is hard to hook
up.ShouldIride?I’magoodrider, but I don’t like
sidesaddles, and there’s notelling what Aunt Hortensewill do if she catches meridingbarebackagain.Ittakesmethebetterpartof
anhour toget theharnessonJohn Henry and the wagonattached the rightway. It’s afoggy, gray day, butmyhairis pasted down with sweatandmyjacket isgluedtomybackwhenI’mfinished.Still,I’m proud of myself. No
other girl at Miss Barstow’swouldbeabletoliftthecollarorattachthetraces,muchlessdrive a wagon or go toChinatown.This feeling lastsfor a minute and a half,before I realize that JohnHenry has to pull the wagonright by Aunt Hortense’shouse.Whatifshehearsme?What if I run into someonewho will tell her?What if apoliceman sees me? It’s not
against the law for a girl todriveawagonbyherself,butitisunusual.AndhowwillIgetJingout?
I should wait for Papa tocomehomeorforUncleKarltohelp.ButwhoknowswhenPapa will be back, and howmuch does Jing matter toUncleKarl?Itakeadeepbreath.IfIcan
give a little girl chloroformand set her broken arm,
surelyIcandriveawagoninbroad daylight on a Sunday.I’ll stay on the back streets.Noonewillseeme.Then, too, I’ve never
actually driven before, butI’ve sat next to Billy andPapaamillion times. I knowhowit’sdone.I climb up onto the wagon
andgive thewhipa tentativesnap. I don’t want to hurtJohn Henry. He doesn’t
move. I pop it harder …Nothing. I brandish it in theair and snap it back downwith a fierce crack, and thebig pinto plods forward,pulling the wagon onto thecobblestones.Ikeepthewhipcracking as we approach theSweetings’mansion,glancingbackatourhouse.CanNoahseeme?Ihopeso.It’s unusually quiet at the
Sweetings’. I’m pretty sure
Nettie,AuntHortense’s headmaid, has a staff meeting inthesecondkitchenrightnow.Thatmustbewhereeveryoneis.Whatperfecttiming!Ihaveabiggrinonmyface
when the huge front dooropens and Aunt Hortensehurries down the marblesteps.“Elizabeth!Whatinthenameof…”Ohno!Gallop,JohnHenry!
I lean forward, ready to takeoff. But Aunt Hortense willsend a servant after me.They’llcatchus,andI’llbeinevenmoretrouble.Ipullupatthegate.“What in the world do you
think you’re doing?” AuntHortense is standing on thegardenpathinherstockingedfeet,nohatonherhead.The butler appears behind
her carrying her jeweled
handbag,boots,andgloves.Thereisn’ta liebigenough
tocoverthis.“You harnessed John
Henry?”I can’t keep the smile off
myface.“Pleased with yourself, are
you?”Itryhardnottonod.“Lizzie!” Billy hurries
acrossthedriveway,oneboot
on, one boot off. “You weresupposedtowaitinthebarn.”Mymouthpopsopen.“William!” Aunt Hortense
stares him down. “She’sgoingwithyou?”Billy nods, then cocks his
head as if he and AuntHortense are in cahoots. “Ofcourse. You know howimpatientsheis.”AuntHortensefansherface
with her hand. “I most
certainlydo.”“ItoldherI’dtakehertothe
Emporium,” Billy rattles on.“Can’t you ever followdirections?”hesaystome.“William.” Aunt Hortense
walks closer. “Whathappenedtoyoureye?”“Ranintoadoorframe.”“Taller than you thought
you were, are you?” AuntHortenseasks.“I guess so.” Billy smiles
his charming smile, but itdoesn’tdothetrick.Notwiththe one red-rimmedmisshapeneye.“Uncle Karl knows about
youreye?”sheaskshim.“Yes,ma’am,” he says as I
scootoversohecanhopin.“Elizabeth, I won’t put up
with these kinds ofshenanigans. You aren’t alittle girl anymore.You’re tobehave like a youngwoman.
WhenWilliamsaystowaitinthe barn, you are to do asyou’re told. Should thishappenagain,Iwillinsistthatyou board atMiss Barstow’sor somewhere else that youwill like even less. Is thatclear?”Sheglowersatme.What’sworsethanboarding
at Miss Barstow’s? Prison?Billy nudges me with hiselbow,andIholdmytongue.“She’s sorry, Aunt
Hortense,”Billysays.“Yes, I’m sorry,” I say, as
stiffaspartypetticoats.“You’d better be.” Aunt
Hortense heads back to herhouse on tender feet, thebutler trailing behind her.Billy slaps John Henry withthe lines, and the big horseleaps forward. Billy doesn’tneedthewhip.“Changed your mind?” I
whisper.
Billy sighs. “I miss Jing’sbananapancakes.”“Thatall?”“Ofcoursenot.Howdoyou
know Jing’s in Chinatown,anyway?”A bareback rider gallops
past us. Stones and dust risein his wake. “Where elsewouldhebe?”
“
Chapter9
Quarantine
We would have heard ifsomething happened to
him,” Billy says. “And thepolice aren’t going to letanyone out of the quarantine
lines.”“Thepolice?”“Who do you think is
enforcingthequarantine?”I say nothing as we clip-clop by the weird pharmacywhere a coiled rattler sleepsin the window. They sellglass eyes and hook hands,besides all the medicines,whichclaimtoremedyeveryproblem you’ve ever had.Papa says most of them are
nothing more than sugarwater.“So, what exactly is your
plan?”Billysteersthewagonaround a horseless carriagestuckintheroad.“I’m going to tell them he
doesn’tliveinChinatown,helives with us. He doesn’tbelong in the quarantinedarea. Papa’s a doctor. HeneedsJing’shelp.”“We should mention Uncle
Karl,”Billysays.“I wish Papa were here.
He’dknowwhattodo.”Billysnorts.“Idon’t.”Papa wants Billy to go to
medicalschool,andhewon’ttakeno for an answer.EverytimeBillysayshemightwantto do something else, Papalooks like he’s gettingsurgerywithoutanesthesia.Papa doesn’t expect much
of me, so he’s often
pleasantly surprised. That’sonegoodthingaboutbeingagirl.“Why are you so mad at
Papaallthetime?”Iask.“I’m not mad at him; he’s
mad at me. Everything I dodisappointshim.”“Youusedtobenicer.”“Youdidn’tusedtobesuch
aGoodyTwo-shoes.”“I’mnot!”
“Oh, Papa, can you showmehowtocleanabedsore?”He makes his voice gooeyandhigh-pitched.“Idon’tsoundlikethat.”“Yes,youdo.”“Well, I’d rather go with
himthangotoschool.”“Still having trouble with
thosegirls?”Idon’tanswer.Wepasstwo
men in matching outfitsridingabicyclebuiltfortwo.
“You try too hard. That’syourproblem.Theycansmellitonyou.”Howdo you try not to try?
Ortryinawaysothatpeopledon’t think you’re trying?Why can’t people just saywhat they want and be whotheyare?“Hey,Billy!”Aboy,maybe
seventeen, with a plaid capand redcheekswaves tohimfrom the back of a wagon.
“Yousuregotathumpinglastnight.”Billy shrugs as a distant
boattootsitshorn.“Goingtomake my two bits backtonight, Oofty. You watch,”Billytellshim.“You’re fighting? Does
Papaknow?”Iask.“Not unless you tell him,
youlittlesquealer.”“I’m not a squealer. You
know I’m not,” I say as a
wagon loaded with woodturns down a side street. Afew blocks laterwe passDr.Jenkins’sMuseum,wherethehead of the world’s greatestbanditcanbeseeninabottle.Soontheairbeginstosmell
like burning rubbish. Blackpots placed every few yardsspew stinking smoke.Woodensawhorsesandropescirclethehaphazardcrowded-together buildings of
Chinatown. Chinese signs,Chinese characters, Chineselanterns, and foreignscrollwork—Chinatown is itsowncityinthemiddleofourcity.The police in their navy
coats and hard bell-shapedhelmets are out. I count fiveonhorseback,sevenonfoot.Inside the ropes of
Chinatown, crowds ofChinese wait for … what?
Most men have long braidsand wear baggy silk clothes.Someareinblackwithblackderbies, some have on brightcolors.The fewwomenwearfine embroidered robes andtrousers. Some men smoke.Some pace the ropes thatcordonoffChinatown.Iscanthecrowd.Onlyafew
men are in regular clothes,andnoneareJing.Inoticethedonkey-pulled hearse. When
rich men die in SanFrancisco, theygetacarriagedrawn by six white horses.Whenpoormendie, theygeta wheelbarrow ride or thedonkey-pulled hearse. Whenit passes us, I see that it’sempty.Afewminuteslaterawagon
full of barrels roll by.Strangely, the police let thatone out of the quarantinearea.
“Howdidtheydecidewheretoropeoff?”“Everything that’s Chinese,
theyquarantined.”“They think white people
can’tgetsick?”Billyshrugs.“Papa would be mad if he
sawhowthey’relockedin,”Isay.“Papa doesn’t knowhalf of
whathappensinthiscity.”
“Let’s get closer. Then wecan ask about Jing. What’shislastname,anyway?”Billy shakes his head.
“Maybe Jing is his lastname.”“We don’t even know,” I
whisper. Noah’s words flashinmymind.You don’t knowanything.Billy maneuvers the wagon
closer to the quarantine line,away from the cluster of
police.“Hey!”Icalltoalittleboy in a red silk jacket. “DoyouknowifJingisinthere?”The little boy hops on one
foot, then the other. “Jing?”heasks.“He’sourcook.”Theboyhopscloser.Aman
in a black derby scolds him,and the little boy scurriesaway. The other men insidethe rope stay away from theboundary. They ignore our
calls.A policeman on foot half-
runs toward me. “Move iton!”“Mr. Policeman, sir.” My
heart pounds in my chest.“Our cook lives with us. Hegot caught in the quarantineby accident. Could we gethimout?”“No one’s to go in. No
one’stogoout.”“Yes, but this was a
mistake, sir. Our uncle KarlSweeting is going to betalkingtoyouaboutit.”The policeman stops. “Mr.
Sweeting?He’s your uncle?”Hepeersatus.“Idon’tknownothingaboutthat.Myordersistokeepfolksoutofhere.”“Yes, sir.” Billy turns John
Henryaround.We walk around the
quarantine—farenoughawaythat the police don’t bother
us. Down a side street wepass officers drinking coffee.Ilisteninaswerollby.“You know anything?” a
policeman with a red beardasks.“When it’s going to end,
you mean?” the officer withhishelmetoffreplies.“Waiting on the monkey,”
thethirdofficerreplies.The second officer laughs.
“The monkey, is it? City of
fools,ifyouaskme.”“What monkey? What are
they talking about?” IwhispertoBilly.“Whoknows? It couldbea
code,oranickname.There’sa man named MonkeyWarren.”“But why would this
monkey man have anythingtodowithChinatown?”“It’s just talk.” Billy peers
down the block to the
barricade. “We’re not goingtogetanycloserthanthis.”In the distance I see a
painted dragon and largeblue-and-white porcelainvases outside a shop on adesertedstreet.Amanwithapole over his shoulderscarries loaded baskets oneachend.Billy circles John Henry
back.“Wetried,Lizzie.”“We can’t leave. Jing’s in
there.”“Maybe Jing has a lady
friend. Maybe he’s inBerkeley visiting his cousin.Maybe he told Papa he’d begone and didn’t tell us.Whyare you so sure he’s in thequarantine?”John Henry is moving
faster. He knows we’reheaded home. I guess that’sone good thing about amotorcar.Theydon’tgetbarn
sour.“Itjustmakessense,”Isay.“If you’re going to be a
scientist,you’regoingtoneedtoprovewhatyouthink.”“Iknow!”“Look.” Billy’s eyes are
kind now. “Stop worryingabout Jing, okay? He’ll beback.”I’ve lost the battle. Billy’s
going home. If only I knewthese policemen the way
Uncle Karl does.Wait. Do Iknow any policemen? Thatgirl Caroline, whose arm Iset. Wasn’t her father apoliceman?“Billy,wait here forme.” I
divefromthewagonseat.“Lizzie!No!LIZZIE!”Billy
shouts.I’mholdingmyskirtsup, running fast, jigging andjagging around a spittoon, atethered horse, a wateringtrough,andamountingblock.
Butwhen I turn the corner,where the policemen weredrinkingcoffee,they’regone.I keep running towardChinatown.The first policeman I see is
on horseback, walking theroped-offline.“Excuse me, sir. Sir!” I
wavetohim.“What are you doing out
here,younglady?”“Do you know where
OfficerJessenmightbe?”The policeman’s horse is
fidgety. He roots his head.“Jessen? He family ofyours?”“No,sir.He’safriendofmy
papa’s. But it’s important. Ineedtoseehim.”The policeman nods. “Stay
put.I’llgethim.”Hisskitteryhorse leaps forward. I glanceback,wondering ifBillywillwait, go home, or come find
me.Inside thebarricade, I seea
policeman start a bonfire inthe street; trash and beddingexplodeinflames.Thick orange clouds of
stinking chemicals rise.People cough, cover theirfaceswiththeirshirts.Scatterin all directions. A ring ofpolicemen surrounds the fire.Buckets of water appear.Sparks die downwith a hiss,
thenturntosmoke.Outside thebarricade, abig
policeman lumbers towardme.Caroline’sfather.“OfficerJessen!”Isay.He looksme up and down.
“You’re Dr. Kennedy’sdaughter.Aren’t you the onewhohelpedmylittlegirlwithherarm?”“Yes,sir.I’mLizzie.”Outofthecornerofmyeye,
I see Billy driving John
Henrydownthestreettowardus. He’s driving standing upand motioning for me tocome.“What’s the problem,
Lizzie?” Officer Jessen asks.“WhatcanIdotohelp?”“Our cook, Jing, is in the
quarantine. We need to gethimout.”Officer Jessen shakes his
big head. “If he’s in there, Ican’tgethimout.”
“But he doesn’t belong inChinatown.Heliveswithus.”“Thatisn’tthepoint.Ifhe’s
in the quarantine area, he’sbeen exposed. If we bringhim out here, he could getyou sick. Do youunderstand?”“Papa says the plague isn’t
here. He says this is all just—”“That’snotforustodecide,
Lizzie.YouandIdon’tmake
the rules, butwe surelymustlive by them. Now, how’dyougethere?Doyouneedaridehome?”I point to the wagon. “My
brother.”He nods. “You climb up
onto that wagon with yourbrotherandyougoonhome.Ifthisweren’tmyjob,I’dbenowhere near this place,believeme.”“But—”
“I can’t help youwith this.Now I need you to go onhome,youhear?”Ilookbackatthebarricade.
On the Chinatown side, amanisrunningbackandforthalong the ropes like a cagedanimal. One policemanshoutsathimtostop.Anotherwalks thebarrierwithabillyclub.A quarantine is to keep
infectious diseases from
spreading. But there are nodoctors or nurses here. Noone wears masks or gloves.There is no soap or water.Whatever this is, it’s notquarantinefordiseaseatall.
W
Chapter10
OrangeTom
henwegethome, theSweetings’uniformed
houseboys are carrying AuntHortense’s white antiquewriting desk, her chair, her
steamer trunk, her footbath,herquilts,herjeweledboxes,and silk pillows in throughourfrontdoor.Billy groans. “Aunt
Hortense is moving into thespareroom.”“What!”“Yep. To keep an eye on
you.”“Me?WhatdidIdo?”He rolls his eyes. “At least
she’snotmakingusmove to
her house. Remember whensheusedtodothat?”“WhataboutPapa?”“Apparently he’s not going
tobehomeforawhile.”IlookupatNoah’swindow.
HowwillIgethimhismealswith Aunt Hortensewatching?Billyunhooksthetracesand
takesJohnHenry’scollaroff.I sponge down his sweatmarks,pickupeachofhisbig
flat hooves to check forstones, and let him loose inhisstall.In our parlor, Papa’s chair
has been moved to makeroom for Aunt Hortense’sFrench horn, her letter-writing pens, her magazines,her Bible, and a bell to callMaggy.AuntHortensestandswaiting,dressed togoout, ina white dress with ruffles atthehem,thecuffs,andupand
down her bodice. She hasribbons in her hair and aparasolinherhand.“Why, Elizabeth”—she
grinds the tip of the parasolinto our rug—“where areyourpurchases?”I look at her, try to smile.
Whatisshetalkingabout?“Theonesyouboughtatthe
Emporium.”“Oh, those. I didn’t find
anything,”Isay.
“Is that so?” She stares atme,waiting.“There wasn’t anything I
liked.” I can feel my nosegrowing longer with everyword.“We got a call from the
police.YouandWilliamweretrying to get into theChinatownquarantine.”“No—”“Elizabeth!”shebarks.“We weren’t trying to get
in,” I whisper. “We weretryingtogetJingout.”“They said you were using
Mr.Sweeting’sgoodnametocurryfavor.”Billylooksatme.AuntHortensetapsmewith
her parasol. “I won’t be liedto.”“But Jing shouldn’t be in
there. It’s wrong. If Papawere here, he’d get him out.Wehadtodosomething.”
“In the first place,we havenoideaifJingisthereornot.And in thesecondplace,Mr.Sweeting has already agreedto help. Everything doesn’thappentheinstantyouwantitto, missy. But even moreimportant than all of that…what if they do have theplaguethere?”“WehavetogetJing.”“You listen to me, young
lady. Even without the
quarantine, Chinatown isdangerous. You have nobusiness going there, Jing ornoJing.Doyouhear?”HersterneyefallsonBilly.
“And as for you, MasterWilliam.” She taps herparasol on the rug, then thewoodenfloor,whereitmakesa more satisfying clack. “Iexpected more from you.Evidently neither of you canbe trusted. While your
father’s gone, I’ll be stayinghere so I can keep a closerwatchonyou.”“When’s he coming back?”
Billyasks.“Next week,” Aunt
Hortensesays.“Nextweek?”Iask.“He sentwordby telegraph
to theCall offices.There’s asmallpox outbreak. A familywith six children in SanRafael. He’s got his hands
full.”Papa has been immunized
againstsmallpox,andsohaveBilly and I, butnot everyonebelieves in immunization. Ifonly they did, then hewouldn’t have tobe away solong. Why couldn’t he justhave an office here, the wayDr.Roumaladedoes?I watch Aunt Hortense pin
her hat.Her calendar is jam-packed with entertaining,
committee meetings forcharity events, doing thebooks forUncleKarl and alltheresponsibilitiesofrunninga huge house with a staff ofthirty-five.Shewon’tbehereallthetime…willshe?“Mrs.Sweeting,whereshall
I stay?” red-haired, freckle-facedNettieasks.“In your own bed, Nettie.
Maggy can handle me, can’tyou,Maggy?”
AsmileflashesonMaggy’sface.“But, Mrs. Sweeting,
ma’am, Maggy is not aladies’maid.Shehasn’tbeenproperly trained,” Nettiegrumbles.“Well, then she’ll learn,
won’tshe?”“I’mtoteachher,then?”“That would be lovely,
Nettie.”
On my windowsill is mycollectionofgiftsfromJing.Irun my hand over a smoothblack stone carved withMama’s initials. There’s thewhitefeatherfromwhenIfelloff Juliet and the rhymingdictionary with my mother’sneat handwriting on theinside—Jing found that forme. On the end is the shell,with the word I misspelledfrom the spelling bee tucked
inside. Jing said yourmistakesteachyoumorethanyourvictories.WhereisJingnow?Maybe my note to Noah
should warn him to be extracareful because AuntHortenseisstayingherenow.Butwith theracketofallherstuff being moved in, not tomention her voice ringingthrough the house, he mustknow.InsteadIwrite:
We’veseenthequarantine.Monkeymakesthemwait…Willinvestigate.
There’sablockofcheeseinthecoldbox.Icutaslabanddrop it in my pocket. InMaggy’ssewingbasket,therewere spools of thread,whichI slipped intomy top dresserdrawer.OrangeTomisinmyroom, and I have his collar
off. I fold upmymessage toNoahuntilit’sthesamewidthasOrangeTom’scollar, thenwrapgreenthreadaroundthenote and the collar until thepaper is secure.OrangeTomscratches at the door of myroom, trying to get out, histail moving like a double-jointed finger. He smells oftunafish.I put his collar back and
carrythesprawlingcat to the
servants’ stairs, his back feethanging down. I break offbits of cheese and toss themup the stairs while stillholding the cat. The firstpiece falls short. It takes mefive triesbefore Imake it allthe way up to the landing.With five pieces of cheesescattered along the servants’stairs, I’m confident the catwillgowhere Iwanthim to.But when I release him, he
leaps across the hall anddownthemainstairs.Ittakesmethebetterpartof
an hour to catch him again.NowIclose the second-floorhalldoorsohecan’tescape.He runs straight up the
servants’ stairs to get awayfromme.I’m listening for Noah’s
door to open, when Billyappears. He squints at me.“What are you doing with
thatcat?”“Nothing.”“Why do you look so
guilty?”“Idon’tlookguilty.”“You’re hiding something.
Whatisit?”“Nothing.”Itrytogotomy
room, but he’s blocking thedoor.“Youmightaswell tellme.
You don’t want me to find
outonmyown,doyou?”“Billy, there’s nothing.” I
shovehimoutofmywayandslamthedoor.
I
Chapter11
TheMiracleofDogSpit
nthemorning,Irundownandfeedthehorsesandfill
their water buckets. Then Iconsider pretending to be
sick. But who wants to stayhome with Aunt Hortense?EvenMissBarstow’sisbetterthan a day spent writingthank-you notes with AuntHortense.How to get breakfast to
Noah?Jingmusthavefoodinhis room, but how much?Jingwasexpectingtobegonefor two hours, but it’s beentwo days. With Billywatchingmyeverymoveand
Aunt Hortense in commandof the drawing room, Icouldn’tgetNoahsupperlastnight.Luckily, Billy leaves for
school before I do. I onlyhaveAuntHortense toworryabout now. Down in thekitchen, the Sweetings’ chef,Yang Sun, has brought overcroissants and brioche, jamsand jellies, honey-butter,clotted cream, and long
baguettes baked with hamand cheese—more food thanwe could ever eat. I grab apitcherofwaterandwraptwocroissants and a brioche in atea towel, but when I gooutside,thecordisnotdown.In the dining room, Aunt
Hortense is drinking her teaand reading the morningpaper, with Maggy standingbeside her. “Ready?” AuntHortenseasks.
“No,” I say, and rushupstairs tomy room,where Ileave my bundle of pastriesand compose my message.After a few tries, I come upwith:There’s ameal.On thestair.Ifyoudare.ThenIgrabblue thread from the drawerand begin searching for theorange cat. I find him in thestableloft,curledupinabedof straw, next to a deadmouse.Heeyesmewarilyas
Iunbucklehiscollar,whichInow see has white threadaroundit.Noahsentamessageback!His message is written in
black ink on bumpy ricepaper. He has made a littledrawingofamonkey.
Themonkeyhasasecret.
What does that mean? Andwhat if Aunt Hortenseinterceptsthisnote?Howwill
Iexplainit?ThenIsmile.AuntHortense
is allergic, of course! Shewon’ttouchOrangeTom.It’sonly Billy I have to worryabout.I attach the new message
withbluethread.Thecat letshis muscles go limp. I carryhimdown the loft ladder,hislegsbumpingagainstmineasI make my way down therungs.Ilugthebigfatcatall
thewaytothehouse.Ipeek through thewindow.
The kitchen is empty. YangSun does his cooking in theSweetingkitchen.Oursistoosmallforhim.JustasIgetOrangeTomin
the kitchen, Aunt Hortensesashays across the coldstorageroomwithNettieandMaggy right behind her.Maggy is carrying a linenpouchfullofAuntHortense’s
hair. Each time Maggybrushes her hair, the hairsfromthebrushmustbesavedinthebag.She’skeepingittomake a hairpiece, should theneedarise.“Maggy,” Nettie says. “I’ll
takethatnow.”Maggy hands her the bag,
and Nettie scoots out thekitchendoor.Aunt Hortense looks up.
“Elizabeth, don’t you dare
bringthatdreadfulcreatureinhere.I’llbesneezingallday.”“Oh, I forgot,” I say as she
streaks into the dining roomaway from the cat, Maggyflying after her.NowMaggyhasateacupandsaucerandaboxofmenus.AuntHortensewrites twomenus every day,oneforthefamilyandoneforthe servants. She even plansoutteaandsnacks.If Aunt Hortense is doing
menus, she’ll stay put for awhile. I go back out andaround thehouse to the frontdoor, then dash up the stairswiththecat.ButjustasIdo,Nettiecomesback.“Didn’t you hear Mrs.
Sweeting?Nocats.”I pretend to clean the wax
out of my ears. “Oh, um,” Isay,andheadbackout.“BadenoughIgot towatch
that Maggy,” she grumbles.
“She’s been hearing things.She ain’t right in the mind,thatone.”OrangeTom tries towiggle
out of my arms, but I holdhimtight.“Whatthings?”“FromJing’sroomwhenhe
ain’tthere.”Oh,great.Nettie squints at me. “You
knowsomethingaboutthat?”“It’sjustthecat.Helikesto
goupthere.”
“Cat shouldbemade into ahandbag, if you ask me,”Nettiemutters.I wait until Nettie is gone,
thenmakeanotherrunupthestairs with Orange Tom. Inmy room, I get Noah’s teatowel-wrapped pastries. Iplace the bundle on theservants’ stairs, then toss thecheese up and close thesecond-floor hall door, soTomwillbe forcedup to the
third floor. If Aunt Hortenseor Nettie finds the briocheand croissants, I’ll say Iplanned to take them toschooltosharewiththeothergirlsandIforgotthemwhenIwas sitting on the stairsbutton-hookingmyboots.The water pitchers! If they
all disappear, it will besuspicious. I have toremembertobringthembackdown. It’s exhausting
thinking of lies AuntHortensewillbelieve.Butshecan’t find out about Noah.She’ll have him arrested,whether he’s Jing’s son ornot.
TodayatMissBarstow’s, thegirls are in the dining room.The topic seems to be themove to Presidio Heights.Miss Barstow has found afancier place for the school.
And everybody wonders ifthat means we’ll be wearinguniforms, which of courseleads to the topic of bustles.How big should they be?Whichonesrideupwhenyousitdownandwhichdon’t?Isitbymyselfasusual.My
bookandme.Forasecond,Ithink about what Noah said.Is there one girl I like betterthantherest?Nope.The girls giggle, the
metronome pings, a dogbarks, and the same threechords are pounded on thepiano. I try toconcentrateonthe story, but all I can thinkaboutisNoah.Thebarkingcontinues.Miss
Barstowwouldneverallowadog in the house. I walk outofthediningroomandupthethicklycarpetedstairs towardthe sound. If you’re caughthurrying, youmust recite the
classmotto,“Allthingscometohimwhowaits,”andfreezewhile everyone passes youby. At the very leastshouldn’t it be: “All thingscometohewhowaits”?In the geography room, old
maps cover the walls, woodfloors clack undermy boots,and the dunce cap waits forits next victim. Gemma isplunked down on the floor,crutches splayed out beside
her.“Gemma?Didyoufall?”Gemmabarks.“Wait.You’rethedog?”Gemma licks her hand, and
then rotates her arm aroundher ear, like a canine itchingwith its back leg. “Shhh,Gemma! If Miss Barstowhearsyou,she’llpitchafit.”“Adogbitmethismorning.
I have rabies.” Gemma tipsbackherheadandhowls.
“Rabies? You can’t getrabiesthatquickly.”“Howwouldyouknow?”“Myfather’sadoctor.”“Really?” Her arm drops
down.AllIknowaboutGemmais
that she often asks me whatI’m reading and the othergirlslikeheralot.I help her up and hand her
her crutches. She fits themunderherarmpitsjustasMiss
Barstowringsthebell.Gemma smiles. I look
around to see who has comeupbehindme.No one. She’s smiling at
me. I can’t help grinningback.“Time for dance class,” I
say.“Youliketodance?”I hate to dance. It’s worse
thanswallowingcodliveroil.Last week, when Gemma
wasn’t here, Miss AnnabellecalledmeHorseFeet,andthegirls all laughed. Why am Inodding?“MissBarstowsaysI’mnot
allowedto.”“You’re on crutches,” I
pointout.“So?”Iwanttotalktoheraslong
asIcan,beforetheothergirlsarriveandIbecomeinvisible.“Didyou reallyget bittenby
arabiddog?”“Itmayhavebeenmoreofa
hardlick.”“A hard lick?” I try not to
laugh.She leans in. “Can you get
rabiesfromdogspit?”Is this a joke?Every time I
laugh at something a girl atMiss Barstow’s says, I getweird looks. “I wouldn’tthink so … unless the doglicksanopenwound.”
Shelooksdownatherwrist.Hershouldersdroop.“You want rabies,
Gemma?”“No.” She plants her
crutchesandswingsherbodytomeet them.I followher tothe dance studio and standwith her. When the otherscome, I’ll lose this spot. Butnow only the little girls arehere.“Ring around the rosie,
pocket full of posies. Ashes,ashes, they all fall down.”Theycollapseinaheap.“Why do they fall on the
floorlikethat?”Iask.“They’redead.”“Fromwhat?”“Theplague.”“Nice,”Isay.Gemmalaughs.Istareather.She frowns. “What’s the
matter?”“Youlaughed.”“So?”I tip my head at the girls
streaming through the door.“Theyneverlaugh.”Her eyes look deep inside
me. “They’re all right,” shewhispers. “You should givethemachance.”I should give them a
chance?
“They’re not sure what tosay to you, that’s all,”Gemma whispers as MissBarstow swoops into theroomtobeginherlesson.“San Francisco is the Paris
of the Pacific, and everyyoungwomanmustknowthelanguage, thedances,andtheculture. French restaurantshave taken over the city.French clothes are all therage,andanyoneofusmight
marry a Frenchman with atitle—a duke or a baron.”MissBarstowsailsacrossthefloor,herbackasstraightasascalpel, her steel-gray hairtightly pinned. The mole onher lip is theonlypartofherthatseemsunplanned.“Listen, please, ladies,” she
says, but my eyes are onGemma.Evenwith the othergirls here, Gemma hasn’tbackedawayfromme.
“When a gentlemanapproaches you at thecotillion,whatmightyousayto spark a conversation?”MissBarstowasks.The weather, music,
hunting, his schooling. Theusualanswers.“I’d ask, were you a bed
wetter?” I whisper. But assoon as I do, I regret it.Mytongueislikeanenemyinmymouth.
Gemma peeks at me, eyessparkling.Ikeepgoing.“Noshamein
it,” I whisper. “GeorgeWashington was a bedwetter.”Gemmaflapsherhandover
her mouth to keep fromlaughing,justastheelocutionteacherpokesherheadinthedoor and motions to MissBarstow.“Hecouldhavebeen,”Itell
herwhenMissBarstowducksout of the room. “We don’tknow. What biographer isgoing towriteabout that?Oryoucouldaskyourgentlemanfriendwhatrunsinhisfamily—madness?Apoplexy?”“Whataboutthatcrazyaunt
locked in the attic?” Gemmaasks.“Everyfamilyhasone.”Hattiewiththepoutylipsis
watching. She can’t believeGemma is sharing secrets
withme.Miss Barstow is back. “Dr.
Roumalade is here for ourannual health examinations.Gemma, you’re first. Pleasegotomyoffice.”Hattieleapsacrosstheroom
to hold the door open. TwoothergirlswalkwithGemma.Miss Annabelle is running
theclassnow.We’relearninganewdance.Iwritedowntheinstructions in my notebook
to appear to be payingattention—a technique I useoften.When Gemma comes back,
I’ve faded into thewall. Sheheads straight forme. “Yourturn,”shesays.Why would I need an
examination? My father’s adoctor. Still, I’m stupidlyhappyGemmachoseme.
Dr. Roumalade has powdery
hands, a round head, cheeksas red as raw steak, and aslender mustache. He smilespleasantly. “Jules Kennedy’sdaughter,ifI’mnotmistaken.Andhowisyourfather?”“Fine,sir.”He slips his stethoscope
around his neck. “Iunderstand you’ve beenaccompanying him on hiscalls.” The flat metal diskpressesagainstmychestashe
listens to my heart throughtheconnectingtube.“Yes, sir.” How does he
knowthis?“He doesn’t have an
assistant?”“No,sir.”“I couldn’t handle my
practicewithoutone.”Ibristle.He’s inspecting my ears
now.Icanfeelhisfingerand
hear a whoosh sound insidemy ear. He looks into myeyes and peers down mythroat. “Interested innursing,areyou?”“No, sir. I’m going to be a
scientist.”He snorts. “You mean
you’llmarry a scientist. Anypersistent coughing, diarrhea,fever,headaches?”“No,sir.”Hewashes his hands in the
bowl Miss Barstow hasprovided. His examinationisn’t as thorough as Papa’s.“You,mydear,areashealthyasahorse.Iwillletyourauntanduncleknow.”“TheSweetings?Why?”“Goinghither andyonwith
allmannerofclientele.”“Whatdoes thathave todo
with Aunt Hortense andUncleKarl?”“With you accompanying
yourfatherthewayyouhave,heputsyouatrisk.”“No,hedoesn’t!”“Certainly you don’t
understand contagion, mydear.”My fingers curl into a fist.
“Myfatherdoesnotputmeatrisk.”“You think you know
everything, do you?” Dr.Roumaladepressesthetipsofhisfingerstogether.“Butyou
don’t.Thedangersarereal.”“Papa takes good care of
me.”Dr. Roumalade presses his
lips together. “Well… thankyou for calming GemmaTrotter down. She has quitetheimagination.”“She’sdoingfine.”“Yes.Now,yousayhelloto
your father for me. He’s agood doctor. It’s a shame hedoesn’t have a busier
practice.”Mycheeksburn.“Myfather
isdoingverywell.”“I always try to refer
patientstohim.”Right. Ifapatient isn’table
topay.Alotofhelpthatis.I count backward from ten
to keep from saying what Ishouldn’t.“All right, then, Lizzie.
We’redonehere.”
Miss Barstow must belisteningat thedoor,becauseshe comes right in. “Go tellKathryn she’s next. Quickly,please.”I’m just turning the corner
when I hear Dr. RoumaladetellMissBarstow:“You’ve got your work cut
out for you with that one,Sarah.”“It’stheage.”“Isuppose.”
When I get back to class,Gemma is in a huddle withHattieandtheothergirls.DoIdarestandwithher?It’s better to choose to be
alonethantotrytobefriendswith someone who doesn’twanttobeyourfriend.Igotomy usual spot, six feet fromeveryone else, though a tinypart of me knows that I’mtakingthechicken’swayout.“Lizzie!”Gemmawavesme
over. “Why are you overthere? C’mon with us,” shesays.
W
Chapter12
TheMysteryoftheChamberPot
hen Igethome, I runto the front yard,
where I have a clear viewofNoah’swindow.Theblind is
down, thewindowauniformgray. No gold cord hangsoverthetop.If only I could wish that
stupidcorddown.“Peanut.”I jump, Uncle Karl is
leaning against a tree, cigarsmoke swirling around him.Ishewatchingme?“What’s so interesting up
there?”“Nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?” He leanshischinonhishand.“What are you doing out
here?”Itrytoturnthetables.“WaitingforBilly,”hesays.
“Andyou?”“Lookingforthecat.”“The cat?” Uncle Karl’s
eyescutthroughme.My hands are shaking as I
search for Orange Tom.Uncle Karl is never in ouryard. Does he know
something?On the way back from the
barn, I spot a dead rat underthe hedge, so Orange Tommustbearound.Igouptomyroom.Idon’twanttorunintoUncleKarlagain.Upstairs, I begin thinking
about Gemma Trotter. Whywasshenice tome today? Isshe the person Noah said Ishouldlookfor,theoneIlikebetter than the rest? I can’t
wait to tell Noah whathappened. I won’t sayanything about Uncle Karl,though. I don’twant to scarehim.Ifocusonfindingwordsthatrhymewith“Gemma.”
TodayagirlnamedGemmaHadquiteabigdilemma.Shebarkedlikeadogwithbabies,Onaccountofshethought
shehadrabies.Atnineo’clocktheytalkedtothedoc.“It’sallinherhead”iswhathesaid.
Irundowntoseeifthecordisvisible.Stillno.In the pantry, I collect as
much food as possible, incaseIcan’tgetbackuptherefor a while. I fill a basketwith mason jars of pears,
peaches, applesauce, andolives, a hunk of cheese, arollofsalami,andhalfaloafofFrenchbread.And water. I fill a pitcher,
butitwon’tfitinthebasket.Imaketwotripstomyroomtogetitallupthere.JustasI’mcarrying the pitcher filled tothe brim, Aunt Hortenseappears.Inherhandisawadofdollarbills.“Maggy, dear!” she calls
down the stairs. “Can youiron these for me? I can’tstand to carry those filthythings all bunched up likethat.Elizabeth?Whatareyoudoing?Maggy filled that thismorning.”“I wanted more… in case
offire,”Iaddlamely.“Fire? Goodness gracious,
child,whatmakesyouworryaboutthat?”“Wetalkedabout itatMiss
Barstow’s.”She nods. “Speaking of
worrying, I talked to Mr.Sweeting. He’s working onfindingJing.”“Thankyou,”Isay.Sheshimmiesherhandsinto
hergloves.“You’regoingout?”“Trynottosoundsohappy.
Mrs. Luther Cumberbatch istaking me out driving in herveryownmotorcar.Awoman
with a driver’s license—canyou imagine? Yang Sunwillbringyoursupperover.”“Yes,ma’am.”“And, Lizzie… no trouble
whileI’mgone.”“Yes,ma’am.”She takes my chin in her
gloved hand. “Don’t justmoveyourlips.”Ilookherstraightintheeye.
“Notrouble,”Isay.
I carry the pitcher into myroomandclosethedoor,thenwatchoutthewindow.IhearthemotorcarbeforeIseeit.Itroars into the driveway, thenspits and gasps to a stop.Aunt Hortense climbs in,decked out in a pale greendrivingdressedgedinvelvet,herdarkhairglisteningunderher green wide-brimmed hattightly secured with a whiteveil. Mrs. Cumberbatch is
wearing a plaid driving coatand matching hat. AuntHortensewavestoherbutler,who cranks the motor again.The car sputters forward,lurchingthroughthegate.When they’re gone, I run
outside and check for thecord. It’s finallydown!Noahmusthaveseenherleave,too.Maggy ison the sideporch
in a cloud of dust, beating arug and grunting. The parrot
is on her shoulder. “Dirtywork. Dirty work,” Mr. P.chirps. Billy has gone offwithUncleKarl.Nobody notices me as I
make my stealthy trips,bringingsuppliestoNoah.When we get everything
inside and the door closed,wesmileateachother.“Howlongdoyou thinkwehave?”heasks.“Hardtosay.”
Isitonthechair.Hesitsonthebed.I fill him in on what
happenedatChinatown.“WetriedtogetJingout.”“YouandBilly?”I nod. “I talked to a
policeman. He was no help.ButUncleKarlisworkingonit.AuntHortensesaid.”Noah sighs, his brow
furrowed. “I know he’sthere.”
“Does he do magic showsfor people in Chinatown?” Iask.Hefrownsatme.“No.”Jing does magic shows for
Billy andme.Whywouldn’the do them for the people inChinatown?“Leaders don’t do magic
tricks,”Noahexplains.I try to imagine Jing as a
leader of people inChinatown. This is not the
JingIknow.“Ithoughtyousaidhewasa
translator.”He nods. “It’s a powerful
position. Hardly anyoneunder-stands the languageand customs of both sides.Chinese don’t understandAmericans. Americans don’tunderstand Chinese. Nobodytrusts anyone. It’s a bigmess.”“What did you mean, ‘The
monkeyhasasecret’?”“Baba must have told you
hisstories.”“Aboutanimals?”Henods.“Wheneverthere’s
a monkey, he’s a tricksterwith secrets up his sleeve.Youneverknowifhissecretswillhelpthegoodguysorthebadones.”“Arethereanyrealmonkeys
inChinatown?”He shakes his head.
“There’s a year of themonkey,butthatwasawhileago. This year is the year oftherat.”“The year of the rat. Who
pickstheseanimals?”He shrugs. “Somebody
made a calendar a thousandyearsago.”“Hey,” I say. “I wrote a
poem.Wanttosee?”IhandhimGemma’spoem.
He reads it carefully. “She
thought she had rabies?That’scrazy.”“Yes.”“Butyoulikeherbetterthan
theothers?”Isuckmylip,considering.“You do.” He nods, then
leans forward. “Have youwrittenapoemaboutme?”“Not yet.” He wants me to
writehimapoem!WhatwillI say? I get up and beginpoking around his room.
“What do you do in here allday?”“Read, mostly. Watch out
the window. Sew thebuttonhole strips. WhenOrange Tom comes up, weplay a game with a ball ofthread.”“Youplaywiththecat?”“Sure.Don’tyou?”“No. I don’t like the cat.
Hey,” I whisper. “How doyou…youknow?We’renot
allowed to use the second-floor toilet. It’s only forguestsandAuntHortense.”His face turns just slightly
red.“Iknowthat.”“Do you sneak out at night
toemptyyourchamberpot?”“No.”“Pouritoutthewindow?”I
stand up and slide across tothewindowtopeekundertheblind.What will the pee fallon?
“Disgusting.”“Store it up?” I turn back
aroundtosnifftheair.“Are you always this
nosey?”Igrinathim.“Prettymuch.”Hesighs.“It’snoneofyour
business.”“Well,thenI’llhavetofind
out,won’tI?”“How are you going to do
that? Follow me
everywhere?”I walk around the room
inspecting tea cups, bowls, avase.Hegrins.“Youdon’tthinkI
gointhere,doyou?”“You’ll have to go
eventually,”Isay.“Nope.I’mspecial.”“You know I’m going to
findout.”Hecrosseshisarmsandjuts
outhischin.“Youarenot.”Webothburstoutlaughing.“For a girl, you sure are
pushy.”“But you like me. We’re
friendsnow.”Igrinathim.He nods, his brown eyes
serious.“Youknowwe’renotallowedtobefriends.Notoutthere.” He points to thewindow.“We decide if we’re going
to be friends. Not them,” I
insist, though inside I’m notso sure. The world seemsmorecomplicatedthaniteverhasbefore.
N
Chapter13
BackwardDay
o lights are on at theSweeting house. Not
eventheroosterisoutofbedyet. I creep down to thekitchentoputtogetheraplate
of fried potatoes from lastnight, two oranges, what’sleftof thebread,anda jarofwater. With a full basket, Isneak halfway up theservants’ stairs, far enoughdown that Maggy or Noahwillnotseeme.Everybodyinthe world has to pee firstthing in the morning. Noahwillstealdowntothesecond-floorbathroom,andI’llcatchhim. If Maggy comes down
or Aunt Hortense comes up,I’ll tell them…itsbackwardday and I’mbringingMaggyher breakfast instead of theotherwayaround.IwaitsolongthatIdozeoff
on the stairs, waking with astart when I hear Julietwhinny.Up above I hear theclick-flap, click-flap ofMaggy’sloose-soledboots.Adoor closes, then opens. Isneakupthelastfewstairsto
seewhat’shappening.Out the hall window, the
sun is rising, a bright orangeball between fluffy grayclouds. Inside, it’s just thesameasitalwaysis,exceptawhite chamber pot is outsideMaggy’s door. Is it Noah’s?Is Maggy emptying it? ButMaggy doesn’t know aboutNoah.Maggy must put hers
outside her door while she
gets dressed, and then I’mbetting Noah pours his intohers.I try to imagine what it’s
like to have to be so carefulthat you can’t smack yourlips,talkinyoursleep,orhopout of bed. No coughing,laughing, or stepping on acreaky board. You can’tbreathe too loudly, open thewindow,orpeetoomuch.I decide not to leave the
foodnow.IshouldwaituntilMaggycomesdownfirst.I’mcarrying the basket down thestairs when I trip on the laststepandfallflatonmyface.Before I can get up, Billy
appears, his hair uncombed,hischinunshaved.He surveys the spilled
potatoes, watches as I chaseafter the orange that rollsacross the floor. “What areyoudoing?”
“It’s backward day. I wasbringingMaggybreakfast.”“Didn’tshewantit?”“Oh.Um.Sheatesomeofit
already,” I say, cleaning upthe mess, throwing it allhaphazardly back in thebasket.Billy’s left shoulder is
wrappedinatowel,heldtightwithhisrighthand.“Whathappened?”Iask.He unwraps the towel. His
shoulderisbadlybruised,andthere’s crusty brown bloodmaking it hard to see thewound.I reach out, but he steps
back.“How’dyoudoit?”“Justwokeupthisway.”He
winkswithhisgoodeye.I survey his clothes. He
hasn’tbeentobedyet.“Let’sgetitcleanedup.”Billy follows me into my
roomandsitsonmybed.Iset
the basket down on mydresser doily, pour waterfromthepitcherontoatowel,andgentlypatthedriedbloodaway. After the cleaning, itdoesn’t looksobad.Justonesnagglywoundlineandsomebruisingandswelling.“Needs stitches,” I observe.
I’ve never done sutures bymyself.IbetIcould,though.“I’lldoit,”Billysays.“Onyourself?”
“Sure. Could you get thesuturekit?”I run down to get the kit,
along with ice, a clean rag,towels, and a bandage roll.Jingstacksthecleanrollsinatin box. I never realized justhow much Jing does for us,untilnow.Doesheknowhowmuchwemisshim?“Thanks,”BillysayswhenI
bringthesuppliesbacktomyroom.Helaysa towelonthe
bed. I watch him clean thewound area with a rag. Heices the skin around the cutand then threads the sutureneedle. He takes a deepbreath, his needle handwavering, then sticks it intotheskinandpullsthrough.Ican’twatchthisanymore.I
sit down next to him on mybedand take theneedle fromhim.“Canyoucough?”Henods.He’sseenPapado
this trick asmany times as Ihave. A cough distracts apatientfromthepain.“Onthecountofthree.One,
two,three.”Hecoughs,andIsticktheneedlein.Ipullthethreadthroughand
tieitoff.“Howwasthat?”“Notbad.”He breathes in, I count, he
coughs,andIsticktheneedlein. I’m glad he needs onlyfivestitches.WhenI’mdone,
he takes the thread fromme,cuts it, splits it in half, andtiesitoff—allwithonehand.He could be a doctor if he
wantedto.“Do you want me to
bandageit?”Iask.He nods, and I begin to
wind Jing’s bandage aroundthestitches.“Notsotight,”hewhispers.Iloosenthewrap.
When I’m done, he shootsmeoneofhisglitteringBillysmiles, and I hope, hope,hopetheoldBillyisback.Gently, I inspect his black
eye. It’s healing nicely.“Billy? Why are you soangry?”“Why are you sneaking
aroundthethirdfloor?”Iswallowhard.“I’mnot.”I
try to keep my expressionneutral.
“Okay, then,” he whispers.“I’m not angry, and you’renot hiding something on thethirdfloor.”“I’mnothidinganything.”“UncleKarlthinksyouare.”My stomach drops. “He
does?”Billy nods. “There’s a cat
with kittens up there, right?”Hestandsup,readytoleave.“Right.”
Billy laughs. “Orange Tomhasbeenbusy.”Inodtooenthusiastically.“Everybody has secrets …
evenOrangeTom.”“Papa doesn’t believe in
secrets,”Isay.“Papaisagoodman.”“Whyareyousomadathim
allthetime,then?”Billy shrugs. “He expects
toomuch.I’mnotlikehim.”
“I’mnotlikehim,either.”“You’remorelikehimthan
I am. I’m like Mama. Sheliked to have fun.WithPapayouhavetodotherightthingevery minute of every day.Heneverletsup.”After Billy leaves, I wait
until Maggy comes down.ThenIputthefoodout.NoahwillgetitbeforeMaggygoesback up to her room. Buteven if he doesn’t, I’ve
already explained that this isbackward day. I’ll say I leftthe food for her. It’s worththerisk.Noahhastoeat.
The Sweetings’ stable boy,Ho, drivesme to school, butdrops me off in the wrongplace and I have to go backaround. Jing always knowsthe right way to doeverything. Strange how youassume everybody does, and
then you realize, no, it’s justJing.By the time I get there,
Gemma is sittingwithHattielike always. If I go back tomyold table, everythingwillbe the way it always hasbeen.I’llneverhavetoworrythatI’vesaidthewrongthingor that Gemma likes Hattiebetter thanme.My feetwalkmebacktomyoldspot.Iamabigchicken.
“Lizzie!” Gemma hopsover, not bothering with hercrutches,andplunksdowninthe chair beside me. Hattiedoes an arabesque and thenslides into the seat on myotherside.“We’re going to Ocean
Beach after school. Can youcome?”Gemmaasks.Iopenmymouthtosayno.
Ihaveotherthingstodo.“Prettyplease.”Sheputsher
hands together like she’spraying.Theothergirlswatchme, not sure why Gemma’sactingthisway.“You’ll ride with me,”
Gemmaannounces,as if I’veagreed.“We’llpickyouupatthree.”HowwillIspendthewhole
afternoon with them? Whatwillwetalkabout?Ican’tdothis, butmy head is noddingyes and my mouth is saying
“Thankyou.”
When I get home, I head forthe Sweeting house to findUncle Karl. It’s been threedays.HemusthavefoundoutsomethingaboutJingbynow.I can’t tell Noah there’s nonewsagain.UncleKarl is out, butAunt
Hortense ishereworkingherarithmometer.She looks up from the
brown box. “You needsomething?”“Has Uncle Karl found
Jing?”“Not that I know of. But,
honey, don’t you think Jingwouldhavegottenwordtousif he were stuck in thequarantine?”“Howcouldhe?Theywon’t
letanyoneout.”“Jing is a resourceful man.
He’d have found a way. I’m
just wondering if he gotanotherjob.”“Anotherjob?NotJing!”“Ithappens,”AuntHortense
says.“You don’t want him to
come back. You think he’sinfectious.”“Of course I want Jing
back.”Iwatch her as she flips the
pageintheledger.
“Is itokay if Igo toOceanBeach this afternoon? ThegirlsfromMissBarstow’sareall going. Gemma Trotter’spapa is driving us in theirhorselesscarriage.”Aunt Hortense looks up in
surprise. A smiles sneaksacross her lips. “That wouldbefine.Havefun,Elizabeth.”
M
Chapter14
AstralDog
r. Trotter beams as Iclimb into his
motorcar.Hewipesdownthedust that accumulated on hisdrivetomyhouse.Motorcars
are stinky, slow, andunreliable. Horses will getyou where you want to go,safely and on time. Theywon’t run you into a brickwallthewayabrainlesshunkofmetalwill.I sit in the back between
Gemmaandhertwinbrother,Gus. Gus has the same red-blond hair as Gemma, buthe’s tall and thin, with aprominent Adam’s apple. I
can’t help grinning. Gemmachose me to drive with!Hattie isn’t even here.Gemma chatters the wholeway there, but I can hardlyhear over the racket of themotorcar.At the Cliff House, the big
restaurant above the beach,Mr. Trotter jumps out tocheck the tires, and we pileout.“Gus?” Mr. Trotter stands
up,oneeyestillonthetire.“Ithought you were comingwithme?”Gus’s eyes are glued to his
bootlaces. He blushes asplotchyred.Mr.Trotter looks fromGus
to me, then to Gus again.“Look after the girls, wouldyou, Son? Meet me at thefront entrance at half pastfour.”Gemma is so excited, she
races on her crutches. “Waituntilyouseethis!Justwait!”When she gets to the stairs,she places her crutchescautiously on each step, thenhopsdown.Gus follows, his hands
shoveddeepintohispockets.Downontheboardwalk,we
walk by match peddlers,bootblacks, singingnewsboys, and the rows ofcages of Johnnie-the-
Birdman. Johnnie-the-Birdman has singing birdsandacanary thatpullsa tinycannonstring,whichmakesapopgun sound. Another birdpretends to fall over dead.Gusand I laugh,butGemmapulls us along. She hassomethingelseinmind.Thewindwhipsmyhat,my
boots sink into the sand, theCliff House band oom-pah-pahsbehindusasapurse-size
dog chases a rat under theboardwalk. Gemma stays onthe wooden walkway, as farfrom the rat as possible. Rator no rat, she can’t managesandwithhercrutches.Up ahead, a small crowd
formsarounda tallmanwithdark hair and a long nose,who is standing on amakeshift stage.Hattie and afew of the other girls fromMissBarstow’sstandnearthe
front.ASTRALDOG,thesignsays,
between pictures of celestialplanetsandshootingstars.“He’s here!” Gemma hops
onheronegoodfoot.The man on the stage is
wearingapurplevelvetsuit,ablue plaid vest, and shinypointy-toed blue shoes. Anill-fitted bowler hat isperched on his head. “Comesee the world’s only
matchmaking canine,” hecalls.Astral Dog is a small
brown-and-white terrierdressed in a blue cape and ablue turban with cutouts forhis small furry folded-overears.“Ifyour true love is among
us,AstralDogwillfindhim.”The little dog dances on hishind legs. “He, and only he,will recognize your future
betrothed.“Butsometimes,sadly,your
true love is not here.”AstralDog’sheadsinkslow,histailgoes down between his legs,hisdogshouldersslump.“If you are not lonely—if
youhaveneverbeenlonely—walkonby,sir.Walkonby.”Astral Dog jumps off thestage to work the crowd,standingonhishindlegs,histurban held in place with a
ribbon strap. The velvetmanfollows behind, collectingnickels.Gemma’seyesareonaboy
with a thick blond thatch ofhair,blueeyes,andbigwhiteteeth.Hattiehurriesovertowhere
we stand on the boardwalk.“Spencer,”Hattiewhisperstome as the boy drops hisnickel into the velvet man’shat.
Gemmagrabsmyarm.“Wehave to get tickets,” shewhispers.“I already have,” Hattie
says,anddoesapirouette.“You go ahead,” I tell
Gemma.Theycangettickets.I’lljustwatch.“But more often than not,
lonely people are broughttogether and two heartsbecomeone.”AstralDogandthe velvet man return to the
stage. He brings his armstogether,formingaheartwithhis hands, and I slink backinto the crowd away fromHattieandGemma.The dog sits up, one ear
cocked to the sky. “If youwish to meet your soul’smatch, your heart’scompanion, it costs but anickel. Think of it … Anickel, little lady, can alterthecourseofyourentirelife.”
AstralDogjumpsdownandbegins to dance in front ofGemmaTrotter.Gemma’scheeks flush.She
unties a corner of her hankieand takes out two nickels.“For us.” She looks around,then points me out to thevelvetman.“Gemma!”Icry.Too late.Thenickelsare in
the hat and the man hasmovedon.“Thelistofhappy
couples, matches divined byAstral Dog.” He unfurls alongscrollofnamesinwildlyintricatehandwriting.Gemma motions for me to
comeback.I’mstandingnexttohernow. “Don’t youwanttodance?”shewhispers.IthinkI’mgoingtobesick.“How are you going to
dance?” I whisper. I’mworried about Gemma, butI’m more worried about me.
Everyonewillsee.Hattiewillmake fun of me. Gemmawon’twanttobefriendsafterthat.“I’llbefine,”Gemmasays.Morepeoplecrowdforward.
Even the balloon man offersup a nickel, balloonsdippingandbobbingashedigsitout.The velvet man’s hat clinkswithcoins.“Yes,thetimehascome, ladies and gentleman.The celestial bodies are in
alignment.”Withadramaticflourish,the
velvet man produces a tinydog-size desk and a minicrystal ball from a largevelvetbag.Hesetstheballonthedeskandplacesthedog’sred throne frontcenterof thestage.Astral Dog hops onto his
throne to peer at the crystalball,andtheaudiencecheers,thrilled the show is
beginning.Having seen the match in
the crystal ball, Astral Dogwinds his way among us,sniffing our boots. He stopsin front of a lady with a hatthesizeofasmallhouse,butwhen she offers the dog herticket, he moves on withouttaking it and heads straightforGemma.“What is your name,
please?”thevelvetmanasks.
“But I don’t want to befirst!”“Theactsofprovidenceare
beyondourcontrol.”“Gemma Trotter,” she
whispers.“Gem-ma!Gem-ma!”Hattie
and the other girls clap andchant. The whole crowd iscalling.Gemma screws up her face
like she’s swallowing badmedicine. She takes a big
bravebreath,openshereyes,andoffershertickettoAstralDog. The little dog takes itdelicately between his teeth,and then follows the velvetman back to the desk,watching the man as hedescribesthedifficultprocessofdiviningcelestialmatches.Then the man and the dogwalkupanddownthelineofboys with tickets in theirhands.
When Astral Dog reachesSpencer, the dog sits, cockshis head, and waits forSpencertotaketheticket.Aha!Gemma’s secret looks
in the direction of Spencerhavenotgoneunnoticed.The velvet man plays his
harmonica, but Spencerdoesn’ttakeGemma’shand.“He don’t know what to
do,”someoneshouts.“Dance around her,” the
balloonmansuggests.“Takeherhand.”“Go on, now. Just dance!”
The calls come from allaround.But Spencer stands, as
stupidasahitchingpost.The crowd begins to
murmur. Nobody likes this.Finallythevelvetmansignalsthe dog, who does a dancearound Gemma. When theharmonica stops, Spencer
can’t get off the stage fastenough.Gemma’s eyes fill up. She
bitesher lipandstaresatherboots.Ileapontothestagetogive
Gemmahercrutches,butjustas I do, Astral Dog turns tome,his tailwaggingsohard,itdragshisbottomwithit.“Astral Dog has found his
next happy couple.” Thevelvet man is eager to move
on.Noonewillpayformoretickets after a match likeGemmaandSpencer’s.“Lizzie.” Gemma blinks
back her tears and grabs myhand.“That’syou.”Myfaceflushes.I’mtootall
for the boys. My feet arelargerthantheirsare.“But,Gemma,”Iwhisper.“I
can’tdance.”Gusglances atme.Gemma
frowns.“Don’tbesilly.”She
snatchesmyticketandoffersit to Astral Dog—whochompsithappily,thenworkshis way through the payingcustomers and stops in frontof Gus. Gus steals a look inmy direction and thenmotionstothevelvetman.Thetwoconferinwhispers,
and then the velvet man’shead pops up. “Sadly,” hesays,“thedancecannotoccurdue to unforeseen
circumstances.” The crowdbegins to boo, but the velvetman cries, “And yet thematch remains strong.” Gusbowstome,salutingwithhishat.ItrytocurtsyasGemmaclaps.Gus’s manner is polite and
kind, and the crowd’s boosturn to whistles and claps.Astral Dog does his dance,andthevelvetmanmovesontothenextmatch.
Gemmapointshercrutchather brother. “What was thatabout?”Gus’s eyes find mine, then
dart away. “I didn’t feel likedancing,andneitherdidshe,”he mutters, pink all the waydownhislongneck.We walk back to the Cliff
House, where men in strawboater hats are drinking andlaughing. While we’rewaitingforMr.Trotter,alady
dressedinpinkburstsoutthedoor of the restaurant,followed by a small sourman.Herfaceisflushed.Shefans herself wildly. “Air. Alittle fresh air and I’ll befine.”Shetriestosmile.Thensuddenlysherushesovertoapottedpalmandthrowsup.Stomach flu? Food
poisoning? An allergicreaction? If only Papa werehere.He’d knowwhat to do.
I’m trying to think how tohelp,whenMr.Trottercomesout. He takes in the scenewith his quick eyes. “Let’sgetoutofhere,”hebarks.
W
Chapter15
DohJe
hen Igethome,AuntHortense is in our
drawingroommakinglistsofwho tocall for thechildren’sbazaar. “How was Ocean
Beach?”“Fine.”“That’s all you’re going to
say?”“I had a nice time with
Gemma.DoyouknowwhereUncleKarlis?”“In his study, but approach
him at your own risk. He’snotinthebestofmoods.”“Shall I wait until
tomorrow?”
“Youcould,buthe’sgothisbig newspaper luncheontomorrow. Day aftertomorrow is myrecommendation.”“That’stoolate.”She shrugs. “Don’t say I
didn’twarnyou.”Iwalkovertothebighouse
and upstairs to Uncle Karl’slarge high-ceilinged office.On one wall he has dowelswith newspapers hanging on
them. The Chronicle, theCall, the Examiner, andChung Sai Yat Po, theChinese newspaper. Onanother wall, he has awardsand photos of him withfamouspeoplesuchasLelandStanford,GovernorGage,andPresident McKinley. UncleKarlknowseveryone.Onthebackwall arephotosofS&SSugar and big blocks ofmovable typewith his name,
Aunt Hortense’s name, myname,andBilly’sname.“Peanut”—helooksupfrom
the paper—“are you comingto visit me, or do you needsomething?”If I say I’m here to visit
him,I’maliar.IfIsayIwantsomething,I’malouse.Uncle Karl seems to know
myanswerbefore I openmymouth. “Because, you knowwhat, I get tired of being a
screwdriver.”“Icanseewhy,sir,”Ioffer.“Can you?” He straightens
theinkblotteronhisdesk.Inod.“And you’ll remember that
in the future, but today youneedsomething.Youwanttoknow if I foundoutanythingaboutJing…AmIright?”Istaredownathisbearskin
rug.
“He’s vanished, so far as Icantell,”UncleKarlsays.“He’s not in Chinatown?”
Myeyelidbeginstotwitch.“I’ve let Mrs. Sweeting
know she is to begininterviewingcooksforyou.”“What?”“YangSuncan’tcontinueto
cookforbothhouseholds.”“But Jing is in the
quarantine.”
“Howexactly doyouknowthis?”I’dlovetotellhimhow.But
ofcourseIdon’t.“Ijustthinkhe is, that’s all.Anyway, thequarantine is supposed to beover soon, so he’ll comehome.”Imakethisup.“It is, is it?” He smiles. A
nice smile? Or a mean one?“You’re an authority on thesubject?”“They were waiting on the
monkey,”Iexplain.He stubs his cigar in the
ashtray. “You don’t knowwhat you’re talking about,Lizzie. And where did youhearaboutthatanyway?”“Idon’tknow.”He snorts. “You don’t
know? Wise to keep yourmouth shut, if you knownothingaboutasubject.”“Tell me about the
monkey.”
“There’snothingtotell.”Icockmyheadand lookat
him. “Why are you sogrumpyaboutit,then?”“Don’t stick your nose
where it doesn’t belong,Lizzie,”hebooms.“Yes,sir.”Hehangsuponenewspaper
and takes down another. Hisbackistome.Boy, was Aunt Hortense
ever right. No talking to
Uncle Karl when he’s in amood. I head downstairs,grindingmyteeth.But why did me asking
about the monkey make himso angry? And besides that,theycan’thireanewcook.AnewcookwouldliveinJing’sroom.ThenwhatwouldNoahdo?Inmyroom,IlookatJing’s
presentsagain.WhatifJingisreally gone? I’ll never get
another gift from him, mybirthday cakes will havenothing inside, and I willnever have another bananapancake.I findmy fountain pen and
paper. Noah will help mefigurethisout.
Egad,ourmonkeymadehimmad.WhatdoesKarlknow?Ishefriendorfoe?
IdecidenottomentionwhatKarl said about interviewingfor anewcook. Idon’twantNoah to think all girls areliars, but hemight panic if Itell him. I need to talk toAunt Hortense. She’ll bedoing the interviewing.She’sthe one I have to get onmyside.First,findthecat.Iheadout
to thebarnandclimbupintotheloft,wherehe’scurledup
in the corner, his usual spot.Thethreadcoloronhiscollaris yellow. A message fromNoah!Iunwrap thericepaperand
slip it out. It has Chinesecharacters this time.And thewords“Dohje.”Doh je? What does that
mean? I pocket his note andattachminewithblue thread.Then Ihaul thecatdown theladder.Hesquirmsoutofmy
arms,leapsintothehaystack,shoots across the barn, andjumps onto the dividerbetween the stalls, which hewalkslikeanacrobat.Ilungeforhim;thetipsofmyfingersgraze his fur. He streaksacross to the chicken coop. Ichaseafterhim;heruns,thenstops and watches me. Hiseyestrackmyeverymove.I stalk himuntil I get close
enough to scoop him up. He
allows himself to be caughtonly when he’s good andready. I run into the kitchenfor cheese, then carry himinto Papa’s library, where Ithink there is a Chinese-English dictionary. With thecheese, the cat, and thephrasebook, I head back tomyroom.The cat stands by the door
while I page through thedictionary. “Doh je” means
“thankyou.”IlookforafewotherwordswhileI’matit.Uncle Karl said he didn’t
like being a screwdriver. Iwouldn’tlikethat,either.Butwhenyouhelpafriend,itjustfeelsgood.
A
Chapter16
MonkeyintheGarden
t breakfast, I cornerAunt Hortense. “Are
you really going to hire acooktoreplaceJing?”
“Oh,Elizabeth…”“Mama hired Jing. He’s a
part of our family. Shewouldn’tlikeit.”Aunt Hortense’s hand
freezesonherteacup.“WhenMr. Sweeting asks me to dosomething, I do it. Yourmama of all people wouldunderstand that. One day,you’ll get married, and thiswillallmakesensetoyou.”“I’mnevergettingmarried.”
AuntHortenselaughs.“Talkto me in five years. Yourmama and I were nevergetting married, either. Youcan see how that workedout.”“How do you know Jing
isn’tcomingback?”“It’s a quarantine. People
insidehavebeenexposed.”“Not if there is no disease.
Besides, what kind of aquarantineisit,ifthereareno
doctors, no gloves, nomasks?”Aunt Hortense dabs at her
mouthwithhernapkin.“Howwould you know what aquarantine is supposed tolooklike?”“Papa wears protective
clothing when he treats aninfectious patient. I’ve seenit.”“PreciselywhyIdon’twant
yougoingoncallswithyour
father.”“ButIlovegoingwithhim.”“I know.” Aunt Hortense
sighs.Herfacesoftens.“Verywell. I’ll put this off untilyourpapagetshome.Butdome a favor and keep thisbetween you and me, allright?AsfarasMr.Sweetingis concerned, I aminterviewing.”“Thank you,” I whisper,
leapingupfromthetable.I’m
abouttohugAuntHortense.“Elizabeth, did you ask to
be excused?” she barks. Icometomysensesinthenickoftime.
When I get home fromMissBarstow’s that afternoon, thecoaches, buggies, carriages,motorcars,andbicyclesbeginto arrive at the mansion,bringing the guests for thenewspaper luncheon. Only
men work in Uncle Karl’snewsroom. If there were awoman reporter, I could askher why Uncle Karl got somad when I brought up themonkey. Was he trying topick a fight, or did themonkeyreallymatter?Ibetithas something todowith thenewspaperwars.WhenUncleKarl’s Call doesn’t sell aswell as Mr. Hearst’sChronicle, itputsUncleKarl
in a foul mood. Could “themonkey”beacodename fora man who gives them tipsabout stories? Maybe one ofhisreporterswilltellme.I need to go to that
luncheon.Buthow?I could borrow one of
Maggy’s uniforms andpretend to be a maid. ButUncle Karl or Nettie wouldrecognize me. Even if theydidn’t, would any man
answer a serious questionposedbyaservinggirl?Icouldhidebehindapotted
plantandhopetohearwhatIneed. But what are thechances that themonkeywillbediscussed?ThereisonlyonewayIcan
thinkof:togoasmyself.Ipeer throughahole in the
shrubberyandseethemeninsmall groups, drinkingglasses in hand. Nettie and
hermaidsareservingcanapéson silver trays.UncleKarl isdeepinconversation,anunlitcigar in one hand and awhiskyglassintheother.I walk boldly up the path.
ThisistheSweetings’garden.I’mnotafraid.“Whatdowehavehere?”A
man with a huge mustachesmiles.“Karl has a daughter he
never told us about?” asks a
jollymanwithabigrednose.I smile, then give my best
curtsy. “I’m Mr. Sweeting’sniece, and I have a questionforyou.”Uncle Karl’s voice rises
abovethedin.“Why,Peanut,say hello to the boys. Boys,this is my niece, ElizabethKennedy.”“Hello.”Iwave,thencurtsy
again.Uncle Karl is headed my
way, his watch chainjangling. “What can I do foryou,mydear?”“I was just wondering”—I
look around at the menwatching me now—“ifanybody knew about amonkey or a man namedMonkey.”Several sets of eyes turn to
UncleKarl,who takes a biteoutoftheendofhiscigar.“MonkeyWarren’sdead,”a
thin man with a square headsays.“She’s saying we’re
monkeys,” a man with a bigbelly, striped trousers, andshoeshalfoffhisfeetshouts.Iknowhim.ImethimwhenIwent to Uncle Karl’s office.HisnameisPeter.All the men laugh. Uncle
Karl’sarmshootsaroundmyshouldersashe tries tousherme into the house. “Lizzie,
now,don’tworryyourprettylittleheadaboutthis.”I duck out from under his
arm and plant my feet. “Idon’t have a pretty littlehead.”Themenroaratthis.“She doesn’t have a pretty
little head.” Peter winks atUncleKarl.“I’d like to know what’s
happening,”Idemand.Uncle Karl laughs. “Help
meouthere,boys.”“The monkeys are in the
jungle,”somebodyoffers.Now a skinny man in a
moleskin waistcoat hopsaround with his hands in hisarmpits. Everyone claps andhoots.Behind me I hear a quiet
voice. “Do they know whathappenedtothatmonkey?”I turn to see a big man—
about three hundred pounds,
with thick spectacles set intohischeeks.He’stalkingtothemanwiththebigmustache.I’mabouttocornerhim,but
Uncle Karl is too fast. Heslips his arm around meagain. “They’re just playingwith you, Peanut. Come onnow. No more foolishness.Yourauntwillhavemyheadifshefindsyouhere.”“It’s just one question,” I
plead.
“Elizabeth.” Uncle Karlleansin.Hisvoiceislowandhard.“That’senough.Donotstick your nose where itdoesn’tbelong.”
D
Chapter17
AHundredandOneRules
o they know whathappened to that
monkey?Iheardthatmansayit. I heard it with my own
ears.Whatdidhemean?I’m so upset, it’s hard to
think straight. My pencilhelpsmeclearmyhead.
Thementriedtohideit.UncleKarldeniedit.ButIheardthebigmanAskaboutamonkeyplan.
I find the orange cat andattachthemessage,thenwait,hoping the cord will come
down.IneedtotalktoNoah,not just send him messages.Besides, he must be tired ofpeachesandsalami.Heneedssomethingwarmtoeat.Aunt Hortense is on the
telephone in the drawingroom, talking about parlormeetings and women gettingthe right to vote.Why is sheon our phone? She spendsmostofthedayatherhouse.Whenshegetsoff,Istareat
her. She sees the question inmyeyesandturnsaway.“I trust you’ll keep my
business to yourself,” shesays.In his column, Uncle Karl
hasbeenpokingfunat ladieswhoaretryingtogetthevote.Could Aunt Hortense behelpingthem?Impossible.Aunt Hortense rings for
Maggy tocarryherpapers to
the Sweeting house. I watchasMaggy follows her acrossthe way. Aunt Hortense hasbeen depending on Maggymore and more. Nettiedoesn’t like this. Yesterday,Nettie tracked dirt ontoMaggy’scleanfloorandthenscoldedMaggyfor it in frontofAuntHortense.With Aunt Hortense gone,
Noah’s cord comes down,and I head straight upstairs
with my basket. In it arepancakes, a roast beefsandwich, jars of water,caramels from Ocean Beach,andthepoemIwroteforhim.I can’twait to show him hispoem.Noah’s eyes light up when
he sees me. “Tell meeverything,” he says as Isettleintomyusualchair.Itellhimaboutthemonkey
andUncleKarl’spartyfirst.I
hope hewon’t ask toomanyquestions, because I don’thave any answers. Do I tellhim Uncle Karl said Jingwasn’t in the quarantine?Should I say I had toconvince Aunt Hortense notto interview for anothercook? I dig in the basket forthecandy.When I hand it to him, he
looks hard at me. How doeshe know I’m not telling him
everything?“Uncle Karl couldn’t find
him,”Iwhisper.His eyebrows rise like
Jing’s. “That doesn’t meanhe’s not there. He’s hidingsomething,Lizzie.”“Whatishehiding?”“He knows more than he’s
saying.”I think about Uncle Karl
watchingme in theyard as Iunwrap a caramel. “What
makesyousaythat?”“Baba said Uncle Karl
meets with the SixCompanies sometimes. Babatranslates.”“What are the meetings
about?”“Idon’tknow.”“The monkey is important.
If we figure out about themonkey, we’ll know a lotmore,”Isay.I tell Noah about the
Trotters’motorcar andAstralDogandhowIthoughtIwasgoing to have to dance infrontofeveryone.He chews his caramel
thoughtfully. “Youdon’t likedancing?”“I’mnotgoodatit.”“Doyoupractice?”“Of course not. What a
horriblethought.”“Do you have instructions
onhow to do these dances?”
Noah asks. He unpacks thebasket and places it on theshelfwiththedishes.“Inmynotebook.”“Bring them. We’ll learn
together.” There comes thatcrazy,mischievoussmile.“Youandme?”Iask.My mind flashes on Aunt
Hortenseandwhatshe’ddoifshe saw me dancing with aChinese boy alone in ourattic.
“Sure.”Hegrins.“I’vedonethe lion dance. And that’s alotharder.”“What’sthat?”“Iweara lioncostume,and
myfriendPu isbehindme—he’sthebackendofthelion,andI’mthefront.”“I wouldn’t want to be the
backend.”“Neither does Pu. He says
he only got that positionbecauseofhisname.”
“Poo!” I laugh. “Hey, Iwrote you a poem.” I unfoldthepageforhim.
IhaveafriendintheatticWho’skindofabookfanatic.Hecan’tmakeasound,Orelsehe’llbefound,Whichismorethanabitproblematic.
Hesmiles.“It’sgood.CanI
haveit?”No one has ever asked to
keep one of my poems.“Sure,”Isay.“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy’s
voice wafts up from thesecondfloor.Noah’sfacefalls.“Youjust
gothere!”Igrabhishandandsqueeze
it.“Lizzie, please stay. It’s
been four days. I’m going
crazy.” He leans in andwhispers,“MaybeIshouldgoback.”“No!Thenyou’llbecaught
in the quarantine and I’ll betryingtogetbothofyouout.”Noah’s shoulders slide
down. He chews his cheek.“Come back as soon as youcan.”I close his door and steal
down the servants’ stairs,with his words still in my
ears.Lizzie,pleasestay.“You have a visitor at the
Sweetings’,”Maggytellsme.Ohno!AuntHortensehasa
hundred and one rules aboutvisiting. I must say the rightthings,weartherightclothes,visitintherightroom,andsetmycallingcardonthecorrecttray.I dive into the one dress
AuntHortenseapprovesof.Itflaps on me without the
properpetticoats.I’mstillbuttoningas I rush
acrosstheway,leapingoveradead rat, its black eyesbulging.Orange Tom is at itagain.The drawing room has
scarlet chairs and longcurtains that puddle on thefloor. Gold angels hold upglass sconces, and paintingsof racehorses hang on everywall.I’mhardlyeverinhere.
Noonevisitsme.“Elizabeth,” Aunt Hortense
purrs in her important-ladyvoice.“Docomein,dear.”Then I see, it’s only the
Trotters. What a relief!There’s Gus, Gemma, and apudgyladyinabluehatwithjeweled hatpins. All threehave freckled skin andstrawberry-blondhair.“Lizzie.” Mrs. Trotter’s
callingcardisonasilvertray
on Aunt Hortense’s polishedzebrawood table. “I’mdelightedtomeetyou.”Ibobawkwardly.“Gus has asked that we
visit.” Mrs. Trotter smiles atGus,whoturnsthecolorofaripetomato.Gemma hides behind her
fan.“I,um,wantedtoaskyouto
the La Jeunesse cotillion,”Gusmumbles.
“Me?”Ilookaround.Gemma’s fan slips down.
She has a huge smile on herface. Did she put him up tothis?“Of course you,Elizabeth,”
AuntHortensechides.“I’mjust…Areyousure?”
Iwhisper,myfaceashotasafirepoker.“Yes,”Gussays.AuntHortenseeyesme.She
picks up a diamond-studded
nutcrackerandsplitsawalnutwitha loudcrack. “Elizabethis delighted. It is lovely ofyoutoask.”“It is lovely,” I say, and
stealaglanceatGus.Healmostsmiles.“He’s a quiet one, but still
waters run deep,” Mrs.Trotter says, holding oneglovedhandwiththeother.“Or gather pond scum,”
Gemmawhispers.
“Shush, Gemma,” Gusmutters.“Are you sure I can’t get
you some tea?” AuntHortense asks. “Biscuits?Scones? Our Yang Sun’spastries melt in your mouth.You know I stole him fromthePoodleDog.”Mrs.Trotter standsup. “Oh
no,we reallymust be going.I’m afraid we’ve overstayedourwelcomealready.”
“Notatall. I’mjustsorryittook us so long to findElizabeth.”“Lizzie, where were you?”
Gemmawhispers.“Iwas…um,indisposed,”I
say.“Elizabeth,” Aunt Hortense
barks. “Ladies do not speakofsuchthings.”“I thought that was the
politewaytosayit.”AuntHortensesmilesstiffly
atMrs. Trotter. “As you cansee,Elizabethisstillworkingonhermemoirs.”We follow them down the
hall and out into theentryway, with its highceiling and the electricchandelier bigger than theone in the Grand OperaHouse.I stand and wave as the
Trotters climb into theircarriage.
When the mansion doorcloses,AuntHortense shootsme a look that would kill asmall dog. “I will not havemy niece acting like amilkmaid at La Jeunesse.MissBarstow says sheheardyou discussing warts andboils the other day. It’scoarse, Elizabeth. There’s atime and place for suchthings,butthecotillionisnot—”
“Do I have to go?” I ask.“Because I’m sure toembarrassyou.It’sbetter ifIstayhome.”Aunt Hortense crosses her
arms. “You’ll go, and you’llloveeveryminute.”
I
Chapter18
NoahinMyRoom
t’s even more difficult toget away from Aunt
Hortense now that she hasmadeithermissiontogetme
fitted for a dress and jacket,petticoats,stockings,acorset,and dancing shoes. Not tomention teaching me how todrink without slurping andtake tiny bites of everything.With her watchingmy everymove,Ican’ttakecareofthehorses.Hohastodoit.Still, I manage to get the
dance instructions onto thecollar of Orange Tom, andafter schoolNoahand Ihave
ourfirstlesson.WhenIsneakmy basket of supplies up toJing’sroom,Noahiswaiting,hisarmscrossed.“Itisn’tthathard,”heannounces.“Everyone’s gone except
Maggy. Maybe we shouldpractice in my room. Thatway I can crank up thegramophoneandwecanhearthemusic.”Noah considers this. Then
henodsslowly,deliberately.
A thrill shoots throughme.Noahinmyroom!“IfIgodowntoyourroom,
youhavetoswearyou’lltry.”“I do try, and everybody
stares, and theymake fun ofmewhenI’mnotthere.”“How do you know what
they do when you’re notthere?”“Ijustdo.”“But isn’t Gemma your
friendnow?”
“Iguess.”“Youdon’tsoundsure.”Ishrug.He considers this. “Fen
pretends tobemyfriendsoIwill help him with hisarithmetic.”“You’re good with
numbers.”“Ofcourse.”“Of course,” I say, and
imitatehisswagger.
He squints at me. “Whywould I say I’m not good atsomething?”“Girls are supposed to
pretend they’re lousy ateverything.”“Maybebecausetheyare.”“No!”Istampmyfoot.He laughs. “If you’re good
at something,youshould sayit.”“It’s easier to do that if
you’reaboy.”
“I’ll take your word for it.Now let’s work on thedancing.Where’sMaggy?”“She’s doing the floors
downstairs.”“Thattakesallafternoon?”“The wayMaggy waxes, it
does. Our kitchen floor isshinier than the Sweetings’,and Aunt Hortense has fivemaidstocleanhers.Ifit’sallclear,I’llwhistle.”“Whistle? You don’t
whistle. You thunder downthestairs.YouhollertoBilly.You drop things in yourroom.”“Idon’tdropthings.”“You’re always banging
somethingagainstthefloor.”“Myboots.Ikickthemoff.”“Kick your boots off; then
I’llknowtocomedown.Thatwillseemlikeyou.”“Okay. I’ll go check on
Maggy.” I grab the empty
waterpitchersandslipoutthedoor and down the stairs.Maggy is on her hands andkneeswithascrubbrush.Thesoap smell stings my noseand makes my eyes water.Aftershescrubsthefloor,shewaxesit.She’llbebusyforagoodtwohours.Backinmyroom,Ipullthe
shades down, unlace myboots, and kick them off.Theyflyagainstthewallwith
a satisfying thunk. Then Iopen the door and wait forNoah.My ears strain to hear his
footsteps. Even when I seehim creep down the hall, Ican’thearhim.Heslipsin.Iclosethedoor
andslidethelock.He’shere!Soreal,it’sasif
I’d just imaginedhimbefore.He looks around my room,his eyes lighting on the
window-sill.“Baba gave these to you.”
Hepicksupa tinychair Jingcarvedoutofwood.“Ihelpedhim make this one. He saidyoudon’tfeel likeyoufit in.He saidhemadeyou a chairso you would know there’salwaysaplace foryouat thetable.”I stare at him. I’ve always
loved that little chair, but Ididn’t know that was why
he’dgivenittome.Noah’s face relaxes into a
smile,andhebows,onehandbehindhisback.He takes my arm, and my
neckgetshot.Hispalmfeelsstrange onmy back, like theskinistooawareofhishand.I’m sweating where I holdhim.Together we muddle
through a simple waltz step.Noahdoesn’tknowhowtodo
thisanybetter than Ido. I’mnot the only one stepping onthewrongfoot.I’m taller than Noah, but
eventhatisn’timportanthere.I’m wearing my ordinary
clothes, but my skirt feelslighter.Myplanwastocrankupthe
gramophone, but it’s toodangerous. What if AuntHortense came home early?HowwouldIexplaintheloud
music?So I hum. The longer we
dance, themoreitseemslikethereismusic.I likethewayhishand feels inmine. I likestandingsoneartohim.A barrel rolls across the
cobblestones. Outside, thelight has shifted. How longhasitbeen?“Lizzie?” Noah whispers.
Helooksatmehard,andthenhiseyesskitteraway.
“What?”“I can’t stay up there alone
much longer. Where is myfather?”We stop dancing. “I don’t
know,but I’ll findhim.”Mywords seem full of hot air. Idon’tknowwhattodonext.Hegazesat theblind.Then
sighs.“Here,letmeshowyouthe lion dance.”He crouchesdown and hops on one footlikeananimalontheprowl.I
mimichim.Hisheadpopsup,his hands like paws. I hopwhen he hops and stay stillwhenhedoes.Ifallover,andwetrynotto
laugh.Hejumpsandleaps,hislegs
likesprings.Then Billy drives Juliet
through the Sweetingentrance.Noahmustgetbackto his room before Billycomesup.
I put one finger over mymouth;with theother Ipointupstairs. Noah nods, thentiptoes to the door. “Lizzie,you’ll tellme ifyou findoutsomething about Baba.” Hiseyesshift.“Of course! But I’ve told
youeverythingIknow.”“No matter what happens,
you’lltellme?”“Yes.”“Swear you won’t tell
anybody about me. Nobody.Ever.Swearit,”hewhispers.“Ihaven’ttoldanyone.”“I know that. Wait!” He
takes a needle out of hissleeve and stabs his thumbwithit.Wewatchthedropofbloodappear,abrightspotofredonhisbrownskin.I look into his eyes, dark
eyes,trueeyes…theeyesofa friend who knows moreaboutmethananyoneelse.
“Iswear.”I push my thumb toward
him. He pokes it, one quickjab, glancing up as if hehopeshedidn’thurtme.Ourthumbs touch. Blood toblood.
S
Chapter19
Chicken
aturday morning, beforeI’m even out of my
nightclothes, Nettie is in myroomsearingmyscalpwithacurling iron; then she twists
combedwhorlsofmyhairuptight,eachpinlikeaweapon.I beg for Maggy, but Nettiesays, “Fiddle-faddle. Maggyisn’t a lady’s maid. Shedoesn’tknowhowtodohair.If Maggy worked in theSweetings’ household, she’dbeascullerymaid.”When Nettie leaves, I rip
out half of the hairpins andloosentherest.ButAuntHortenselovesmy
hair. All day she and Nettiehover, drilling me: Whichfork do I use for dessert?Whichismywaterglass?Mybread and butter plate? ThenNettie insists on givingme amanicure.Torture.Ican’tgetamomenttovisit
Noah.Luckily,Ibroughthimextra food and water lastnight.Whenit’sfinallytimetoget
dressed, it takes me half an
hour to get everything on,evenwithMaggy’shelp.Thebodiceofmydresshaslayersof white feathers. It fits sosnugly,Maggycanbarelygetthe dress fastened over mycorset. She has to put myshoes on for me, because Ican’tleanovertohookthem.The shoes pinch. The dress
issotight,myribsmaycrack.Will I be able to sit down?WillIleaveatrailofchicken
featherswhereverIgo?When I see myself in the
mirror,myheartstops.I look from the side.
Straight on. From the backwith a hand mirror. I rundown to the bathroom tocheck that mirror, and thedownstairsone,too.Iseeme…buttheprettiest
me imaginable. Ialmost looklike Hattie or one of thebeautiful girls at Miss
Barstow’s. How could thisbe?From one side of the room
to the other I sashay, just toheartheswishofthedressonthe floor, imagining whatGemma will say when sheseesme. Ipeek in themirroragain. In my regular clothesI’m straight up and down.Now I have curves. It’salmost worth the bother tolookthisway.
When Billy comesdownstairs, he gapes at me,thenwhistles.I glare at him. “It’s
nothing,” I say, but hisresponse shocks me. I reallydolookdifferent.When Aunt Hortense sees
me, her eyes beam sobrightly,Ihavetolookaway.“Oh, how I wish your papawereheretoseethis.Youarelooking more and more like
yourmothereveryday.”I should thank her, but the
words won’t come out. I lether hug me, then stomp outthebackdoor,myfacehot. Iwalk across to the Sweetingcarriage house, which is likea palace, with electric lightsand hot and cold runningwaterandacarpetinthetackroom. Tonight I’ll be ridinglike a princess in a finecarriage.
Ho has the black carriageharnessed to fourbayhorses,each with four white socks.The horses have been bathedandgroomed, and their coatsare gleaming. Petting theirsleek necks and softmuzzlesmakes me feel like myselfagain. Then I dust off mygloves. Can’t go to LaJeunesse smelling like ahorse.Iclimbintothecarriage.Ho
picks up the lines, and thehorsestrotforward,fourpairsofearspricked.WepickupBillyinfrontof
our house. Evenwith a faintblackeye,Billyisimpressivein his Prince Albert cutawayand black gloves. Ho scootsover, and Billy slides in tocommandtheteam.Uncle Karl and Aunt
Hortensestandtogetherinthedriveway. Aunt Hortense’s
smile is radiant. I meet hereyes and smile, but I can’tadmit that I’mglad shewentto all this trouble for me.Still,Ithinksheknows.“Is that ourPeanut?”Uncle
KarlasksAuntHortense.“The very same,” my aunt
replies.Billy waves goodbye, and
the horses trot out the grandentrance, tails swishing,hoovesclacking.
When we get to the PalaceHotel,thelineisablocklong,filled with the finestcarriages, fringe-toppedsurreys, hacks, landaus,coaches,andbuggies.A loneautomobile waits in line, itsmotorspewingsteam.Horseschamp at their bits, paw theground,spreadtheirlegs,andpee in the driveway. Silk-coated Chinese porters withvelvet-handledshovelsscurry
about picking up greenmanuretheseconditdropstotheground.Ho will return at eleven
whenthecotillionends.CanImanage that long in thiscorset, making conversationabout warts and excessiveearwax with a boy I barelyknow?I’dliketoseeayoungman tied into a corset for anevening. He’d never put upwith it! Still, I can’t wait to
seeGemmaandHattie.Whatwilltheysayaboutme?We roll into the Palace
courtyard,making a splendidshow.Atthefrontoftheline,amanwithabigstomachanda topper swings a jewel-handledcaneasheannouncesourarrival.It’sPeter,themanwho works for Uncle Karl.He’sgotadeepvoiceperfectfor announcing. Plus, heknows everyone. Somebody
must have pegged him forthis.“And here we have the
lovelycoachofMr.andMrs.Karl Sweeting. Mr. WilliamandMiss Elizabeth Kennedy… what an honor to ride inyouruncle’sfinest.”“The coach gets better
billingthanwedo,”Iwhisperto Billy as I step out, barelyavoidingtrippingonmyhem.ButBilly’sattentionisona
girl with a waist thecircumference of a teacup,black hair, and a crimsondress. Everyone’s watchingher, but she doesn’t seem tosee them. Her face lights upwhenBillytakesherhand.Then Gus appears in a
cutaway with a boutonniere.Hishandsareshovedintohispockets, his shouldershunched forward. His hair isnewlycut,hisshoesasshiny
aspolishedspoons.Whenheseesme,hesmiles
andstandsupstraight.“Don’tsayanything.Iknow
Ilooklikeagiantchicken,”Itellhimundermybreath.“Luckily,Ilikechicken,”he
mumbles.Ismileathim.Hishandsare
still jammedintohispockets,butforasecondIseethemanhe is becoming. My cheeksarehotaswewalktogether.
WhatdoIsay?Launchingadiscussion about earwaxsuddenly seems like a badidea. “Where’s Gemma?” Iask.“She’s supposed to bewith
Spencer,buthedoesn’tseemtoknowthat.”“Oh no! He doesn’t know
he’sGemma’sescort?”Gusshrugs.“Heknows.”“Let’sgofindher.”Gemmaiswearingapainted
silkdresswithabluebeadedbodice that brings out theblue in her eyes. She’salready seated at one of thelongwhite tablesablazewithcandles. When she sees me,hereyesglisten.“Lizzie!Youlooksopretty.”“Youdo,too,”Isay.“What
happenedtoSpencer?”Hernostrilsflare.Shelooks
away.“Wantustogofindhim?”
Shenods.I followGus to thebackof
the enormous, glass-domedcourtyard filled with palms.Light pours in from theglowing ceiling, and violinsplay. In the middle of thefloor, Spencer dances with abeautifulblondgirlinadressthe color of the evening sky.Spencer can’t take his eyesoffher.“Spencer.” I’m about to
lurchforwardandgivehimapiece ofmymind.Howdarehe dance with someone elsewhenhecamewithGemma?Gus takes me by the hand,
which stops me cold. Sweatdrips down undermy corset.“Dowehavetodance?”Gussmilesatme.Westandat theedgeof the
dance floor full of glitteringdresses and dark pressedsuits. It smells of perfume
andperspiration.Spencerandthe girl in the evening-skydress look as if they’ll nevercome off the floor. If we’regoing to talk to him, we’llhavetodanceoutthere.Iclosemyeyesandpretend
Gus is Noah and this grandcourtyardismycozyroomathome.Gus’s hand is on the small
of my back. His touch islighter than Noah’s. He’s
taller; we’re eye to eye.WheredoIlook?Gus’sstepsarequickashesteersmeoverto Spencer. I’m a half beatbehindhim.Heslowsdown;Ispeedup.Wherearehisfeet?I barely miss stepping onthem.Myfacegetshotter.“Can I talk to you?” Gus
murmerstoSpencer.Spencer tries to swing the
evening-skygirlaway.Gus repeats his question,
boldly.Spencerfrowns.“Now?”“Yes.”Guscutsin.Hetakes
thehandofSpencer’spartner.Ohno!Ihavetodancewith
Spencer?Istandstock-stillasGusandthegirldanceaway.Spencer offers his hand to
me, as if mine is covered insnot. He holds me with stiffarms so our bodies don’ttouch. His feet move in asquare,hiseyeonthegirl,his
everymovemeanttosayhowirritated he is to dance withthelikesofme.I screw up my courage. “I
thought you were here withGemma.”“She’soncrutches.Howam
I supposed to dance withher?”He swirlsme closer toGus.“Shecanstilldance.”Hesnorts.“Why’dyouaskher,then?”
“Our mothers arranged it,”he says. He and Gus switchpartnersagain.A smile darts across Gus’s
lips as he takes my hand.He’shappytohavemeback!Maybe it wasn’t Gemma’sidea forhim toaskme toLaJeunesse.Could it have beenGus’s?“Idon’tlikeSpencer,”Isay.
Billy and the pretty dark-hairedgirlfloatby.
“He’sfullofhimself.”“He said it wasn’t his idea
toaskGemma.”“That’s true. Gemma’s
always plotting. It backfiredthis time. I just hope shedoesn’t fall again. She’saccident-pronewhenshegetsupset.”A waiter in a white jacket
announces, “Dinner isserved.”We follow the flow of the
crowd into the dining room.A band plays, and girls insweepingdressesandboysinblackjacketsloadtheirplateswith oysters and creamedlobsters, sizzling soups andsourdough bread. Crab cakesand crumb-crust pies. Porkchops, pear tarts, andParmesanpotatoes.Bearmeatand beef bourguignon. Thetablesoffoodgoonandon.We fill plates for ourselves
and for Gemma, then joinHattie and her partner atGemma’stable.Spencer’shatand gloves sit on the chairnexttoGemma,butthat’sallwe see of him. With Hattiehere, I stiffen. She saysnothing about my dress, buthereyesjudgeme.“Lizzie,I’msurprisedtosee
you here,” she says. “Haveyou ever even been to acotilliondancebefore?”
“No,”Isay.“Didyoudance?”“Yes.”“I’m so sorry I missed it.”
Hattieputsher lipstickinhertinybeadedpurse.I think about what Noah
woulddo.He’dtell thetruth.I look Hattie straight in theeye. “I’mnothalf thedanceryou are, Hattie. None of usare. But I like dancing withGus.”
Gusturnsbrightred,andsodoI.WhydoIhavetobesoawkward?Still,it’strue.AndsayingthismakesHattiebackoff.Ican’twaittotellNoah.I concentrate on my food,
which I have been shovelingin.Whenmychestfeelslikeafurnace packed with coal, Iset my fork down and lookaround.That’swhen I noticePeterwalkby.“I’ll be right back,” I
whisper to Gus, then chargeafterPeterasbestIcaninmylong ruffly skirt and highheels.“Excuseme,sir?”Peterignoresme.“Sir…Peter,” I practically
shout, nearly tripping over abrocade-coveredtable.He glances back. “Lizzie
Kennedy,isn’tit?”“Yes, sir.” I hurry to catch
him. “I’m sorry I only knowyoubyPeter.”
“Indeed.What can I do foryou, Miss Kennedy?” He’spickedupspeed.“I want you to tell me the
truth, sir.” I scramble afterhim.“The truth, is it?” He
glances back. “Always adangerousprospect.”“Aboutthemonkey.”“Ahh, yes. What, if I may
ask, is your great interest inprimates?”I’mtryingmybest
tokeepup.“Well,sir,there’ssomething
going on with a monkey.Peoplearen’ttalkingaboutit,andIdon’tknowwhy.”“Ah, my dear, there are
manythingspeopledon’tseefit to discuss. Surely you’velearned that in your fourteenyears.”“Thirteen.”“Evenso.”Now I see that he’s headed
to the bar, where womenaren’t allowed. “You knowwhatIwanttoknow.”“My fair lady,yougiveme
far more credit than Ideserve.”I jump in front of him,
trying to prevent him fromgoinginside.“MissKennedy, I’msorryI
can’t be of more help. Ifyou’ll excuse me.” He dipsaroundme.
“Wait!”Ishout.He doesn’t look back. He
joinsacrowdedtable,butI’mstuck outside. Billy couldfollow him in there. It isannoying to be a girlsometimes.The curls Nettie worked so
hard on are falling into myface,soIblowthemaway.Peter clinks his glass.
“Gentlemen,yourhealth,”hetoasts, slipping his shoes off
under the table and settlingin. Iwave,hoping somebodywill notice me, but no onelooksmyway.
A
Chapter20
TheWolfDoctor
t Gemma’s tableeveryonehasmovedon
to dessert. Hattie is takingtiny bites of chocolate cake;Gemmaisdippingherforkin
raspberry filling. “You’re upto something,” Gemmawhispers when I slip backintomychair.Everyonestaresatme.“Whatmakesyousaythat?”
How I wish I could lie thewayBillydoes.“Lizzie, you have to come
with us. We can’t dancewithout you,” Hattieannounces.I look atGus.He seems to
knowwhatI’mthinking.“I’m still working on
dessert,” he tells her. I thankhimwithasmile.When Hattie and her date
are gone, I tell Gemma, “Iwant to talk to Peter—themanwhoannounceduswhenwearrived.Only,nowhe’sinthebarandhedoesn’twanttocomeout.”Gemma leans toward me,
her eyes sparkling. “You
wanttogointothesaloon?”Inod.“Let’sgo.”Shegrins,scoots
outofherseat,andgrabshercrutches, with Gus closebehind.I’m starting to see that this
is howGemma andGus are:Gemmagetsboredandcomesupwithawild idea,andGushelpsherpullitoff.Thistimeit’smyidea.Still, they didn’t even ask
me why I want to talk toPeter.It’simportanttome,soit’s important tothem.Is thiswhat it means to havefriends? How could I havemissed Gemma at MissBarstow’s before? Are thereothergirlsthereasniceassheis?We stop and look around
outside the bar.A tea cart istucked against the wall. Gusborrows a tablecloth from a
nearby table and drapes itoverthetop.Gemmayanksup the cloth.
“Canyoufitunderthis?”Isquatdowntosee if Ican
get my ruffles and feathersunderneath. Luckily, they’veloosened up since Maggylacedmein.Inod.“Guscanpushtheteacart,”
Gemmasays.“How are we going to
explain pushing a tea cart in
thebar?”Iask.“I know,” Gus says, and
disappears. Ina fewminutes,he’s back with a whitewaiter’sjacketoverhisarm.“Where’d you get that?” I
ask.He grins. “I’ve been here
with Papa. I sawwhere theykeep them.”He takes off hisPrinceAlbert andhands it toGemma, then slides his armsintothesmallwaiter’sjacket.
“Don’t button it,” Gemmasays.She turns tome.“Whatwill you dowhen you get inthere?”“I’m going to make that
man Peter answer myquestion.”“How?”Howdoyouforcesomeone
to tell you something?Hmmm. Then I flash on hisshoes. “By ransoming hisshoes.Hetookthemoff.”
Gemmaburstsoutlaughing.I crawl under the tea cart.
Gemma figures out away tofold the cloth back so I canpeek through. She tucks inmyskirt.Guspushesthecartandleavesmebehind.“Not so fast,” Iwhisper. “I
can’tkeepup.”Wepractice untilwe get it.
Then Gus maneuvers the teacart over the doorway bumpintothebar.
“Sir,” Gus says when ourcart is in line with Peter’stable, “may I take yourempties?”Perfect. I’m liking Gus
better and better. Peterdoesn’t noticeGus.Awaiterisinvisibletohim.IsthiswhyJing doesn’t want Noahworkingforanyone?I lift up my tablecloth and
the one on Peter’s table andduck my hand under, trying
to see the shoes in the darktangle of legs. I manage tograboneshoebutbrushalegas Ido.The leg jerksback. Ifreeze.But no one calls out or
peeks underneath. I crawlback under the tea cart,holdingtheshoetomychest,then reach out and squeezeGus’sankle.Gus pretends to drop
somethingandduckshishead
under the cart. I nodvigorously, and he beginspushing the tea cart towardthe door with all my rufflesunderneath. I have all I canmanage trying to hold theshoeandinchforwardinthisdress. I need both hands tocrawl. I put the shoe undermy armpit. That doesn’twork. I hold the shoelacebetween my teeth. The shoebonksmychest,flappingthis
wayandthat.Whenwe’re safelyover the
doorway bump and aroundthe corner, Gemma lifts thetableskirt,andIhopout.Gus and Gemma burst out
laughing when they see theshoelaceinmymouth.“Goodjob,Lizzie.”Gemma
straightens my dress andsmoothesmyhair.We wait for Peter to
discover that his shoe is
missing. But Peter is busytoasting his buddies andknockingbackshots.Gemmagoes in search of moredessert.FinallyGusandIseePeter wiggle around in hisseat, then duck under thetable.Gus grins. I put my hands
overourmouthssowewon’tlaughoutloud.“I’ll tell him you have it,”
Gus says, and marches in
wearing his own jacket. HewhispersintoPeter’sear.Peter’s head swivels in my
direction.Hestompsout,oneshoeon,oneshoeoff.Hisbreathstinksofwhisky.
His jacket is off. Aperspiration stain marks hiswhite shirt. He glares. “I donot appreciate your highjinks, Miss Kennedy. Whyhave you chosen me topersecute?”
“You know what I need toknow,sir.”Hegroans.“Isthisaboutthe
monkey?”“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to
bother you, but it’s veryimportant.”He sighs. “Dr. Kinyoun, a
misguided physician with aninflated view of his ownworth, believes he hasconclusive evidence that theplague has come to our city.
Heclaimstohaveproventhisby injecting the plaguepathogen, supposedly culledfrom a dead man, into a rat,two guinea pigs, and amonkey. The rat and theguinea pigs died. We’rewaiting to see if themonkeysurvives.”“That would prove the
plagueishere?”“That’s the claim of Dr.
Kinyoun—also known as the
wolfdoctor.”“Whyisthisasecret?”“Itisn’t,exactly.Youruncle
is opposed to giving ink tosuch shenanigans. We leavethat sort of scurrilousreporting to Hearst’sExaminer. Now, my shoe,please.”“And what about the
quarantine?”“The dead man who
allegedly had the plaguewas
found in Chinatown. Thewolf doctor called thequarantine, and now he’stryingtoprovetoeveryoneitwasn’tamistake.”“Will you tell me if the
monkeydies?Please,sir?”“Will I tell you? Miss
Kennedy,Ihaveindulgedyoubeyond what any prudentgentleman would, could, orshould.Now,shallIgetwordto your aunt and uncle of
your behavior, or will youkindly return my property tomeand let thisbe theendofit?”I hand over his shoe.
“Thank you, sir.” I bob myhead.When I turn around,Gus is
standing by the table takingthis all in. Gemma ishobblingalongononecrutch,holding a plate piled highwithcookies.
“Youdidit!”Gemmaoffersmeacookie.“With your help. What a
teamyoutwoare!”Slowly, we drift to the
courtyard to wait for ourcoaches, letting others go infrontofus.Noneofuswantstoleave.
***
WhenIgethome,Maggyandthe parrot are waiting up for
me.“MissLizzie,havefun?”Maggyasks.“Yes, actually,” I say,
thinking how I mustremember every detail to tellNoah.Inmyroom,sheunlacesthe
corset. The stays and tieshave left red impressions onmyskin.Itfeelswonderfultobeoutofit.Ipullonmysoftflannel nightdress and crawlintobed.Maggyturnsoutthe
gas lamp. Only the moon’slightremains.
W
Chapter21
AHarebrainedPlan
hen I wake up thenextmorning, I think
about what Peter said. Theentire quarantine rides on a
monkey? How can that betrue?Whatwillhappenifthemonkeydies?Willtheymakeit a real quarantine, withdoctors and nurses andyellow plague flags? Whyisn’titarealquarantinenow?All I have is questions. I
wanttogobacktoNoahwithanswers.ItakeoutthefeatherNettie wove into my hair. Iwas so tired last night, I fellasleepwithitin.
My eyes find Jing’s gifts.I’ve been out having fun inmy white-feathered dresswhileJinghasbeenlockedinChinatown. Why is it I’venever given Jing a gift? Idon’t even know when hisbirthdayis. Ihavetogethimout of there, and I’m notgoing to wait around for astupidmonkey.I’mstill tryingtofigureout
a planwhenBilly knocks on
mydoor.“C’mon,” he says. “I need
toteachyousomething.Now,before church and beforeeveryonegetsup.”I stare at him, not moving
fromwhere I’m curled up inmy quilt. It’s been so longsince Billy taught meanything.“You may not realize
this”—his face turns red—“butyou’re…Alldressed
up last night, you … Look,you need to know how todefendyourself.”“Againstwhat?”“People. Men. The world
isn’t what you think.” Hefrowns. “Put on your oldclothes.Meetmeatthebarn.”Heshutsthedoor,andIslip
into an old skirt.When I getdown to the stable,Billy hashis boxing gloves on. He’spracticing punching the air.
Heseesmeandstops.“Okay. Let’s say it’s dark
and you’re walking in fromthebarn,andsomeonecomesat you like this.” He lungesfor me. “What would youdo?”“Kick him in his
reproductiveapparatus?”“Not a bad idea. But what
happens if he has you likethis?” He stands behind me,hisarmaroundmythroat.
I shakemyhead.Or try to,anyway. I can hardly movewith my neck in the vise ofhisarm.“I’m going to keep it
simple, and thenwe’regoingto practice. Did Papa everexplaintoyouhowtodefendyourself?”“No.”“Of course not.”He snorts.
“Look, you should never dothisifyou’rekiddingaround,
but if you’re in danger …there are points on a person,Lizzie, that will kill them.Temple, armpit, liver, groin.Behindtheear.”He spends an hour making
me practice different movesuntil I have mastered them.It’s so nice to have the oldBilly back. He could beinstructingmeonhow todigforturnipsandI’dbehappy.
The next morning afterMaggy comes down, I sneakup and leave Noah suppliesonthebottomstep.Heknowstowatchforthemnow.Iwantsobadlytogoupand
seehim.Maybelaterthecordwill be down. Maybe I willhave found Jing by then.Wasn’t Papa supposed to bebackbynow?Igathercleantowels,cloths,
bandages, gauze, Papa’s
contagiongloves,amask,anda medical coat. I roll themintoa tightballandput themin the bottom of my bookbag. The bag is overstuffed,which Aunt Hortense is sureto notice. I head down thelong path to the Sweetings’stable. If I climb into thecarriage here, Aunt Hortensewon’tseemybag.Ho is in the back, shining
bits.“Excuseme,Ho,” Isay.
“Ineedtogotoschool.”Ho jumps. “Yes,miss.”He
hurries to the black horsesalready harnessed to thebuggy.Aunt Hortense comes out
when she sees us. She peeksinto the carriage. “Eager togettoschool,arewe?”“Yes,ma’am,”Isay.“HappieratMissBarstow’s,
Itakeit?”AllalongAuntHortensehas
said I would grow to likeMissBarstow’s.Ican’tadmitshe’s right. I don’t meet hereyes.“Glad to hear it. Have a
good day.” She taps thecarriage,andHodriveson.
***
All during school, I canbarely concentrate. Afterelocution, Hattie brings upSpencer.
“Spencer? Spencer who?”Gemma sniffs. “But you-know-whoistotallysmitten.”“Inoticedthat,”Hattiesays,
andwaggles her eyebrows atme. “Thequestion is…howdoesLizziefeelabouthim?”Hattie and Gemma look at
me.“Gus? Of course I like
Gus,”Isay.Theynod,waitingformore.“Ihadfun,okay?”
“That’s it?” Gemma asks.“That’s all we’re going toget?”“Yes.” I hurry down the
frontstepsinsuchafluster,Iforgettocheckmyslip.Therearemirrors hung everywherebecause Miss Barstow can’tstand it when your slip isshowing. “Lizzie, a penny,please.” Miss Barstow holdsouttheorphanjar.Iforkovera penny. You have to
contribute every time shecatches you with yourpetticoathanging.Themoneygoes to the McKinleyOrphanage.I run back inside to fixmy
slip.“What’sthematterwithyou
today?” Gemma whispers aswegatherourbooks.“Nothing.”“I don’t believe you,” she
announces.
If only she and Gus couldhelp me with this. If only IcouldtellheraboutJing.Butit’s one thing to play aransom game with a shoe,another thing to sneak intothe quarantine zone ofChinatown.When Ho comes after
school, I dive into thecarriage.“Um,Ho.”Iclearmythroat
to control the trembling.
“Could you take me to afriend’shouse?”“Yes,miss.Whereisthat?”Iholdmybreath.“Downby
Chinatown.”Ho’s Adam’s apple slides
upanddown.Hestealsalookback. “Mrs. Sweeting knowsaboutthis?”“Of course.” I try to sound
convincing, but mostly I’mjustloud.I’ve put him in a bind. He
doesn’twanttodispleaseme,as I can report him to AuntHortense. But if he goesalong with what AuntHortense calls “Elizabeth’sharebrained plans,” she’llhavehishead.Iwatchwhichwayhesteers
the horses. Toward home orChinatown?Iholdmybreath.Chinatown!We’re getting close. I can
see the barricade up ahead.
Ho fidgets, stealing glancesbackatme.I spot a nearby building
with paint peeling from theposts, blinds down and oneboarded up window. “Here,”Isay.He pulls the horses up.
“Miss?Idon’tthink—”I jump out of the carriage.
“Tell Aunt Hortense I’ll behomebeforedark.”“Miss, are you sure Mrs.
Sweeting—”“Yes, yes. She knows.” I
sliparoundacornerandwait.Whenhe’sgone,Itieonthe
protectivemask, the cap, thecoat, and the gloves. Foronce, I’mglad I’m tall.Withthemaskon,Icanpassforanadult.Papa says there are woman
doctors, but since I’ve neverseen one, I’m going topretend to be a nurse. It
would be better if I had aproper uniform underneaththe medical coat, but nomatter. I head to thequarantine zone. My handssweat in the gloves. I untiethe bottom of the mask so Icanbreathe.Here the quarantine line is
nothing more than a wireacross the road. Surely I cangetthroughthat.Two policemen patrol the
wire. “Excuse me! Excuseme, sir!” I wave. “I have toget inside. I have to seepatients.”“What?Who are you?” the
tall policeman with shinybuttons asks. The otherpoliceman is eating asandwich.“I’m Dr. Kennedy’s
assistant,”Isay.“Who’s he? What you got
allthatonfor?”
“Incaseofcontagion,sir.”The tall policeman steps
closer. He looks me up anddown.“Howoldareyou?”“Twenty-two,”Ilie.“Twenty-two?” He snorts.
“Howoldareyoureally?”“Twenty-one,”Itryagain.He laughs. “Lost a year
already.Don’t you know it’sa crime to lie to a policeofficer? Ben, how old youthinkthisoneis?”
The other officer squints atme.“Take the mask off,” the
firstofficersays.Iuntieit.He shakes his head. “Even
younger than I thought.Fourteenatmost.Thatright?”Adropofsweatslipsdown
beneathmyshirtwaist.The policeman crosses his
stiff arms. “You don’t haveanybusinessinthere.”
I stand stupidly, unsure if Ishouldkeeppretendingortellthetruth.The policeman turns away.
“Ben,yougotanotheroneofthemsandwiches?”Nowwhat?MaybeIcantry
againontheothersideofthequarantine area. I’mmarching that way when Ihear thewheelsof a carriagecreakbehindme.Gemma’s head pops out.
“Lizzie!Lizzie,isthatyou?”TheTrotters!Gus,Gemma,
andtheirdriver.“What in theworldareyou
doing?” Gemma demands astheir carriage pulls up besideme.“WhatamIdoing?”GusandGemmaexchangea
look.“Youwereactingweirdat school,” Gemma explains.“We decided to follow you.And it’s a good thing we
did.”“I was not acting weird,” I
say.“You were. Why are you
dressedlikethat?”“Ourcook, Jing, is stuck in
the quarantine. I’m trying togethimout.”“Quarantine for what?”
Gemmaasks.“Theplague,”Gustellsher.“Forgoodness’sake,Lizzie,
takethatstuffoffandgetintothis carriage right now.”Gemma pats the seat next toher.Ilookoveratthepoliceman
patrolling. I didn’t fool thisone. What makes me thinkI’ll fool the next? Will theytake me to the police stationnexttime?Putmeinjail?Notelling what Aunt Hortensewill do if she has to bailmeout.
I climb up into the Trottercarriage.Gemma helps me get the
mask untied. “If your cookhas been in the quarantine,he’llbecontagious.”“It’s not a real plague
outbreak,”Isay.“Whyelsewould theyhave
aquarantine?”sheasks.“It has to do with a
monkey,” Gus explains.“We’re waiting to see if a
monkey dies. And if themonkey dies, it might reallybetheplague.”“That is the craziest thing
I’veeverheard,”Gemmatellsme.“Iknow,butit’strue.”“WhyisJingsoimportant?”
Gemma asks as I settle inbetweenGemmaandGus.“He’s our cook. He’s a
memberofourfamily,”Isayaswepassarowofrun-down
buildings.Laundryhangsoutthe window to dry. Pigeonscoo and scurry aroundbucketsofoldcrabshells,theair thick with the smell offish.Gus nods, his brow
furrowed. “Wouldn’t it bebetter to try to get him outthantrytogetyouin?”“I just…haven’tbeenable
tofigureouthow.”“We’ll help you.” Gus
smilesatme.IlookfromGustoGemma.
Theyactuallyseemexcitedtobeapartof this.Didanyoneever have better friends thanthesetwo?TheTrottersliveinayellow
house with a witch’s capturret and big bay windowsthat look clear down to thebay and the little island ofAlcatraz. The Trotters’garden is filled with yellow,
pink, peach, and lavenderroses. Mrs. Trotter is on theporch with a big floppy hatandpruningshears.Gemma takesme up to her
room. It’s larger than mine,with pale yellow stripedwallpaper, a wicker backrocker,ahatstandfilledwithhats,andatablejammedwithmusicboxes.WhenGuscomesin,hehas
a pen, paper, and an
envelope. He sits down atGemma’swritingdesk.“What are you up to?”
Gemmawantstoknow.“Writingaletter.”I glance over at the
stationery:TROTTER, BLACK,ANDJESSUP,ATTORNEYSATLAW.“On Papa’s letterhead?”
Gemmaasks.“Yep,”hemutters.WewatchasGusdunksthe
pen into the ink, taps off theexcess, and begins writing.Gemma leans over hisshoulder.“It has come to myattention,” Gemma reads,“that the cook in theresidenceoftheesteemedandrevered Dr. Kennedy hasbeen unable to see to hisduties. Dr. Kennedy’s workhas been impeded by hiscook’s absence. His absence
has caused heartache andhardship of great magnitudefor the Kennedys, and it isimportant, imperative, andessential that he be releasedatonce…”Gemma’s mouth drops
open. “You’re not going tosignPapa’sname.”“Course not.”Gus smiles a
sly smile. “I’mgoing to signmyname.”“Gus! He was named after
Papa,”she tellsme.“Still”—she raises her eyebrows athim—“he won’t like youusinghisstationery.”They stare at each other,
consideringthis.“It’s pretty good, though.
Official, like the way hewrites,”Gemmasays.Gus’s eyes are onme. Is it
my opinion that matters tohim?“Sounds like a lawyer to
me,”Isay.“And it’s for a good cause.
You know how Papa alwaystalks about making moraldecisions,” Gemma says,noddingnow.Gusbendshisheadoverthe
page, his pen nib scratchingagainst the paper as hefinisheshisletter.
There’sahoptomystepasIclimb up into the Trotters’
carriage.We don’t want to risk
running into the samepolicemen I talked to earlier.So we take a long routearound to the other side ofChinatown.Beyond the ropes and
sawhorses of the quarantineline,redlanternshang,carvedwoodendragonswindarounda pole, and red silk shirtsflutter in the breeze. I search
the faces as I always do, butnoJing.Guspresentstheenvelopeto
a mounted policeman, whoreads the letter, rubshiseyesunder his spectacles, andreadsitagain.Thepolicemanrefolds the letter and slips itback into the envelope.“Sorry, son.” He returns theletter to Gus. “I’m afraid Ican’tdothat.”“But we need our cook,” I
say.The policeman shrugs.
“You, me, and my auntTheresa.Welet themallout,won’t be much of aquarantine,now,willit?”“But that’s a letter from a
lawyer,”Gemmapointsout.“Iseethat,miss,butit isn’t
a court order. I’m sorry. Ican’t let you through.Go onnow.”Heflapshishand.“Weneedtokeepthisareafreeof
traffic.”The Trotters’ driver turns
the carriage around. I lookbackatthepaperparasolsandcone-shaped bamboo hatshanging on hooks. On thisside, the signs are all inEnglish.Gemma takesmy hand and
squeezesit.“Sorry,Lizzie.”No one says anything else
the rest of the way home. Ibegin to wonder if I’m ever
goingtogetJingout.
A
Chapter22
Button-HeadLion
fterschoolthenextday,thecordisdown.Itake
the stairs two at a time. Butthen I remember that Noahwill need supplies, and I run
backto thekitchentofillmybasket.WhenNoahopensthedoor,
Ifillhiminoneverythinginabigrush.IexplainwhatPetersaid and how I tried topretend to be a nurse to getinto Chinatown. I tell himhow Gus Trotter wrote aletter on his father’sletterhead, but that didn’twork,either.His upper lip trembles.
“You’re going to give up,aren’tyou?”hewhispers.“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.Heflasheshiscrazygrin.“I
wishIcouldgowithyou.”I think about how nice it
wouldbeforNoahandmetowalk down the street, or ridein the carriage, or bicycle inGolden Gate Park like otherfriendsdo.“Iwishyoucould,too.”“Hey.” He smiles. “I made
something foryou.”Hepullsasmallbrownpaper-wrappedpackage out of his pantspocketandhandsittome.I unfold the paper and pull
out a piece of fabric. Abutton-hole strip. Exceptmine has a button in thebuttonhole. The button is theheadofananimal,thebodyissewn in gold thread. It hasfourbigpawsanda tailwitha yellow puff at the bottom.
Around the button a thickyellowmanehasbeenfluffedout from the strip. Noah hasmademeabutton-headlion.“So you’ll remember to be
brave,”hesays.“With the girls at Miss
Barstow’s?”Iask.“With everyone. Be your
best true self. That’s whatBabasays.”Isigh.“That’shard.”“It takes a lot of courage,”
he agrees. “That’s what IthinkaboutwhenIdotheliondance.”“Thank you for this,” I
whisper, holding the buttonagainstmychest.He nods, pleased that I’m
pleased.“Lizzie!” I hear Billy
trompingbelow.Noah’sfacefalls.“Ohno,”Iwhisper.
“LIZZIEEEE! Where theheckareyou?”ItakeoffoutofJing’sroom
and down the stairs. On thesecond floor, Billy sees mecome out of the servants’stairwell.“What were you doing up
there?”“Lookingforthekittens.”“Kittens,huh?”Hewatches
me closely. “What’s thematter with you, anyway?
This morning you weremoping around like yourhorsedied.”“ItriedtogetJingoutagain.
Didn’twork.”Billy scratches his eyebrow
and frowns. “I thought he’dhave found a way home bynow. Maybe he needs ourhelp.”“Of course he does. What
doyouthinkI’vebeentellingyou!”
He shrugs, stares out thehall window. “There’s thiswoman,DonaldinaCameron,who lives inChinatownwitha bunch of girls. If there’s agirl in trouble, she rescuesthem. People call her theAngry Angel, because shegets people out of dangerousplaces. Anyway, I heard thather front door isn’tquarantined. Her back dooris.”
“Thatdoesn’tmakesense.”“Whataboutthisquarantine
makessense?”“Nothing,” I admit, sitting
onthehallchairandunlacingmyboots.“I helped her get a girl out
once.Climbedatree,jumpedin the window, and carriedthegirldown.Sheowesme.”“Outofwhere?”“Abadsituation.”Hepicks
a flower out of the hall vase
and rips it apart petal bypetal. “She was working forpeople in Presidio Heights.Theywerebeatingher.”“Why?”He shrugs. “Bad people do
badthings.”“She’sokaynow,right?”He nods, wadding up the
petalsinhishand.“YoushouldtellPapawhen
you do things like that. Itwouldmakehimproud.”
“Which is exactly why Idon’t.”I frown at him. “Why
wouldn’t you tell himsomething that would makehimhappy?”He sighs. “Because I don’t
want to do things for him. Iwant todo them forme.”Heopenshishand.“But you did it for you.
What’s the matter with justtellinghim?”
He snorts. “Put your shoesbackon.Youwanttotrythisornot?”I shove my toes back into
my boots. “Of course I do.But what will we tell AuntHortense?”He smiles in his sly Billy
way.“Leavethattome.”
“I understand you andWilliam would like to go tothe opera tonight,” Aunt
Hortense announces when Icomedownthestairs.“Oh, yes,” I say.Opera? I
mouth the word to BillybehindAuntHortense’sback.He nods. Later, in the
wagon, he explains. “Weneedtime.Theoperagetsoutlate.”“Shebelievedyou.”“Of course. She believes
everythingIsay.”“Mustbenice.”
“Itis.”“But what happens when
she comes home and we’renotthere?”“She’s going to a
masquerade ball with UncleKarl. We’ll be home beforeshe is,”Billy says, andpicksupthelines.“Shouldn’t we be wearing
operaclothes?”“She’s upstairs. She can’t
seeus.”
“Won’tHotellher?”“No.”“Whynot?”“Heowesme.”“Does everybody owe
you?”“Yes.” He smiles. “As a
matteroffact,theydo.”We take the fast route to
Chinatown and then goaround to the back side.Through the quarantinewire,
Iseeavegetablestand,afewweird-looking bumpy greenvegetables. Bins of brownroots. Not much there. Aretheyrunningoutoffood?Atthefarcorner,outsidethe
wire,westopataplainthree-story brick building. I can’tsee the back door from here,but there’s the quarantineropedownthestreet.“Why would they
quarantine her back door but
notherfrontdoor?”Iask.“People think God will
protect her because she’sdoing his work. Look, youstay here with John Henry.”He climbs down. “I’ll go inandtalktoher.”The sun is setting, leaving
anorangeglowon the street.A group of Chinese girls inshirtwaists and skirts hurriesup the front steps. A horsetrotsdownthehillbehindus.
I’mgettingalittlemoreusedto Chinatown, but still it isstrangeandIdon’tlikesittingoutherebymyself.Although,technically I’m not in thequarantine, so this isn’tChinatown.Thedarker itgets, themore
anxious I become. I sit uptall,trytolookfierce.Butmyfeet are cold andmy bottomistiredofsitting.EverytimeIseesomeonewalkby,Ijump.
I think about Noah’s lion.Beingbrave is a lot easier indaylight. FinallyBilly comesout. “They’re going to sendsomeoneinforhim.”“Whattimeisit?”“Seven-thirty.”“What time is Aunt
Hortensegettingback?”“Late. Those masquerade
ballsstartlateandlastalongtime.”“What if she calls the
police?”“What if she does?Do you
wanttogetJingoutornot?”The lights are on in Miss
Cameron’s house. A girlcarrying a lantern walks bythewindow.Upstairsweheargirlssinging.“Billy?”“Yes.”I pull my knees up. “Are
you going to become adoctor?”
“No.”“Whynot?”“Remember when Mama
died? Remember how surePapa was that he could saveher?”“That wasn’t his fault. He
triedhisbest.”Ipullmycoattighteraroundmyself.“Iknowhedid.That’swhy
it’s a stupid profession.Nothinghedidworked.”“You can’t prevent people
fromdying.”John Henry shuffles his
legs.Hebitesathisshoulder,leavingawetspitmark.“But you shouldn’t tell
people you can help themwhenyoucan’t,”Billysays.“Itmakesthemfeelbetter.”“It’salie.”“But, Billy, sometimes you
canhelpthem.”“Yeah…Iguess.”
We listen to the distantfoghorn and watch the fogroll in.Under a dim gaslightinChinatown,agroupofmeninblackareservingfoodtoalonglineofpeople.Thesmellofsoysaucewaftstowardus.A crucifix hangs in the
window of Miss Cameron’shouse,backlitandeerieinthenight. The singing hasstopped. A girl giggles.Voices rise and fall, some in
Chinese,someinEnglish.“So,what are you going to
do?”“Haven’t decided. Might
want to be a fighter,” Billysaysfinally.“Why?”An owl hoots in the
distance. A family ofraccoons scurries down thestreet, making their strangeclickingsounds.“It’sfun.”“It’sfuntogetablackeye?”
He shrugs. “I don’t mind.Besides,there’salotmoretoitthanthat.”I rearrange myself. Try to
get comfortable. Use mypurseasapillow.I’malmostasleep when the wagonjiggles. I grab Billy’s arm.“Billy!”“Shush, Lizzie. It’s okay,”
Billywhispers.I turn back. A Chinese
woman in a large silk tunic
andsilkpantsandaredsilkenhatclimbsintoourwagon.ItightenmyholdonBilly’s
sleeve.“Billy!”AndthenIseeherface.“Jing!” I dive over the seat
to give him a hug. His facelooks thinner. More drawn.And silly with that hat. “Ican’t believe it’s you! Areyouokay?Whathappened?”“You two gotme out.”His
voicehas a tremble in it, but
his lips are smiling. “Goodtrick.”“How did you get stuck in
there? Do you know howworriedwe’vebeen?”“Shush, Lizzie!” Billy’s
eyes are on two policemenwalking ourway. Jing slinksdown, crawls under an oldsaddleblanket.On the way home, I keep
glancing back at the blanket-coveredlump.Idon’twantto
let Jing out of my sight. Iwant to tell him everythingthat happened. How hard Itried to get him out. Howstrange it was to realize hehad a son. Iwant to tell himabout Gemma and Gus andhowMiss Barstow’s isn’t sobad anymore. I want to askhim what he knows aboutUncleKarl,andwhetherJingis his last name or his firstname.Andwhy he getsmad
at Noah but he never getsmad at me. There are amillion things to ask, butmostlyIwanttotellhimhowmuchhemeanstome.HowIdidn’trealizethat,untilnow.“Jing,” I whisper to the
saddleblanket,“whenisyourbirthday?”“Shush, Lizzie,” Billy
whispers.“August 16,” Jing whispers
back.
AssoonaswecrossundertheSweetings’ archway, we seethat the light is on in ourkitchen.“Aunt Hortense?” I say to
Billy.“What time is it,anyway?I
thoughtshe’dstillbeout.”“What are we going to tell
her?” I ask as she bursts outthe door, still wearing hergreen masquerade dress, herBibleinherhand.
“I’ll think of something,”Billymutters.Jing peeks out from under
theblanket.“ThankGod,” shewhispers
asshereachesus.“We’re sorry to have
worriedyou,AuntHortense.”Billy’s voice sounds sincere.Hecouldactuallybesorryheworried her. “But we gotJing.”“Iseethat.Goodtoseeyou,
Jing.”Her hands are trembling.
“Go inside. Both of you.We’ll talk about thistomorrow.” Her voice ishoarse. “But you shouldknow that Mr. Sweeting hasheard fromyour father.He’llbehome late tonight.Andofcourse you know that thequarantineisover.”Billy and I look at each
other.
“You didn’t know,” shesays. “So how did you getJing … Oh, don’t even tellme.”Shesighs.“Idon’twanttoknow.”
T
Chapter23
TheEmptyRoom
he sun is rising when Iwake up. Down in the
kitchen, I hear the pop andhiss of bacon frying in thepan.
Jing is manning the skillet.Papa is reading the paper.There are baskets of biscuitsonthetable.Everything is the way it’s
supposedtobe.“Lizzie!” Papa jumps up,
wraps his long arms aroundme,andgivesmeagreatbigPapahug.“You were away too long.
Don’tdothatagain!”“Couldn’t be helped.” He
pushes my hair out of myface.“Imissedyou.”“Imissedyou, too,Papa.”I
beamatPapaandJing.Ican’twait to see Noah’s face. HemustbesohappytohavehisBababack.“IgaveJinganexamination.
As fit as a fiddle, of course.What a ridiculous charadethatwas.”I hold my breath, waiting
formore.Howdoeshe think
Jing got out? Aunt Hortensemust have told Papa aboutlastnight.Papa spreads jam on a
biscuit. His face is relaxed,happy.Not twistedandsmallthe way it gets when he’smad. Maybe she didn’t tellhim.“WhathappenedwhileIwasgone?”heasks.Isticktosafesubjects.Itell
Papa and Jing about GemmaandGusandLaJeunesseand
howMiss Barstow’s isn’t sobad now that Gemma and Iarefriends.Papaseemspleased.My eyes fly to Jing, who
knowsmorethananyoneelseabout how hard MissBarstow’s has been for me.He saw how I always stoodby myself. He tried to cheerme up when I came homemiserabledayafterday.“I would have liked to see
you all dressed up,” Papasays. “Aunt Hortense musthavebeenbesideherself.”Hepusheshisglassesuphisnoseandtapsthenewspaperpage.“So glad that quarantine is
over. But you?” Papa smilesat me. “You’ve got betterthingstoworryabout,likethenextcotillion,Isuppose.”I can’t stand to have Papa
think this. I’m about to openmy mouth and tell him how
untrue it is, when Jing stepsovertooffermeabiscuit.Hiseyescatchmine.Hewinks. Itake a deep breath andmanagetocontrolmytongue.“So.” Papa looks at me.
“TellmemoreaboutthisGusfellow.”Even as I chatter, a sudden
heaviness comes over me.Thequarantine isover.Whatwill happen to Noah now?He’ll go back to Chinatown.
Will I be able to see himagain? Can we visit eachother? I don’t want to losehim. He is my best friend. Ilike Gus and Gemma a lot,but I can’t tell themeverythingthewayIcanwithNoah.After breakfast, Aunt
Hortense’s houseboys comeandcollectherthings.I try to sneak up the back
stairssoIwon’trunintoher,
but she comes looking forme. “Elizabeth!”She followsmeintomyroom.“YouandIneedtotalk.”“I have to get ready for
school,”Isay.Sheplantsherfeetsmackin
frontofme,pokingatthehairneatlypiledonherhead.“Weneedtotalknow.”Neitherofussitsdown.“HowdidyougetJingout?”“Donaldina Cameron got
himout.”“Whoisshe?”“Someone Billy knows.” I
don’tlookherintheeye.“Sothatoperanonsense?”“Billysaiditwasn’texactly
alie,becausewewentbytheopera.”She crosses her arms and
stares at me. “What do youthink?”“Itwasalie,”Iadmit.“But
why are you tougher on methanonBilly?”“Between your papa and
Mr. Sweeting, Billy hasenough eyes on him. Andthat’sbesidethepointhere.”“Yes,ma’am.”“I’m glad Jing’s back. I
missed him, too. But youcan’t take matters into yourown hands like that,Elizabeth, and then liethrough your teeth to me.
You can’t treatme as if I’mnothingmorethananobstacleforyoutogetaround.”“Yes,ma’am.”“Don’t ‘yes, ma’am’ me.
Just tellme you didn’t go toChinatown.”“Ididn’tgo toChinatown,”
Isay.TechnicallyIdidn’tgo,technically it isn’t a lie, but…“How exactly did you get
himback?”
I stare at my quilt. “Like Isaid, this Donaldina womangot him back. She owedBilly.”AuntHortensenods.Thisis
the way Uncle Karl doesthings.She’susedtoit.“I’msorry,AuntHortense,”
Iwhisper.“I can’t do this anymore,
Elizabeth,” she shakes herhead.“Are you going to tell
Papa?”“It’s not your papa I’m
worried about. It’s you andme.Doyouthinkwecaneverlearntotrusteachother?”Whataquestion. I’venever
really thought aboutworkingsomething out with AuntHortense.DoIevenwantto?Notreally.I don’t say this, but Aunt
Hortense seems to know itanyway.Shesighs,closesher
eyes.Herliptrembles.“Just remember there’s a
pricetopayforsecrets.Trustis what holds us together,Lizzie.Secretstearusapart.”“You called me Lizzie,” I
whisper.“SoIdid.”Herhandsareon
the dresses in my closet,separating themso theyhangan inch apart.When shegetsto theendof thedresses,sheleaveswithoutanotherword.
When I get home fromschool, Uncle Karl and Papaare standing in the drivewaytalking. Papa has his armscrossed in front of him. IsUncleKarltellingPapaabouthow I showed up at hisnewspaperluncheon?Idriftcloser.“I don’t see it that way,”
UncleKarlsays.Papa breathes in sharply.
Hisfaceisred.
“Let him go, Jules.” UncleKarlbrushes thegroundwithhis foot. “Billy has to workthis out for himself. Youknowhedoes.”Heglancesatme. “And as for you, Peanut…Idon’tevenknowwhattosayaboutyou.”Uncle Karl’s intense blue
eyesburn throughme. Iholdmybreath,waitingforhimtotellPapawhatIdid.“So far as I can see, your
daughterisgoingkickingandscreaming into adulthood.Isn’t that right, darlin’?”UncleKarlasks.Idon’tanswer.“You should have seen her
all dressed up for LaJeunesse. You would nothave recognized her.” UncleKarl is smiling, but his eyesaretalkingtome.HewantstomakesureIknowhe’stellingPapaonlythegoodthings.
Irunaroundtoseeifthecordis down, careful to watch tomakesureUncleKarldoesn’tseeme.It isn’t. Too many people
around. Where is OrangeTom?Icheckallofhisusualhaunts,includingthenewonein the bottom of the laundrychute.OrangeTomhasvanished.Allafternoon,Ikeepwatch,
but no matter where Papa,
Billy, and Maggy are, thecorddoesnotcomedown.Asfor Jing, does he know Iknow about his son? Noahmade me swear not to tellanyone. That includes Jing,doesn’tit?Why didn’t I talk to Noah
about this before? We onlythought about getting Jingout, not what would happenafter the quarantine endedandJingcamehome.
It’s early evening by thetime Billy goes out, Papawalks across to the Sweetinghouse, and Jing goes to thebarntotalktotheblacksmith.Maggyandtheparrottakethelaundryin.But still no cord. I break
Noah’s rule and sneak up tothethirdfloor.Jing’sdoorisclosed.“Noah?”Iwhisper.Noresponse.
“Noah?”Still nothing. I take a deep
breath and pull open Jing’sdoor.Noah’s books are not piled
on the chair. Noah’s buttonstrips aren’t heaped on thebed. Noah’s homeworkassignmentsaren’tstackedonthe bookshelf. The colorfulthreadballsNoahandthecatplayedwitharegone.The quarantine is over.
Noah has gone back toChinatown. It was only amatter of time before PapaandtheSweetingsfoundhim.Itwasnokindof life hiddeninanatticroom.It’sbetterforNoah.It’sbetterforJing.It’sbetter.Irundowntomyroomand
slamthedoorandthenIstarttocry.
PartTwo
W
Chapter24
TheEggTrick
hen I wake up, thefirst thing I think is:
No school for five wholedays.ItwilltakethatlongforMiss Barstow to move the
school to the fancier spot inPresidioHeights.Istretchandyawn.Butthenthere’sshoutingin
the hall. I run out. Billy’sdoorisclosed,but thevoicescomethroughit.“You’ve been lying all this
time?”Papaasks.“Notlying,justnotsaying,”
Billyreplies.“Lies of omission are still
lies.”
“I didn’t plan it. It justhappened.”“It just happened? A
successful person has a plan.Noplanisaplantofail.”“Failure, then. That’s my
choice.”“Don’t be stupid, Billy,”
Papasnaps.“Youdefine ‘stupid’asany
decisionyouwouldn’tmake.”Jingcomesupthestairs.He
crosses his arms and rocks
fromfoottofoot.“Billy.” Papa’s voice
softens. “Explain this to mein a way I can understand.You’re earning money for amotorcar?”“It’s not just that. I like to
fight.”“That is a barbaric
sensibility.”“Uncle Karl doesn’t think
so.”“UncleKarlandIdon’tsee
eye to eye on most subjects.Youknowthat.”“He knows more than you
doabouthowtostandupforyourself. People takeadvantageofyou.”“Theydonot.”“RememberthattimeinSan
Mateo?Theysaidtheydidn’tsend for the local doctorbecause they knew he’dcharge and you would treatthemforfree.”
“Yes, I remember. And Ineverwentback.”“Idon’twantpeopletotake
advantageofme.Ineedtobeable to back up what I say.Otherwiseit’sjusttalk.”“Courage comes from your
heart,notyourfists.”“People don’t push you
around if you can handleyourself.”“Fighting is not how you
earnmoneyorrespect.”
“There’s nothing wrongwithbeingafighter.”“I didn’t say there was; I
justdon’twantmysondoingit.”“I’m not going to live my
life as ‘your son.’ I’m goingto live it my way.Makemyown decisions. Think formyself.” Billy bursts out ofhisroomandstormspastJingandme.Papa comes out, his face
red. “I’m sorry you had tohearthat,”hesaystous,thenrunsdownthestairs.
Neither Papa nor Billy isaround for breakfast, but Ican’t stop hearing theirwords. Papa never gets madlikethat.The knife sharpener has
arrived and is working hisgrinding wheel out back.Maggy’s doing the laundry
on the side porch, pouringbluing into the wash water.She scrubs the clothes andfeeds them through thewringer. Jing is cleaning thechicken coop. I head out totalktohim.Ihaven’t saidawordabout
Noah. I hoped Noah wouldtell Jing how I helped him.Jing must have wonderedhowNoahgotfood.Jinghadsomeprovisions in his room.
Did Noah pretend it wasenough?Wouldn’tJingknowbetter?IwantJingtoknowIhelped
Noah. That we’re friends. Iwantitsobadly,Ithinkaboutitallday.“Jing?”He looksup,scrubbrush in
hand.“What’syourlastname?”He rolls his tongue into his
cheek.“Why?”“Justwondering.”
“InChinayour lastname isyour first name. In China, Iam JingChen. InAmerica, IamChenJing.”“WhatshouldIcallyou?”Hepeeksoutfromunderhis
eyebrows.“‘Jing’hasworkedwellforus,don’tyouthink?”“Howdidyougetcaughtin
thequarantine?”He dunks the scrub brush
intothebucketandswishesitaround.“I thoughtIcouldbe
helpful, but the situationwasalreadytoofargone.Istayedtoo long, and they wouldn’tletmeout.”“I’mgladthingsarebackto
normal,”Isay.“Back to normal.” His
eyebrows slide up and thendown.Hetakesthewetbrushout and begins scrubbing thegate.“Aren’tthey?”Hekeepsscrubbing.“Thank
you for coming for me,” hewhispers.I beam. “We tried before.
Billy and I. And I trieddressing up like a nurse, butthe police stopped me. Andthen Gus Trotter wrote aletter.Nothingworked.”Hestopsscrubbing.“Ihave
never dressed as a ladybefore.”“Youlookedgood.”Welaugh.
“I heard you were a leaderinChinatown.”“A leader?” He shakes his
head. “I’m just an oldmagician.” He’s scrubbingagain,hisfacethoughtful.“Did you go to college?” I
ask.His eyes grow larger. He
staresatme.“Ofcoursenot,”hemutters.“You wanted to, though,
didn’tyou?”
Hiseyebrowsfurrow.“Whywouldyousaythat?”“Youliketoreadsomuch.I
just…wondered.”Henods.“Did Uncle Karl have
something to do with thequarantine?”“No.”“Areyousure?”“Yes.”Hemotionswithhis
finger that I should follow
him.Hepulls threeoldstrawhats off the hooks and putsthemontothetacktrunk.HeliftseachhatsoIcansee
there’snothingunderit.“Pickone.”IpointtothestrawhatJohn
Henrytookabiteof.He picks up the hat.
Underneathisanegg.I smile at him. I love this
trick.Ialwayshave.“How’dyoudoit?”
“Amagician never tells hissecrets.”“YoutaughtBilly.”“Notthisone.”“You know a lot that you
don’t talk about, don’t you,Jing?”Iwhisper.He picks up the brush and
returnstothechickencooptocontinue hiswork. Iwait forhim to say something else.It’sonlyasI’mwalkingawaythatIhearhimsay:“You’rea
clever one, Lizzie. I’vealwaysknownthat.”
I
Chapter25
ToilandToil,OurMaggyDoyle
takeoutmypencil towritea poem about Maggy.
When I’m done, I read it toheras shecleans theparrot’s
cage.
Loyal,loyalMaggyDoyleDoesourdishesbuthasnowishes.Toilandtoil,ourMaggyDoyleOnlyyearnstowatertheferns.
Her face screws up.“‘Yearns’?”“‘Yearns’ means ‘wants a
lot.’”Shegivesmea funny look.
“I do not yearn to water theferns,”shemutters.Ilaugh.“Well,whatdoyou
yearnfor?”Shestrokestheparrot.“Maggy?” Nettie calls,
stomping through thekitchendoor and into the drawingroom. She snaps her fingersat Maggy. “I found anotherone.”Maggyclosestheparrot
inhiscage,turns,andfollowsNettie.“Found another what?” I
callafterthem.“Never you mind, Miss
Lizzie. This is betweenMaggyDoyleandme.Right,Maggy?”I don’t like the sound of
this.Ifollowthemtothepathon the other side of theSweeting house, careful nottoletthemseeme.
“There!”Nettiepointstotheflower bed, bright withnoddingdaisies.Maggyleansdown,picksup
adeadrat,andcarriesittotherubbish heap. The Sweetingshavefivestableboysandfivegardeners.ThereisnoreasonMaggyshouldbedoingthis.Idashdownthepathandup
the Sweeting stairs. AuntHortense has her accountingledgersfannedoutinfrontof
her.“Whatisit?”sheasks.“Canyoucome?It’sNettie.
She’smakingMaggypickuprats.”“Rats?” Aunt Hortense
follows me down the steps.Maggy has another dead ratinherhand.“What is this all about,
Nettie?”AuntHortenseasks.Nettie’s eyes harden when
she looks atme. “Nothing toworryabout,Mrs.Sweeting.I
got it all taken care of,ma’am.”Hervoiceischipperandsweet.“Yes,Nettie, I cansee that.
But I would like to know.”Aunt Hortense’s eyes drillintoNettie.“Maggywasjusthelpingus
out. That’s all. Such a nicewoman. Too bad she’s …”Nettietapsatherhead.“Why are you making her
throw out your dead rats?” I
ask.“Nobody wants to touch
’em none,” Nettie says.“Maggy,shedon’tmind.”“Maggy does too mind!” I
shout.Maggy watches me. Aunt
Hortenseplantsherfeet.“Forgoodness’ sake, Nettie.You’re not to treat Maggythatway.”“But, Mrs. Sweeting, she’s
askingtodoit—”
“She is not!” I stamp myfoot.“Let Maggy speak for
herself, Lizzie. Maggy”—Aunt Hortense’s voice isgentle—“did you ask Nettietoletyouhelpwiththis?”“No, thank you. No, no,
no.”“Now,Maggy…Shedon’t
mean that,”Nettie tellsAuntHortense.Aunt Hortense arches an
eyebrowatNettie.“No, no, no.” Maggy
continuesshakingherhead.“Pardonme,ma’am.”Nettie
grindsherteeth.“Imusthavebeen mistaken.” We watchherscurryaway.Maggy takes out her
polishing cloth and beginsworkonagardenseat.“Thank you, Aunt
Hortense,”Iwhisper.“Don’t be silly. We can’t
have our Maggy treated likethat.”Aunt Hortense looks at the
rats. “The work of OrangeTom,nodoubt.”I shake my head. “Orange
Tom’sgone.”“Gone?” Aunt Hortense
frowns.Hereyesshiftrapidlyrighttoleft.“Mustbethenewbarn cat. Maggy, go withLizzie and wash your hands.ScrubthemlikeMr.Kennedy
doesbeforesurgery.”
T
Chapter26
PungYau
he next morning, I findBillyinthecornerofthe
barn, his big hands coveredby puffy gloves, punching aburlap bag of potatoes he’s
hung from the rafters.Thwack, bunkity, bunkity.Thwack, bunkity, bunkity.Juliet skitters around in herstall.JohnHenryhangsintheback. Head up, ears pricked,eyes watchful, not the lazywayheusuallystands,restingononebackleg.Billy slips off his gloves,
picks up a rope, and beginsjumping. The rope slaps theground.
“IsPapastillmad?”Iask.“How should I know,” he
huffs. His face is red exceptaround his mouth, which iswhite.Why doesn’t that partofhisfacegetred,too?“What are you doing that
makeshimsocrazy?”“Thirty-five, thirty-six,
thirty-seven,” he counts.“Looking out for myself,thirty-eight,thirty-nine.”“Why wouldn’t he want
that?”He catches his foot on the
rope, stops, and wipes thesweat from his face. “Hethinks every conflict shouldbe settled by a bread-and-butternote.”“Hedoesnot.”He dribbles water from a
bucket into his mouth, andthen pours the rest over hishead. “People walk all overhim.”
“No,theydon’t.”He wipes the water off his
face. “Sure they do.Where’sOrangeTom,anyway?”“He’sgone.”“Andthekittens?”Hestares
atme.What do I say to this?
“Gone,too,”Imumble.“Is that so?” He puts his
glovesbackonandwhalesonthebagagain.Thwackfumba.Thwack.
WhenIturnaround,Papaisstanding behind us in thebrown tweed vest and jackethewearsontheroad.“Lizzie,I’ve got a local call.Interested?”“Ofcourse!”Papasmiles,histwo-dimple
smile.Thwack. Fumba-fumba.
Billy hits the potatoes sohard, thebagsplitsandsomeof the potatoes spill onto the
barnfloor.“Where?”Iask.“Daisy Bennett’s servant
girl. How soon can you beready?”“Fiveminutes.”Thwack. Thwack. Fumba.
Another potato falls out.Billy’sbackistous.“I need to immunize you
both,”Papasays.“Fromwhat?”Iask.
“Theplague.”“What?”Isay.Billy stops hitting the bag.
Heturnsaround.“It’s a precaution… that’s
all. I’d rather not takechances.”“Why do I need to be
immunized? I’m not goingwithyou,”Billyannounces.“Humorme,”Papasays.“Why should I?” Billy
whispers.Papa’s face gets red.
“BecauseI’myourfather.”“Idon’twantto.”Papatakesabreath,sucksin
his lips. He turns and walksinto the house. I follow him,rolling up the sleeve of myshirtwaist.In the cold storage room,
Papasetshisbagonthetable.Heunrolls theclothtorevealacleansyringe.It’sJing’sjob
toboilthesyringesandrerollthem in clean chamois. Papatakes out a small rectangularbottlemarkedwith an IP forthe maker. Institut Pasteur.And then it says YERSIN’SANTI-PLAGUE SERUM. Hesticks the needle into thebottle and pulls the stopperback, suctioning the brownserumintothechamber.“‘Yersin’s,’”Isay,“rhymes
with‘persons.’”
He swabs me with alcohol.Theneedlepricks.Theserumis injected. Papa cleans myarmjustasBillywalksin.I roll down my sleeve. “I
read that theplaguecan looklikeabadcaseofthefluwitha terrible headache. Swellingin the groin and black-and-blue marks is how youknow.”Billy snorts. “That’s what
youdoinyoursparetime?”
“Swelling in the lymphnodes, yes,” Papa answersme.“Butthisisjustmeerringon the side of caution.There’s no evidence theplague ishere.”Papafocuseson Billy. “Change yourmind?”“No,”Billysays.Papa’sfacefalls.“I’m sorry, Papa,” Billy
whispers. “It’s just, peoplewho get sick get sick. And
people who don’t, don’t. Idon’t see as how yourintervention does much ofanything.”“Sometimes it is just a
matter of giving comfort,Billy.You’rerightaboutthat.But immunizations aredifferent.There’srealsciencebehindthis.Theyworkinsideyou to stimulate your ownimmune system to fight thedisease.Look,youknowhow
to immunize yourself. I’llleave everything in yourroom.”Billy doesn’t seem to care.
But this makes me wonderaboutNoah.Howwillhegetimmunized? And Jing, too,for that matter. It doesn’tseem fair that we getimmunized but no one else.Andwhat aboutGemma andGus?Papasaysthisisonlyaprecaution, so I suppose I
shouldn’tworry.“Get thepicnicbasket from
Jing. I’ll meet you in thebarn,”Papatellsme.I run upstairs and change
into my softest ribbedstockings and my mostcomfortable skirt. It may betwenty-four hours before Ichangemyclothesagain.Jing is in the kitchen,
wrapping turkey legs for thebuggy.Mystomachgrumbles
whenIseehim.Henodstowardthepartially
loaded hamper. “Bacon, corncakes,currantscones.”A happy sigh escapes my
lips.Jingsmiles.In the barn, Papa is
harnessing Juliet. Jing handsme the food basket, and Iplace it in its usual spotbetweenthemedicalbags.Papa climbs in and gathers
the lines, and Juliet prances
out.“Wait.” I hear Jing running
behind us, my coat with thebrown velvet collar in hishands.The Chinese words for
“thankyou”floatthroughmyhead.“Dohje,”Isay.Jing stiffens. His eyes
register shock. Then a hugesmilebustsopenhisface.“Where’d you learn that?”
Papaasksme.
“I found a Chinese-Englishdictionary,”Isay.Aswetrotontothestreet, I
run my hand over my armwhere it aches from theshot.“You immunized me. Whycan’t you immunizeeveryone?”“Not enough serum.Comes
from horses. They lose quitea number before they gatherenoughforoneman.”“Thehorsesdie?”
“Sometimes,yes.”“Icouldn’tstanditifahorse
diedbecauseofme,”Imutter.“You are more important
thananyhorse,anddon’tyouever forget it.” Papa settlesintohisseat.“How did you get the
Yersin’s?”Iaskaswepassamilk wagon driven by aChinese man with a longbraid.“Medical officers are given
immunizations. We have tostaywell so we can care forthesick.”“SoI’mamedicalofficer?”“Todayyou are.”Hewinks
atme.“Butthisisanaccidentcall. Broken bones, I’mguessing.Thegirljumpedoutofasecond-storywindow.”“Why?”“Didn’t want to be
immunized.”Kind of like Billy, I think,
thoughIdon’tmentionthis.Itwould get Papa riled upagain.The dark water of the bay
comes in and out of sight aswe travel up and down thesteep streets. Juliet isbreathinghard,hercoatshinywith sweat. I rest my headagainstPapa.Heputshisarmaroundme.HelikesitwhenIgooncallswithhim.My father reins Juliet into
the Bennetts’ small stable. Islipoffherharness,thenleadher to thewatering troughasPapahurriesuptothehouse.After giving her a flake of
hayfromtheBennetts’bale,Iclimb the steps to the frontdoor. A maid with shockingblue eyes leads me up threestairwells to a tiny dormerroom, where a slenderChinese girl in a maid’suniform lies on a narrow cot
moaning with pain. AnotheruniformedChinese girl, a bitolder, stands in the doorwayspeaking in fast Chinese, thelanguageabarricade.Papaisinthehall,talkingto
them in his soothing voice,but thebiggergirlhasawildlook in her eyes. She won’tstoplongenoughtohearhim.Ican’tunderstandaword,buthermessageisclear.Goaway.
“She’s in pain. I can help.”Papa’svoiceisgentle.“You go. Leave alone,” the
girlsays.The delicate girl in the bed
sobs. The other girl standswithherarmscrossed. Insidethe dormer room are bannersof Chinese characters,tasseled baskets full of socksand towels, a bowl oforanges, a pencil sketch of arooster.
Papa steps closer. “Sheneedshelp.”The older girl shouts, then
slamsthedoorinhisface.Papa sighs. “Maybe Daisy
has someone who cantranslate.” He disappearsdown the narrow stairwell.The voices continue at afuriouspaceinsidethecloseddoor.I wish I had the Chinese-
English dictionary. I
memorizedonlyafewwords,and I have no idea how topronouncethem.“Nei-ho” means “hello.” I
trythisout.“Nei-ho,”Isay.Behind the door, the
conversation slows.Are theylistening?“Nei-ho,” I repeat. And
then,“Pungyao.”Friend.Now one of the girls is
answering me. She’sspeakingslowly,thoughIstill
can’tunderstand.“Pung yao,” I repeat, and
then in English, “Open thedoor.Icanhelpyou.”Silence on the other side,
then whispers followed bylouder rapid-fire Chinese.They seem to be discussingthis.“Pung yao,” I whisper,
touching my hand to myheart.The door opens; the girls
peeratme.“I can help,” I say. “But
onlyifyouletmein.”Theynod.Myfeetmoveastepcloser.
Thedoorremainsopen.Ifinda clean cloth in Papa’s bag.“Can you get cool water onthis?”Iaskthebiggergirl.Her eyes fly tomy patient.
Shedoesn’twanttoleaveherwithme.Butthepatientnods,andtheothergirldisappears.
What would Papa do now?“Wheredoesithurt?”Iask.“My knee,” she answers in
English.“Anywhereelse?”Sheshakesherhead.“CanIdoanexamination?”The girl doesn’t respond. I
step into the attic room,whichsmellslikeoranges.Onthe shelf is a collection ofteacups. An embroideredChinese dress hangs on a
wire. I can only stand upstraight in the center of theroom.I perch on the edge of the
cot.Thisgirlwas so terrifiedthatshejumpedoutasecond-storywindow.Imustn’tscareheragain.Her eyes are glassy with
fear, but she’s worn down.Sheknowssheneedshelp.IexamineherasbestIcan.
Scratches are scattered over
herneckand face.Her lowerarm is badly bruised. Shemusthavelandedinabush.Itprobablybrokeherfall.“Canyoumoveyourarms?”She nods, then shows me.
“It’s just the knee.” Shetouchesherleftknee.“Whatisyourname?”“Mei,”shewhispers.I focuson thekneeasPapa
comesupthestairs.
“Noluck,”hecalls.“Mei,thisismypapa.”Itell
her. “He’s a doctor. He canhelpyou.”“No!”Ifrown.“Hecan.”“No!” She jerks away and
yelpswithpain.“Okay.” My hand is up,
fingerssplayed.“She’safraidofyou,Papa,”
I call out to him. “Can you
tellmewhattodo?”My father makes his
thinking noise—a poppingwith his tongue. He rubs hisfreshlyshavedchin.He’s tootall for the attic even in thecenter where the ceilingcomes to a point. He standshunched over, then slides tothefloor,settlingbackonhisheels so he can peer into theroom as I work. “Okay,Lizzie…We’ll take thisone
stepatatime.”“Shesaysherkneehurts.”“Anythingelse?”“Minorlacerations.”“Fever?”“Hard to say. She could be
warmfromthecrying.”“If she has a substantial
fever,you’llbeabletotell.”Iputmyhandlightlyonher
forehead.“Nofever.”“Good. That’s good. Let’s
focusontheknee.Leftone?”“Yes.”“Can you help Mei move
her leg out of the covers?” Iask Mei’s friend, who ishunkereddownatthedoor.Theothergirlmovestoward
the bed and pulls back thequilt, revealing Mei’s thinbare leg. The knee looksdistorted.Nowonder it hurtssomuch.Papalooksin.“Fromhereit
appears to be a kneecapdislocation,” he says. “Thequestion is … are therecomplications? Could bebrokenbones,sprains.”“HowwillIknow?”“Askherhowlongherknee
hasbeenhurting.”“Itdidn’thurtmuchatfirst,
but every hour now it getsworse,”Meitellsme.“Didyouhearthat,Papa?”I
ask.
“Yes.Checkherankles,herfeet. Go slowly,methodically.”MeiislisteningtoPapa.She
holds her breath as I slowlyrun my hands along her leftleg.WhenIgettothepatella,she winces. “I think it’s justtheknee.”“Probably the best thing is
to give her chloroform andpop it back in. Then seewhereweare.”
“Nochloroform!”Meicries.“Itwillhelpwith thepain.”
Papa’svoiceiscalm.“No!”“We’lldoityourway,Mei.
Lizzie,letmetellyouhowtoslideitback.”Me?Areyoucrazy? Iwant
tosay,butIcan’tletMeiseeI’mafraid,too.“First,Lizzie,feelyourown
knee. See in your mind howthe patella fits with the tibia
andthefemur.”“Likethebonesinthebone
bag,”Isay.“Exactly.The impactof the
fall popped the kneecap.Gether friend to hold her, andthen gently ease the kneecapbackinplace.”Mei’sfriend’seyesarewary
asshestandsnexttothebed.Mei’s face is scrunched uptight. She breathes three bignoisy breaths. My hand is
trembling. I don’t want tohurt her. I glance at myfather. He nodsencouragingly. And I pushthepatellabackinplace.Sheshrieks. I don’t hear thepop,butIfeelit.Tears flow down Mei’s
cheeks.“Yougetit?”Papacalls.“Ithinkso.”Thatmusthave
hurtlikecrazy.“Good. That’s good,
Lizzie.”“Idon’tthinkit’sbroken.”“No, I don’t, either,” Papa
says.Mei and her friend are
talking in Chinese again.Calm,notangry.Everyoneisbreathingmoreeasily.“She can have aspirin,”
Papa says. “We’ll wrap it.Tellheritwillbebettersoonbut she needs to stay off herfeet asmuch as possible.No
goingupanddownthestairs.I’llletDaisyknow.”Mei nods at me. “I heard.Doh je, pung yao,” shewhisperstome.
“
Chapter27
Gus’sIdea
When people getemotional, they can’t
reason,” Papa tells me whenwe’re back in the buggyheadedhome.
“Butjumpingoutawindowrather than gettingimmunized?That’s insanity,”Isay.We pass an advertisement
for Dr. Blake and hisIndestructible Teeth. Whatcould possibly make teethindestructible?“Did Mei seem crazy to
you?”heasks.“Notatall.”“I’m guessing no one
bothered togiveheraproperexplanation of why animmunizationwasrequired. IwishI’dthoughttotalktoheraboutthis.”“Were they trying to
immunize Mei againstsmallpox?”Iask.“Theplague.”“The plague? Why would
they want to immunize her?Mei’s not a doctor or thedaughterofadoctor.”
“Daisy didn’t give anydetails,”Papasaysaswepassa ragman with his wagonpiledhighwithscraps.
***
Whenwegethome,mymindchurns with questions. Billyrefused to get immunizedbecause he knew it wouldupset Papa. But why wouldMeijumpoutthewindow?IstartapoemaboutMei.
Imadeanewfriend,Mei,Whojumpedfromawindowtoday
What rhymes with“patella”?“Fella.”A team clatters across the
cobblestonedriveway. Ipeekoutthewindow.TheTrotters!I dash downstairs. In the
buggyareGemmaandHattie.“Lizzie.” Gemma grins.
“You have to come. We’re
sleeping at my house, thenwe’re going to Playlandtomorrow. Please say youwill.Please.”Shepressesherhandstogether.IglanceatHattie.Sheisstill
prickly.“Ask. Then go get your
things,” Gemma tells me.“We’llhelp.”Gemmaisalreadyoutofthe
buggy,headedintomyhouse,with Hattie behind her.
Gemma’s faster now thatshe’soffhercrutches.In my room, she sifts
through the dresses andshirtwaists in my closet,pushing some to the back,pulling others to the front.She takes out a dress AuntHortense bought for me.“How come you never wearthis?”“Toofrilly.”“Wear it tomorrow,”
Gemmacommands.Hattiepeeksoutthewindow
from behind the blind.“Whose house is that?” Shepoints at the Sweetingmansion.“Hortense and Karl
Sweeting.”She squints at me. “How
come you share a drivewaywiththem?”Idon’tlikethewaysheasks
this.IsshewonderingifPapa
worksforthem?“They’remyauntanduncle.”Hattie’s mouth drops open.
“Karl Sweeting is youruncle?”Inod,watchingher.“How come you never told
anyone?”Hattiedemands.“WhywouldItellanyone?”“You knew, didn’t you,”
HattiedemandsofGemma.Gemma frowns at her.
“What do I care who heruncle is?” She continuesinstructing me on what Ishould and shouldn’t wear.She tries on my hats, andmatches each with a parasolandgloves.On the way out, I let Jing
know I’m visiting theTrotters, andwepile into thecoach. I sit between HattieandGemma.Hattiecan’ttakeher eyes off the Sweeting
mansion. Gemma holds myhand while she and Hattiekeep up a running chatterabout brassieres—a favoritetopic.
When we pull up to theTrotters’,Gusisontheporchwearing a black shirt andbrown football pants,bouncing a big ballwith onehand.“He’s obsessed with that
ball,” Gemma whispers.“Somenewsport,hesays.”“Bouncing the ball is a
sport?” Hattie asks as shepullsherskirtupjustenoughso we see her delicate bootsand gracefully climbs downoutofthecarriage.Gemma shrugs. “Then they
run back and forth trying totosstheballintoafruitbasketnailedtothewall.Basketball,hecallsit.”
“Neverheardofit,”Isayaswewalkuptothehouse.“Nobody has,” Gemma
agrees.
InGemma’sroom,Guslookseverywhereexceptdirectlyatme.Gemma and Hattie hide
their giggles behind theirhands.“I need to talk to Lizzie,”
Gussays.
Hattie doesn’t look happy.First Karl and HortenseSweeting are my uncle andaunt.NowGushasamessageforme.Gemma’s hands fly to her
hips.“What’sthebigsecret?”Gus comes closer and
whispers into my ear: “Themonkey’sdead.”Ijump.“Areyousure?”Henods.“Whatdidhesay?Youhave
to tell us. Did you hear,Hattie?”Gemmaasks.“Themonkey’sdead,”I tell
Gemma.“Remember?”“Does thatmean theplague
ishere?”“I don’t know, Gemma,” I
say.“Ibettergohome.”Gemma frowns. “Not now.
We’regoingtoeat lunchandthenspendthenightandthengotoPlayland.”“I can’t do that. I have to
findoutaboutthis,”Itellher.Gemma’s hands are on her
hips again. “Wecameall thewayovertogetyou.”“I know. I’m sorry. But I
have to talk to Uncle Karl.And Papa’s a doctor. He’llcome home when he hearsabout this. He’ll need help.So…Ihavetogo.”“Don’t be crazy. If it’s the
plague,Lizzie,youcan’t—”“I’ll driveyou,”Gus jumps
in.“Whose side are you on?”
Gemma demands. Hattiesteps closer to Gemma andtakesherhand.“Hers.”Guspointstome.“I’mtryingtokeepherfrom
gettinghurt,”Gemmasays.“It’s not working,” Gus
says.“Thanksalot,”Gemmatells
him. “Anyway, you can’tdrive her without a
chaperone.”Hattienods.“Who’s going to know?”
Guscrosseshisarms.“Iwill.”“Gemma!” Gus rolls his
eyesather.Gemma sighs. “You owe
meforthis.”“Fine,”Gussays.“I’msorry,”Iwhisper, then
followGusoutthedoor.“Lizzie, wait!” Gemma
shoutsafterme.“Promisemeyou won’t do anythingstupid.”I run back to Gemma’s
room and give her a quickhug. “Don’t worry. I’ll befine.”
In the small barn, we climbinto the buggy, and theTrotters’stableboyhandsthelines to Gus. Gus makes aclicking noise, and the little
chestnuttrotsforward.Outonthestreet,Gusglancesoveratme. “That’s not all, Lizzie. IheardtheyweregoingtoburndownChinatown.”“What!Why?”“I don’t know. They hate
theChinese.Theywant themout.”“You can’t just burn down
people’s houses. That’scriminal! They have noright.”
“It’snotmyidea.”“Who?Who is going to do
this?”“I don’t know exactly. I
don’t even know if it’s true.I’ve been asking aroundbecause youwanted to knowabout themonkey.” His faceturnsred.“When are they going to
burnChinatown?”“Iheardmidnighttonight.”“Tonight! Gus, they can’t.
The police have to stopthem!”“And they will. At least, I
thinktheywill.”When we get to the
Sweeting mansion, I thinkGuswilljustdropmeoff.Buthe hands the horse andcarriage to Ho and hurriesafterme up themarble stepsthroughthethicksweetsmellof jasmine. In the foyer, theelectric chandelier sparkles.
We’re already inside by thetime the butler appears. Ialwayscomeinbeforehehasa chance to get the door.Hedoesn’tlikethis.IwalkGus through the big
kitchen, which smells ofbanana pudding. Nettie isinstructing twohouseboysonthe correct use of thedumbwaiter. She ignoresme.We really don’t like eachother after what happened
with Maggy. I hoped AuntHortense would fire her, butshehasn’tyet.Upstairs, Aunt Hortense is
on the telephone. I peek intoUncleKarl’soffice.UncleKarl lookspleasedto
see me. He’s wearing a red-stripedvestandawhitelinensuit.Astrawboaterhangsonthe hat rack. “Why, Peanut,you’ve brought a friend tovisit.”
“Uncle Karl, this is GusTrotter.”“Pleased to make your
acquaintance, Mr. Trotter,”UncleKarlsays.“You, too, Mr. Sweeting,
sir,”Gussays.“We’re here because we
heard the monkey died,” Isay,andbracemyself.UncleKarlgroans. “Lizzie!
Doyouneverlearn?”I blunder on. “But, Uncle
Karl, if the monkey died,doesn’t thatmean the plagueishere?”“Poppycock.Hearsay.”“But Dr. Kinyoun injected
theplaguegerm—”“Kinyounoffedthemonkey
toprovehispoint.Hehadnochoice.Hisreputationwasonthe line. The quarantine wasmassively unpopular. Hedidn’t want to look like anignoramus for having called
it.”He pulls the dowels of
papers down and beginssifting through them. Whenhe finds the article he’slookingfor,hesetsitinfrontofme. “Look here.” He tapsthe Chinese words. Thetranslationishandwrittenandpastednexttothetext.“Eventhe Chinese can see throughtheseshenanigans.”
THEMONKEYISDEAD
Why should Chinatown’sgoodnamedependonthelifeanddeathofamonkey?…Inthe view of this newspaper,the monkey’s death was notcaused by plague. Alas, themonkey’s death was due tostarvation—a result of itsunlucky encounter with thisphysician.
I hand the page to Gus to
read.“If this monkey nonsense
weretrue,don’tyouthinkI’dsplash it all over the frontpage?”UncleKarlasks.“Yes.”“YoubetIwould.Sellalot
of newspapers, that’s forsure.”Uncle Karl will do
practically anything to sellmorenewspapers.Ioncesawhim give free puppies to
newsboys who sold more ofhisnewspaper, theCall, thanofHearst’sExaminer.“Mr. Sweeting, sir.” Gus
looks directly at Uncle Karlfor the first time. “There’stalk of burning downChinatown.”Uncle Karl nods. “I know
thereis,butitdoesn’tamounttoahillofbeans.Chinatownis in the heart of the city. Ifthey torch it, what’s to stop
thewholecity fromburning?It’s just talk. Cooler headswillprevail.”“Yes,sir,”Gussays.“Look,Iappreciatethatyou
two young people are socivic-minded this afternoon,but on a beautiful day liketoday … I’d head out toOcean Beach.” Uncle Karlstands up to usher us out.“Shall I arrange a ride foryou?”
“Not right now. Thanks,UncleKarl,”Isay.Uncle Karl has made me
feel better. Burning downChina-town. Who would dothat?Still, somethinghe saidniggles. He said a fire inChinatownwouldputthecityat risk. It’s as if he’s notworried about Chinatown,onlytherestofthecity.Gus and I walk down the
formalstairwell.Ialwaysuse
the servants’ stairs, but if Itake Gus that way, it willmakeAuntHortensecrazy.Outsideonthecobblestones
between the houses, Guspoints to a dead rat. “We’vehadwaymoredead rats thanusual this year, have younoticed?”“Yes, and our mouser has
run away. Seems we shouldhave fewer dead ones layingaround.”
“At school we’ve beenreading about London inShakespeare’stime.Theyhadthe plague then. They thinkShakespeare’s sisters died ofit.”“Really?”Gusissosmart.“Yep…andtheytalkabout
alltherats.”“Papa says rats are
connectedtolotsofdiseases.”Gus nods. “I suppose, but
that’s not the only thing that
bothersme.Whenpeople tryso hard to prove somethingisn’t true, it makes mesuspicious.”“So what are you saying,
Gus?Youthinktheplagueishere?”“Iwonder.”“Well, Papa says there are
no confirmed cases,” I tellhim.Gus climbs into his buggy.
“Then I’m wrong. He’d
know.”“Gus?”“Yes.”Heturnsbacktome.
“Thank you for finding outand for bringing me home.You’re a good”—my facegets hot—“you know,friend.”“Oh, um, yes.” He turns
away,butnotbeforeIseethebrilliantsmileflashacrosshislips.
After dinner, I spot Billy inthe stable saddling JohnHenry.I run to the barn in my
stockingfeet.“Whereareyougoing?”“Nowhere.”“Do you know when Papa
willbeback?”“I think JackClemons took
him up to San Rafael. Hiswifehadaseizure.Beatleasta day before we’ll see him
again.”“CanIaskyousomething?”“Shoot.”“Gus was talking about
people burning downChinatown. Have you heardanythingaboutthat?”Billy’s eyes shift slightly.
He slips the bit into JohnHenry’smouth.“Why?”“Why? Because it’s
important.”
“IsJinghere?”“No.”“Whereishe?”“Idon’tknow.”“When’s he coming back?”
BillypullsthereinsoverJohnHenry’s ears and then flapsthemoverthepommel.“Idon’tknowthat,either,”I
say. “Hey, wait. You knowsomething.”“No.”Hisvoicefalters.
“Youdo.”Billy places the toe of his
boot in the stirrup. “I don’tknowanything!”“Billy.” I hang on his arm
like I used towhenwewerelittleandIwantedsomething.“Tellme.”“Stop being annoying.
Look.” He shakes me off,turns, and looks straight intomy eyes for once. I see theold Billy then. He’s there
behindthenewone.“I’minafighttonight.Gotabigpurse.I don’t want to be worriedaboutyou.Stayoutofthis,allright?”“Youworryaboutme?”“Ithappens,”hesnorts.Ilet
go of him, and he gets ontoJohnHenry.“Shakespeare’s sisters died
oftheplague,”Itellhim.“Bully for Shakespeare’s
sisters. You’re not going to
die of the plague. But youmight stick your nose whereitdoesn’tbelong.”“UncleKarlsaidtheyaren’t
going to burn Chinatowndown.”“He’s right, so go inside,
Lizzie, like a good girl.” Hewhacks John Henry with hiscrop and the big horse trotsforward.“Can’tIcomewithyou?”“No.GointhehouseorI’ll
tell Aunt Hortense. I meanit!”
I
Chapter28
TheNightRide
’ll stayoutof itonceI’veletNoahandJingknowto
getoutofChinatown. I hopeUncle Karl is right, butthere’s no way I’m going to
sitaroundthehouse.Ineedtowarn them, even if it meanslyingtoAuntHortenseagain.Billy would only say stayawayifthereweresomethinggoingon.Navigating Chinatown’s
narrow streets with a horseand buggy is too hard. Billycouldbarelymanage.AndifItook the wagon, who wouldwatch itwhile I searched forNoah?
I could put on my overallsand ride Juliet bareback, butAuntHortensewouldkillme.She’d rather I rode in mybirthday suit. She doesn’tevenapproveofsplitskirts.IfIridepastherwindow,she’llhearme.Myonlyhope is togoafter
she falls asleep. This time Iwon’t be so stupid as to useUncle Karl’s name. Shedoesn’t know about Noah.
Shewon’tfindoutaboutthis,either.I’llbebackbeforeshewakesup.AsIwaitinmyoveralls,the
big yellowmoon high in thenight sky, my hands shakeandmykneeswobble.Maggyisasleep.Jingisn’tbackyet.TheSweetingbedroomison
the other side of theirmansion, but what about theservants? The Irish sleep onthe fourth floor, and the
Chinese sleep in thebasement. Will they hear?Twohuntingdogsarekeptinthestableat thefarcorneroftheir property. Will AuntHortense and Uncle Karlassumetheirdogsarebarkingataskunk?Orsendsomeonetoinvestigate?I tie my hair back, take
Billy’s old cap off the hatrack, and let myself out thebackdoor.Thesoundsof the
doorshutting,mystepsonthefootpath, even my breathing,seem unnaturally loud.Someoneisgoingtohear.In our barn, Juliet is lying
down in her straw bed. Mypresence startlesher, and shegets up. She knows Ishouldn’tbehereatthishour.The windowless tack room
is pitch-black. Light a gaslamp? No. If a maid or astable boy looks out, they’ll
see a light and knowsomethingisamiss.Ifeelmyway through the bridles towhat I think is Juliet’s, butwhen I get it out to themoonlight, I see it’s an oldonewithabustedthroatlatch.Back I go, running my
hands along each bit, until Ifind another round snafflering.ThistimeI’mright.In my overalls I’ve packed
money, matches, and a
cookie.I’dliketoridewithalight, but I can’t gallopholding a lantern. There’s afull moon out tonight. Julietshouldbefine.Istickmyfingerintotheflat
space behind Juliet’s teeth;she opens her mouth for thebit, and I slip the headstalloverherears.ThenIleadherto the mounting block, lacemy hands through her darkmane, get a firm hold of the
reins, and slide my leg overherwarmback.One horse is quieter than a
horseandabuggyorahorseand a wagon, but hooves onthe cobblestones make aracket.Myplan is to ride onour grass until the lastpossible moment, then cutacrosstothecobblestonesforthefinaltenfeet.Juliet knows me well. I
don’t have to kick her to get
hertomove.Aslightsqueezewill do. Sometimes I justthink what I want and shedoesit.I huddle over Juliet’smane
aswetrotalongthegrass.Myheartpumpswiththethrillofridingin thecrispnightair. Isteer her around the last treeand onto the driveway. Herhooves clatter as we trotthrough the gate.Butwhen Iturn back to look, nothing
stirs.Thestreetisdarkandquiet.
A lamplighter tends to agaslight; electric porch lightsflicker. The wind cutsthrough my jacket; the nightiscolderthanIexpected.InthedistanceIhearahorse
snort, a drunkenman’s song,theclankingofmetal.I keep Juliet trotting down
the centerof the street, awayfrom the dark alleys. Aunt
Hortense’svoicerunsthroughmyhead.Thisisnoplacefora young lady, Elizabeth. Foronce,she’sright.IfIweretodisappearrightnow,itwouldbe morning before anyoneknew, and that might be toolate.The girls from Miss
Barstow’s talk about peoplegetting “shanghaied.” Out ofthe darkness, someone grabsyou and hits you over the
head. When you wake up,you’re on a ship sailing forShanghaiorsomeotherplacehalfway around the world.Some eventually make ithome.Mostdonot.The road is flat on this
block. I urge Juliet to gallopbefore the steep hills beginagain and I have to pull herback to a jog. I pass a fewbuggies and men on footcoming home from the
saloons, butnoonepays anyattention to me. In the dark,with my short hair, Billy’scap, and my overalls, I looklikeaboy.Upanddownthestreetswe
go. When the street is levelagain,IsqueezeJuliet’swarmsides, and she breaks into agallop.She’sbreathinghard.Up ahead, an abandoned
wagonblockstheroad.Ipullher up. Juliet prances, roots
with her head. I wheel herbackaround theway I came,but when I turn, five menappearoutofthedarkness.In front of me, the men.
Behindme,thewagon.“Purtyhorse,”ayoungman
withascruffybeardsays.Theyformawallinfrontof
me. Juliet senses my terrorandspins.Theshortonewithsweaty, shiny skin has brassknuckles.
I consider the wagon. It’stoo big to jump. Could wesqueezethrough?No.“Why, she’s a girl, ain’t
she?’saysthetallonewhoismissingmostofhisteeth.Hehasaraspylaugh.“A horse and a girl. Looks
likewehitthejackpot.”“You give us that horse,
littlegirl,andmaybewe’llletyougo,”ScruffyBeardsays.“Ormaybewewon’t.”The
short one smells of rum andurine.Amanwithabullchesthas
aknife.Iseeitglint.They’re closing in. I leap
off,slipmyfingersundertheheadstall, and pull Juliet’sbridle off. I swing the bridlehardandhitJulietonthebuttwiththebit;sheboltsthroughthe men. With no bridle onand no saddle, she’simpossible to catch. In the
commotion, as they chaseher,Irunformylife.My feet fly over the street,
footsteps right behind me. Ipickupspeed,glancingback.There’s more room betweenus now, but just as I turnaround,my foot twists and Ifly through the air and slamhard into the street. ScruffyBeard leapsontomebefore Ican get up. I don’t see hisface.ButIcanfeelhisbeard.
Smellhissweat.I yank free, but a cold arm
like a metal pipe wrapsaround my chest. A secondarmhasmebythethroat.I scream.The arm tightens,
cutting off the sound. BullChestknocks thebackofmyknees with a metal bar, andmy legs cave. I collapseforward, his chest bearingdown on me. I gasp in thesmell of his rotting teeth, try
tokickout.Trytoshovehimoff.Think, think, I tell myself,
but my mind has gone dark.That’s when Billy’s voicecomes to me. There arepoints on a person, Lizzie,that will kill them. Temple,armpit, liver, groin. Behindtheear.With a sudden shock of
power, I bustmy arm out ofBullChest’slockandhithim
as hard as I can behind hisear.Heyelpsandloosenshisgrasp for one second, and Ipull free. Scruffy Beardcatches my leg. I yank itloose; the denim rips. I runlikefire.
M
Chapter29
Honolulu
yheart beats fast.Myteeth chatter. I run
past Chinatown, trying tofigureoutwheretostop.TheChinatown streets are lively
even this late. So differentfrom how it was during thequarantine. A gamblingparlor is lit upwith gaslight.Oneof the shops is open, itswindow crammed with driedsea horses, snakes, birds,crabs, live ducks, and greenfrogs. I keep running,terrifiedthat themenarestillfollowing, though when Ilook back—no one. I’mdripping sweat, but the wind
chills me. I just want to gohome, but I have to warnNoah.Irememberoncehetoldme
he lives in an alley offKearny, but I have no ideawhere that is. All the streetsignsareinChinese.Mycapisgone.Myhairhas
fallen down around myshoulders. No mistaking meforaboynow.I check my locket watch.
Eleven-thirty. I only have ahalf hour! I need to asksomeoneforhelp.Butwho?Ihopeforawhiteman.But
I feel more comfortableasking someone like Jing. Itrust him more than anyoneelse, even Uncle Karl. Awaveofguiltcomesoverme.Whatathought!Still, it couldn’t be a white
man, because a white manwon’t be able to read the
streetsigns.HowmanywhitemenknowChinese?An old man with a short
beardwalksby.Buthehasasourface.Ican’tbringmyselfto ask him. A younger manwatches from across thestreet. The way he looks atmemakesmeshudder.I pass by three other men,
but none seem right. Wherearethewomen?Then I spot a kid, maybe
nineyearsold.Hehasastickinhishand,andhe’srunningit along an iron railing.Rappity fump. Rappity fump.What’shedoingoutsolate?“Hey? Can I ask you
something?”Theboy turns.Hiseyesare
watchful, but he doesn’t runaway.“Look,” I say, “do you
knowaboynamedNoah?”Hewhackshis stickagainst
his pantaloons. He doesn’tanswer, but I can tell heknows.“Could you take me to
him?”Ilowermyvoice.“I’mafriendofSixofSix.”Ashockofsurpriseregisters
in his eyes. “Six of Six …you?”“Yes.”Theboy frowns. “You look
likeagirl.”Ishrug.
“NogirlcouldbeafriendofSixofSix.”“HowwouldIknowaboutit
otherwise?”He peers at me. “What’s
Noah’sChinesename?”“Choy.”The boy nods reluctantly.
“Could go get him …maybe,”hemutters.He’s afraid to show a
strange white girl whereNoah lives. But we don’t
have time, and I can’t standout here by myself. What ifthosemencomeforme?“Iwanttogowithyou.”He shakeshishead. I reach
intomypocketandpulloutanickel.The boy inspects the nickel
inthemoonlight.Heteststheweightinhispalm,thenslipsit into his pocket. I followhim down a shadowy alley,whichgetsdarkeranddarker.
Iputmyhandout,feelingmyway.Thewallisgrimy.Icanbarely see the boy.Where isheleadingme?My panic rises as the dark
presses in. In front of me adoor squeaks, opening to abarely visible space. I grabthe boy’s shirt. I can hardlybreathe.And then—smoke. The
smell is thick inmy nostrils.Have they started? Are they
burningChinatown?WhydidI come here? I’ll be burnedalive.But no. Cigarettes. Only
cigarettes.Tinyredcirclesoffire in the night. We’rewalking by people smokingcigarettes. I let go of theboy’sshirt.We go left, down rickety
metal stairs that creak fromour weight. The banistersways, and I yank my hand
back.Thesoundechoesinthestairwell.At the bottom, my feet hit
hard dirt. I follow the boybehind a paper screen andthroughanotherdoorway.Behind me footsteps. My
heart thumps. I grabhis shirtagain.“Someone’scoming,”Iwhisper.“It’snextdoor.”We walk across an
underground room, this one
darker than the last.Something smells awful. IholdmybreathforaslongasIcan,thengasp.Mystomachclenches; food shoots up mythroat. I barely manage tokeep it down.A sick taste inmymouth.“What is that smell?” I
whisper.“Nevermind.”That’swhenIrememberthe
matchesinmypocket.Istrike
one. Ina flash I see the tiny,cluttered room. Tables andchairs are shoved on top ofeach other, and barrels arepiled high. Each barrel isclosed,exceptonehasshoes.It’snotjustshoes.It’sfeet.A cry comes out of my
throatbeforeIcanstopit.A body is rolled in the
barrel.Anotherisstuffedintoa burlap sack, just the knees
visible.Thematchgoesout.“They’re dead,” I whisper,
strikinganothermatch.Theboydoesn’tanswer.My
skin crawls. My mouth goesdry.“Areyousurethis is thewaytoNoah?”“Yes.Thesafeway.”Thisisthesafeway?Itryto
light another match, but myhand is shaking too hard. Ikeepwalking.“I’mnotsupposedtobeout.
My father might see me if Itakeyoutheotherway.”I follow even closer.Don’tleavemehere.We’re walking up two sets
of stairs to a courtyard. Theboy heads for a skinny door—half thewidth of a normalone,twothirdstheheight.Heknocks.Nooneanswers.Heknocksagain.Please letthisbeNoah.
The door cracks open. Inearly wet my pants. Andthen—Noah!His eyes are wide. “Lizzie,
what—!”I hug him. I don’t want to
lethimgo.Theboywatches,his eyes flickering withfascination.NoahtalkstohiminChinese. The boy answersback, his tone full ofquestions. Noah shakes hishead, his voice definite. The
boydisappears.“Noah, I heard they’re
coming. They’re going toburn down Chinatown.Tonightatmidnight.Wehaveto get out of here. You andJingneedtocomehome.”Noah gasps. He closes his
eyes, and when he opensthem, he’s breathing hard asif he’s been running. Heshakes his head. “I desertedthem for the quarantine. I
can’tdothatagain.”“But what’s the sense of
stayingandgettinghurt?”“You warned me. Now go
home, Lizzie. It isn’t safehere.” I follow him into asmall room. There’s a barrelof rice with an abalone shelldipper, neat stacks ofnewspapers against onewall,and a rack of bright silkclothesagainstanother.“If you don’t go, I won’t,
either,”Isay, thoughIsoundbraver thanIfeel.Partofmewants to help Noah. Theotherpartdoesn’twant togobackhomealone.“IsJinghere?”Iprayheis.
He’ll keep me safe. Healwayshas.Pleaselethimbehere.“He’s on his way back to
yourhouse,”Noahtellsmeasa furry orange tail thrashesout from behind a bolt of
cloth.“OrangeTom!”Noah nods. “I tried to get
him to go back. Hewouldn’t.”“Helikesyou.”“Yes…”Hetakesmyhand.
“We’vegottogo.”“WhereisyouruncleHan?”“At a meeting of the Six
Companies.”We take a different way
back up to the mouth ofChinatown. Noah stops andknocksondoorsaswego.Hewarns them in fast Chinese,his hands gesturing wildly.“Honolulu”istheonlywordIrecognize. Soon boys arescurryingafterus.“Noah,” I whisper, “why
were there dead bodies inthose barrels? That kid tookme past them on the way toyou.”
Noah does a double take.“Shhh,” he whispers. “Wearen’t allowed to talk aboutthat.”The boys following us are
mostly Noah’s age. Six ofSix, I’m guessing, thoughtherearemorethansix.Word spreads through the
streets. “Honolulu!Honolulu!”theyallcry.“What does that mean?” I
ask.
“They burned downChinatowninHonoluluwhenthere was a plague outbreak.Everybody was afraid thiswouldhappenhere.”We’re running now. There
seemstobeaplan.Theywereexpectingthis.“Honolulu!Honolulu!”Some hold paper lanterns,
kerosene lamps, candles.Boys are dressed in brightChinese pants and blouses.
They are in short pants anddarkjackets.Othersareallinblack.In the distancewe hear the
sound of horses. The shoutsof men.We see the flash oftorches. There are hoots andhollers in the dark night,some twenty men onhorsebackandonfoot.Are the men who attacked
me out there? I grab Noah’shand.Noahwrapshis fingers
aroundmine.Hewon’tletgo.“Noah!” I shout, but he
can’thearmeovertheroarofthe approaching mob. Myarms tremble. My handsshake.IsqueezeNoah’shandasPapa’swordsfloatthroughmy head. Courage comesfrom your heart, not yourfists.Noah stands in the road.
Oneboy,hishandraised.Mythroat feels frozen. I stand
next to him,my hand in his.Togetherwe raise our linkedhands.Soontheothersfallin…alineofsilentboys,handsraisedinthenight.Thefirstofthemobseesus.
Their torches are held high,burningbright.“Get out of the way!”
someoneshouts.Somehorseshave stopped; others keeptrotting toward us. There aremen on foot. There are men
withknives.Weare justabunchofkids
standing together in onewobblyline.Wecan’t fight them.We’re
outnumbered. We have tooutthinkthem.Moremenjointhemob.Myheartbeatsloudlyinmy
head.“Hey, hey, excuse me.
Move out of the way.” Abrown horse gallops toward
us.Juliet!I gasp. Those men caught
her!They’vecometogetme.But the tall rider is Billy.
BillyhasJuliet!“Lizzie, what are you
doing? Get out of there!Didn’t I tell you to stayhome?”Billyshouts.“Getheroutofhere!”abig
man in fisherman’s thigh-highbootsshouts.Othersjoinhim.
But I’m not leaving Noah.“Billy,helpus!”Ishout.Juliet is walking across the
space between the Chineseand the mob. “Come on,Lizzie,” Billy says in thevoice he uses to gentle ahorse.Idon’tmove.“Getheroutofhere.We’re
goingtotorchthisplace.”“They’restealingourjobs.”“Send’embacktoChina.”
“Burn it! Burn it!” theyshout.Mymind freezes.We can’t
stop them. I look at theglistening torches. And thensuddenly in a rush it allmakes sense. The monkey’sdeath,thefeetinbarrels.Papa and Uncle Karl are
wrong. The plague is here.But everyone is hiding it. Isthereawaytousethatnow?“It’s the plague,” I shout.
“Themonkeydied.Weknowfor sure. If you catch it,there’ll be nobody to protectthecity.”“That ain’t true,” someone
yells.“Allthemorereasontoletit
burn,”anothermanshouts.“Keepitfromspreading.”“Burnitout!”theyshout.“Why you in there? Aren’t
you afraid you’ll get sick?”somebodyelseshouts.
“Iftheplague’shere,burnitout!” a voice bellows frombackinthecrowd.“Burn it! Burn it!” Others
takeupthecry.“Lizzie!”Billyagain.“You can’t burn it.” My
voiceisstrong.“Asktherichpeople. Ask them if themonkeydied.Askthemwhatthatmeans. You go in there,you’ll catch theplague.Theywon’t.”
“Don’t make no sense,”someone else says. “Why’dyou go in there if the plagueisthere?”“I’ve been immunized,” I
say.“Immu-what?” someone
asks.“It’s medicine. A shot so I
don’tgettheplague.”“Thattrue?”“Yes!”Ishout.
“Can I get me one?”someoneelsecalls.“How’boutme?”“Me!Me!” The voices call
fromallaround.The mob is breaking apart.
Somewant tobe immunized.Others just want to seeChinatown burn. Themen inthebackhootforburning,butsometurnback.“The monkey’s dead. It
means any of us could die.
Don’tgointhere,”Ishout.“The monkey’s dead. The
monkey’sdead.”Weallpickupthecall.“Anybody can die. Go in
there,you’llbenext!”Billy’svoiceboomsovertherest.Thesmallgroupintheback
is moving forward, fire intheir eyes. The leader on thesmall gray horse turns onthem. “You immu-nozed?Any of you? You want to
die?”“Ain’t going to die. Just
burn the place. That’ll takecareofit.”“Theplague.Younumskulls
ever heard of it? Deadliestdiseaseintheworld.”TheChineseareononeside
with me. The mob on theother. Billy and Juliet standbetweenus.“He’s right!” Billy says.
“Youcatchit,youdie.”
“Hey, ain’t that the fighterwesawtheothernight?”“Billy!” somebody shouts.
“It’sBilly!”Billy waves to them. “I’m
thedoctor’s son. Iknow. It’sdangerous to go in there.Don’triskit.”“Got to get rid of it. How
we going to do that?”somebodyelseshouts.“Go on, then,” the mob
leader shouts. “You want to
kill yourself … it ain’t aprettywaytogo.”“Burn it down. We can’t
catchnothing.”“Itdon’tworklikethat!”“Bestthingistogohome.”I
hear a familiar voice.Out ofthe darkness, Gus appears!He trotshisgraymare toourside.Gusstandswithus.“The rats!” Gus shouts.
“Kill the rats! They spreadthe disease. Thatwill get rid
ofit.”Thisissuchasmartthingto
say. True or not, it gives themobsomethingtodo.“Kill the rats!” Billy takes
upthecry.“Killtherats!”weallshout.
“The rats! The rats! Therats!”
O
Chapter30
TheServantsVanish
n thewayhome, I ridedouble behind Gus.
Where exactly do I put myhands? How do I keep my
legsfromtouchinghis?WhatifAuntHortenseseesthis?Ifthere’s anything moreimproper than ridingbareback on your own, it’sridingbarebackbehindaboy.“How’d you know I’d be
there?”Iaskhim.“I’mstartingtoseehowyou
operate.”It seems after what I’ve
beenthrough,theleastofmyworries should be riding
behind Gus, but it’spractically all I think aboutthewholeridehome.Beingagirl is complicated. But itisn’tallbad,Ihavetoadmit.Noah rides behind Billy.
Billy seems to know thatNoahisJing’sson.How?Gus lets me off in front of
the gate. The fewer horsesthat clatter across thedriveway, the better.NobodywantstowakeAuntHortense.
Noah slipswordlesslyup theback stairs. Billy and I putJulietaway.“Didyouwin?”IaskBilly,
rubbing Juliet’s legs withliniment.Heshakeshishead.“Nope.”“I’msorry.”“That’sokay.Ihaveanother
plan.”“For how to make the
money?”
“Yep.”“Atleastyoudon’tlooklike
yougotbeatuptoobadlythistime.How’dyouknowI’dbethere, anyway?” I ask,checking Juliet’s watertrough.“IcamehomeandputJohn
Henry away. I was justfinishing when Juliet trottedup,nobridle,nosaddle.Iranupstairs to see if you werethere. When you weren’t, it
wasn’t hard to figure outwhereyou’dbe.Youaresuchan idiot. Don’t you realizehowdangerousthatwas?”“How’d you know about
Noah?”He smiles his most
charming Billy smile as hetosses a flake of hay intoJuliet’smanger.“Iwentuptoseethekittens.”“Youmethim?”“I found the poem you
wroteforhim.”“But you didn’t tell
anyone.”“Do I look like a squealer?
Look.”Hestops,brushingthehayoutofhishair.“Keepthisquiet, okay?There’smore toAunt Hortense than youthink. But she’ll never in amillion years understandthis.”“I know,” I say, closing
Juliet’sstalldoor.
Upstairs, I head forMaggy’sroomlikeIusedtorightafterMamadied.Maggysitsupinbed.“MissLizzie?”I curl up in her bed. She
strokes my hair as I tell hereverything that happened. Itdoesn’t matter if she doesn’tunderstand it all. Whatmatters is thatshe’shereandshe accepts me just as I am.WhenI’mfinishedtellingherthe whole long story, she
settlesmeintomyownbed.
In the kitchen the nextmorning, Jing is there,serving hotcakes. Our eyeswatch each other. It’s onlythetwoofus.ButheknowsIknow, and thatmakes all thedifference.“Why didn’t you tell us
aboutNoah?”He nods as if he’s been
expecting this question. He
wipes his hands on a dishtowel.“Itwouldn’thavebeenfair.”“Fair?”Ifrownathim.“Mr. and Mrs. Sweeting
would not have liked it. If Ihad told you, it would haveput you and your papa in anawkward position. Againstyour own flesh and blood. Itwas my secret; it seemedunfairtoburdenyouwithit.”Asmuch as I hate to admit
it,he’sright.“I’mgladIgottomeethim.
Ishestillhere?”“Notforlong.”I nod. “Jing? Somebody’s
hiding the bodies of peoplewho died of the plague inChinatown,aren’tthey?”He eyes me carefully. “It
isn’t justChinatown.They’rehiding them everywhere.Shipping them out on carts,on train cars, in cargo holds.
Doctors are falsifying deathcertificates.Nobodywants tobelievewhat’shappening.”“Why?”“Some are terrified. Others
think it’s bad for business.There’s all kinds of finger-pointing andmisinformation.”“We have to get everyone
immunized,” I say. “It’s theonlysolution.”“No!” His face is red; his
nostrilsflare.“It’s science, Jing. It’s like
theelectric lights.Rememberhow we didn’t believe thatwouldwork,either?”Heshakeshishead,hisface
stony.Halfofmy father’spatients
think evil spirits causedisease. They’re certain acharm hung on a ribbon, arabbit’s foot, or an astrologychart is more effective than
real medicine. But this isJing.He’snotlikethat.I stand in front of him. “I
was immunized. I can’t gettheplague.”Jingturnsandwalksoutthe
door.
In the parlor, the dark nightcloth still hangs over theparrot, Mr. P. “MaggyDoyle,” the parrot chirps.“Maggy Doyle. Maggy
Doyle.”Strange, I’ve never heard
the parrot say that before.Pretty much all he says is“dirty work” and “supper’sready.”My boots are in Maggy’s
room. I go back up to getthem. The hall is silent. Herdoor is closed. “Maggy?Areyouuphere?”Iknock.“Maggy?”Noanswer.
I crack open the door. Theroom is hot and stuffy.Maggy is on her bed, shinywithsweat.“Maggy!” I touch her
forehead; heat radiatesthroughmyhand.“You’resick,”Iwhisper.She moans. Her eyes are
closed, and her arms arecrossedinfrontofher.I try to think clearly as if
this were a patient and not
Maggy.Papawouldwashhishands.Hewouldtaketimetogather the supplies he needs.He would bring cool clothsfor her fever, then examineher. He wouldn’t jump toconclusions. He wouldremaincalm.I go downstairs, wash up,
andgetwhatIneed.Back in Maggy’s room, I
take the towel from herdresser, pour water into the
bowl and soak the towel.Then I lay the cool cloth onher forehead, loosen herapron and high-collaredshirtwaist. She must havegotten dressed for work butwas too sick to leave herroom.I give her a sponge bath,
gentlewithherthewaysheiswith me. I try to get her totakeasipofwater.Examining Maggy feels
strange. But who is there totake care of her? Papa isgone. Dr. Roumalade won’ttreat a servant. There is onlyme. I need to find out asmuchasIcansoIknowhowtohelpher.“Maggy.” I try tomakemy
voice as soothing as Papa’s.“I’m going to take care ofyou.”“No.”Shesitsupstraightin
bed.
“It’sokay,”Iwhisper.“Maggy works for Miss
Lizzie,” Maggy says, tryingtogetoutofbed.“Today is opposite day,” I
say.“Lizzie isgoing toworkforMaggy.”“Oppositeday?”Her arms relax, and she
sinksbackintobed.Thenshebegins shaking, thrashing,kickingoffhercovers.I take a deep breath and
examineher.It’s when I get to her left
armpitthatmyhandbeginstotremble. In the soft tissue ofher lymph nodes are bruisedswellings.A drip of sweat slips down
myback.Don’t jump to conclusions,
Papa’s voice in my headreminds me. It could be abruise. Carefully I check theright armpit, where I see the
same thing a bit fainter andnotinthesamespot.Maggy’s eyes are closed,
her head sunk back into thepillow. She’s half-asleep,mumbling, talking like shesometimes does when sheworks. I get the worn oldstuffedbearshekeepsonherdresser and place it next toher.“I’ll be back.” I dash down
the stairs just as Jing is
comingup.“Maggy’ssick,”Itellhim.Hiseyebrowsrise.“It looks like theplague,” I
mumble.I see the shock in his eyes,
then run to Billy’s room.Billy is still asleep. I gentlywake him. “Billy, we needPapa. You have to get himnow!”“What?”“You said Papawas in San
Rafael. You said you knewwhere.Canyoufindhim?It’sMaggy…I think, I’mafraid…it’stheplague.”Billy’s sits straight up in
bed.“GetoutofheresoIcangetdressed.”Aminute later he bolts out
of the room, leaps down thestairs, grabs a cinnamon roll,heads to the barn, hooks thewagon to JohnHenry, and isgone.
I head for the cold box inthecold storage room,wherePapakeepshismedicine.Thebottles are in alphabeticalorder. Acetanilide, arnica,belladonna, bichloride ofmercury … paregoric. Nobottlessay“Yersin’s.”I search the cabinets—
bandages, scalpels,magnifying glasses,ointments,brace.Notasinglebottle of Yersin’s Plague
Antiserum.Idon’tevenknowif it will work, now that shehasit,butit’stheonlythingIcanthinktodo.Papa has a small practice.
Maybe they didn’t give himmuch.ButwhataboutBilly’sdose?IfIcanfindit,shouldIgive it toMaggy? Iwish I’daskedBillybeforeheleft.Did he immunize himself
with the Yersin’s? It’s onlyone vial, and everybody
needs it. Jing, Noah, AuntHortense, Uncle Karl,Maggy, Gemma, Gus, andHattie.And all of thosemenlast night. Papa said thereisn’tenoughYersin’s.Howcanyoudecideonelife
is more valuable thananother?Itrytocalculatehowlongit
will take Billy to get to SanRafaeland thenforPapaandBillytogethome.Oneday.Is
thattoolongforMaggy?No one survives the
hospital. It’s unthinkable tosend anyone there. We needDr. Roumalade, but how dowe get him here for aservant?AuntHortenselikesMaggy.
CanshepersuadeRoumaladetotreather?I dash down the stairs and
across the way to theSweeting kitchen, where the
quiet stuns me. No clangingof pots and rolling pins.Where is everyone? Whathappened?“Aunt Hortense!” I panic,
running through the emptyrooms. The house echoes.“AuntHortense!Please!”“Aunt Hortense!” I run up
thegrandstairwell anddownthe servants’ stairs. I checkthe Irish quarters, then godowntotheChinesefloorand
back into the kitchen anddining room.Up the stairs tothe music room. The wholehouse, as big as a hotel, isdeserted.What if Aunt Hortense is
sick? She always worriesabout me, but I never thinkabouther.It’sjustlikeMama.I paid no attention, and thenshewasgone.I hurry outside to the
Sweeting stable. The horses
are there. “AuntHortense!” Ishout.“Don’t leaveme,too.”The tears run down mycheeks.“Aunt Hortense!” I run up
to our stable, my feetpoundingthewalkway.And then she’s here.
Slipping and sliding in herfashionable boots, wearing alavender dress that hangsloosely without her corset.Her hair is down. No hat or
gloves. She reminds me somuchofMamathisway.“Lizzie,”shecries.“I loveyou,AuntHortense.
Do you loveme?”My voiceis cracking. The feelings arerising up in my chest,clogging my throat. Shewrapsherarmsaroundme.“Of course I love you,
Lizzie. You and Billy aremore important to me thananything else in the world.
Don’t you know that? Didyou think I’d put upwith allyournonsenseifIdidn’tloveyousomuch?”“Maggy’s sick. I think it’s
the plague. I read up on it.Fever,smallbruisedmarks,aswellinginherarmpit.”Aunt Hortense freezes. The
shockhitsherhard.“Areyousure?”“Prettysure.”“Whereisshe?”
“Herroom.AuntHortense.”Mythroatisthickwithfear.Ican hardly get the wordsthrough it.“Whataboutyou?Haveyoubeenimmunized?”She nods. “Dr. Roumalade
immunized me. Yersin’s.Cost a pretty penny, too.Your papa told me heimmunizedyou.”I let out my breath. For a
minute I just hold her, myarms trembling, aching with
gratitudethatshelookedafterherself.“Can you call Dr.
Roumalade?WillhecomeforMaggy?”Aunt Hortense frowns,
considering this. “Mr.Sweeting will getRoumalade.”“Hewon’ttreather.”“He will if Mr. Sweeting
insists.”“WillUncleKarldothat?”
AuntHortense looks atme.“I’llmakecertainhedoes.”Whatever Uncle Karl’s
faults, he can bringRoumaladeoutwhenweneedhim. No one else could dothat.
“
Chapter31
Rhymeswith“Persons”
Mr. Sweeting! Mr.Sweeting!” Aunt
Hortenseshouts,half-runningafterUncleKarl’smotorcar.
Uncle Karl stamps on thebrakes.Themotorcarsputtersand dies. “What’s thematter?”“Lizzie thinks Maggy has
the plague.”AuntHortense’shands are holding each otherso tightly, her fingertips arered.“Not possible. Where is
yourfather,Peanut?”“San Rafael,” Aunt
Hortenseanswersforme.
“Billy has gone for him,” Isay.“Can you get Dr.
Roumalade?” Aunt Hortenseasks.“Calm yourself, Mrs.
Sweeting!” Karl tells her asheclimbsoutofthehorselesscarriage.“Will you get him?” she
shouts.“Of course I will. But it’s
nottheplague.You’regetting
yourself worked up fornothing.”“Elizabeththinksitis.”“With all due respect,Mrs.
Sweeting, our Peanut is athirteen-year-old girl. This isRoumalade’s province. Notours,”UncleKarlbarks.Aunt Hortense nods, but
when his back is turned, shewhispers intomyear,“Seeifyou can find any moreYersin’s,Lizzie.Gonow!”
I run to the cold storageroomagain.Ithastobehere.Imusthavemissed itbefore.I tear theplace apart lookingfor a bottle marked with IPfor“InstitutPasteur.”When I return, Dr.
Roumaladeismakinghiswayout of the Sweetings’motorcar.Dr. Roumalade straightens
his coat. He reaches into theback for his doctor’s bag.
Aunt Hortense pounces onhim. “It’s our Maggy Doyle… There’s talk of theplague.”“The plague?And how has
this been determined?” Dr.Roumalade takes off his hatandsmootheshisbaldhead.“My niece examined her.
Jules Kennedy’s daughter.”Aunt Hortense nods towardme.Dr. Roumalade snorts. “A
girl has diagnosed theplague? Forgive me, Mrs.Sweeting,but—”“I told you it was
nonsense,” Uncle Karl tellsAuntHortense.Believe in yourself. Papa’s
voice in my head reassuresme.“IknowwhatIsaw.”“You’re going to take a
child’s word for it, whenevery doctor worth his saltknows these plague rumors
areuntrue?”UncleKarlsays.“The president of CooperMedical College has assuredus there is no plague,woman!”Dr.Roumaladeturnstome.
“Doesyourfatherbelievetheplagueishere?”Ishakemyheadmiserably.“Her own father doesn’t
agree with her. Why are wetakingachild’ssilly ideassoseriously,” Dr. Roumalade
asksAuntHortense.Itakeastepback,readyfor
AuntHortense to tellmeI’mwrong.“Lizzie.” Aunt Hortense’s
voice is low and strong.“What are the signs of theplague?”“Hard red lumps in her
groin and armpits, fever,black-and-blue marks,headache,dizziness,nausea.”“She read up on it. Does
thatmakeheranexpert?”Dr.Roumaladeasks.“Maggy has all of them?”
myauntasks.Herattentionisonme.“Yes,ma’am.”Karl looks to Dr.
Roumalade.“Surelytherearehalf a dozen illnesses thatpresentthisway.”“Not with lumps in the
armpits and black-and-bluemarks.”My voice comes out
boldly.IknowwhatIsaw.Roumaladeclearshisthroat.
“I’llneedtoexamineher.”“Ofcourse,”AuntHortense
says. “But, Doctor, whywould you immunize us ifyou knew the plague wasn’there?”Dr. Roumalade’s lips shift.
“Noharminbeingcautious.”Uncle Karl takes a bite of
his cigar. He watches Dr.Roumalade make his way to
our house. “I can’t live itdown if Hearst is right. Youknow that, don’t you?” hetellsAuntHortense.“For the love of God, Mr.
Sweeting, I don’t care ifHearstisright.”All I can do is pray that
when Dr. RoumaladeexaminesMaggy, he’ll knowhow to help her. He’s thedoctor for the railroad andComstock millionaires. They
wouldn’t hire a second-ratephysician,wouldthey?
IpacebackandforthoutsideMaggy’s room. We needPapa. Has Billy found him?Should we send everyoneaway, or keep them inside?And what about the yellowplague flag?… Should wehangit?When Roumalade finally
finishes,hewalksrightbyme
without aword. I chase afterhim down our two flights ofstairs and across the way tothe Sweeting house. “Dr.Roumalade? Dr.Roumalade?”Heignoresme.In the Sweetings’ kitchen,
heconferswithUncleKarl.The kitchen is silent except
for their hushed whispers.AuntHortenseand I stand infront of the stove,waiting to
hear.“Where are all the
servants?”Iask.“Gone,” Aunt Hortense
says.“Gone?”“Last night, theyheard ‘the
plague,’andtheytookoff.”I think about the mob in
Chinatown. Everybody isafraid.“I tried to explain about
immunization, but I couldn’tmakemyselfunderstood.Themore I said, the more upsetthey got,” Aunt Hortensesays.“It’s thesamewaywith the
smallpox vaccine. Peoplehave a hard timebelieving itwillhelp.”“It’snotjustthat.Therewas
somekind of crazy article inHearst’spaper.Areportergotimmunized with Haffkine’s,
and then he wrote about theside effects. Scared them allhalftodeath,”AuntHortensesays.Dr. Roumalade and Uncle
Karl have finished. UncleKarl beckons for AuntHortense.I can hardly wait to hear
what happened. “What didDr. Roumalade say?” I askwhen Aunt Hortense finallycomesbacktome.
“Notmuch,”AuntHortensesays.I can’t stand this. I head
back to our kitchen. On theway, I see Jing come in. Hedidn’t disappear the way theSweeting servants did. Noahmuststillbehere,too.“Jing,” Iwhisper, “I’ll take
care of Noah. I’ll make surehe gets immunized. Ipromise.”Jing’s face turns a baker’s
white. Hewobbles as if I’vekickedhimintheshins.“Dr. Roumalade has the
antiserum. We have to gethim to immunize everyone.Noah,too.”Jing’s face sours. “The
antiserum makes peoplesick.”“That’snottrue.I’vehadit,
andI’mfine.SohasPapa.”“No.” The word comes out
hardandangry.
“Papa wouldn’t haveimmunized me if it weren’tsafe.”“People die from the
immunization. I’ve seen itwith my own eyes,” Jinginsists.“I’mas fitasa fiddle,Jing.
Youhavetoputyourfaithinscience. You know that,” Isay.Jing scowls. What is the
matterwithhim?
A
Chapter32
Roumalade’sTriage
untHortenseandIlookafterMaggy.Shesleeps
fitfully,moaninginhersleep.She throws up, then curls up
into a tight ball, kicking offher bedclothes. Dr.Roumalade and Uncle Karlare hunkered down in theSweetings’kitchen.“It’snottheplague,Peanut.
It’s a stomach virus,” UncleKarl tells me. “Dr.Roumalade has done athoroughexamination.”“Shewastouchingtherats,”
Itellhim.“Doesn’t mean she has the
plague,”UncleKarlsays.Aunt Hortense looks at
Roumalade. “Like I said,Doctor,let’serronthesideofcaution and make sure ourMaggy is immunized. Jing,too.”“It’s not necessary. But I
will do as you wish, Mrs.Sweeting.” He walks out ofthe house and across thecobblestone drive to thestepping-stones that lead to
ourbackdoor.InthebigSweetingkitchen,
I help Aunt Hortense stokethefurnaceandboilwaterfortea. I’ve seen Jing do thisenough times to know howit’sdone.“I feel terrible about the
servants, Lizzie. How was Itoknowthereweretwokindsof serum? The other night,Roumalade was set to givesomething called Haffkine’s
antiserum to them.Apparently Haffkine’s cankill you if you’ve alreadybeen exposed, and the sideeffects are terrible.Roumalade wasn’t going touse his precious Yersin’s onthehelp.Andthisfromamanwho swears there is noplague.”Inaflash,itallmakessense.
Why Mei jumped out thewindow. Why Jing wouldn’t
let Noah be immunized. Itwasn’t the same serum. Itwasn’tYersin’s.Theservantswere going to be given theriskyimmunization.AndthenI can barely breathe.“Maggy!”Iflyoutthedoorandacross
the breezeway, up thestepping stones, and up twoflightsofstairs,threestepsata time, grateful for my longlegs.
When I get to Maggy’sdoor, I barge right in. “Whatareyoudoing?”Idemand.Roumalade’s small eyes
glare at me. “Taking care ofyour maid. Since you havesingle-handedly caused afrenzy of plague fear, youraunt has insisted thateveryone be immunized. Alittle knowledge is adangerousthing,Lizzie.”“Haffkine’sorYersin’s?”
Roumalade’s eyes registerhissurprise.“Whotaughtyoutobesoimpudent?”“Whatkindofimmunization
are you giving Maggy?” Idemand.“It’sYersin’s.She’samaid.
She shouldn’t have it. Butyourauntinsisted—”“Aunt Hortense paid for
Yersin’s,”Isay.“I know that. Didn’t you
hear me? That’s what I’m
delivering.”Iseethebottleinhishand.Hestickstheneedleinto the bottle, pulls thestopperback,andsuctionstheserumintothechamber.When he pulls the needle
out, I stare at the bottle. It’sround, and the IP mark ismissing. “You’re not.” Myvoiceshakes.“OfcourseIam.”I jump between him and
Maggy.“Yersin’scomes ina
differentbottle.”His nostrils expand. “You
have no idea what you’retalkingabout.”“I know exactly what I’m
talking about. That’s notYersin’s. Shall I get AuntHortense?”He glares at me, the filled
hypodermic needle in hishand.“Getawayfromher!”Iyell.He takes a reluctant breath,
thendigs intohisbag for thebottlewithIPonthesideandpreparesanothershot.Iwatchhiseverymove.He turns the label toward
me.YERSIN’S.“I’m only doing this out of
professional courtesy,” hesaysasheimmunizesMaggy.“You’re only doing this
because I’m forcing you andAunt Hortense is paying.” Istand at the door. “And now
you need to immunize Jingand Noah. With Yersin’s.” IknockonJing’sdoor.Iknowthey’re inside, but nobodyanswers.“Jing,” I call through the
door. “You were right. TheHaffkine immunization is abadone.Itcanmakeyouverysick, even kill you. Dr.Roumalade is here. He’sgoing to immunize you andNoah with Yersin’s. The
immunizationIhad.Thestuffthatworks.AuntHortense ispaying for it. You have tobelieveme,Jing!”I hold my breath. Jing
doesn’trespond.“There’snotmuchtime.Please,trustme.”Inside I hear muffled
Chinese.Thedoorfliesopens.Jing’s face is a mask.
Noah’s eyes ask me ahundred questions. I nod to
him, trying to convey all Iknow without lettingRoumalade see. Jing andNoah roll up their sleeves,and Roumalade fixes theimmunizations, with memonitoring his every move.Yersin’s for both. First heimmunizesJing.“Wait a minute,”
Roumalade growls, holdingNoah’s arm. “Your aunt saidtwoservants.”
“No, she didn’t,” I lie withallmyheart.“I distinctly heard her. She
said two. Maggy and oneother.”Panic flickers across Jing’s
face.“Shall we go ask her?” I
stick my face inRoumalade’s.“ThenIcantellherhowyouwereset togiveMaggy Haffkine’s eventhoughshepaidforYersin’s.”
Roumaladeglaresatme,theYersin’s in the hypodermicneedle. He gives the lastimmunizationtoNoah.
R
Chapter33
Billy’sSecret
oumalade has gonenow. He left written
instructions for how to takecare of Maggy. Bed rest.Fluids. Cold sponge baths.
Standard procedure for mostdiseases.Hestillwon’tadmitMaggy has the plague.Whatisthematterwithhim?AuntHortenseandIdoour
best tocareforMaggyaswewaitandwaitforPapa.Whenwillhebeback?I’ve just run a cool cloth
overMaggy’s foreheadwhenIhearJohnHenry’sclip-clopon the cobblestones. I rushdownstairs and practically
jumpontoPapaashe climbsdownfromthewagon.“Papa,amIglad—”“Lizzie.” His voice is
strained. “Go to theSweetings’ house and staythere.”“What?Why?”“Now.”Hisvoiceissharp.“But I’m taking care of
Maggy.Ineedto—”“Lizzie!”
Irunacrossthewayandupthesteps.Papacallsoutinstructionsto
Jing. I don’t hear what hesays, but Aunt Hortensecomes out and stands withme, her face white. Hershouldersshaking.My father and Jing are
unhooking the back of thewagon.Papascramblesinandgently cradles a man in hisarms.
Billy!Jingisononeside,Papaon
the other. Their arms arelaced under Billy. He is halfwalking. Mostly they arecarryinghim.“Was he in a fight?” I ask
Aunt Hortense. Though Iknow Papa would not sendmeawayifitwerethat.“No,” Aunt Hortense
whispers.I feel sick to my stomach.
Maggy. Now Billy. Are weallgoingtodie?Billy is tough.Hecan fight
anything. Papa is here.Nobodyisgoingtodie.How did Billy get it? He
hadtheYersin’s,didn’the?Maybeitdoesn’twork.Did he catch the plague in
Chinatown?I’m the onewhomade him
go.Isitmyfault?
ButMaggy has it, too. Shenever leaves the house. Thedisease isn’t just inChinatown.The rats gave it to Maggy,
and Maggy gave it to Billy.OrBillygaveittoMaggybutittooklongertoshowinhim.Or…Papa says even when you
knowhowadiseaseispassedfrom person to person,trackingthepathofcontagion
islikechasingthewind.But Papa is a wonderful
doctor. He’ll take care ofMaggyandBilly.He’llmakethemwell.ItrytopushoutofmymindthememoryofPapacaringforMama.Aunt Hortense takes my
hand and holds it tight. Wewatch Billy, Papa, and Jinggoinside.Papa does not come out
again. Jing hangs the yellow
plague flag, then leaves amessage in a basket at theSweetings’thatsayswearetostayhere.“Wait,Jing!”Iwavetohim
as he crosses back over thecobblestones. “Papa needsmyhelp.”Jing shakes his head. “You
staywhereyouare.”Aunt Hortense flies out of
the house. “Elizabeth!Underno circumstances are you to
enter a house with a plagueflag.”“ButI’vealready—”“Do you hear me?” she
roars.“Yes,ma’am.”Noah. What about Noah?
Thank goodness Jing andNoah had the Yersin’s. AndBilly? He had it in time,didn’the?IgetachairandoneofAunt
Hortense’s sweaters and
make myself comfortable onthe balcony. I can’t seeNoah’s window from here.But Jing is there. Jing willtake care ofNoah. Papawillcare for Billy and Maggy. IwriteanotetoPapaandleaveitinthebasketoutside.
DearPapa,I’vebeentakingcareofMaggyalready.Can’tI
comehelp?Love,LizzieP.S.AskBillyifhetooktheYersin’s.
For dinner, Aunt Hortensewarms up clam chowder forUncle Karl and me. Thebread is stale.We dip it intothesouptosoftenit.
“Any news?” Uncle Karl’seyessearchourfaces.Weshakeourheads.Allnightweworry.Nobody
sleeps.
Inthemorning,JinghasleftanotefromPapa.
DearLizzie,Billyisfighting.Maggyisdoingbetter.Youareto
stayput.Love,Papa
“He’sfighting.That’sgood,isn’tit?”IaskAuntHortense.Her hands tremble as she
fits the tea cozy over theteapot.Ipacethebalcony,mymind
fullofthemagictrickswedidwhen we were little. Billy
blindfoldedcatching theonlyredchickeninthecoop.Billytied up with a lead rope,untying himself with histeeth. Billy pulling bunnydroppingsoutofahat.If the tricks didn’t work,
Billywouldfigureouthowtomakeeveryonelaugh.Evennowwiththefighting,
hegotablackeyeandneededstitches. But he never gotseriouslyhurt.Andhewona
lotofthefights,didn’the?Nothingcanhappentohim.
He’sBilly.I think about him at La
Jeunesse dancing with thedark-haired girl in thecrimson dress.All eyeswereonher,butsheonlyhadeyesforBilly.Does the plague flag
hangingfromourhousemeanour barn, too? I decideagainst asking and take the
backwaytoourstable.Ican’tstand being cooped up at theSweetings’anylonger.Up to the loft I climb,
looking for Orange Tom.Maybe he came home withNoah.IfNoahisstillhere,hewillhavewrittentome.Sure enough, Orange Tom
isprowlingtheloft.Butwhenhe seesme, he skitters downthe ramp. I chase after himaround thebarn.Heslipsout
thedooranduptoourhouse,wherehesitstauntingme.Irunallthewaybacktothe
Sweetings’ kitchen, lookingfor food to bribe him. In thecoldstorage,Ifindanchovies.Outside with the stinkygreasyfishinmyhand,Ilookagainforthecat.Notontheporch.Igoback
tothebarn.Notthere.Aroundto the side yard. Behind thechicken coop. I finally find
himunderagardenchair.I throw a piece of anchovy
hisway.Histailswitches.He walks lazily to it and
picks itupinhis teeth.I tossanother. He watches it land,thenstrollsoverandsnatchesthatone.Onemoreanchovyandhe’s
close enough for me to grabhimbytheneck.Butthereisnothreadonhis
collar.Nomessage.Nothing.
When the brand-newmotorcar gets delivered, Ifigure Uncle Karl bought itforBilly.Hethoughtitmightgive himonemore reason tofightthisoff.Uncle Karl comes out onto
the porch, his eyes on theshiny automachine. “Thatwas nice of you,” I say, andplantakissonhischeek.Hegivesmeastonylook.“Yougotitforhim,right?”
“No.”Hisvoiceisgruff.“But Billy didn’t have the
moneyyet,”Isay.UncleKarl’skeenblueeyes
lockonthemotorcar.“How’dhe…”“He sold it,” Uncle Karl
whispers.“Soldwhat?”UncleKarldoesn’tanswer.“What did he sell, Uncle
Karl?”
Uncle Karl’s face iscrumbling. I’ve never seenhimlookthisway.“Not the Yersin’s,” I say.
“Hedidn’tselltheYersin’s.”Uncle Karl grinds his cigar
into the ashtray so hard, theendssplay.“Hedid.”“No!”Ishout.I run down to themotorcar
andkickthetiresashardasIcan. I bang the brand-newdoorswithmy fists untilmy
hands hurt. That stupid,stupid thing. I keep bashinguntil I feel Aunt Hortense’sarms around me. Herlavendersmell.“Lizzie,” she whispers.
“That’snotgoingtohelp.”“Howcouldhe?Hesoldthe
Yersin’sforthis…thishunkof—”“Lizzie…”“Billy!”Ihollerasloudlyas
I can. “Why are you so
stupid?” I’m sobbing now. Ican’tstop.Uncle Karl turns his back.
Hewalksinside.
T
Chapter34
PolishingtheMotorcar
he next day, I’m outthere with a cloth,
shiningeverylastinchofthatstupid contraption. Aunt
Hortensecomesoutwithme.“Tell him it’s perfect, AuntHortense.Ididn’tscratchit.Ihardlyevenputadentinit,”Iwhisper. “Tell him it’swaiting for him. He has todriveit.We’reallwaitingforhimtodriveit.Tellhim.”Tears flow down my
cheeks. They drip down mychin.“Tell him he’s not stupid.
Tellhimhe’sthebestgrumpy
brotherinthewholeworld.”Isob.“I’ll tell him, Lizzie.” She
dabs at her eyes with herhandkerchief.“Maybeifwegetthegirlin
the crimson dress. Thebeautiful one he took to thecotillion. Maybe if he seesher out the window,” I say.“Shecouldbealldressedup,justlikeshewas.”“Maybe.” Aunt Hortense
sniffs.“She was beautiful, Aunt
Hortense. You should haveseen her. And the boys hewants to fight. Maybe wecouldsetupafightringdownon the driveway so he couldsee. And we can get himbrand-new fighting clothes.Andmakea stage forhim todohismagictricks.Andtoolswith lots of bicycles to fixand … and … Papa has to
makesureBillycomestothewindow. He has to see. Canwe do that, Aunt Hortense?Canwe?”Uncle Karl is on the porch
pacing. Aunt Hortense hasmovedherchairouthere,too.WeallwanttobeasclosetoBillyaspossible.
This is where we are a fewhours later when my fatherfinally comes out of our
house. He sinks down ontothe kitchen steps; his headdropsintohishands.“No!”AuntHortensewails.
She holds me close. “NotBilly. Not our beautiful boy.Please,pleasenothim.”Uncle Karl goes back
behindthestabletowheretheservantschopwood.Wehearhimwiththeaxchoppingandchopping.Iwatchourhouseas if I’m
intheskylookingdown.Thiscan’t be true. It isn’t true.Billy will walk down thestairs as he always does, hispocket jingling from thenickels he earned fixingbicycles.Hewillgrabapieceof Jing’s pie, harness JohnHenry to the wagon, and offhe’llgo,callingmeapestandtelling me no, I can’t comealong.I hold my breath, waiting.
Letitoutandholditagain.But Billy does not come
down the stairs. Soon theblack undertaker’s wagonarrives.
T
Chapter35
SugarWater
hree days later, AuntHortense’s new maids
clean our house from top tobottom, Papa takes down theplagueflag,andImoveback.
It feels good to be home—andawful,too.EverytimeIwalkbyBilly’s
room, the emptiness hauntsme.Hisroomwasfullofhim.Itfeltlikehim.Itsmelledlikehim. But now the room isquiet. The quilt, the fightposters, the boxing glovesunmovedfromonedaytothenext.Iwonder how I’mgoing to
getthroughthis.WhenMama
died, it was Billy who keptme busy with the magicshows, the secret barebackrides, and the barn games.“Billy,” I whisper. “Didn’tyou know how much I needyou?”Everyday,Igotocheckon
Maggy. Most of the time,she’s sitting up in bed, theparrot on her shoulder. Papamoved his cage upstairs. Hesaid Maggy told him she
wanted the parrot in herroom. He was amazed. It’sthefirsttimeMaggyhaseversaidshewantedanything.Now when I walk into her
room,Mr.P. chirps, “MaggyDoyle! Maggy Doyle!” likehe’sannouncingherarrivalatacotillion.I wish I knew whyMaggy
got better and Billy did not.Wasitthetimingofwhenshereceived the Yersin’s? But
Yersin’s is supposed to bepreventative. Does it lessentheeffectof thediseaseonceyougetit?DidPapagiveittoBilly once he got sick? Themore I think about this, themorequestionsIhave.ThedayofBilly’sservice,I
put on the black velvet dressAuntHortenseboughtforme.Papa,AuntHortense,Uncle
Karl,andIalldriveinBilly’smotorcar. Billy would have
wantedthis.Weknowthat.Jing is in thewagonwith a
few of the Sweeting servantswho have returned. We arejustabouttogowhenMaggyDoyleappearswearingadarkdressnooneknewshehad.Inthe eight years she hasworkedforus,shehasn’teverworn anything but heruniform, and she has neverlefttheproperty.She climbs into the wagon
withJing.At the church there are a
few hundred people,most ofwhom I have never seenbefore. Everybody knowsUncle Karl’s nephew died.Somepeopleknowitwastheplague, and still they come.Everybody wants to payrespects. I sit next to Papaholding his hand. He hasbarely been able to speaksinceBillydied.Hishearthas
beencrushed.Welistentotheministersayabunchofthingsthat don’t feel like they fitBilly.But only the people who
love Billy are allowed tocome to the cemetery after.Asweclimbthehill,Gemmaruns to me and holds myhand.Gus standsby, lookingtall and handsome in hisblack suit. Gus is smart andquiet and kind—so kind.My
stomach flutters when I seehim, but not as much as itdoeswhenIseeNoah.I stand by Mama’s
gravestone, and then we alltake turns speaking aboutBilly.UncleKarl talks abouthow clever he was. Thebeautiful black-haired girlfrom La Jeunesse says howgentlyheheldherhand.Papatells stories about when hewaslittleandchangedall the
clocks in the house so hecouldhavehisbirthdaypartyall over again. Papa says hekeepswaiting forBilly todothatnow.When it’s my turn, I read
mypoemforhim.It’stheonetimeIdon’tcry.
Billyhadbighands.Hewaswildandhewasgrand.Hetaughtmetolandsoft
whenIjumpedfromourloft.HetaughtmetheknackofridingbarebackAndhowtofightinthedeadofnight.Icouldn’tlearnBilly’scharmorsewstitchesinmyarm.Butwhenhesawedhimselfinhalf,Iwashisstaff.AndwhenIwasblue,he
alwaysknew.Icanvouchhecouldalsobeagrouch.ButhehadawayofshowingupJustwhenthingswereblowingup.AmilliontimeshecametomydefensewithUncleKarlandAuntHortense.BillygavePapaawholelotofwoe,
Andwewillmisshimso,so,so.
In the small cluster ofSweetingservantsleavingthecemetery, suddenly I see ahead I know well. Blackstraighthairandawhiteshirt.Asquarejawandbrighteyes.Noah! He brushes by me,pressinganoteintomyhand.Wesaynothing in thecrowdof people. I feel the heat of
his skin on my fingers longafterheletsgo.Gemma’s head whips
around. “Lizzie, where areyou?”“Here.” I wave one hand
while slipping the note intomypocketwiththeother,andhurry back to the Trotters. Iwalk with them, AuntHortense, Uncle Karl, andPapa.Nobodyhasanythingtosay.
In the powder room at theSweetings’, I unfold Noah’snote. 4 p.m. Sunday in thestable.YES!This is the firsttime I’ve been able to smilesinceBillydied.
That night in our drawingroom,UncleKarl,Papa,AuntHortense, and I talk thingsout in a way we haven’tbefore.I pepper Papa with
questions. Billywas youngerand stronger. Shouldn’t hehave been able to fight theplague better than Maggy?And how did Maggy andBillyget it? IsGus right, therats spread the plague? If so,how,exactly?Papaisinthebigchair.He’s
leaned over, resting his longarmsonhisknees.Heshakeshis head. “Those are myquestions,too.”
“We need to know thesethings,”Itellhim.“She’s right,” Aunt
Hortensewhispers.Hervoiceishoarse.“Idon’tunderstandwhyDr.
Roumalade kept insistingMaggy didn’t have theplague. Her symptoms weresoclear,”IsaytoUncleKarlandPapa.Aunt Hortense and Uncle
Karl, sitting together on the
sofa,exchangealook.“His patients are railroad
money,dear,”AuntHortensesays.“So?”“Wordgetsoutwehavethe
plague, people won’t betaking the train to SanFrancisco.”“Nobody likes to lose
money, Peanut,” Uncle Karlsays.“But he’s a doctor. He’s
supposed to take care ofpeople, not worry aboutmoney.” I jump up and startpacing. I’m too upset to sitstill.“No two ways about it, he
behaved abominably,” Papasays.“Yes.” Aunt Hortense’s
eyes are onUncleKarl. “Dr.Roumalade used Yersin’s toimmunize himself and thepatientswhocouldpay.”
“So he did believe theplaguewashere,”Isay.“Who knows what he
believes. But he certainlymade a pretty penny on theYersin’s,”UncleKarlsays.“Oh no! That’s not who
Billysolditto…isit?”Iask.The room goes silent. Papa
lookslikehe’sgoingtobeill,but it’s he who answers me.“He sold it to one of hisboxing buddies. A man who
had been on the boat fromHonolulu.”“Is that how the plague got
here?”“Apparently.”“Why did Roumalade say
there was no plague?” I ask.“Wouldn’t he have gottenmoremoney for theYersin’sif he’d said the plague washere?”“Hewasplayingbothsides.
Keeping his wealthy railroad
patients happy while makingmoney on the side. Besides,hecouldn’tverywellsay theplague was here when thesurgeongeneraloftheUnitedStates said there was noplague,”UncleKarlsays.“Is that what they all
believed?”Iask.“Impossibletoknow,”Aunt
Hortensesays.“Why did you get upset
about that monkey?” I ask
UncleKarl.“Consensus was that the
monkey, guinea pig, and ratbusiness was a stunt. Dr.Kinyoun, the so-called wolfdoctor, concocted the wholething to save his hide.Nobody thought thequarantinewaswarranted.Hewanted to prove it was. Ididn’t want to give credencetowhateveryonethoughtwaspurenonsense.”
“It wasn’t much of aquarantine.Thereweren’tanydoctorsornurses,”Isay.“Kinyoun had the power to
call the quarantine, but hecouldn’t get the rest of themedical communityonboardwithit,”UncleKarlexplains.“Buthewasright.”Uncle Karl sighs. “He was
right. We know that now.But, Peanut, I’m in the newsbusiness, not the history
business.Ihavetocalleventsas they’re unfolding. Therewasn’t a reputable doctor inthe whole state who thoughtthiswastheplague.”“You know who else was
right,” Aunt Hortensewhispers.“Hearst.”“Mary, mother of God,
woman,doyouhavetobringthatup?”“Hearst printed plague
stories to sell more
newspapers. You did whatyou thought was right, Karl.You kept unfoundedallegations out of the news.”Papa’svoiceisquiet.UncleKarlstaresatPapa.“I
appreciate your saying that,Jules. Means a lot comingfromyou.”Papa nods. His movements
are slow, as if everything hedoesispainful.“Even with all that, why
would Dr. Roumalade try togive Maggy the Haffkine’s?Hemusthaveknownshehadthe plague. Did he want tokillher?”“Doyouknowforcertainit
wasHaffkine’s?”Papaasks.“Iknowitwasn’tYersin’s,”
Isay.“My bet is it was sugar
water,”Papasays.Uncle Karl nods. “Even
Haffkine’s costs money.
Roumalademusthavefigureda servant who has alreadycontractedtheplagueisalostcause. Better to give her thecheapestthingpossible.“Which reminds me, Mrs.
Sweeting,” Uncle Karlcontinues. “I got a bill fromRoumalade. He charged mean arm and a leg for theYersin’s, which I wasexpecting.Buthisbillsaysheimmunized three Kennedy
servants. It was only MaggyandJing.”Aunt Hortense’s eyes flash
tome.Thelookonherfaceisshocking. Does she knowaboutNoah?“That’s right. Two
servants,” Aunt Hortensesays.“Butpayitanyway.I’mon that children’s hospitalcharity committee with hiswife.I’djustassoonnothavetrouble with Hillary
Roumalade.”
I
Chapter36
TooManySecrets
’mhelpingAuntHortensewrite cards to all the
people who sent flowers forBilly.Wewear black and sitat a table in her sitting room
with the big windows thatopen out to the balconyoverlooking the garden. Iwatch her write. She hasbetterhandwritingthanIdo.“Why do people keep
secrets?”Iaskher.Shelooksup.“Becausethey
don’t trust each other, Isuppose, although there areallkindsofsecrets.Someareharmless.Somearenot.”“It seems like there have
been way too many secrets.I’m going to live the wayPapa does. Straightforwardandhonest.Nosecrets.”“You are, are you?” She
dipsherpenintotheink.“Yes.”Shetapstheexcessinkfrom
the nib. “In a perfect world,wewouldn’tneedsecrets.Buttheworld’s a longway fromperfect. Still, I try to be asstraightforward as I can,
which is a challenge, givenwhoI’mmarriedto.”“IfBillyhadtolduswhathe
wasdoing,ifhehadn’tkeptitsecret, we could have talkedhimoutofit,”Isay.She stops. “Billy was
headstrong. He wasn’t aneasyonetosway.”“Ifonlyhewerehere,andI
could convince him now. IknowjustwhatI’dsay.”“Whichis…”
“I’d tellhimhow importanthis life is tome and to PapaandtoyouandtoUncleKarl.I’d say he has to hold itgently in his hands as if it isthemostpreciousthingintheworld.Andneverevertradeitfor money. I’d tell himmoney is only wrinkled oldpaper. It’s nothing at allcompared to him, comparedtohislife.”“Iwishyoucouldhavetold
him that, too.” Her eyessearchmine.“Lizzie?”“Yes,ma’am.”“When were you going to
tellmethatJinghasason?”Icough,almostchoking.“I sawhimwith Jing.They
looksomuchalike, itwasn’thard to figure out.” She runsher hand along the penfeather.I remember how Billy said
Aunt Hortense is more
complicated than I give hercredit for,but thereare somethings she’ll never tolerate.MedancingwithNoahisoneofthem.Itreadcarefully.“He’s about your age, isn’t
he?”AuntHortenseasks.“Yes,ma’am,”Isay.“But he’s not working for
anyone.”“No,ma’am.”She nods. “Why do you
supposethatis?”
“Hewantstogotocollege,”Iwhisper.“Likeme.”One carefully shaped
eyebrow rises. I hold mybreath.She turns away. “Of course
you’ll need a propereducation,Elizabeth,andthenmedical school … if you’regoingtobeadoctor.”Igasp.She looks back at me. “I
wanted a different life for
you. Your father wanted adifferent life for Billy. Butthat didn’t work, did it?You’ll have to”—she canhardlygetthewordsoutoverthe welling in her throat—“liveyourlifeyourway.”“AuntHortense!”Ijumpup
and throw my arms aroundher.“Mygoodness,Lizzie.”Her
voice ishusky.She takesouther handkerchief and tries to
cleanupherface.Butassoonasshedoes,moretearscomedown.
Atquarter to four, Icheck toseewhere everyone is in thehouse. Papa is in his room.He is still so sad aboutBillythathecanhardlyeat.Iknowhewillget through it, justashe didwhenMamadied, butrightnowit’shard.Maggyison the porch knitting. She’s
almost all better. AuntHortense andUncle Karl areat their house. Jing is in thekitchen adding sugar to aboiling pot of apples. Theway he watches me, I knowhe knows that I’m meetingNoah.“Lizzie,” he says as I open
thebackdoor.“Yes, sir.” The word pops
outofmymouthwithoutmeeven thinking about it. Papa
and Uncle Karl are always“sir,”butneverJing.Jing’s shoulders pull back;
hisheadrises.Oureyesmeet.He doesn’t try to make melaugh. He has no frog in hispocket, no quarter in his ear,no feather or stone up hissleeve.He stirs the apples. “Your
mamawouldhavebeenproudofyou,”hesays.His words are warm inside
meas Iwalkout to thebarn.He has never said anythinglikethisbefore.Orange Tom lurks in the
foggy darkening afternoon,his thick fur matted on oneside, tail fleckedwith bits ofleavesandstraw.I open the barn door.Noah
standspettingJuliet’smuzzle.“Lizzie.”Hetakesmyhand.
“I’msorryaboutBilly.”Theheatofhishandwarms
mine.We start todance.Our first
stepsarestiff;thenslowlytherhythmbuilds.Myhandfeelssolid on Noah’s shirt as wecirclethestable.Noah steadies me. I don’t
care if I make a wrong stepwhenI’mwithhim.Wefloattogether,breathing
in the sweet smell of alfalfa.Only Julietwatches, slurpingher water. John Henry is
asleep.I don’t want this to end. I
holdontoeveryminute.Theworld is kinder with Noahholdingmyhand.When he lets go, he
crouches and pounces. Hejumps back onto his springylegs and then up onto hishands.One day, I’ll see Noah
performhis liondance inhiscostume with all of his
friends.Fornow, it’s time togo.AuntHortensehascomealong way, but I can’t upsether. Not now. Not after allwe’vebeenthrough.One day, things will be
different.One day, she’ll understand
thatNoahismyfriend.“I’ll be back soon,” Noah
says.Inod.By the chicken coop, I
capture Orange Tom. Hedoesn’t give me a chase thistime.Hesimplyallowsmetoscoop him up and carry himtomy room. I write one lastmessage.MyhandsshakeasIwrap the red thread aroundthenote.
UniversityofCaliforniain5years
Noah,Savemeachair.
I’llbethere.Lizzie
Glossary
Transliteration ChineseCharactersFriend“pungyau”朋友Hello“neiho”你好Papa“baba”爸爸Thankyou“dohje”謝謝
Author’sNote
The Monkey’s Secret isfiction. Lizzie and Noah’sstoryispurelyimagined.Theaccountof the1900outbreakof bubonic plague in SanFranciscowas true. I tried tostick to the facts asmuch aspossible, but I altered the
timingofsomeevents.Itookcreative license in extendingthe time between when theguinea pigs and the rat diedand the monkey’s demise. Imoved up the forcedimmunization usingHaffkineand only included onequarantine, when there wereactually two.Thechronologyattheendofthissectionlaysoutthetruedatesofevents.
TheCity“In 1900, white SanFranciscowasasophisticatedcity of 350,000 people,”1many of whom werefreewheeling, chock-full ofoptimismandbravado.Somehad become millionairesnearlyovernight,findingtheirfortunesintheGoldRush,therailroads,theComstocksilvermines, or the sugar business.The city was suffering the
growing pains of turning aWildWestminingboomtowninto the Paris of the Pacific.And though it was theVictorian era, in SanFrancisco there were “fewerrules and regulations than inwell-established cities backEast.”2
At the turnof the twentiethcentury, there were “onlyabout eight thousand cars inthe country.”3 Many people
did not welcome the newcontraptions. One of thereasons people were seekingto develop this form oftransportationwasbecauseofthe pollution caused byhorses. Manure, dust, anddeadhorsesonthestreetwereallbigproblems.Butthefirstmotorcars were quiteprimitive.Inearlyautoraces,a car was consideredsuccessful if it reached the
finishline.ThewinnerofthefirstAmericanraceclockedinatsevenmilesanhour.4
Street performerswere alsoa big part of the vibrant citylife. Though the Astral Dogscene was fiction, the ideacame from a memoir byMalcolm Barker about late-nineteenth-century SanFrancisco that included thisline: “A trick dog knowswhichgirlisyoursoulmate.”
ChinatownPrejudiceagainsttheChinese,whostoodonthelowestrungof the immigrant ladder,wasatitszenithattheturnofthetwentieth century, and“Chinatown was the districtSan Francisco demonized.”5Chinatown was its own citywithin San Francisco, anexotic ghetto crowded withtwenty thousand ChineseAmericans. Many white San
Franciscans held theChineseresponsible for allmanner ofdiseasesandsocialills.“As long as times were
good, the Chinese wereaccepted, but a late-nineteenth-centurydepressionturned the tide. Formerlyprized for their productivity,theChinesenowwerecastascunning and insidious jobstealers.”6
Chinese children were not
welcomeinpublicschools:
The(Chinese)boyswere sent toschool;thatis,tothe Chineseschool;theywerenotallowedtogoto the Europeanschool. At thattime, there wasonepublicschoolof about four
rooms, on ClayStreet, betweenStockton andPowell Streets,those inattendance beingmostly Japaneseand other races… The Chineseboyswenttotheirownschool.7
Thisaccountmakesitsound
as though Chinese girls didnotattendschoolatall. Ididfind other sources indicatingthat some Chinese girlsattended school along withChinese boys. DonaldinaCameron,whoappearsinthisnovel, was a real personknownastheAngryAngelofChinatown. She made it hermission to rescue Chinesegirlswho had been sold intoslavery.
MedicineRudyard Kipling once said,“Wonderful little our fathersknew.Half of their remediescured you dead.” And thatwas certainly true ofmedicine in 1900, though itwasafascinatingtime,ontheverge of epic change. Germtheorywas in its infancy,yetmany doctors did notunderstand—much lessbelieve—the science behind
it:
To the SanFranciscocitizens of 1900—even to mostpracticingphysicians—thenew bacteriologywas still a formof black magic:mysterious,dimlyunderstood,
untrustworthyand inferior tothe laying on ofhands and theobservation ofsymptoms at thebedside.8
Hospitals were widelydistrusted. Doctors routinelymade house calls andperformed operations onkitchen tables. Many barely
madea living.Better tohaveyoursonbeablacksmithorabricklayerthanaphysician.Some daughters of doctors
did accompany their fathersonhousecalls.Onesuchgirlwrote: “Whenever it waspossible,hetookmewithhimon his calls in the country. Iwas always eager to go: Iloved just being with him.”9And from the memoir of acountry doctor: “When the
roadswere good and the tripnottoolong,Itookmyblack-eyed little daughter withme.”10
Therewereveryfewfemaledoctors. And of course,womendidnotyetwearpantsorhavetheright tovote,andtheywereoftenrefusedentrytobars,restaurants,andotherbusinesses.
ThePlague
Bubonicplague isoneof themost feared diseases of alltime, thought to beresponsible for the death ofonefourthtoonethirdof thetotal population ofEurope intheMiddleAges.(Pneumonicplague is a type of bubonicplague contracted by about 3percentofcases.Itisfarmorecontagious than regularbubonic plague.) It isgenerally transferred from
persontopersonviaratfleas.The fleas suck the blood oftheinfectedrat.Whentheratdies, the flea hops to a newhost. The infected flea bitesits new host and injects theplague directly into thebloodstream.In1897,Paul-LouisSimond
discovered that rat fleasspread the disease. Hepublishedhisfindings,buthisresearch had not yet been
given the blessing of thescientificcommunity.In1900the U.S. Surgeon Generalpublishedareportstatingthattheplaguewascontractedbybreathing contaminated air.Though incorrect, it was theprevailingopinionatthetime.Throughout history, there
was anecdotal evidence thatlinkedratdeathtotheplague.“An ancient Indian text theBhagavat Puran, had, long
before, warned people toleave theirhouseswhena ratfell from the roof, totteredabout the floor and died; forthenbe sure thatplague is athand.”11
San Francisco rat fleasdiffer slightly fromAsian ratfleas and are less successfulat plague pathogen transfer.This may be one of thereasonstheplaguedidnotdoas much damage in San
Francisco as it did in otherlocations.Evenso,theplagueis mysterious. As authorEdward Marriott stated, “Ifdiseases have personalities,plague is an escape artist, acriminal Houdini.”12 How,for example, did the scourgeof the Black Death finallyend?Nobodyreallyknows.
The First Plague OutbreakinSanFrancisco
OnMarch6,1900,aChinamandiedof Plague inChinatown andvery soonthereafter othersof hiscountrymensuccumbed to thesame dreaddisease. Thelocal and federal
healthauthoritieswere thoroughlyalive to thesituationfromthestart, butencounteredinnumerableobstacles in theirefforts to controlthe disease. Thestory of howshort-sightedcommercialism
connived withlying newspapersto deceive SanFranciscansastothe actualpresence andextent of thePlagueisablackchapter in thehistory of thisfair city whichwill never begivenmuchspace
inalayhistory.13
Thewolfdoctor,Dr.JosephKinyoun, was trained at thePasteur Institute in thenascent science ofbacteriology. Hewas able toextract the plague pathogenfrom the corpse of the first-known casualty and inject itinto a rat, two guinea pigs,andamonkey.If theanimalsdied, he believed it would
confirmhisplaguediagnosis.Butnoonelikedthearrogant,abrasive Dr. Kinyoun, andwhen first the rat and theguinea pigs and later themonkeydied,itwaseasiertoattribute the deaths toKinyoun’s intervention thantotheplaguevirus.14The partial newspaper
account in the text on page200 is almost verbatim fromChung Sai Yat Po. Below is
anextractfromtheCall:
After appearing ina continuousperformance ofthree days, in ascientific farce,which proved tobe a commercialtragedy to SanFrancisco, theBubonicBoardofHealth, relying
on the testimonyof a rat, amonkey and aguinea pig, leftthe footlights,raised thequarantine ofChinatown andleft the city torecover,asbestitcan, from thewidespreaddamage inflicted
upon its tradeand every othermaterialinterest.What a spectaclethe incidentpresents! TheChief of Policehurrying atmidnight to ropein a quarter ofthe city; theBubonic Boardadopting the
phraseology ofgrave emergencyby bulletins thathad “thesituation well inhand” and inother termspromoting thebelief that it hadidentified theplague and hadgiven thepestilence a
flying switchfrom the glandsofaChinese intothose of aguinea-pig; thestolidindifference ofthe city; theinefficiencyofthequarantinemaintained bythe Chief ofPolice, which it
is said, Chineseboastofescapingbythepaymentofadollarahead—all go to make arecord of officialimbecility, andworse that hasnot been equaledin the history ofthe city. It isenough to makethe guinea pig
grin.15
Still, clear evidence of theplague could be found. “Inthe Chinatown epidemic,eighty-sevendeadrats,elevendead of the plague, werefound in the walls of aChinese restaurant. Severalcases of human plague hadbeen traced to this place, butthey immediately ceasedwhen the rats were cleaned
out.”16TheYersin versusHaffkine
immunization question alsoclosely hewed to actualevents. The Yersin’s didcomefromhorses,anditwasexpensive.Medicalpersonnelwere given thisimmunization, which wasthought to bemore effective.The Haffkine immunizationhad significant side effects,and it was dangerous if
injected into peoplewho hadalready been exposed to theplague. There is now,however, some questionabout how effective theYersinwas—though thatwasnotknownatthetime.It is also true that the
surgeongeneral“prescribedamass vaccination of all theChinese … [with Haffkinewhich] was violentlyunpopular in Chinatown.”17
Andonegirldidjumpoutthewindow rather than beimmunized.18
ConfusionandDenialMany people in both theCaucasian and Chinesecommunities had reason todenytheplagueoutbreak.SanFranciscans were vested inthe rise of their city. Therailroads brought tourists tothe jewel of the Pacific.
Imports arrived and exportsshipped from thriving ports.News of a plague outbreakwould have brought thebusinessofSanFranciscotoagrindinghalt.The Chinese feared
scapegoating with goodreason. The quarantine hadbeen patently unfair. AnyCaucasian person wasallowedoutofthequarantinearea, whereas the Chinese
were not. (Many SanFranciscans believed onlypersons of Chinese descentcould be infected by theplague,whichwas,ofcourse,untrue.) Then, too, theChinese feared thatChinatownwouldbetorched,as had happened when theplague struck Honolulu.19“By Friday, it is hoped thatwe will know that this wasnot the plague. Otherwise
what happened in Honolulumight happen to us.”20 Evenbeforetheplaguecrisis,therewere people who activelycampaigned to burnChinatown.Perhaps theonlybusinesses
tobeglad for a plague crisiswere the undertakers and theHearst newspaper enterprise.Hearstrealizedaplaguescarewould be good forcirculation, and he made the
most of it. All of the othernewspapersconspiredtokeepany real news of the plagueout of their pages. “In astunningadmissiononMarch25, the Call’s editorsadmitted that they and theChronicle’seditorshadmadea mutual pact of silence ontheplague.”21
It is impossible to knowhowmanypeoplediedof theplague. Doctors routinely
misdiagnosed it. “Mostphysicians’ attempts tounderstand plague amountedto little more than wildfumbling, their theories bornofprejudice.”22
People hid their plaguevictims—either by shippingthemoutofthecityhiddeninbarrels and boxes or viapaperwork ruseswhereby thecauseofdeathwasattributedto other diseases. Official
plague death toll accountsvaryfrom250to280people,but“toarriveatabettersenseoftherealnumbersofdeathswould require a carefulbiostatistical analysis of theunusual rise in deathsbetween 1900 and 1901recorded as acute syphilis orpneumonia…”23
“Chinese residents,concerned that their homeswould be burned down, hid
their sick relatives and thenshuttled them out of the cityin small boats at night.Sometimeswhenaninspectorarrived before a body couldbe removed, a dead manwouldbeproppedupnext toa table in an undergroundroom, his hands arrangedcarefullyoverdominoes.”24
EradicatingthePlagueBy1905thefirstplaguecrisis
hadsubsided.Chinatownandsurrounding areas had beenscoured from top to bottom,which made them lessattractive to the ratpopulation.When the secondSan Francisco plagueepidemic hit after the 1906earthquake, therewerefewifany plague deaths inChinatown. “Between thefirst [plague] epidemic in1900andthesecondin1907,
theroleofthefleaandtheratin transmitting plague tohuman populations waselucidated.”25 And the newsurgeongeneral,RupertBlue,was able to stop the plaguethrough an extensive ratteryoperation, which aimed totrap and kill 1,200 rats perday.
Notes
1. Crichton, Judy,America 1900 (NewYork: Henry Holt andCompany,1998)28.2. Barker, Malcolm E.,More San FranciscoMemoirs, 1852–-1899:The Ripening Years
(San Francisco:LondonbornPublications,1996)27.3. Crichton, America1900,15.4. Library of Congress:http://www.americaslibrary.gov/jb/progress/jb_progress_autorace_1.html(accessedNovember26,2014).5.Craddock, Susan,Cityof Plagues: Disease,Poverty, and Deviancein San Francisco
(Minneapolis:UniversityofMinnesotaPress,2000)55.6. Chase, Marilyn, TheBarbary Plague: TheBlack Death inVictorianSanFrancisco(New York: RandomHouse,2003)9.7. “The VirtualMuseumof the City of SanFrancisco,”:sfmuseum
.net/hist9/cook.html.8. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,46.9. Hawkins, Cora Frear,Buggies, Blizzards andBabies (Ames: IowaState University Press,1971)72.10. Hertzler, Arthur E.,M.D., The Horse andBuggyDoctor (Lincoln:University of NebraskaPress,1938)126.
11. Barnett, S. Anthony,TheStoryofRats:TheirImpact onUs, andOurImpact on Them(Australia: Allen &Unwin,2001)32.12. Marriott, Edward,Plague: A Story ofScience,RivalryandtheScourgeThatWon’tGoAway (New York:HenryHolt,2004)230.13. Marion, Jay, A
History of theCalifornia Academy ofMedicine, 1870–-1930(San Francisco:Grabhorn Press for theCalifornia Academy ofMedicine1930)85.14. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,47.15. San Francisco Call,3.11.1900:http://cdnc.ucr.edu/cgi-bin/cdnc?
a=d&d=SFC19000311.2.8016.Todd, FrankMorton,Eradicating Plaguefrom San Francisco:Report of the Citizens’Health Committee (SanFrancisco: Press of C.A.Murdock,1909)21.17. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,48–-49.18. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,50.19. Chase, The Barbary
Plague,19.20. Chung Sai Yat Po,March7,1900p.1. (inChase, The BarbaryPlague,19.)21. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,54.22. Marriott, Plague: AStory of Science,RivalryandtheScourgeThat Won’t Go Away13.23. Echenberg, Myron,
Plague Ports: TheGlobalUrbanImpactofBubonic PlagueBetween1894and1901(New York: New YorkUniversity Press, 2007)231.24. Sullivan, Robert,Rats: Observations ontheHistoryandHabitatof the City’s MostUnwanted Inhabitants(New York:
Bloomsbury,2004)157.25. Craddock, City ofPlagues,18.
Chronology
1900
January 2. SanFrancisco dock.The steamerAustralia arrivesfrom Honolulu,where the plaguehas struck. Rats
fromtheshiparebelieved to runup the sewers toChinatown.January–-February.Chinatown.Chinese observean inordinatenumber of ratsdying.March 6.Chinatown. A
man dies fromtheplagueinSanFrancisco. Firstknowncasehere.March 7. AngelIsland. Dr.Kinyoun, thewolf doctor,injects plaguefrom the deadman into a rat,two guinea pigs,andamonkey.
March 7–-10.First Chinatownquarantine.March 12. AngelIsland. The ratand the guineapigsdie.March 13. AngelIsland. Themonkeydies.March–-May.More deathsfromtheplague.
May29–-June15.SecondChinatownquarantine.June 14. Thegovernor ofCalifornia(Governor Gage)and the deans ofthree medicalschools sign amanifesto thatstates there is no
plague in SanFrancisco.
1902–1908November 1902.The city beginstotrytogetitsratpopulation undercontrol.February 1905.San Francisco’sfirst plagueoutbreak is
declaredover.April 18, 1906.The SanFranciscoEarthquake andfire rip the cityapart. In theensuingdays,ratsgain a footholdagain and theplague returnswith avengeance.
November 1908.The plague isfinallyvanquished inSanFrancisco.
AbouttheAuthor
Gennifer Choldenko is theNew York Times bestsellingandNewberyHonor–winningauthor of many popularchildren’s books, includingNotes from a Liar and HerDog,IfaTreeFallsatLunchPeriod, Al Capone Does My
Shirts,AlCapone ShinesMyShoes, Al Capone Does MyHomework, and NoPassengers Beyond ThisPoint. She lives in the SanFrancisco Bay Area, whereshe hopes never to see a rat.Dead or otherwise. Visit heronlineatcholdenko.com.
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