The Midnight Market Page 9

  But I don’t think this is what Lipstick means.

  “I want to hunt treasures,” I say bluntly.

  Her slow, wide grin tells me this is the correct answer. “Of course you do,” she says. “And that is exactly why we are going to help each other.”

  Of everything that she has said, it’s the word “we” that sets my teeth on edge the most.

  CHAPTER 20 NO WAY. FULL STOP.

  DAD IS THE KING OF the idiom. But he is not above reinterpreting a well-established and accepted idiom when it suits his needs. Take “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” one of his favorites. It means it is better to have a little of something than lots of nothing. However, Dad has used it to trip me up on plenty of occasions.

  “Lola,” he will explain with grave seriousness. “Sometimes the bird that you think you want is not actually the right bird. Leaving those birds in the bush will save you a lot of heartbreak down the line.”

  Confusing? Yes. I hear you. Living with my father sometimes requires mental gymnastics. But I’m thinking about those birds in the bush versus the one in my hand as I stand outside in the muggy night, mosquitoes sucking me dry, deep in a surreal conversation with my sworn enemy about how badly I want something that I want very badly. Some days just don’t turn out like you planned.

  I should reject this quid pro quo, this “You help me and I help you” offer from Lipstick and run very fast and far, but the prospect of successfully hunting the Helm, of redemption for the Pegasus disaster… I mean, situation… keeps me frozen in place, waiting to hear what she’ll say next.

  “I want you and your friends to hunt the Helm,” she says. “Find it, acquire it, bring it back here, and I will happily applaud as you turn it over to the Task Force so they can stick it in their warehouse where it will get moldy.”

  There are so many things in that statement that require clarification. I start with the most glaring. “Hold on a sec. You would rather the Helm become the property of the government than end up with your nemesis?”

  “I never said nemesis,” Lipstick responds curtly. “I said competitor. There is a difference. Listen closely, kid. Whether you know it or not, you’re in a hole, a deep one from the sound of it, on account of that total catastrophe with that necklace.” Catastrophe? Disaster possibly, but catastrophe? “The way I see it, if you want to level up, to play in the big kids’ sandbox, to get post-camp glory and treasure-hunter privileges that will blow your mind, you’d better accept that things aren’t always straight and narrow. There is always a compromise. Trust me.”

  Trust Lipstick? I might be able to accept the blurry edges of what is okay in the treasure-hunting world, but trusting Lipstick is one thing I will never do. Which leads me to a thought. Why us? She is not exactly a cheerleader for Team LJH and has a whole camp full of minions to use. Why not the Ms. Pac-Man crew? Or the kids in Cabin Six?

  As if reading my mind, she sighs. “Believe me, I tried to work around you three. I considered the Cabin Six kids. But I miscalculated their abilities. They spilled salad dressing all over the clue I practically hand delivered them. All they had to do was spend some time figuring it out, but they were much more concerned with bragging rights and infighting. Not self-starters. And I also tried the boys in Cabin Two, but they were a hot mess. And don’t even get me started on the group in Cabin Eight. They can barely get up in the morning on time. Or pick out a cereal to eat. If there is an opposite of action-oriented, they are it. And the misfits in One? So fragile! I thought that one with the freckles was going to cry every time I looked in her direction. No grit. No tenacity. If time were not of the essence, I would send you all packing and bring in a full batch of new recruits. But alas, I don’t have that luxury.”

  Lipstick squints at me. “Honestly, I have my doubts about you three. Your work is messy. Inelegant. Impulsive. Capturing the Stone of Istenanya smacked of dumb luck. But the clock is ticking and beggars can’t be choosers. What is it going to be?”

  My mouth is dry. My tongue sticks to my lips when I try to speak. I know Lipstick can’t be trusted. Didn’t she say things are seldom what they seem? What I don’t know ought to scare me.

  But I want to level up! I want to matter! I want to see Star and Fish, humbled and grateful, as we hand over the prize. I want to watch as they realize they never could have pulled this off without us. Because that will be great. Lipstick taps her foot impatiently.

  “Well? I don’t have all night for you to noodle this in that dizzy head of yours. It’s win-win no matter how you look at it. Mostly.”

  “I shouldn’t accept help without telling Jin and Hannah,” I whisper.

  “You have thirty seconds to say yes or no and then I outsource this project.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “No concern of yours. Are you a leader or not? Leaders sometimes have to make choices for the team. Go ahead and stick their necks out and hope their heads don’t get chopped off. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  I do and I don’t like any of it. There will be ramifications later for making any sort of deal with Lipstick, a price to pay that I don’t yet recognize. Not to mention I should never put Jin and Hannah in the mix without even asking them. It’s so wrong. But a mosquito buzzes my ear, and suddenly I say, “We’re in. Tell me everything.”

  Lipstick grins and licks her lips like she is preparing to dine on my bones. “The Midnight Market is the only place to sell the Helm—”

  “So it’s real?” I interrupt. “This magical bazaar?”

  Lipstick scoffs. “Of course it’s real. But when and where it happens is a mystery. The organizers are quite… whimsical, if you will. They enjoy a bit of fun, and their idea of fun is watching everyone scramble around like blind moles in a complicated maze. The only semiconstant is that the market occurs in July.”

  “Once a year?” I ask. “That’s it?”

  Lipstick nods. “Blink and you miss it.”

  “And it’s July now!”

  “Wow,” she says. “You really are as smart as they say.” Was that necessary? I don’t think so. “Now, my network, which remains extensive despite my new employer’s attempts to dismantle it, informs me that the next Midnight Market will take place in New York City. That flyer you saw is the first clue I managed to get ahold of, and I’m working on uncovering additional details about when and where, but you must be ready to go at a moment’s notice. As soon as we get specifics, we will snap into action.” She is using the “we” word a lot. It makes me squirm. “And remember, Lola, this is between us. You and me. Tell no one. If you are caught, I will deny everything. Got it?”

  I nod dumbly. And as Lipstick prepares to disappear into the inky black night, leaving me to wonder what just happened, she winks and says, “Welcome to my sandbox, Lola Benko.”

  CHAPTER 21 PARROTS AND MOOSE AND CROCODILES, OH MY

  I SLEEP BADLY, DREAMING FOR some reason of angry crocodiles dragging me down to the depths of the sea and rolling me over and over until I drown. I saw a crocodile once in Australia. He was fifteen feet long with jagged rows of razor-sharp teeth that looked powerful enough to crush a small car. I have never been the same.

  The third time I wake up, drenched in sweat, I call it good and keep my eyes open until the milky sun breaks through the darkness. It gives me plenty of time to consider what I have done. With a little bit of distance, the crocodiles actually seem like a better deal. Without consulting my team, I agreed to a deal with the enemy. Who does that?

  I take a long time brushing my teeth, staring at my pale reflection in the mirror.

  “You have to tell them,” I say to myself. “Even if they get mad.” But what if they decide they want to leave? Or don’t like me anymore? What if I ruin everything?

  Should have thought about that before you said yes, Lola. As Dad likes to say—I made my bed and now I get to lie in it.

  I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste and creep back through the woods to our cabin. What are the chances ther
e is a crocodile waiting in the shadows to drag me away? Not high? Hey, a girl can dream.

  Jin and Hannah wake up ready to double down on our efforts to find the Midnight Market. They have ideas and theories, but I’m too distracted to listen, looking for a perfect moment to confess. That moment doesn’t come.

  At the crack of dawn, while filling my juice glass, I overhear a Cabin Six camper swear a parrot dive-bombed into their cabin last night and stole the flyer. His buddies dismiss him as sleep-deprived and delusional. If only they knew.

  Plopping down in my seat, I bump my soggy bowl of granola and overturn it into my lap. Fabulous. This day is already a disaster and it has barely begun. But when I jump up, I realize there is something stuck to my butt. An envelope, to be exact. I peel it off and examine it.

  Jin eyes me over a forkful of syrupy pancakes. “What’s that?”

  “A letter?” I reply, turning it over.

  “Who writes letters?” Hannah asks. “Maybe it’s hate mail from Ms. Pac-Man? We were for sure gaining on them in the ropes course yesterday.”

  “We for sure were not,” Jin replies. “It could be an apology from Star and Fish, you know, for being jerks and siccing Moose on us and all.”

  “Right.” Hannah snorts. “When pigs fly.”

  “Well, in this new magical world we live in, who is to say that pigs can’t fly?” Jin snaps.

  “How about I open it?” I suggest.

  “Oh,” says Jin. “Yeah.”

  Slowly, I peel back the envelope flap, suddenly anxious about what is inside. Will it explode? Will it bite me? Will it give me a rash? But it is simply an innocent piece of paper. My friends lean in.

  “Well, that looks familiar,” Hannah says, eyes bright.

  “Yeah,” Jin agrees. “Déjà vu.” The page is a copy of the flyer we spent all night trying to decipher.

  “Not exactly,” I say. Because written along the bottom in a large sloping hand is:

  Grand Central Terminal. New York City. 3 p.m. Thursday.

  “It must be the time and place of the market,” Jin says, breathless. “And that’s today! But who is helping us?”

  Hannah’s grin covers her whole face. “It has to be Star and Fish. They have realized we are indispensable and they need us, and now they are helping us go rogue!”

  No. That’s not it at all. I should tell them about Lipstick right now. It’s the perfect opportunity. But before I can open my mouth, Jin leaps out of his chair, fist pumping the air. “I knew they would see that we were the best kids for the job! I knew it! This feels so good.” He practically glows with happiness. I have not seen him like this in a long time. In fact, I have not seen either of them this excited about anything since Pegasus. I cling to it.

  And honestly, what would be gained from telling them about Lipstick? If we retrieve the Helm and get back on the Task Force, do the details of how matter? Dad says that when we use the ends to justify the means, it is often because the means are morally suspect. Is that what I’m doing?

  “I have a question,” Jin says. “How do we get out of here and to New York City in time to get to the market?”

  Nothing like reality to rain on our parade. We are hundreds of miles from New York City. On an island. “We could steal a boat,” Hannah suggests. “Or a car. Or call an Uber? Will they go that far?”

  But Lipstick said she would help, so I wait to see what happens next. And what happens next is Moose.

  “Uh-oh,” Hannah says, squinting toward the cafeteria entrance. “Incoming.” Moose, looking extra aggravated and sweaty for this early hour of the day, marches through the tables in our direction.

  “He definitely knows about the phone,” Jin whispers through clenched teeth. “We are going to get kicked out before we figure out a way to go rogue. How lame is that?”

  Moose looms over our table. “I have been informed that your annoying comfort bird needs special medical care,” he says, furious. “And that the specialized care can only be provided in New York City. And I have to get you three there right away.” As if on cue, Zeus tips over and plays dead. He has always been a drama queen. Jin, catching on, strokes his downy feathers.

  “It’s devastating,” Jin says, voice wobbly. “Poor little birdy.”

  Moose plants his palms on the table and leans in, toppling a carafe of syrup with his elbow. An amber river snakes toward the table’s edge and drips to the floor. Moose does not notice, laser-focused on us. “Something stinks here and it’s not the food.”

  “Oh, the food totally stinks,” Hannah pipes up.

  Moose throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. And remember, syrup is like an airborne contagion—once it is out of the bottle, there is no telling where it will end up. For example, Moose’s eyebrow. “Every time I turn around, it’s you kids and your problems. You have to go to the bathroom. Your bird is sick. I used to have a pretty good life and now look at it.” The syrup clinging to his eyebrow gathers into a drip. “I thought I could handle this. Really. Well, come on! On your feet! We have to go to New York City.”

  Zeus, who has a short attention span, hops back to his feet and fluffs his feathers. Moose glares at us, death rays of displeasure that I feel right to the core of my being.

  But none of this changes the facts. We have our ride to New York City.

  We are hunting the Helm of Darkness.

  CHAPTER 22 STAR AND FISH TAKE A FIELD TRIP

  STAR: That whole experience was deeply traumatizing. I may never recover.

  FISH: 36 hours of flying is a lot.

  STAR: Especially stowed away in a cargo plane. With no food! No water! Practically no heat! I still can’t feel my toes!

  FISH: You are being a big baby. I know it was uncomfortable, but we are in stealth mode. Do you even know what that means?

  STAR: Yes. The trip was still awful.

  FISH: Fine. It was awful. But it was necessary. No one knows we are here in New York. It will take the Task Force at least a few days to figure out we are missing from Siberia, and by that point we will have the Helm.

  STAR: I hope you are right.

  FISH: I am.

  STAR: Well, okay, I guess… and are you ever going to tell me how you got the clue to the location of the Midnight Market?

  FISH: It’s classified.

  STAR: We are partners. Our level of clearance is identical.

  FISH: Classified by me, I mean.

  STAR: So you just don’t want to tell me?

  FISH: I might. One day. For now, you have to trust me. Information is on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.

  STAR: Oh, that’s great. Is that why you are making me sit in a different train car than you? So you don’t accidentally tell me things I don’t need to know?

  FISH: What? No! Remember the stealth-mode thing? We need to take precautions. Getting caught is not an option.

  STAR: Yeah. Yeah. Whatever. My train car smells like tuna fish. I’m just saying.

  FISH: You will love me when you get to surf the Mediterranean.

  STAR: Do you really think you can pull this off? I mean, do you really think we can pull this off?

  FISH: Definitely. And once we bag the Helm, the world is our oyster.

  STAR: I don’t like oysters. It’s like eating snot.

  FISH: Thank you for that lovely image.

  STAR: It’s true.

  FISH: Let’s not talk about oysters ever again.

  STAR: You brought them up!

  FISH: Never mind. Moving on. When our train gets to New York City, we have to head directly for Grand Central Terminal.

  STAR: Why? More trains? Are we ever going to get where we are going?

  FISH: The answers you seek are written in the stars.

  STAR: I really hate it when you talk cryptic. It makes me nervous. Plus, I have no idea what you mean.

  FISH: Don’t worry. It will all make sense soon.

  STAR: Whatever. I’m finding another seat that’s not so smelly. Maybe there is a trai
n car that smells like cinnamon buns? That would be better.

  FISH: I have no response to that.

  CHAPTER 23 THE URBAN JUNGLE

  THE PROBLEM WITH GETTING TO New York City is that the tin-can plane is currently unavailable due to the pilot’s mysterious disappearance in Greenland. Moose’s only choice is to drive us there in a rickety minivan with shoddy air-conditioning that is as loud as a jet engine. As you can imagine, this does not make him happy.

  “I must have been very bad in a past life,” he mutters, barely audible, to himself. “There is no other explanation. I really have to think about my future.”

  It’s 347 miles from Camp Timber Wolf in the Thousand Islands to Grand Central Terminal in New York City. The GPS estimates it will take us seven hours to complete the journey. This is a long time to be squished in a car that smells like bug repellent and sweat. Within the first five miles, Moose points out that showering is not actually complicated. “All you do is stand under the water,” he grumbles. “Maybe you kids should try it sometime.”

  In response, we roll down the windows and let in the hot, humid air. Zeus fluffs his feathers in the wind, the parrot version of a dog sticking his head out the window to catch the breeze. The air is tinged with the smell of fertilizer. There are a lot of cows up here in northern New York.

  I’d like to say I get right to planning what we will do to find the Midnight Market when we arrive at Grand Central Terminal, because I have all sorts of brilliant ideas floating around in my head that I cannot wait to share. But instead I am lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the road, my late-night clandestine meeting with Lipstick finally catching up with me. Scrunched down in my seat, chin lolling on chest, snoring, drooling, and generally being gross, I nap for at least a hundred miles. My limbs feel loose and twitchy, and I keep snapping my head back to center as it tilts awkwardly to one side. I’m completely uncomfortable, but my body refuses to surface to full consciousness to fix the situation. I’m just too tired.