The Kidnapped Smile

by Laurie Woodward

  Bartholomew closed the door, and Alex heaved a sigh of relief before settling onto the opposite end of the pale leather couch from Gwen.

  “Dude, your family is a real trip,” she said shaking her head so hard her pigtails hit her cheeks.

  “I do apologize for any inconvenience. I was not aware—”

  “It's all right B-three,” Alex said before quickly adding, “Anyhow, how're ya doing?”

  “I am well, thank you.” Bartholomew opened his mouth as if to say something more but clamped it shut again. Alex wondered if he was about to apologize.

  “And math?” Alex asked.

  Bartholomew shrugged and adjusted his gray tie. It looked awfully tight and uncomfortable.

  Raising his eyebrows Alex exchanged a glance with Gwen before trying a new tack. “Are we still buds?”

  “Of course,” Bartholomew replied too quickly.

  “Then I think you know why we're here.”

  “Yeah, dude. We heard what you're up to, and it's not cool,” Gwen added.

  “I do not know what you're talking about,” Bartholomew said.

  “Bull.” Alex crossed his arms. “Zach heard you plotting with those felons. It's all over school.”

  “Your plan to steal is totally in the gossip mill,” Gwen said. “Everyone knows.”

  “Gossip is often untrue.”

  “Come on, Bartholomew. We know,” Alex tried again, louder this time. “You will get caught. Then what?”

  “I was just pretending, trying to keep Ty from bullying me,” Bartholomew argued. “You are aware of his behavior. If you don't act like you are going along with him, he makes your life miserable.” Bartholomew walked to one of the plastic desks and squirted a dollop of hand sanitizer from the bottle on top into the palm of his hand. Keeping his back turned, he rubbed it in.

  Alex narrowed his eyes, wondering if B-three might really be telling the truth. That'd be a relief. Then they could return to their normal routine of Alex painting every morning while Bartholomew sculpted in the secret underground studio. The two of them would protect people's dreams and strengthen Artania.

  Alex had only to glance at his fellow Deliverer to know the truth. Bartholomew's sanitizer- rubbed hands told all. “I don't believe you,” Alex said.

  “But…it's true.”

  “And my dad is a skinny wimp,” Gwen said with a sneer. “Not.”

  Marching across the room, Alex yanked his friend around and pointed at his nervous hands.

  “No…I…uh…” A stuttering Bartholomew began.

  “Liar,” Alex accused.

  “No, you're the liar. You and Gwen are making this up,” he stammered still rubbing hand sanitizer in.

  “Unbelievable. You do this after everything we've been through?”

  Gwen leapt between them and held up her hands as if ready to break up a fight.

  Shaking his head, Alex took a step back and stared into Bartholomew's blinking eyes. Long moments passed waiting for the Richie to admit the truth. Bartholomew took several quivering breaths but said nothing.

  Alex sighed. “Don't you care about them at least?” he asked trying to refer to the Artanians without rousing Gwen's suspicions.

  Bartholomew kept his obstinate mouth shut.

  “Let's go. This is a waste of time,” Gwen said.

  Alex gave Bartholomew one more imploring look before marching toward the door. Yanking on the handle, he stopped mid-swing to let Gwen go ahead. “Fine!” he called over his shoulder. “But from now on, you're on your own.”

  Without bothering to turn around, he slammed the door.

  Chapter 9

  Bartholomew stared at the room number and gulped. Alex was right. This is crazy.

  “The coast is clear. Come on,” Ty whispered.

  “I don't think this is a good idea after all.” Bartholomew shook his head and rubbed some hand sanitizer in.

  “Move. Now.”

  “Why not just photograph the answers while we're here?”

  “Because, butt-breath, we don't have time. We need to get in, grab, and get out.”

  “I can't.”

  “Oh, yes you can. No wussing out now.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Either come right now, or I knock you flat on your butt and tell the cops you were trying to break into a classroom.”

  Bartholomew took one look at the weasely face and knew he meant it. What a miserable week. Mother was on one of her cleaning rampages, Alex still wasn't speaking to him, and Gwen gave him dirty looks every time he walked by.

  Plus, he hadn't been able to sculpt even once.

  Swallowing hard, Bartholomew checked the hallway one last time, then darted behind Ty into the classroom. Crouching, he crept to the bookshelf.

  Bartholomew ran one finger over the titles. Saving Time for Teachers. Math Fun. California Standards. “I don't see it.”

  “It better be here,” Ty said. “Or—”

  A knock at the door made them both freeze. Ty yanked Bartholomew under the teacher's desk and clamped a hand over his mouth.

  “Yoo hoo! Doris? Are you in there?” Mrs. Fuller, the English teacher, called as she stuck her head through the doorway.

  Neither boy spoke. Not as if Bartholomew had any choice. The bigger boy's hand was pressed so hard over Bartholomew's mouth that he could hardly breathe, much less speak.

  “Want to get Chinese, Doris?” To Bartholomew the teacher's voice sounded like a megaphone announcing the cops surrounded the place and to come out with their hands up.

  Ty squeezed tighter. Struggling for breath, Bartholomew pulled on his arm.

  Seconds ticked by. Ty ventured a peek around the desk and released Bartholomew who collapsed onto his knees. Gasping, he rubbed his cheeks where Ty's fingers left deep imprints.

  Bartholomew wheezed. “That was too close. Can we go?”

  “Hell, no.” Ty lifted a fist. “We came for a book. We're getting it.”

  “Ok-k-kay,” Bartholomew squeaked and searched in a frenzy.

  It wasn't on the shelf.

  “Find it, Wuss. Now.”

  When did Ms. Buttsfurt have the book? Tapping his forehead, Bartholomew tried to recall seeing it. The clock on the wall ticked. Ty glared. Bartholomew's mind was a blank. Ty's fingers aimed at his throat, ready to clinch down in a chokehold.

  Suddenly Bartholomew remembered the teacher reading off answers at the podium. Jerking away from the bully's outstretched hand, Bartholomew dashed to the front. He grabbed the book. “Got it.” He peered out the window to make sure the coast was clear before heading for the door, but as soon as he put a hand on knob, clicking footsteps approached.

  “Hell,” Ty said.

  Eyes wide in fear, Bartholomew dropped to his belly. As if lying flat would hide him. Still there was small comfort in imagining his white suit blending in with the floor tiles.

  Footsteps grew louder. Bartholomew was sure it wasn't just a teacher outside. It was the SWAT team in full riot gear. “What now?” he whispered.

  Instead of replying, Ty shrugged nonchalantly. Bartholomew guessed for someone like Ty who'd been suspended more times than all the other kids in junior high combined, getting caught in a teacher's classroom was no big deal. It occurred to Bartholomew that if breaking and entering was no big deal to the purple-mopped troublemaker, he might be capable of all kinds of scary things. The possibilities made him shudder.

  Click-clip. CLICK-CLIP.

  Bartholomew buried his face in his hands and waited for the inevitable. Suspension. No, expulsion. Then prison.

  Yep, he was going to prison. Or what did they call it? Juvenile Hall? Uh huh, that was it. No more sculpting. No more time with Alex. His fate was a three-by-five cell with a roommate named Punchy who would beat him up regularly. Probably break his fingers. too.

  “Just so you know, this was all your idea,” Ty warned. “I just followed you here. I didn't even know you were planning to steal the book. Got it?”

  With a
miserable nod, Bartholomew stood. Hands trembling, he fumbled with the handle until Ty finally shoved him out of the way and yanked the door open. Bartholomew stepped out into the hall and came face to face with… no one?

  The corridor was empty. Bartholomew didn't waste time wondering why but tucked the book under his dress shirt and fell in behind Ty who was already sprinting across campus toward the field where Con was waiting with their backpacks.

  “You get it?” Con demanded.

  Bartholomew lifted his shirt and showed him.

  “L-O-L,” Conrad said.

  Bartholomew tilted his head to one side, not getting the joke, but Ty seemed to think it was hilarious and guffawed loudly.

  “Now all we have to do is photograph the answers and return the book at lunch.” Bartholomew flipped through the pages until opening to the unit they were studying.

  “Con,” Ty said, waving both hands to get his husky partner to stop snorting. “Phone.”

  With a nod of his oversized head, Conrad pulled out his cell phone. “No problem.” He aimed the lens at Quiz Seven and pressed the button with a sausage-fat finger. “Hey, wuz wrong?”

  Ty grabbed the phone away from him. “Your battery is dead, idiot. Why didn't you charge it last night?”

  “Dunno.” Con shrugged stupidly.

  Ty looked to Bartholomew

  “I don't have one. Mother thinks they're dangerous.”

  “My step-dad took mine away when he caught me downloading dirty pictures,” Ty said. Elbowing Con, he raised his caterpillar brows. “Those ladies were hot, huh?”

  They both guffawing again as an incredulous Bartholomew gaped. “But now what are we going to do?” he asked, his voice shriller with every word.

  “Memorize the answers for tomorrow's test, dumb face.”

  Knowing there was no point in arguing with these hulks, a panicked Bartholomew spent the rest of lunch helping Ty and Con memorize each answer. All the while, they assured him that the book'd be back in class before Ms. Buttsfert knew it was missing.

  Of course, Bartholomew believed this about as much as he believed his mother ran off to join a team of mud wrestlers.

  Chapter 10

  Alex walked around the easel waiting for an inspiration seed to sprout into a magical vine. It had been days, but still no tingling hands made him race to the shelves where tubes of watercolors and assorted brushes waited to be dumped onto the little table next to the easel.

  When he felt a slight vibration under his feet, his heart leapt. He glanced down to realize it was only Rembrandt dropping a tennis ball, silvery blue eyes begging to play. Alex sighed. There wasn't going to be any art again. “Okay, boy,” Alex said picking up the ball. He tossed it up, and took Rembrandt out back to play catch.

  Usually he would have cracked up as soon as the fluffy goof dashed back and forth, paws skidding across the patio. But this afternoon, there were too many things on his mind. Not being able to paint. Mom seeming weak again. And that stupid Richie continuing to hide out, plotting with Ty and Con.

  These last few days, Alex had waited for Bartholomew to come and if not apologize, at least say hi. No dice. Every time they passed in the halls, Bartholomew would suddenly tighten his tie or stick his nose in one of those fantasy books he liked.

  What's his problem? Alex wondered when watching B-three sit at the loser table with those creeps at lunch. He almost went to them but shook his head, deciding he was better off minding his own business.

  “Go get it, Rembrandt,” Alex called half-heartedly, pulling his arm back for another toss. Rembrandt's gray and white ears perked up as he chased the ball into the bushes and sent leaves flying around the yard.

  When Alex heard his Mom call him for dinner, he groaned. The last thing he felt like was eating.

  He ignored her and picked up the slobber-covered ball. It reminded him of those slimy Shadow Swine. Last year in Artania, one of them threatened to invade Mom's dreams. If he and Bartholomew weren't creating, how soon before those monsters came after her? Maybe causing another heart attack. “Stupid Bartholomew,” Alex muttered.

  “Alex.” Mom poked her head into the yard. “Dinner's ready. Tonight we're doing traditional chumash.” Her smile disappeared back through the sliding glass door.

  “I'll be there in a minute!” he called, tossing the ball one last time.

  At the table, Alex made hills and valleys in the acorn gruel with prickly pear sauce on his plate. If he'd been a better mood, he would have noticed how interesting the designs were. But he couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if Bartholomew got caught stealing the book.

  “And then it hit me … just reverse the signs to positive, and suddenly the equation was solved.” Dad grinned, proud of how he'd triumphed over the latest theorem.

  “Wonderful, honey,” Mom said. “Don't you think so, Alex?”

  “Hmm? What?”

  “Aren't you happy for your dad?”

  “Sure…congrats, Dad.”

  Mr. Devinci smiled until his wife nodded toward Alex's full plate. “Are you okay, kiddo?” He searched his son's face.

  “Fine.”

  “All you've done is pick at your food for the last twenty minutes. Are you getting a fever?” Mom reached a hand to feel Alex's forehead.

  “No,” Alex replied, gently swatting it away. “Just not hungry.”

  “Be that as it may, Dr. Bock says that a boy your age needs at least two thousand and five hundred calories a day. Athletic ones like you even more,” Dad said.

  “I get plenty.”

  “Try a few bites. You're looking thin.” Mom sounded concerned.

  “I don't feel like it,” Alex said.

  “Try. It's a Native American dish,” Dad said.

  “Leave me alone,”

  “Not our job, young man. Your mother worked hard on this meal. Grinding and leaching acorns. Pounding them into flour. The least you can do is eat it.”

  “You don't think I work hard? You don't think I have things on my mind?” Alex raised his arms. “Big things?”

  “But it's chumash,” Mom said.

  “Who cares? It's weird. Why can't you make something normal, like good moms!”

  Mom jerked back as if she'd been slapped. She didn't say a word. Didn't have to. Alex could see her lower lip trembling as she stared down at her plate.

  Alex shoved away from the table knocking his chair over in the process. He dashed out to the garage and stood there glaring at the empty canvas. Why didn't he think before speaking? He wanted to rush after her, say he didn't mean it, that he loved her exotic recipes, really, let her wrap him up in those soft arms.

  But he didn't

  It was all the Richie's fault. Alex picked up a plastic bottle of paint, hefting its weight.

  “Stupid Bartholomew!” he cried heaving the bottle across the room.

  Chapter 11

  “Dad?”

  Mitch Obranovich looked up from the papers he was working on at his desk. “Yeah, Tinker Bell?”

  Gwen thought he looked tired. His handsome face looked more like a dad in a flu commercial than his usual image of an athlete on a cereal box. “I was wondering. Could I keep your cell phone by my bed tonight?”

  “What is it, Gwenny?” Dad set down his papers. “Missing Mom?”

  “No. It's just I've been having bad dreams.”

  “That mother of yours. She should be here.” He clenched his teeth making the muscles in his strong jaw bulge. Dad lowered his voice and muttered, “Damn her.”

  Gwen stared down at the carpet.

  “I'm sorry.” Mr. Obranovich got up from his chair and walked to her. He wrapped her up in his strong arms and said, “I shouldn't talk about her in such a way.”

  “It's okay, Dad.”

  “No, it isn't.” He gave her a squeeze. “Tell you what. I need my cell in case of emergency, but I could knock off early to read a chapter from The Odyssey, all right?”

  Gwen was flabbergasted. Mr. Time-manage
ment take off early? Not knowing what to say, she simply nodded.

  “…and Odysseus drove the hot spike deep in the crater eye of Cyclops. Quite the trick, huh, Gwenny?”

  “Yeah,” Gwen replied sleepily.

  Her father bent down and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Tinker Bell.” He tiptoed out of the room.

  At first Gwen slept soundly. No nightmares so far. Hours passed with her breath as even as lapping waves on Santa Barbara's shore. Then the mom dream began. It started like it always did with the two of them walking hand-in-hand, but as soon as they entered the cave, everything changed. Colors faded. Shadows lengthened.

  “Let's paint,” Mom giggled.

  Amid tinkling laughter, Dream-Gwen dipped a reed brush in the stone pot on the ground and painted suns and clouds next to Mom's goofy rainbows.

  A great shadow fell over the cave entrance, and they both froze.

  “Who dares enter my home?”

  Gwen dropped her pot, but Mom kept painting. A creature's giant hands lifted Mom up to his misshapen face. “Stop.”

  Instead of stopping, Dream-Mom painted a monocle frame around the Cyclops's single eye. The monster roared and pulled her closer to his great mouth.

  Suddenly, a leather waterskin appeared at Gwen's feet as a faceless voice commanded her to destroy art. With a desperate kick, Gwen knocked over the container, picked up a piece of charred wood from the cold fire pit, and stirred the soil into a dark paste. She smeared a long splotch over the joyful paintings they'd created.

  But the Cyclops did not loosen his grasp.

  “More. Destroy.”

  Scooping up a large glob of mud, Gwen threw a handful at the wall. As the disembodied voice urged her on, she splattered more and more. Finally, Cyclops let Mom go, and the quivering Rochelle crumpled into a heap on the ground.

  Gwen bolted upright in bed and blinked. Although the window was closed, the curtains fluttered wildly. Stranger yet, her room had filled with gray mist as curls of dark smoke twisted from every corner of her bed.

  Gwen shivered.

  One wisp snaked over her naked arm like a muddy string over skin. Gwen cringed, too terrified to even cover her eyes.

  Wrapping her arms around her knees, Gwen rocked back and forth, struggling to shake the nightmare.