Free The Romeo and Juliet Code by Phoebe Stone

My Winnie and Danny had lied to me. They were in Portugal, not in London at all. Why did they lie? What were they doing?
    “If we want to know what these messages say, we will have to try to figure out how to break the code,” Derek said. “And that’s going to be very hard because there are as many different codes created as there are birds in the sky or birthdays on the calendar.”
    We sat there quietly for a long time listening to the wind ruffling and whistling under the shingles on the house, the shutters banging back and forth. We were both thinking about all those strange numbers on that page. If I had been a little starfish caught in a tangle of sea lettuce and kelp, I couldn’t have been more discouraged than I felt just now.
    Then, to cheer things up and especially because I was rather pleased to see Derek out of bed, I said, “Speaking of birthdays, did you know that the president of the United States, Franklin Roosevelt, has his birthday one day after mine? His birthday is January thirtieth.”
    “ I have an assigned birthday,” said Derek.
    “An assigned birthday?” I said. “And whatever is that?”
    “Well,” said Derek, “I was assigned a day. It was kind of picked out of a hat for me.”
    “But doesn’t everyone get a birthday naturally when they are born?”
    “Yes, but I didn’t come with paperwork,” he said.
    “Well, what day were you assigned, then?” I asked.
    “I was assigned January twenty-ninth.”
    “Oh, but that’s my birthday,” I said. “How very strange. I wonder why. It’s not a particularly marvelous sort of day to have for a birthday, is it?”
    “Not really,” Derek said. “It’s just an ordinary day in the middle of winter. Usually very cold outside and sometimes it snows.”
    “It’s not like having a birthday on February twenty-ninth, a leap year,” I said. “Then for three years your birthday completely disappears, which could be rather interesting.”
    “It’s because I did not come with paperwork,” he said again.
    “No paperwork? What do you mean by that?”
    “Never mind,” said Derek. “I don’t like talking about this.”
    “Oh, nobody likes talking about anything here. I do want to go home,” I said. “But I don’t know where my passport is or even where my home is because home is where your parents are, and I have misplaced my parents.” I had never cried in all my life in front of a handsome, lanky, freckle-faced boy and I wasn’t going to start now. So I began trying to count all the bottle caps collected in jars on Derek’s desk. I got to 178 and then got all mixed up and was about to start over.
    Then Derek said, “Well, look, I’d rather not say this.”
    “Fine,” I said.
    “But I’m not actually officially a real Bathburn,” he said.
    “You’re not?” I said, looking up. “You’re not Gideon and Miami’s little brother?”
    “Well, yes I am, and no I’m not. What I mean is, I was adopted and I came with no paperwork. Officially, my real name is Derek Blakely.”
    “Oh, Derek,” I said and I sank to the floor at his feet near the desk, where he was sitting. I felt foggy and glum and sad for him and surprised. I put my hands up to my eyes just in case I might be going to cry this time. “But, Derek, don’t you know your real mother and your real father?”
    “No,” said Derek, “I don’t know anything. I can’t remember back that far. I’ve been here since I was one.”
    “That’s very awful,” I said. “I do hope you have lots of friends.”
    “Well, I do, or I did,” he said, “but no one wants anyone coming out to the house now.”
    “Because you had polio,” I said.
    “Yes,” he said. “But it seems like there are other reasons too. I’m not sure.”
    Then we sat in the dark room without saying one more word. The house felt suddenly even more somber and gloomy, and my beautiful Winnie and Danny had somehow become lost in the darkness of it.

    I had always been good at cheering up