The Blue Girl

by Charles de Lint

  And then I started reading Christy Riddell, because he was supposed to be a friend of both Mully and Coppercorn.

  I liked his stories, but I especially liked his true-account books of encounters that people have had with things that can’t be explained. They didn’t really have much in the way of beginnings or endings. They were just these mysterious anecdotal vignettes that seemed all the more real because of their lack of traditional story structure.

  By the third book of his, he’d bumped Katharine Mully as my favorite writer, and best of all, he was still alive and I could get a new book by him every year or so.

  I guess the high point of my life up until I met Imogene was the day he came and gave a talk at the school. It was held in the library and was supposed to be a writers’ workshop as much as a talk about writing, but most of the kids who signed up were just looking for a way to get out of class and weren’t very cooperative. After the second exercise, Christy gave up and just talked to us instead. For most of the scheduled two hours, the other students sat there and rolled their eyes. The rest of the time they stared bored out the window, or whispered and giggled with each other.

  The only people actually paying attention to him were me; Ms. Giles, the librarian; and Andrea Joseph, another student, who obviously totally hated the subject matter of his books, but tried to ingratiate herself with him anyway because he was a real published author.

  I don’t know where I got the nerve to go up to him with my dog-eared copy of How to Make the Wind Blow, but I did. I guess it helped that he was so friendly and unassuming during his talk. He didn’t seem to be so much this big-shot writer, full of himself and the importance of his work, as this sort of older guy with kind eyes who was obviously passionate about his writing, and generous in how he was willing to share his craft with others.

  I waited until all the other students were gone and there was just me and Ms. Giles left in the library. She was all hovering at his elbow, like being near him would cause something to rub off on her: talent, fame, I don’t know. It was just weird, and I wished she’d go away. As though reading my mind, Christy looked up to see me hesitate in my approach, then he turned to Ms. Giles.

  “Could you give us a couple of moments, please,” he said to her.

  “What? Oh, yes. Of course.”

  She retreated. Reluctantly, but she went.

  “I want to apologize for the other students,” I began, stopping when he shook his head.

  “Don’t ever apologize for anyone else,” he said. “You’re only responsible for what you yourself put out into the world.”

  “But—”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. My ego’s not so fragile that something like this will leave some great debilitating scar. I do these kinds of talks quite often, and half the time, this is pretty much the way it goes.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “To meet students like you, who do seem interested. On the chance that what I’ve got to share will make a difference to one person.”

  That seemed too far beyond the call of duty.

  “So do you plan to be a writer?” he asked as he took my copy of How to Make the Wind Blow from me.

  “I don’t know. I’ve always liked stories, but I feel like I should learn a little bit more about the world before I actually try to write anything.”

  “I’m not sure I agree,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with a youthful perspective. Don’t forget—no else sees the world the way you do, so no one else can tell the stories that you have to tell.”

  “I guess.”

  “But remember what I said earlier about listening to advice.”

  I nodded. “‘Consider it, but question everything,’” I quoted.

  “Exactly,” he said. Then he leaned a little closer to add, “Though the one thing that’s an absolute truth is that writing requires practice, just like any other art or craft. So the sooner you start, the better you’ll be when you do feel you have stories to tell. Write in a journal, if nothing else. Try to do a little bit every day instead of just when you feel like it.”

  I nodded again. At that moment, having an actual conversation with this man I’d idolized for ages, I’d agree to anything he said. So much for questioning everything.

  And then I did the one thing I’d promised myself I would definitely not do if I got the chance to talk to him.

  “Mr. Riddell,” I asked, “do you really believe the stories in your books?”

  I could have sunk into the floor as those words came out of my mouth. But he only smiled.

  “I could give you the pat answer that I normally offer when I’m interviewed,” he said. “It goes something like, ‘It depends on the source. I know for certain that the world’s a strange and mysterious place with more in it than most of us will ever see or experience, so I can’t immediately dismiss elements that are out of the ordinary simply because I haven’t experienced them. But by the same token, I also don’t immediately accept every odd and unusual occurrence when it’s presented to me because the world’s also filled with a lot of weird people with very active imaginations. The trouble is, unless I experience what they have, and for all my predilection toward the whimsical and surreal, the lack of empirical evidence makes a strong argument against belief.”

  “But the true answer is yes. I’ve experienced things that can’t be explained, and more than once. And the other important thing to remember is that just because something isn’t necessarily true for you or me, it doesn’t mean it isn’t true for someone else.”

  I guess I had a dumb look on my face, because he gave me another smile.

  “The thing to remember when you’re writing,” he said, “is, it’s not whether or not what you put on paper is true. It’s whether it wakes a truth in your reader. I don’t care what literary devices you might use, or belief systems you tap into—if you can make a story true for a reader, if you can give them a glimpse into another way of seeing the world, or another way that they can cope with their problems, then that story is a success. Does that make sense?”

  I nodded. “I don’t really believe in fairies and stuff, but when I read your books, I do, but in a funny way. It’s like, it doesn’t matter if I can see them or not. Just the idea of them being out there is ... I don’t know. I want to say comforting, but some of the things you write about make me really uneasy. I guess I just appreciate how when I finish one of your stories I find myself looking at the world in a different way. Everything seems to hold possibilities.”

  “A writer couldn’t ask for more,” he told me. “Or at least this writer couldn’t.”

  And then he inscribed my book. He wrote, For Maxine, who appreciates the stories for all the right reasons. May the words flow from your pen when you decide to set them loose, and may your dreams always flourish.

  “I do some one-on-one mentoring through the Crowsea Public Library,” he said as he handed me back my book. “And also at the Arts Court run by the Newford Childrens Foundation. If you ever decide to get serious about your writing and want to talk about it some more, come see me.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I will.”

  Only I never did. Or at least I haven’t yet. Though maybe I could write about this whole fairies business. Then I could take it to him at the library or the Arts Court and use it as a pretext to pick his brain about them, and dreams like Imogene is having, and dead boys who died because they couldn’t fly the way that fairies do.

  I fall asleep wondering about that: where I’d begin, how I’d put it all together, and if I’d even have the nerve to take it to Christy—-just saying I managed to actually write something that wasn’t completely stupid.

  It’s long past midnight, but I’m still sitting up, not so much scared to sleep as unwilling to give myself over to the dreams that are coming every night now. You might think, “They’re only dreams; big deal.” But it’s that whole control thing again. I don’t like it that something—my mind, some outside influence, I don’t know wha
t—is deciding how my dreams will go.

  It’s not even that I mind seeing Pelly again, though I could do without the creepy gang of fairies and creatures that accompany him. I don’t remember them being like that in my old storybooks. And that weird, off-key toy orchestra can go, too.

  But it doesn’t. Nothing does. They keep marching through my dreams, banging their tin and plastic drums, without so much as a hey, do you mind if we? ... and I don’t get to say yes or no.

  Of course, if I don’t fall asleep, then they can’t come, which is why I’m still up.

  I sit in a straight-backed wooden chair—the lack of comfort important because it won’t let me nod off too easily—and stare out the window at the narrow view of the alley below. There’s nothing moving down there, just like there’s nothing moving in my room. At least not yet.

  I keep coming back to how Pelly’s changed. He’s gone all cryptic on me where he used to be straightforward. But the weird thing is, I get the feeling that there’s something he wants—maybe even needs—to tell me, only he can’t seem to come right out and say it.

  I hate when conversation becomes a game instead of communication. It’s like that in school. It’s like that everywhere you turn. TV, movies, books. I first ran across it in the fantasy books I used to read as a kid on the commune. It was already old for me by the tenth time I ran across some riddling wizard and his vague warnings. Now it’s ho-hum ancient. If you’ve got something to say, just come out and say it. Though in those old stories, that’d kill half the plot, I guess, because instead of the characters having to try to figure out what they’re supposed to do, they could just go and do it.

  Like I could if Pelly’d just come clean.

  I sigh and turn from the window to look around my room. I can’t stay up forever. I have school tomorrow. I suppose I could blow it off, but getting good marks—really earning them—last year gave me a little buzz. It was like I could actually be good at something normal and law-abiding instead of just living fast and shoplifting.

  So eventually I leave the chair by the window where I’ve been sitting and lie down on my bed.

  But relaxed I’m not. I lie there all stiff and on edge, ears straining for the first whisper of that toy orchestra starting up. When it does, I have this dislocated moment of not knowing if I’m awake or asleep, but then I see Pelly sitting on the foot of my bed, and I know which is which.

  Awake, the only anomaly in the world is the ghost of a dead kid who killed himself.

  In a dream, any damn thing can happen.

  I sit up and lean back against the headboard.

  “So how’s it going tonight?” I ask my old imaginary friend.

  He gives his head a mournful shake.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say before he can speak. “Beware the Ides of Who Cares and don’t look sideways into the darkness or whatever. But do you remember when we used to just hang out and talk, and there wasn’t all this weird crap in between us?”

  “I’m not real,” he says.

  “Well, duh. Of course not. I’m dreaming.”

  “You should stop dreaming.”

  “I’d like to, but ... to tell you the truth, I don’t really mind seeing you again. I could lose your little friends and that creepy music, plus it’d be nice to have you talk to me like a friend instead of someone who can only go all mysterious whenever you open your mouth. But it is still good to see you.”

  He gives me a sad look with those eyes that know too much. Then he reaches for my foot and pinches my toe.

  “Wake up,” he says.

  And I do.

  * * *

  I relate the dream to Maxine the next day while we’re having lunch, just the two of us, as usual.

  I had high hopes for this school year, but Barbie and Ken are still on our case. We’re still the homo girls and only have each other because no one else wants to hang with us and get on the bad side of the Doll People, as I’ve taken to calling Valerie and Brent and their crowd. That’s not so bad because we like each other and would hang together anyway, but it’s the last year of school, and I really want Maxine to have a good one. I want her to shine with her newfound beach bunny confidence and win everybody over. But the first day we get back, Valerie has some scathing remark for her, and Maxine just retreats right back into her shell.

  I almost take a swing at Valerie right then and there, but I grit my teeth and hold back, because that one punch would just lead to so many complications that would not only end in Maxine being disappointed in me, but in me being disappointed in me, too. I think I’m finally really unlearning the lessons I learned from Frankie Lee back in Tyson.

  His philosophy was pretty simple: you take what you want and you solve problems with a fist, or better yet, a tire iron. And you always get even.

  I guess I have to admit I’d still like to get even with the Doll People, but not in a violent way. Something subtle, though of course then it’d go right over their heads.

  So anyway, Maxine and I are sitting together out by the baseball diamond where we first met, and I tell her my theory that Pelly’s holding back not because he’s playing games with me but because not being cryptic will only lead to something worse, though what that worse could be, neither of us can guess. Then she tells me her idea of going to talk to this writer who came to the school before I got here, some guy who specializes in collecting anecdotal evidence on fairies and stuff like that and treats the material like it’s for real.

  She’s looking nervous as she’s telling me this, and that makes my heart break. What does she think I’m going to do, call her an idiot? Not likely.

  “Sure, we can talk to him,” I tell her.

  How he can help, I haven’t a clue. But it’s not going to hurt to go see him.

  “Really?” she says.

  “Well, yeah. Just because I don’t believe in that kind of stuff doesn’t mean I think that people who do are dumb or something. I reserve that for Barbie and her Doll People.” Maxine smiles. “God, they are so full of themselves this year.”

  “Well, they’re full of something, all right.” But I’m sick of talking about my dreams and the Doll People and decide to change the subject. “So Jared tells me he got tickets to Mr. Airplane Man.”

  “He asked me this morning if I wanted to go.”

  “And you said yes, of course.”

  Maxine grins. “Of course. Are you coming?”

  “Definitely not. You guys need an actual date without me tagging along.”

  “But ...”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll go see my own boy tonight.”

  She thinks I mean Thomas, and maybe I do when I say it, but Thomas is closing the shop tonight, so he won’t be free until ten. I could hang out with him, which can be fun because it’s dead on a weekday evening, and we could lounge on the old sofa they’ve got by the front window, listen to anything we feel like, and make out a little with that extra buzz of maybe getting caught if someone comes wandering in the door.

  Instead, once it gets dark, I come back to the school.

  * * *

  “So what exactly are your superpowers?” I ask Adrian.

  We’re sitting in the stands by the baseball diamond, dangling our feet. It’s a beautiful night, the kind of clear sky where the city’s light pollution doesn’t seem to make much difference because the stars feel so close and bright.

  He gives me this confused look.

  “You know. What is it that ghosts can do?” I start ticking items off on my fingers. “There’s the invisibility, the walking through walls, the not needing to eat or sleep ...”

  I guess.

  “... the sending of weird dreams to innocent bystanders ...”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shake my head at the guilty look on his face.

  “Don’t ever try to play poker,” I tell him, “because your face’ll telegraph your every hand.”

  “I’m not sending anyone dreams,” he says.

 
; “Yeah, right.”

  “I wouldn’t even know how.”

  “But you know someone who does.”

  “I ... I’ve got to go.”

  And then he does the fadeaway, and there’s just me sitting there in the stands. Unless he’s still sitting beside me, only he’s invisible.

  “If I ever figure out a way to smack around a disembodied spirit,” I say on the off chance he’s still around, “you’ll be toast.”

  I don’t even try to avoid the dreams tonight, but start to get ready for bed right after I finish my homework. I laugh as I put away my schoolbooks and wash up, thinking of what Frankie’d say if he could see me now. Studying. In bed before midnight. But who knows? Maybe he’d be happy for me.

  Sure. And maybe he’s given up his wicked ways and entered the police academy as a recruit.

  This is pointless, I tell myself. Worrying about what Frankie’d think, or what he’s doing now—that belongs to someone else’s life now.

  I get into bed and lay my head on my pillow.

  Besides, I’ve got a whole new set of problems—problems that Frankie’s kind of solution couldn’t begin to solve.

  Pelly seems to show up the moment I close my eyes. I pretend I don’t know he’s there. I keep my breathing even and peer through my lashes, waiting to see what he’ll do. He comes over to the bed, and I really have to work at not tensing up as he reaches a hand to my face. But all he does is brush some hair from my brow.

  He turns away then and makes for the window. When he gets it open, all those weird little twig-and-stick fairy creatures stream out of it onto the fire escape, taking the music with them, though I didn’t see one of them even carrying an instrument, never mind playing one. Pelly’s the last to go.

  I give it a count of ten before I throw back the covers and look out the window. I’m just in time to see them disappear around the corner of the alley.

  I look down at myself, surprised that I’m still just wearing my T-shirt nightie. This being a dream, I was sure that I’d be fully clothed since I’ve decided to follow them. It doesn’t matter. It just takes me a few moments to throw on some jeans, sneakers, and a jacket, then I’m out the window myself, creeping down the fire escape.