The Explorers’ Gate Read Free Page A

droned Blauvelt, using one finger to slide his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “The current Carousel was originally constructed by Stein and Goldstein in Brooklyn for a trolley terminal.”
    Okay. I did not know that.
    â€œThere are fifty-two jumpers, five standers, and two chariots.”
    Even if I knew that, it wouldn’t matter. Over at the judge’s panel, I could see Mr. Drake smiling from ear to ear.
    â€œIs there anything else you’d like to add, Jonas?” he asked cheerily.
    Jonas sighed. “The outside horses are three-quarters the size of actual horses.” He sounded like a sad, sullen robot. “Two Russian immigrants did all the carving. The carousel’s music comes from a Ruth & Sohn 33 band organ— not a Gebrüder—playing Wurlitzer music rolls. The carousel and all its figures are hand painted.”
    I’d basically heard enough.
    â€œYou can go on in my place,” I whispered to the girl standing beside me.
    â€œNo thanks,” she whispered back. “I’m quitting, too.”
    We both crept out the Bandshell’s back door. I unpinned my number from my shirt and tossed it into the first trash barrel I could find.
    Which, of course, just happened to be standing right outside the registration tent.
    Mrs. Grimaldi was still inside, behind the table.
    Yep. She was still smirking at me.
    Hanging my head, I walked out of the park and headed home to 14 West 77 th Street.
    â€œHey, Mr. Humboldt,” I mumbled when I shuffled past his statue outside the Explorers’ Gate.
    Just because I was in a loser mood was still no reason to be rude.
    That morning, I had thought winning the Park Smarts trivia contest was where my whole life had been heading. Now, I realized, my “fanatical obsession” had been a colossal waste of time.
    Twelve years wasted.
    Okay. Only eleven. I didn’t learn too much about Central Park when I was in diapers. Just where all the swing sets were, I guess.
    I crossed Central Park West when the light changed but slowed down when I reached the far side of the avenue because I saw Brooke Billingsley and three of her girlfriends strolling out of our building to stand under the emerald green awning while Charlie, the doorman, stepped out into the street to blow his whistle and flag down a passing taxi.
    It was a little after one on a Saturday afternoon. I imagined Brooke and her friends were on their way to catch a matinee of a hot new musical on Broadway. Or maybe they were heading over to the Upper East Side and Dylan’s Candy Bar, where they could buy all kinds of sugary treats like chocolate-covered gummy bears. Maybe they were going to another friend’s birthday party or high tea at the Pierre hotel.
    When you’re the janitor’s daughter in a fancy Manhattan apartment building, you see all sorts of girls your age with way better hair and clothes—not to mention a ton more money. Usually they don’t invite you to join them for tea and chocolate-covered gummy bears. Usually they try to ignore you and you try to lower your eyes if you accidentally bump into them in the lobby.
    After Brooke and her BFFs giggled and squirmed their way into the taxi, I trudged up the sidewalk to 14 West 77 th .
    â€œGood afternoon, Miss Van Wyck,” said Charlie, who wore a uniform like the Wizard’s doorkeeper up in Oz.
    â€œHi, Charlie.”
    â€œBeautiful day.”
    I put on my best smile. “Sure is. Well, I better go see if dad is hungry.”
    â€œThat’s a neat shirt,” he said.
    â€œThanks.”
    And then he sang. Way off key. “Imagine all the people, living life in peace …”
    Okay. Now I was really smiling. Charlie has a way of making you forget how terrible your day has been up until the point you bumped into him.
    â€œThank you, ladies and gentlemen,” said Charlie, taking a bow. “I’m here all week.”
    I laughed and kind of skipped