Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  I watched as Birta walked in with a gleaming leather book tucked under her arm. I also saw that we had new bowls of medicinal herbs and brand-new candles running the length of our table. I waited until everyone was seated before I began. “Fru Birta, I notice you have a new book.”

  “It arrived just the other day. Special delivery.”

  “And our herbs and candles, so nice to see them replenished, too.”

  “I took the liberty of ordering those, as it appeared no one else would,” Grim said. There could be no mistaking who the “no one else” was.

  “Thank you, Fru Grimilla,” I said. “As always, you go above and beyond.” I probably shouldn’t have thought and behind my back. Ofelia giggled and then tried to cover it up with a hacking cough into her fist, but Grim wasn’t fooled. She clubbed us both with a bullying look. Great. Like I needed to piss Grim off right before I launched into my riskiest move ever.

  “I have, myself, called this meeting,” I said, “with a soul to place.” I took a deep breath. “A boy: willful, and playful, and a lover of travel. There are three potential vessels. The first is a highly efficient individual who works well with people.” Carrying them, their little cartoon figures anyway, from station to station. Answers to the name of Annie. “The second is a very sweet-natured woman who works as a . . . coach.” They’ll think basketball, soccer, or some other sport, right? Not Clarabel, Annie’s sidekick and Thomas’s passenger train. “And, finally, a woman who has recently suffered the loss of her only child. Her strength, and courage, and capacity to still love are proof of her character. My recommendation is, wholeheartedly, the third. Your show of votes, please,” I said quickly, before Grim could interject.

  Everyone, Grim and Ofelia included, supported my recommendation with a wag of three fingers, though Ofelia stared at me with full-moon eyes. Even as I was thinking all the little asides about Annie and Clarabel, I knew it was dicey, but how do you stop your thoughts? It was advanced mind control, way beyond my rookie skills.

  “In conclusion, then, Fru Grimilla, is there any change to Fru Hulda’s condition?”

  “None.”

  “And anything any of us can do?”

  “No.”

  “Then, I wish everyone a pleasant evening.” I bowed my head in a very Hulda-like manner and said, “Peace be.”

  Borrowing Hulda’s traditional closing remark was an olive branch for Grim’s benefit. Seeing as she hadn’t been a dissenting vote had me feeling generous. So much for my token. Grim passed behind my chair and said to Fru Svana in a loud voice, “A mere half-hour notice. I guess some of our members think we have nothing else to do.” I heard my peace offering snap under Grim’s ugly black clodhoppers.

  And the look Ofelia gave me on her way out. Good God, it was ghoulish. I hadn’t fooled everyone.

  “This cannot happen tomorrow!” Mr. Higginbottom yelled like the diva-possessed creature he had become.

  A stageful of blame-filled eyes turned toward me, the primary offender. Technically they turned down on me to where I lay in a crumpled heap, having just fallen during my dress-rehearsal solo. Crap. Twenty-four hours to go until opening night and my legs had deserted me, leaving me with two clumsy stand-ins who didn’t know the dance, or who just possibly — like me — had had enough. Neither I nor my impostor legs were in any hurry to get up.

  “From the top,” Mr. Higginbottom called, smacking his clipboard against his thigh.

  I scrambled to a stand.

  For the past three weeks, rehearsals had taken over my life like an invading army. Mr. Higginbottom was a perfectionist. A good thing, in my humble opinion, for exact sciences like calculus and microbiology. Bad for anything dependent upon high-school kids learning their lines, hitting their marks, and nailing their dance solos all day, every day.

  And if tomorrow’s show wasn’t enough to have my nerves skittering like live wires, there was plenty else to fret about. Ofelia had been avoiding me ever since my placement of Jacob. It wasn’t like I missed her or her nosing into my thoughts, but I couldn’t help but question the reasoning behind that old saying, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” But how did you even figure out which category they fell into if they were avoiding you?

  Also weighing on me was the fact that I hadn’t heard anything about a pregnancy announcement from Julia. Not that I was in her friends-and-family network, nor that she would be announcing anything this early, but, still, I wanted to know if my enterprise was operational.

  Luckily, I didn’t have all that much time to dwell on it; I was simply too busy with school, planning for the only-days-away Iceland trip, taking care of my still-bedridden mother, and trying to keep track of an even-busier-than-me boyfriend.

  Somehow, I got through one fall-free version of my dance, a small miracle given the ridiculous contraption of wired wings, gauzy layers, heavy glittery doodads, and eye-lashing ribbons that Penny and I had designed. Note to self: Next time, junk the jewels and ban the spangles. Finally, Mr. Higginbottom felt he could move on to Penny’s pivotal encounter with the evil Snow Queen.

  I sat in one of the seats of the auditorium unlacing my slippers when I was startled from behind.

  “What happened to you up there?”

  Only Brigid’s “What” sounded like Vot; still, I turned in surprise.

  “Nerves, I guess,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t have expected it from you,” she said. “I thought you were made of tougher stuff: more mettle, more grit.”

  My head bobbed forward in shock. Who said such things to someone so close to opening night?

  Brigid’s mouth opened in a broad smile. “It is stage tradition not to boost or plump the ego before a big show. We never say ‘good luck’; we never compliment. It is kiss of death onstage. You know this surely from the expression, ‘Break a leg.’”

  I honestly couldn’t stop gaping at the woman. “Break a leg” was in no way funny to someone who had just taken a face-plant in front of the entire cast and crew. And “kiss of death”? I didn’t care frick or frack about stage traditions, but death omens — now, those I took seriously.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said, smiling, as much as I could, anyway, while inwardly hissing. “I’ll be full of grit tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Brigid said. “And how do they say it here? Knock ’em dead.”

  From the director’s table, Mr. Higginbottom called Brigid over. I watched her walk away, shivering at another mention of the snuff of life, but at least this time I wasn’t on the receiving end. Because if it came to it, I had mettle. Heavy mettle.

  From behind the curtain, Penny and I peered into the crowd. The hum of the orchestra buzzed like a swarm of insects with the tinkle of light conversation layering the air. Front and center were the families of Monique, Penny, and Matthew. My small squad of fans — Jack, Afi, my dad, Brigid, and Stanley — had also scored front-row seats, but slightly stage left. The absence of my mom made me sad. At least dutiful Stanley had his video camera at the ready for her own private viewing. The doctor had nixed her plans to attend; moreover, he had further restricted her activity and had increased her checkups to twice weekly. Not to be left out entirely, my mom had invited a small group of us back to the house after the show for her private showing, pizza, and a send-off toast to tomorrow’s travelers. Jack, Stanley, and Brigid flew out the next morning.

  “I hear it’s a sold-out show,” Penny said.

  “May as well make it worth our while,” I said, trying to sound confident.

  “Good luck tonight, girls,” Ms. Bryant said, placing a hand on both of our shoulders.

  Uh-oh, I thought ever so briefly. But how on earth could anyone as sweet as Ms. Bryant be the kiss of death?

  The conductor then raised his stick, and the overture began. Penny and I squeezed hands and hurried off to take our spots onstage.

  The curtain opened onto the “Happy Village” number. It was the first of five chorus routines, not counting my solo, where I
was a prominent dancer, albeit a reluctant singer. It was a good scene for everyone to work the jitters out as we sang and danced together. I played a shopkeeper who swept my storefront while waltzing with my broom and then offered sugary treats to the angel-faced Gerda and rough-and-tumble Kay. It felt great to get this first performance under my belt and was a good omen — I hoped — for my looming solo. And once I got into this first number, I was able to trust my legs to muscle my mind out of the proceedings. I snuck only one quick glance at the front row, not wanting to jinx myself in any way. Despite the darkness of the house and with just that fleeting glance, I spied Jack grinning like a chimp. Seeing him so fixated — on me — my hopes soared, but I also noticed he was sitting next to Brigid.

  The next scene was a first-of-the-season snowfall into which all the village children ventured out with happy faces and trailing their pretty sleds. I was a village child; my sled was cherry-red; and my costume — thanks to me and Penny — was an adorable fur-trimmed velvet. I loved it. It alone made me prance, though the music helped. As did just watching Penny bloom before my eyes. She was a natural and nailed her scenes with an effortless presence and a pure, sweet voice. She had undeniable star quality, something I’d personally seen, but now the whole school was witnessing it.

  And Matthew. Another with hidden talents. In the closing scene to Act One, Gerda and Kay arrive hand in hand with their his-and-hers sleds. We — the village children — frolic and delight in the falling snow to a song called “Sledder’s Hill.” With the conclusion of the song, Monique, the abominable Snow Queen, makes her entrance in a stately, horse-drawn sleigh. Monique may have had to wait through most of Act One to make her entrance, but even I had to admit that she made one impressive ice witch. She belted out her introductory number, “Who Dares Follow My Sledge?” with such moxie that I was surprised we all, like lemmings, didn’t trail after her. Only Matthew, as was scripted, did; the act closed with him hitching his little metal-runnered sled behind her grand and glistening horse-powered vehicle and being led away with a confused Gerda calling after him.

  During intermission, we all crackled with the excitement of having a flaw-free Act One. The girls’ dressing room was a hive of activity, with changes of costumes sailing over heads and touch-up clouds of powdery makeup dusting the air. Ms. Bryant had the burden of keeping us calm and getting us back onstage for Act Two. It was a testament to her likability that she protected both the costumes and her popularity, and had us waiting in the wings for our cue.

  Act Two began with the enchantress Snow Queen enticing young Kay from his small sled into her larger, warmer, cushier sleigh. The moment she touched him, he went cold and fell into a stupor while she raced north across a frozen landscape. Her song, “To the Land of Frost,” told of her destination: a barren snow castle in need of an heir. I didn’t like the song, and not just because, when it came right down to it, I wasn’t all that crazy about Monique. I had developed a sensitivity to the word frost. Naturally, I associated it with Jack. Somehow even this fictional, children’s-book usage made me shiver. Then again, my current costume was the infamous ice fairy getup. What it lacked in skin coverage it made up for in cumbersome beads and baubles. And the flap-happy wired wings were like a portable fan. My lips were blue before the cerulean gloss was ever applied.

  Gerda’s journey to find Kay began with the next scene. Her venture took her north, first following the creatures of the forest, and then encountering my fey attendants, who brought her to me: the ice fairy. Maybe I felt “in the moment,” having reflected upon my aversion to Monique singing about frost. Maybe I was so cold in the gauzy sleeveless contraption that I needed to generate body heat. Or maybe I let go and allowed the dance to lead me, instead of vice versa. Whatever the catalyst, it was my best dance ever. I felt lithe and graceful and ethereal. Castmates descended upon me the moment I came offstage, hugging and high-fiving me, Penny the most zealous of them all. And trust me, the girl is way stronger than she looks. All in all, it went better than I had dared to imagine, especially considering my only goal had been not to fall on my face.

  The rest of the show was spectacular. Penny, Matthew, and even Monique were crazy-good. The frenzy backstage, after the curtain call, was wild and untamed. We exhaled, in unison, a sigh of relief. Friday’s performance down, and only the Saturday-matinee and Saturday-night shows to go. I practically floated toward the dressing room.

  “Congratulations,” Jack said, meeting me in the small passageway outside the changing room. “These are for you.” He held out two dozen ribbon-tied yellow roses.

  “Jack. These are too much.”

  “Those are actually from your dad. Mine are underneath.”

  Upon closer examination, I found three cellophane-wrapped red carnations under the giant bundle of roses.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “It was a great show,” he said.

  “It was. Penny did great.”

  “So did you. And I bet you were relieved to get it over with, you know, without falling like in rehearsals.”

  “Where did you hear that I fell?”

  “From Brigid. She said you were overthinking your performance, that you had to trust yourself.”

  It wasn’t myself that I didn’t trust.

  “What else did Diva Fonnkona have to say?” There was an edge to my voice, one I would have liked to push Brigid over.

  “Don’t get defensive. She liked it, said it was good for a high-school production.”

  “Good?”

  “Last I checked,” Jack said, “good was a compliment. Oh, yeah, and she liked the costumes.”

  I wondered if Jack realized that none of his comments were his. Was it the former editor in him citing sources? Or was it an influence of a more insidious nature?

  “Speaking of costumes,” I said, “Ms. Bryant wants them all off our backs and checked into Wardrobe immediately.”

  “Hurry up,” he said. “It’s our last night together.”

  “What?”

  “I fly out in the morning. You know that.”

  Of course I knew that, but I didn’t like the way he had phrased it. Not one bit.

  The send-off party for the following day’s travelers began innocently enough. As parties sometimes do, it divided by age. The adults were in the living room watching the video of the performance, while my friends and I hung out in the kitchen eating pizza.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow, Jack?” Penny asked.

  “I’m ready.”

  “What time’s your flight?” she asked.

  “One p.m.”

  “How long is it?” Tina asked.

  “With two stops, almost thirteen hours. And that’s just to Iceland.” Jack ran his fingers though his hair. “From there, we transfer airports and still have two more flights to go.”

  “Sounds grueling,” Tina said.

  “Especially for a first-time flier,” I said.

  Jack dropped his head and tossed his crust onto his plate.

  “It’s your first time flying?” Logan said. Logan was a cast member and one of Matthew’s band buddies. To me, he seemed loud and coarse, but everyone, Penny included, thought he was hilarious. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, dude.”

  Hilary, a chorus member and Penny’s understudy, giggled.

  “I appreciate it,” Jack said to Logan, but it was me he locked eyes with.

  Jeez. All I’d said was that it was his first time. It wasn’t like I’d blabbed, or worse, teased, about his actual fear of flying. Weeks back, when he’d admitted it, I’d known it was a big deal. The guy didn’t admit to many weaknesses. From the look he raked over me, I knew he felt betrayed. Like I’d turned state’s evidence against him, or read excerpts from his diary out loud. I forgot, sometimes, how buttoned-up Jack was, but in this case he was overreacting. I hadn’t sold him out.

  “There’s this thing called the Internet,” Logan said. “You ever hear of it? And phones: they’re mobile now. You can take them with y
ou, even on that big air-o-plane you’ll be on.” Logan was on a roll. Hilary tittered into her cupped hand.

  “Did you guys hear about the dogsleds?” I asked in a subject-changing ploy.

  Not everyone had, and Jack was way more comfortable with this topic. He described the plans for their Iditarod-like portion of the trip. It was evidence of our respective distractions that even I hadn’t known that though he would basically be a passenger on the sled of an experienced musher, part of his recent training included basic dog-handling skills. I had not known that hike was the more commonly used command for go, not mush. Right was gee and left was haw. And leave it was the command for the dog to stop sniffing at an item, animal, or other temptation.

  Speaking of temptations, I decided it was dessert time. My mom had gone to the trouble of ordering a chocolate-on-chocolate sheet cake with a big fat loopy Bon voyage scrolled across the top; a red, white, and blue map of the United States in the bottom left corner; a green map of Greenland in the top right; and a little plastic plane flying between them on a broken-line trajectory. I set the cake on the island and was fishing forks and spoons out of a drawer. Penny, Tina, Matthew, and the others were bunched up at one end of the island downloading pictures from Tina’s camera phone onto Matthew’s Facebook page.

  “I smell coffee,” Brigid said, stepping into the room.

  She had removed the long jacket she’d worn earlier, revealing a low-cut, tight-fitting sweater. A new silver snowflake necklace wasn’t the only thing it showed off.

  “I just wanted to congratulate you all on a wonderful performance.”

  We’d been upgraded from “good” to “wonderful.” Whoop-de-do. More to the point, I wondered who was putting on the show.

  A chorus of “thanks” echoed through the small kitchen. Matthew and Logan, I noticed, went from baritones to altos.

  “The coffee’s not quite ready yet,” I said, “but I’ll bring it into the family room with the cake.”