little thing, I’ll give you a thorough cleaning next time.” She patted it.
I helped her put the table back in the cabinet and we all gathered our things to get ready to go.
Then suddenly Anjali screamed.
“What? What is it?”
“Anjali!”
Both boys ran over to her. She was pointing to the skylight, her other hand at her neck. “There! It’s really there, the bird!”
Anjali was right—something was outside the skylight. The shape was dark and hard to make out against the evening sky, but we could clearly see a hooked beak and huge yellow eyes. Then, with the beat of what looked like a giant wing, it was gone.
I found I was trembling.
“Wow, that really was a giant bird!” Marc sounded freaked out. “Are you okay, Anjali?”
“I’m fine. Just scared,” said Anjali.
“You’re not walking home alone. You’ve got to let me take you,” said Marc.
“Marc—you know you don’t have time!”
“Let me, then,” said Aaron.
I noticed nobody was offering to walk
“She saw it once before,” said Marc. “It could be following her.”
“We’d better tell the librarians,” said Aaron.
Marc and Anjali looked at each other. “He’s right,” said Anjali. “They should know.”
Doc was already gone, but we found Ms. Callender on Stack 6. “Oh, how scary!” she said. “What was it doing, just looking through the window? Or did it try to get in?”
“It was looking through the skylight,” said Anjali. “It flew away as soon as I saw it, like it noticed me noticing it. What do you think it wanted?”
“Were you working on any Special Collection objects?” “Yes, the winged sandals and Table-Be-Set—the German one.”
“Well, this is very troubling. We’ll have to talk to Dr. Rust tomorrow. You better all be extra careful. Are you going home together?” Ms. Callender asked.
“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s go together.”
“Yes, honey,” said Ms. Callender. “Stick together and stay safe.”
The four of us put our heads down and hurried through the cold. Anjali’s building wasn’t far, just a few blocks away. As we reached her corner, a sharp, icy wind caught us and shook us. I pulled my collar up around my neck and wound my scarf around it, but the wind came in anyway.
“Why don’t you replace that top button?” asked Anjali.
“You saw how I sew.”
“You should have told me upstairs; I would have done it for you.”
“Thanks, maybe I’ll take you up on that next week.”
“You know what? Come upstairs and I’ll sew it now,” she said.
“Oh, that would be great. Are you sure?”
“Of course. It’s easy.”
“Thanks, Anjali!”
We said good-bye to the guys at Anjali’s door. She lived in one of the grand apartment buildings on Park Avenue. I often walked past them and peeked in at their gilded, marble-lined lobbies, but I’d never been inside. A doorman in a uniform, with brass buttons and a peaked cap, hurried forward to open the door. “Good evening, Miss Anjali,” he said.
“Thank you, Harold,” she answered without a trace of embarrassment, as if men in uniform opened the door for her and called her Miss Anjali every day of her life. Well, I guess they did.
The elevator had satinwood paneling and leather upholstered benches. We got off on the fourteenth floor. There were oil paintings hanging on the walls and a vase of fresh flowers standing on a little table. Anjali opened the door on the right. A delicious, spicy smell spilled out onto the landing. I followed her in.
“Anjali? Is that you?” someone called from deep within the apartment.
“Hi, Mom! I brought a friend home,” Anjali answered. She hung up her coat in a closet by the door and took mine over her arm. I followed her down a hallway to a large living room. Her mother jumped up when she saw us and walked quickly across the carpet with the same springy pace as her daughter. She had on a conservative skirt and sweater, with expensive-looking shoes and rubies in her ears. She was about six times as beautiful as any mom I’d ever seen. I would have felt very intimidated if she hadn’t been smiling so warmly.
“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?”
