“Too early for what?”
Her mother made a tiny sound like a cross between a sigh and a sob and put her head down on the table. She did that a lot—sighing and sobbing and putting her head down on the table. She did it so much yesterday that her dad told her that she had to stop BURSTING INTO HYSTERICS at the drop of a hat. Cricket’s special word book defined hysterics as “a fit of laughing or crying or yelling.” But Cricket’s dad was the one yelling and nobody had dropped any hats anywhere. When Cricket informed him of all this, his face got as red as a riding hood. She was going to tell him about being as red as a riding hood, too, but she decided to bridle her honesty.
Anyway, all the adults in the building seemed to be BURSTING INTO HYSTERICS, one after the other, like the first graders in Cricket’s class passing around the sniffles. Her mother tried to explain why. She said all the adults were upset because some man named Dermal Plant bought the building where they lived and didn’t want them to live there anymore. Daddy was especially upset because they’d probably have to go stay with Cranky Cousin Gordon in Bayonne, New Jersey. Cranky Cousin Gordon’s whole house smelled like nachos even though Cricket had never once seen him eat nachos. PECULIAR.
Once Dad got out of bed, her parents would probably start arguing about Cranky Cousin Gordon again and Dermal Plant and nachos, and Dad would flail around accusing everyone of BURSTING INTO HYSTERICS.
Cricket had better things to do.
“I’m going to take Karl for a ride.”
Her mother didn’t lift her head from the table. Her voice was muffled when she said, “Don’t you want to wait for your brother to wake up? Maybe he can be your sidekick.”
“Otto is just a dumb baby. Karl is my sidekick. He has a bandit mask and tiny monkey fingers.”
“Monkey fingers,” said her mother to the wood of the table. “Right.”
Cricket tucked her necklace under her shirt so no one would be tempted to steal it, put Karl into the basket at the front of her three-wheeler, and rolled it toward the door.
“Stay on this floor, okay, Cricket?”
“Hmmph,” said Cricket, what she said when she didn’t want to lie but was totally not telling the truth.
Out in the hallway, Cricket and Karl made laps around their floor, going faster and faster each lap. Karl made happy chirping noises the whole time, like a good sidekick. He probably needed his own outfit. What would a deathmetalhead raccoon wear? A helmet, of course. Probably one with antlers.
They got on the elevator and punched the letter L. The elevator groaned, the sound a lot like the sound her mother had made while slumped over the table. The elevator went up first, then down, then up, left, right, then finally headed for the lobby. Cricket’s dad said that the elevator reminded him of Cricket, which made no kind of sense.
A shrill ding! and the doors opened. The lobby had miles of smooth, slippery tile, perfect for a race. Because it was so early in the morning, it was completely empty, completely quiet. Cricket started slowly but sped up, rounding the corner so fast that she almost tipped over. She was about to say, “That was close!” but before she could say it, someone else did.
“That was close.”
Cricket stopped pedaling and looked up and up and up. A giant of a giant was standing in front of her, his big, white, speckled face hanging like a moon.
“You should be more careful when you play, little girl,” the man said. “You could get hurt.”
Cricket did not enjoy being spoken to as if she were a dumb baby. “You are the color of ranch dip,” she announced.
“I prefer the term alabaster.”
She stared.
The man smiled.
It was not a good look for him.
Cricket pressed a lever on the handlebars and backed up the tricycle, beep-beep-beep. That was when she noticed the ring of yellow tape around his wrist. “What’s on your bracelet?”
“This is caution tape. Do you know what the word caution means?”
“Hmmph,” she said.
The man stepped forward right into Cricket’s personal space. “It means that there are certain things in this building a little girl shouldn’t touch. And certain places in this building that are too dangerous for a little girl to go.”
Behind the tall man, another much shorter man had his ear pressed to a small brass door that hung high on the lobby wall, his gloved fingertips tapping here and there, tap-tap, tap-tap. Cricket wondered if the door talked to the short man the way the walls talked to Tess Biedermann, if the man was also ECCENTRIC. The short man looked up when he felt Cricket watching. He smiled, too.
And it wasn’t a good look for him, either.
The tall man said, “This is what they call a dumbwaiter, a little elevator people used to deliver items or maybe send trash down to the basement, but it doesn’t work anymore. And the door seems to be stuck. Do you know how to open it?”
Cricket shrugged.
“Do you know anyone else who knows how to open it? The building manager perhaps?”
“Hmmph,” said Cricket.
The little man stopped tapping and stepped away from the wall. It was then that Cricket saw that the tapping hand wasn’t a hand at all, and it wasn’t even attached to the short man. The man whistled, and the leathery brown creature—a spider? A lizard?—scuttled down the wall and into a waiting bag.
“We don’t want anyone playing with this door,” said the tall man. “It’s broken. And if you got it open, a little girl could fall down the shaft.”
“A little girl could,” said Cricket.
The man’s watery eyes fell on Karl. “Or her raccoon could fall. A little girl wouldn’t want anything to happen to her raccoon.”
Cricket felt her face go as red as a riding hood. Nobody talked about Karl falling down anywhere.
“I think we understand each other,” said the tall man. He patted Cricket on the head.
Nobody patted Cricket on the head.
But today, Cricket was a ballerina-spy-deathmetalhead, and she knew what was what. She bridled her honesty. She smiled her sweetest little-girl smile. Karl chirped his cutest raccoon-cat chirp. The man nodded and walked back to his short friend. They put an X of CAUTION tape on the brass panel of the dumbwaiter.
Cricket motored her trike back to the main elevator. She would never tell the men that she knew how to open the dumbwaiter. Or what she’d found inside. She would never tell anyone.
But she would keep an eye on those men from now on, because that’s what a spy would do.
So. Very. Metal.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tess