The Colors of Madeleine 01: Corner of White

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  “Oh, now,” murmured the Twicklehams.

  They turned to the window, and both laughed a little bitterly.

  “And isn’t he always there! Does the boy not know it is the vacation time at the school?”

  Hector looked, and sure enough, across the road in the empty high-school grounds, Elliot was standing near the sculpture again.

  While they watched, he moved away from it, sat on a bench, took out a notepad, and began to write.

  “Well now.” The Twicklehams turned back. “So we wanted to let you know this sorryful news, but also, we wondered if our application for money from the Red Wave Damage Fund had been processed. Not to be hurrying you, but …”

  Hector winced. “Ah, now, I am sorry. I’m way behind on paperwork, with Jimmy being out with the flu. What if I promise to get it processed by this afternoon? I could bring the check around to you?”

  “We wish you no such nuisance,” said Mrs. Twickleham. “We will return at the hour of six if that suits you?”

  “You’ll be busy packing up,” said Hector. “I insist.”

  But the Twicklehams insisted back, and so it was agreed.

  They left with a jangle, and Derrin with a wave from her wooden puppet, and Hector sat at his desk looking sorry for a few moments.

  Then the newspaper caught his eye, and the grin lit his face up once again.

  Elliot was sitting in the schoolyard, watching the sculpture.

  After a moment, the glint of white caught his eye. He looked around fast, and then reached for it.

  It was from Madeleine again.

  Over the last few days, they’d written long letters to each other, the longest Elliot had ever written. He’d told her about his missing father, and his journeys to Nature Strip and to the Golden Coast. She’d told him about how she’d run away in a train called the “Eurostar,” and how her mother liked chocolate, and how she’d met new friends named Jack and Belle.

  Now, today, something had happened.

  He’d delivered a shorter letter to her, and then turned to go, but for some reason he’d turned back. And a single piece of paper had appeared.

  Are you there right now? it said.

  Yes, he replied, and waited. A few moments later another note.

  Cause the weirdest thing just happened, she wrote. I was at the parking meter, about to put a letter in it for you, when your envelope just sort of APPEARED. It happened again right now. How are you doing this?

  Elliot grinned.

  It’s a crack, he wrote. Like I told you before. No clue about the science.

  This is freaking me out, she replied. But I totally like it. Keep doing it and I might actually get another one of my surges of belief in the Kingdom of Cello.

  It was a conversation.

  He was having a conversation with a girl in the World.

  They exchanged short notes for the next two hours.

  They figured out that they were both in the same time zones. They told each other about the weather. She told him that this was like inter-Kingdom texting, and he said he had no clue what she was on about. She told him her favorite books and bands, and he repeated that he had no clue. But that stood to reason, he said, her being in the World. She told him her mother had had an MRI, which had shown what looked like a tumor in her brain, and they’d done a fine-needle biopsy, and they were waiting for the results of the pathology, and she was thinking it would turn out all right because it’d be benign, or they could just cut the tumor out, but the doctors looked distracted when she said that, and there was a sort of darkness to the way they talked.

  You know what I just thought? Elliot wrote. I read somewhere that Butterfly Children used to make healing beads. Not exactly sure what they are, but if mine can’t do crops, maybe she can do healing?

  Madeleine replied: If you can get your Butterfly Child to make healing beads — and you can get them to me by tomorrow morning, 10 a.m. — and they cure my mother — well, I’ll believe in the Kingdom of Cello for real.

  It’s a deal, Elliot wrote.

  There was a longer pause, then another note from Madeleine appeared:

  Who really knows what’s real anyway? I was reading a book the other day (about Isaac Newton again) and it mentioned the “shadow of the rainbow.” I was like: what? That’s real? Cause, whenever I see that extra rainbow — the one that’s just behind a rainbow in the sky — well, I kind of assume I’m imagining it. Like it’s a trick of the light. Like my mind is painting that extra one in.

  But who says tricks of the light AREN’T real?

  One time I had to get my hearing checked — the therapist thought maybe I kept running away from school because I couldn’t actually HEAR the teachers tell me not to (she was getting desperate). Anyway, I had to sit in this little chamber wearing earphones, and the doctor or whatever sat outside the chamber, and I had to press a button whenever I heard a sound. At first, it was a really clear kind of GONG, and I was happy to press the button. Then the gongs started getting quieter and quieter, fading away, disappearing, until I couldn’t figure out if I was hearing them or not.

  It’s like, are we supposed to see the extra rainbow? Was I supposed to hear that sound? Was it a sound inside my head or outside the chamber? It’s like the blurring point between imagination and reality — something very faint, a reflection.

  Elliot thought for a moment, then replied:

  That sort of reminds me of the dragons, werewolves, trolls, giants, vampires, and so forth they’ve got up at the Magical North. See, the thing is, they’re only there ’cause kids have gone to the Lake of Spells and caught SPELLS to make fairy-tale creatures. Nobody can figure out why any kid would do a dumb thing like make a werewolf, but they do.

  Anyhow, now and then people talk about whether they really exist, those dragons, etc., seeing they’re not supposed to be there. Seeing they’re just imaginary.

  Seems to me, if they are, they are. If a dragon sets you alight or a vampire sucks your blood, well, there’s your question answered. And I guess, if you can see a rainbow, or hear a gong, it’s answered too.

  Before Madeleine had a chance to reply, he started another piece of paper.

  If you were so happy in your life before, he said, how come you were always running away?

  There was a long silence and when she did reply, she ignored his question:

  If you and I are shadows of each other, like rainbows — or like those cats I wrote about the other day — which of us do you think is real and which is the shadow?

  Could be we’re both shadows, he replied. But I kinda doubt it.

  I thought of something, she said, how come YOU never doubted MY existence? If you’ve had no contact with the World for, like, hundreds of years, why’d you assume my letter really WAS from the World? Not, like, a hoax by someone at your school?

  Elliot replied:

  People around here are kinda busy for that sort of thing. Gotta go now myself, actually. See you here at ten tomorrow.

  He delivered the letter. Touched the sculpture once and walked away.

  In her doll’s house, the Butterfly Child was asleep.

  “That’s a surprise,” Elliot said drily.

  It was later that evening. He stood watching her a moment, then cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Hey there,” he said, then paused. “I don’t want to disturb you,” he added.

  The Butterfly Child sighed in her sleep and turned over.

  “Well, I do want to disturb you,” Elliot said. “The thing is, you’ve been here in Bonfire a long time now, and nothing’s happened to the crops, and well, okay, if you’re sad … But I wish I knew why you were sad.”

  He sighed. Then carried on: “Anyhow, setting that aside, I read somewhere that you could make healing beads, and I’ve promised a friend that you’ll make some for her.”

  He waited. The Butterfly Child breathed steadily.

  “So I guess — well, who knows if you’re hearing this anyway, but if you are, and
if you can make healing beads, I’d be grateful. If you would make them. I mean.”

  He sniffed.

  “Ah, what’s the point?” He sat down on the couch, but almost at once there was a thumping on the front door.

  His mother opened it. Corrie-Lynn’s little voice sounded, and next thing she herself was in the room.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Corrie-Lynn tilted her chin away from him, circled around the back of the couch, and stopped in front of the doll’s house.

  “Corrie-Lynn,” said Elliot. “I heard about the Twicklehams leaving town, and I’m really sorry about your friend. I guess sometimes businesses just don’t work out. And maybe one day I could, I don’t know, take you to see Derrin in Olde Quainte? You could write to her in the meantime, right? Anyhow, I hope you’ll talk to me again someday, ’cause I miss you, kid.”

  Corrie-Lynn held her face away from him. Her shoulders trembled and he thought maybe she was crying, but then she swung around and it wasn’t tears, it was fury.

  “You’re ‘really sorry’?” She sure could wither when she tried. “You’re really sorry, and it’s because businesses fail?” Now she stamped her foot. “They’re leaving town because of you and your friends! I’m really sorry your dad’s away, and I hope he comes back, but if he does, he can get himself a new electronics shop, for crying out loud! And you know what, Elliot Baranski? If my dad was still around, he’d give you a serious talking-to, that’s what he’d do. He’d say, ‘What are you thinking, Elliot, scaring off a nice family like that? Making my Corrie-Lynn lose her only best friend? What are you thinking?’”

  “Ah, baby …” Elliot was by her side, wanting to take her into his arms, but her eyes grew wide and her jaw gripped hard against the tears, and she punched him once, hard, in the stomach.

  Then she sidestepped away from him, scowling.

  He stood, watching her.

  “You’re right,” he said eventually. “That’s exactly what Uncle Jon would’ve said, and he’d have been right too. I am really sorry, Corrie-Lynn, and I want to fix it. I’ll talk to them.”

  “Too late to fix it,” she said coldly. “They’re leaving in the morning. Now they could fix things — electronic things and that, but you and your friends never gave them a chance.”

  “Like I said, you’re right. I’ll fix it, Corrie-Lynn. I’ll ask them to stay and I’ll tell them my friends and I will do everything we can to make their business work. We’ll do them a marketing campaign. We’ll get Cody to paint billboards for them. We’ll get Shelby up in her plane flying a banner that says GET YOUR TVS FIXED BY THE TWICKLEHAMS!”

  Corrie-Lynn studied his face. She considered.

  “You will?”

  “I’ll go over to the shop right now and tell them.”

  “Well,” she said, still cold but relenting, “as long as it’s something better than that on the banner. Get your TVs fixed by the Twicklehams! That’s the dumbest slogan I ever heard. It’s not even a slogan.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Corrie-Lynn was still watching him.

  “Don’t go over now,” she said. “They go to bed early. But they’re coming by the Watermelon first thing tomorrow, so Derrin and me can say one last good-bye.” Her lower lip trembled, but she straightened her shoulders. “Meet us there at nine, and if you can persuade them to stay, I might just see if I can forgive you.”

  Then she swung around and walked toward the door.

  “You going home already?”

  Corrie-Lynn nodded, her back to him.

  “Throw your bike in the back of the truck and I’ll give you a ride. It’s getting dark.”

  “No,” she said. “I need some time alone.”

  When little kids act like grown-ups, Elliot thought, it nearly breaks your heart.

  She was in the door frame when she turned back.

  “It’s ’cause you never listen to her,” she said, swinging her thumb toward the doll’s house. “That’s why she’s sad.”

  “The Butterfly Child? I never listen to her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “She doesn’t talk!”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” muttered Corrie-Lynn. She shouted, “Bye, Auntie Petra!” and headed out onto the porch. He could hear her talking to herself as she ran down the front stairs: “He’s supposed to be so smart, and great, and brave, and so good at deftball, and he’s as dumb as a chain saw….”

  Her bicycle wheel squeaked in time with her mutters as she cycled down the drive and away.

  The door to the Sheriff’s station opened and the Twickleham family spilled out.

  They’d collected their check from the Red Wave Damage Fund, said their farewells to Hector, and now they stood buttoning their coats against the evening chill.

  They walked down the stairs, silent.

  Fleta Twickleham paused at the bottom step. She was squinting across at the empty high-school grounds.

  Her husband followed her gaze. She looked sideways at him, raising an eyebrow, and he shrugged. With Derrin between them, they headed across the road and through the school gate.

  They stopped at the sculpture.

  They studied it, peering inside and out, now and then knocking on the side of the TV.

  Derrin swiveled on her heel nearby, gazing up at the stars until her neck started to ache. She rubbed at it awhile, tilting her head up and down.

  Mr. Twickleham patted the concrete base and slid his hands over the sides of the TV. Mrs. Twickleham reached right inside.

  She frowned. There was a crackling sound.

  She held up a piece of paper.

  They leaned in close, holding it in various positions to catch some of the light.

  Eventually, they could see enough to read:

  Hey Elliot,

  I think you’ve gone now, but I wanted to tell you this anyway. I’ve decided I’m going to say sorry to Belle and Jack today. So, you know, wish me luck.

  If it doesn’t work out with them, maybe I should just come and live in your Kingdom?

  I’m thinking, there’s only two obstacles to that. (1) This “crack” is only big enough for letters, right? Well, just, kind of like, STRETCH it! (2) You think I’ve got the plague. I keep forgetting to tell you, we haven’t had the plague here in the world for, like, hundreds of years! (I think.) I think they found a cure. Antibiotics, right?

  So, no obstacles.

  Oh, except that you have to prove that your Kingdom exists first.

  Well, looking forward to that by ten tomorrow morning.

  Madeleine

  Fleta and Bartholomew Twickleham grew so still that Derrin stopped pivoting and glanced across at them.

  But they were only looking at a paper, so she tried to see how fast she could hop on her left foot. When she stumbled and looked up again, they were staring at each other instead of the paper. Then, as one, they turned their gaze toward the Sheriff’s station.

  3.

  Jack and Belle were in Auntie’s Tea Shop.

  She watched them through the window for a moment: Jack was talking and Belle was spinning a teaspoon on the table. They were the only customers.

  When Madeleine pushed on the door, they both turned and looked. Their faces held steady for a moment, then Jack smiled a close-lipped smile.

  Walking across the empty room felt like elbowing through a crowd.

  “Can I join you?” she said.

  Belle widened her eyes but Jack nodded.

  “So you reckon ‘Belle and Jack from outer space’?” Belle said, and Madeleine looked around for the waitress to order coffee.

  “It’s a blog we’re planning,” Jack explained to Madeleine. “We’re thinking we should do it in the voices of aliens. It’ll go viral, yeah?”

  Belle’s foot tapped quickly, and she turned her profile to Madeleine.

  “We’re giving free aura readings and horoscopes to anyone who comments,” Jack continued.

  “You’re doing online aura readings?” Madel
eine raised her eyebrows. “How’s that going to work?”

  “It’ll work,” said Belle, her gaze still on Jack.

  Madeleine was quiet.

  “I was thinking maybe not aliens,” Belle said. “We could pretend we’re famous people instead.”

  Jack turned to Madeleine. “What do you think?” he said, and Belle scratched her chin impatiently.

  “Um. Sure,” Madeleine said. “But won’t the famous people, kind of like, sue you?”

  “We could be dead famous people,” Jack suggested. “Like I could be Byron! And Belle, you could be — who were you again?”

  “Ada Lovelace,” Belle said. “The one who made friends with Charles Babbage and invented computer programming.”

  “Yeah, and so it’d be, like, educational. I’ll talk about my day-to-day life as Byron, like how my poems are going, and what the kids are up to and stuff.”

  “Byron didn’t have kids,” said Belle. “Ada will be way more interesting. Everyone’ll be reading her part of the blog.”

  “Yes, he did. Byron had kids. He had two. First he married a beautiful, intelligent, extremely moral woman —”

  “Ada was smarter,” Belle interrupted. “She had measles when she was a kid and she had to go to bed for, like, a year. So she had nothing to do with her brain except get intelligent.”

  The waitress brought Madeleine’s coffee. She picked it up and held it to her mouth, but it was too hot. She replaced it on the table.

  “Anyhow, so Byron and his moral wife had a little girl. But then he took off and left them and the wife didn’t want her daughter growing up to be a loser poet like her dad so she made her study mathematics.”

  “Yeah, all right, but Ada invented computer programming, so she was obviously even better at mathematics than —”

  “You’re talking about the same person.”

  Jack and Belle looked at Madeleine.

  “It’s the same person,” Madeleine repeated. “Augusta Ada Byron. She was Byron’s daughter, and he liked to call her Ada. She got measles when she was thirteen or fourteen. Her mother didn’t want her to be a poet like her dad so she made her study mathematics. She married the Earl of Lovelace — that’s why she became Ada Lovelace. She met Charles Babbage when she was eighteen, and got interested in his computers and wrote an algorithm that was kind of like the first computer program.”