Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

“Mom, this is Elizabeth,” said Anjali.

“Elizabeth Rew, yes? I’m Krishna Rao,” said Mrs. Rao, holding out her hand. “I’m so very glad to meet you at last. Anjali has told me so much about you.”

“She has?”

“Oh yes!” She had a high voice like her daughter’s, with a melodic accent. “You work in the repository with Anjali and you go to Fisher High School and you are a great fan of basketball. Did I remember everything? It was so very kind of you to invite Anjali to the basketball game. I know how much she has been looking forward to it.” She gave my hand a last squeeze and let go.

I glanced at Anjali, who seemed tense. “Our games are nothing compared to Fisher’s,” she said. “Fisher is so much bigger than Wharton, and of course Wharton is all girls, so Fisher’s literally out of our league.”

“That’s right, and we have some amazing guys on the team. Like our star forward,” I said, a little pointedly. “I think you know—” Anjali shook her head slightly with a panicky look, so I changed course. “You know what a blast the games are,” I said instead.

Mrs. Rao beamed at me. “You are staying for dinner, of course? Do you like spicy food?”

“Oh, I . . . I don’t know.” I looked at Anjali, trying to get a sense of whether I was really welcome. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “I mean, yes, I love spicy food.”

“Why don’t you call your parents, then?” suggested Mrs. Rao.

As if they’d care, I thought, but I called home and got Cathy. “You were supposed to clean the bathroom tonight, but I guess you can leave it for tomorrow,” she said.

“My stepmother says it’s fine,” I told Mrs. Rao. “Thank you so much.”

“Lovely,” she said. “Anjali, tell Aarti not too spicy. We don’t want to scare away Elizabeth on her first visit.”

Anjali’s bedroom was vast for Manhattan, big enough for a queen-size bed, a desk, a small sofa, an armchair, and two floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

“So,” I said, “we’re going to the basketball game.”

Anjali sat in the armchair opening a sewing box. It was made of dark wood, elaborately carved and inlaid with contrasting materials—ivory and mother-of-pearl. She bent over it so I couldn’t see her face.

“I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to meet Merritt and watch him play,” she said. “But my parents . . . my parents think I should date Indian boys. Or nobody. Preferably nobody.”

“Well, you can certainly come to the game with me. It’ll be nice to have someone to go with.”

Anjali looked up. “Thanks,” she said. “Really, thanks. Do you have that button?”

I handed it to Anjali. As soon as she touched it, she looked startled. “This is from your coat?” she said. “Where did you get your coat?”

“Hand-me-down from my stepsister. But I lost the original top button. Dr. Rust gave me this one when I passed the sorting test.”

“Oh! Should I sew on an ordinary button, then? I think I can find one that would fit.” She handed it back.

Holding it up to my face, I knew at once it was no ordinary button: I caught a faint whiff of smell that reminded me of the Grimm Collection. Where had Dr. Rust gotten it? What do magic buttons do?

“No, let’s use this one. Dr. Rust must have meant it for my coat—it matches the rest of my buttons,” I said.

Anjali pulled the head of her gooseneck reading lamp closer and threaded a needle.

As I watched, something caught at the edge of my vision, something out the window. How many floors up were we? Fourteen? A noise came from my throat, half gasp, half scream.

“What? What is it?”

I pointed to the window.

Anjali jumped out of her chair and snapped down the shade. She pulled the silk curtains shut. “What did you see?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it was the gigantic bird again. Was Marc right—is it following you?”

“There’s nothing there now.”

“You’re right. I could be imagining it. We’re both jumpy.”

From behind the door I heard a little shuffle. I gasped again. Anjali spun around. “Jaya!” she cried.

She leapt across the room to slam the door shut, but it was too late. There was a foot in the way—a biggish, sneakered foot on a skinny leg. Anjali seemed to grow bigger, like a great, glaring, black-feathered hawk herself. “Out!” she shrilled.

The sneaker didn’t move.

“Jaya! I said out !”

“Anjali!” wailed the voice behind the sneaker. “What’s following you?”

“You are, obviously. Get out of my room.”

“I’m not in your room.”

“Your foot is.” Anjali kicked at it.

“Don’t stomp! I’ll tell Mom!”

“Go on, tell her. Run along and tell her and get your foot out of my door.”

The foot didn’t budge. “Come on, Anj, let me in. I want to meet your friend. I promise I’ll sit very quietly in the corner; you won’t even know I’m there. If something scary is following you around, I have a right to know. I could help. Or I might even be the one it’s after.”

“Yeah, right. It’s a pest eater.”

“Come on, Anjali! Please?”

“Oh, let her in,” I said. “What’s the harm?”

Anjali paused and looked pained. “This is a mistake,” she said, slowly opening the door. A bundle of knees and elbows, topped with eyebrows, liquid black eyes, and a spiky dark cloud of hair flounced in and threw itself on the bed.

“Jaya! Get your sneakers off my quilt!”

Jaya shifted slightly so that the sneakered part of her legs was sticking out over the edge of the bed. She turned the eyebrows my way. “You’re Elizabeth, right? You go to the school with the good basketball games. Can I come too?”

“No,” said Anjali.

“But I want to see Merritt play!”

“Jaya! You disgusting little spy!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell Mom and Dad. Who’s Merritt, anyway? Your boyfriend?”

“Get off my bed! I mean it, get off!” Anjali lunged. I was amused to see she was so bad at sister-wrangling. Was this the poised, unflappable Anjali I’d been admiring ever since I started work at the repository?

“Anji has a boyfriend! Anji has a boyfriend!” Jaya singsonged, kicking her feet in the air. Anjali looked ready to tear her to pieces.

I stepped in hastily. “Do you play basketball, Jaya? You look like you’d be good at it,” I said.

“Really?” She sat up and looked at me. “Why?”

“You’re tall for your age, and you have those long arms and legs. Get up, let me see you.”

Jaya jumped up, leaving the quilt crumpled behind her.

“Catch!” I tossed a little lace pillow from the sofa. She snatched it out of the air and threw it back.

“Gently,” I said, throwing it again. “You want to go for precision and control. Yeah, you’d definitely be good. You’re not just tall for your age, you’re quick too.”

“How do you know I’m tall for my age? Do you know how old I am?”

“Ten,” I said.

She looked disappointed. “Did Anjali tell you?”

“No, you look like a ten-year-old.”

“If I look like a ten-year-old and I am a ten-year-old, how can I be tall for my age? If I’m tall, I should look like a twelve-year-old.”

“You look like a tall ten-year-old.”

Anjali was starting to look impatient. Still, at least Jaya wasn’t talking about Marc anymore.

Now that she was no longer lying on Anjali’s bed, Jaya threw herself around the room pretending to shoot baskets with the pillow. “Put that down, you’re going to break something,” said Anjali.

“Here,” I said. I held my arms in a circle. Jaya made the layup, and I kept the pillow. I kicked off my shoes, stretched out on the sofa, and tucked the pillow under my cheek. Jaya pouted, then walked around the room, picking things up.