The Spell Book Of Listen Taylor

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Inside the envelope, just as she suspected, there was another of the A.E.’s visions.

  The Visions of an Aeronautical Engineer

  Vision # 1,563

  Deep inside the turnpikes of my crispy fragrant duck,

  I see this, I see this, I see

  ANGUISH, a BROKEN HEART!

  Abandonment!

  Also, I see a man with a hat upon his head.

  And a cat upon the hat,

  And a mat upon the—

  No. Wait. That’s not mine.

  Look. Forget I said a word.

  “Well,” said Marbie aloud, “so much for his broken heart.”

  Then she found a typed note glued to the back of the vision.

  Marbleweed! I miss you! Come back to me!

  In the alternative, please see the following:

  RE: YOUR FAMILY SECRET.

  I HAVE ARRANGED A MEETING WITH CATH MURPHY AT 1 O’CLOCK TOMORROW. AT THAT MEETING, I INTEND TO TELL HER EVERYTHING I KNOW!

  DELIVER $50,000 IN CASH TO MY HOUSE BY NOON, AND I WILL STAND HER UP.

  FAIL TO DELIVER AND THE GAME WILL BE UP!!!!!!!!!!!

  THE CHOICE IS YOURS.

  Marbie sneezed hayfeverishly. She had suspected it was too much to hope that she could simply walk away from the A.E. and his little brush fires.

  She stood in her doorway now, rereading the letter. Certainly, she would not allow him to blackmail her like this. That much was clear. She supposed she would have to resume her evening visits to his house. She would have to watch TV with him, and eat his crunchy lasagna, and argue with him about the Secret. “But I don’t want to sleep with him again,” she pointed out firmly.

  Then she realized with a slow shock that she would have to sleep with him again. If she resumed her visits, eventually he would greet her in his boxers and bow tie again, and say, “Marbie, this cannot go on.”

  “No,” said Marbie, raising her eyebrows, “it cannot.” He had been blackmailing her. She just had not seen it.

  She walked back into the house, clapping her hands together softly, which was her way of thinking. Then she sat at her computer and began to type.

  Sir,

  I write with respect to a patient of mine (Marbleweed Zing). Ms. Zing informed me recently that she had commenced a “relationship” with you. I was delighted to hear it—her condition generally frightens the fellows away.

  As she will have informed you, Ms. Zing suffers from severe paranoid delusions, generally revolving around her parents’ garden shed. When suffering from these delusions, she believes such things as: The shed appears only when it rains; the shed is used as a base for spying on a second-grade schoolteacher; aliens have eaten the shed (catalogued delusions: #32, #49, and #102)—and so on.

  I hope that Ms. Zing has not succumbed to any of these delusions in your presence; however, she can be absentminded and occasionally forgets to take her medication.

  It has occurred to me that you might like to assist her in this manner. Gentle reminders can do a world of good—as you no doubt know, she is somewhat embarrassed by her (antipsychotic) pills (they are inconspicuous, small, and red) and conceals them with her hay fever medication. Take them out of the plastic! Dangle them good-naturedly before her nose! Tap her on the head with the box! Little things like this can only help.

  Finally, Ms. Zing mentioned that you write “visions” because you have a sort of artistic “beast” tearing away at your insides. My professional view is that you give up the poetry and try a sport instead. Have you considered hunting?

  Please do contact me if you have any queries regarding Ms. Zing. Together we can work to crack this nut!

  Yours sincerely,

  Doctor Arthur G. Gravestein, M.D., Ph.D., FRACS, FACS,

  FHKAM (Psych.)

  Fortunately, Marbie had sufficient software, precedent letterhead, thick stationery, and authoritative stamps to make the letter look genuine. The Zings had stockpiles of such equipment.

  Also, fortunately, she was accustomed to breaking into other people’s homes. In fact, Intrusion and Maintenance used to be her field of expertise, until Cath got the cat, which made Marbie sneeze and affected her work.

  Although the A.E. was a nuisance, she was happy to be doing another break-in, for old time’s sake. She drove to his neighborhood at 2 A.M., parked a block away, put the letter in his box, broke in through the bathroom window, and planted, in his top bathroom drawer, a box of her hay fever tablets. Inside the box she had hidden two small red pills.

  Down the hallway, she could hear the A.E. mutter and grumble in his sleep. “Tch,” she said to herself, and climbed back out into the street.

  She was home again by 2:15 A.M.

  Afterward, when the adrenaline had faded, Marbie lay in bed alone, wondering at herself. It had been foolish enough to get involved with the A.E. in the first place, but why had she entangled herself further by telling him the Secret? She had never told anyone before Nathaniel, and requesting permission to tell him had seemed such a turning point. Her mother and Fancy had formed a subcommittee that decided that she was sufficiently committed to Nathaniel, that he was sufficiently in love with her, that he was an all-around wonderful guy, and that therefore she could tell him.

  It was as if she had announced her engagement. Everyone congratulated her, and Radcliffe said mysteriously, “You’ll keep him forever now, you know—the Secret’s got a lot of pull with your average bloke.”

  Her memory of telling the A.E. was less clear. She recalled a sensation of urgency; a compulsion to tell. Yet she must have known the risk. He could have used it to ruin her family. Had she wanted to ruin her family?

  Her drowsy mind began to toss images about: her mother pulling the shed door closed; her father squinting at surveillance equipment; Fancy leaping smartly from a window to a tree. She was confused. There was something, she thought, so exquisitely fragile about these images. Her family, it seemed to her now, were always on the verge of catastrophe.

  Of course they were. Their entire life was built on the foundation of a secret. All it would take was one small slip and the foundation would collapse. The suspense, said Marbie’s mind, was killing you.

  This was a familiar idea. Had a lifetime of suspense about the Secret found its way into every corner of her life? Was she constantly preempting disaster by welcoming it in?

  Or was it that she knew how foolish she had been, to sleep with the A.E. in the first place? By telling him the Secret, she made their connection serious. She changed the nature of their story: It was love! It must have been, otherwise why had she told him the Secret?!

  Marbie’s ideas began to fragment again. She saw sea urchins sink beneath sand on the ocean floor; she saw Fancy, a teenager, standing in the beach house, declaring she had done something incredible. A chalkboard stood outside a beachside takeout: Rain fell against it languidly, washing away the specials.

  Dearest Nathaniel,

  I’ll tell you one of the many things that I love about you.

  The way you can take two cans of Coke from the fridge in a shop, and carry them to the counter in one hand. You can hold two cans of Coke, one for me and one for you, in a single, outstretched hand.

  Love,

  Marbie

  Early on Friday morning, Listen remembered she was allowed to do the next spell. Her dad was in the Banana Bar, so she had the campervan to herself. There were only a few pages left in the book, she realized, and the spell began by declaring itself to be the third from last.

  Yep, only two more Spells after this one! And then? All will be well! Why, you may ask? Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Curiosity and the cat, eh? No use crying over spilt milk? No use at all! Go ahead and mop it up! By the way, after this Spell, you can do the next Spell the Thursday after next!!

  The Spell Book was getting manic.

  Anyway, here is A Spell to Make a Person Get Stung by a Bee.

  Listen paused. She had been determined not to do any more spells th
at could hurt people, and bee stings stung.

  Still, there were only two more spells, and all would be well. And people were always getting stung by bees—it was no big deal.

  Ingredients

  You

  A Complete Stranger

  Method

  Introduce yourself to the Complete Stranger by shaking the Stranger’s hand, saying “Hi!” and giving your name. Now, say the following things to the Complete Stranger (in the following order):

  Are you, by any chance, the sorcerer?

  Do you, possibly, have the flying carpet?

  Do you happen to have the ingredients for carrot pie handy?

  Consider this, Stranger: I have hardly even caught your name, and yet I feel I know your every thought. What can it mean?

  “Oh, come on,” said Listen, and she threw the book onto the campervan floor.

  Later that day, the final bell was ringing when the counselor put her head in the door of Listen’s classroom and called, “May I borrow Listen Taylor again?”

  Listen followed her across the school playground, but this time they did not go to her office. Instead, they stopped outside the library door. The Redwood School Library was one small room with plate glass windows, through which you could see a cartoon hippopotamus glued to the wall. A stuffed-toy zebra ate leaves from a crepe paper tree, and picture books were opened on display.

  A girl stood just outside the library door. Her hair fell into her eyes, and she was wearing torn jeans and a small gold stud in her chin.

  “Here you are again,” said Ms. Woodford, smiling at the girl as though she did not have a gold stud in her chin.

  “Listen Taylor, I’d like you to meet a new student—this is Annie Webb. She’s just moved to the area and will be joining your school next week! I’ve given Annie a quick tour, but I thought I might let you tell her all about life here at Redwood, not to mention life at Clareville Academy. Okay?”

  “Okay,” agreed Listen politely.

  Ms. Woodford hurried away toward the staff room.

  Annie Webb stepped away from the library door, so now they were standing in the middle of the path, staring at one another.

  “So,” said the new girl, and scratched the skin around her chin-stud. They both turned and watched Ms. Woodford crossing the playground.

  “Mmm,” agreed Listen.

  “Whatever,” said the new girl.

  They both laughed.

  “What was your last school like?” Listen tried.

  “A rathole,” said Annie.

  “Yeah,” said Listen. “Well, this one is too. It’s only temporary, because of the flood. Not that Clareville is any better.”

  The new girl nodded slowly, and swiveled on the heel of her shoe. “I might not be coming to your school anyway,” she said. “I didn’t tell that teacher, but my mum and me are checking out a couple in the area today. So we can make a proper decision. Anyway, what did she say your name was again?”

  Well, thought Listen, I have nothing to lose.

  “Hi,” she said, holding out her hand to shake the new girl’s hand. “I’m Listen Taylor. Are you, by any chance, the sorcerer? Do you, possibly, have the flying carpet? Do you happen to have the ingredients for carrot pie handy? Consider this, Stranger: I have hardly even caught your name, and yet I feel I know your every thought. What can it mean?”

  Annie Webb was staring. Eventually, she whispered, “Did you just ask for the ingredients of carrot pie?”

  Listen bit her lower lip.

  “Wow,” said Annie, shaking her head slowly. “You really think you know my every thought?”

  Listen was not sure how to answer or explain without breaking the spell. She tried to put a mysterious expression on her face.

  “I have to go now.” Annie walked backward away from her. She didn’t seem to need to see where she was going; she continued to watch Listen carefully as she walked. “My mum’s waiting, so I have to go. Maybe I’ll see you next week if I choose this school? Though I’ve got to say, I probably won’t choose it. The uniform sucks.”

  Listen nodded.

  Anaphylactic shock, said Marbie to herself. It was late Friday night, and Fancy had phoned her from the hospital to let her know that Cassie had been stung by a bee.

  “But she knows she’s allergic,” Marbie said. “What was she doing outside in bare feet?”

  Fancy explained that she had actually been wearing sandals, but, according to Cassie, the bee had wanted to sting her.

  “What I don’t understand,” said Marbie, “is why a bee would want to sting someone. Don’t they die as soon as they use their sting?”

  Fancy suggested that the bee did not know.

  Now Marbie sat in the beanbag and thought about bees, wasps, peanut dust, and funnel web spiders hidden in sneakers. She thought about how you could run over the cord of an electric lawnmower, or slip on an ice cube and knock yourself out, or accidentally leave the gas on and fall into a coma. A beach umbrella could stab you between the eyes. You could suffocate in this very beanbag.

  PART 17

  The Thursday after Next

  Two weeks later, almost midnight on a Thursday night, Cath Murphy lay beneath her down quilt and waited.

  “We just need to wait,” Warren had promised again that morning. “It’s seriously coming to a head—Breanna and I don’t love each other anymore. It’s gone. The love is gone.”

  Cath sat up now on the side of her bed and stamped in sudden fury on the floor. Then she calmed herself and climbed back underneath the covers. She lay still, patiently.

  A steamroller started at her toes and clanked against the bolts in her knees. Her thighs and her stomach were flattened now, and her neck and her face quite crushed.

  Almost midnight, the same Thursday night, Fancy Zing sat on the living-room floor and studiously turned the pages of a prize-winning novel.

  Radcliffe wandered into the room, in boxer shorts and sports socks, nodded at her on the floor, and picked up the crocheted blanket from the couch.

  “That’s the ticket!” He lay down on the couch, carefully positioning the blanket over his body, and closed his eyes.

  “Haven’t heard from Cath yet, have you?” he said, after a while.

  “No,” she said, and turned another page. “I’m still waiting.”

  “Well, she promised she’d call. I’m sure she will. Good night then.” He snuggled into the couch.

  Fancy read on for a moment. Then she looked up at Radcliffe: at his socks with their ribbed ankles, and the hole where his big toe poked out. His elbows seemed to stretch out the blanket. His eyes seemed self-consciously closed.

  “I love you, Fancy,” said Radcliffe unexpectedly, in a sleepy drawl, without opening his eyes.

  “Thank you,” she said politely, and she took a breath and added, “Me too.”

  Radcliffe chuckled and turned to face the wall. The blanket slipped slightly to the floor.

  Meanwhile, Cassie lay in bed and reflected on the crankiness. There was so much around that she could hear it.

  First, it had happened at school: Ms. Murphy had talked in a loud smile like an ad for Kmart. “Well now!” she had said. “Let’s say we talk about dinosaurs!”

  “Let’s say we bring in some dinosaurs for show and tell!” said Mark Baxter.

  Ms. Murphy screamed as if Mark had shown her a tarantula. But the scream turned out to be a laugh.

  At home, her father had talked all night about pedestrian crossings. Her mother lined up the mugs on one side of the dishwasher, threw the dishcloth onto the floor, and moved the mugs to the other side.

  Now Cassie could hear the scritchy, angry noise of crankiness. It was a sound that scrabbled at the edges of other sounds. When she turned over in bed, for example, the rustle of her sheets and the elastic bounce of the mattress were exaggerated. Even the sounds she made herself—she made a hmm sound to test it—even these sounds were louder than usual, collecting the crankiness around them. It was like those da
ys when she had asthma and didn’t notice at first—she’d be walking around happily, and then would realize that an extra sound, the sound of her own wheezing, was scrabbling around the edges of her breath.

  Almost midnight, the same Thursday night, Marbie twitched and clicked in her sleep. She was dreaming of a letter she was writing at work. The penultimate paragraph, in this dream, had dislodged itself from the rest of the letter, and its words were clattering like marbles to the floor.

  Marbie woke with a gasp at the sound of the marbles, and peered into the deep spring darkness of the room. She waited for the shadows to take shape.

  In the campervan behind the Banana Bar, Listen lay awake and thought of recess, lunchtime, after school, before school, choose-a-partner, form-a-team, and worst of all, she thought: school camp.

  The school camp would begin tomorrow morning. It would span the weekend and half of Monday. She had tried to persuade her father to send an excuse letter, but he took her education too seriously.

  “I could stay and help in the café,” she had offered, “and catch up on my homework. In the long run, it would be better for both of us.”

  “I’m not letting you miss out on a camp to help in the café,” he had replied calmly. “What kind of a father would I be? Don’t worry, you’ll have a great time. Donna and the others will be there, won’t they?”

  Now Listen’s head was so heavy she was surprised that the pillow could hold it. She thought she might go outside, climb a telephone pole and get electrocuted. Or else climb under the campervan bunk bed where a snake might poison her. Anything was better than a weekend full of bus seats, cabins, free time, nighttime:

  Bus seats—she would walk down the aisle of the school-camp bus past girls with their bags and their legs curled beside them, meaning: This seat is saved for a friend.

  Cabins—girls would crowd around bulletin boards filling in ten names, ten friends for a cabin.