THE LEAGUE OF FREAKS
and the Secret Key
by
Alberto Hazan, MD
Strange things keep happening to Shree Mandvi, an ordinary Indian girl from the Bronx, when she moves to a private school in Cambridge. As if having the ability to fly wasn't weird enough, Shree discovers that four other kids in her class are freaks, each with their own unique powers. Together, they chase after a hidden treasure (and a mysterious secret key) that's been lost for centuries somewhere underneath the Harvard University campus.
Smashwords Edition
* * * * *
Published on Smashwords by:
Alberto Hazan, MD
The League of Freaks and the Secret Key
Copyright 2010 by Alberto Hazan, MD
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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* * * * *
When we internalize our senses,
we gain unlimited power;
[That is] how children become Gods.
–Shreeveda Gurumandvi,
Hindu Goddess, 5th Century B.C.
* * * * *
Table of Contents
Chapter 5: The Myth Of The Secret Key
Chapter 7: Shree, Shree, The Bumblebee
Chapter 8: Regarding The Treasure
Chapter 12: The Best Laid Plan
Chapter 14: The Transformation
Chapter 18: A Field Trip To Harvard Yard
Chapter 22: Girls Just Want To Have Fun
Chapter 26: An Uninvited Guest
Chapter 27: The League Is Formed
Chapter 29: Defeat Of The Freaks
Chapter 33: At The Twins’ House
Chapter 39: A Shaky Foundation
Chapter 40: A Subterranean World
Chapter 46: Gold, Silver and Jewels
Chapter 47: A Celebration’s End
Chapter 49: Showdown At The Boathouse
Chapter 51: Massachusetts General
* * * * *
Shree struggled to free herself from the tight rope around her wrists. With each attempt, the rope cut deeper into her skin. Blood trickled from an open wound on her face, but the drops never reached the floor.
Instead, they were lost in the sea of water that submerged part of the chamber where Shree and her friends were imprisoned. The dark blue stream coming from the tunnel’s entrance below them was now gushing in at an alarming rate. There was water up to Shree’s knees. The room was filling up fast; soon she’d drown.
But Shree wasn’t thinking about herself. Her friends around her were also in danger. One lay unconscious next to Shree. Another attempted to free her hands from a barbwire cage. A third was wrapped in rope and struggled as the cold water inched up her body.
The only one of her friends who could help them was nowhere to be found. Shree was afraid he was beaten up and left for dead somewhere in the deep recesses of the underground labyrinth.
Shree heard the Demons transferring the treasure from the side of the collapsing building. They had ambushed Shree and her friends, stolen the treasure, then tied them up and left them to drown.
The boathouse creaked and moaned, its foundation shaking from the rushing water that filled the room. Tiny pieces of debris and wood floated all around Shree. Large sections of the ceiling were now falling from overhead.
Shree thought about her parents and regretted not having told them about the treasure. She had snuck out with her friends. Nobody knew where they were. Nobody could help them. They were going to die alone, without their families. They’d drown inside the boathouse, steps away from the Harvard University campus where the search for the treasure had begun a few months back.
What frustrated Shree the most was that each one of them had secret powers. But they couldn’t use them. They were helpless, having been stripped of their ability to transform by the Demons.
A large plank of wood fell inches from Shree. She flinched and looked up at the ceiling. A piece of sheetrock dangled dangerously over her head.
The water was now at Shree’s shoulders. She looked to her right, tears streaming from her eyes as she saw her smallest friend fighting to catch her breath, craning her neck to gain one last ounce of oxygen before drowning.
Shree closed her eyes tightly and tried transforming once again. If she could turn into her animal form, she could fly for help.
A loud sound overhead broke her concentration. The boathouse was now on the verge of collapsing. When Shree looked up, she saw the large piece of sheetrock falling down from the ceiling. In a second, it would hit her and likely knock her unconscious.
She braced herself for the blow.
Shivering from the cold water that surrounded her, she repeated the words that helped her turn into a different species.
But it wasn’t working. Nothing was working.
Shree was going to die. And she’d be responsible for the death of her friends and the destruction of Harvard University.
* * * * *
Leaving The Bronx
An hour after her going-away party, Shree woke up with her head on her mother’s shoulder and drool leaking from her mouth. The clock on the dashboard of the car read 5:30.
Inside the cramped green station wagon, Shree sat squished between her mother and father. Her family’s possessions were scattered all around her. Shree knew that if they were still in the Bronx, they’d be firing up the grill and dancing to the music. She thought about feigning sleep, but she felt her mother move beside her.
“How do you feel, honey?” her mother asked.
“How do you think she feels?” her father responded before Shree had a chance to reply. “She is very happy to be attending her new school, are you not Shree?”
Dr. Mandvi looked at her and smiled. “You will have many more opportunities there. And you will prove to them that a girl from the Bronx is just as smart as anyone from Cambridge. Will you not?”
Shree was sure her father was right, but he’d just reminded her that in a couple of days she’d be starting the new school year. Normally self-confident, Shree was having doubts about fitting in at her fancy private school in New England. Kids from all different backgrounds went to her school in the Bronx, the only home she’d ever known. Shree loved it there. She wondered what kind of kids lived in Cambridge. Would they see her as different—or worse?
She looked at her father, whose smile disappeared as he turned from Shree to the road ahead. He fumbled with the portable GPS system he had bought for the trip and continued talking about her new school. Shree tried to act as if she was listening, but she had tuned him out. Around their ancient station wagon a sea of cars could be seen, barely moving. It was Friday rush-hour traffic and they were lucky to be inching along Interstate 95. They hadn’t even gotten out of New York City yet, and they’d been on the road for almost an hour.
“Oh, stop lecturing your daughter, Rajandra.” Mrs. Mandvi winked at Shree and elbowed her in the ribs, never dropping a stitch. Her mother was an avid knitter and could put together a sweater with her eyes closed. She began to hum an old familiar Punjabi song as she crisscrossed the purple wool around the two metal needles again and again.
“Well, she needs to continue doing well in school, does she not?” Shree’s father stopped speaking, looking up for a moment out the window, then back at the GPS device. He dropped it to the floor in frustration. “This device is not constructed as it should be. And look at this traffic. It is slowly going to kill me.”
Mrs. Mandvi tied off the ball of yarn she was using and began weaving in the last bit of orange thread. A new ball of yellow yarn lay on the car seat next to her. Shree crinkled her nose at the pattern, and prayed that her mother wasn’t making this sweater for her.
Shree looked around the sea of cars again, wondering if they were ever going to make it to Cambridge. She thought about her old home, and sighed. She was going to miss a lot about the Bronx, especially her best friend. Shree could trust Tanya Johnson with anything. And that’s why Shree felt comfortable telling Tanya everything.
Tanya was the only person who didn’t think the weird changes that Shree was experiencing were just a result of delayed puberty. Her friend was just as concerned as Shree was about the things that were happening to her. In fact, Shree was certain something was wrong. It was as if her body was fighting a war from within. At times, her eyesight was as sharp as a hawk’s. At other times Shree could hear sounds from a mile away, but couldn’t see a foot in front of her face. And then there were the bouts of nausea and headaches, the numbness and tingling, and the visions. It all worried her, a lot.
Shree wondered if she’d ever find someone like Tanya at her new school. Probably not, she decided. It was sad to realize that she might never be able to share her secrets.
Shree shook off that last thought and turned on the car radio. She fiddled with the old knob to get to her favorite station, 97.1 FM.
“Oh, no, no, no. We are not going to listen to the hippie- hop. We are going to converse like a normal family.” Her mother turned off the radio and placed the knitting needles on her lap. “Look at this traffic, Rajandra. Now it is most certainly your fault, dear, for leaving so late,” she admonished. “You and your GPS. See how much that has helped? But no matter, this traffic gives us more time to spend together.”
Shree’s father did not seem to agree, however. He began honking the horn like a typical New Yorker. “It is not logical. I do not understand these people. You are slowly killing me,” he yelled to the cars through the open window.
As if that’s going to help, Shree thought. It was difficult to see from where she was sitting, but she was pretty sure that across the top of the dashboard was the exact same sea of cars she’d glimpsed at ten minutes ago. The hoods of all the cars were lined up across the four lanes of the interstate. She gave up. What was the use of looking if all she saw was the same thing?
Shree decided that keeping quiet was the best tactic. Eventually her dad would calm down and things would be back to normal, right?
She realized that she hadn’t said a single word since leaving the Bronx, and no one had asked her why. Shree was upset about having to move. She understood that this was a great opportunity for her father, a physicist and biomedical engineer, who had recently landed a job at Harvard University. This gave him the status he finally deserved. It also granted Shree admission to the exclusive Kennedy Academy, one of the wealthiest and most academically rigorous high schools in the Northeast.
Shree sighed, thinking about how happy her parents were that she’d be going to a prestigious private school in Cambridge, when all she really wanted was to be going back to her old public school in the Bronx. She knew she should be thankful, and she was a little curious about what this new place would be like. But she was too bummed out to feel curious or thankful about anything. She was also a bit anxious since she had always been the top student in her class. Shree knew that the kids at her new school were likely to be as smart as her, if not smarter.
Since the car was going nowhere, Dr. Mandvi put it in park and picked up the GPS again. He fiddled with it some more in a last attempt to program the system. He fumbled with the buttons for ten minutes, still unable to make it work. “This darn thing,” he mumbled.
Shree looked over at her mother, anticipating what was coming. She knew that her mother could never pass up an opportunity to tease her father, even as she gazed at him adoringly. “One of India’s brightest scientists, a Harvard professor yet, and you cannot get that little machine to work?” She laughed long and loud, her shoulders bobbing up and down and jostling Shree about in the small space.
Her laughter had the desired effect, and soon a wide smile made its appearance over Dr. Mandvi’s face. He turned to Shree with a wink. “What do you mean one of the brightest? I thought you always said I was the smartest scientist in all of India.”
“Oh, do not kid yourself, Rajandra. Your cousin Kaushal is every bit as bright as you, perhaps even a bit brighter. He has won four awards at University while you have won only three.”
“Please remember that my cousin is only a mechanical engineer. If I wanted an easy lifestyle, I would have certainly gone into that field. Biomedical engineering is much more difficult than simple mechanical engineering and—” His voice trailed off as the car in front of him started to move slightly.
He looked in the rearview mirror and then to the right and made a sudden acceleration, almost hitting the car in front of them. At the station wagon’s sudden jerk, Shree and her mother were thrown left, then right, into each other. Her father squeezed by the traffic to take the last exit before the turnoff to Connecticut. He missed the exit sign by mere inches, and then they were free and clear.
“I think I know a shortcut,” he said, adjusting the rearview mirror.
Shree looked at her mother, and they both rolled their eyes. This was going to be interesting.
* * * * *
Lost In Salem
Three hours later, Shree and her parents had traveled a great distance, but had gotten nowhere. Trekking along back roads in the dimming light of day, they were now confirmed one hundred percent lost. From the few signs they’d passed, they were probably still in western Massachusetts, although secretly Shree wouldn’t be surprised to learn they had reached Canada or Mexico.
Taking one of what proved to be many wrong turns, her father was now directing the station wagon onto a narrow, dark road with little room for oncoming traffic, should there be any. Her father and his shortcuts had added hours to their trip. Shree ached from so much time in the cramped quarters.
She was also tired, but it sounded like her mother was in worse shape. “I told you that we should have stayed on the main highway, Rajandra, but no. You do not listen to what I have to say. And now I have to urinate. Very, very badly. Soon I will have to go by the side of the road.”
Shree heard the rare note of annoyance in her mother’s voice and was relieved not to have to say anything herself. She looked out the window to see if she could catch any signs of life, but all she could see was the road ahead, and trees, large trees on both sides of the narrow strip of pavement.
Dr. Mandvi, too, had his eyes glued to the road. “Yes, yes, my dear. I am sure there will be a sign to lead us back to the highway soon.”
“Hey, what’s that up there?” Shree spotted a large sign and pointed to her right. It was one of the old-fashioned kinds with light bulbs that spelled out the letters. So many of the bulbs were out on the big sign, though, that the message was illegible. “–lly’s -ine-, —lect–les, and –sed Bo–s,” she read.
Her father pulled the car right up under the sign until the headlights lit the sign.
“Oh,” Shree said. “Sally’s Diner, Collectibles, and Used
Books. Cool.”
“Let us hope it is open,” her mother said. “Rajandra, park over there. Thank goodness we have found some sign of life.”
Shree’s father slowly drove the car over the gravel into the small lot and parked next to the big clapboard house. Theirs was the only car in the lot.
Shree couldn’t be sure in the dusky light, but the diner looked blue and had a faint air of neglect about it. Not very inviting, she thought. Then again, any place with food, books, and “collectibles”—whatever they were—might turn out to be interesting.
Shree and her parents climbed the stairs to the porch that surrounded the house. With every step they took, the stairs complained, sounding loud in the quiet of the early evening.
“This is spooky,” Shree whispered.
“Shhh,” her mother cautioned. “We do not want to offend anyone.”
Finally they reached the front door. A small faded sign hung on the doorknob that read “OPEN” in what had been big red letters that had faded to a pinky-gray. The sign was covered with dust. The screen door hung crookedly from the frame, but the door looked solid enough, made of a beautiful golden wood. Through the windows they could see a long counter and several booths, although the place seemed deserted.
Dr. Mandvi stepped forward and pushed the door. It protested with a loud squeak but opened into the diner. Shree and her mother followed him inside. From there, she could see that it was completely empty. A single dim bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling, casting shadows.
“Hello,” her father called. “Is there anybody here?”
For a moment none of them spoke or moved, straining to hear an answer. Then, just as Shree was about to suggest finding the bathroom and taking off again, they heard a faint voice from somewhere in the back.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the voice said. And sure enough, in another moment a tiny bird of a woman had entered from the kitchen behind the counter, wiping her hands on a light brown towel. She was muttering what sounded like, “Didn’t expect them until a little later, did I,” but Shree knew that was impossible. She must not have heard the woman correctly.
Shree liked to think that she’d seen it all, especially growing up in New York City, but this woman was one strange-looking being, all wrapped in a long black shawl and an even longer black skirt. Beneath some kind of a bonnet, which she tied under her chin, a cap of snow- white hair stuck out in all directions. The woman’s face was a mass of deep lines and wrinkles. She had to be at least a hundred. Two tiny piercingly green eyes peered out from their sockets, lit up with something—anticipation, glee, cunning—Shree wasn’t quite sure what. And her narrow pointy ears added yet another dimension of strangeness.
The woman spoke again in a voice that alternately purred and almost screeched. “Don’t just stand there dawdling,” she said. “The name’s Twichett, Sally Twichett. Come in. The restrooms are just over there behind the register.”
Shree’s father seemed to have lost his capacity for speech. Now he cleared his throat and made an attempt to state his family’s business.
“Well, yes, um, we are in need of food and the facilities. You see, we took a wrong turn somewhere. We’re on our way to Cambridge.” Dr. Mandvi’s words drifted off. He turned helplessly to his wife.
Shree’s mother took over smoothly. “What my husband is trying to say, is that we have been on the road for hours and—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the woman said, dismissively. “I’ll just go into the kitchen and get the food ready.” Then she looked at Shree. “The bookstore is straight through there, my dear,” she said, pointing down a hallway to the left of the kitchen.
“How nice,” her mother said. “Our Shree does love books, and I am sure she would love a couple of new ones. Shree, we do not have long, so pick out one or two books while Mrs. Twichett is preparing our meal. Find something you have not read, dear, perhaps by that author you like so much—you know, the one who wrote Twilight.”
“Yes, deary,” Mrs. Twichett chimed in. “Go on now. There are thousands of books to choose from. See what you can find.”
Even from a few feet away Shree could see the whiskers on the woman’s chin, and a small scar hidden underneath the right side of her lip. Shree nodded, though going down that long dark hallway was not something on her list of must-dos. And yet, Shree couldn’t pass up the opportunity to explore the bookstore—and the rest of the house.
* * * * *
A Path In Motion
The hallway had very little light and the floorboards creaked with every step Shree took, but she had to admit that she was intrigued. Soon her parents’ voices had diminished until she heard nothing at all except her own breathing.
The walls were covered with paintings of different sizes. They all looked very old, the canvases shiny and with the occasional crack, the frames large and ornate, many covered in gold leaf. One group of paintings caught her eye. They were the same size, lined up in a row. Their frames were all similar as well, but these were not like the fancier ones; they were plain and made of wood, and Shree was sure she smelled mildew, which seemed appropriate considering the state of the rest of the diner.
She walked slowly past each painting, noting that as a group, they seemed to be telling a story. In the first, a beautiful young woman with pale hair and green eyes was dragged towards a clearing. In the second, that same woman, to Shree’s horror, was burned at the stake. It was a gruesome image and Shree felt goose bumps rise on her arms. In the third painting, the woman had risen from the ashes and transformed into the form of a witch. In the last painting, the witch was surrounded by the villagers who had attacked and killed her—but this time they were all dead. The woman had exacted her revenge.
Oh my God, Shree thought. Could they have driven clear past Boston and ended up in Salem, Massachusetts?
Shree took a few steps back, staring at the last painting. It was difficult to make out any detail in the woman’s face, but her eyes told it all: hatred, revenge, agony. Shree felt lightheaded.
Suddenly, she caught something moving from the corner of her eye, but when she turned and stared down the hallway there was nobody there.
Shree thought about retracing her steps and heading back. But she was too excited to quit her search. She took a deep breath and kept walking towards the foyer, shooting occasional glances back over her shoulder. Each step she took was accompanied by a high-pitched creak.
The further she got from the dining room, the darker it got until all she could think about was how creepy the house was. Outside Shree could hear the wind, which had picked up speed and was now howling through every one of the old house’s cracks.
Finally she saw the room of books up ahead. She cried out in delight and forgot everything but the room filled from top to bottom with thousands of books, just as Mrs. Twichett had said.
As she walked towards the back wall of the library— for it was more of a library than a bookstore—she felt the warmth of the fire, which was crackling in the hearth. She knew it was still hot outside in the summer air, but inside the diner it had been decidedly chilly and she was grateful for the heat.
Shree looked at the titles of the books and noted that they were arranged by subject: mysteries and magic took up a whole wall, and next to these were history books of all kinds. To Shree’s right, almost hidden by the dark paneling, was another smaller hallway.
Curious, she followed it as far as it led to another room, much smaller, colder, and even darker than the rest of the house. Again, Shree caught something moving, this time from across the doorway. She stood perfectly still and stared out, but she couldn’t see anything. Feeling that she was trespassing but unable to keep her curiosity in check, Shree felt along the wall for a light switch and was pleased when her hand found it by the door. She turned it on and looked around. It was a kind of sitting room apparently, with a couple of small tables, a comfortable-looking armchair, and several small objects scattered on every surface. This must be the “collectibles” mentioned on the sign hanging outside.
This room was also lined with paintings. They revealed the same girl pictured in the prior set of paintings in the hallway, but this time the girl was being harassed by a band of older school children. The paintings showed the girl being shoved from a third-story window, falling to the ground, and finally, lying on the ground after the fall. But the last painting was the most unusual one of all. Because instead of the image of a hurt—or dead—girl crumpled on the ground, there was something else. The girl’s fingers had lengthened and her nails had become sharp and pointed. Her back had become curved and her eyes slightly slanted. In fact, the girl was no longer a girl at all. She had become a cat. And the only thing left of the girl of the previous paintings was her face—a human face that, as Shree drew closer for a better look, was now on the head of the cat. It was none other than a younger version of Mrs. Sally Twichett herself.
Shree took several steps back, covering her eyes with her hands. She stopped dead in her tracks as she heard the sound of footsteps coming from the other end of the room. Her heart pounding, she turned and ran out of the room and back down the hall into the library. But after a couple of steps, Shree realized she’d forgotten to shut off the light. She expected Mrs. Twichett to be standing there, shouting in anger. But nobody was there. Again, Shree heard what she thought were footsteps, this time coming from the long hallway leading back to the diner, and she whipped around. “Mrs. Twichett? Is that you?” Shree whispered.
But there was no one there. Nothing.
Shree ran back to the small room and quickly shut off the light.
Back in the library she turned on the single lamp. She was instantly drawn to a hardcover volume with a tan leather case. It rested against the mantelpiece of the room’s single fireplace. Shree picked up the book eagerly but handled it cautiously, seeing that its cover was threadbare and its thin pages were nearly falling out. The words, My Search for John Harvard’s Treasure: Gold, Silver, Jewels, and the Secret Key, by Sir Malcolm Winthrop, were printed in an ornate faded gold script. Shree turned one page over and then the next, careful not to let any of the loose pages drop to the floor, feeling excited. She kept getting the strange sensation that she was being watched, but every time she looked over her shoulder the room was empty.
Shree noticed right away that the book she held was arranged in a very peculiar way. The first half of the book was a collection of journal entries written by the author, while the second half was a series of detailed hand-drawn maps. Shree attempted to read some of the excerpts, but it was difficult to make sense of any of it. Not only was the writing hard to make out in the dim light of the room, but most of it was written in some kind of ancient English. She caught the occasional word or two, but definitely not enough to decipher what the author had written.
The most interesting part of the book was its collection of maps. Each map was beautifully drawn and depicted a different view of Cambridge, Massachusetts. The first was a bird’s-eye view of the entire city. Next, there was what looked like a map of Harvard University, labeled “Harvard College, 1638.” Several other maps followed. The most interesting one was the last map of the book, which caught Shree completely by surprise. It showed a close up of Harvard Yard with tiny, almost illegible scribbles in the margins. An arrow pointed to an “X,” which was marked in thick black ink with a note to the side. Shree didn’t have to understand the funky old English to know what the “X” meant: a hidden treasure.
This was it. This was the book she wanted. Shree looked up and was startled when she caught sight of herself in the big window across the room. Just a reflection, she thought. Suddenly, her reflection was joined on the right by that of another—Mrs. Twichett’s—and she spun around. But no one was there. Shree didn’t know whether to be scared or annoyed.
Then, from behind her a voice spoke. “I see you have found what you were looking for.”
Shree jumped a mile, clutching the book to her chest.
Mrs. Twichett stepped forward to stand only inches from her face. “A treasure hunter, eh? Of all the wonderful books in my collection, you choose this rubbish?”
“Well,” Shree floundered. Couldn’t the woman announce herself like everyone else? “M-my father says that a good book always finds you, and this one looked kind of interesting.”
“Don’t be fooled, young lady. Treasure of this sort is unlikely to exist—and many who have tried to find it have the scars to prove it. Some have even died in its pursuit.” Mrs. Twichett’s voice had taken on a decidedly hysterical quality. “A secret key that can unlock unlimited treasures— hogwash! Nothing but myths and ramblings, ramblings and myths.” Mrs. Twichett turned to go. She gave Shree a final hard look. When she spoke again her voice had returned to its former calm. “It’s time to return to the diner, dear. Your parents are waiting.”
Shree didn’t know what to think about Mrs. Twichett and what she’d said, and she was torn between returning to the diner to eat and settling in the library for a long look at the treasure book. But she knew her parents would be looking for her. Too much time had already passed.
Shree shook her head. She felt disoriented. She knew one thing, though. Hearing the old woman talk about the treasure the way she did made Shree more interested.
Mrs. Twichett was clearly waiting for Shree at the entrance to the hallway. Shree had to go. But she didn’t want to leave the book. Slowly, she went over to Mrs. Twichett, the book still in her hand. When she got about a foot away, the woman reached out her bony arm and grabbed her. Shree’s instinct was to pull away, but the woman held her tight and leaned in close.
“Listen to me,” she said and gave Shree a long look as if deciding whether or not to say what was on her mind. “It is true that this book is meant for you, my dear. And you must follow what has been set in motion. But do not abuse what it holds within. Go about it alone and you will suffer the consequences of your actions—and fail just like the others before you.”
Shree looked down at the book. The faded gold letters now sparkled as she slowly moved the book from one hand to the other. When she looked up, Mrs. Twichett was gone. Instead, Shree saw a black cat crossing the hallway and disappearing into the distance.
Suddenly, she felt herself being pulled to the right by a strong hand. Shree gasped and clutched the book against her chest once again.
“Shree, where have you been?” Her mother looked petrified. “What has taken you so long? We must eat quickly and get back in the car. Have you found a book?” She looked around at the collection of books that lined every inch of the room. “This place is very, very spooky.”
“Hi, Mom. Sorry for taking so long, but I was speaking to Mrs. Twichett. She’s letting me have this book, it’s really cool mom, it’s actually a treasure—”
Her mother cut her off, looking irritated by Shree’s comment. “What do you mean you were speaking to Mrs. Twichett? Mrs. Twichett has been in the kitchen making us our dinner. Let us not start any nonsense young lady. Let us go back and eat. I will not have any fibs from you tonight.”
“But—” Shree looked hurt and confused. She attempted a feeble protest, but it was no use. Her mother had taken the initiative and was already four or five feet in front of her, walking back quickly towards the kitchen.
With each step she took, Mrs. Mandvi shook her head and muttered, “Very, very spooky indeed.”
Twenty minutes later, Shree and her parents pulled out of the diner, attempting once more to find their way to Cambridge. As they drove out of the lot, Shree glanced back to see if Mrs. Twichett was watching. But all she saw was a dark parking lot, a decrepit sign swinging on its hinges, and a big black cat with piercing green eyes resting comfortably by the window sill.
* * * * *
The Demon Twins
Shree groaned and pulled her pillow over her head. The light was killing her eyes. She didn’t want to wake up yet. She had plans with Tanya to go to the park, but maybe she’d just stay in bed a few more minutes.
Suddenly, Shree realized where she was. She was not at home in the Bronx. She and Tanya had no plans that day. Slowly the details of where she was and how she got there came creeping back.
They’d arrived in Cambridge at about 10:30 last night. Shree hadn’t been able to see much of her new house because it was so dark, and they were so exhausted that after opening up the house and unloading the air mattresses and a few blankets, they’d all gone straight to bed. The movers weren’t arriving until later that morning with the rest of their things. Shree groaned again, thinking about all the unpacking and organizing she’d have to do to get ready for school.
Finally, she lifted the pillow from her face. She smelled something delicious. But how could her mother cook without any pots or pans? Her parents were speaking loudly; she could hear them all the way from downstairs. They always did that whenever they wanted to wake her without actually coming into her room, and she was notorious for sleeping in until they forced her to get up.
Oh well, she might as well check it out. She was hungry.
Shree didn’t bother dressing first. She put on her favorite robe over her boxers and t-shirt and tied the sash. It was ratty, she knew, but she’d wait until it fell from her in tatters before she ever let it go. A gift from her grandmother in India, it was one of her most special belongings. On went her slippers and then she was ready to see what smelled so good.
“Shree, is that you?” she heard her mother call.
“Yup. I’m starving. What smells so good?”
“Your father went out to the bakery,” Mrs. Mandvi said. “Come, have some hot chocolate and a muffin.”
Shree sat down, chose an apple cinnamon muffin from the plate, and looked around her new home. The cabinets of the kitchen were an unusual shade of lavender, but Shree decided she liked them.
Her mother saw her gazing at them and put her hand up to the cabinet by the sink. “What do you think, honey? Are they too much? I think I might like the color, but we could always repaint.”
“No,” Shree said definitively. “I like them. I think they’re different.”
Just then Dr. Mandvi came into the room. He was carrying an enormous container of what Shree knew would be English breakfast tea, his favorite kind. He used to drink only chai, but when he’d come out to visit Harvard a couple of months ago, he’d developed a taste for this stuff. Last year Shree’s mother had bought him a travel mug which read, “Smile if you love an engineer,” and now he was never without either of them. He picked up a chocolate chip muffin and gave a contented sigh. “Aaahhh, these are good, are they not, Indira?”
Just as she was about to answer, the doorbell rang. With a start, her mother started barking orders. “That must be the movers,” she said. “Rajandra, please go open the door. Shree, go get dressed. Quick! We have so much to do today.”
Shree heard the no-nonsense tone in her mother’s voice and headed for the stairs with her hot chocolate. She planned to put on her jeans and go explore the neighborhood until the movers were done unloading the truck. Hadn’t her mother mentioned that a girl about her age lived next door?
In ten minutes, Shree had brushed her teeth, thrown on an old shirt, and pulled on her jeans with the holes in the knees. She added the brand new yellow-and-black- striped Adidas sneakers Tanya had given her as a going- away present, and was out the door, her backpack with the treasure book slung over her shoulder. As she left she yelled to her father, who was gesticulating to the movers as they guided the sofa into the living room, to let him know that she’d be out looking around. His lips formed the message, “Do not go too far,” and then he turned back to direct the two men in baseball caps and back braces.
The first thing Shree noticed was how open everything was in her new neighborhood. Instead of tall buildings and cement as far as she could see, huge old trees graced every yard, and none of the homes were more than two or three stories. While the Mandvis’ house was much smaller than the two on either side, Shree still thought it looked nice. Instead of white with dark green shutters that the other two had, 25 Berkeley Place was pale yellow with wooden shutters and black trim, which seemed to fit perfectly in this old section of Cambridge.
Shree got as far as the sidewalk before remembering the girl in the house next door. Her mother had pointed out their kitchen window to the house on the left, the one with the rusty swing set in the yard. Didn’t look like it got much use anymore, that was for sure. Shree automatically scanned the house, looking for signs of life. Was it too early to ring the doorbell? As she answered her own question (yes), she thought she saw the curtain in a window on the second floor move. She stopped for a better look, just glimpsing what she thought was the flick of a ponytail and a pink shirt before the curtain dropped back down again. Hmmm. Well, maybe she wasn’t ready to come out yet, Shree thought. Maybe the girl was shy. She’d come back later and try again.
Shree took a left at the end of the corner onto Berkeley Street, another narrow street. In the Bronx, Shree had relied on the fact that all the avenues and cross streets were laid out in a grid-like fashion. Here, the streets were curvy and of different lengths. After a hundred feet she got to the next corner, which curved twice before intersecting with a slightly wider street. The street sign was bent and had been pummeled with something hard, maybe a rock, but was still legible—Craigie Street.
Which way to go now? Shree decided to take a right, making sure to note the turns she was taking so she could get back home. A little way down Craigie Street she passed Craigie Circle. First Berkeley Place and then Berkeley Street, then the two Craigies—couldn’t they come up with any new names for these streets?
After walking another block, Shree saw a little park up ahead on her left. Excellent. Shree loved to rollerblade, even if she did spend a lot more time on the ground than on her feet. The streets were full of cracked sidewalks where the trees had broken through the cement; it’d be nearly impossible to skate on them. But Shree could see as she approached the park that the walk surrounding the grassy area was ideal for skating. She also noted that there were several wooden benches lining the south end of the park, shaded by giant maples and oaks. It looked like a great place for writing in her journal and for reading her new book. If only Tanya could be there to hang out with her.
Shree was about to sit on the bench over by the big marble fountain when she felt a light draft. She stepped quickly off the sidewalk, and almost before she knew what was happening, she had narrowly missed getting hit by the figure that came speeding down. It was a lanky African American boy who seemed to be flying, rather than running, down the path at full speed. Shree realized that he was being chased by a second figure, who trailed behind by only a few feet.
As the first boy was making the turn, he looked back and smiled. Shree could’ve sworn he wiggled his large ears at her, but she was probably seeing things.
The grin on the boy’s face, though, quickly disappeared when a third figure appeared from out of nowhere and tackled him, knocking the kid with the big ears to the ground.
A few minutes later, Shree heard laughter coming from behind the trees. Curious, she approached slowly and heard the voice of one of the boys pleading, “Come on, guys, back off. It’s not my fault you’re stupid. You may be brothers, but that doesn’t mean you have to share one brain.”
Shree took a few more steps until she was past the big trees. The path opened onto a wide expanse of green lawn. She could still smell the scent of newly-mowed grass. But the scene was ruined by the two boys with Red Sox caps worn backwards on their heads. They each held the shoulders of the third boy, the thin black kid. The boys were taking turns slapping him around. They seemed furious, Shree guessed, about that last comment the kid had made.
Despite being beaten, the boy on the ground was talking non-stop, trying to make the bullies back off by making jokes. Obviously, this technique wasn’t working. In fact, it seemed to be making them angrier. Just as Shree was about to yell at them to stop, one of the Red Sox kids saw her standing there. “What the hell are you doing in our park?”
“Who—me?” Shree asked. Their park?
“Yeah,” the other kid said. “You.”
Shree saw that the two boys weren’t just brothers, they were identical twins. Their dark hair was the exact same color, almost black, and stuck out from under their hats. They were big guys and looked like they knew their way around a hockey puck or a football. At their feet lay the poor kid. What was their problem anyway?
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble,” Shree said. “But you need to leave that guy alone.”
“Like we care what you think,” the first one said, a baseball bat held threateningly in his hand. “Get the hell outta here. This is our park.”
The boy on the ground mustered the courage to mimic his tormentors in a high squeaky voice. “Yeah, this is our park. We own it. We pay rent. We’re big tough guys with little p—” His sentence was cut short by a blow to the stomach.
For someone who was so messed up, he sure wasn’t hesitating to give his opinion, Shree thought.
“Hey, shut up, you big-eared freak. Did you hear that, Tim? I guess Dumbo Dave wants another beating.”
“I heard him, Tom. I guess he hasn’t learned his lesson yet. We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?”
Dumbo Dave? Learned his lesson? Who were these idiots anyway? Shree usually didn’t hesitate to speak her mind, but now she found herself tongue-tied. Who were these jerks and what had this guy Dave done to them? She could see where he got the name, though. His ears were huge, poor guy. She’d better keep her mouth shut—for the moment—and leave. It went against her nature, but without a better plan—and without backup—she was in no position to argue.
“She’s nothing, just ignore her bro,” the twin called Tim said. At least she thought it was Tim. It was impossible to tell them apart.
His brother held Dumbo Dave down by the neck. He stopped hitting Dave long enough to chime in, “Yeah, just turn your butt around and go back where you came from.”
Shree decided she had to do something—anything— to stop them. But just then Dave spoke again. “Don’t worry about me, babe. They’ll get tired of kicking the crap out of me sooner or later. Save yourself.”
Shree didn’t want to leave but couldn’t think of anything she could do to stop these demon twins either. And she’d promised her parents she’d stay out of trouble. With a long look at Dave, Shree turned around and headed back to Craigie Street. Around the corner she could still hear them laughing. Poor, poor Dave.
* * * * *
The Myth Of The Secret Key
The incident with the twins had taken away Shree’s initial joy at finding the park. After walking for ten minutes, Shree reached Berkeley Place. She jogged up the path. It would take a while before she’d feel normal about coming up to this house and calling it home, but she already liked the fact that she could hear the wind in the trees and see green, not gray, all around.
The moving truck was in the driveway and almost empty now. A few boxes were still lined on the long metal ramp that sloped from the van to the ground, and the last pieces of furniture sat on the lawn. Shree picked up a lamp that belonged in her father’s study and said hi to one of the moving men who was coming out the door.
Then she saw that the girl from next door was standing by the end of the porch where the two yards met. Shree started and almost dropped the lamp. Why was the girl just standing there? Why didn’t she come over and say hello?
Shree decided she’d take the initiative. “Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”
The girl glanced sharply at Shree but said nothing.
“I’m Shree,” she tried again. “You live next door, right?”
“Right.”
The girl fairly snarled her answer and again Shree was taken aback. She had perfect blond hair, deep baby blue eyes, and a perfect tanned body, but she wasn’t very polite. What was up with that? First the boys in the park and now this. Cambridge wasn’t a friendly place if these guys were any indication.
The girl eyed Shree up and down. “So, you’re supposed to be the smart girl from the Bronx.” She shook her head. “I’m not impressed.”
Shree didn’t know what to make of that comment, so she ignored it. “What’s your name?” Shree asked.
“Katherine.” This was said grudgingly, but at least it was a start.
“Well, Katherine, it was nice chatting with you,” Shree said. It hadn’t been, but Shree was trying to be friendly, even if this girl couldn’t manage it. Shree stood on the porch a moment longer, but since Katherine said nothing more, Shree figured their conversation was over. “Well, see you later.” She turned, rolled her eyes, and went inside to find her mom, leaving the girl and her cold smirk on the lawn. Whatever. If that was the way she was going to be, Shree would look elsewhere for friends.
“Hey, Mom, where are you? Where does this lamp go?”
“Oh, good, you are back,” her mother’s voice came from somewhere in the house. “I am upstairs. Come help me move these bookshelves, Shree. They belong on the other wall.”
Shree took the stairs two at a time and looked into a couple of rooms before finding her mother in the third one, obviously meant to be her father’s office. His desk had already been placed to face the door and boxes of books and papers were stacked chest high. Her mother stepped out from in back of one of the stacks. She was covered with dust and her hair was a mess. Shree couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. To see her mother with even a hair out of place was rare, if not a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. And it was even more unusual to see her wearing anything other than a sari.
Immediately, Mrs. Mandvi looked down at her jeans and then felt her head. “Oh, my, I imagine I look quite the sight. How do books gather such dust while they are stored in boxes?”
Assuming it was a rhetorical question, Shree said nothing, but went over and picked a big dust bunny out of her mother’s hair.
“Thank you, dear. Here, I will take that lamp. It belongs on your father’s desk. Are you hungry? Is it lunchtime already? Come downstairs, I will make you something to eat. I think the dishes and silverware boxes are on the table—at least I hope they are.”
Her mother was not usually so scattered, but then they didn’t move every day. Shree knew her mother missed her own friends, especially Tanya’s mother, Sherika. The Johnsons lived only two doors down and the two families were very close. On top of that, Shree suspected that her mother was a little concerned about making new friends among the mothers of the kids at the private school and her father’s colleagues at Harvard. Shree reached out and gave her mother a hug.
“What was that for?” her mother asked, but Shree saw she was pleased, and was glad she’d done it.
“Nuthin’. Let’s go eat,” Shree answered.
“Noth-ing,” her mother reminded. “Please use correct diction.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shree saluted playfully, and then followed Mrs. Mandvi down the carpeted stairs to the kitchen.
•
After lunch, her father took his tea out to the porch and sat down on the top stair. “Shree, come sit by me for a moment,” he called.
“Okay, be there in a minute.”
“Rajandra, let the poor girl alone,” her mother chastised him. “She has unpacking to do. She must get ready for school.”
“Now, now, Indira, I am going to talk with my daughter for a few moments, that is all. Leave us be.”
Shree saw her mother smile and shake her head.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” she asked, preparing for the lecture that was coming.
“Of course I am fine, Shree. Come tell me what you think of your new neighborhood.”
“Well, I couldn’t picture it at all when we were in the Bronx, but now that we’re here, I guess it’s kind of cool. I mean, I already miss all the different smells and languages everywhere, but it’s really pretty here. I found a park down the street too, where I can read and rollerblade.” Shree purposefully neglected to mention what had happened with the demon twins and the boy with the big ears.
“I thought you would like it,” her father said. “See the birch trees and pine trees? So many different plants and flowers. Those over there are irises. Did you know that, Shree? And those climbing the fence are lilacs.”
Her father could never pass up an opportunity for a teaching moment. But she did love the flowers and the smell was divine.
“And the Charles River is just a short distance that way,” Dr. Mandvi pointed. “Next weekend we will all take a long walk and explore the area together. You will need to learn the neighborhood so you can get around on your own. I will drive you to school on your first day, but after that I think you will be able to walk there by yourself. It is not too far.”
With the reminder that her first day of school loomed a few hours ahead, Shree got quiet.
“Shree, I know it is hard to start a new school, but you will be fine. You must be on your best behavior and study hard. You understand that, do you not, Shree?”
Oh, Oh. The lecture had begun. “Yeah, I know,” Shree said grudgingly.
“Remember, you can accomplish anything you put your mind to, as long as you are clear about your goals.”
“I know, I know, Dad.” Her father didn’t ordinarily go on and on like this, so Shree wondered if he was just as nervous as she was over the fact that she was starting a new school.
“Good. You realize, my daughter, that as human beings we have the power to control our own destinies. It is the choices we make everyday that guide us through this life and lead us to our ultimate path: for example, doing well in school and attending university at an institution like Harvard.”
Normally, Shree would daydream whenever her dad got too philosophical, but she saw this talk as a perfect opportunity to bring up John Harvard and the treasure she had read about in her book. She knew her father was trying to steer the conversation in a different direction, but this was too good to pass up. “Um, yeah, I guess you’re right. By the way, Dad, have you ever heard anything about John Harvard’s treasure, or a secret key?”
Her father was as distracted as Shree hoped he’d be. “Hmm, yes, it seems to me that I do remember something about a treasure and a key of sorts. I heard about them when I had my tour of the campus recently. But I am sure it is only a myth, my daughter. These things tend to be nothing more than legends based on superstition, you know. Secret keys, the power to walk through walls—to fly—although possible, I would have to say these things are highly, highly improbable at best, at least with what we know today.”
“Yeah, but what exactly did they say?” Shree asked.
“Let us see—they mentioned John Harvard’s book collection and his untimely death—and the building of his statue. The tour guide spoke about how John Harvard had taken his entire fortune of gold, silver, and jewels and hidden it underneath the university campus. Most people think it is somewhere in Harvard Yard, near Widener Library. But again, I think that it is just nonsense that they speak of.”
“Well,” Shree paused, trying not to appear too excited. “What about the secret key? Did the tour guide say anything about that?”
Dr. Mandvi rubbed his chin and stared in the distance. “Let me think.” He spoke slowly, taking a sip of his tea as he pondered the question.
Shree was now at the edge of the step, waiting eagerly for her father to continue.
“Yes. There was mention of a secret key, supposedly also hidden somewhere on the campus. The guide was quite enthralled with the myth of the key. She said that without the key one would not be able to open the chest—I believe she said a wooden chest—that is said to hold John Harvard’s treasure. What I found particularly interesting was her statement that this key also had some other kind of power. It would allow its user the ability to fly or to walk through walls or perhaps to enter other dimensions.” Her father’s voice trailed off as if he himself was entering another dimension.