The Secret Box Read online

  Dedication

  To Robert Gair, inventor of the box—a most useful container for presents, whatnots, and . . . secrets.

  Contents

  Dedication

  1 Jax

  2 Ethan

  3 Jax

  4 Ethan

  5 Ethan

  6 Jax

  7 Jax

  8 Ethan

  9 Jax

  10 Jax

  11 Ethan

  12 Jax

  13 Ethan

  14 Jax

  15 Jax

  16 Ethan

  17 Jax

  18 Jax

  19 Ethan

  20 Jax

  21 Ethan

  22 Jax

  23 Jax

  24 Ethan

  25 Jax

  26 Ethan

  27 Tyler

  28 Ethan

  29 Jax

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Jax

  Saturday

  It looked like an ordinary package.

  Rectangular. Wrapped in brown paper. Sealed with strapping tape. Left on the doorstep with the rest of the mail. If Mom hadn’t freaked out, I wouldn’t have paid much attention to it. I would have thought it was just another boring present added to the most boring birthday ever. Why do birthdays lose their magic when you get older? I used to fight for a perfect corner of cake. Breaking the piñata seemed like candy raining from the sky. A balloon bouquet was awesome. Popping it—even better.

  “Give me that.” Mom yanked the package from my hands. “You’re not opening it.”

  “But it’s got my name on it,” I said, following her through the kitchen. The remaining half of my birthday cake sat on a platter, the fudge icing as thick as a quilt. Twelve red candles lay next to it, their wicks singed. I scurried through a pile of wrapping paper and past some gift boxes filled with the usual stuff—a pair of jeans, striped socks, lip gloss, nail polish, a couple of Starbucks cards. Big yawn. Hello? Didn’t anyone hear me drop all those hints about a certain rhinestone-encrusted phone? My old phone had died and hadn’t been replaced.

  Years from now, if I looked back on this birthday, I wouldn’t remember any of the other presents. But this new package had possibility. “Mom, why are you taking it away? It’s for me.”

  “She’s not supposed to send you anything.”

  “Who’s not supposed to send me anything?”

  Mom mumbled a name. It sounded like Juniper but I couldn’t be sure. “Who?”

  “Never mind,” she snapped. She pushed open the kitchen’s screen door and hurried toward her car, which was parked in the driveway. After opening the trunk, she tossed the package inside, then slammed the trunk shut. I stood in the doorway, watching as she relaxed her shoulders and took a long, deep breath, relief washing over her. Whatever the package contained, it was out of reach and out of sight. The way Mom was acting, she could have been guarding me from a rattlesnake, or a terrorist bomb.

  “What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

  She pushed her long brown hair behind her ears. Even though she always said I had beautiful hair, I’d spent my whole life wishing mine was like hers—silky and the color of caramel. My hair was so frizzy, trying to run a brush through it practically gave me a migraine. It was like yanking my brains out. “It’s going back to where it came from.”

  Where had it come from? She’d grabbed the package before I’d had the chance to read the return address. This seemed totally unfair. “How come I don’t get to open it?”

  With quick, determined steps, Mom crossed the side yard and stood in front of me, her eyes narrowed, her finger pointing. “Listen to me, Jacqueline Alice Malone. You will not open that package. Do you hear me? If you open it, you’ll be grounded for . . .” Her breath smelled like chocolate frosting. “For the rest of your life.”

  We’d stood face-to-face like this plenty of times, usually because I’d done something I wasn’t supposed to do. And I’d been grounded plenty of times. But this time I hadn’t done anything. And it was my birthday!

  I could have argued with her. I’m pretty good at changing people’s minds. But there was something different about the tone of her voice. She didn’t sound mad. She sounded . . . afraid. “I don’t understand why—”

  “We’re not going to talk about it,” she interrupted. Then her expression softened and she hugged me. “I’m your mother and I only want what’s best for you. Trust me.” She squeezed harder. The hug felt desperate, as if she’d never see me again. Just when I started to get dizzy because I couldn’t take a deep breath, her phone rang. She stepped away and fumbled through her pockets.

  Trust her? This wasn’t a matter of trust. Of course I trusted her. She was my mom, my only parent, the person who did everything for me. When I fell off my bike, who did I call? When my ex-best friend didn’t invite me to her skating party, whose shoulder did I cry on? When I needed help with homework or help with life, she was the one I turned to.

  But I can’t stand secrets. A locked door, a sealed envelope, a whisper across the room—stuff like that drives me crazy. No Trespassing. Off-limits. Keep Out. Sometimes I think those signs are posted just to torture me. Call me curious or call me snoopy, I want to know what’s going on.

  And something was definitely going on. Because the only reason to keep me from opening that package was to hide whatever was inside.

  What could it be? And who’d sent it?

  I folded my arms and stared at the car trunk. Just a simple sheet of metal stood between me and a big fat secret. I imagined the package pulsing like a beating heart. An X drawn on it like a pirate map. A spotlight shining on the car’s trunk.

  “Hi, Mary,” Mom said into her phone. Mary was her boss. “Hold on just a sec. I need to get a better signal.” She pressed the phone to her chest and looked right into my eyes. “I’m taking that package to the post office when I get done with this call, so don’t you dare stand there and make plans.”

  “Moi?” I smiled sweetly, trying to look innocent.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not making plans,” I lied. Of course I was making plans. Hello? I’m not a tortoise. If you stick me on a fence post I’m not going to sit there like a lump. I’m going to figure out a way to get where I want to go. And at that moment, I wanted to be inside that trunk.

  One thing I know is this—if you want something badly enough, there’s always a way.

  Mom glared at me because she’d seen my sweet smile before. Then she walked back into the kitchen and slumped into a chair. “Okay, Mary, what’s the problem now?” From her exasperated sigh, I could tell it was going to be a long conversation. Which meant I had some time before the package disappeared.

  So while Mom ran her finger through frosting and listened to her boss, I raced upstairs to find the one person who would help me.

  2

  Ethan

  FACT: Finland has over 187,000 lakes.

  I found that piece of information in a travel guide, a book I was reading when my cousin Jax burst into her bedroom.

  “You’ll never believe what just happened,” she announced real loud.

  I was stretched across a beanbag chair, my black Converse sneakers hanging off the ends of my toes. I’d gone upstairs to hide. There were ten people at Jax’s birthday party. Ten is a group. I don’t like groups because the conversation always feels like a jigsaw puzzle. No matter what I say, it never seems to fit. So I don’t try much. Dad says I’m antisocial and if I always hide from people, I’ll never have any friends. Mom, who has a degree in psychology, says I’m an introvert. My brother calls me a dwe
eb.

  Why do we have to label everyone?

  Jax slammed the door, then leaned against it as if someone had been chasing her. Her ponytail had come undone so her hair was hanging in her face. She was out of breath. She’d probably run up the stairs. She’s always running everywhere, trying to get places faster than anyone else so she won’t miss out on anything. My dad says Jax is gregarious. My mom says she’s hyper. My brother says she’s a pain.

  She’s my only friend. My best friend.

  “I got a package and Mom won’t let me open it. I think it came from someone named Juniper. I’m not sure.”

  I wasn’t really paying attention. Jax tends to talk a lot. I held up A Travel Guide to Finland. Practically every book Jax owned was a travel guide. She collected them from garage sales. “Did you know that Donald Duck comics were banned in Finland because he doesn’t wear pants?” I’d been reading the Fun Facts section. Facts help when you can’t think of anything else to say.

  “Will you please listen to me?” She yanked the book from my grip. “This is important.”

  Uh-oh. I recognized that pleading sound in her voice. Whenever Jax says this is important, it means she’s going to try to talk me into doing something. I slowly sat up, staring at her through my bangs. Even though we’re cousins we look totally different. Jax’s skin is browner than mine, even during the summer. Her hair is jet black and she always wears it in a ponytail. My hair always looks like I’ve just taken my head out of the dryer.

  I think she’s pretty.

  “My mom’s going to return the package to the post office.” Jax paced. “I want it back. I’m going to get it back.”

  I slid my feet into my sneakers and stood. “Uh . . . I think this is my cue to go home.” I grabbed my baseball cap and plopped it on my head.

  Jax darted around me, blocking the bedroom door with her skinny arms. There was no way I’d get past her. One year younger, but two inches taller, she’d proven time and time again that she could beat me in a wrestling match. It wasn’t that she was stronger. It’s just that I could never get a good grip on her because she squirmed so much.

  “Wait,” she begged. “We have to find out what’s in that package.”

  “We?” I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets. “Why does it have to be we?” Jax always called us partners but I was more like the faithful sidekick. “Why can’t it be you for once? Why do you always have to drag me into everything?”

  “I don’t drag you into everything. That’s not fair.” She lowered her arms. “Look, the thing is, it’s my present. My name’s on it. But my mom got really mad when she saw it and she said she was going to take it back to the post office. Then she mumbled the name Juniper.”

  “Who’s Juniper?”

  “Exactly! Who’s Juniper?”

  “Uh . . . I just asked that question.”

  “If we’re both asking the same question, and we don’t have the answer, then what we have is a mystery.” She pushed aside some dirty clothes and slumped at the edge of her bed. “Why would someone I don’t know send me a package? And why would my mom take it away? Do you think it has something to do with my dad?”

  Silence fell over the room. Nobody knew who Jax’s dad was, except of course Jax’s mom. He’d disappeared before Jax was born and other than Jax herself, he’d left no evidence of his existence—no photos, no old clothes, nothing. She used to imagine what he might look like or who he might be, which was always someone famous like a pop star, or an actor. But there was another possibility, as I’d stupidly pointed out one day. He could be a total loser. A drunk, a thief—maybe he was in jail. Just like me to say the wrong thing. She got real mad and we haven’t talked about him since. I guess if you’re going to create an imaginary dad, you might as well turn him into a prince.

  If I could choose my dad, I’d pick the one I have. I’m lucky that way.

  “If we follow my mom to the post office, we can get the package back. They put them into these bins. If you distract the people at the counter, then I can grab it.”

  “Uh . . . no way am I doing that. Tampering with the mail is a federal offense.”

  “I’m not tampering. My mother’s the one who’s tampering. It’s my package. I’ll just show my school ID and get it back.” She leaned forward. “It was kinda heavy and rectangular. What do you think it is?”

  I shrugged. “A book?”

  “Jax?” Aunt Lindsay called from downstairs. She’s Jax’s mom. Jax’s mom and my mom are sisters.

  Jax sat up real straight. “Yeah?”

  “They’re short at the diner. I need to cover a shift for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll be back around five thirty.”

  “Okay.” She redid her ponytail. She was concocting a plan. I could practically see it streaming across her eyes like a headline across the bottom of a TV screen. News Alert: Jax Malone is about to drag her cousin Ethan into another crazy scheme. “We’ll follow her. If she goes to the post office, we’ll get the package and she’ll never know. If she goes straight to the diner, we’ll still get the package but after we see what’s inside, we’ll seal it up and put it back in the trunk so she’ll never know.”

  “Uh . . . I’d like to remind you that you always say your mom will never know, but she always finds out. And we always get into trouble.”

  “Not this time. I promise.”

  How many times had I heard that? Jax makes “we won’t get into trouble” promises as often as other people make their beds. “But—”

  “Let’s go.” She started for the door, then stopped and smiled at me. “Don’t worry. All the party guests are gone.” She didn’t think it was weird that I didn’t like groups.

  I followed her into the hallway. We stood on the top step, listening to the jingle of keys, then to footsteps, then to the thud of the kitchen door. “Come on.” She hurried down the stairs.

  I hesitated as a memory played in my mind. When we were little, we went to New York City to see a magician. During the show, Jax kept wondering how the magician’s assistant had disappeared. I told her it was fake. There’s no such thing as magic. But she wanted proof. So when our parents were in the lobby, Jax went behind the curtain to see if there was some kind of hole in the stage. There was. No big surprise. The big surprise was that I’d been dumb enough to follow her. We won’t get into trouble, I promise. The stage manager caught us and there was a big scene. We got grounded for two weeks.

  Aunt Lindsay’s car engine started and wheels rolled over gravel as she backed out of the driveway. Jax reached into a terra-cotta planter that sat next to the front door. “Mom keeps an extra set of keys in here.” She found it and shoved it into her pocket. Then she turned and stared up the stairs where I was still standing. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Uh . . .” My fingers tapped the railing. I chewed my lower lip.

  There is always a moment when my brain says, “This isn’t going to end well.” Why don’t I ever listen? Is it because Jax’s voice is louder than the one in my head?

  “Ethan! Come on!”

  Or maybe it’s because without Jax, my life would be pretty boring. I mean, you can only read so many books. You can only spend so much time alone. So, pulling my baseball cap low, I hurried down the stairs and out the front door.

  Because that’s what a loyal sidekick does—he follows.

  3

  Jax

  I pedaled so fast my thighs felt like they were on fire. Both the post office and the diner, where Mom worked, were on Main Street, which wasn’t far. Why was Ethan so slow? He was the tortoise, I was the hare. Wait, back up. The hare loses the race, right?

  “Come on!” I called.

  The house we rented was on a shady street. All the houses around here were older. None of the driveways had fancy cars—not like in Ethan’s neighborhood. There were no swimming pools, except for the kind you blow up. Most everyone had a dog, and they all barked as we rode past. The sun was shining and a few extra cars were parked in front of
the Smiths’ house, thanks to a garage sale. Smith is such a boring name. Names are important. That’s why I insist that my teachers and friends never call me Jacqueline. Jacqueline sounds prissy and proper, which isn’t me. Jax has a nice ring to it, and there are no other kids named Jax at my school. Malone is an okay name, but it’s Irish and doesn’t quite fit me.

  I wonder what my dad’s last name is.

  Normally I would have stopped to see what kind of stuff was for sale. I would have searched through the boxes of books. People always get rid of old travel guides. I guess if you’re looking for a hotel or a fancy restaurant, you want the latest version. But I only cared about the photos. Cobblestoned streets in medieval towns, chalets perched on snowcapped peaks, castles built on tiny islands that you can only walk to when the tide is low. Places far, far away from Chatham, New Jersey.

  Don’t get me wrong. Chatham is an okay place to live. We don’t have bars on our windows and I can ride my bike most everywhere. The Passaic River winds past the town, and there’s the usual stuff like a community swimming pool and some nice parks. But I’ve been here my entire life—I’ve seen every square inch. Other than the Fishawack Festival, nothing much happens around here. We should have a Yawn Festival. Seriously. At least that would be something different.

  It was too warm for my purple leather jacket, but I wore it anyway. I’d tucked the extra set of keys into one of its seven pockets. That jacket is my signature look. People might not know my name but at least they can say, “Oh, you mean the girl in the purple leather jacket? I’ve seen her.”

  We passed St. Patrick’s Church. As I turned onto Lum Avenue, Ethan caught up with me. “I’m going to cut through the train station,” I told him.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s Saturday.”

  Why should it matter that it is Saturday? I wondered. But then the pop-up tents of the Saturday farmers’ market came into view. Biking through the crowd would be tricky, but it was the quickest way to catch up with Mom. Luckily, it was one o’clock and the market had closed. The only people left were vendors tearing down their stands and loading their trucks. Ethan stayed close behind. He always complained about being dragged into my adventures, but I knew he secretly liked it. Without me, he’d just sit around and read. We were partners.