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“Just remember what your mother said,” Dad warns as he pulls off the freeway at the Loca Grande exit.

“I know….I know….” I'm leaning my head on the window, feeling the impatience spilling over inside me, like when I'm waiting for a new game to load in.

“Just don't get your hopes up,” Mom said, when she heard me on the phone discussing with Caleb what “all the treasure it contains” might mean. “My uncle had a funny idea of what treasure was. He tended to um…keep things….”

The plan is simple. The apartment is paid up until the end of the month. That gives me a week to go through everything in the apartment and figure out what's trash and what's treasure. Caleb is going to help, and anything we find, we split.

And here's the awesome part: since my great-uncle was a war hero, it's possible he's left some souvenirs from World War II lying around!

Sure, Mom said in no uncertain terms that she's visited the apartment dozens of times and has never seen anything of value.

She's also making me bring rubber gloves and bleach, “just in case.”

So what? This is going to be an epic week.

Hanging with Caleb, going through a lot of cool stuff.

Besides, what Mom and Dad think is treasure and what I think is treasure are two different things.

And my great-uncle must have had
a pretty good
reason to have given whatever it is especially to me. Obviously, there is
something
special behind that apartment door.

Caleb's dad, Gene, has already dropped him off.

My dad and Caleb's dad are both English professors at California State University La Purisma, and we basically grew up together: barbecues in the summer, trips for winter break, last-minute get-togethers on weekends.

Then, a year ago, Gene grows a ponytail and announces he's leaving Doris and Caleb and moving in with an associate professor named Gina who's like ten years younger than Caleb's mom.

This, not surprisingly, is causing a lot of problems, and Caleb is dealing with it the best he can.

Maybe it's just a coincidence, but around that time his dad moved out, Caleb started drawing a lot more pictures of guys punching each other.

If he starts drawing a new villain called Evil Dad and has some superhero kicking his butt, we'll know for sure.

Usually, Gene would stick around to shoot the breeze with Dad, but things have been a little strained between them since the divorce.

“Hey,” mutters Caleb as he pushes his blond hair out of his eyes and adjusts his glasses.

He looks over at me and Dad, just standing there.

“My mom had to go meet the lawyer to get the key,” I explain.

My dad clears his throat. Clearly there is something on his mind.

“Listen, I thought maybe you guys could use some help cleaning everything up….”

“That's okay, Dad. But it's nice of you to offer,” I quickly respond.

The last thing we need is to have my dad here while we're going through stuff.

And what if we find something awesome, like a German Luger or a samurai sword? Parents are funny about letting kids keep things like that.

“Actually, I wasn't talking about me. You know about the new head of the English department?”

“Of course. Your new boss,” I say.

“Guess what? Funny thing. His daughter is going to be in your class next fall. He's eager for her to make new friends here, so I kind of invited her to help you guys.”

Caleb and I exchange stricken glances.
Whaaat?

“Dad. Please tell me you're joking.”

Of course, I should have known. My dad has always been like this—springing bad news at the last possible moment, when there's nothing I can do about it. The last family vacation, just as we were entering the hotel room, he told me there was no Internet access. Two weeks. No Internet. This might even be worse.

My dad is cleaning his glasses, not looking up.

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

Finally, he looks up. “Well, Ted, I liken it to taking the dog to the vet. You don't tell him you're taking him to the vet—he'll never get in the car. You just say you're taking him for a ride….”

“And when you get there, you cut off his—”

“Ted!” my dad warns sharply.

“Glad to know you see me like the family dog,” I mutter.

“It's a metaphor,” my dad starts to explain, “like—”

“I know what a freaking metaphor is, Dad—like comparing spending the next three hours with some girl we've never met to spending an eternity in hell,” I answer.

“This is going to be worse than PE next year, when we have to shower with the other boys,” moans Caleb.

Leave it to Caleb to put things in the proper perspective.

“Look,” my dad says, getting suddenly serious, “she doesn't have any friends. She's just moved here. It won't kill you to be nice.”

“But—”

“Ted, at least this way she'll know some people before school starts. Her dad wants her to like it here. It's rough, moving all the way across the country and not knowing anyone.”

“Dad…some random girl…I mean, I don't mind, like, meeting her, but—”

“Who says she's gonna want to spend time with two boys, anyway? Why couldn't her dad find some girls here for her to hang out with?” Caleb asks.

“Apparently there aren't any girls your age around this time of the summer. Graham really wants to get her out of the house. He says all she's been doing since they moved is sitting inside and reading books.”

I let out a groan. A nerd girl. A weirdo. How did the coolest thing I was going to do all summer just turn into the most aggravating? Babysitting some snotty girl who'll probably think Caleb and I are idiots for playing computer games. Just what I need. One more person judging me.

“So it's okay, right?” asks Dad hopefully.

“Does Mom know about this?” I ask warily.

“Yes, and I know how…disappointed she would be if you couldn't be nice to a new member of your class.”

Dad has shamelessly played the Mom card. Against which there is no defense.

The Mom card is all-powerful.

At this moment, I know that the answer has to be yes. I am defeated. By my own father. How Darth Vader.

“I guess so. How about she comes over tomorrow and helps out for a day? That would be good, right?”

“Ummm…I don't think that's going to work,” Dad says.

There is a sound of a car pulling into the parking lot. I assume it's Mom's, but then I see it. A gleaming, sleek luxury car, the very picture of coolness. I'm not much of a car guy, but even I know this one. Lexus. Top of the line.

“The thing is…I kind of already said yes,” Dad says sheepishly. “I guess that's them.”

The doors open and a man strides over, and he and my dad shake hands. Then a girl gets out to follow him, closing the door with a soft
thunk
that somehow manages to sound expensive.

The first thing I notice is how she's dressed.

Knowing that this will probably be a hot and dirty job, Caleb and I have put on our funkiest clothes. I'm in an old pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt my Hawaiian relatives sent one Christmas that I would never be caught dead wearing in public, with a picture of a pig in a hula skirt on a surfboard under
HANG LOOSE!
(of course) written in big letters.

Caleb is wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that once had a picture of Captain America on it but has been washed so many times it now looks like it says
C P AIN AM I
.

It takes me almost a minute to realize the girl is wearing jeans. I've never seen jeans so pressed and spotless. They look brand-new, like her pristine deck shoes.

I notice that her long blond hair isn't pulled up, even though it's going to be a sweaty day, most likely, but rather hangs down her back, held in place with a headband, like Alice in Wonderland's.

As she gets closer, I sense something else about her that I can't put my finger on, something that sets her apart from the girls in my class. Certainly she dresses differently, and wears her hair differently, and doesn't bounce around like the popular girls in my grade.

I feel bad for her for a moment, imagining her trying to fit in at a new school, and being teased for her clothes, and—

Then, as her father is about to introduce my dad to her, and she smiles exactly the right kind of smile to meet an adult, it hits me. What makes her different is that she's just
perfect.

I can tell. This is a girl who has never said or done anything inappropriate in her entire life. And for some reason, this really, really bugs me.

“Ted! Hello?”

I snap around and look at Dad. Apparently I've been standing here like an idiot while my dad was introducing me.

“Sorry about Ted, Graham. He's a little, ah, distracted, I guess, what with his great-uncle…you know…Ted, this is Graham Archer. The new head of our English department.”

Graham Archer is tall and broad-shouldered. His full, golden hair shines in the sun.

Dad takes off his grubby baseball cap and mops his shining scalp with a paper towel from his grimy Dockers pocket.

I turn back to the Archers, who don't look like the same species as us.

Do they even sweat, these people?

It's kind of eerie. It's a hundred degrees out here, and it's like the two of them have some sort of force field around them, as if the Valley dust wouldn't presume to land on their perfectly pressed polos.

The girl turns to my father. “Hello, I'm Isabel.”

“Isabel Archer!”

At this, my dad breaks into a silly grin, the kind he makes when he's sure whatever he's about to say is clever.

I brace myself.

Addressing Isabel, my dad winks (yes,
winks
) and says, “You're obviously intelligent, but are you excited as well?”

I assume Graham Archer is going to punch my dad's lights out for saying something so rude, but instead, he laughs out loud.

“Very good, Arthur! I'm impressed.”

“I haven't been teaching Henry James for ten years for nothing!” my dad says.

Wow. Dad always says that when he makes one of his lame “literature” jokes, the only ones who laugh are English majors. Because they have to.

Then Isabel laughs too. It's an “I am getting the grown-up reference and appreciating it while you two dweebs haven't a clue” laugh and it seems so superior that it makes the six-year-old in me want to pick up a clod of dirt and rub it into her nice pink polo shirt and see if she'd find
that
funny.

Of course, I know the twelve-year-old me isn't allowed to do things like that.

I then look down at my ridiculous outfit and realize that the twelve-year-old me is dressed similarly to the six-year-old me and I feel even more awkward.

Graham turns to me and gestures to his daughter. “Ted, this is Isabel. I think you're in the same class next year.”

“So…uh, nice to meet you. This is my buddy Caleb.”

Caleb nods at Isabel, who nods back. Graham, of course, reaches out and shakes both our hands. His grip, as I'm sure you can guess, is neither too firm nor too weak. It's perfect, like the rest of him.

My dad looks around. Rocks on his heels. Cracks his knuckles. Such a smoothie, my dad.

“So…we're just waiting for my wife to show up with the key. She had to get it from the lawyer. Always waiting on the wife. You know how that is, I guess—oh, I'm so sorry.”

I don't know why, but Dad turns bright red. Graham Archer nods and shrugs.

“No worries. Forget about it,” Graham replies, as if he means it.

“What do you know? Here she comes now!” Dad perks up like a puppy in a pet store setting eyes on its new owner. “We can beat a hasty retreat. I've still got a load of finals to grade.”

“And I have plenty of boxes to unpack,” Graham says, “so I'd best be going as well. Have fun, Isabel, and I'll see you around three?”

Isabel calls after her father and runs up to him as Mom's car pulls into the parking lot. It seems like she's desperately trying to get him to take her with him, to leave these two losers as soon as she can. I hear little snatches of the conversation, mostly Graham's lilting, soothing voice: “It's only a few hours….Remember our deal? I promise I won't be late….I know….”

In the distance, my mom has parked the car, and the door flies open.

Dressed in her usual grubby change-at-work clothes, Mom rushes toward us, waving the keys over her head like a trophy. She passes Dad and Graham, gives Dad a little kiss, and heads our way.

“Hi, guys! Sorry I'm so late! That lawyer couldn't find the keys, then I realized I needed to stop for gas, and you'll never guess who pulled up right behind me!”

Mom finally stops to take a breath. She laughs at herself, leans over and kisses me on the cheek, waves at Caleb, and for the first time turns and sees Isabel. Her eyes widen. And then her face changes in an instant, and she says those words that fill me with dread and remind me why today is different.

“Why,
hello
! Is this Graham Archer's famous daughter I've heard so much about?”

Isabel shakes my mom's hand. Lightly.

“Isabel Archer. And you must be Mrs. Gerson?” she chirps.

I can only marvel at her ability to talk to parents. This is a skill no twelve-year-olds in La Purisma possesses. Even the cool ones. Are all kids from New York City fluent in Parent?

Mom bursts into a huge smile. “I certainly must! Arthur mentioned that he invited you to join the boys today. I just didn't think you'd actually want to spend your time doing this…with them….”

“My father was worried I'd become a recluse”—Isabel smiles—“so I agreed to do this on one condition: he buys me the complete Charles Dickens set I've been wanting.”

Oh, right. She's a
reader.

“So you're a
reader,
” my mom sighs, as if somehow this elevates Isabel to yet another realm of perfection.

“Yes, but only books for adults. I don't enjoy reading books for kids our age. Have you ever noticed how often the mother is dead? Or the father left home when the child is little? Or the hero or heroine is an orphan?”

Caleb looked up. “You know, I never noticed that.”

“Yes, well, you wouldn't necessarily. But it does happen. All the time. And then at the end it always turns out the father is somebody amazing, and he comes back, or the mother is actually a secret agent off on a mission or something ridiculous like that. It would be like my mother all of a sudden coming back to life.”

There is a moment of silence. None of us knows what to say. Isabel turns to my mom.

“I hate those books,” she adds brightly. “That's why I like reading grown-up books better. They don't make up stuff like that. Except maybe Dickens. He always has that sort of thing. Like in
Oliver Twist,
you know?”

“Sure,” I agree, having vaguely heard of
Oliver Twist.
I promise myself I'll try to read about it online as soon as I get home.

“Oh, that's right. I was so sorry to hear about your mother,” my mom says, switching gears with all the finesse of Mack truck with a blown clutch. (Okay, I actually don't know squat about cars, but I heard our mechanic use that expression once when he was telling my dad a story and I've wanted to use it ever since.)

And now we know why Dad was apologizing when he mentioned wives to Mr. Archer.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gerson. That's very kind of you.”

“We're
all
so glad you've come to join the boys. Aren't we, boys?”

Isabel laughs again, and it's totally not like the annoying screechy giggles of the girls in my class. No, Isabel has an even, knowing—okay, I'll say it again—
perfect
laugh. She laughs like a grown-up. It makes her even more unnerving, if possible.

If mom calls us “boys” one more time, I'm going to puke, so I try to get things back on track.

“So,
Mom,
you were saying how we'd never guess who was at the gas station?”

“Oh…right. It was Donna Yamada, Mr. Yamada's daughter!”

Caleb and I exchange looks.

“Ted, I've told you about Mr. Yamada a thousand times. I swear, you're as bad as your father. Mr. Yamada was one of your great-uncle's most loyal customers when he had the liquor store. He visited Uncle Ted every day at the hospital, practically.”

“Riiight…yeah. You did tell me about him. I didn't know he had a daughter.”

“That's who used to drive him there. Anyhow, he was so upset over the news. When I told her what you were doing, she asked if you found anything from the old store —you know, an ashtray or something—if her father could have it to remember Uncle Ted.”

“Sure, Mom, of course,” I reply. “No problem.”

Mom is heading up to the door, key in hand.

“Where are you from, again, Isabel?”

“Umm…New York City.”

“Did Ted tell you that's where his father is from? We haven't been back in ages!”

The door seems completely unwilling to budge. Or perhaps in some sadistic way it wants to prolong my agony by stubbornly refusing to open. Anything is possible in a world where I am going to spend the next few hours with this girl who clearly wants to be anywhere but where she is.

“There! Finally! I think the door must have swelled up in the heat. Ta-da!” With a final push, Mom opens the door.