Jenny nodded along, enraptured.
“What was I like over there?”
“Oh . . . You were nice.” I stuffed some cookies into my mouth to avoid any more questions just then. “The thing is—whoops sorry.” I wiped some cookie off her face. “The thing is, I realized I can’t just go and change the past and expect everything to turn out the way I want it to—time doesn’t work that way. And it works the other way too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you hadn’t broken up with me in the first place, then . . .”
“Your magic would never have gotten so much better,” she finished excitedly.
I nodded. “Plus, I probably never would have ended up changing my backstory at all, which means . . .”
“You never would have discovered the way to defeat? once and for all!”
“Yes!” I said, getting into the spirit of things. “And because Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey . . .”
“Along came a spider who sat down beside her and frightened Miss Muffet away!” we both finished together with a high-five. Across the room, Miss Muffet harrumphed loudly and stormed off into the kitchen.
“So you see, everything happens the way it should. Now all we need to do is figure out where the rest of those backstories could be hiding,” I added quietly, still looking vaguely across the room where Miss Muffet had been, “and I think this will all turn out to be a very nice little ending, don’t you? Jenny?”
She was gone. I got to my feet and began looking around. Perhaps she’d done some spectacular magic; maybe this was part of a big surprise for me, and she was going to jump out of a cake or something, but when I got into the kitchen and saw Randy nursing a steaming hot tea and already looking hungover, somehow, I didn’t think so. If there was a surprise going on, he’d be on top of it. My stomach dropped.
“Hello, Peter. Are you having fun?” Randy asked. Each word seemed to pain him.
“Have you seen Jenny?” As I spoke, I opened cabinets, the fridge, looked under the kitchen table. When he saw that I was frantic, Randy jumped up (as best he could) and pulled out his wand. Several people nearby had noticed and slowly, a quiet spread across the entire party as we looked all over the apartment.
“Jenny!” I called, panic-stricken, tossing couch cushions aside, much to the chagrin of the two goblins who’d been sitting on top of them.
“Jenny!” Randy was opening the doors down the hallway, looking in rooms. Soon, Jenny’s name was being called, mumbled, or whispered throughout the crowd—
Jenny! JENNY! Jenny Jeeeeennnnyyyyyy! Jenny!!! Jenny! Jeeeeeeenaaaaaaeeeeeeeeee
(Some people were very drunk.)
Then, from my bedroom, where I was crawling around on the floor, searching under my bed, I heard Randy shout a very impolite word that Dach-shund most certainly would have muffled with a bark, had she been around.
She’s only in the story because I’m in the story, Jenny had said.
I knew, then, that Jenny had vanished.
When I got back into the living room, it was to find a very strange scene, indeed. All of the guests were dead silent, and even the most vibrant and written ones looked pale as they stood around the perimeter of the room and watched Randy . . . spin a man around the room in a circle.
“Randy! What the hell are you doing?” I ran into the center of the room where Randy was standing, holding his wand up to the man who was revolving around and around like a ceiling fan. With a flick of Randy’s wrist, the man crumpled to the floor, causing several indignant-looking elves to gasp and take a step back.
Randy ignored me.
“So let’s see, who do we have now . . .? Ah! It’s Mr. Hyde! Welcome back, Mr. Hyde.”
The man on the floor no longer looked much like a man at all—his skin was a sickly gray color; his eyes were yellow; his hair was long, matted, and covered most of his face and neck; and he had fangs protruding well below his lower lip. It was as though he’d transformed halfway into a werewolf and then decided to throw in the towel.
“Vard do you vant?” he said, drooling a little. He seemed to be having some trouble talking around his large teeth.
“You were just telling us about the whereabouts of Jenny . . . uh, Jenny the Girl Wizard!” Randy shouted at the man, still pointing his wand down at him. (Jenny was never written with a last name—kind of a sensitive subject.)
“Oh ho! Dat girl iv god!”
“Sorry?”
“I faid fee’sh gond!”
“That word was ‘gone,’” a man with rather shabby wizard’s robes and a kind but prematurely lined face piped up from the crowd. “I’m a werewolf. The teeth take some getting used to.” Everyone nodded thoughtfully.
“Where’s Jenny?!” I interrupted, pointing my own wand at the man on the floor. Only . . . it wasn’t the same man.
“Oh dear,” the man muttered, standing up and dusting himself off. He was wearing the same fine nineteenth-century suit and a rather long black cape, but his face was smooth and pale, his eyes a cloudy gray, and his hair was short, brown, and neatly combed. “Have I been out again?” he spoke in a polite British accent.
“Jekyll,” Randy sighed. It seemed he’d dealt with this before. “I was just asking Mr. Hyde what he knew about Jenny. Earlier she disappeared in the party”—Dr. Jekyll gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth—“and Mr. Hyde hinted that he knew something about it. Couldn’t stop himself from bragging, it seems.”
“Oh, my. Well, yes, I’m terribly sorry about that. You know, Mr. Hyde—he tends to come out at the oddest of times. I really can’t help it.”
To his left, the large beetle that was Professor S made a noise of sympathy.
“Perhaps try spinning me around again?” Dr. Jekyll offered. “Sometimes shaking things up a bit will bring him about.”
So Randy, once again, lifted Dr. Jekyll into the air and around and around and around he went. At this point, several people seemed rather entertained by the whole thing, but I was losing patience. I concentrated on him falling from the sky and turning into Mr. Hyde, felt the urgency of it, and so he did.
“I fought I tol you everyfing!” the evil creature spat. “Fe’s gone!? erafed her. Gone for good!”
“And how do you know that?” I asked, stepping closer to him. “How do you know??”
He looked at me in confusion, then at Randy.
“He means, how do you know ‘?’?”
“Used to vork for him! I vrought him hiff firft backftory—and it wuff Jenny the Girl Wiffard’s! Vye did I do it? Becauff it wuf EVIL! And I luff being evil! Muahahahah Evil laugh! Muahahahah!!!” Without warning, Mr. Hyde was gone and in his place sat a sobbing Dr. Jekyll.
“I’m afraid it’s true,” he said, head in hands. “Mr. Hyde was out of control—I have better control of him now, you see; it usually takes a knock on the head to bring him about. But he did. He worked for that monster, and he brought about the young Jenny’s backstory. Luckily before he managed to do any more damage, I was able to put a stop to it. I believe that’s when Terrill and Ivor began the job.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “It just doesn’t add up. We’d have known about it if Jenny’s backstory was in Fiction. Wouldn’t we . . .?” I added shakily, looking at Randy.
He’d lowered his wand and put his hand on my shoulder; everyone was watching us in silence. “I’m not sure we would, Peter. I said it myself, ‘Sixteen backstories taken from Out There. And those are just the ones we know about.’”
“What?!”
“See chapter four.”
I sat down heavily on the couch, not caring that everyone could see tears pouring down my face. I stayed there for a very long time—how long, I don’t know. I was vaguely aware of Randy ushering guests out of the apartment, of Long John coming over and sitting next to me for a while, people saying good-bye, my super, Mr. Super, yelling at me. None of it mattered.
“Peter,” Randy said, finall
y drawing me from my thoughts. I blinked and was a bit surprised to find that the apartment was back to its normal size, the coffee table had been cleared, and by the looks of it, Randy had already vacuumed and put everything back in its proper place. He was sitting on the large, old leather armchair across from me—this I did notice remained bigger than before, as Brent and Molly were sprawled out on either side of him fast asleep.
“I think it’s time to call it a night. What do you think?” Randy said quietly. He looked exhausted, and I was almost overcome with appreciation for him waiting up for me to finish being in shock.
“It’s just one more backstory we have to get, right?” I asked croakily. “Just find her backstory and then change it back—write her back in—like with everyone else’s, right?”
Just for a moment, I thought I saw a shadow of pity flicker across Randy’s face, but then he was smiling warmly and nodding, “Yeah, Peter. Like I said, there’s no harm in trying.
“Now let’s get at least a few hours of sleep, then in the morning we can get to work. Okay?” He was watching me hesitantly, and I was reminded of the way he had looked at me in that other version—like he was scared.
If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I might have protested that No! We have to find those backstories right now! We have to bring back Jenny! But the more reasonable—and more fatigued—part of my brain won out. After all, she had already vanished. Whether I got her backstory and brought her back tonight or tomorrow didn’t make much of a difference. And with that thought cheering me, that I could simply write her back in, I fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I woke up around nine-thirty the next day, sun streaming in through the half-closed blinds of my bedroom window. My bedroom window . . . I sat up quickly and looked around. Yes, no doubt about it, I was in my own bed, wearing a pair of my own flannel pajamas, and with just a glance around the room, I realized everything was just as I’d left it before the party. Maybe it had all been a long-winded dream sequence! I jumped out of bed and—
“Dude! Whoa, dude. You almost just like jumped on my face.”
There was a Stereotypical Frat Boy lying on a blanket on my bedroom floor, his arm draped lazily over a Stereotypical Sorority Girl.
“What time is it? Is the party still going?” he asked, groggily rubbing his eyes.
“Jell-O shots . . .” the girl mumbled, before turning over onto her stomach and continuing to sleep.
I left the room and found Randy sleeping on the couch where I’d been last night. Brent and Molly must have bunked up in his room.
“Hey, Peter,” he said when he heard me. He sat up and picked up his glasses from the coffee table, placing them on his nose.
“There’s a frat boy in my room,” I said, gesturing in a helpless sort of way toward my door.
“That’s okay. It happens.”
“Do you know how I got to bed last night?” Even as I said it, I realized this was the type of dialogue much better suited for YA—but then again, so were frat boys and sorority girls sleeping on your floor.
Randy shrugged sleepily. “Magic?” Clearly, this was going to be a long day.
We ate a quick breakfast (which about halfway through, we heard the two party stragglers call out their good-byes, giggling, and leave through the front door), Randy scribbled a quick note for Molly and Brent, and then we set off to his office on campus.
“You sure Molly and Brent don’t mind being left by themselves?” I asked, as we walked down the smooth river rock road of Fantasy. It was a particularly warm and lovely Saturday for fall, and the trees lining the streets were all dancing happily. Many of them said good morning as we passed by, but I was too distracted to do much but nod.
“Oh, sure. Molly and Brent are at ‘that age,’ you know. They’d rather think that they’re independent and totally capable of taking care of themselves. Of course I have a GPS tracking device slipped into each of their shoes, security cameras hidden in my room, and have set up a Parental Control to detect whether or not they’re performing any sort of magic outside of school. But you know, they don’t need to know that.
“Ah, here we are.”
“We got here fast,” I remarked, as we walked into his office.
Almost immediately upon entering the room, Randy waved his wand, and as I was used to seeing by now, a little safe popped into being in the brick wall behind his desk. As he unlocked it and pulled out the backstories, I checked his desk—there was no picture of Gail.
“That’s a relief,” I muttered.
“I know,” Randy said, thinking I was referring to the backstories. “Like I said, we were able to find several more over the past week while we were out looking for you. Seeing the pattern, we searched all the well-known haunted houses in Fiction and some in Nonfiction too. And we’ve already erased his parts in the ones we have.” Randy pointed to the now fanned-out backstories on his desk. I leaned over and saw that, indeed, there was no more mention of? in the pages I could see. “So far he’s been erased from all of the backstories I have here.”
Before I could second-guess myself, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my much folded but still magically protected backstory. I tossed it onto the pile on the table—but this isn’t a movie, and all the papers went flying. A minute later after we’d piled them back onto the desk and Randy neatly fanned them out again, I carefully placed it on top.
“Now you have one more.”
Randy raised his eyebrows at me but didn’t ask if I was sure; perhaps he didn’t want me to change my mind about handing over my backstory and, with it, the power to change it. “Thank you, Peter. I’ll keep it safe.”
I nodded, feeling oddly calm. No more messing about with time for you, I thought, remembering Circe’s words. And that was fine. Conflict resolved.
“Now about this?” Randy went on. Okay, just one conflict resolved then. “We really have searched every documented haunted house we could think of—I didn’t just have my men on it; I had half of Fiction looking about. So there must be another place he’s keeping them . . .”
“Unless he has them with him. I mean, if I were him and knew I was slowly disappearing, I’d be keeping these things close at hand. I wouldn’t let them out of my sight.”
Randy nodded along.
“Then he must be hiding the remaining four”—he glanced at me quickly—“sorry, five with Jenny’s, somewhere different. Perhaps he got wind that we were looking in the haunted houses. Maybe he just wanted a change of scenery.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Cynthia burst in with another tray of delicious-looking food. There was a large bowl of macaroni and cheese, a plate of chicken wings, still steaming hot, another large plate of mashed potatoes, two tall cups of soda, two more empty plates to eat off, and a small apple pie. She looked like she might fall over.
“Ah, thanks, Cynthia,” Randy said absentmindedly, moving the backstories out of her way. She put the tray down with a bang, and with a last withering look at Randy, she bustled out, muttering, “What’s the point of being a wizard if you’re not even going to use your magic to help?”
“You know time is just flying today,” Randy exclaimed, looking at his clock. “How is it already lunchtime?!”
“You know, Randy, I think Cynthia might have been right.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, about using magic. Have you tried, you know, using magic to collect the rest of the backstories? Or summon??”
Randy put down the greasy chicken wing and wiped his hands with a yellow-striped napkin. “Peter, that would require some serious magic. I’m not even sure Merlin himself could do it.”
“Well, why not?”
“It’s one thing to summon something when you know where it is. But we haven’t any idea where? or the backstories are. No, no.” He shook his head. “It’s just too risky. If a summoning spell isn’t strong enough, it would merely tip off? that we’re looking for him. He’d feel it, like something trying to p
ull at him, and then he could just hide himself better. Head up to the Caves of Connotation someplace and we’d never find him there.”
“Caves of . . .?”
“Near the Metaphysical Mountains, or the Symbolic Slopes, depending on how you look at it.
“Yes, I’m afraid we’re just going to have to keep looking the old-fashioned way. I’m sorry,” he added at my look of frustration.
I, of course, was thinking about Jenny—where was she now? Was she in a better place? In some other version of things, was she, perhaps, sitting right next to me, in a park enjoying the beautiful day? Or did “she” even exist anymore, in any real sense?
I was having a real Metaphysical-Theological-Sci Fi breakdown and was close to asking Randy to pull the old “frying pan to the head to move the story along” trick, but he seemed to read it on my face. Before I could get too worked up, he came around the table and put his arm around my shoulder.
“Hey, hey. It’ll be okay, Peter. If you can write any of these characters back in, I’m sure you can write in Jenny, and it won’t matter how long it takes—a day, a month, or even several years.”
I looked at him in alarm.
“Okay, clearly that wasn’t the right thing to say . . . What I meant was, we’re working on it. We have our best men, women, and creatures out there helping us, and if they can’t find them, nobody will.
“Shouldn’t have said that either. How about this—have some pie and I’ll make a few phone calls.”
So I helped myself to some of the apple pie, it was one of Pip and Pop’s specialties, after all, while Randy sat across from me recruiting people, creatures, and even some plants, to help us in our search.
The whole of the next few weeks passed in a daze for me. I’d offered to stop going to school to help Randy, the detectives, and the rest of the group15 track down the backstories, but Randy insisted that I continue my classes. (Molly and Brent had also tried this tactic, but before Randy left town, he sent them back to Boarmoles to finish up the semester.)
The Timeless Tale of Peter Able Page 18
