Finding Mighty Read online

  So I opened my eyes and carefully slung my leg over the sill. I thought of my necklace. I wished I still had it. Sometimes just wearing it, feeling its cool enamel resting on my skin, calmed me down. But I didn’t have it anymore. So I thought of my dad instead, and what he’d told me about Om. Then I breathed in and out, and let my mind go still. And more still.

  I moved the other leg out, and hung from the window sill by my hands, sliding slowly down until my feet reached the painter’s ledge. All good. Surprisingly good. I steadied my breath, thinking about the next task. Walking along the ledge. I could do that. No looking down. Breathe in and out.

  Outside, it was dark. No moon, no streetlights. A slight wind picked up, then subsided. I inched my way along the ledge. Closer and closer to the garage. The next moment, I was there.

  This was the part I wasn’t sure about. Whether I could hoist myself onto the roof. It took a few tries. For one panicky moment, I felt my foot lose traction. Then I was able to get my knee on the edge, and I was up. I paused, astonished by the sudden view. From here I could see down our street, to the far end where Ana’s house stood. Was she sleeping? Could she see me if she looked out her window?

  Then I looked at my own window, and imagined me looking at myself out on the roof. The curtain shifted, and it seemed there was a face looking back. Wait . . . I stared hard, but whatever I saw was gone. I debated. I couldn’t go back and check if it was my brother. I’d made it this far, but I wasn’t sure I could do it again. Besides, I knew Cheetah. He would have called out if he saw me climbing on the garage. I decided to put it out of my mind, like with everything else.

  Above me, the sky was amazingly clear. I pictured staying here, sleeping with my head pointed to the stars. I could be out all night, and no one would know. Of course, this reverie lasted about twenty seconds. I scaled back to the edge of the garage. The sudden drop made me dizzy.

  But I hung myself over like I’d done with my window, ignoring all the alarm signals going off inside my body. After a moment, I closed my eyes. It didn’t matter—I wasn’t looking with my eyes. I was feeling for the trellis with my foot. I thought of my dad again. He told me that yoga is about finding the pose with your mind. I never understood it before. But I understood it now as I felt with my eyes closed for the beginning of the trellis. A moment later, my foot came to rest on the crisscross shape, and I was balanced. Then I was climbing down.

  The problem with the Dobbs Station is there really isn’t any place to hide. There’s nowhere to conceal yourself on the way there either. It’s just one big winding street down to the water, very few trees, and a parking lot on one side of the tracks. So you feel like a walking target the entire time, except there’s nobody outside, and it’s quiet as a coffin.

  I got to the platform around ten thirty, according to my watch. There wasn’t anything on the walls, so I figured Randall hadn’t come by yet. But would he later? And how long could I wait? I should have brought a blanket. All I had was Randall’s hoodie, and it was cold out. I saw the signs, one pointing to New York, the other to Poughkeepsie, and sat on the New York side behind a trash can. From here I had a good view of the platform, and anyone getting off the train in either direction.

  I couldn’t help but feel a swell of excitement. It was a sweet plan. And sure, Nike suggested it, but I was the one here, testing out the theory. Of course, I thought of all the angles. Like who would be stupid enough to tag train stations every new moon. Wasn’t that asking to get caught? But maybe the cops didn’t care about systematic graffiti writers. Not enough to connect the dots.

  Also when he saw me, would Randall say, I knew you’d be here tonight, Petey Boy. Or: I did everything I needed to do, I’m coming home with you. Who was I kidding? I leaned my head back against the brick wall. Getting Randall home was the biggest challenge. Especially if he was after the diamonds.

  I looked at my watch. Was it really only eleven?

  By eleven thirty, some interesting things began to happen. First, several cars came in the parking lot. Some of them were picking up passengers on the 11:10 from New York, and some on the 11:18 from Poughkeepsie. But there was one car that came into the parking lot around 11:00, and didn’t go back out after the trains arrived. It made me nervous. Probably waiting for the next train, I thought. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody else was waiting like me.

  Then the 11:40 train came, and I realized something so idiotic, I don’t know where my head had been. Here I was sitting on the New York side, which was for trains going toward the city. But the person getting off the 11:40 train to Poughkeepsie was on the other side, because he was coming from New York. I was on the wrong side of the tracks.

  My eyes bugged out at the person on the other side now. After all these weeks, it was like an electric shock. There he was and everything I knew: his walk, his way of hanging his arms by his sides, that familiar bulge in the front pocket of his hoodie which could only be a spray can. My voice stuck in my throat. I thought of calling out, but I didn’t want to startle him. In a minute I would get up and cross to the other side. For now I just soaked in the pure joy of watching him in action.

  He walked along the station wall, running his gloved hand across the surface. The gloves were new, something I hadn’t seen him wear before, but I knew what he was doing. He was scoping. He always did that before he started a tag. Plus he was looking for a dark spot, a place where the platform lights didn’t reach him. That wouldn’t be until the far end, almost off the platform. By then, he was out of my vision. I couldn’t see him, but I heard it: the sound of spraying. That sound brought back all those warm nights in Yonkers: of sweat and insects, and that sharp smell of paint you get in your nose so you’re almost high, and Nike bringing up the rear and making sure I didn’t fall behind while we tracked along the Saw Mill Parkway. My brain couldn’t help but leap forward. Would Randall walk up the winding street back to Cherry with me? Would he sleep in the bed made up for him in my room, the one that hadn’t been touched? What would our ma say in the morning? That we were a family again. I jumped to my feet, but in an instant I froze.

  There were more sounds now. Voices. And then I couldn’t believe it. A girl’s voice rang out in alarm. “Run!” she shouted. “They’ll catch you!”

  I flattened myself against the wall, not knowing who it was or who could see me.

  Lights fell across him. Flashlights? Randall looked up, startled. And then a click. I couldn’t believe it. Someone taking a photograph. Then a man’s voice called out, echoing from a megaphone.

  “Stop what you’re doing! This is a police order!”

  That was all Randall needed. Before anyone could say another word, he bounded off the platform, throwing the spray can behind him. And sweetness—Randall was fast. Here I thought there was nowhere to hide, but my brother managed to hide himself in the bushes next to the train tracks. He had a way. I’d seen it before. He could walk in the woods between trees without snapping or bending a twig. That was who he was. Someone you couldn’t follow if he didn’t want it. Meanwhile, I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t run like Randall, and I couldn’t hide myself half as good. So I stayed put next to the trash can. The last thing I needed was to get arrested. Run, Randall.

  Then something crazy happened. The car I’d seen before—the small sedan—pulled up near the edge of the platform and the driver yelled out of his window: “MIGHTY!” An instant later, Randall scrambled into the back of the car, and it screeched away. I stared, dumbstruck. He had escaped! The policeman ran to his car in the parking lot, but I knew what was what. That cop could kiss his chance of catching Randall good-bye.

  Down at the platform, the girl’s voice sounded again. And she sounded plenty mad.

  “You set him up!” she cried out. “You were waiting here with your camera and the police!”

  Another girl spoke to her—I couldn’t see any faces. “Why did you yell ‘run?’”

  “I had to,” the first girl said. “Somebody had to wa
rn him about you.”

  I shifted my seat so I could see them better. And then I nearly had a heart attack. It was Myla and Kai, the parkour girl who wrote for the newspaper! I remembered then Myla talking about the train stations. She knew about the Oms. She had seen the black book. It was worrying me, what else she knew. Maybe she had told everything to Kai. But then I realized, Myla was the one who shouted “run.” She was the one who had saved Randall.

  Kai was checking her camera. “Listen, you have to hide. If my dad sees you, he’ll take you back home in his squad car, and you don’t want that.”

  “Where?” Myla’s voice had gone down to a loud whisper.

  “I know. Get into my car. It’s unlocked. And don’t say a word.” I watched as Myla darted inside a car parked in the first row of the parking lot.

  Just then, the police car circled back. He rolled down his window to talk to Kai. “No luck,” he said. He paused. “Where did that girl go? The one who was here.”

  “Oh, she ran off. I tried to stop her, but she’s gone.”

  They spoke some more, then he told Kai to get back in her car and go home. A few minutes later they both drove off. As soon as I saw their cars pull away, I jumped out from behind the trash can and made a beeline for home. When I reached Cherry, my heart was thudding in my chest. Randall. So close. And he didn’t even know I was there. I was happy he didn’t get caught, and I’d seen him with my own eyes. But where was he now? When would I see him again?

  As I came close to my house, I saw Kai and Myla parked in front of Myla’s house. I didn’t want them seeing me. So I waited behind a tree. The car door opened and Myla got out. Kai drove off, passing under the streetlight and disappearing around the corner. Meanwhile, Myla was feeling for something in her back pocket. When she pulled it out, I knew what it was. She was going back inside her house, and she’d brought a key. Not like me who left the basement door unlocked.

  Myla was smart. She was the kind who thought to bring a key. And she had figured out so much on her own. Most of all, she was the one who saved my brother from the cop. Sometimes you think you can do it all on your own. Sometimes you think the universe will come through for you. But now I was tired, and here was this girl that came all the way down to the station to save somebody else’s brother. I watched her walk toward her house, and then I stumbled forward. I called out to her, “Myla, wait!”

  Sunday morning, I was having Cheerios while Mom and Dad read the New York Times and Cheetah slept in. I cleared my throat. “I was thinking of what you said about first steps.”

  Mom looked at me absently over the newspaper. “That’s nice, Myla,” she murmured.

  “I was thinking instead of Breakneck Ridge, which we’ve already seen, that we should see High Bridge. So can you take me there today?”

  “What?” Mom put down the travel section to look at me in astonishment.

  “We’re studying it in Mr. Clay’s class,” I said quickly. “It’s not too far from here. And it would be really good for me, too.” I tried to sound convincing.

  “I know all about that bridge,” Mom said, nodding. “And it would be a great first step for you. But I’ve got tons of laundry to do, plus grocery shopping. I’m sorry, I just can’t do it today.”

  “I have to go!” I exclaimed. “My assignment is due tomorrow.”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other. Then Dad finally offered to take me since it was for school.

  “Peter wants to come, too,” I added. “He’s in the same class.”

  So it was decided: Dad, Peter, and I would leave right after lunch. Cheetah had a playdate, which was even better because

  I didn’t want him there with his commentary on “Myla’s fear of heights.”

  It was all part of the plan that Peter and I came up with last night on the front lawn. Which was hard to believe, since just the day before, he was so mad he was ready to bonk my head with his American Studies book. We talked about Randall escaping and who drove the getaway car, and if Kai was a double-crosser, or just bizarrely committed to news reporting. Then I listened to Peter’s side and I said, “Don’t you see, if you want Randall home, you have to find the diamonds. If you find them, he’ll come home.”

  “Me?” Peter was taken aback. “How would I even do that?”

  “You’ve got your dad’s bag, you know what’s in the black book, and you have the necklaces. At least one of them, and you’ve seen the other. You just have to figure out what they all mean.” I paused. “And I’ll help.”

  “You’ll help me solve the clues?”

  “I’ll help you find the diamonds.” I stopped. Was I really going to get involved with stolen diamonds and criminals and a family I barely knew? And what chance did we have of solving a mystery almost as old as us, without knowing where to start except for those necklaces? But somehow in the middle of the night, in the company of this boy, it felt right. For the first time since I’d lost the black book, I was feeling better about myself. Even though I couldn’t get Randall back at the train station, I’d stopped him from getting arrested. Not only that, I’d climbed down two stories, and nothing happened to me. If I could do that, I could do anything.

  “I think we have to start with the map of the Aqueduct in your dad’s black book,” I said.

  “I don’t know how you got that from a squiggle and a dot,” Peter said. But he agreed that the drawing seemed important. That’s when we came up with the idea of visiting High Bridge. Not only was it part of the map, but Randall had wanted to go there in the summer. We didn’t know what we were looking for exactly, but we decided we’d know it if we saw it.

  After lunch, Peter came over and we headed out. In the car, Dad listened to Ravi Shankar while Peter and I stared thoughtfully out of the car window. Okay, correction: Peter stared thoughtfully while I was trying not to have a meltdown. I told myself, what was one little pedestrian bridge spanning the Harlem River?

  “Did you know High Bridge is one hundred and forty feet tall?” I asked. “That’s almost the width of a football field.”

  Peter looked at me. “Well, at least it’s not the length of one.”

  “But there was one fatality last year.”

  He raised his eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

  “An engineer fell off the bridge while inspecting it. Can you believe that? I’ll have to get my ad back from Mr. Clay and fix it. I only found out this morning when I was Googling.”

  “Maybe you should have done the horse water trough in Dobbs instead,” Peter said. “Nobody’s fallen off that.”

  We found parking on Amsterdam Avenue. At the entrance to Highbridge Park, Dad turned to me and smiled. “Ready?” It occurred to me how nice he was being. I knew he had grading to do this afternoon, but he’d brought us anyway. Now he and Peter were on either side of me like two guardsmen as we entered the park, and I felt a strange feeling I didn’t experience at Breakneck Ridge or anywhere in my life. It was excitement. What would Peter and I find when we got to the bridge?

  There were lots of people, some taking pictures, some looking at the view. As we got closer, the Harlem River came into sight. It was dark and murky, the color of mud inside a bottle, but the water was amazingly still. There were buildings and empty lots bordering the river on one side, while cars zoomed on both sides, the roadway closest to us called Harlem River Drive. I breathed in and out. Then we started across the bridge.

  There’s something funny about walking the width of a football field above the ground. After a while you forget. There are so many people around, it’s impossible not to watch them. And the brick walkway was a beautiful color, while the black wrought-iron fences on either side gleamed.

  Mom would have been impressed with everything. She would have told me all the stuff I’d already read, like how High Bridge looked like a walkway, but under the brick was an enormous pipe that once carried water over the river from the Bronx to Harlem. She would have told me how it all stopped one day when New Yorkers needed more water from somewhere else
, and the Aqueduct was finally shut down. Since then, the bridge went into disrepair and closed for forty years until now when the city finally restored it.

  But it was good to imagine everything on my own. What did it feel like to have millions of gallons of water rushing by, right under your feet? Was it like a vibration? Like the earth moving? Or time itself moving?

  Halfway across the bridge, Peter stopped to look at the Manhattan skyline. Between him and the edge of the bridge was the wrought-iron fence. Beyond that, stood another one, a safety fence higher and more impenetrable. I joined him as close as I dared. When I got near the edge, my head started to swim. But I was getting better at this. There was a trick I discovered: Just concentrate on one thing, and it keeps you grounded. I concentrated on Peter’s curly hair.

  “The view’s beautiful all right,” he said. “But I don’t see anything.”

  “Maybe we need to keep walking to figure out why this place was important to your dad.”

  He shook his head. “A wild goose chase.”

  The three of us continued, my dad lagging behind to read the circular plates on the ground that revealed facts about the Aqueduct. At every plate, Dad would stop to take a picture of it with his phone to show Mom and Cheetah afterward.

  As we got closer to the Bronx side, we came to the section of the bridge that was supported by the stone masonry arches. They were the same ones I noticed every time my family and I drove past them on the highway. It seemed impossible I was here on the bridge when months ago I wouldn’t have left the car. I scanned the horizon, then my eyes traveled down the last length of the bridge before it joined the Bronx. Inside the curve of the final arch, in faded black and white still impossibly there, was a face painted inside an “O,” and next to it, a leaning “m.”