The Timeless Tale of Peter Able

by Natalie Grigson

  “Jiminy Cricket!”

  “Exactly what I was thinking, but he doesn’t fit the bill, to be honest. I don’t see what his motivation would be for taking out these characters, and he doesn’t seem to have any relationship with most of them.

  “But I would appreciate it if you’d look out for any other connections like this. And be sure to peruse the dedication pages, the appendices, author’s notes at the end, even the copyright page. As we all know, a character doesn’t have to be in the story part of a book to develop a grudge.” He paused and gave me a Meaningful Look. “Like last year how Pen tried to kill you when she was just the publisher’s logo.”

  “Yeah, I got that, Randy,” I sighed. “Okay, we’ll help you as best we can.” I thought of all the schoolwork I was surely about to have as well. “In fact, we might as well use the rest of the weekend to get started on it. Do we have copies of all these books at home?” I asked him. He may have moved into the apartment across the hall late last spring, but he had plenty of books and things at my place and still spent about 40 percent of his time there—the rest of which, I think, he spent at work.

  “We should, we should,” he muttered, already back to rifling through the pages on his desk. “I’ll see you guys later. And thank you,” he added, not looking up. Clearly, it was time for us to go, so with an unseen wave, we left his office, got lost in the building again, and about twenty minutes later were on our way home.

  Remember how earlier I’d said I would rather do anything than spend another Saturday afternoon baking? Well, eight hours of reading later, I was pretty sure I’d rather be baking. By midnight, Jenny’s brain was so fried that, in rare form, she actually decided to go back to her own never-described home, likely just to check out for a while. She took with her my series (there was no way I was rereading those again), a rather short and seedy romance, the Daphne the Wizard books, The Wind in the Willows, and several Little Golden Books books. Somewhere between three to seven hours earlier, Randy had walked in and made a little place for himself on the couch in the living room, surrounded by Grimm’s Fairy Tales, the Frog and Toad books, and Bill the Banana Tree’s book (which I hardly thought was fair; it had about five words total). This left me to read Gorndalf’s often-forgotten series of really just terrible, terrible fantasy stories, J. M. Barrie’s Peter and Wendy, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Through the Looking-Glass, and the children’s book about the middle-aged teacher, Ms. Wilkinson, simply called Ms. Wilkinson.

  It was around halfway through this last one, at about one in the morning, that my eyes started to droop. I looked up and saw little words floating around the living room, clouding my vision.

  Teacher’s pet Timothy and Cassandra playground Christmas

  Desks holding hands! exams best

  apples teacher

  ever

  “You all right?” Randy asked, looking up from the couch across from me. I blinked a few times and put the book on the coffee table.

  “Think I’m going to make some tea with a little Nonfiction extract. Clear my head. Do you want some?” I got up and walked into the kitchen and boiled some water. By the time I returned to the living room, two cups of steaming tea in hand, Randy had fallen asleep, feet propped up on the coffee table and head tilted back on the sofa. Frog and Toad All Year was lying open on his lap.

  I put the tea on top of Frog and Toad Together on the coffee table and took my own, along with Alice’s books, to my room and stretched out on my bed, shoulders and head propped up on my pillows. Just five minutes after settling in, though, I knew it was no good. Even with the Nonfiction extract in my tea (which, by the way, just tastes rather like nutmeg), I couldn’t concentrate on one more word of Fiction.

  I sighed, closed the book, and put it on the pillow next to me, where Jenny’s head had left a soft indention and tiny little strands of her light brown hair had fallen off. Gross.

  I got up, rolled my neck around, stretched, tried a couple of yoga poses, perhaps pulled something, and then lay back down. I wasn’t ready to sleep yet—I wanted to help my friend, and I knew time would be limited once school started (technically the next day). What I needed was a Nonfiction break—an escape from reality.

  Without really thinking about it, I was up again, opening the top drawer of my desk. There it was: my backstory, just as hyperrealistic and disturbing as I’d remembered. I picked it up anyway, though, the smell of that Other World permeating my room, and sat down on my bed.

  Born: February 26. 27? 26. 3 a.m. Born to Margaret and Walter Able—a happy couple, newly married. Hospital in small town on East Coast.

  Margaret yells at Walter during birth for wanting to take pictures of the event—but once baby comes along (7 lb 14 oz) healthy & crying, she can’t stop telling Walter how much she loves him, and Patrick Peter too. Room is filled with flowers from family & friends. Balloons. Cards. Margaret sweating, hair stuck to face, red eyes from crying, but so beautiful, so happy. Walter holds her hand even as she holds Peter, just watching her, he loves her so much. He wanted to be a father but only for her. What would he do w/out her? (Question—what WILL he do w/out her? Run away? Die? Suicide? Ponder later . . .)

  Side note: How did Walter and Margaret meet? College . . . in Northeast. Ivy League School. Both very smart. Margaret studied theater and Walter—electrical engineering? Margaret always more artistic, Walter more practical. Peter takes after both.

  Does Margaret tell Walter she’s a witch? Ponder later . . .

  I stopped here, heart pounding. In all of my books, it is never mentioned, not once, that my mom was also magical. She died from cancer when I was only six—I’d known that because it’s mentioned in the beginning of Peter Able: Boy Wizard, Book One. You know, when it’s explaining why my dad killed himself seven years later.

  The page continued in my author’s tiny chicken scratch to detail our lives together as a young family—my first Christmas, Halloween, my first birthday. How my mom had considered going back to work as a theater teacher at the local high school, but then she’d found out she was pregnant with Girl? Boy? Girl, and then how that little girl, Beth, was born, and just two years later, my mom was diagnosed with cancer.

  She lived for two more years, determined to see my sister and me grow up—perhaps waiting to see if they’d be magic too? Needing to know? But she never did get to find out, because when I was six, Beth just four, my mom died. And according to my backstory, nothing was the same afterward.

  Walter begins drinking heavily—forgets to take kids to school. Loses his job. His mom (Agatha?) steps in, though. His brother & Margaret’s parents & her sister confront him, tell him he needs help. He agrees. Goes to rehab for 6 weeks, leaves Peter and Beth w/his parents.

  Comes back clean, gets new job quickly, and feels much better. Excited to start anew.

  Always wonders if he should tell kids about their mom—her being magical. But he doesn’t. He only ever hints at it, telling them how she could brighten a room, how the universe bent to her will. Doesn’t ever say it was literal.

  Peter and Beth do well at school. At 10 & 8 they don’t get along—as expected. Beth tries to follow Peter and his friends everywhere, Peter makes fun of her. She’s quiet, smart, witty, loves to read. But deeper than that, he feels fiercely protective of her. Girl makes fun of Beth at school one day, and Peter, unknowingly, casts a spell on her to get stomach bug and be out for the rest of the week—just because he was angry. Didn’t realize he had been the reason she’d gotten sick, though.

  Side note: Beth—sandy-blonde hair, big blue eyes. Peter—messy brown hair, spattering of freckles like constellations across his nose, watery blue eyes.

  I rolled said watery blue eyes, remembering that he’d used these exact words to describe me in Book One.

  I flipped the page over. It went on to describe my home life, how everything seemed to be going fine. My dad had a good job again, we moved into a nicer house, and my little sister was at the top of her class in every subject. I
. . . well, I did all right.

  By the time I was about eleven, though, just two years before my actual series would begin, I entered something of a rebellious phase. This I remembered because it’s also mentioned in the beginning of Book One. It was one of the reasons I was sent off to Payne Academy. Not the only reason, of course.

  Peter starts looking for attention at school—making jokes, talking back to teachers, getting sent to principal’s office. One day gets in fight at school w/ . . . ? (name not important). Important thing is, Peter gets suspended b/c he hurts? pretty bad—w/out knowing, he used magic again in his anger.? ends up transferring to new school, Peter feels terrible, guilty & doesn’t help that he has to stay at home w/his grandmother for 1 wk.

  Walter’s concern grows for Peter—feels guilty he’s never told him about Mom being magical, starting to suspect Peter is the same. Decides not to tell them, ultimately, b/c wants kids to have normal life. Somehow connects magic w/Margaret’s death. Hates magic—and yet is plagued w/guilt for not telling them. Walter becomes depressed.

  Suicide?

  The next few pages went on to outline possible plotlines for my five books. Most of it, he actually stuck to, so I was well aware of what happened: In Book One, me at thirteen being sent off to Payne Academy—miles and miles away from my sister and, by then, only real friend—as requested in my father’s final will. He wanted to keep Peter out of trouble but also, unsaid in will, keep him away from anyone who might know about Margaret’s magic.

  From the moment I began at Payne, I was the odd one out—I was skinny, people laughed more at me than at my jokes, and I didn’t know anyone. In my anger, I began using more and more magic, until finally I learned to manage it and use it under my own control.

  Meanwhile, my sister had stayed behind to live with my grandparents, until she was fifteen, when she ran away to live with me. By then, I was living in my apartment, having run away from Payne Academy myself, as the battle between good and evil forces of magic raged on, me at its center. That was in Book Four. Then, at the very end of Book Five, when she was sixteen and I was just eighteen, the battle had come to a head:

  Beth—murdered?

  And that’s what ended up happening. I came home one day and found the door open. The lead villain had clearly been there (he left a note on the door). I’d rushed inside and found Beth just lying on the floor. But even after every spell I knew, I still couldn’t save her—hence my hesitation to use magic of late.

  I continued to stare at the word: murdered. Like it was so easy—to just write a word and seal someone’s fate. Of course this was just the backstory, just his rough ideas; he didn’t have to follow through with it. He could have changed it.

  I could change it.

  My eyes glazed over, not taking in the meaning of the word anymore, just seeing it as lines on a page:

  m u r d e r e d

  Then, as though something very heavy fell into place in my head, I remembered something, from, what, just a few pages ago?

  There it was again!

  I rifled through the papers until I came to it, the back of page one. I reread the paragraph—it was so short, so insignificant. But it was the only clue we had so far. With two fingers I carried the page into the living room, careful not to smudge the letters or, Aslan forbid, rip the thing.

  “Randy,” I whispered, standing over him. “Randy!” I nudged him with my socked foot.

  “Hm?” he asked, opening one eye.

  “I think I’ve got something.” I moved some books and Randy’s cold cup of tea and sat down on the coffee table in front of him. He was wide awake now, sliding his glasses onto his nose.

  “Which book? What did you find?”

  “Not a book, Randy. It’s here.” I held the page in front of him with one hand, using the other to point at the paragraph I was referring to.

  Peter starts looking for attention at school—making jokes, talking back to teachers, getting sent to principal’s office. One day gets in fight at school w/ . . . ? (name not important). Important thing is, Peter gets suspended b/c he hurts? pretty bad—w/out knowing, he used magic again in his anger.? ends up transferring to new school, Peter feels terrible, guilty & doesn’t help that he has to stay at home w/his grandmother for 1 wk.

  I watched Randy excitedly as his eyes darted over the page. He looked up when he was done reading.

  “So?”

  “Don’t you see, it’s the? again?”

  “??”

  I realized then, in all that had happened since talking to Bateman, I hadn’t properly filled Randy in on my Person vs. Person conflict. But you already know all about that, so let’s just say, I told him all about it, and now, here we are.

  “You think that this? in your conflict is the same unnamed? in your backstory . . . ?”

  “Yes,” I said, careful to decipher which?s were?s and which were?s.

  He read the paragraph again, brow furrowed.

  “Well, it does make sense—for you anyway. We don’t yet know if that’ll be the case in the others’ backstories.”

  “It will be,” I said with certainty. After all, it must be pretty common for authors out there to leave characters unnamed, or fill in their names with?s if they’re just making rough notes for their main character’s backstory. The? is usually just a minor detail; he or she won’t come up in the actual story, so why bother giving? a name?

  “It does make for some confusing reading, though,” Randy grumbled, leaning back into the sofa, hands behind his head. “Okay, so first thing in the morning—or, rather, in a few hours, we’ll head to the office and take a look at the other backstories. See if it adds up.

  “For now, though, I suggest we try to get a little sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a very big day.”

  You know, you really shouldn’t say stuff like that in Fiction.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next day was a very big day—and it started way too early. I felt like I had just closed my eyes when that damn sun came up, shining happily through my window and right onto my face. I could hear the neighborhood dragon outside, just settling in to sleep after a night of hunting.

  “At least someone’s getting some rest,” I grumbled, dragging myself out of bed.

  As soon as I showered and dressed, I walked into the kitchen, Randy at the table, just like it used to be.

  “Good morning, Peter. Toast is in the toaster and eggs are in the pantry.” He turned over the newspaper, no doubt scanning the headlines for any more news about the vanishings. He didn’t start weeping or throw his glass of orange juice or anything, so I assumed that reporters hadn’t gotten wind of the latest disappearances. At least not yet.

  After grabbing my still warm plate of scrambled eggs from the pantry (I never knew why he did this), heavy on the diced onions and cheese, just the way I liked them, and my toast, I joined Randy at the table. It may well have been a scene straight from last year when he’d just moved in and we were searching together through my books looking for any signs of his wife. That last part hadn’t turned out so well, but I wouldn’t replace our friendship for the world.

  “You ever miss living over here, Randy?” I asked, looking at my eggs. I’ve never been very good at the Emotional Moment moments, but I had a feeling this might be one of them.

  “Of course not,” he said, not looking up from the paper.

  Didn’t see that coming.

  “Because, and I’ve been meaning to tell you about this, but you see, I do live here.”

  “Do you mean, in like a spiritual sense? Like your heart still lives here?”

  “No, I mean, I moved back in last week. I had to find a way to pay Terrill and Ivor for your backstory—it was really expensive. So I sold my apartment across the hall and most of my things. Really, I’m surprised that you hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’re always at work,” I said defensively.

  “Yes, that’s true. And you do hardly ever go into my room.” Randy’s was the r
oom that Beth used to live in. It had undergone a complete makeover from its days as bright pink and covered in posters, but I still didn’t like to go in there. “At any rate, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I hope you and Jenny don’t mind.”

  “Well, you know, she doesn’t even really live here. Technically.”

  Randy gave me the type of look that said, Oh, come on, she stays over here almost every night, her clothes are all over the apartment, and she rarely ever goes back to her own home. Do her parents know? What do they think? Personally, if my daughter, Molly, was staying with her boyfriend at the age of eighteen, I’d tell her she was too young. No need to rush anything. Also, you have cheese on your face, and resumed reading the paper.

  I wiped my face with the back of my hand and finished eating breakfast in silence. I’d worry about Jenny’s and my future later; today was a day of the past. Not really—I mean it was still today, the present. But it was a day to focus on the past. Because backstories are about the past. Though they’re in the present.

  At any rate, today was the day we were going to read all the backstories we had and figure out if my theory might pan out, so after a quick cup of coffee, teeth brushing, and a trip to the toilet14, we headed off to Randy’s office.

  When we arrived, it was to find fresh yellow tape, blocking off the bloody yellow tape that always surrounded the building. Cop cars, sirens flashing silently, had moved all the way from the lot on the side of the building to the narrow road in front of its entrance. There were several rather dull and vague detective and police types milling about importantly.

  “What’s going on here, Rogers?” Randy asked, approaching a man. As soon as the man came into view, he became a little less dull. He wasn’t going to win any awards for this performance or anything, but I could tell we’d be seeing him at least once more.