Heartbroken

Chapter 21: Allegra

My hand slipped from under my chin, my head falling and hitting the open book on the desk. I came to, eyes fluttering open, lifting my head slowly as I tried to focus. With two tests coming tomorrow, my anxiety was above the roof, my leg shaking rapidly beneath the desk. But the book I was trying to read was not related to school.

It was small, the pages rough and discolored, the corners folded or breaking off. The words were handwritten, lying perfectly straight across the paper. It was about the length of my hand, but as thick a normal book. It was bound in brown leather, and tied closed with a blue ribbon, but it lay open now as I ignored my actual homework and studied its pages.

It belonged to my grandma at one time, but before she died she gave it to me. She always hoped that what she wrote in her journal would be able to help someone else, and her wish has already come true. I smiled, running a hand down one page. This was the one possession I had that was once my grandmas. I used to have two, but Mercy broke the ukulele that my grandma always had with her. I never blamed Mercy for what happened that day, and I know that she felt – and still feels – terrible. But breaking that ukulele was like losing a piece of your heart, and I had no idea if there was a way to fix it. Speaking of which, I now lived in a rich man's house. If there wasn't a way to fix that ukulele, I'd be extremely surprised.

Awake now, I slid from my desk and walked to Mercy's room, knocking softly before entering. Her room was dark, but I found the ukulele easily enough. It sat on one of her dressers, carefully placed but still broken. I picked it up with two hands, careful not to tangle the strings on anything. I walked with it cradled in my arms, closing the door with my foot.

"Is there something you need, Miss?" George walked up to me, a duster in hand.

"Do you know where Mr. Chans is?" I wobbled, almost dropping the neck of the instrument.

"He's at a business meeting."

"What about Milo?"

"He should be in his room, Miss."

"Thanks George!" I passed him and went down the hall. "And don't call me 'Miss'! It's kind of weird," I yelled back at him before climbing the stairs. I knocked on Milo's door, but no one answered. I waited for a minute before inching the door open, peering inside. His lights were on, and as usual, his room was a mess. But this time his window was open. Curious, I ducked inside, gently placing the ukulele on his bed before leaning out the window. A warm wind blew my face, and I closed my eyes, smiling.

"Allegra?" a voice came from above. "What are you doing?"

I turned my head up, finding Milo leaning over the edge of the roof. My eyes widened.

"The real question is what are you doing?" I asked, gaping at his lack of fear from the height he was sitting at.

"Watch out," he said, and deftly climbed through the window, dragging with him a magnifying glass and a stopwatch.

"What were you doing?" I asked again as he picked up a notepad to write on.

"Judging the composition of the shingles," he said, still writing.

"How?"

"Roof shingles can be made up of a lot of different materials, so I was trying to see what rate they melt at. Most stone melts at a heat of 1200 degrees Celsius, so judging by the 136 degrees Celsius that it took to melt one part of the shingle, it's reasonable to assume that some – if not most – of the tiles are made out of plastic." He finished writing and looked up, finding the ukulele on his bed. Completely dumbstruck, I continued to stare.

"I don't know if that's impressive or if you're just wasting your time."

"Neither do I." he replied. "What do you need?"