in strangely shaped gilt letters: New Almanack Of Khazaria, Tartary, Turkestan And The Lands Of The Caucasus. Where was Khazaria? I’d never heard of it, and I get A’s in geography.
A cool breeze wafted through the gap the atlas had left behind, smelling of ozone and salt water. But the space behind had no windows or doors and was lit by a bare light bulb with a chain. How could that wind come from the city outside? To find out, I had to empty three more shelves full of books, then lift out the shelves themselves and put them on top of the books. That made a gap so narrow I had to turn sideways and duck my head to get through. But it was worth it. I was in the secret room!
As well as books, there were shelves of antique vinyl records in their silly oversize cardboard jackets. I picked up a thick boxed set. On the front was an overhead shot of a huge crowd filling an enormous green space between skyscrapers. At the corners were circular photos of four middle-aged men. I giggled at their funny hairstyles. Printed across the top of the box was The Reunion. Central Park. September 6, 1983. The cover opened out, like a book, but the liner notes weren’t much help. “Greatest event in the history of rock and roll. The Fab Four come together again!” Yeah, right. Must be someone’s idea of a joke. Even I knew that the Beatles never played together after they broke up in 1970. And by 1983, John Lennon was dead.
Nana always used to talk about how hard she’d cried the day he was killed by a crazy fan. “I was twelve years old, Teresa, the same age you are now, when I first saw them on the Ed Sullivan Show” she’d said, ruffling my hair. Then she taught me the words to “Eleanor Rigby.” All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? I wiped away a tear. That was five years ago, when Nana was still alive, before my whole world blew up.
Even if this was a joke, now that I held the box in my hands, I couldn’t bear to put it down. So I clutched it under my arm as I browsed through the shelves of books. There was something thrilling about these books, as old as they were and despite the fact that many were in foreign languages I couldn’t read or even identify. Most of the ones in English were by writers I’d never heard of. I dawdled, trying to decide what to read first, until I spotted a bundle of papers on the floor and knelt down to pick them up, expecting to see Gloria’s handwriting again.
The paper had a heavy, old-fashioned texture, and the ink was like the stuff used to blot out the prices on all the books. Had the writer used an actual fountain pen? Or maybe a quill? The bundle was a section that had fallen out of a book—a lined journal from the looks of it. Excitement bubbled up. Was I holding part of a centuries-old diary? But then I turned to the first page. The date was just last week.
14 November
What luck to have stumbled upon this unknown bookstore. Or maybe it is a Dewey Lending Library, since there are no prices on any-thing. What shop owner does not want his shillings? None that I have ever met. I should say her shillings, since this place is called Gloria’s Gateway Books and Records. Touring King’s College last summer—Dad so hopes I will go to his old school, and I so much want to go farther away!—I already learnt that I am not nearly as well read as I thought I was, but this place! So many books I have never even heard of! The history section is especially confusing; it seems to be filled mostly with fantastic fiction about histories that never were, written as if they were straight fact. Imagine, America and England two separate countries! Napoléon defeated at some place called Waterloo! And most amazing of all, dragons as myths!
I wish I could find the owner or the librarian or somebody so I should feel right in taking a book home with me. Yes, there was a note on the counter beside the cash register and a nice hot cup of tea that said, “Please be careful not to drip on the books. When you find what you need, you will know what it is worth and what you must leave in exchange.” But I have nothing with me that could possibly be worth the book I have chosen—an elaborate fantasy about a teenage girl and her genius little brother, who have to rescue their father from a distant planet where he is being held captive…
Wait a second. That’s A Wrinkle in Time, one of my all-time favorite books! I read it my first year in middle school, with my all-time favorite teacher, Miss Keylor. Maybe I could find some clue about where this guy lived, or at least his name. But there were only a few more lines. Something about how he (I knew it was a guy, from his odd, neat handwriting) was worried about finding his way home, or actually, back to his boarding school, “for I was quite lost when I arrived here, in a blizzard that seems to have sprung out of nowhere. I’m afraid the staff will tell my parents I have run away after so many miserable weeks at St. George’s Academy, with that horrible Jeremy Adams lying in wait for me every day. Not that running away would not be a good idea. But I must be going!”
I closed my eyes when I reached the last line, the secret room tipping slowly around me, as if I was an astronaut in free fall. If I’d tried to imagine a guy right for me, I couldn’t have come up with anyone more perfect. And yet—dragons? Napoleon? Was this another joke, like the impossible Beatles reunion album? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to me. My face burned.
Last year I found a note in my locker from Kevin McCabe, the captain of the football team.
Teresa, I know this is stupid. I’m the big dumb jock who copies off you in chemistry class and you’re the brainiac nerd. But there’s no one I can talk to on the team, and Kylie’s pretty and all but she isn’t sweet and understanding like you. Those big brown eyes behind your glasses! Can you meet me after practice today?
Could I? I waited shivering under a December sky as cold and gray as a dead computer monitor, watching the boys slam into each other. As Kevin puffed off the field, I reached out and touched his sleeve. He frowned, then curled his lip, as if he’d found a rotten apple on his lunch tray.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, as laughter came from the girls’ locker room. They stood watching me, Kylie and all her crowd.
But could they think of a prank this elaborate? No way they’re smart enough, or hard-working enough. Besides, how could they create a whole mysterious bookstore and lure me into it?
Still, I stood. “Kylie? Heather? You can start laughing now. I fell for it!” Silence.
Tiferet appeared and rubbed against my legs, purring. My fat lumpy legs. How could I have the nerve to talk to any boy? Especially one I didn’t even know. Well, because I didn’t even know his name. And I wouldn’t be talking to him, I’d just be writing to him. If I never found the bookstore again, or if he never answered, what would it matter? Before I could talk myself out of it, I fumbled around in my bookbag, found a pen (a smeary cheap pink pen, but that was all I had) and began after his note stopped. Taking a deep breath, I ignored my racing heart and wrote—
I’ll be back Sunday afternoon at 3. Did you know Madeline L’Engle wrote four sequels to A Wrinkle in Time? I’ll bring all the ones I have in case Gloria doesn’t have them. See you then! Teresa.
I put the pages back on the floor and wormed my way out of the secret room. I must’ve moved too fast, though, and I brought down an avalanche of books that covered the opening. What a mess! Clumsy Teresa! I picked up a few books and reshelved them, but even more came tumbling down, and I backed away, biting my lip. Then my glasses slipped off and landed on the floor, and when I bent down, I caught a glimpse of the bookstore window. The black sky was full of swiftly falling snowflakes. Oh, no! How could it have gotten so late? Time to turn the phone back on and find out where the hell I was and how to get home. But when I powered it up, my phone was ominously silent. NO NETWORK blinked in large, unfriendly red letters on the gray screen.
“How can you be out of range?”
It just kept flashing NO NETWORK. My eyes filled and tears rolled down my cheeks. How was I ever going to find my way home?
