I glanced down the aisle to make sure we were alone, then leaned in close. “OK, you want to really know why?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“Because you’re not the only person eating those disgusting candy bars and playing Castle Cats. Now, I did a little reading last night about advertising. You know what it said?”
“That advertising works?” he asked with a shrug.
“Well, duh. Of course it works. But sometimes it works really, really well. Remember those old cartoons we watched as kids?”
He nodded vigorously. “I still have some of the toys up in my attic.”
“Exactly.” I jabbed a finger at him. “Those cartoons were made to sell the toys.”
The gears in Seth’s head cranked for a moment. Finally, his eyes widened. “That’s amazing! It makes perfect sense: you want to sell the action figures, so you make a cheap little cartoon to get the kids excited.”
“There’s more, too. What do you know about subliminal advertising?”
“What, you mean like underwater stuff?”
“No, not submarine advertising. Come on.” I led him to the other side of the library, glancing around to make sure we weren’t alone. The cramps in my stomach had subsided for the moment, but not the weird feeling that the dwarfs were nearby. Of course, I would see a glowing trail if any Corrupted were in the library … at least, I probably would. Those sibling assassins had been able to hide their telltale sign, so what other surprises were in store for me?
At the check-out desk near the front, Fran watched us over the top of her glasses. Maybe the next Corrupted that went after me would eat her first, I thought. At least that way, I’d have time to draw a saber and defend myself.
We stopped at the bookshelf labeled Business. I ran my finger along the spines of the books until I came upon one called Subliminal Advertising in the Digital Age. I pulled it out and handed it to him.
“What do you want me to do with this?” he asked.
“Read it.”
He thumbed through it. “Eh … there aren’t a lot of pictures …”
“Look. A long time ago, advertisers tried to use subliminal messaging in their ads to try and get people to buy more of their products. It was a total bust and never really worked very well, but that didn’t stop them from getting more creative. Advertisers today use environmental clues to prime customers. Cues like music. Have you ever wondered why supermarkets play slow music?”
Seth shook his head. “My mom shops for my food.”
“OK, well … pretend you’re a regular adult.”
He closed his eyes. “This is hard.”
“OK. Well, just pretend you’re the owner of the supermarket. You realize one day that people shop for more food when you play slow music over the loudspeakers. What kind of music are you going to play?”
“Slow music.”
“Right.” I smiled, pointing to the book. “So what if the company that makes Castle Cats has figured out a way to make subliminal advertising work somehow? Just a hint of something, or the right kind of music, or a well-placed candy bar somewhere?”
Seth shrugged. “Not exactly the most dastardly thing they could be doing. So they tricked me into buying a candy bar or three … so what?”
“OK, well, what if I told you the guys running Grayle Incorporated are really, really bad people? Like, Darth Vader bad.”
He rubbed the nonexistent whiskers on the tip of his chin. “I suppose that might suck.”
I pressed the advertising book against his chest. “Take this book. At the very least, please skim through it. Then try to crack into Castle Cats again to see what’s inside it. Please.”
“OK. OK. Jeez, this is like homework or something.”
“That reminds me … is Trish actually going to her summer classes?” I asked, hoping things had gotten better. Over the course of a single day. Which I guess was a pretty unrealistic hope.
Seth just shrugged, leafing through the book.
“She keeps texting me to go to these stupid drinking parties,” I said. I winced. He didn’t want to hear that, you dummy. I quickly added: “I tell her no, though.”
“Join the club.”
“I’m sure she’ll get tired of them,” I offered. “Trish loves to act stupid from time to time. She gets over it and realizes how dumb she’s being.”
Seth closed the book. “Look, I know she doesn’t like me as much as she used to. I’m not blind. Hanging out with me is getting boring, and going to the parties with the cool kids is always fun.”
“I don’t think it’s that …”
“No, it’s more.” He blinked a bunch of times, like he had something in his eye. “I know I’m not the guy she’s always dreamed of. I have a funny-shaped head and I’m short and I have chicken legs. What’s worse, I always wear black rock ‘n roll t-shirts and jeans with holes in them. Not exactly the best style if you want to hang with Trish’s new friends. The odds have always been against me from day one. So if her Prince Charming comes along, then so be it. I’ll understand.”
“Seth,” I said, shaking my head. “Prince Charming doesn’t exist.”
“Well, Trish sure thinks so. See you soon.”
I watched him walk back to the other side of the library. I felt bad—he already had so much on his mind, and here I was piling more on him. I didn’t like the idea of Seth being involved in this, but it was clear I needed his help. I didn’t know a thing about how computer programs worked, and whoever the man in my dream had been … well, he’d died so the Grayles could protect their secret.
Maybe if I figured their secret out, I could use it against them somehow.
I spent the rest of the afternoon working on cleaning tasks. Fran wanted all of the bookshelves dusted, especially the top shelves, and she wanted it done as thoroughly as possible. That meant taking the books down from each shelf and wiping the books down one by one, then wiping down each shelf. It was a time-consuming process, but it gave me the opportunity to get to know each section a little better.
It was a welcome little distraction. The last thing I needed was to spend all of my time thinking about something I really had no control over for the time being. The Grayles were tucked safely away in their modern castle downtown. They were calling the shots for the time being. And as long as they kept their ire focused on me and not my friends or family, I could handle whatever they threw at me.
I hoped.
At the end of the day, I found Fran locked away in the librarians’ office. The library was empty, the computers turned off, the carpeting vacuumed. I debated whether I should just leave—I could see through the front doors that storm clouds were rolling in and I really didn’t want to get soaked on the way home. My cramps had just begun subsiding and a run through the rain seemed like just the kind of thing to make them flare up again.
“Alice,” Fran half-yelled as she opened the door.
I turned, waiting for the next bossy order.
Fran cleared her throat. “I … the …” She sighed, lowering her head. “I was hoping I could convince you to stop by my house and help me move a few boxes.”
“Oh.” I searched for an excuse not to do it, but nothing came. “Well, sure. If you can drive me home afterward.”
“Obviously …” She stopped herself and sighed again, straightening her back. “I would be more than happy to drive you home afterward.”
So off we went, to the parking lot where Fran’s old green Toyota was parked. To say it was an awkward car ride would be an understatement. Fran didn’t talk. Either the radio didn’t work or she just didn’t like listening to music. Knowing Fran, I figured she probably just didn’t like listening to music. “It’s all hippity-hop and death metal,” she would probably say. The thought made me smile a bit, and I turned my head so she wouldn’t see.
We arrived at her house, which was near the border of my suburb. The houses in this neighborhood were older, with rusty-looking windows and tall brick chimneys. Every house l
ooked nearly identical to its neighbor: small, squat, with one window on the second story. Each one had different-colored siding. Fran’s was a soft blue, the color of the sky.
“Well, here we are,” Fran murmured, parking the car in her little driveway. She didn’t have a garage. The driveway’s concrete was cracked in places and weeds had begun sprouting. It looked the weeds had taken up permanent residence.
I got out of the car and followed Fran to her home. One of her neighbors was running a lawnmower, and the familiar sound made me feel a little less tense about the whole situation. My phone buzzed in my purse. I quickly hit the “End” button before Fran could get upset.
“Welcome to my home,” she said quietly, unlocking the door and opening it wide. I took a breath and walked inside.
We were in the kitchen. It was small and cramped, lined with cupboards on one side and lined with appliances on the other. The oven looked old and had a yellow exterior, like something out of the seventies. Food was crusted on the black stove top. Boxes sat stacked on the table, each one labeled either “Plates” or “Cups” or “Misc.”
“The boxes are on the second floor,” Fran said. She very quietly placed her keys on the table. I did the same with my purse and followed her into the hallway, where there was a narrow carpeted staircase leading upstairs.
I followed her up the creaky stairs. At the top was a single room with a single window. The ceiling of the room was triangle-shaped where the roof came together, and the walls were all lined with an ugly fake wood paneling. There were once bookshelves lining the walls. A dozen bookshelves, at least. They were gone now, but I could still see their outlines on the walls and the light brown carpeting. Boxes and boxes sat on the floor. I walked around them, amazed that each one was filled to the brim with books. Old books. Really, really old books with crumbling covers and paper that carried the most wonderful smells.
The smell of old books. I laughed a little.
“What’s funny?” Fran asked sharply.
“Oh. I’m just a weirdo, that’s all. I love the smell of old books.”
She stepped beside me, looking down at the open box and sighing. “Well, I don’t think that makes you weird.” She reached down into the box, pulling out a faded copy of Catch-22. “I bought this book in 1961, two days after it came out. I had to borrow money from my mother to get it, too. I read it twice before Christmas came around.”
“It looks nice.”
“It’s more than nice,” Fran said. The edge had escaped her voice. Holding the book seemed to calm her or at the very least take away whatever anger had been building up inside.
I’d like to see television have that kind of power.
“What about this one?” I asked, pointing into the box. I dared not touch the next book. It looked older than my grandparents, wrapped in plastic to protect it from oily fingers. There was a very familiar character on the cover.
“Oh.” Fran giggled. She actually giggled! “That’s an original.” She reached down and carefully picked up the book, holding it by its edges. “Uncle Remus and Br’er Rabbit, by Joel Chandler Harris. A good collection of Br’er Rabbit stories, although not without controversy. The author tried his best to mimic the dialect used by slaves at the time, and it’s since become quite controversial. Still, the stories about Br’er Rabbit have historical significance and I’m glad someone got them down on paper so his stories could be enjoyed for another century or two. He was quite the trickster.”
“Yeah he is.”
She gave me a strange look, but said nothing, carefully returning the book to its place in the box. “This box and the others need to go downstairs into the living room. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course.” I bent down, lifting up the heavy box of books. Fran seemed surprised by my strength.
“I was thinking we would take them down together,” she said.
“Oh, no. The stairs are too narrow. Better I just get them done myself. Maybe you could just walk in front of me so if I trip, I’ll land on you.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“That came out wrong.”
“I suspected as much. But I’ll help in whatever way I can.”
“Whatever way” ended up being her sitting in the kitchen while I did all the work. And to be honest, that was just fine by me. In the kitchen, she couldn’t snap at me for doing something wrong … and she couldn’t see me sneaking a peek at the inside of the boxes. She had everything! Old books about the Civil War, copies of Jane Austin and Charles Dickens classics that looked like originals, even an ancient version of Grimms’ Fairy Tales with a strange cover that looked like a painting of Cinderella.
Ten boxes later, I was nearly spent. An air conditioner kept the first floor cool, but upstairs the summer heat was slipping in through the window. I was sweating. My legs felt sore and stiff. In the living room, I stood in front of the air conditioner sitting in one of the windows and lifted my shirt slightly to let the cool air in. There was a beautiful antique blue couch with tufted cushions resting against the wall, and on the other side of the room was an old, old TV. Like, we’re talking vintage here: it literally was encased in a wooden frame. I loved it.
“Alice, come in here,” Fran called out.
I sighed, forcing my body away from the wonderful cool air. In the kitchen, Fran had taken a seat at her table, moving aside two of the boxes so she could make room for a plateful of weird square-shaped cookies.
“Eat a few of these,” she ordered.
I reached hesitantly for the plate, grabbing one cookie. I bit it in half, then fought the urge to spit it out onto the white linoleum floor. It tasted like cardboard with a hint of caramel.
Fran watched me eat. I must have had a strange look on my face because she asked, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh.” I glanced down at my stomach. The cramps had subsided to a dull ache, and I wondered if my hand had unconsciously went to my abdomen from time to time. “Um … well, to be honest, I’ve had sort of an upset stomach lately …”
“Say no more.” She stood up, walking over to her cupboards. “I have the perfect tea for that. You take a seat and let me boil some water.”
“Oh really, you don’t have to do that.”
She pulled out a porcelain mug and unwrapped a tea bag from a small tin that had been in the “Misc.” box. I smelled it immediately: mint, with a hint of ginger and lemongrass.
“On second thought … maybe I should have some tea.”
“That’s the spirit,” she said, walking over to the stove and lighting one of the burners. She grabbed a small metal teapot from the “Misc.” box and filled it with water, then set it on the burner.
I took the moment to look around. It really was a nice little kitchen. Quaint. Near the top of the ceiling, the bright blue wallpaper gave way to a horizontal strip of dancing bears. The strip wrapped around the entire room, broken up only by cupboards. The fridge was old and yellow. The sink looked new, though, with a shiny new faucet. I felt bad about the faucet. How recently had she put it in?
“Are you moving?” I asked, curious about how much this nice version of Fran might tell me.
She simply shrugged and ate one of the stale cookies. “A big old house like this is too much for one person. I don’t use the living room. The guest room is full of junk. The basement is—was—full of more junk. I just use my library and my bedroom and quite frankly, a house this big deserves someone who’ll put it to good use.”
That seemed sad. “You probably use the kitchen, though.”
A little smile cracked on Fran’s lips. “Not often. Otherwise, I would have realized these cookies are stale.”
I laughed. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything …”
She set her half-eaten cookie back on the plate. “I wish you would have. I certainly wouldn’t have taken a bite.” Her eyes seemed to sweep around the room with a renewed sense of satisfaction. “Yes, this house is a pain in the butt. I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”
The kettle began whistling. Fran got up with a very quiet groan and grabbed the kettle. She poured the steaming water into my cup. I wrapped the tea bag’s string around one finger to keep it from slipping into the water.
“This should be in every woman’s kitchen cabinets,” Fran declared. “And our men should have to go out and buy it for us if we run out. That’s the least they can do.”
I chuckled. “I’ll remember that.” I took a sip of the tea. It had a wonderful, crisp finish. After just two sips, my stomach felt a little more at ease. “Wow! This really works well.”
“I know some things,” Fran said defiantly. “You don’t get to be as old as me without picking up a few good tips now and again.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. It was a comfortable sort of silence, though, and the cool air blowing in from the living room felt good on my glistening skin. “Can I ask a question about one of the books?”
Fran’s face lit up. She was nearly unrecognizable. “Of course you can.”
“The Grimms’ Fairy Tales book …”
She smiled, nodding. “It’s old. Nothing close to an original, but it was printed in the early 1900’s. It contains the original stories, not the cleaned-up ones that censored all of the violence. I may be an old lady, but I don’t like my books censored.”
“Where did you find that book?” I asked.
“Oh, I do believe it was given to me by my grandfather. He gave me lots of books that I kept. That one, though … it seems like I’ve always had it.”
I took another long sip, staring at the corner of the floor where the doorway opened into the hall. The linoleum had begun to peel. “Mary misses hanging out with you,” I blurted out.
Fran’s eyebrows lifted. “She misses hanging out with me? I had no idea we hung out.”
“Oh. I guess old people don’t use that phrase … not that you’re old or anything! I mean … well, she would probably like having tea with you again.”
Fran grunted, staring at her oven. She crossed her legs. “Maybe after I move.”
“She told me you used to ride a motorcycle.”
“Oh, that sly dog,” Fran said, smiling. “She told you about my motorcycle, did she? Well, you’ll be happy to know I sold it years ago. Ten years of cruising around like some renegade biker was plenty for me. It was my husband’s passion, though. I had fun, but he loved it.”
The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 1 Page 28
