The Magic Half by Annie Barrows

said Ray, picking up a shovel. “We need money.”
    “Sounds like they’re hitting each other with their guitars,” said Miri.
    “They are,” said Ray, climbing over the short wall that separated the cement floor from the dirt part of the basement. “It’s Deathbag.” He glanced at her blank face. “You must’ve heard of them.” Miri shook her head. “They’re totally awesome. ’Kay, bro,” he called to his brother. “Hand me the shovel. You hold the flashlight.”
    Miri turned away. Digging underneath a cement slab didn’t look like much fun. Why had she wanted so much to be part of it? And if they did succeed in digging under the floor, her dad was going to be pretty mad. But she wasn’t going to interfere. Live and let live. She peered into the dim corners of the basement. There were some old shelves on one wall. All empty. Was that a workbench? She took a few steps toward it. Yes, with an old pegboard above it, and below—she knelt and stuck her head underneath the high table, trying to catch a glimmer of light in the darkness. And there it was. A tool chest. Or at least a big dirty box. Miri reached through the cobwebs and dragged it into better light.
    At the sound of the box scraping against the floor, Robbie and Ray looked up. “Hey!” Ray said. “What’d you find?”
    “A tool chest,” she said, kneeling beside it.
    “How come you found it and not us?” asked Ray, climbing back over the wall for a better look.
    “ ’Cause you’re goons,” replied Miri, yanking on the latch that held the lid down. It was stuck. “Also, Mom told me it was here.”
    “I got it,” said Robbie, squatting down next to her. He jabbed his shovel under the latch and slammed down with his fist.
    The rusty metal abruptly gave way, and Miri pulled the lid up with eager hands. There was a hammer dark with age and a collection of bent nails. But maybe at the back—there could be a pair of glasses stuck in the back! Miri plunged her hand into the box, feeling against the darkness.
    Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
    Miri sat back on her heels and tried not to be miserable. The voice in her brain began its gloomy recitation: You are never going to find a pair of Molly’s glasses. Molly couldn’t even find her glasses. This is never going to work . Shut up, she told it. I’ve got to try. Seventy-five-year-old glasses. Sure. No problem. Her brain was sassing her. Shut up , she thought, and stood. “You want this hammer?” she asked Robbie.
    “Huh?” said Robbie. “Oh. Sure. Thanks.”
    “We could sort of scrape against the bottom of the cement,” Ray said.
    “Yeah,” said Robbie.
    “Except we can’t find the bottom of the cement,” Ray went on.
    They went back to the other side of the basement and Miri went back up the creaking stairs. The bright sunlight in the kitchen made her blink. She moved through the house, trying to look at each room like she was seeing it for the first time. She was rewarded by noticing a worn wooden garland carved into the mantel over the fireplace. And the dots on the faded dining room wallpaper were actually grapes. Also, there were fourteen colored panes in each of the stained glass windows. I should have done this the day we moved in, she thought when she discovered that the window seat in the front hallway concealed a perfect hiding place. But she found no glasses. She found nothing but the same pieces of furniture she had been living with for eleven years and stacks of cardboard boxes filled with stuff that nobody had needed enough to unpack yet.
    I will not accept defeat, she told herself sternly. Up the stairs she went to search the second floor. In the room that Nell and Nora shared she found nothing; in her father’s tiny office, nothing; in her parents’ bedroom, nothing. Miri cautiously opened the door to Ray and Robbie’s room. It wasn’t officially off-limits, but the door was usually closed. She tried to remember if they had ever invited her to come and