Operation Redwood Read online

  The subject line of the newest e-mail read: “SIBLEY CARTER IS A MORON AND A WORLD-CLASS JERK!!!”

  fter Julian had grabbed some tissues and wiped away every drop of ginger ale, he stared at the computer suspiciously. Did it have a hidden sensor that could somehow read his mind? Surely, he thought, even his uncle’s computer couldn’t translate his inner thoughts directly onto the screen. It was just an ordinary e-mail. An ordinary e-mail calling his uncle a moron and a jerk. Julian tried to imagine Sibley sitting down at his imposing desk and finding this message. It would be as if he came in and found his computer sticking its tongue out at him.

  What kind of person, he wondered, would be sticking his tongue out at Sibley? Obviously, someone smarter than Julian was. Someone who wasn’t fooled by his uncle’s smooth manners and slick facade. Not another businessman, Julian figured. In fact, it sounded like a kid. But why would a kid write his uncle an e-mail? He checked the name of the sender: Robin Elder.

  Julian reached for the mouse, then hesitated. He’d already opened one of his uncle’s e-mails. But that one had his name on it. It had practically invited him to open it. This one certainly had nothing to do with him.

  Then again, what did he have to lose? And what did he owe an uncle who made up lies about him and slandered his parents and was plotting to send him to math camp? Just peeking at one e-mail wasn’t such a crime. Especially when the e-mail couldn’t possibly be about any important business matter, when it was from some tongue sticker-outer.

  Julian got up, crossed the room to the open office door, and looked up and down the hallway. Nothing but darkened cubicles. He felt like a cat burglar about to steal some precious jewel. Stealthily, he sat back down in his uncle’s chair, grabbed the mouse, and clicked:

  Julian read the e-mail twice. He was puzzled. He had never heard Sibley mention Big Tree Grove, or anyone named Greeley, or anything about redwood trees. His uncle made money. He invested people’s money and somehow turned it into more money. When he traveled, it was to places like New York and Chicago. He certainly didn’t go tramping through redwood forests cutting down trees. Maybe this girl (he thought it must be a girl) had sent her message to the wrong person.

  On the other hand, the e-mail had Sibley’s name on it. And obviously, there was a lot about his uncle he didn’t know. The girl said his uncle had bought this Big Tree Grove, and that he was cutting down the redwoods to make money. That made sense. Maybe buying the land and cutting down the trees was just part of some business deal.

  Julian had been to the giant redwood trees in Muir Woods on a field trip. He liked the ride across the Golden Gate Bridge, through the Rainbow Tunnel, and down into the shady forest.

  Those redwoods would have been cut down a long time ago if people hadn’t put them in a park. Now they stood behind little fences, as if they were in a tree museum. If those trees were in his backyard, he wouldn’t want anybody to cut them down either.

  Who was this angry Robin Elder? Julian already had a picture in his mind of her house, out in the country somewhere, with a few chickens running around and some horses. Whenever she wanted, she could walk out her door and into the shade of the giant redwoods. It wouldn’t be like Muir Woods, with busloads of tourists tramping about. They would be her redwoods, a place where nobody could bother her or tell her their problems.

  Suddenly a light flickered in the hallway. Julian froze and a wave of fear spread down to the base of his spine. Quickly, he closed the e-mail from Robin Elder. When he looked up, a man and a woman were peering in at him through the glass walls of the office.

  The man flicked a switch that flooded the room with light. Julian blinked. The man had dark, slicked-back hair and he stared at Julian, then turned and said something to the woman in Spanish. Now, in the bright light, Julian could see that the woman was carrying a bucket and dragging a vacuum cleaner behind her. With relief, he realized that they were the cleaning crew. They kept talking quietly and looking at Julian with suspicion. Julian had been taking Spanish since the beginning of the year, and now he wished he’d paid more attention.

  He wanted to say, “I am sick. I am waiting for my uncle. This is his office.” But he couldn’t remember how to say “sick” or “waiting” or “office” in Spanish. Instead, he said, “Soy malo . . . y mi tío vive aqui.” “I am bad and my uncle lives here.” Close enough, he thought.

  The man looked at him, puzzled. “Qué?”

  Julian repeated what he now suspected was a very foolish-sounding sentence. The man grinned. He nodded and pointed at the picture of his uncle on the desk.

  “Tu tío?”

  Julian nodded. He felt like he should say something more. “Me llamo Julian.”

  “Soy Victor,” said the man. And pointing at the woman, “Irene.” Then he tapped his watch and said in English, “Your uncle, when he come?”

  Julian shrugged.

  Irene put her hand on Julian’s forehead. She made a little tsking sound, then unzipped a pocket of her small white backpack and took out a package of peanut-butter crackers. “For you,” she said.

  Julian remembered to say “gracias.” As he munched on the crackers, Victor and Irene set to work emptying the ginger ale–soaked tissues from the trash can, dusting the spotless surfaces, and vacuuming. When they were done, they gave a little wave and moved on down the hall.

  Julian was suddenly tired. In the cold, bright light, with the vacuum cleaner humming across the hall, he didn’t feel like a cat burglar anymore. He felt like someone who’d been left behind. He wanted to be home. Not in his uncle’s high-ceilinged mansion, but in his own house, where he could read with his feet on the sofa and hear his mom in the kitchen frying potstickers—his favorite food, fortunately, because it was the only meal she knew how to cook. The end of summer seemed impossibly far away. Julian put his head down, feeling the cool wood of the desk against his burning cheeks, and closed his eyes.

  Almost instantly, Julian was jolted up by the sound of a phone ringing a few inches from his ear. Probably it was somebody calling for his uncle. But what if somebody was trying to reach him? The phone rang five times, then stopped, and immediately started up again. Julian picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Julian! You answered the phone. Good boy.” Had he only dreamed about the e-mails? His uncle sounded friendly enough.

  “Listen, the meeting went later than I expected. Meet me outside the lobby in five minutes. You can find your way out?”

  “Sure. I think so.” Julian was not at all sure he remembered the way to the elevator through the unlit corridors.

  “Good. I’ll see you in five minutes then,” his uncle said, and hung up.

  Julian looked up at the computer screen. The two messages—“JULIAN” and “SIBLEY CARTER IS A MORON AND A WORLD-CLASS JERK!!!”—now both had checks next to them. His uncle would come to work in the morning and know Julian had read them. And he wouldn’t be pleased. There would be somber discussions about “privacy” and “violations of trust” and “responsibility” and “maturity.” There would be “consequences”—one of his uncle’s favorite words. And who knows how many points Julian would lose with Daphne. Julian forced himself to focus. He had less than five minutes. What if his uncle never saw the messages? Then he would never know that Julian had been reading his e-mail.

  Of course, Sibley would never receive the message from awcarter. But so what? E-mails got lost sometimes, didn’t they? Anyway, it wasn’t as if it had said much. The line about Daphne. Nothing important.

  Julian looked at the clock. Two minutes had already gone by. He didn’t have time to think anymore. He clicked the e-mail titled “JULIAN” and pressed the Delete button. The computer prompted, “Are you sure you want to delete this message?” and Julian clicked Yes.

  Now there was only the message from Robin Elder. Julian was sure Sibley would never pay attention to some angry kid, even if he knew what she was talking about. But Julian was curious about this Robin, who wasn’
t afraid to stick her tongue out at his uncle, who loved to walk out her back door into the shade of the redwood trees. He couldn’t just let her go.

  He pressed the Forward button and typed in Danny’s e-mail address. A brilliant inspiration. Now he was in top form! At the top of the message, he typed as quickly as he could with two fingers: “Check this out. TOP SECRET! We’ll talk later.” Then he deleted Robin’s message. As he was turning away from the computer, he suddenly realized that his message to Danny would appear in his uncle’s out-box. He clicked on Sent Mail, deleted his message, and closed the screen. The original list of e-mails in his uncle’s in-box reappeared. The subject line of the very last message now read: “Draft press release—please review.”

  Now everything was in order, exactly the way it had been when he’d come in. Hurrying, Julian slung his backpack over his shoulder and flicked out the light by the door. Where the hallway came to a dead end, he stopped, confused. Right or left? He saw a light and jogged to the right until he came to a small office where Victor and Irene were dusting.

  “Elevador?” he asked, holding his hands up uncertainly.

  They smiled and pointed farther down the corridor and, with relief, Julian saw the red elevator buttons glowing in the distance.

  hen Julian opened his eyes the next morning, Preston was sitting on his bed in a blue plaid bathrobe and green slippers, reading the funnies in the San Francisco Chronicle. Seeing Julian stir, he carefully folded the newspaper and placed it on Julian’s nightstand.

  “Where were you last night?” he asked, his round face stern.

  “I was at your dad’s office. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “No.” Preston scratched his head. “My mom didn’t know where you were. She called the school and they said you went home sick and mom said we should call the police and then we had takeout Chinese and then I had to go to bed.”

  Julian sighed. Somehow this was going to be his fault, he knew.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly go home sick. Your dad sent a taxi to pick me up from school. And then he had a meeting and didn’t pick me up until after nine. You were already asleep when I got home. She didn’t really call the police, did she?”

  Preston shrugged. “I don’t think so. Are you still sick?”

  Julian did a mental check. Nothing hurt. He was a little tired, but he certainly wasn’t going to stay home from school. Not today. He had to talk to Danny.

  “No. I’m OK now.” He got up and pulled on a pair of khaki pants with lots of pockets and a Beatles T-shirt one of his mother’s friends had given him. Preston handed him his watch. “Let’s eat,” Julian said. He was starving.

  He followed Preston along a hall lined with old family portraits, down a wide staircase, and into the gleaming metallic kitchen. Preston took a half gallon of milk out of the giant refrigerator. Julian opened a cupboard full of cereal boxes, pulled out his favorite, and set it on the counter, along with two bowls and spoons.

  They ate silently. Preston read the cereal box. Julian emptied one bowl quickly and then poured himself another. The fabulous array of breakfast cereals was the best thing about living at his uncle’s, he thought. At home, his mom only gave him organic whole-wheat bread or, worse, oatmeal with soy milk. There were advantages to living the good life.

  Daphne walked in wearing a white tennis outfit. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Elbows off the table,” she said to Julian, then gave him a quick once-over. “Well, you don’t look so sick to me.”

  Julian shrugged and kept chewing. Daphne stood silently, staring at him, until he was forced to look up and meet her eyes. So much for formalities. She was coming in for the kill.

  “Julian. We need to talk.” She sighed deeply. “When you first came here, I thought we had a deal.” She waited until Julian lifted his eyes from his cereal bowl again before continuing. “Every day, it is your responsibility to inform me where you’re going after school and what time you’ll be back. Last night, I had no idea where you were. I almost called the police!”

  Julian had just put a large spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, half swallowing. “I thought Uncle Sibley told you.”

  “Please don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s not Sibley’s job to keep me posted about your after-school plans. He had a very important meeting yesterday. He is the chief executive officer of IPX!”

  Julian heard Danny’s mocking voice in his head. “Mr. CEO.” That’s what he always called Sibley.

  “Why are you smiling?” Daphne’s voice was starting to rise like a jet plane taking off. “Do you think it’s funny that your uncle had to interrupt an important phone call to arrange for your taxi ride? Did you expect him to spend the rest of his afternoon trying to get hold of me? You were in his office all afternoon! There is, if I remember correctly, a telephone on his desk. You couldn’t leave a simple message on my cell phone?”

  It was important to keep in mind, Julian thought, that this was a woman who was conspiring to send him to math camp.

  His aunt was watching his face closely, and she narrowed her eyes.

  “What did you do there all that time?”

  “I don’t know. I fell asleep, I guess. When I woke up, everyone had gone home. Then Uncle Sibley came to pick me up.”

  Just as Daphne opened her mouth, her cell phone rang and she clamped it to her ear. “Hello, Sergei,” she cooed. “I’m running a little late for my lesson.” She paused and gave Julian an exasperated stare. “Yes, he’s fine. He forgot to call is all.” Pause. “I know, I could just strangle him.” Then she turned and walked into the dining room, holding the phone to her ear. She lowered her voice, but Julian could still hear it echoing shrilly. “Yes, six more weeks.” Pause. “Oh, it will be.” Pause. “Oh, I can’t tell you what a relief.”

  When Daphne returned, her face was stern again. “Before I go, I would like an apology for yesterday. And please tell me when you’ll be home today.”

  “I’m sorry for not calling, Aunt Daphne,” Julian said evenly. “I’m going to Danny’s after school. I’ll probably have dinner there.”

  “I’m deducting two points for last night. Be home by eight. No excuses. And do make sure Preston gets to the bus stop on time this morning. Helga’s got an appointment.”

  She walked over to Preston and ran her hand down the back of his head, where his pale hair was cut short. “Good–bye, darling. Have a fabulous day at school.”

  Preston’s school bus was late. Once he was safely on board, Julian stood at the corner, trying to decide whether to wait for the city bus or run to school. It was ten blocks, but entirely downhill. The day was cool and clear with a breeze blowing up from San Francisco Bay. He could see the majestic orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and a giant tanker moving slowly across the slate blue waters of the Bay.

  He decided to run. He flew down the steep hill, his feet pounding against the pavement, his backpack slamming up and down, trying to keep his feet moving fast enough to avoid keeling forward. In ten minutes, he was careening through the doors of Filbert Middle School. He arrived in homeroom still breathing hard.

  Danny sat slumped over his desk, his head half-buried in his black Giants sweatshirt. Julian grabbed the seat next to him just as Mr. Snipps began the announcements. He scribbled in one of his school notebooks, “Did you get Robin’s e-mail?”

  Danny shook his head and made a face that said, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And who’s Robin?

  When the bell rang to end homeroom, Julian leaned close to Danny. “You’re not going to believe this. My aunt and uncle want to send me away for the whole summer. To math camp!”

  “Math camp! Are you serious?”

  Julian nodded.

  “The whole summer? That’s brutal.” Danny gave him a pat on the back and knitted his dark brows in mock sympathy. “Hey! What about our basketball league?”

  “I know! And I found this crazy e-mail to my uncle from some girl named Rob
in.”

  “Come on, boys,” Mr. Snipps shouted. “Get going! This is not a café here!”

  “Come to my house after school,” Danny said. “My mom’ll feed you.”

  “What’s that in your hair, Danny? Is that gel?” Julian reached out to touch his shiny black head.

  “Hey, back off!” Danny jerked his head away. “It’s my new look. It’ll make me irresistible. The girls will be crazy for it!”

  All day, Julian sat watching the clock creep through each forty–five–minute period. By lunch time, he was starting to feel tired and queasy again. Maybe he still wasn’t 100 percent better. When the last bell rang, he headed out to the front steps. The breeze off the Bay cleared his head a little.

  “So, what’s with math camp?” Danny asked, coming up behind him.

  “You’re not going to believe this!” Julian grabbed his backpack and the boys started walking slowly toward the bus stop. “I found this e-mail from Sibley to somebody—I don’t even know who—and he starts saying all these bad things about me: how I don’t have any discipline or any manners—”

  “What? That’s insane. My mom’s always saying,” Danny changed to a mincing Spanish accent, “‘Julian is un perfecto caballerito—a perfect little gentleman. You should be more like him!’”

  “Anyway, it’s obvious from the letter Sibley really hates me. I mean, now there’s proof. And then he goes on about how Daphne’s found the perfect camp for me—math camp. And she’s looking for another camp for the rest of the summer that’ll probably be just as horrible.”

  “That’s brutal,” Danny said, shaking his head.

  “Oh, and it’s in Fresno.”

  “Fresno! My cousins live there. It’s so hot in the summer, you’ll be dying to get back to the fog.”

  “And Sibley’s saying what a ‘tremendous opportunity’ this is for me—”

  “Wait—how did you find all this out?”

  The bus pulled up and they went to the back and sat down. Julian explained in detail the taxi ride, his visit to his uncle’s office, the e-mail with his name on it, and his last-minute decision to delete the message. By the time he got to the end of the story, they’d reached California Street and gotten off to wait for the next bus.