Tangled in Time 2
Page 13
“Don’t worry, dear,” Betty said. “She’s up and dressed for breakfast, but maybe you can help her downstairs. I’ve laid out her clothes for Christmas dinner.”
“Oh, thank you, Betty.”
“You’re welcome, dear. I’ll be back by this evening to get your grandmother ready for bed.” She started to leave, then touched her hat. “Oh, I nearly forgot to thank you for the nice velvet hat you made me. So stylish, yet warm and cozy. A hat of many colors. And with my painted nails—thanks to you, Marisol—I’ll be quite the belle of the ball at my niece’s house.” She gave a wave and ducked out of Rose’s room.
“We’d better go down and put our presents under the tree. Gran says we’ll open them after breakfast.”
Gran insisted that Shirley the cook sit down with them for breakfast.
“No one should have to work on Christmas Day, Cook. Please take a seat.” Rose always winced a bit when her grandmother called Shirley “Cook.” Of course, Cook, coincidentally, was Shirley’s last name. But it sounded slightly rude to Rose, even though she knew that her grandmother never intended it to be. “And I expect you to sit with us at Christmas dinner as well.”
When they were all seated in the conservatory, the damask roses they had moved from the greenhouse a short while ago were all in beautiful full bloom, with more buds about to open. In hanging pots there were also spring bulbs—hyacinths and some miniature daffodils. On a trellis between the windows, pale lavender clematis had opened. Rosalinda looked about the beautiful room. She seemed to be registering every blossom of every flower.
“Gran, look, the clematis that I brought out just two days ago opened.”
“Indeed. I told you so.”
“I didn’t believe you. We had a bet. I owe you a dollar.”
“Yes, you do!” She laughed.
“This is so beautiful, Mrs. Ashley,” said Marisol.
“I told you, dear, just call me Rosalinda. Remember, we’re almost relatives now.”
“Almost,” Marisol said wistfully, as if she didn’t quite believe that what she wanted to happen most in the whole world, next to finding her mom, could happen. Rosalinda seemed to read her mind. She patted Marisol’s hand.
“You see, here we sit with flowers blooming in the winter that usually don’t bloom until spring, or summer.” She nodded at the clematis vine that was laden with blossoms. “The seasons are tangled here. Summer roses in December, side by side with spring tulips over there.” She pointed with a gnarled finger to the pots of miniature tulips as Shirley brought in a fresh basket of sticky buns. There was not only a tangle of seasons in the room, but a tapestry of heady fragrances being woven around them. There was the drowsy sweetness of the cinnamon sticky buns and the spicy tang of a flowering ginger plant. The perfume of the roses mingled with the earthy scent of the spring bulbs. They all seemed to become part of this lovely tapestry that her gran had woven. She was, Rose thought, a weaver of time and seasons. Rosalinda was an artist.
They all went into the library to open their presents. Rose insisted that Marisol open hers first. She watched as Marisol so carefully untied the ribbon and then layer by layer removed the tissue paper. It was almost as if she had never opened a gift before. There was something sad about the care she took. It was as though she thought she might break the gift, or perhaps that it would just vanish into thin air.
But when she removed the last piece of tissue paper, Marisol caught her breath.
“What is it?”
“A dress. A dress for Christmas dinner,” Rose said.
Marisol picked it up and held it in front of her. Her eyes were shining. “It’s so beautiful—the black, the white. It . . . it reminds me of a . . . a swan, a swan with black wings.”
“It’s a copy of a dress worn by a great artist, Georgia O’Keeffe. And just for a touch of color I made you this.” Rose held out a glittery pink gift bag.
“What is it?”
“Open it!”
Marisol drew out a ring of bright crepe paper flowers. Her eyes grew wide with delight.
“I made it . . . but was inspired by another artist. Frida Kahlo.”
“But what is it for?”
“Your head. It’s a headband. You can’t be just all black and white. Not on Christmas.”
Marisol ran up to Rose and embraced her. Rosalinda’s eyes sparkled with tears.
There would be more tears as they opened the rest of the presents. Rosalinda was spellbound by Marisol’s paintings of the greenhouse flowers. She called for her magnifying glass. “Look!” she exclaimed. “You even got the stamens and the pistils on the fairy lily.” She put down the magnifying glass. “Marisol, dear, you could become a botanical illustrator. You could become the next Arabella Gilmore.”
“Who?” Marisol asked.
“Most famous American botanical artist ever. She specialized in flowers of the rainforest.”
Marisol clapped her hands. “There were rainforests near where I lived in Bolivia.”
Then Rose opened Marisol’s gift to her.
“Ivy!” she cried. Marisol had noticed the photograph of Rose’s pony, Ivy, when she had first arrived. Rose had taken the picture on her iPhone, then posted it on Instagram. Her grandmother had insisted on having a large print made, which she had had framed and hung in the library. She had also made a smaller one for Rose to have on her desk.
“How did you do this? I mean, this isn’t just a copy.”
“No, I never just copy. It’s a painting with acrylics. I haven’t used acrylics very much, but Ms. Adams showed me how. I put some sunlight in the painting so you could see Ivy’s eyes better. They are such beautiful eyes.”
“Dreamy eyes, I always think,” Rose said. It had been nearly two weeks since she had been at the riding academy because of all the snow. She couldn’t wait to get back. As she looked at the picture of Ivy, she could almost feel the sensation of Ivy gathering her muscles as they approached a jump. Then that almost mystical moment when Ivy’s hooves left the ground and together she and the pony sailed into thin air over the jump.
There were more presents, including a box of wonderful fabrics and hand-painted silks that Rosalinda had ordered from Thailand for Rose’s future sewing projects. After they had finished opening their presents and oohing and aahing over the perfectness of each gift, a drowsiness began to envelop them.
“I think I’ll need a nap before Christmas dinner,” Rosalinda said.
Three hours later they all gathered again with Susan, her sister and father and mother, and Dr. Seeger for Christmas dinner. Rose looked at the guests. This, she realized, was her new reconstructed family. But there were still gaps, and some could never be filled in. “You only live once”—that was the saying. She thought of her mother. She thought of what a lovely couple her mother and her father would have made, in this world or that other one.
Should she go back now? Right now, just for a minute? Would anyone miss her? Her father’s voice streamed through her mind. Queen Mary is just gathering the kindling. Soon the pyres will be built throughout England. Piles of straw will be set around stakes wrapped in oily cloths. When these stakes are touched by a torch, people will burn. And then she remembered Sara—those pale predatory eyes. The hateful conversation seeped into her brain. Prove it was a gift. I don’t have to prove anything to you, Sara. . . . But you do.
She clutched her napkin and tried not to wince as Shirley brought in the dessert—a flaming Christmas pudding.
“And ice cream,” Rosalinda said in a tinkly voice. “For those who do not like brandy-soaked cake.”
“Ice cream!” Rose blurted out. It was a relief to think about ice cream. And not Sara or burnings.
A vague look filled her grandmother’s eyes. She giggled and then in a soft singsongy voice began whispering to herself. “Ice cream, ice cream, we all scream for ice cream.”
Uh-oh, Rose thought. This was always a sign that her gran was tired and growing slightly confused. Rosalinda leaned in close to
Rose and whispered, “Who is that girl sitting across from me? What’s her name?”
“Marisol, Gran. Remember, you’re her sponsor,” Rose whispered. Gran looked at Rose as the confusion welled up in her eyes. The question “sponsor for what?” went unasked.
The Burning Queen
Chapter 23
Pugs and Pixies
Word list for January 17:
Metaphor
Oxymoron
Imperil
Redundant
Anxiety
Supercilious
Sanctimonious
Arrogant
Embellish
Escalate
The new words were on the greenboard in homeroom. There was a crackling noise over the PA system.
“Good morning, students.” It was Ms. Fuentes, the school principal. “Welcome to the second week of the new year. As you know, tonight is the high school campfire at Lake Marian for the city college scholarship fund. The ticket price is just one dollar for students from Lincoln Middle School, but no admission unless we have received the consent form from your parent or guardian.”
Rose was sitting behind Carrie as she turned around. If there was anyone who ever looked like a pug dog, it was Carrie. Her mouth curled into an ugly smile. “‘Parent’ or ‘guardian.’ Hear that, amigos?”
“Put a plug in your pug mouth.” Rose’s voice seared the space between them. Carrie turned around and Lisa giggled. They high-fived each other.
“No talking in the back there, ladies . . . er, I mean girls.” Mr. Ross stood up from his chair and pointed at all three of them.
On their way out of homeroom to their first class, Mr. Ross waved for Rose and Marisol to come up to his desk. Was she getting into trouble for talking? Rose wondered. But why Marisol? She hadn’t said a word. Rose was tempted to tell Mr. Ross exactly why she had been talking to Carrie—a rare event indeed.
“Hello, Rose and Marisol. I was wondering if on break after your math class you could meet me in the library. Don’t look frightened, Marisol. It’s all good. Just want to discuss something with you.”
“Sure,” Rose said as Marisol nodded.
There was the sound of something clattering to the floor at the back of the room.
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Ross. I guess I bumped that bookshelf,” Lisa said.
“I’ve got to get maintenance in here to steady that. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ross.” Lisa tilted her head and gave Mr. Ross one of her hundred-watt smiles, enhanced by the sprinkling of glitter she sometimes wore on her eyelids.
Their next class was French with Ms. Stone, or Madame Pierre, as she insisted on being called. In French the word pierre meant “stone.” Madame Pierre, however, was anything but a stone. Maybe a tiny pebble. She had curly white hair that fluffed up like a small cumulus cloud over her head. Everything about her was tiny. Super—rather—très petite. Her nose was pink like a rabbit’s and ended in a roundish nubbin that seemed to be double-jointed. When she sniffed—as she often did—the nubbin took on a life of its own.
“Bonjour, mes amis.”
“Or amigos,” Carrie said softly, and giggled.
What is it with her?! Rose thought. She immediately got up from her seat and moved away as far as she could.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est, Mademoiselle Rose?” Madame Pierre asked.
“Uh.” Rose began to attempt to answer in French. That was what they were supposed to do. Rose’s French was decent but not great. “Je suis . . .” Madame Pierre nodded encouragement. “Je suis mal à,” she began. “How do you say—I mean, comment dit-on en français ‘uncomfortable’?”
“Vous dites ‘mal à l’aise.’ Ca c’est l’idiotisme, the expression for ‘uncomfortable.’” Madame Pierrre replied, then said, “Pourquoi êtes-vous mal à l’aise?”
OMG—or oh mon Dieu, Rose thought. This might go on forever. What she would have liked to say in French was “I am uncomfortable because I’m sitting next to this total scumbag of a girl. This nasty, horrid, conniving, pathetic excuse for a human being.” Luckily at that moment there was the crackle of the PA again, and Ms. Fuentes’s voice came through. “Students, I neglected in my earlier announcement to tell you that those who want to sign up for spring soccer should get the forms from their homeroom teachers. Yes, I know spring seems a long time away. Thank you and have a good day.”
Math followed French. As the class concluded, Marisol and Rose picked up their books and headed toward the library to meet with Mr. Ross, who was waiting for them at a table in the back corner.
“Marisol, I have heard the wonderful news about you finding a place in Rose’s home and that Rose’s grandmother is enthusiastically agreeing to sponsor you. I cannot express how wonderful I think this is—what your grandmother is doing by becoming a sponsor for Marisol. I understand that Susan Gold’s father is helping out, and I wanted to assure you that I am available to help as well. I have talked to Mr. Gold about this. Ms. Fuentes too is aware of that, Marisol.” He paused a moment. Rose had a weird sixth sense that someone was listening, eavesdropping. Then a few moments later she saw a shadow sliding by between the tall bookshelves. A topknot gave it away. Jenny the sixth grader! Darned if they hadn’t recruited Tinker Bell. The conversation with Anand from just before Christmas came back to her. About who would replace Brianna in the Trio of Doom. Who would be the next Mean Queen? Someone, I’m sure, Rose had said. Power vacuum. Well, Tinker Bell had replaced Brianna.
“Excuse me just a minute,” Rose said, getting out of the chair and going around the corner to the aisle between the bookshelves.
“Oh, hi, Jenny. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Er . . . uh . . . just looking for a book about, uh . . . turtles.”
“Turtles? Oh, they interest you?”
“Yes.” She nodded rapidly. A sprinkling of tiny bits of glitter fell from her topknot.
“Really now, that’s interesting.” Jenny nodded again. More glitter. “Has someone written a biography of a turtle, or has a turtle written its autobiography?”
“Huh?” Jenny said.
“You’re in the biography section, not natural science.” Rose pulled a book from the shelf. “Here’s a really good biography on Martin Luther King. I’ve read it. Twice, actually, and Martin Luther King Day was yesterday. Why don’t you take this?”
“Yeah.” Jenny reached for the book, avoiding Rose’s eyes.
“And Jenny, if you’re going to do the bidding of the Mean Queens, you really have to polish up on your spy skills.”
Jenny grabbed the book and walked away as fast as she could.
Rose returned to the table. “Sorry. I just had to tell Jenny Rodgers something.”
“Well,” Mr. Ross said, “I was just telling Marisol that Ms. Fuentes herself was an immigrant from Guatemala when she was just about Marisol’s age. So they have much in common. Ms. Fuentes is eager to help as well.”
“Oh, that’s really great!” Rose tried to express as much enthusiasm as possible, but she was worried. The Trio of Doom had a new recruit—a pixie with a bent toward evil. Not just mischief. Teasing was mischief. Bullying was evil. Mischief was playful. Evil was deadly.
That evening was unusually warm. At the Lake Marian scholarship fund-raiser, the winter constellations climbed into the blackness of the moonless night. Below, a huge bonfire burned. This is almost perfect, Rose thought as she watched the tip of Orion’s sword scrape over the horizon. She was sitting on a log next to Anand. Susan was on the other side next to Marisol. Next to Susan was Joe. She wondered if they were holding hands. She also saw that Anand sort-of-maybe-possibly had a crush on Marisol. Myles was in his wheelchair at the end of the log. They were all drinking hot chocolate. Some kids were out skating on the pond. Some were sledding. Some were building snow people. There was the scent of hot dogs cooking on the many grills that had been set up.
“Do you know why stars twinkle?” Myles asked.
“Nope,” Joe said.
“Why?” Rose asked.
“Rods and cones,” Myles said. “We have two kinds of light receptors. Cones are color sensitive. Rods are colorblind but good in low light.”
The leaping flames of the fire printed jagged shadows on the ground. Rose stared at the manic dance of the shadow flames. Then she glimpsed a wink of glitter in the night. A disco ball? No, of course not. Tinker Bell, in all her pixie dust glory. Rose gave a little gasp.
“What is it?” Susan said.
“Tinker Bell.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jenny.”
“That sixth grader?”
“Yep. Remember the power vacuum? Jenny has filled it.”
“Good grief, you’re right. Look at them!” Carrie with her neon-blue hair streak, Lisa following, and then Jenny, all walking in single file. “She’s a Lisa wannabe, isn’t she?” Susan whispered.
“She’s got her tiara of glitter but not quite a crown yet,” Rose replied. “She’s a princess-in-waiting for her place with the Mean Queens.”
Rose stared into the flickering flames of the fire. There was something mesmerizing but tantalizingly dangerous about it. She felt herself succumbing to the thrall of this fire and yet almost paralyzed with fear. What would she do if Sara kept prying? What if she were tied to a stake at the center of fire and flames? She tore her eyes from the bonfire and looked out toward the lake. The ice was still solid. At least she hoped so, as Brianna was skating out there. She seemed carried by an invisible force. She lifted her right leg high into an arabesque and then continued to glide. The tip of that raised skate seemed to prick the sky. Then she lowered her leg and began skating very fast, then faster, at an almost unbelievable speed. Then she leaped into the air, still spinning around. Her hand reached out as if she were grabbing for a star. Can you cut yourself on a star? Rose wondered. She knew that she had never seen anything quite like what she had just witnessed. Was she the only one who had seen Brianna do this?