by Andy Young
studies Walter showed the newest draft of his poster. George Washington, still with a bikini, a sword and a rifle, was now leading a whole army of zombie George Washingtons, all in bikini’s, all riding skateboards.
“I hate him,” whispered Heidi.
“We can make another one,” Natalie whispered back, but neither she or Heidi could draw very well. Walter could certainly draw well, but the picture just wouldn’t do.
After school she and Heidi decided to hang out. They went to the library first, found some good images on the web, printed them.
“We can just make a collage or something,” said Natalie.
Then they went to Walgreen’s to get stuff: poster board for the project, and for themselves new combs, some hair scrunchies, Dr. Peppers and tattoos. They always got tattoos, by tradition, from the little machine by the door. Heidi’s was a sheet of Smurfs dressed like army soldiers. Natalie’s was nothing but gold stars.
“That’s dumb,” said Heidi. “Here, I have another quarter.”
But the second sheet was just gold stars, even though looking through the glass of the machine they couldn’t see any sheets like that.
“Bad luck,” said Heidi. “You have to wear them. Tradition.”
“Yeah,” said Natalie, looking at the pair of star-studded tattoo sheets in her hand. “Tradition.”
Outside Walgreen’s the sky was clear, but a fierce winter wind was blowing, and the air seemed to bite into their skin.
“I am so done with this,” said Heidi. “When will spring get here?”
“It’s February,” said Natalie, but now she knew. It wasn’t the dolls, or the math test, or the golden tattoos, but all of them together. This is real, she thought. Like, really real. I can’t just pretend these things aren’t happening. I’m really bringing spring to all those worlds. Maybe one of them is this one.
I have to take all of this more seriously now.
That evening she hid the dolls under her bed; as she put the last of them under, she realized she’d missed seeing Ms. Pink. She pulled all the dolls out again and checked: there were only nine of them. Ms. Pink was gone. Well, good, thought Natalie. Maybe she’ll stop bugging me about the doors.
I just hope she’s the bad guy, like Shrug keeps saying.
She arrived as always, and there was Ms. Pink, waiting for her on the path, along with the musicians from the previous night. They were holding some big pile of rope or something in their hands.
“Hey guys,” said Natalie.
“Now,” said Ms. Pink.
The elves hefted the rope between them; Natalie realized what it was. A net.
“Hey!” she shouted, but they tossed it high over her. She swiped at it, then pulled and kicked at the heavy cords, too late realizing she was only making it worse.
“What are you doing?”
“My job,” said Ms. Pink. “Now that you have decided to be serious something had to be done. You can’t open any more doors.”
“But I’m supposed to bring the spring.”
“That’s the story Shrug tells. I thought you had an A in science, little girl.”
“I do. I’m not little.”
“Then you know that spring just comes, every year. Nobody needs a child to bring it.”
“I do know that,” said Natalie. “But I also know that math tests don’t suddenly turn into riddles, and onions don’t grow in beach sand, and new dolls aren’t supposed to just appear on my desk. This isn’t science class. It’s magic. Or something.”
“Magic,” said Ms. Pink. “That’s daytime thinking. Bring her along.”
The musicians walked in a circle, winding the net around her, until she was completely bound up, coils and coils of rope surrounding her. One of them tugged, and she stumbled and fell over, then was lifted up, carried between the three elves, who seemed plenty strong enough.
“Where are we going?” Natalie couldn’t see anything through the layers of net.
“I have to put you somewhere,” said Ms. Pink.
“Where?”
“Somewhere you won’t cause any more trouble.”
“Just send me home.”
“So you can just go to sleep again and come back? I don’t think so.”
“But I will just wake up anyway, and I’ll be gone.”
“That’s daytime thinking, little girl. You won’t be going back home.”
Natalie wondered: then what happens to the me that is asleep at home? Do I just stay asleep? Do I wake up like some kind of zombie that has no brain inside?
Do I die?
The elves stopped, set Natalie down.
“Are we there? Hello?”
“Ms. Pink,” said another voice, vaguely familiar. “What have you got there?”
“Get out of my way,” said Ms. Pink. Natalie tried to see what was going on, but the rope was too thick; all she could see through gaps in the cords were glimpses of snow.
“Boys,” said the voice. “I thought you were musicians.”
“We were,” said one of the elves.
“They’re with me now,” said Ms. Pink.
“Hello!” called Natalie. “Help?”
“Hmmm,” said the voice. “I think I know who that is.”
“Don’t interfere,” said Ms. Pink. “We’re just doing what we have to do.”
“We?” said the voice. “Boys, are you really part of this? That’s Nightfall in there.”
“Um-” said one of the elves.
“Pick up the net,” said Ms. Pink. “Let’s get going.”
“Well,” said one of the elves. “She is Nightfall, after all.”
“You work for me,” insisted Ms. Pink.
“Nightfall, dear?” said the voice. “Time to put your two cents in.”
“Ah-” said Natalie. “Well, don’t take me anywhere? Let me go?”
“She says we should let her go,” said an elf.
“I’m in charge!” cried Ms. Pink.
“We should go,” said another elf.
“You should,” said Natalie.
“Shut up!” shouted Ms. Pink. “I order you to pick up that net!”
“Um-” said Natalie, “I guess I order you to go ahead and go.”
“Stop!” yelled Ms. Pink, but Natalie could hear smallish footsteps crunching away. “Get back here!” Ms. Pink’s voice sounded further away.
“I order you to return!” she shrieked a little later, her voice quite distant, perhaps chasing after the elves. “You must!” Natalie listened to Ms. Pink’s voice get fainter and fainter, until at last she couldn’t hear anything at all.
“Hello?” she said.
“I’m here, dear,” said the voice. “No arms, though. You’ll have to just wiggle around.”
Natalie wiggled, twisted, rolled over, rolled back and forth. The net, no longer held by anyone, loosened. Coils fell away here and there; eventually she could see Ms. Yellow standing in the snow, watching her, smiling.
“It’s you.”
“You’re doing very well,” said Ms. Yellow. “Don’t rush. Notice where it is loose, and make those spots looser. If those spots get tight, find another spot.”
It took forever, but eventually Natalie found her way out of the tangled net.
“Am I too late?”
“Too late?”
“I mean, maybe it’s already morning at home, and I should have woke up.”
“It doesn’t work quite that way, dear. Not here. You have plenty of time to get to the door.”
Natalie nodded. “Should I?”
“Should you what?”
“Open the doors.”
“It’s what you do.”
“Yeah, but should I just do it? Ms. Pink really doesn’t want me to.”
“That’s what she does.”
“But I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”
“Right and wrong don’t come into it, dear.”
Natalie sighed. “Daytime
thinking.”
“Exactly.”
“I see,” said Natalie. “Maybe.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“But I have no idea where I am.”
“Just follow me.”
They were surprisingly close to the wall; Natalie had thought that Ms. Pink would have taken her as far away from it as possible. She’d worried that they would meet Ms. Pink along the way, and maybe the elves, too, but they didn’t see anyone: no other creepy girls, and no Shrug. Natalie climbed the steps, up three flights to the third balcony, to a faded yellow door guarded by yet another creepy girl.
“You must be Ms... Beige?”
“If you say so,” said Ms. Beige. “What can you find where a mountain starts and where a stream ends?”
“Right. Say that again?”
“What can you find where a mountain starts and where a stream ends?”
“Ok. Um, let’s see. Mountains start in valleys. A valley?”
“Nope.”
“How about a beach?”
“Nope. One more guess.”
“What? You didn’t say I had three guesses.”
“You don’t. You have one.”
“Great,” said Natalie, frowning. “What if I miss?”
“Don’t miss, dear,” said Ms. Yellow.
“But what if I do? Does spring never come? Do I just try again tomorrow?”
“Don’t try to find out. This is your job.”
“Fine,” said Natalie. She thought: where a mountain starts and a stream ends. Foothills, headwaters, hillsides. Creek, brook. Peak, crest. Sea, lake, shore. But where do mountains start, at the top or the bottom? And a stream could end in thousands of places. Think!
But it was a riddle, right? So, the answer might not be about actual mountains and streams, but words or something. Mountain has eight letters, stream has six. Seven? But that’s not where mountain starts, unless mountain is the second word. Can I mix them up?
Then she had it.
“The letter ‘m’,” she said. There was a clunk, and Ms. Yellow smiled. Natalie pulled
