The Invisible Enemy (3 page)

I
tore down to the library, but my backpack wasn’t on the floor where I’d left it.

“Mom!” I rushed to the counter. Had she stuck it in her office?

“Mom!” She was chatting with mothers from the Literary Committee.

“Library voice, please, Billie.” She gave me her school smile.

“My backpack!” I screamed in a whisper. “Where’s my backpack?”

“Oh, Billie!” I could tell from the way she rolled her eyes that she didn’t have it. And I wasn’t sticking around for a lecture on caring for my personal belongings.

Someone must have taken my backpack. I pretended for four seconds to think about who, but I already knew. Icy fingers of dread squeezed
my neck as I climbed the stairs back to homeroom. If Alyssa had my backpack, she would waste no time looking inside. She’d find my makeup kit. And inside that kit was a film canister of what looked like shimmering face powder—

“There you are, Billie.” Mr. Donaldson was waiting at the classroom door. “No luck? Don’t worry, it’ll turn up. We won’t let you starve on the trip. You can share my lunch.”

Oh, great, eat lunch with the teacher?

“Line up, people. Stay with your regular bus buddy, please. Look alive.”

I pushed past everyone to get to Alyssa.

“Where is it?” I said.

“Do you see your precious backpack anywhere on my body?” She sneered.

“That’s not exactly a denial, Alyssa.” I didn’t bother to keep my voice down. My hands were itching to shake her.

“Let’s go, people. The bus is waiting. Billie, your buddy is up here.”

No fair, no fair! I haven’t had a chance to pummel Alyssa yet!

I dragged my feet to the front of the line.

My bus buddy is Michele. She’s okay, kind of quiet. At least she wouldn’t expect me to talk. We sat about halfway back. I let her have the window so I could try to spy on Alyssa from the aisle seat. I noticed Hubert had somehow traded in his bus buddy, David, for Jean-Pierre. And I noticed Alyssa and Megan were the last kids to get on the bus.

“Eeew, when do you think was the last time they cleaned this old rust machine?” Alyssa complained loudly.

Mr. Donaldson climbed aboard. He was holding my backpack.

“Billie Stoner? Is this what you were looking for?”

I couldn’t believe it! I stumbled down the aisle and nearly snatched it from him.

“Next time, try looking under your own desk, Billie.”

Wait a minute! It had not been under my desk, I know it hadn’t. At least not while I was in the room. She must have gone back and stuck it there after I left. She is one prize
sneak! I glared at Alyssa, but she was earnestly chipping away at her purple nail polish.

I returned to my seat and quickly unzipped the pack. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it would all be there. It’s not as though anything
looked
valuable. My lunch, my binder, my calculator, my library book.

No makeup bag. No orange-mesh-with-black-zipper-container-of-Vanishing-Powder makeup bag. She thought she was just taking a pretty cool bag. She didn’t know what she really had. Oh, please let me get it back before she found out.

I stood up to go get it from her. The bus started to move. I sat down. What did I think she would do? Say, “Oh, silly me. Here it is,” and hand it to me wrapped with a bow?

What should I do? What
could
I do? Tell Mr. Donaldson that my magic Vanishing Powder was missing? March up the aisle and punch her in the nose? Oh, sure. What a dumb mess this was. I so hated Alyssa.

I clenched and unclenched my fists, silently mouthing my tirade at her.

Michele looked at me sideways.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” I blurted. “I’m crazy mad about something, and I don’t know how to fix it.” I could hear my own voice tremble.

“Oh,” was all she said, turning back to the view outside the window.

Get a plan, I told myself, get a plan. As soon as we get there, I’m going to—And then I stopped, baffled. My brain was empty of all ideas. I couldn’t figure out what to do.

I stood up again and sat down. My jean pockets were bunched up, stuffed with latex gloves from the library. I transferred them to my backpack. I took my jacket off, but then I felt cold and pulled it on again.

Alyssa turned around and sneaked a peak at me. I gave her the all-powerful Stoner Stone-Face Glare, and she dropped her eyes first. Hah. My brain started to work again.

By the time we got to the parking lot outside the Cloisters, I grabbed my chance.

I stepped between Alyssa and Megan. “Give
me back my makeup kit,” I commanded. “Just hand it over now, and I won’t expose you for the thief that you are.”

“You’ve already got your moldy backpack,” she said, “though why you’d want it, I’m sure I don’t—”

“You know what I’m talking about, you snake,” I said. I realized it was a mistake to confront her with Megan there. It just made her show off.

“Get out of my way.” She tried to brush past me and continue up the path.

“Don’t walk away from me.” I stood my ground.

She pretended to trip and stomped on my foot.

“Ow! You rat!” I screamed, maybe a teeny bit louder than it hurt.

“It was an accident!” she cried as Mr. Donaldson strode over.

“Girls!” he huffed. “Your behavior is unacceptable.”

“But—” I said.

“But—” she said.

“No
buts!
” He made us walk beside him while he started his lecture.

“The Cloisters is a museum that opened in 1938. It incorporates actual cloisters and chapels dating back to the twelfth century and imported here from Europe. A cloister is a place of seclusion within a convent or monastery. It might be a walkway or courtyard where one goes to reflect. As you will see, the ancient stone architecture and the tapestries and medieval artifacts inside give a real feeling of another time altogether.”

We trooped up the wide steps to the entrance, with the stone ramparts looming above us. I pretended for a moment that we were knights returning to our castle after a crusade or a jousting tournament. There would be a goat roasting on the fire in the main hall and troubadours ready to tell us a tale. Except there weren’t any Middle Ages in New York City and Alyssa was the only dragon around here deserving a lance through the heart.

I thought about pushing her down the icy
stairway and ripping open her bag. I could see her nose dripping with mud from my boots and her silver jacket soaked in slush. I saw her being carted to the dungeons by knights and left to hang by her wrists from chains in the ceiling, her face squidged up as she howled for mercy. I grinned for a couple of seconds before I realized I’d better come up with a more realistic plan.

Alyssa and I marched along, obediently following Mr. Donaldson, not looking at each other.

“Thief,” I said without moving my lips.

She sneered. “Prove it.”

“Oh, I will,” I answered. “I promise I will.”

O
ur guide’s name was Gerry. He was wearing a tie printed with coats-of-arms, and he didn’t have much hair.

As soon as Gerry started talking, Mr. Donaldson forgot about us, and Alyssa slid away from his side like an eel.

“Look at the doorways in the Romanesque Hall,” said Gerry as we stepped into the first gallery. “The finely carved details are worth close examination. They are lovely examples of the medieval belief that entering a Christian church was symbolic of passing through the gateway to heaven.”

Well, here on earth, Alyssa was torturing me. Standing safely next to Megan, she took out a lip gloss and rolled it across her mouth in slow motion. I swear it was my own tube of Cherry Cola. Ohmigod, if she was already using my lip gloss, how long before she tried everything in the makeup kit? What if she pulled out the film canister right here? And yanked off the cap and spilled it all over?

“The heart of every monastery,” Gerry went on, “was its cloister.” He led us into a walkway lined with columns, surrounding a wintry garden full of dappled light. “And the centerpiece of every cloister was the fountain, or wellhead.”

There was an old, stone, deluxe sort of bird-bath in the middle of the garden, with no water
in sight. I guess it would be frozen anyway, this time of year.

I stood off to one side, shifting from foot to foot. My eyes were sore from watching Alyssa without blinking. I needed help. I let kids pass until Hubert and Jean-Pierre came up next to me.

“Hubert!” I whispered, catching the tail of his jacket.

“Aside from being a place of reflection and study,” Gerry continued, “the cloister was the place where monks washed their clothing, using this communal fountain. They also washed themselves here, but probably only a few times during the year!”

“Eeew!” squealed Alyssa. “Information I do not need!”

“Hubert!” I said again.

“Huh?” He jumped a little, finally hearing me.

“My makeup bag is not in my backpack!”

“Huh? So?” His look was completely dense, as if I were speaking Portuguese. Jean-Pierre watched politely.

“I’m sure Alyssa took it.” I emphasized every word.

Gerry was still talking, and Mr. Donaldson grimaced to shush us.

“Oh, Billie,” said Hubert. “Give it a rest. You turn everything into a drama. You probably left it in your locker.”

“But the Vanishing Powder from Jody is inside!” I had my mouth so close to his ear, his hair tickled my nose.

“Well, that’s a dumb place to keep it,” said Hubert.

“The cloister was also a passageway,” Gerry explained, moving us along again, “and would have taken the monks to their daily meeting in a chapter house something like this one.”

Now we gathered in a room with a fancy, arched ceiling and hard wooden benches lining the walls. Gerry told us to sit down, so I quickly squeezed in between Hubert and Jean-Pierre.

“This is where the monks would assemble to discuss the business of the day,” said Gerry, “and listen to—”

“Hubert!” I poked him.

Mr. D. gave me another look. Hubert leaned away from me and made a big show of being fascinated with what Gerry was telling us. What could I do? I felt tears brimming up in my eyes.

I turned to my other side and found myself staring straight into Jean-Pierre’s eyes! His eyelashes were about two inches long. My stomach rolled over and I looked away fast, swallowing the tears. Alyssa glared at me from the bench opposite. Hah, the least I could do was make her jealous. I looked back at Jean-Pierre and smiled. He totally smiled back.

“Any questions?” asked Gerry.

“Yeah,” said Josh. “When’s lunch?”

“Not yet, Josh,” said Mr. Donaldson. “In fact, since it’s too cold for a picnic, we’ll be eating on the bus ride home.”

“If you’re hungry,” said Gerry cheerfully, “here’s something to think about. How do you like dried fish, kids?” He patted his nonhair, like he was being cool.

“Yuck!”

“That’s what I thought you’d say! But if you were alive in the Middle Ages, instead of potato chips you’d be eating crunchy, scaly little fish wafers, straight from the barrel!”

“Gross!”

“All that salt might make you thirsty,” continued Gerry. “But water was considered unfit as a beverage, so you would quench your thirst with ale or wine.”

Jean-Pierre walked next to me on the way to the Gothic Chapel. My head was hot from trying to think of something to say. My neck was hot from not looking at him again. I felt like he was a magnet, and I was a pin, the way my whole self seemed to wobble in his direction. This was bananas! He was only a boy.

But, in the chapel, the only light came through tall, narrow, stained-glass windows. It was eerie and churchy and too dark to stand next to a boy. I moved off to a spot by myself and started to breathe again.

There were stone effigies of dead knights and ladies lying all over the place, as if all the pieces of a giant, granite chessboard were taking
a nap. Victor started making ghoulie noises, but Mr. D. hushed him right up.

“This is probably Margaret of Gloucester,” said Gerry, pointing to an effigy in the center of the chapel. “Effigies were made to represent and honor the dead, and to adorn their coffins. Margaret is presented in the highest fashion of her day. She is wearing a belt, as most ladies did, to carry her precious objects.”

Like my backpack, I thought.

“She has a change purse, to carry coins for the needy. She has a sheathed knife—”

“Can you tell us about that, Gerry?” asked Mr. Donaldson.

“The knife was not for self-defense,” said Gerry, “but more a symbol of her station in life. A lady who used a knife to cut her food was educated and elevated above the common folk. She also has a needle case, another sign of a protected, easy life. The engraved seam of her sleeve is a significant detail, too.”

He pointed to a line carved into the statue’s arm. “The more constricted a woman was by her clothing, the more important she was.
Real ladies’ were literally stitched into their clothing.”

Wow. Even in the Middle Ages, people cared about who was wearing what.

“Why doesn’t she have any hands?” asked Sarah.

“The hands were likely damaged in transport,” explained Gerry, “but they would probably have been carved in a position of prayer.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is it true that the punishment for stealing back then was having your hands cut off?”

“Hmm,” said Gerry. As he started to answer I looked around for Alyssa to send her a knowing smirk. But Alyssa wasn’t there. My heart lurched. Drat! I had gotten interested in the Middle Ages for five minutes and lost sight of Alyssa! She had probably sneaked out of the chapel and gone who knew where.

“Where’s your twin?” I asked Megan a minute later, as casually as I could, with my whole self twitching.

“Bathroom,” she whispered as we filed along to the Treasury on the lower level.

I stumbled down the stairs with the rest of the group, hearing nothing but wind roaring between my ears. I bumped smack into the glass door of the Treasury area, and that woke me up. Maybe she just has to pee, I told myself. Wait five minutes before you panic.

I tried to pay attention, but we were looking at case after case of silver goblets and gold chalices and buckles and brooches and clasps. Amazingly, I wished I were looking at Alyssa.

“We won’t go into the gardens,” said Gerry, “because in January there’s nothing much to see except a few dry stems and gnarly twigs. Please come back in the spring and see the garden in full bloom! We grow many herbs and flowers used by medieval healers for making medicines and potions.”

Potions? I was almost rocking with nerves. It was time to panic. Alyssa still hadn’t come back to the group. I wondered how long before somebody noticed.

“Thank you, Gerry,” said Mr. Donaldson. “You’ve been most informative. Let’s collect our
coats from the checkroom,” he said to us, “and get back to the bus for lunch.”

I held my breath.

“Mr. Donaldson?” said Megan. “Alyssa must be still in the bathroom.”

“Well, go get her.”

Megan was back quickly.

“She’s not there,” she said, shrugging. “She might have gone up the other stairs.”

Mr. Donaldson sighed. “She’ll be waiting in the lobby. Come on, people.”

“Michele,” I said, as calmly as I could, “you go ahead. I’m just going to check again for Alyssa. She, uh, wasn’t feeling well.” Michele joined the crowd pushing up the stairs, and I went down the hall to the ladies’ room.

There were four cubicles in the bathroom. I leaned down to check underneath the first one and the second. No feet. Where had she gone? I pushed the door of the third stall, and it swung gently open.

Goose bumps raced down my arms. My neck burst into cold flames. My ears prickled. Spread out across the back of the toilet were the contents
of my makeup bag: my lip gloss, my comb, my eye glitter. I reached out and picked up the open film canister that had held the Vanishing Powder. Every last speck was gone.

“Billie?”

I jumped nearly to the ceiling.

Alyssa’s voice was right behind me. I spun around.

“Billie?”

You know how it says in mystery books “her blood ran cold”? Well, mine froze solid. The thing I’d been most afraid of when my backpack went missing had happened. Alyssa had used my Vanishing Powder. And now she was invisible.