by Wendy Delsol
When the story came to an end, I whispered, “Nice choice, Jacob,” and closed the book.
“Get in,” I said, pulling alongside a startled Jack, just feet away from the spot in the school parking lot where he’d once pulled the same line on me.
“What?”
“Get in.”
“I can’t. I’m on my way to Walden.” He braced himself against my car door.
This was not going according to plan. He was supposed to think my switch-up of last fall’s kidnapping cute and clever and covered in awesome sauce.
“Get. In.” I said.
He sighed, jogged around to the passenger side, and lowered himself into the seat. I took off before he could even buckle up, another turning-of-the-tables from last year.
“Where are we going? I need to call in if I’ll be late.” He pulled out his phone and began punching keys.
I grabbed his phone, swerving to the left with the maneuver. He tried to get it back; the tussle resulted in me sitting on it and us nearly having a head-on with a big black SUV.
“Give me my phone.”
“No.” I squirmed in my seat, possibly butt-dialing Bangkok. He crossed his arms and stared straight ahead but didn’t dare go after the phone. He didn’t like my driving under the best of circumstances.
We drove in silence for a long time. At least twice, I almost pulled a U-ie, aborting the mission, but something in my recent mindset — an overall resolve to be more proactive in everything — won out.
When we turned down the snow-banked lane to Elkhorn Lake, he finally spoke to me. “So, it’s a full reenactment?”
“Something like that.”
“Why?”
I pulled into a parking spot overlooking the fateful scene of our skating accident and near drowning. It was a bitter cold day. The wind skittered ripples of snow across the iron-banded surface of the lake. No skaters had braved today’s conditions; we had the place to ourselves.
“Because”— the words I’m afraid edged dangerously close to forming —“I miss you. Can we walk?”
Though the wind bore down from above, making quick work of my warmest jacket as we followed the path down to the lake, another force was lifting everything from the fringe of my scarf to the wisps of my hair to my spirits. I could tell that the place was having a similar effect on Jack. His pace slowed, the trudge of his step was audibly lighter, and when he took my gloved hand, I could feel the warmth of his touch through two layers of wool.
At the lake’s edge, I crumpled into him. Without uttering a word, we kissed urgently and greedily, a silent exchange of apologies and promises.
“Now I get the need for a field trip,” he said, tangling my hair in his roaming fingers.
“Field trip? No way. This was an abduction. Never forget the lengths I’ll go to.”
“As if I could forget anything about you.” With his hands on my shoulders, he spun me half a turn. From behind, he wrapped his arms around me. We then gazed out onto the lake for many moments.
“OK,” I said. “I got what I came for, but now I’m freezing. Race ya!” I was fueled by the prospect of blasting the heater; he, by some macho can’t-fail-gene — another of the Y-chromosome traits. He beat me; no surprise there. But I had the keys and dangled them teasingly. I found his cell phone on the driver’s seat and tossed it to him before sliding in.
He waited until we were on the road, but punched in what appeared to be a speed dial.
“It’s Jack. I know. . . . I’m sorry. . . . I’m not feeling well, but I should have called.”
I barely recognized the groveler before me. He was even tipping his head forward in some sort of subconscious genuflect. As if Stanley wouldn’t understand the need for a little personal time.
On an impulse — a naughty one — I leaned over and said, “Just tell Stanley the truth: that, for once, I won.”
Jack’s face went white. He half-choked into the phone, “It won’t happen again,” after which he snapped the phone shut, turned to me, and glared.
“What?” I said. “Like Stanley doesn’t come running every time my mom snaps her fingers.”
“Except that wasn’t Stanley.”
I gripped the steering wheel, not wanting to hear the rest.
“That was Brigid,” Jack continued, “and, for the record, she’s pissed.”
The rest of the drive home was awkward. Jack kept scratching his right index finger against his thumb as he stared out the passenger window, his mood so foul he dirtied the glass. A part of me was livid that it had been Brigid’s number Jack had on speed dial. Another part felt bad that I’d put him in the position of lying to an authority figure. But the lion’s share felt entirely justified. We had needed to shut out the rest of the world and reaffirm our connection. Proactive was the word I murmured all the way home.
Later that night, still a little let down by how my afternoon with Jack had ended, I crawled into bed with a bowl of popcorn, a big bag of Skittles, and two juice boxes. One advantage of having a bedridden mother was the let-go effect on me and the house in general. There were no less than three Coke bottles on my vanity; a pizza box lay on the floor next to my bed; and the six outfits I’d tried on for school that morning were scattered everywhere. I didn’t think my guest would care. Over the past week, I’d felt Jacob’s presence growing stronger. Sometimes it would be the faintest hint of a child’s voice splashing with the milk over my morning Cocoa Pebbles. Or the way I’d swear it was a chubby finger turning my chin so as not to miss a big truck or a fast car. And as much as I knew I’d somehow summoned him, I didn’t know how to proceed. What I wouldn’t have given for advice. Hulda’s would have been ideal. The very depressing news on that front was “no change in her condition.” Frustrating, but better than a turn for the worse, I supposed.
I stuffed a handful of popcorn into my mouth, powered on the TV, and scrolled through channels until I got to the Cartoon Network. Ofelia had crossed my mind as a confidante, but the way she continued to ingratiate herself with my family still had me uncomfortable. Not only was she Afi’s go-to gal, but it had furthermore been decided that she’d stay with my mom while Afi and I were in Iceland. She’d even offered, so my mom said. The whole thing smelled as fishy to me as the oil-packed tuna my mom craved. Given how she’d wheedled her way into our family’s business, and now even my mom’s trust, I was not about to confide in her. And I ignored every esoteric cock of her head or googly-eyed look she gave me.
With my teeth, I stripped the cellophane from the juice box’s straw and pushed it into the tiny foil-covered hole. Next, I did the same with the other juice and set it on my bedside table. For the briefest of moments, even old Grim had seemed a possibility for guidance. Though the way her disapproving once-overs and rankled jabs undermined my temporary authority at every opportunity, I knew she was out of the question. It was more likely she’d have my Stork wings clipped in some painful and humiliating way for what I was doing.
Just what was I doing? Jeez. I barely knew. And as much as I had a conviction that I was finally putting my gifts to good use, I was on my own. Winging it — ha, ha. With a questioning shrug, I opened the bag of Skittles and spilled a big pile of them next to the juice box on the nightstand. Who cares about plates or napkins? Not us; right, Jacob? And if he could overlook the pink and purple in my room, I could overlook a few table manners.
We watched two shows. I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts I don’t even remember what was on, but occasionally it’d seem like the bed shook ever so slightly. Jacob laughing at something? Jacob squirming to get to the goodies? Once the credits rolled, I turned off the TV. And so concluded the entertainment portion of our evening.
I sat back against my headboard and concentrated harder than I ever had. Harder even than that algebra final, after which I stood and fell to my knees because my darn legs — both of them — had gone to sleep. Listen to me, Jacob, I repeated over and over in my head. I knew, somehow, this wasn’t getting the job done. How
many adults had tried to get his attention with that line? Probably a few, right? I tried again. Peep! Peep! doing my best impersonation of a bossy little engine. My right ear tickled with the lightest of whispers.
Let’s play a game. A game where you go for a train ride, Jacob. Thomas will be the engine, of course. And you’ll be the passenger. Would you like to do that? If you would and if you’re ready, you have to let me know. You have to tell me tonight while I sleep. And, Jacob, you have to tell me the name of the coach you’d like to ride in. I know Thomas usually pulls Annie and Clarabel, but you could pick your own. Do you understand, Jacob? You get to pick the passenger car.
After that, I wasn’t sure if I felt sleepy or was in some kind of weird stupor. My lids were so heavy they felt like slabs of concrete pinning me to the pillow, but my arms and legs felt tingly, like carbonated water, not blood, was fizzing through my veins. I may have burped. And somewhere far off I heard the rumble of a train and then a whistle.
Through the train’s half-open window, the sun splashes over my arms and up onto my face. I turn to take in the scenery: baby-blue sky, cotton-puff clouds, and leafy green trees. We take a bend and pass under an old stone bridge, and then the seaside rolls into view. Turquoise waves lap at a pebbled beach. The setting is happy, the hues are vibrant, and the music bright and cheerful. I look down at my lap, my hands folded neatly, one perfectly peach-colored fist over the other. I lift my right to examine the flawless tone, and I gasp. One thumb and three fingers. Three fat nail-lacking fingers. I turn to the glass of the window finding my reflection easily, but, again, I’m startled. As expected, they’re my features: white-blond hair, pale blue eyes, even my new pink top, but all of it, every last detail a cartoon. And I’ve never felt better, more lively, more invigorated — or more animated. I am, after all, a drawing.
Sunlight dapples over the waves with a sparkle that snaps. I hear the click and the clack of the happy train that, as if sensing my approval, blows its high whistle.
I stand and look about. No one else is in the passenger coach with me. I walk forward, pulling open the door to the forward car. No one in the next coach, either. I push my way through this empty passenger coach, and then another. At the front of the third, I can see into the engine — the bright blue engine. I see Jacob, his cartoon image anyway, busy at the controls — too busy at his engineering duties to notice me.
The train slows, and a station comes into view. Once the train glides to a screeching, hissing stop, my no-cap knees descend with two easy glides to the spotless platform. From this gleaming, vine-covered depot, I watch as the fussy blue engine pulls away with a Peep! Peep! The coaches clatter past. Annie’s name painted in script on the side of the first coach, followed by Clarabel. The third coach is painted a sunny yellow, but I’m alarmed to note it has no name painted on its side. I run with stiff legs to keep pace with the train, but it quickly passes me. Then on the back in a loopy cursive, there it is — Julia. Onto the gated back end of the train steps Jacob. He waves as the train pulls into a tunnel and disappears behind a final puff of steam.
Waking following one of my Stork dreams was always disorienting. Even to call them dreams was somewhat of a misnomer. They were more altered state than REM cycle. This one, though, with its picture-book quality, was a brain-boggler. I was keenly aware that what I was doing was risky, a wildcat maneuver in a flock of jittery birds. I had no idea if there was a precedent for my actions. Was I the first to ever actively recruit a soul and reconnect it with grieving parents? If it had been done, what was the outcome? If it hadn’t, what was the risk? And should my manipulation be discovered, what would happen? So many worries and doubts were banging around my head that I could hear them. The slightest shake, and I clanged like pots and pans. So why, aware of all that was at risk, was I so committed to proceed? Why was I excited? I felt that same post-Stork-dream sense of elation and purpose and even a little bit of that check-me-out self-confidence that put a rocket behind my heels for a full day. I even dressed differently following a Stork dream, usually representative of its theme. Today, I chose primary colors: a red jacket over a yellow-and-red polka-dot cotton blouse, an above-the-knee denim skirt with white knee socks, and jay-blue, ankle-high suede boots. I bounded up the front steps to our small-town high school feeling as bold as the palette I wore. Yeah, I got looks, but they were fleeting. My classmates at Norse Falls High were used to my fashion sense by now.
In the hallway, on our way to fourth period, Jack sniffed out my fidgety mood.
“Is something up with you today?”
I pulled my hand out of his, as if skin contact had somehow been the giveaway. “It’s kind of a big day,” I said.
“Anything you can tell me about?”
Like I wasn’t in enough trouble already. Like I hadn’t seen blabbermouth Dorit scalped of her life’s purpose and pride before us. Like I hadn’t already prompted Jack into a misuse of his powers. Like I wanted to admit even that hadn’t taught me a lesson.
“In Design today we start taking Penny and my winning drawings from concept to pattern to costume.” It was something I was both proud and excited about, but it wasn’t technically what had me firing like a pinball machine.
“Clear the runway,” he said.
I knew he didn’t mean to trivialize something that I’d worked hard for, but it was there in his flat tone: condescension. And as much as it wasn’t the real thing that had me lit up, was just a dumb duck of a decoy, I still took offense. Maybe it wouldn’t solve the global warming problem, but it was going to be a very appealing use of velvets and fur trims.
“Well, we can’t all be a part of Brigid’s super-elite climate commandos, now, can we?” I caught a quick glimpse of Jack’s startled face before I marched off in a huff. In addition to making me one ball of nerves, this particular round of Stork duties had me so hot-tempered, flames were spouting from my nose. I smelled smoke.
Going off on Jack like that put me in a foul mood for the first half of class, even though Ms. Bryant had distributed booklets of our costume designs to everyone. Finally, Penny’s sunny aura lifted my spirits, and I was honored to have our drawings so praised and complimented. The next step in the process was for the class, working in teams to create patterns from our drawings, sized to the individual playing the part. Penny and I naturally chose her character, Gerda. Even though our designs for the Snow Queen, Monique’s character, were the most elaborate and ornate, I was pleased to be working on Gerda’s. For the Snow Queen we’d chosen icy white silks and shimmery blue taffetas, whereas for Gerda, the resilient and plucky young heroine, we’d gone with crimson velvets and gold and plum brocades — all colors that would suit Penny’s copper-colored hair.
After class, I looked all over for Jack, but he’d apparently left early for the day, though I only heard this via editor in chief Pedro. Jack’s phone had gone straight to voicemail when I tried to get hold of him.
I had a dance practice after school. After that, I stopped home to check on my mom. Stanley had driven her to a morning doctor’s appointment, but then had a training session all afternoon. I assumed that was where Jack disappeared to, but I still hadn’t gotten hold of him. I did know that those who had been chosen for the Greenland trip were expected to be familiar with basic field procedures, to have experience with the monitoring equipment, to know basic first aid, and to have a few cold-weather survival skills. It all had me a little curious as to how and why a high-school senior had ended up as part of this group. My mom reiterated that such an honor spoke very highly of Jack and that it had been Brigid’s, not Stanley’s, decision. She obviously thought this would make me happy or proud. Instead it made me even more suspicious. Not that I didn’t think Jack more brilliant than the sun, but I was supposed to, right? I couldn’t help wondering just what it was about Jack that had Brigid singling him out. I didn’t like it, and I didn’t like Brigid.
I made us a quick dinner of spaghetti with jarred sauce. It was my go-to meal. We had it about th
ree times a week, but my mom was too appreciative of all my help to complain. In truth, even I was tired of it, but not as tired as I was of being the kitchen wench. I rinsed and stacked the dishes in the sink and then told my mom I was going to go check on Afi, though I really didn’t need to invent an excuse. My asleep-by-nine mom was way past trying to keep tabs on me.
At the store, I found Ofelia alone.
“Your afi went home hours ago,” she said. “I was just about to close up.”
“You’d just have to turn around and come back again,” I said, fake-clawing at my head.
“Oh,” she said. “Are we meeting tonight?”
“Yep,” I said, scratching for real this time. “I’m sending the signal right now.”
It was late, way late. I was giving my sister Storks a mere half hour to report to duty. Grim would go barbarian with rage. As much as I knew I was way too far down this road to turn back, I’d procrastinated out of fear and nerves. What the heck was I doing?
“How odd,” Ofelia said, fixing me with one of her weird kindred-spirit stares. “Because I didn’t get . . . I mean there wasn’t any . . . Oh, listen to me rambling.” She checked her watch.
She made it seem like she usually had some kind of advance notice or forecast of these things. But how could she? It was my turn to stare at her. She soon invented an excuse to pop down and let her sister at the bookstore know to head home without her. Worked for me. I was grateful to have the last twenty-five minutes pre-meeting to myself, even though I was too nervous to do much more than google heart-attack symptoms on my iPhone.
At nine straight-up, the Storks began filing in. Last to arrive was the very put-out, red-faced Grim. Man, she liked to turn her entrance into some sort of death march. What had I taken her away from, anyway? It sure wasn’t charm school, and it sure wasn’t beauty sleep.
