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  “Make it small!” Indi says.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. I do make them small. My little Uranus symbols are on quite a few roofs now, and I’ll bet none of the owners have even noticed. I mean, who looks on their roof? Even if they saw something, they’d probably just think it was a leaf or whatever. And until tonight, I’ve always used black paint.

  I have this skitter of nerves just as I press the button on the can. I don’t know if it’s me or if the can is faulty, but nothing comes out. Then a huge gob of paint bursts from the nozzle and spatters all over the place.

  “Omigod!” Indi’s eyes are bugging out.

  Paint starts running down the roof, and I swipe at it with my hands. This is really dumb because now I have paint all over my hands too.

  “You’re such an idiot,” Indi tells me. Like I don’t know.

  “Do you have a tissue or anything?” I ask.

  Indi starts feeling around in her jacket pocket, and I stare at the mess. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t red. Indi hasn’t noticed that yet since color doesn’t exist without light; there’s only black and white and shades of gray. This is going to be bloody obvious when the sun comes up. Yeah, bloody. It will look horrible, like something got killed on the roof.

  Indi hands me a tissue and says, “We should go.”

  I nod. We shuffle down and when we hit the ground, I smell pipe tobacco. I stop dead and look around, straining to hear footsteps, breathing, something.

  “What are you doing now?” Indi asks.

  “Do you smell that?”

  She frowns. “What?”

  “Smoke.”

  “I don’t smell anything, Sam. Except paint.” She starts walking.

  We walk the rest of the way home in silence. When we get there, Indi only says, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  I don’t argue with her. It wasn’t fun tonight. I take one more look around on the street before I go in, but the street is cold and empty.

  Sunday morning there’s red paint on my pants, so I stuff them in a garbage bag. If Mom asks where they are, I’ll tell her I lost them at school; I forgot them in the gym and somebody swiped them. This sucks because they were the best roofing pants I had. I could keep them hidden to wear only when I go roofing. I look at the pants, wadded up in the bag, and know for sure I never want to see those stains again.

  I start cleaning my room, throwing more stuff into the bag. It’s partly to hide the pants and partly because for some weird reason, I actually feel like having a clean room. I just hope Mom doesn’t come by and pretend she’s fainting at the sight. For a different weird reason, that would make me feel like messing it up again. Luckily, she doesn’t show.

  The last thing I toss into the garbage is the letter from the cradle. It’s a no-brainer that I’m not going to some dumb garden to meet an old guy. Except maybe I should go, just to send a message back to Grandpa Max. Yeah. I can write letters too. I can write, “Get lost, jerk.”

  But it’s already almost noon, too late for this Sunday. I take the letter out of the bag and throw it on my bed. I can figure this out later. Right now, I need some air. I tell Mom I’m going for a bike ride and head out. I slow down when I get to the house.

  An old couple is standing in the driveway, pointing at their roof. I notice stuff I never noticed before, like how the yard is so tidy. The house is clean white. The pale, gray roof looks brand-new. The red paint...it’s really red. Some of it’s still stuck under my fingernails.

  chapter eight

  Indi says she’s busy, all week. Every time I call, she’s out with girlfriends, or doing homework, or something. Finally I go to her house and get her to come to the door so I can show her the letter from the cradle. I wasn’t going to tell her about it because I figured she’d try to talk me into going to the garden. Now I’m willing to be lectured just so things can be okay with us again.

  I’m wrong.

  Indi reads the letter and hands it back to me without a word.

  “So,” I say. “What do you think?”

  She shrugs. “What am I supposed to think?”

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  She looks at me. “Sam, it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s not like you care. Do what you want.” And she starts closing the door.

  “Indi! Come on. Of course I care. You’re my best friend. Aren’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.

  I don’t know what to say, but I have to say something. I go with, “Huh?”

  She does an eye roll. “Are you stupid or what?”

  “I guess I’m stupid.”

  “Too right, you’re stupid!” she says. “Anyone with half a brain would know they owe me an apology.”

  “I owe you an apology?”

  Now Indi doesn’t know what to say. Or at least I hope that’s why she doesn’t say anything. She just glares. I think fast. “Kidding! You know I’m sorry.”

  “Oh really? For what?” I recognize that look on her face. It’s the one that says, Go ahead. Just try it. And it better be good! Scary.

  “For...for messing up the paint.”

  “Wrong answer!” The door slams shut.

  I stand there, staring at the door for a minute. Then I yell, “And I’m sorry for being a guy who doesn’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Mr. Bains opens the door. “Samuel?” he says.

  “Yes, Mr. Bains,” I say.

  “You should go now.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  Then he adds, “And in my opinion, nobody knows what these girls are talking about at times like this. Not even them.”

  Before the door closes again, I hear Indi shriek, “Dad!”

  Mr. Bains can be an all right guy. There are tall white walls around the Dr. Sun Yat Sen gardens. I pause before going through the gate. I’m still not sure I want to be here, but it seems like the smartest move. I have this bad feeling that if I ignore Grandpa Max’s letter it’ll keep bugging me. Sometimes it’s just easier to deal with things—especially when those things are like slivers festering under your skin.

  I walk in and look around. The pond is easy enough to spot; it’s right there, shiny in the spring sun. It’s only when I walk up to the edge that I notice gravel paths curving off in several directions, winding between flowery shrubs. Quite a few people are wandering around, but I don’t see anyone wearing a plaid cap. A tall Chinese pagoda stands on one side of the pond, and opposite that is another wall with a round gate set into a bridge. It looks pretty cool, like something out of a movie.

  The first path I try comes to a doorway leading into a little office. I learn they charge a fee to visit that part of the garden, so I turn and head back the other way. I find benches set here and there near the pond, but none of them hold anyone that looks like Henry Chan. Maybe it would be easier to find the turtles? I position myself on a bridge and watch the water. Orange and white fish flash beneath the surface, and a Canada goose cruises by. When I spot a turtle, only the knob of his head sticks out of the water. I keep watching as he glides toward a large flat rock. Two other turtles are already parked on the rock, and the swimmer decides to join them. His neck comes straining out from his shell as he plants two front feet on the rock and starts climbing. You’d think he was taking on a mountain, the way he has to work for that rock. When he finally makes it, I feel like someone should give him a medal. Then I look up and meet the gaze of an old guy wearing large glasses and a plaid cap. Was he sitting right there the whole time?

  “Um, excuse me,” I say. “Are you Henry Chan?”

  He nods. “And you are Samuel Connor.” It isn’t a question.

  “Yeah, that’s me. My grandfather told me to meet you here.”

  “It’s about time you showed up. What took you so long?” he asks.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Never mind. You are here now. And here, time moves differently. Like a turtle.”

  I’m not sure what he means. It�
��s true that nothing in the garden is moving very fast, but I didn’t come here to talk about that. I just want him to give me whatever he’s got. Still, maybe some small talk has to happen first.

  “You like turtles?” I ask.

  He considers this for quite a while.

  Finally he says, “Why do you need to know?”

  “Uh. Well. I don’t.”

  “Then why did you ask? Are there not more important things that you wish to discuss?”

  This guy is sort of rude. “Like what?”

  And he says, “Wisdom is better than rubies. All the things that may be desired can’t be compared to it.”

  My skin prickles with goose bumps. I stare at him, and his dark eyes behind those big glasses stare back. How could he know? He can’t know about the ruby ring.

  He smiles and adds, “That’s one of your grandfather’s favorite quotes from the bible. Did you know that?”

  “No, no I didn’t.”

  “Hmmm,” he says. “What do you know about your grandfather?”

  “Not much,” I mutter.

  “I didn’t think so. He regrets that,” says Henry. “He used to sit right here on this bench and tell me about you.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, and he told me he wished he had been wise. And he wished for you to be wise. Do you know the difference between being smart and being wise?”

  I shrug.

  “Being smart means you have learned some things. Being wise means that you understand what you’ve learned—and therefore you know you are ignorant.”

  “What?”

  He chuckles. “Never mind. It is merely a thought. Now, here, I have something for you.” He sticks his hand into his coat pocket, withdraws it and holds his closed fist out toward me.

  I open my hand, and he places a gold pocket watch in my palm. “Max said to tell you how sorry he is that he hasn’t given you real time. This is a fine watch he carried, even though it doesn’t work.”

  “It doesn’t work?” I press a tiny button on the top of the watch and the cover springs open. The face of the watch looks back at me, and its hands are still. On the other side of the watch, three human faces look back at me: Grandpa Max, Dad and my own.

  Henry says, “Your grandfather told me that picture was taken just a week before your father’s death.”

  “First time I’ve seen it.” I stare at the faces. I know them.

  Henry gets to his feet and says, “I must go now.” Then he reaches into his pocket again and withdraws an envelope. “One thing more. A letter for you.”

  I don’t know why, but I feel different about this letter. Henry is barely out of sight when I sit down on the bench, open the envelope and start reading.

  Dear Samuel,

  Do you like the watch? It was given to me by my wife, your grandmother Bess Connor, on our wedding day. You’ll find a beautiful picture of her underneath the one of us and your dad. I’m sorry it doesn’t work. It stopped just after she passed away, and I never had the heart to fix it. Now, it’s time it was repaired. Please take it to Eli Jones at his shop, Space and Time, on Robson Street. He already figured out what’s wrong with it and I’ve paid him too, so don’t worry about the cost.

  I hope it was sunny in the garden today and that you had a good visit with Henry. He’s a great friend. We met right there on that bench by the pond and have spent many hours swapping stories. The first time I visited the garden, I wasn’t too happy, but the place gave me some peace. Might be the same for you? It wasn’t long after that I took up studying the ancient land of Sumer. I guess I thought the past might give me some answers. Over four thousand years ago, the Sumerians became the first people to write down their thoughts. The interesting part is people haven’t changed much in all that time. Here’s another quote from them—this one suits my visits to the garden:

  I looked into the water. My destiny was drifting past.

  Your Grandpa Max

  I get up and walk back over to the bridge. I look into the water. I see myself with the soft gold of the watch shining in my hand. I don’t know if my destiny is drifting there. I’ve never thought much about destiny. I’m not even sure what it is. Something to do with the future? Grandpa saw his future drifting past? And he was all alone? I open the watch and turn it so that the photograph is reflected beside my watery image. I feel something on the back of my neck, a soft touch, like a breath. When I turn, no one is there. And I really wish someone was.

  chapter nine

  The whole way home on the bus, I stare at Grandpa’s watch. It’s probably worth a lot, maybe enough to buy a car. But it fits in the palm of my hand perfectly, and I know I won’t be selling it. I want to show it to Indi, and tell her how I changed my mind. I figure that by telling her, I might even understand why I changed my mind. Maybe the watch is like that bridge at the garden, only this bridge goes from the past to now. Grandpa Max is getting to me. And maybe I want to see him too? But what if he’s disappointed in me? He tells his friends about me like I’m someone special, and I’m not. I’m just an average fourteen-year-old kid who isn’t really good at anything.

  The bus drives past the house with the ruby red paint on the roof, and I look the other way. But it’s there. I feel it the way you feel someone’s stare from across a crowded room. It makes me feel way less than average, more like a screw up. I don’t want to be a screw up. Not for Indi, not for my mom, not even for Grandpa Max. And just like that, I know what I have to do. Tonight. By myself.

  It’s strange going out for a roof without Indi. I usually feel like I’m just about to open a birthday present, but not this time. There’s no vibe of magic in the air; there’s just cold darkness. It doesn’t matter. I’m doing this so the magic can happen next time, and the time after that. I know for certain that unless I get rid of the bloody mess, make it right, Indi and the magic could be gone for good.

  Once again, the house is dark and silent. I don’t bother to check for a dog. I just climb straight up the fence. I make my way across the garage roof and up to the peak without pausing. I pull out a spray can of pale gray paint and start looking for the dark splotches of red. I decided this is the best way to fix it. I thought about scrubbing the roof with some kind of cleaner but chances are that wouldn’t work. I had a hard enough time just washing the paint off my hands. Then I thought about that stuff that dissolves paint, but what if it ate into the shingles and wrecked them?

  The first few spatters are easy enough to spray over, but some of them are farther down the roof. I have to slide along on my butt, bracing myself with my feet to get to them. I don’t want to miss any. The last one is very close to the edge, and I lie sideways, stretching out my arm to spray. But as I press the button on the can, I lose my grip, and the can shoots free. It rolls, bounces off the gutter and disappears into darkness. The clatter it makes when it hits the pavement below is unbelievable. It sounds like somebody banging a pot with a metal spoon, the way people do at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I’ve got to get out of here. Fast.

  I scramble across the roof, not even trying to muffle my steps. My heart is pounding so hard, it seems as loud as the clattering can. I sprint across the garage roof and jump onto the fence. My shin slides and scrapes along the top of the fence, but I get a handhold and keep it just long enough to steady myself. Then I drop to the ground and start running. And I run right into the old man.

  He grunts when I hit him and staggers backward. He starts to fall, his eyes wide and frightened. I reach for him, catch his shirt, catch his arm. We teeter for a long slow second and then tip back upright. We stand there, panting, face-to-face.

  “You!” he says. His voice is no more than a hoarse whisper. Anger replaces the fear in his eyes. He coughs a bit, and in a stronger voice he calls, “Mary, I’ve got him. Call the police!”

  chapter ten

  The old man doesn’t have me. I could push past him right now and run. He’d never catch me. But I want to explain. I want to erase everything. “W
ait! Look, I’m sorry! Really sorry. I was trying to fix it...”

  “You’ve got no right being on my property. No right! Damn hooligan!” He shakes his head, points a finger at me. “Didn’t your father teach you anything?”

  I stare at him, at his disgust, and then a terrible thing happens. My eyes start stinging with tears.

  A thin voice comes from the direction of the front door. “Norman? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Mary,” he says. “I’m fine. Did you call the police?”

  “What’s that, dear?” she calls back.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake!” Norman mutters. “That woman can’t hear a darn thing. Kid, come with me.”

  “No.”

  “Eh?” he says.

  “I’m not coming with you. I fixed the mess. And I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath. “But if you’re calling the cops, I’m out of here.”

  His bushy eyebrows draw together and he clears his throat. Then he barks, “What’s your name young man?”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam who?”

  I start to tell him but then stop. Maybe Norman was a cop himself once; he sure seems like someone I’m expected to obey. I mutter, “Never mind.”

  We look at each other. Me, with my mouth shut tight, and him, with his head tipped to one side. In a quieter voice he says, “Well, Sam Never Mind, maybe I can give you a chance to explain yourself. But I’d like to go inside because I’m freezing my heinie off out here. Think we can talk about it?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” He turns and walks toward the front door. Part of me still wants to run, but my feet follow him, right through the door, past a startled Mary, straight on into the kitchen.

  Mary follows us and without saying a word, she fills a kettle with water. Norman points to a chair. “Have a seat.”