“Hi, Cole, this is Gia. Do you remember me?” The door to the restroom banged open. I paused and peered through the crack between the stalls. A woman with red hair, wearing all black except for the floral scarf around her neck, went into the last cubicle.
“I know who you are,” Cole said. “You’re Jaran’s friend. Do you know where he is? The home for the foreign exchange students is empty. They’re all gone.” His disappointment tugged at my heartstrings and tied them into knots. He missed Jaran.
“Their funding fell through,” I said. “Listen, I don’t have much time. Jaran is visiting relatives in Africa. He wanted me to let you know. Said he’d contact you soon.”
“Did he say anything else?” There was hope in his voice this time.
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.” Jaran would shish kabob me with his sword for what I was about to say. “He said he loved you.”
“Really?” Now he sounded excited. “If you talk to him again, can you tell him I feel the same, and that I’ll wait for him? Tell him to email or text me when he can.”
He loves him. Aww…
“I sure will.”
“Great,” he said. “And thank you for calling.”
“No problem. Bye.” I pushed the end button then dialed Nana’s cell phone number. It went straight to her voicemail, so I called her home. No answer. I’d have to try reaching her another time.
I flipped the phone shut and decided I’d better return it.
The table the man had occupied was now abandoned. I placed the phone on the chair he’d sat on. When he realized it was missing, he’d come back and find it there.
I found the exit and dashed outside. Buildings lined the streets and soared into the sky. Everything was crowded—the streets, the sidewalks, and even the clouds overhead. The church was about ten blocks away. People on Fifth Avenue rushed from one place to another. I weaved around them and headed in the direction of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Thin beams of sunlight broke through the clouds and spotlighted parts of the city. Fall leaves danced over the sidewalks, pushed along by the breeze. My trench coat fit the cold day.
The cathedral was a gothic-style building spanning an entire block, made of white marble, with spires reaching into the sky. My brain felt overwhelmed by the many details—from its lattice accents to its tall stained-glass windows, all of it was awe-inspiring.
I stood in front of the massive bronze doors with statues of the Holy Family, Saint Patrick, and other saints inserted in square niches within the metal. If only I had my cell phone, I could text Afton pics to put in one of her architecture scrapbooks.
“You can’t enter through there,” said a woman with a messy bun at the top of her head and a little boy pulling on her arm. “Admittance is through the side doors.”
“Thanks,” I said and went around the column to where she’d pointed.
A man with a buzz cut in a dark suit inspected my bag at the security check and held up the Chiave badge.
“Part of a costume I’m designing for a show.” I answered his question before he could ask it, keeping my arm close to my side so he wouldn’t notice my sword under my trench coat.
Please don’t ask me to remove my jacket. I concentrated on breathing normally as he stared at me for a long moment.
He finally handed me my bag and nodded me through. I could hardly believe he hadn’t checked to see if I had anything under my coat. How safe was that? It had to be a mistake. I wanted to run to the prayer candles before he noticed, grab whatever Gian had hidden there, and hurry back to the library.
Rows of polished wooden pews ran the length of the gothic-style cathedral. I measured my steps and headed down the right aisle on the far side of the pews, imagining Gian there in the 1930s. The place probably looked the same back then as it did now. The tall stained-glass windows were even more beautiful viewed from the inside. There were so many artifacts and statues my eyes couldn’t take them all in.
Prayer candle stands were everywhere. I wasn’t sure which altar held Gian’s secret, so I retrieved the laminated prayer card from my bag and studied it. Prayer candle, seventh row, three in. It was the only clue written on the card. I turned it over and there were no marks on the back. I’d have to check every stand for the correct candle. This was going to take some time, and there were way too many people around.
In the alcoves on each side of the pews were altars and votive stands. The fourth one on the right caught my eye. There were three statues of women, probably saints, in the center and an angel on each side of them. On the backside of Gian’s prayer card was a small picture of it. I hadn’t thought the other stuff on the card would be clues. The photo’s label read, Altar of Saint Rose of Lima.
This has to be it.
A man and woman in their fifties or something were at the stone railing in front of the prayer candles. The woman stood on the kneeler aiming a fancy looking camera at the center statue of a saint cradling a cross with a wreath of flowers on her head. I decided to sit in the nearest pew and wait for them to finish.
The crowd seemed to be thinning. A group posed together in front of the main altar, a girl angled her phone with a selfie stick to capture herself in front of another statue, and others shuffled around, heads thrown back, trying to take in all the treasures adorning the cathedral.
Once the couple left, I waited until three women passed before stepping over the barrier. The candle stand looked too modern to be from Gian’s time. Starting from the right side of the stand, I counted seven rows down, three in, and searched the circumference of the votive hoping to find something, but came up empty. I did the same with the candles on the left. Nothing there, either.
Disappointment slumped my shoulders. I was at a dead end. The candle stand Gian had put his message in must have been replaced ages ago.
At the sound of someone approaching, I hid behind the wall of the arch. A priest rushed up the aisle, and I held my breath, only releasing it when he’d disappeared around the corner. I glanced at the flickering wicks on the few prayer candles still lit on the stand.
Maybe I missed something. It wouldn’t hurt to try again, I reasoned.
Tightening my hands into fists and then stretching out my fingers as wide as a Ping-Pong paddle, I tried to control the nerves bubbling inside my stomach.
What would happen if I was caught?
Fist. Paddle.
They’d just kick me out. That’s all.
Fist. Paddle.
No need to freak out, Gia.
I relaxed my hands and peered around the wall. A few tourists were across the way from me, their backs turned. Carrig had drilled during our practices that sudden movements would attract attention. Slow, fluid ones and you’d blend into the environment, he’d said. I eased out of my hiding place and crossed over to the stand. He was right—no one noticed me.