The Accidental Keyhand (3 page)

“You can't!” cried Dorrie.

“Watch me,” said Tiffany making her sword blade whistle smartly through the air.

Dorrie found herself lifting her own stage-combat sword without thinking about it, and staring from Tiffany to the boy who'd written on the T-shirt, and back to Tiffany. “Make him cross the words out!”

Tiffany snorted. “Or what? You're going to use your toy sword on me? You Academy geeks wouldn't know what to do with real swords.”

“We know more than you think,” choked out Dorrie, hating the quaver in her voice.

“Oh, really?” Tiffany thrust her chin toward where the other Academy students had taken the stage again. It was an unfortunate moment. Marcus seemed to be imitating a Wookie. “Then I challenge you to a real sport-fencing bout. Three o'clock behind the bathrooms. Three touches wins.”

“What about the shirt?” demanded Dorrie through gritted teeth.

Tiffany smiled like a cat who'd figured out just which part of a tasty mouse to bite into first. “We'll make it a bet. If you win, I won't wear the shirt.” She seemed to almost shiver with pleasure. “But if I win, then you have to wear the shirt. At the festival. In front of everyone. For the rest of the day.”

Wariness flared feebly in the sensible part of Dorrie's brain.

At Tiffany's next words, it died a quick death. “If you dare.”

Here at least was something useful that Dorrie could do with a sword. “Yeah, I dare!”

Tiffany tossed her sword onto the ground at Dorrie's feet. “I've got others. Feel free to practice.”

Cackling and staggering around with laughter, Tiffany and her friends disappeared into the crowd.

After the Academy students had finished taking their bows, they gathered around Mr. Kornberger for his thoughts on their performance.

When he'd finished, Dorrie took a deep breath. “I accepted a challenge for a sport fencing bout. A real one. Three touches wins.” She thought it best not to mention what was at stake.

“Oh, how exciting!” cried Mr. Kornberger, throwing back his cloak and taking hold of the hilt of his sword.

“Excellent!” said Marcus.

“That's crazy,” said Lavinia, giving Marcus an irritated look. “None of us know anything about real fencing. We're actors. We wear costumes. We use fake swords and entertain tourists.”

“I know some moves!” objected Dorrie indignantly.

Mr. Kornberger beamed at her. “And the name of the rogue who will face you?”

Dorrie took a deep breath. “Tiffany Tolliver.”

“Maybe not so excellent,” said Marcus.

“Tiffany's going to the Junior Olympics!” screeched Lavinia.

Mr. Kornberger raised his sword encouragingly. “What Dorrie lacks in actual sport-fencing experience, she'll make up for in dramatic flair!” He lowered his sword and cleared his throat. “But Lavinia, why don't you run across the street and get the library's copy of
Fencing
for
Dummies
. Oh! And ask Amanda for
Classic
Swashbuckler
Films
of
the
1930s
by Derwood Honeycutt. That ought to be an inspiration.” He turned to Dorrie. “What time is your appointment with destiny?”

“Uh, Tiffany said three o'clock,” said Dorrie, hoping they were talking about the same thing.

“But that's just when the Melee starts,” complained Lavinia.

“So, go watch the Melee!” cried Dorrie.

“Never,” said Lavinia.

For an hour, Dorrie practiced with Tiffany's sword while Lavinia read sport-fencing rules out loud; Mr. Kornberger leafed through Mr. Honeycutt's book, exclaiming over pictures of actors brandishing swords on ship decks and castle drawbridges; and Marcus and Justin shouted out random pieces of often-contradictory advice. This seemed to irritate Moe, who threw himself against the sides of his cage so that it rocked on its wheels until Rosa calmed him by wedging a half-eaten turkey drumstick through the cage's bars.

“God's dentures,” said Mr. Kornberger, catching sight of his watch. “It's 1:45! I have to pick up my mother at the racetrack.” He crammed his feathered hat down onto his curls and saluted Dorrie smartly. “I to the bookmobile and you to the ramparts! If I don't get back in time to cheer you on, just put lots of spirit in your attack and have a good time. Oh, and feel free to vocalize. No rules against that, and I think vocalization really releases the swashbuckler within.”

“Aaargh, me hearty!” Marcus crowed, clapping Dorrie on the back.

Dorrie was glad Mr. Kornberger had no idea what was riding on the bout. As soon as he disappeared, she told the others.

“Okay,” said Marcus. “You should have talked to Mr. Kornberger's mother first, because I don't think you understand this whole betting thing. You're supposed to have at least a fifty-fifty chance of winning before you agree to a straight win-lose bet like that.”

Dorrie fixed him with a furious glare and slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. “I think I do have a fifty-fifty chance of winning!”

“A hundred percent chance!” wheezed Rosa stoutly, puffing on her inhaler again.

***

At three o'clock, Dorrie, Marcus, Lavinia, Justin, and Rosa, with Moe's cage trundling along behind her, crossed the park. Rounding the back corner of the bathrooms, they emerged into a little hardscrabble area out of the traffic of festival visitors. Tiffany was already there, sitting on a picnic table with her friends on either side of her and another sport fencing sword balanced carelessly over her shoulder.

She got to her feet. “Let the no-rules bout begin.”

The Academy students shifted uneasily and exchanged glances.

Dorrie's hands tightened around the strap of the duffel bag. “A no-rules bout?”

“Unless you're too scared,” said Tiffany. “I thought you liked realistic.”

Before Dorrie could answer, Tiffany jumped off the table, teeth bared, and thrust the tip of her blade in the general direction of Dorrie's face.

As the Academy students scattered in surprise, Dorrie instinctively raised her own sword. Though she managed to keep Tiffany's blade away from her head, it came down hard on her hand. Yelping, Dorrie stumbled backward, falling over Moe's cage and toppling it. In slow-motion horror, Dorrie watched the door fly open and the mongoose streak away with an angry yowl. Tiffany and her friends broke into wild laughter.

“No, Moe!” shouted Rosa, scrambling after him, her inhaler bouncing to the ground. “Come back!”

Lavinia, Justin, and Marcus fanned out in pursuit as the mongoose disappeared around the corner of the bathrooms. Dorrie heaved herself to her feet and began to sprint after them.

“Nice chicken-out!” jeered Tiffany.

“It's not a chicken-out,” called back Dorrie as she skid to an indecisive halt. “I have to help catch him. I'll be right back!”

“I'll give you ten minutes,” Tiffany yelled after her as Dorrie, running again, reached the bathrooms. “If you don't come back, then it's a total forfeit.”

Still holding the borrowed sword, Dorrie took off again.

“And then I'll still come after you to get my points,” bellowed Tiffany.

Dorrie dashed around the corner and back out into the festival crowd. None of her friends were in sight, but people had begun to run around in panicked circles, lifting their knees high.

THE DISAPPEARING FLOOR

“Moe!” Dorrie called desperately, catching sight of the mongoose streaking toward the street.

She darted after him, nearly colliding with Marcus. “Really?” he panted, running alongside her, “Park mayhem isn't enough for him?”

The mongoose crossed the street amid squealing traffic and bounded up the steps of the Passaic Public Library. Tail twitching, he twined through the legs of a man trying to edge through the library's front door with an armload of books, and disappeared.

“Scuggans will kill us for this!” Dorrie cried as they shot across the street after Moe. She raced up the library steps two at a time, her duffel bag bouncing on her back.

“You maybe,” Marcus shouted from behind her.

Inside the library's main reading room, Dorrie stopped short, and Marcus plowed into her. Moe was nowhere to be seen. At the circulation desk, Mr. Scuggans, thickest in the middle and tapering at both ends, stood with his back to them, stapling a xeroxed photograph to a bulletin board lined with other photographs. A large sign above them proclaimed: “Do
not
check books out to these persons.” A sizeable gap existed between the words “these” and “persons.” As Mr. Scuggans's head swiveled to one side to scrutinize, his hair slid to the other side like a fried egg on a hot skillet.

“So he
does
wear a toupee!” Marcus hissed in Dorrie's ear.

While Mr. Scuggans readjusted it, Dorrie and Marcus hustled for the cover of the Romance section and then slunk in different directions, whispering Moe's name.

Dorrie saw him first, digging hopefully in a large flowerpot. Before she could snatch him up, the majestic honking of a goose began to blare from the phone in her pocket in echoing blasts. Moe shot off behind the circulation desk in a cloud of dirt, as Dorrie clawed for the phone's off button. Abrupt silence followed, as if the visiting goose had been shot out of the sky.

“What. Was. That?” Mr. Scuggans demanded in a deadly voice.

Red-faced, Dorrie slowly eased into view, Tiffany's sword behind her back.

Mr. Scuggans glowered at her, his lips drawn up into an unamused bundle. “I should have known.”

Dorrie's eyes darted furiously to where Marcus stood, pressed against a bookcase, knowing he particularly enjoyed programming her phone to ring in unexpected ways. Marcus only pointed delicately to a spot over Mr. Scuggans's head. Moe was crossing the top of the bulletin board's thick frame.

Mr. Scuggans drummed his flabby fingers on the countertop, his eyes boring into Dorrie's. “I don't suppose you have something for me?”

Moe provided an answer of sorts by flinging himself down onto the circulation desk in an explosion of stubby pencils and scraps of notepaper, and then immediately bouncing out of sight again.

Mr. Scuggans jumped a foot in the air, his eyes bulging. “Was that some sort of…of…RAT?” he hissed in a terrible voice.

“Not. Exactly,” said Dorrie.

Marcus dived for the mongoose and hit the magazine rack hard. It overturned, sending magazines slipping and sliding all over the floor.

Mr. Scuggans snatched up his stapler and pointed at the door. “Remove it from the library's premises! At once!”

“There!” hollered Dorrie, pointing with Tiffany's sword, as the non-exactly-a-rat materialized on the back of a chair.

“Is that a weapon?” cried Mr. Scuggans, slamming the stapler back down on the counter.

As if Mr. Scuggans's stapler-banging had loosened something essential in the old building's electrical system, the lights overhead began to dim and glare in rapid succession. Dorrie and Marcus lunged for Moe at the same time, nearly knocking heads, and missed him as he leaped to a new perch. Just then, Amanda rushed into the reading room through the staff-room door, her chest heaving, her face alight.

“Out! All of you!” shouted Mr. Scuggans.

With a high-pitched howl, Moe streaked past Amanda and disappeared into the staff room.

“We'll catch him! Don't worry,” Dorrie shouted. She and Marcus surged through the staff-room door after the mongoose, almost knocking Amanda over.

As Dorrie slammed the door shut behind them, she had just time enough to see dismay replace Amanda's joyful expression.

“Lock it!” Marcus panted. “Before Darth Scuggans brings a death ray in here or something.”

Dorrie turned a heavy dead bolt. The room held a sofa, a few desks, a coatrack, and a tiny refrigerator. In one corner, a broom closet stood ajar, its door hung with mops and bags of rags. A crash came from inside the closet, and a plastic bucket came rolling out.

“He's in there!” Dorrie said with relief.

Marcus and Dorrie converged on the closet. Inside, cans of paint and Lysol, and buckets of rags and sponges crowded the closet's shelves.

Marcus pulled the door shut behind them. “Hah! Cornered!”

“Ow!” Dorrie cried as Marcus stepped hard on her foot. “I can't see a thing.”

Something metallic tumbled off a shelf and crashed to the floor.

“3PO!” shouted Marcus. “Shut down all the trash compactors on the detention level!”

“Not now,” cried Dorrie. Feeling blindly for Moe, and feeling more than a little nervous that she'd find him when his teeth sank into her hand, Dorrie slowly realized that she could now make out the dim shape of a mop head against the back wall. Light seemed to be shining through a crack in the back corner of the closet. A pounding began on the staff-room door.

Dorrie slapped at Marcus. “Look!”

Marcus slapped back at Dorrie. “Look?”

Dorrie faced him toward the sliver of light. Warm air seemed to be flowing out of the crack. When Dorrie put her hand on the back of the closet to steady herself, the wall gave way, swinging slowly to one side on silent hinges like a door.

“Whoa,” said Marcus.

They were staring into a small windowless room with five walls. Bookshelves rose up to the ceiling on four of them. On the fifth, velvet curtains tied back with thick silk cords framed a little alcove. In it, a broad table, stacked with papers, stood on carved legs. Above the table hung a collection of portraits, most no bigger than a box of cereal. Nearby, two leather armchairs and a hairy ottoman wore a thin pall of gray dust. Above it, a glass ceiling lamp hung from a chain giving out a golden glow.

“What is this place?” Dorrie whispered, the dull pounding on the staff-room door suddenly seeming like a distant affair that didn't concern them.

Dorrie took a few steps into the room, her imagination pricked and thrilled. Beneath the dust at her feet, lines darker than the wooden floor criss-crossed and joined other lines, passing through small circles, pentagons, triangles and other shapes in a complicated pattern that seemed to blossom from a small star shape in the room's center.

Catching sight of Moe perched on a bookshelf daintily cleaning a paw brought Dorrie back to her senses. “We've got to get back to the park,” she cried aloud, lunging for the mongoose, who leaped onto a higher shelf.

“And face Scuggans at peak frenzy?” protested Marcus, settling himself in one of the soft armchair and putting up his feet on the ottoman. “Why?”

“Because Tiffany said if I didn't get back in ten minutes, I forfeit, which means I'll have to wear the T-shirt.”

A sudden jolt knocked Dorrie violently sideways off her feet to land sprawling on the floor. Falling, she felt the way she had once at summer camp when the rowboat she'd been standing in collided with a dock piling. Her phone flew out of her pocket and spun across the floor. A stillness took hold.

“What was that?” gulped Dorrie, holding tight to Tiffany's sword.

“Scuggans coming after us with a wrecking ball?” guessed Marcus, clinging to the armchair.

They listened hard but heard nothing except for their own heavy breathing. Then, slowly, with a creaking groan, the floor beneath Dorrie's feet began to bulge, as though it sat on top of an inflating lung. Dorrie and Marcus leaped back. With a complaining sigh, the floor settled back down.

“And what was that?” Dorrie whispered.

Before Marcus could answer, the floor began to bulge again, this time higher. Bits of the fancy inlaid wood cracked and creaked, popping out of place and skittering away, revealing rough wooden planks that bent with the bulge as though made of rubber. Dorrie and Marcus flattened themselves against a bookcase, heads in their arms, Dorrie waiting for an explosion. But none came. Looking cautiously out from beneath an elbow, Dorrie watched the bulge deflate. Where the rough wooden planks had been visible, a glassy black puddle now lay, steam drifting and curling across its surface.

Suddenly, the puddle's edges jerked outward, sending a new wave of disintegrating parquet beneath Dorrie and Marcus's feet. Dorrie cried out as she felt herself being sucked into the puddle's steaming center.