For a few terrifying seconds, Van’s mind somersaulted backward through his entire trove of memories. He could see things other people didn’t see, and he could hear the Creatures. But he had parents. And he’d been born. He was sure. He’d seen the hospital pictures.
“Oh,” he breathed. “So all the other Collectors . . .”
“They came from wishes too,” Pebble finished. “It takes a big wish to make a person. It can go wrong in a lot of ways. It’s really risky. That’s why Collectors only do it when they absolutely need to. That’s why, right now, I’m the only young one.”
Van knew what it was like to be the only kid in a world full of grown-ups. There weren’t a lot of other children hanging around at opera houses. But to never see any other kids at all, and to have no family of your very own. . . . “That sounds lonely,” he said.
Pebble shrugged her baggy shoulders. “That’s why Uncle Ivor wished me.” She turned the marble around and around in her fingertips. “He wanted company. Not just people who worked for him. Someone like him.”
“No,” said Van. “I meant—lonely for you.”
Pebble shrugged again, a smaller, slower shrug. “Sometimes. But being different just has to be that way. Sometimes.”
On her shoulder, Barnavelt was unusually quiet. Van noticed that the squirrel had pressed himself close to Pebble’s cheek.
“I know I’m not exactly like you,” Van began. “But I’m not not like you. So if it would help to have a friend, or something . . .”
“Well, it’s not that I need it,” said Pebble, still not looking at Van. She passed the marble from hand to hand. “But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have one.”
“Right,” said Van. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
Pebble closed the marble in her fist. “So, we are, then?”
“We’re friends?”
“Are we?”
“Yes,” said Van. “We’re friends.”
Pebble didn’t answer this. But Van saw her give a small, hidden smile, her whole face transforming once again, as she dropped the marble back into her pocket.
They hurried the rest of the way to Van’s street.
Pebble stopped at the corner, beneath the rustle of a big, dark tree.
“We’ll come back for you soon,” she told him. “Until then, just don’t do anything stupid.” She flashed him a last tiny grin before turning and racing off into the shadows.
“Goodnight, Minivan!” Van heard Barnavelt call, as both of them slipped out of sight.
Van tiptoed into the building, along the sleeping hallways, through his own apartment door. He couldn’t hear his mother breathing behind her closed bedroom door, but he could sense her there—her warmth, a wisp of her perfume. He stepped into his own room. After closing the curtains and double-checking every corner, he pulled Lemmy’s box out from under the bed.
The Wish Eater was fast asleep. It had curled into such a tiny lump that it looked like a tennis ball made of lint. But when the light of Van’s bedside lamp hit it, it stirred. It blinked up at Van, its little face surprised and anxious, its eyes wide. Then it seemed to recognize him. Its face relaxed.
“Hi, Lemmy,” Van whispered.
The creature gave a small smile. Then, with a shiver, it curled into a ball again.
“Are you cold?” Van asked. “You look like you might be cold.”
Van dug through his drawers until he found his softest sweater—one his mother had bought in Italy, made from shaggy, silvery wool. He tucked it into the bottom of the box. The Wish Eater sidled carefully onto the sweater. It patted and sniffed at it for a moment before snuggling down and closing its eyes.
Van thought of Razor and his hooks, and the Hold’s deep darkness, and that awful, stone-shaking howl. He thought about Pebble and Mr. Falborg and the little creature nuzzled in the box in his lap.
Maybe he could help them all somehow. Maybe, once he knew the truth, he could use it not just to free the Wish Eaters, but to show Pebble how unfair the Collectors could be, and to bring her safely back to someone who missed her so much. The thought filled him with electric warmth. At least he could try.
Gently, he shut the lid of Lemmy’s box.
He slid the box back under the bed. He took out his hearing aids and placed them in their spot on the bedside table. He set Mr. Falborg’s paperweight beside them. After changing into his pajamas, he switched off the bedside lamp and settled down into the pillows, softness and silence falling around him.
But his mind wasn’t ready to shut off quite yet. It carried him back through the night, back to that moment when he’d stepped out of his window into the flying sleigh and glided off into the dark. Van smiled, wiggling his feet under the blankets. Kernel had been full of warnings about wishes and their powers, but he’d never mentioned how wondrous they could be.
Maybe the Collectors didn’t want anyone to know. Maybe this was one more glittering, beautiful secret they were keeping hidden.
But now Van knew.
He nestled deeper into the pillows and closed his eyes.
In his dreams, he soared through forests leaping with silvery creatures, his long black cape billowing behind him, over hills and rivers, into a world where anything he hoped for could come true.
18
Hot Dog with the Works Pizza
VAN followed his mother up the sidewalk to the opera house. The day was bright and clear, the streets busy and the sidewalks bustling—but Van was too tangled in the memories of last night to notice anything else. The fact that he’d only gotten four hours of sleep didn’t help either. He didn’t spot the twenty-sided die in the opera’s back entryway, or the snapped bracelet of purple glass beads that sparkled on the carpet in one corridor. He didn’t even realize that his mother had turned left instead of right, and that they were heading away from the rehearsal rooms past a row of larger and larger offices, until suddenly his mother’s ringing voice exclaimed, “Hello, Peter! How are you?”
They’d arrived at the doorway of Mr. Grey’s office. Inside, sprawled on one of the fancy leather couches, frowning at a video game, was Peter Grey. He looked up at them with his chilly, swimming-pool eyes.
Peter mumbled something Van couldn’t quite hear—it sounded like mine, or why, or die—but he’d probably just said “Fine.”
“Charles and I thought, as long as you’re both stuck here during rehearsal, you’d have more fun together.” His mother’s hand steered Van firmly into the room. “Have a good time!”
She swished quickly back out of the office.
Peter stayed where he was.
Van let his backpack thump down to the fancy rug. “I brought a comic book,” he began. “So if you want to just keep playing your game, I can . . .” But Peter had gotten to his feet. He crossed the room so suddenly that Van took a flinching step back. “Come on,” Peter muttered. A second later, he was disappearing through the door.
Van tagged behind him.
He was starting to feel like he spent all his time tagging behind someone. His mother. Pebble and Barnavelt. Peter. But he couldn’t even ask Peter where they were going. He couldn’t see Peter’s face, and Peter always talked to him in such a mumbly, clenched-jaw way that it was hard to understand him even when they were face-to-face. So he just hurried after Peter’s back, feeling more and more like a dog whom no one wanted to walk.
Peter led the way down two flights of stairs, along a back hallway, and out a metal door onto the sidewalk.
A rush of noise blasted around them. Garbage trucks roared by. Motors revved. Horns squealed.
“Wait,” Van finally spoke up. “I’m not supposed to . . .” Ugh, he sounded like such a baby. Not at all like an important double agent. Not like SuperVan. “I promised I wouldn’t leave the building.”
Peter shrugged one shoulder. He kept walking. “Urgent . . . run . . . lock . . .”
“What?” Van shouted.
Peter stopped at last. He turned to face Van. “We’re JUST going AROUND the BLOCK,�
� he said, in such a loud, slow voice that every word sounded like an insult. Then he turned away again, striding fast enough that Van couldn’t catch up.
Van chased Peter around the corner, past the plaza where rows of fountains shot spears of water into the air. Throngs of people wandered there, sipping from paper cups, talking on phones, taking pictures. Van tried to see if any of them were tossing coins into the pools of water—or if any black-coated figures were lurking nearby, watching, waiting. But Peter was already veering into a shop with a sign reading PAVAROTTI’S PIZZA—EVERY SLICE A TRIUMPH!
Van followed him through the swinging glass door.
The shop was one long, narrow room. A row of glass cases, all filled with pizzas and hot golden lights, ran from one end to the other. Each pizza had a little tag beside it, like a painting in an art museum. Van leaned down to look. There was Hot Dog with the Works Pizza. Mama’s Homemade Lasagna Pizza. Spicy Chicken Curry Pizza. Peanut Butter and Jelly with Marshmallow Sauce Pizza. Van leaned even closer, and a barrage of strange and wonderful smells rushed up his nose and all the way down to his stomach.
“The MACARONI and CHEESE PIZZA is my FAVORITE,” said Peter, still speaking in that slow, loud voice. “But they’re ALL pretty GOOD. Except for the SCOTCH EGG one.”
“Good to know,” said Van.
“WHAT KIND do you WANT?”
“Oh.” Van touched his pockets. “I don’t have any money.”
“I do.” Peter nodded at the cases. “Just PICK.”
“I guess . . . the macaroni and cheese one sounds good.”
Peter ordered two slices. The man behind the counter passed them their pizza on paper plates, and Peter led the way to a tiny table in the corner.
“SEEEE?” said Peter, drawing out the word, after they’d both taken a bite. “It’s GOOOOOD.”
Van nodded, chewing. Then he took a deep breath. SuperVan would speak up. He would be calm and brave. “You don’t have to talk like that.”
Peter frowned. “Like what?”
“So loud and slow. I can understand you.”
“Oh.” Peter actually looked—was it embarrassed? He shoved a hand through his hair. “I just thought . . . because of your—”
“If I’m in a loud place, or outside, it’s harder,” said Van. “But if I’m near someone, and I can see their face, and there aren’t too many other noises, it’s usually okay.”
“Oh,” said Peter again. “Sorry.”
There was a little pause.
“You’re right,” said Van. “The macaroni and cheese is really good.”
They ate for a while. Then Peter lowered his slice and said, in a normal voice, “My dad and your mom had lunch alone together three times last week.”
“What?” said Van.
“My DAD and YOUR—”
“I heard you. What do you mean?”
“I mean, they had lunch. At a restaurant. Three times. Just them.” Peter stared impatiently into Van’s face. “Like, a date.”
Van, who had been picturing his mother and Mr. Grey sitting at a lonely, quiet table in a school cafeteria, suddenly saw the picture change. Now there were tablecloths. Candles. Little bottles of flowers. His mother and Mr. Grey leaning closer to each other, laughing, clinking their glasses together over and over, as he imagined people did on dates.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I saw his calendar.”
“But . . . when? I’m always with—”
“Once on Saturday,” Peter interrupted. “When you weren’t around. Twice during the week before that, when you were with the costumers or the prop people or something. It happened. Three times.” Peter shrugged impatiently. “Why do you think your mom came to rehearsal so early today? Where do you think they are right now?”
Van swallowed a mouthful of pizza that suddenly tasted like Styrofoam. “Maybe they’re just talking about work stuff,” he said. “We might be going to England, so—”
Peter cut him off again. “Today my father told me I should get used to being with you. They’re trying to make us be friends.” Peter’s eyes got even chillier. “You know why, right? If they keep dating, they’ll probably get married. And then we’d be . . .”
The word fell out of Van’s mouth like a bite of half-chewed food. “Stepbrothers.”
Both boys went silent.
Van didn’t know what Peter was thinking, but his own mind was leaping from one awful image to another. Sharing a bedroom with Peter. Snotty Peter and stuffy Mr. Grey sitting at the table at every meal. No more traveling alone with his mother, helping her navigate through new cities, finding the best ice-cream shop in every neighborhood. No more just the two of them.
“I just thought you should know,” said Peter at last.
Van set down his pizza crust.
Peter met his eyes. “You don’t want it to happen, do you?” he asked. “Them getting married?”
“No,” said Van. “No.” And then, just in case, “No.”
Peter’s eyes got a little less icy. “Me neither,” he said. “On my birthday, I even wished . . .”
Van’s ears pricked. Peter Grey. April 8. Twelfth birthday. But Peter didn’t finish.
“You wished what?” Van prompted.
“Nothing,” said Peter. “It’s stupid.”
“What was it? Did you wish your dad would get crushed by a giant macaroni and cheese pizza?”
Peter gave a snort that might actually have been a laugh. “No.”
“You can tell me,” said Van. “Or is it something really embarrassing? Like, did you wish you were a mermaid, so you could swim away from all of us?”
Now Peter gave something that was definitely a laugh. “No. I just . . .” He paused. “They say if you tell somebody your wish, it won’t come true.”
“They didn’t tell me that,” said Van, without thinking.
“What?”
“I mean—I’ve never heard that.” Van took a last bite of pizza and tried to look casual. “Who really believes in wishes, anyway?”
“Fine.” Peter let out a loud breath. “I wished my dad would stop dating your mom.”
“Really?” said Van. “You didn’t—maybe—wish that something bad would happen to my mom, or—”
“No,” said Peter quickly. “Your mom’s fine. I just don’t want them to get married. That’s all.”
Van nodded. “Me neither.”
“Maybe it won’t even happen,” said Peter, after a quiet moment. “Like I said, I just thought you should know.”
He stood up and shoved his paper plate into the trash. Van followed him into the noise of the street, back to the doors of the opera house, with the macaroni and cheese pizza bubbling queasily in his stomach.
Van’s mother was in a wonderful mood that night. She hummed throughout the whole walk home. Van tuned out the sounds of her voice and the traffic and the breeze and stared hard at the sidewalk instead.
Gum wrappers. Bottle caps. Lost buttons. Nothing good.
His mother gave his hand a tug. Van looked up. She was wearing her stage-lighting smile. “Giovanni,” she began, “what would you think about staying here permanently?”
Van’s heart launched upward like a rocket. He could feel it smash against the roof of his mouth. “What?” he choked. “I thought we were going to England!”
“That was just a possibility.” His mother’s smile got even brighter. “Charles has some ideas that would keep me here for the next few seasons. Maybe longer.”
Van tried to control his voice, but it still came out sounding like a shout. “Opera ideas?”
“Yes. Mostly. I’ve been thinking that it might be time to settle in one spot. I could take a few students. Do some recording, work with small ensembles and new composers. There are lots of possibilities.” She gave him a quizzical look. “What’s wrong, Giovanni? Last night, you didn’t want to leave, and now I tell you we might stay, and you look utterly miserable!”
“I . . .”
�
�You said you were starting to like it here. You’re getting to know people. Am I wrong?”
“No,” Van managed.
“Well then?” His mother’s smile returned. “This is just a new possibility. A new probability. Let’s leave it at that for now.”
They walked the rest of the way up to the apartment without speaking, Ingrid humming, Van drifting along behind her in a small, silent fog.
The moment his mother locked the door behind them, Van hurried down the hall and shut himself inside his bedroom.
He flopped down on the floor. He couldn’t leave now. Not without helping the Wish Eaters. But he didn’t want to stay if he’d have to do it as Peter Grey’s stepbrother. He was stuck between two painful things, like a piece of skin caught in a zipper.
Van reached for his collection. Maybe acting out the scene with Pawn Girl and the White Wizard and SuperVan would help. And maybe Lemmy would like to watch.
The little shoebox was just where Van had left it, nestled against the box of treasures. Van pulled it out and set it in his lap.
But when he lifted the lid, no misty little face appeared in the crack. No big eyes blinked up at him.
Fear jolted through Van. For an instant, he was sure that the box was empty.
He flung the lid aside.
And there—thank goodness—was Lemmy, still curled up in one corner.
The Wish Eater was trembling. Its misty body seemed fainter than before. It looked like condensation on a cold window, something a hand could smear away without even trying. Van reached out with one finger and brushed Lemmy’s ruffly ear. Slowly the Wish Eater opened its eyes. It stared up at Van. It made a weak, groping gesture. Then, as if even that little motion had taken too much effort, it sagged back into the corner.
“Lemmy!” Van gasped. “What’s wrong?”
The Wish Eater shivered. Then it gestured again, scooping one nubby little hand toward its mouth.
“You’re hungry?” Van asked. “Is that it?”
The Wish Eater grasped Van’s finger. Its grip was weak. Its eyes were pitiful.
The Collectors Page 14
