Edison's Gold Read online

  “I know I messed up, but I’ll do all the dishes, all the housework,” said Tom. “Just please, please, please don’t ground me. Not on my last spring break in New York, with my best friends, who I’ll never get to see once we move. I haven’t even had a chance to break the news to them yet. I can’t even think about telling them, and then not even getting to see them.”

  He had been rehearsing this impassioned speech in his head, hoping it would hit all the right emotional marks without overdoing it. Tough to tell. His mom and dad both looked exhausted, like they already had a zillion things on their minds.

  “We’ll discuss this tonight,” said his mom. “I have to get back to my sister’s and pick up Rose, and your father needs to run an errand in town.” But Tom could tell by her softening tone that his speech just might have struck a nerve. Given the circumstances of their move, maybe there would be no grounding after all.

  “I’m just so disappointed in you,” she added before heading to her car.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” said Tom. He truly meant it, too. Ever since setting off his first combustion explosion in third grade, he knew he’d caused his parents enough stress and worry to last five lifetimes.

  For some reason, he just couldn’t ever seem to see the consequences of his actions, no matter how extreme or dangerous.

  And now thanks to all his thoughtlessness, Tom was never going to get his hands on The Alchemy Treatise. That much, he knew.

  My ma’s gotta head back to work, too,” said Noodle as he approached Tom and his dad on their way to the car. “Is it cool if you guys give me a lift home, Mr. E?”

  “Sure, Noodle,” answered Tom’s dad. “But I’ve got a quick detour to make.”

  “Thanks. Shotgun!” He already had his hand on the door to the Edison family station wagon and was lounging comfortably in the front seat before Tom had a chance to protest.

  With the caution of an old lady at a busy intersection, Mr. Edison pulled onto Central Park West and headed uptown. He was out of his element driving in Manhattan and puttered along at seven miles an hour, hugging the right-hand line, while yellow taxis honked and swerved past him on all sides. It took them well over an hour and a half just to get out of the city.

  Southeast Yonkers, where the Edison family called home, was like a lot of towns in the outer boroughs. Brick, bland, and boring, with mom-and-pop hardware stores, pharmacies, and an Italian restaurant on practically every corner. As soon as they merged onto Midland Avenue, Tom’s dad began what Tom thought of as the “vulture circle”—wheeling around and around the same blocks, in hope of finding that elusive parking spot.

  Noodle had commandeered the radio and didn’t even notice when Tom’s dad missed two free spaces.

  “Dad!” Tom pressed forward, pointing. “There! And there … and there.”

  “Oh, right—thanks.” Mr. Edison craned his neck to reverse the station wagon at a snail’s pace into a massive spot by the curb. As he put the car in park, Tom caught his dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked troubled and distant. “Why don’t you two go hang out at Sammy’s for a bit? And I’ll meet you back here in twenty minutes.”

  “Sure,” said Tom. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “Just a couple things I need to take care of.”

  Something was definitely up. Even Noodle raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Mystery,” he murmured as the three of them stepped out of the car.

  At their first stop, Sammy’s Electronics, the wire adapters Tom had been waiting for still hadn’t come in, so they decided to kill time at their mutually favorite haunt, Lucky Lou’s Five and Dime, one of the several run-down retail shops along Midland.

  Inside the stuffy, overstocked store, Noodle swept a rainbow wig off one of the shelves, fixing it onto his head as he checked his reflection in a tiny mirror by the front counter. Lucky Lou himself was in his normal spot, snoozing away behind the front register while an I Love Lucy rerun played on his tiny black-and-white TV.

  “Noodle, I have something I really need to get off my chest.” Tom had planted himself directly in his friend’s path. “It’s been killing me.”

  “Literally? You’re not dying, are you?”

  “No. Worse. My dad just took some job in Wichita.” Tom let the words hang in the stale air for a moment. Noodle’s mouth opened slightly, and his eyes drifted to the side, like he was trying to figure out a strange riddle in his head.

  “What do you mean, Wichita?” he finally said.

  “Like, halfway across the country. Kansas. We’re moving in two weeks.”

  “When were you gonna tell me?”

  “I just found out two days ago.”

  “Is this for … forever?”

  Tom shrugged. “For a while. Probably till I’m in college.”

  “You can’t do that,” said Noodle dryly. “We have too much stuff to do. There’s like, puberty and driving and, and, and …” His gaze was bouncing around the room, and his voice was growing louder. “We were supposed to get part-time jobs together at Pie in the Sky, remember? Now who am I gonna learn to toss pizza dough with? You know everyone else at school annoys me!”

  “At least you have Colby. I’m losing my two best friends, and I’m not gonna know anyone.”

  “Your dad’s whole plan is Craisins! You’re from New York.” Noodle was pleading with Tom now, as if he’d been the one who’d decided to move. “People in the Midwest’ll think you’re like some kind of a Martian with your weird inventions and stuff.”

  “Richard Drew invented Scotch tape, and he was from Minnesota.”

  “You’re missing the point. Which is that this is the worst news ever.”

  Tom had been dreading this conversation for a while, and though he was thankful for it to be over, it had gone as terribly as he thought it would, and he didn’t feel the least bit better now that the secret was off his chest. In fact, on top of all the dread, he now felt guilty for letting down his friend.

  Too depressed to continue their conversation, Noodle gave the turnstile of sunglasses a hard, squeaky spin, then wandered off toward the souvenir section, where Lou kept the shelves stocked with New York shot glasses and postcards.

  Alone in the aisle, Tom distracted himself by absent-mindedly inspecting the inside of a cheap FM radio in search of a frequency scanner for Nanny Golightly. Since there was no foreseeable way to continue the treasure hunt, which probably never existed in the first place, he would have to turn all his attention and hope back to her. Even though she was shaping up to be another bust like all the others.

  As he neared the front of the store, he saw his father through the windows of Kreger & Sons Pawnshop across the street. Tom couldn’t make out much, but it looked like his dad was in a deep conversation with Pete Kreger, the shop’s owner.

  Talk to Pete, his mom had said.

  “I’ll meet you back at the car,” Tom yelled to Noodle as he walked out of Lucky Lou’s.

  “Wait! Tom,” he heard Noodle call back, “you need to see this.”

  But Tom was too distracted. He ducked out of sight, then scrambled across the street toward Kreger’s.

  Peering through the front window, Tom saw that Pete was inspecting an item of jewelry through his magnifying glass. It was a green emerald ring. And sitting next to it on the counter was the Firestone negative, which had now been enlarged to a photo!

  Tom pushed through the front doors.

  “Dad! What’s going on?”

  “Thought I said to meet me at the car.” Tom saw a flash of gold as his dad quickly shoved something small and metal into his pocket.

  “When did you have the photo enlarged? And why are you selling it?”

  “This morning, and I’m not selling it. I’m just … getting it appraised.” His dad looked to Pete, who nodded slightly.

  “ ‘Fraid the best I could do is seventy-five,” said Pete. “Even if it’s authentic.”

  “And what about that ring?” Tom asked. His dad was silent for a moment, shi
fting his weight uncomfortably.

  “Just scraping together a little extra cash for the move.” He looked especially uneasy when Pete pulled the ring off the black velvet cloth and handed it over.

  Tom quickly snatched it from Pete’s fingers, and his heart began pounding through his chest as he looked closer. Running along the side of the emerald, formed in gold, he saw the entwined rose, the circle … it was the same symbol that had been stamped beneath the riddle. And the painting of Theodore Roosevelt.

  Tom’s suspicions were right. His father had to know more than he was letting on.

  “It’s a family piece. Your grandpa gave it to me when I was a kid,” Mr. Edison explained.

  “What is it?”

  “He called it his ring of the Sub Rosa.”

  “What’s the Sub Rosa?” Tom asked. “And how come you’ve never told me about it?”

  His dad ran a hand through his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, and Tom could see something was making him nervous.

  “It was nothing. Just some secret club of artists and scientists and people like that.”

  “From when?”

  “I don’t know. It started sometime in the late eighteen hundreds, I think. Lasted for about fifty years.”

  One thing Tom knew about his dad: the man was incapable of lying. Even if he was reluctant to divulge the information, Tom was certain he’d eventually get what he needed out of him.

  “Was Thomas Edison in the Sub Rosa?”

  “Uh-huh.” His dad nodded, relaxing a tiny bit. “And according to your grandpa, who was not the most credible source, mind you, so were all sorts of people along the way: FDR, Henry Ford, even Babe Ruth, at one point.”

  “Teddy Roosevelt and Harvey Firestone were part of it, too, I bet.”

  Pete gave Tom’s dad a wink. “You’re just tryin’ to jack the price up on me.”

  “What was the purpose of the club? Why’d they keep it so secret?” The questions were coming faster than Tom could process them.

  His dad let out a heavy sigh as he knelt down to pluck the ring out of Tom’s palm. The emerald seemed to wink as he held it up to the afternoon sunlight.

  “Well, as the legend goes,” his father continued, “this ring is a symbol of the Sub Rosa’s promise to guard the most—” He stopped midsentence, as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it.

  “What? The promise to guard the most what?” Tom asked.

  “No. Forget it. I don’t want to go filling your head with Grandpa’s wild dreams. Especially after what you put us through this morning.” His dad’s fingers enveloped the ring as he stood up and handed it back to Mr. Kreger. “How much, Pete?”

  “Dad, please don’t sell it!” Tom practically shouted.

  “Your grandfather’s imagination is exactly what got him into trouble. Kind of like someone else I know.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Edison, but the emerald’s fake.” Pete shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly.

  “See? It’s not even worth anything,” said Tom. “All the more reason to keep it.” Relief washed over him. “The ring belongs to us, it’s our history. Please. I’m begging you.”

  His dad wavered for a moment before finally relenting. “Fine, the ring can stay in the family. Though I don’t think you’re in a position to be bargaining with anybody.”

  “Thank you so much, Dad.”

  “Now get going. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  As Tom exited Pete’s store, he bent low out of view, then peered back through the front door to see the golden glimmer of his parents’ wedding bands reappear from his father’s pocket. He watched in shock as Pete examined the rings through the jeweler’s lens. Tom’s stomach was now sinking into his knees. Until that moment, he’d had no idea his parents’ financial situation was so dire.

  Walking back to the car, he was so lost in thought and worry that he nearly collided straight into a breathless Noodle.

  “Dude! I was trying to find you everywhere. Check this out.”

  He pulled a black-and-white postcard out of a small Lucky Lou’s paper bag. “Ebbets Field. Where the Brooklyn Dodgers used to play.”

  Tom gave it a quick glance. “Cool.”

  “You’re not seeing it.” Noodle placed his hand over one side of the postcard, so that only the edge of the stadium’s outfield wall was visible. “Now does it ring a bell?”

  Tom gave it a second, longer look.

  “No way.” He snatched the postcard out of Noodle’s hands. “No freaking way!”

  But it was unmistakable. The curved, brick edge of the stadium perfectly matched the window’s view in the photograph of Harvey Firestone.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  ColBeans: I can’t believe u told Noodle b4 me!! >:O

  TE iv: didn’t wanna freak every1 out

  RamenNoodle: focus, u 2. r we still on 4 2day??? C’s casa??

  ColBeans: 1st gotta help N w/chores . bye!

  All things considered, their punishments had been tough but manageable. Six p.m. curfew for the rest of spring break. No allowance indefinitely. And the three of them could only spend time at one another’s houses under parental supervision. As upset as Tom’s parents had been, the family move date had also been set for the end of the month, so they understood his need to spend every second he could with Colby and Noodle.

  What they didn’t know was the search to find the secret of the Sub Rosa was back on, and it had a new headquarters: Colby’s backyard tent.

  That way, as she had explained on IM, her nana couldn’t barge in unannounced.

  Besides, Noodle’s house was way too tough a location, thanks to Mrs. Zuckerberg’s constant, parole officer–like monitoring of her son’s every move.

  And at Tom’s house, the packing tape and brown storage boxes were already starting to appear, and if there was a worse sight than that, he couldn’t think of it.

  “You’re going to have to make a few choices about what comes with us and what stays behind.” Tom’s mother swung into his room as he quickly minimized his IM screen. “And you know what I’m talking about.” She meant his basement lab, of course—since a lot of his stuff might be termed “junk” by the less enlightened. Just the thought of starting a new lab in Wichita gave him the sweats.

  After cleaning up the family’s lunch dishes as part of his punishment, Tom set off into the clean spring air. He’d been making this walk to Colby’s, down Heath Street with a left onto Poplar, since he was seven years old. The idea that in a couple of weeks he’d never pass this way again was crushing. He knew every pothole and broken sidewalk stone as well as he knew his own face.

  Inside the tent they’d pitched in Colby’s backyard, Tom found Noodle sitting cross-legged, pecking away on his laptop, with a mountain of snacks, candy, chips, and soda cans splayed all around him.

  “I raided the pantry before I left,” he said as Tom zipped open the flap.

  “Awesome.”

  Tom didn’t waste a second tearing into a packet of chocolate chip cookies like a hungry bear. His mom kept the cupboard stocked with dried fruit leathers and organic wheat cereal that tasted like tree bark, so it was always fun to gorge himself whenever he got to sleep over at chez Zuckerberg.

  Tom was waiting for it, but Noodle had decided to avoid the subject of Wichita and concentrate instead on his laptop. Still, Tom saw that there were dark circles under his friend’s eyes, and he had a feeling Noodle’s sleep had been as bad as his.

  To temporarily distract himself from family moves and unsolvable treasure hunts, Tom had spent part of the night sketching a prototype for his new spoon-shaped Q-tip—infinitely more effective for scooping out earwax than the regular kind, and an invention that might, if all else failed, put his family back on the map.

  “Find anything on the Sub Rosa or alchemy?” said Tom as he crumpled up and pitched the cookie wrapper before diving into some Doritos.

  “No, but I did lay the vocals from High School Musical Th
ree over the instrumentals off Lil Wayne’s new album. I’m calling it Reform School Remixed.”

  “Really helpful, Noodle.” Tom opened his backpack and pulled out all his research on The Alchemy Treatise and Teddy Roosevelt, plus the sun-and-moon riddle from the camera, a Xerox copy of the Firestone photo that he’d managed to make last night, and the Ebbets Field postcard. It was everything they had, so far.

  “I only went on GarageBand because I couldn’t find squat online about the Sub Rosa,” said Noodle. “It’s either the most secret club in history, or it never existed in the first place.”

  “Which is all the more reason this treasure hunt has to be real. Why go through all the trouble unless secrecy was absolutely necessary?”

  “So what? You think Edison, like, invented a way to make gold or something?” said Noodle.

  “Sure would make all our lives easier.”

  Of course, the thought had occurred to all of them in private, but it just seemed too preposterous to believe. Still, the hope of a golden formula or some kind of secret treasure kept nagging at the back of Tom’s mind like an invisible mosquito, whispering to him every so often and forcing him to keep digging for answers.

  “Sorry I’m late. Nana made me put on SPF-fifty for the five-second walk out here.” Colby’s face appeared between the flaps. She was holding a binder of papers in her hands. “I did make a tiny breakthrough, though. It’s not a lot, but … I found a blueprint of Ebbets Field online, then did an advanced key-phrase cross-reference in the city archives. Words like gold, sun, moon, Sub Rosa, Edison—”

  “Colb, your dork meter’s off the charts right now,” Noodle interrupted. “Sloooowww it down.”

  “Here, see for yourself.” She shoved a piece of paper into his hands and caught her breath. “Second paragraph.”

  Noodle read. “ ‘Overlooking the Ebbets Field bleachers is the Robinson Sundial, named for longtime Dodgers’ manager Wilbert Robinson.’ ”

  Tom and Noodle went silent.

  “I don’t get the connection,” Tom said after a moment. “Unless this Robinson guy was friends with Henry Ford or something.”