The Secret Box (6 page)

As Ethan and I walked away, the Hatmakers started to argue with each other, their voices carrying across the parking lot.

“We can't let it go,” Mrs. Hatmaker pleaded.

“Calm down, Martha.”

“How can I calm down? I can feel it. I can sense its presence.”

“Control yourself. Don't make a scene.”

I glanced over my shoulder as Mr. Hatmaker grabbed his wife's arm and yanked her away. They got into a black car with tinted windows and drove off, taking their five hundred dollars with them. Mom could have used that money. Had I made the wrong decision not selling the box?

No, I couldn't second-guess myself. I'd come this far to find out what was inside. I was going to see it through.

“Five hundred dollars,” Ethan said. “Can you believe it? You know, after you get whatever's inside, you can always sell the box.”

Clearly, carrying around such an unusual box had attracted unwanted attention. I didn't want anyone else to ask questions, so I opened the car door and set the box on the back floor, covering it with my purple coat. Ethan tossed the bag of apples inside. After making sure Tyler hadn't left the keys in the ignition, we locked the doors and walked toward the convenience store.

“Those people were weird. Did you see how she was breathing? She was panting like a dog,” I said.

“She's old. She's probably got emphysema or something.”

“And her fingers kept twitching. I thought she was going to grab it.”

“She probably has Parkinson's,” Ethan said. “It makes you tremble and shake.”

But something wasn't right. “They didn't get gas,” I said, stopping in my tracks. “They pulled their car into the station but they didn't get gas. They just talked to us.”

“Maybe they just wanted to go to the fruit stand.”

“They weren't carrying any fruit and they had plenty of money to buy some.” Weird.

“Money is clearly not an issue,” Ethan said. “They were driving a brand-new Jaguar. Those cars are expensive.”

“A Jaguar? Did it have a silver jaguar on the hood?”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

I didn't know what to make of this information. Of course it was a coincidence. What else could it be? My stomach growled. I looked back to make sure the creepy old Hatmakers were definitely gone, then went into the store.

Tyler had found an old-fashioned pinball machine at the back. As he flipped the levers, lights flashed and a bell chimed. Lost in another game, he'd forgotten all about us.

I got a Snickers bar. Ethan grabbed a bag of chips and some mini doughnuts. After we'd paid, we headed out the door. Tyler caught up to us. “Did you go pee-pee?” he asked us in a baby voice.

Ethan turned red. “Oh that's real funny. We're not little kids, Tyler. You don't have to ask us if we peed.”

“Yeah, well I'm the chaperone on this trip. So pee now or hold it until we get there, little bro.” He stopped. “What the . . . ? My car!”

I dropped the Snickers bar and gasped.

11
Ethan

FACT:
The average American eats sixty-three doughnuts a year. That's a little more than one a week, which doesn't seem like a lot to me. The box I'd just bought at the convenience store had six mini doughnuts. I'd eat them every day if I could. Mom never buys doughnuts. She's waging a battle against anything deep-fried.

J
ust as I opened the box of minis, Tyler started yelling. Who was he yelling at? Wait. Why was there glass on the ground?

It was gone. I knew it was gone before Jax yelled at Tyler to unlock the doors. I knew it before she reached in, before her face turned as pale as the moon. Before her eyes welled with tears.

“They took it,” she cried. “They took my box!”

There were no other people around. Ours was the only car at the pump and the fruit stand guy was plugged into headphones, reading a magazine. Tyler stood absolutely still, his mouth halfway open, staring at the bits of safety glass that dangled down the side of the car door. Someone had broken the back passenger window. I didn't know what to do.

A red truck pulled up to the opposite pump. The driver got out and glanced at our window. “Tough luck,” he said. Then he began to fill his tank.

“If they took my music I'm going to freak!” Tyler climbed into the driver's side and searched through his stuff. Then he emerged, his GPS unit in hand. “Everything's there,” he said with a puzzled look.

I searched the trunk. My backpack lay next to Jax's. “Everything's here, too.”

Tyler threw his hands in the air. “So why'd they break the window if they didn't take anything? What was the objective?”

“Hello?” Jax said. “Aren't you listening to me? They took my box!” She ran toward the sidewalk and frantically looked up and down the street.

“Who cares about your stupid box?” Tyler said, running a hand through his messy hair. “When Mom sees this window, she's going to kill me.”

He'd had the car for only a couple of months and he'd already dented the back fender and broken a front headlight. Yeah, Mom was going to kill him. But Tyler's fate didn't worry me. It was Jax who worried me. She paced up and down the sidewalk, her fists balled up, her face flaming. She'd sulk for weeks over this. We'd talk about nothing else. It would be even worse than the time she lost that lottery ticket, the one she'd been sure was a winner. We'd retraced her steps for days but never found it.

“Jax,” I called. “You can't do anything. They're gone.”

The cashier stuck his head out the convenience store door. “You want me to call the police?”

“Yes,” Tyler said. “Request immediate assistance. Thanks.”

Jax ran back to our car, her ponytail coming undone. “We can go after them.” She brushed glass shards off the passenger seat, then scrambled in. “Let's go. Hurry!”

“What are you talking about?” Tyler asked. “We don't know who did this.”

“Yes we do,” she said. “It was those two old people. I know it was them!”

Could it have been the Hatmakers? But they were ancient. Old people don't break car windows. “We watched them drive away,” I pointed out.

“Well they came back, broke the window, and stole my box.”

I peered into the car. Jax was getting all worked up, clutching the front seat, her hair hanging in her face. I tried to be the voice of reason. “We can't follow them. We need to stay and talk to the police.”

“But they're getting away,” she insisted. “Let's go!”

How could I get through to her? She always did things without thinking about the consequences—it was her modus operandi. Was that my sidekick role, to constantly warn her of danger? If this were a comic book, I'd be called Caution Boy.

“We can't leave the scene of a crime,” I told her as I tossed the bag of chips and the box of doughnuts into the front seat. Early that morning, Mom and Dad had called a family meeting to discuss what to do if we got lost, what to do if we got a flat tire, and what to do if we got into an accident. Wait. For. Police. “The insurance company won't cover the repairs unless we file a report.” I knew this because we'd been in an accident before. Some uninsured guy had rear-ended us at a four-way stop. “Maybe the police will catch the Hatmakers and get the box back.” I tried to sound hopeful.

“Hatmakers? Who are the Hatmakers?” Tyler asked.

Jax climbed back out and stood with her hands planted on her hips. “Okay, listen carefully.
This is important
. The Hatmakers are two old people we were talking to over by the fruit stand. They wanted to give me five hundred dollars for the box.”

“Are you saying that two old people broke my car window just so they could get your box?” Tyler asked.

“Yes, that's what I'm saying, so let's go find them,” Jax urged. “That box was my birthday present.”

“Hey, you said you got the box at a garage sale.” Tyler folded his arms and glared at Jax. “I'm sensing some deleted details. Reboot and try again.”

The pause was a long one. I could practically hear Jax's brain calculating the risks. Was she going to tell him the truth—that the box was supposed to be returned to sender but we took it? If he knew, he'd have blackmail power over Jax until she gained blackmail power over him.

She groaned. “Where I got it doesn't matter. What matters right now is that it was stolen.” She turned to me. “Can you search their name?”

“Sure.” I took out my phone and typed
HATMAKER
. “There are over two hundred people named Hatmaker in the United States, but none around here,” I said.

“He called her Martha. Try that.”

“No match.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “Gee, Sherlock, you think a couple of thieves are going to give you their
real
names?”

“Police are on the way,” the clerk announced as he walked toward us, a broom in his hand. “Hey, could you move your car? I've got customers waiting to use the pump.”

As the clerk swept away the glass, Tyler moved the car from the fuel pump to a parking spot in front of the convenience store. Then we waited. And waited. I guess a broken car window and a stolen box wasn't high priority on the police department's agenda. Jax went into sulk mode, her lips pursed, her arms folded tightly, not saying a word. I read my book. Tyler called his friend Walker and they argued about the color of Cyclops blood. Time passed. I don't mind silence. I can sit for hours happily not saying anything. But when Jax doesn't talk, it means she's thinking. “Are you planning revenge?” I asked her.

“Maybe.”

I could appreciate the desire. It still stung whenever I remembered how Jeremy Bishop stole my Pokémon cards in the third grade.

“Hey,” Jax suddenly blurted. “Those Hatmakers said they owned a shop. What was it called? Oddities? Weirdities? What was it?”

“Peculiarities,” I remembered.

“Yeah, that's it. Look it up.” She nudged my elbow. I searched and found a shop called Peculiarities in Los Angeles. But the website showed a photo of the owner—a young woman named Nelson. Jax leaned against the car, her mood going sour again. I felt bad for her. She'd never know what our mysterious great-aunt had sent.

When the police finally arrived, Jax gave a description of the Hatmakers. She remembered little details that I hadn't noticed, like the way they wore their hair, and the color of their clothes. I didn't say much. The officer kept trying to trip Tyler up by asking the same questions over and over. Did he think my brother broke the window and was blaming it on someone else? Did he think we were all lying? Just because we were kids, that didn't mean we were trying to get away with something.

Uh, scratch that. We
were
trying to get away with something.

When Jax described the puzzle box, she said nothing about our great-aunt or how the box was supposed to have gone back to the post office. “It's a metal box, very shiny, with an LCD screen on the top and a button on the side. If you find it, please don't push the button. Seriously.” She pointed to the officer's notepad. “Write that down.”

“What will happen if I press the button?”

“You'll ruin everything,” Jax said.

He removed his glasses. “What,
exactly
, will I ruin?”

Jax didn't answer. She looked at me. I'd been standing on the other side of the car, hoping to avoid the officer. I took a deep breath. “Uh . . . the box is a puzzle,” I said, focusing my gaze on the officer's nose. Because sometimes I don't know if I should look into a person's right eye, or the left eye, or flit between the two. “My parents own a toy-testing company, so we get all sorts of fun stuff.”

“A puzzle, huh? Okay, that's all I need.” The officer handed Tyler a card. “Your parents can contact me at this number and I'll send them a copy of the report. It'll take a few days to process.”

“Do you think you'll find my box?” Jax asked, her face clenched.

He adjusted his sunglasses. Sweat dotted his upper lip. It had to be super hot in that polyester uniform. At least the UPS guys got to wear shorts. “Honestly, kid, I wouldn't count on it.”

As the police car drove away, Jax flicked a piece of glass off the car's window ledge. “They won't do anything. They think it's just a stupid box.”

“Well it is just a stupid box,” Tyler said. “Why don't you two care about my car? All you talk about is that box. Look. At. My. Car. How are we going to drive to DC like this?” He took out the back floor mat and shook it. “Don't stand there like you've just seen Medusa. Start cleaning.”

“Medusa?” Jax asked.

“Greek Mythology One-Oh-One,” Tyler said. “Jeez, how can you not know about Medusa? She turns people into statues. She's on level two of Cyclopsville, right next to the Furies.” He set the floor mat back.

Furies?
Jax mouthed.

“Don't ask,” I whispered.

Now that the box was gone, Jax and I had no reason to go to DC. Maybe we could avoid the whole fake geocache contest and never have to admit that we'd lied. “Uh, we can't drive all the way to DC with a broken window,” I said. “It's dangerous and Mom will flip out. We should go home.

“I'm not going home,” Tyler said. “I set out on a quest and I'm going to get that trophy. I can fix this window.” After making that statement, he stared at the empty hole that used to be a window.

Here's the thing about my brother—he's a genius on paper, and he can solve any math or computer problem under the sun, but ask him to fix something and he's useless. If he got stranded in the desert and the only way back to civilization was to change the flat tire on his car, we'd find his vulture-pecked skeleton weeks later. My dad's the same way. If you need an analysis of fibers in your breakfast cereal he'll type up a report and get it to you the following morning, but if the toilet lever is sticking, forget about it.

“I've been thinking,” Jax whispered. She pulled me away from the car and Tyler's ears. “What if those Hatmakers push the button? What if they waste the last three readings and don't figure out that it's a puzzle? The box will go to waste!” Her eyes widened. “Or what if they do realize it's a puzzle and they get the eighth reading and the ninth reading and draw the circles like we did?”

“Then they'll go to the right spot,” I said, immediately regretting my words, because as I said them, an idea lighted up Jax's eyes.

“We can ask Juniper.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. We can go to her house. It's her puzzle box. She must know where it opens. She can tell us and we can go to the right spot and wait for the Hatmakers to show up.”

“No way. We're supposed to forget we heard Juniper's name, remember? And you want to see her in person?”

“There's something going on here, I know it. Something beneath the surface. I can feel it.” By this time, Jax and I were in a huddle next to the convenience store door. People were coming and going, carrying bags of chips and sodas. “Whatever is inside that box, it belongs to me. It wants to be with me.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about? The box
wants
to be with you? That sounds crazy.” Tyler was trying to cover the window with his coat, but it wasn't working.

Jax stuck out her lower lip. “Ethan, this is really important.”

“Oh no, I'm not falling for that.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. “Look Jax, your birthday present was stolen. I'm sorry, but it's gone. Sometimes you have to let things go.” I walked into the store and bought a box of plastic wrap and some duct tape. While Tyler watched, I covered the window with two layers of wrap, securing it around the edges with the tape. It wouldn't earn me an engineering degree but it was functional. I threw the leftovers into the trunk.

“Cool,” Tyler said as he checked out the new window.

Jax grabbed my arm and began whispering again. “We need to get Tyler to take us to Juniper. We'll have to tell him the truth.”

“Uh . . . I'm not telling him the truth,” I said, shaking my head. “No way. I'm not suicidal.”

“Then I'll tell him.” She cleared her throat. “Tyler, I have something to tell you.”

“What?” he asked.

“Uh-oh,” I murmured, putting some space between us.

My brother's temper is like a flash flood. Flash floods take people by surprise. Survivors have reported that they were standing in a dry riverbed and suddenly found a wall of water rushing at them, sweeping everything away. When Tyler was little, he'd throw himself on the grocery-store floor and kick and scream. Sometimes he threw things or kicked things. Mom called his outbursts temper tantrums. Dad said Tyler needed to grow up and act like a man.

Jax had seen Tyler's temper. So she knew what she was in for.