She looks at me. “Then why do the other half of them sit there?”
I’ve wondered this too. Specifically, I’ve wondered it about Jason. “I don’t know. Maybe they think that if they sit there, they won’t be victims, or whatever.”
“So why don’t you sit there?”
“Because I would rather be a jerk’s victim than a jerk’s friend.”
She nods. “The friend of my enemy is my enemy. Somebody said that once. So maybe the friend of a jerk is a jerk.”
I look at her. “Maybe.”
“You guys are both forgetting the most important rule,” a voice behind us says.
“Oh, yeah?” Candy turns and looks Safer up and down. “What’s the most important rule?”
“ ‘Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.’ ”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Candy asks.
“Meaning maybe the friends of the jerks are only pretending to be their friends. Maybe they recognize the enemy and they’re keeping him close.”
No wonder these two don’t go to school. They would take it all a little too seriously.
“You know what I would do?” Candy says. “I would decide that my table is the cool table. Anyone could sit there. And that would be that.”
“You can’t just do that,” I tell her.
“Why not? Why do you get to make the rules?”
“Me? Trust me. I have nothing to do with making the rules.”
“Weren’t you the one who just told me I couldn’t sit at the cool table?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You did, Georges. Think about it.”
“Goodbye, Candy,” Safer says. “Georges and I have things to do.”
Candy humphs and disappears into the kitchen, and I’m not all that sorry to see her go.
When I’m alone with Safer, I show him the gum wrapper. “Looks like Mr. X came home,” I say. “I guess it was a short trip.”
He looks surprised. Very surprised. He takes the wrapper and rolls it slowly between his fingers. “It was on the doormat?”
“Yeah. Bummer, right? Now you can’t act like a crazy person. I guess your whole day is shot.”
“Frustrating.” Safer stares hard at the gum wrapper. Then he looks me in the eyes, and I get the distinct feeling that he knows I’m lying. Then he holds out his flask. “Coffee?”
“Hey, did you tell him yet?” Candy calls from the kitchen. “You told me not to tell him, and then you didn’t even tell him!”
Safer drops his arm. “The parrots are back.”
“The parrots are back!” Candy says.
We take turns looking at them through the binoculars. One of them—I can’t tell, but Safer says it’s always the same one—keeps leaving and then flying back to the nest.
“He’s carrying twigs,” Safer says. “Rebuilding.”
“Aren’t there two of them? How come the other one doesn’t help?”
“I wonder if she’s getting ready to lay eggs,” he says, flipping through his notebook. “It’s about that time, I think.”
We can’t talk about Mr. X because Candy is there, but for once Safer doesn’t tell her to go away. She brings out her stash and we have a little welcome-back party for the parrots: Starbursts and the last of the Chicks, Ducks, and Bunnies SweeTarts.
Pigeon wanders out of his room right before lunch, looking sleepy. Safer tells him about the parrots being back, and they high-five.
“How goes it, Georges?” Pigeon asks me.
“It goes okay.”
“You taking care of our boy?” He palms Safer’s head.
“I guess,” I say, thinking that Safer pretty much takes care of himself.
Pigeon smiles at me. “Good.”
Safer’s mom is at an all-day wedding and Saturday is his dad’s busiest day at driving school, so Safer makes scrambled eggs for lunch and keeps his promise to teach me how.
“The secret of good scrambled eggs,” he tells me, “is very low heat.” He turns the flame way down and stands there stirring the eggs in the pan forever, but when they finally cook, they’re delicious. Candy makes toast and provides dessert.
Then we just hang out doing nothing, which is exactly what I feel like doing. Dad calls my cell to check on me and puts me on the phone with Mom and she doesn’t sound too tired.
When it’s almost dinnertime, I tell Safer I have to meet my dad downstairs.
“We’re going to Yum Li’s again. You want to come with us?”
“I can’t,” Safer says. “Dad’s taking Pigeon to his track meet, and my mom has the wedding. I have to stay home with Candy.”
“You could both come,” I say. “My dad won’t mind.”
“I love Yum Li’s!” Candy says.
“No,” Safer says. “Mom left us ziti.”
“Isn’t that the ziti Pigeon made?” Candy makes a face. “His ziti is terrible. I want to go to Yum Li’s.”
“No,” Safer says.
“Yes,” Candy says.
“No,” Safer says.
Candy walks up close to Safer and growls right in his face—or up toward his face, I guess, since she’s a head shorter than he is: “I hate you.”
Safer doesn’t say anything. He just takes a step back.
She stomps down the hall and into her room, slamming the door so hard the windows shake.
Safer looks at me.
“Um,” I say, “maybe another time?”
He smiles. “She has a temper.”
He walks me to the door, and I tell him I officially forgive him for what he pulled last night. Safer says, “Yeah, I forgive you too,” and he puts a fresh gum wrapper into my hand.
He knows I lied, but I have no idea how he knows.
A Message from the Chef
We can’t see the parrots from our apartment, but when I’m walking to Yum Li’s with Dad, I realize that I can see the nest a little bit from the street. I tell Dad about how the birds’ grandparents escaped from Kennedy Airport, and I point at the air conditioner they live under.
It’s that time of day when the sun seems to come closer and closer, sending this incredible light almost sideways, and all of a sudden we see a flash of color and then, for one long second, a bright green fan of feathers against the sky.
“Wow!” Dad says. “That’s amazing.” And I can tell he’s not faking it for my sake.
When we walk into the restaurant, Yum Li is standing next to the coatrack in his cooking clothes, which Dad calls his chef whites.
“You again?” Yum Li says when he sees us. “Did you forget where the grocery store is or something? I’ll draw you a map.”
Dad laughs and starts to walk toward an open table, but I don’t move because I’m stuck in the spot I was standing on when I realized that the big table in the middle of the room is full of Jason’s family. And Jason. And Carter Dixon.
Now Dad has seen them. He booms “Hello!” and starts chatting away with Jason’s parents.
“How’s Sara doing?” I hear Jason’s mom ask.
I force myself to move. I don’t get why I’m feeling so upset. I see Jason and Carter practically all day, every day.
I walk over to their table, and I smile while Jason’s parents tell me I got tall. Jason waves and says hi. Carter Dixon is looking at his plate. I follow Dad to our corner.
“You know what? We should have some people over soon,” Dad says. “When things calm down.”
I nod. “The chicken or the beef?” I ask him. Because we always get one or the other. Like it isn’t enough that we come to the same place over and over. We also have to eat the same thing.
“Whatever you want,” he says.
When we’ve eaten and finished our oranges, our waitress sets down the cookie plate. “Three fortunes,” she says, “plus a special message from the chef.”
Yum Li has put the third fortune cookie into the smallest to-go container I have ever seen. And underneath it is a napkin with writing on it.
 
; Dad picks up the napkin, turns it back and forth, and laughs. “Not bad!”
It’s a hand-drawn map, with a big red X on the corner where the nearest Met Foods is—the same one where that bird flew into the glass.
Directions to the grocery store.
When we walk into the apartment, we hear a voice leaving a message on the answering machine: “It’s Sophia here, Martin. I’m just checking in to—”
Dad grabs the phone and walks to his bedroom. “Hello? I’m here, I’m here. What’s—” The door closes behind him.
I leave the tiny white box from Yum Li’s next to the Scrabble tiles on my desk and spell out a note for Mom:
GOOD NIGHT COOKIE
LOVE ME
Then I fall asleep faster than I think I have ever fallen asleep in my life.
Break and Enter (#3)
Sunday morning, the phone rings and stops, rings and stops, slowly tugging me out of sleep until I’m awake enough to wonder why Dad isn’t answering it.
I sit up and look at my desk. The white box from Yum Li’s is gone, and there’s a message from Mom:
YUM COOKIE
LOVE YOU
The phone starts up again.
“Today’s the day, Georges. Mr. X went out this morning. We’re going to find whatever the key opens. This is it.”
“No,” I say. “There’s no way either of us is going back into that apartment.”
“Last time, Georges. I promise. Scout’s honor.”
“No.”
“Have I ever asked you for anything?” Safer says. I walk to the fridge, where Dad has left a note that says @ the hospital.
“Are you kidding?” I ask Safer. “You asked me to be your lookout the other night while you committed a crime.”
“You said no,” he points out.
“And then you tricked me into going into a stranger’s apartment.”
“That was purely voluntary. Very brave. Anyway, you said you forgave me.”
“You asked me to stall your mom when you were going through Mr. X’s laundry. I looked like an idiot and got brown goop on my leg.”
“Besides that.”
You asked me to lie to my dad, I think.
“Well, I’m asking for something now,” he says, as if we’ve just established that he’s a saint who’s never asked a single person for anything. “I need you to back me up on the lobbycam. That’s all, Georges. It’s hardly anything.”
“And I’m saying no.”
“This is the last time, Georges. I’m going to hang up and give you a few minutes to think about it.”
I eat a bowl of cereal.
The phone rings.
“The answer is still no,” I say.
“Don’t you ever say hello?” It’s Bob English Who Draws.
“Sorry! I thought you were—”
“Someone else. I know.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Again?”
“Very funny. Look, I figure the taste test will probably be Tuesday or Wednesday. The unit is almost over.”
He’s right. In two or three days, I’ll officially be the biggest steaming pile of spaz in the seventh grade.
“So if you’re absent on Tuesday and Wednesday, you’ll almost definitely miss it.”
“You mean skip class?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying if you’re not feeling well or something.”
“I feel fine.”
“Think about it.”
I tell Bob I’ll think about it. As soon as I put the phone down, it rings again.
“I know what I’m looking for this time,” Safer says. “But I would feel a lot better if you had my back. I’ll give you some more time to think about it.”
I get dressed, telling myself I won’t answer the phone when he calls. But then I do.
“Do you have my back, Georges? Can I count on you?”
I stand there holding the phone. What I’m thinking is that Safer is the only actual friend I’ve got, unless you count Bob English Who Draws. Should I count Bob English Who Draws?
“You still there?” Safer asks.
“I’m here.” I walk over to the lobbycam. Standing in my own private hallway looking at my own private intercom can’t be against the law, can it?
“Fine,” I tell him. “But this is the last time. The lobby is all clear. You’re good to go.”
“I knew it, Georges! Knew I could count on you. Look—forget banging on the pipe. I’m on Pigeon’s cell phone, so I’ll bring it with me and we can keep talking. If you see Mr. X on the lobbycam, just give me a shout.”
Great. Burglary by telephone. I’m probably about to take one giant step toward the definition of conspiracy.
I hear a swish-swish sound through the phone and I know Safer is on the move—it’s the same sound I hear when Dad sticks his cell phone in his pocket and it accidentally calls home.
Swish-swish.
Swish-swish.
Then nothing for a little while.
Then Safer’s voice: “Okay, I’m in.”
“So what are you looking for, exactly?”
“A book,” he says.
“A book that locks?”
“Yes—I did some research online. I think it’s a key to a diary—something old. He must lock it for a reason. Maybe he keeps a list of his victims or something.”
“Just make sure you don’t end up on that list.”
“Why are you whispering, Georges?”
“Because this is crazy!” I say. “It’s the middle of the day. What if he comes home and walks in on you?”
“Now you’re whispering and yelling at the same time. Who knew you were so talented? Anyway, that’s what you’re there for, Georges. To protect me.”
Which makes me feel vaguely sick.
“Okay,” Safer says. “There are a couple of bookshelves, and then I have to go through the desk drawers and stuff. I’m sticking the phone in my pocket, but I’ll leave it on so you can hear me.”
My mouth is dry, but I don’t want to risk the thirty seconds it would take to get water from the kitchen sink. Think of Safer, I tell myself. He’s crazy, but he’s your friend. And he’s up there with the handsaw, alone.
“Okay, the bookshelves have just regular books,” I hear him say. “I’m checking the desk drawers.”
Swish-swish.
“Nothing in the desk drawers. I’m going to check over by his bed.”
Swish-swish.
Swish-swish.
The intercom turns itself off, and I push the button to reactivate it. When the picture comes back, there’s someone in the lobby. A tall man in a black jacket, with a suitcase.
“Safer,” I whisper.
Nothing. Not even a swish-swish.
I realize I’m whispering into Safer’s pocket.
“Safer!” I yell.
Nothing.
The tall man has let himself into the lobby. I start pushing random buttons on my phone, thinking it might make Safer’s phone beep and catch his attention. The tall man is waiting for the elevator.
I run to the kitchen and grab a big spoon. I start banging on the heating pipe, three quick, three slow, three quick. I drop the spoon and push more phone buttons. “Safer, Safer!” I yell.
I hear a dial tone. I must have disconnected the call by pushing so many buttons. Stupid. So stupid! I don’t even know Pigeon’s cell phone number, so I can’t call him back.
On the lobbycam, the tall man is getting into the elevator, dragging his suitcase behind him. I give up on the phone and run out our front door, into the hallway. I take a deep breath and push the elevator button. I can’t let Mr. X find Safer in his apartment. I have to stall him. And if I’m there, the guy can’t kill him, because there’ll be a witness.
Unless he kills both of us.
The elevator is coming. Maybe it isn’t Mr. X, I think. Maybe this is someone completely different, here to stay with a friend. Maybe it’s some French person
visiting Mr. Gervais on the fifth floor. I breathe.
The elevator door opens. The tall man is standing there in his black jacket next to his suitcase. I notice his pants are black too. Lots of people wear black, I remind myself. Probably French people, especially.
The man smiles at me. “Going up?”
No trace of an accent.
Mr. X
I nod. But I don’t get in.
“Well, come aboard, son! I’ve had a long trip, and I am ready to be home.”
I step into the elevator.
“Where to?” he says. His hand is hovering in front of the buttons.
Wait a minute. This can’t be Mr. X. Mr. X doesn’t talk. Relief rushes at me. I exhale.
“Uh—four,” I croak.
“Four! Same as me.”
Unless Safer was wrong about Mr. X not talking.
“Well, me and the Koffers. But you must know that, if that’s where you’re headed. I thought they were away until June. Maybe their trip was cut short too.”
I try to think like a spy. “Oh yeah, they’re away. I’m feeding their cat.”
“Cat?” He looks confused. “Since when do the Koffers have a cat?”
“I mean, plants. I’m feeding their plants. I fed somebody’s cat last week.”
We get to four. It doesn’t take long for the elevator to go exactly one floor up. He holds the door open for me. “So you’re a businessman, huh? Maybe you could feed my dog sometime. I’ve got a dog walker already, but I could probably find some work for you.” He smiles. He kind of reminds me of a friendly fisherman from a commercial for frozen fish sticks.
“You have a dog?” I ask stupidly.
“Yup. She’s been away, though, like me. I get a lot of travel this time of year, so I lent her to my cousin out on Long Island. His kids are crazy about her.”
Something is off. I realize that something is off, but mainly I’m worried about Safer. I can’t let this man walk in and find Safer going through his stuff.
I’m standing there without any idea what to do next. What do you do to distract a potential killer who seems like one of the nicest guys in the world? I remind myself that in movies the bad guys are always pretending to be good guys. That way when they suddenly act evil, it’s extra-scary. Extra-scary makes good movies. But I have no desire to experience it in real life.