The Seventeenth Swap (14 page)

After a moment he answered it, just as severely: Yes. I am tricking Angel. But it's
for her own good.

At 8 a.m. Wednesday morning Eric was standing in Robert Sparrow's studio, starting bravely on the second paragraph of what had turned out to be an awfully involved explanation of the request he had just made. Robert Sparrow, garbed in an awning-striped terrycloth bathrobe, with his hair on end, was peering at him over a mug of coffee and listening intently.

The artist went on peering for a moment, without speaking or moving, after Eric had finished. Then he blinked, took a sip of coffee, and said, “Sure.”

For Eric, the morning became radiant. “You mean—just like that?” he gasped. “You will?”

“I don't see why not,” said the artist. “But then I'm not too bright this time of day. Let me see if I've got it straight. One: yesterday evening you set up a tentative deal with your friend at the Hobbyhorse Shop to obtain one wind-up beetle. Two: this treasure—when you get it—you will swap to me for a portrait drawing, as per
our
deal when last we met. However—three: you wish this drawing to be of somebody other than yourself—to wit and i.e., a brand new character
in our drama with the unlikely name of Angel . . . or is that bit just one of my early-morning wanderings from reality?”

“No, that's her name,” said Eric, who was having to listen pretty intently himself to follow his own story through all this fancy language. “Angel Anthony. I think it's really ‘Angeline'.”

“Yeah, something always spoils things,” said Robert Sparrow. He drank the rest of his coffee and let the mug dangle from his forefinger. “In any case—no problem. I'll draw you a portrait of whoever you like in exchange for your beetle. Whomever. But I have a counter-proposal. To propose.”

Eric, who had been about to overwhelm him with thanks, instead said, “Oh,” and eyed him warily.

“It's only about the job,” said the artist, reverting to his ordinary way of speaking, to Eric's relief. “The one I mentioned to you Monday.”

“Oh, the
job!
Oh, sure!” said Eric, hastily trying to imagine what an artist might want him to do. Wash out brushes? Clean cupboards? Sweep the studio? “I could come Saturday afternoons. Or Sundays.”

“That'll do. I want you to pose for me. For working sketches. Action stuff, like those.” He nodded toward the wall with all the drawings of children running, leaping, climbing, hanging by their knees.

“Me?
” said Eric, his jaw dropping.

The artist nodded and explained. “My stuff gets lifeless when I work from snapshots. Some people can—I can't. I'd rather make sketches of real live kids—even if I throw away a hundred to get three or four I like.” As Eric remained speechless and open-mouthed, he added solemnly, “I work real fast. I don't keep you
hanging by your knees for more than an hour at a stretch. And you don't have to learn to fly.”

Eric recovered from his surprise enough to grin, though he was still trying to grasp what seemed some sort of baffling joke. “But . . . Why me?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I mean—I don't exactly
look
like much. I mean, nothing special. Just like any kid.”

“But that's the kind I like to draw—not the pretty ones, not the oddballs—just your generic kid.” The artist smiled. “Though that doesn't mean you're nothing special. I like the way you move around—and turn your head. Can't really explain it. But you'll make a good model—that's why Cholly sent you. He's got a sharp eye.”

“Well—
sure,
then.” Eric was beginning to feel excited, and a little special after all. “I'll come whenever you say. You don't need to pay me, though,” he added in some embarrassment.

“Oh, yes I do. It's hard work, holding still—and in uncomfortable positions. But I can only pay minimum wage. And it would only be a couple of hours a week—not every week.”

“Oh, that's okay! I—I think it would be fun.”

“In that case, how about this Saturday afternoon? Say, two o'clock?”

“See you then!” Eric promised gladly. In fact, he added to himself as he took off on his belated way to school, I'll see you a good while before then—I hope, I hope.

•  •  •

Wednesday, lunch period. By 12:15 Eric was standing in Mr. Lee's little shop, puffing after the four-block
run from school, anxiously watching Mr. Lee's face as he mulled over the latest proposal in the long haggle for the Between the Acts box.

“Full resoling job, hm?” murmured Mr. Lee, drumming his blunt, dye-stained fingers on the furrowed wood of his counter.

“Plus
the price of the materials in cash,” Eric reminded him. He added hastily, “Unless it's more than . . . how much do the materials cost?”

“Depends what you want. Now, leather—that comes high. But I got a pretty good buy on some new stuff—wears like iron. Course it's a little stiff at first . . .”

“Oh, I'm sure it'd be fine!”

“Well, then, say—eight bucks cash. And the box.”

“It's a deal!” exclaimed Eric. “I'll let you know. Tomorrow.”

“Good enough. Shake.”

Mr. Lee thrust out his hand and Eric surrendered his own. It was like shaking hands with a nutmeg grater. In another minute he was hurrying back to school, devouring his sandwich on the way.

•  •  •

Wednesday, 3:35 p.m. Eric was dawdling at the Lake Street light, waiting for Angel to catch up. He dawdled until the big bank clock up the street said 3:45 and it was beginning to rain. There was no doorway near to retreat into. He put up his hood and went on dawdling until Melinda Jones came by with two other girls, all under one umbrella and all giggling at him for standing there in the rain. By that time he didn't care.

“Have you seen Angel?” he yelled as they passed.

This produced another burst of giggling of exactly
the type he considered most stupid. It also produced information. Most unwelcome.

“She had a dentist appointment! Her mother came after her at two o'clock!”

So that was that for today. He had to be at Jimmy's in five more minutes anyhow. He dashed across Lake Street on the amber, ran all the way home, and went straight to the Nicholsons' apartment before going upstairs. He found he needn't have hurried. Mrs. Nicholson's boss at Jill's Fabric Shop had phoned, asking her to trade days with somebody who wanted to be off tomorrow.

“But I want you today anyhow,” she added quickly. “So it'll give you
two
days' pay instead of one—and me a chance to go over to Lakeview Square at last to get Jimmy some jeans and me some decent panty hose and . . . you
can
come tomorrow too, can't you? I told Jill I was sure you—”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Eric found himself saying automatically. “That'll be okay, you go right ahead . . .”

“It'll be a little later tomorrow—say, four, o'clock.”

“Okay.”

It was only after she'd left, and the thing was settled, that he asked himself desperately
how
he could sit with Jimmy tomorrow, even starting at four o'clock, when he'd missed Angel this afternoon and hadn't yet talked to Cholly and there was still so much to do? And he couldn't get the kitten when he'd promised—the real action couldn't start Thursday, now. Friday—the absolute last minute—would have to do.

At least, after school on Thursday, he caught Angel without any trouble. In fact, she caught him, before he was halfway to the corner.

“Eric! Guess what!” she yelled when she still was pounding recklessly down the school steps to the street. “I get to go to Disneyland next summer! With Debbie and her mom and dad and little brother! Debbie's mom called my mom last night and asked her, and they talked all about it, and then Mom talked to Daddy and—”

Eric let her tell him the whole story several times, slipping in congratulations whenever she paused long enough. They'd almost reached Rose Lane by the time she finally ran down. He allowed a pause of about two steps, then said casually, “Oh, hey, I talked to that artist, Robert Sparrow, about the portrait for your mother's birthday.”

Angel whirled to face him, stopping dead on the sidewalk. “You
did?
Already? I thought you said Saturday! Why didn't you
tell
me? Whad'he say, whad'he say? Is he going to do it? For fifteen dollars instead of twenty?”

“Uh—no,” said Eric. “He says he can't make a special price. But—”

He paused again, partly for effect and partly because he wasn't quite sure what he was going to say next. So much depended on precisely how he put it.

“But
what?
” demanded Angel.

“But—um, he sort of owes me a favor. I mean, not a
favor
exactly. I have something he wants. Or rather, I don't have it yet, but I can get it, provided I work out something else first, and—”

“Eric Greene, what are you
talking
about?”

Eric took a long breath and faced her. “It'd take a lot too long to explain,” he told her firmly. “And you wouldn't care anyhow. Just take my word for it—I can
organize your portrait-drawing for you—I'm almost sure—if you'll make a bargain with me first.”

Angel was beginning to look suspicious. “What kind of bargain?”

“Just a—regulation bargain. He'll trade me the portrait of you if I get him the something he wants. Only—before I can get that, you have to give
me
something. Two somethings.”

“More than fifteen dollars?”

“No, less. Eight dollars.” Eric swallowed. “And your Between the Acts box.”

Angel's eyes and mouth opened simultaneously in disbelief. Then she exploded. “Eric Greene, if I've told you once I've told you a million times . . .! Is that all you were doing, just trying one more way to get that box? Well it won't work and I think you're
mean
to make me think I could get a nice p-portrait drawing instead of an old s-school picture and all the time you were just—”

Eric had expected the explosion but not the catch in the voice and the more-than-hint of tears underneath the angry screeching. “Angel, wait a minute,” he said, dismayed. “Angel. Hey, Angel, listen! I'm not trying to fool you, honest. I
can
get the portrait. I—Angel,
listen!”

Angel broke off with a gulp and stood silent, her eyes still brimming, her lower lip turned almost inside out, and her whole square little body expressing total outrage. However, she
was
listening—for a moment. Eric seized it.

“I promise to get you the portrait. No joke.
If
you'll do your share. It's—it's complicated. The box
just happens to be part of the deal, and I can't help it, I—”

“You said your friend didn't even want it anymore. You said he could get one somewhere else. You said they were
common.
You said he said—”

“Yes, but he'll take yours if I can get it—and if I
can
get it, then he'll . . .” Eric abandoned his explanations in midsentence. “Look. Do you want that portrait or not?”

After a long, stubborn silence Angel said, “Yes.”

“Well, it costs eight dollars to get it—
and the box.
” There was another lengthy silence, while Angel scowled past his shoulder at a tree. Eric could feel the struggle going on between her new die-hard determination to have the portrait and her old built-in reluctance to give ground. He waited till he felt the portrait gaining a very slight edge. Then he added, “I'll throw in that antique Chinese lacquer jewel box to take its place.”

Angel's eyes returned quickly to his face, her lip turned right side out again and her expression became alert. “Really? That red one with the mysterious gold design?”

Eric nodded, not without a last inner struggle of his own. But for Angel the deal was struck, the decision made.

“Okay,” she said briskly. “Give it here. I'll put my cocktail picks in it right now.” She held out a hand, fumbling in her jacket pocket with the other one.

“I don't have it right now,” said Eric, repressing a strong desire to whoop and yell. He felt as though he had just made it to the top of Mount Everest with no equipment at all. “I told you—I have to work all the other stuff out. You'll have to wait.”

“But I don't wanna wait!” Angel protested. “Wait till when?”

“Tomorrow,” Eric told her, crossing his fingers—for luck, this time—and sending up a silent prayer. “Tomorrow afternoon around four. If everything goes just right.”

“It will, won't it?” Angel was now pushing for the deal as hard as she'd been dragging her feet before. “It better go right!” she warned him. “You promised! You said ‘no joke'! You said—”

“I know what I said and I'll do what I said—but I can't
absolutely guarantee
anything until I've done it!” Eric took a long breath. “Meet me on this corner about four tomorrow—and bring eight dollars and the box. So long, I've got to go!”

Eric hurried on toward Cholly's basement, fingers still tightly crossed. So far, so good, he was thinking. And it was pretty far and pretty good. One last deal, and the whole precarious preliminary structure would be complete—or, like the house of cards it reminded him of, it would all come tumbling down.

Friday lasted about a week. That is, the part before the last bell rang. School
crawled.
The hours
oozed,
like the slowest snail that ever lived. Then finally the bell rang at 3:15, and the day sprouted wings.