Fugitives

by Jes Drew

  My head hurts like it does whenever I try to think of what to do about my predicament.

  I fall back on the same question that has bothered me since I started my daily visits to Amar. Should I tell my parents? Part of me wants to because, hey, they're my parents. But I have no idea how telling them will help anything. It’s not like they'll know what to do about my predicament any more than I do. It’ll just make them worry.

  That is, of course, assuming they even believe me. Which is unlikely. I'll probably end up having to visit a psychologist, or a head doctor, or whatever.

  Mom and Dad will assume that my story of random transportation to a mysterious world is nothing more than a lame excuse to cover up something far worse that I'm up to. They’re already suspicious, what with me acting so strange thanks to my trips to Amar. The last thing I need is for them to ground me when I'm going to need all my resources to help me figure out what's happening and why.

  My head pounds worse. I just want to go to sleep. So I can wake up to the realization that I've been dreaming this whole time. But first I have to get inside.

  Which brings me back to the issue of sneaking into the house and upstairs to my room, unnoticed. I consider the possibilities of being spotted. Dad is at work and my twin brother Clint will be holed up in his room playing video games. That leaves Mom, who I hope is in the laundry room washing another soiled outfit and not in the kitchen preparing dinner.

  I slip off my sneakers so they won't slosh water on the floor. My clothes are mostly dry now thanks to my little walk.

  I open the door and peek in. I freeze when I see Mom standing in front of the stove. Oh, crud. She's in the kitchen! What should I do now?

  Well, there is nothing to it. I have to get inside and to my room so I can clean up. Mom hasn’t spotted me yet, she has her back to me. If I'm quiet I might still be able to sneak past.

  As silently as I can, I step into the kitchen and shut the door softly behind me. I tiptoe across the floorboards, stepping gingerly. Alas, I don't make it more than five steps before I mistakenly put my weight on a squeaky floorboard.

  “Chelsea, is that you?” Mom asks.

  I glare down at the floor. Traitor. “Yes, Mom?”

  “Can you get the tomato sauce out of the pantry?” Mom turns to point with her spoon, but comes to a halt when she sees me. “Chelsea Jean Welling, what in the world happened to you?!”

  I wince and try to think of anything I can say that could possibly explain my appearance. I get nothing. “I, um, fell into a duck pond, the one just off the street, um, accidentally,” I say at last. It isn't a lie. Technically.

  “What about the tears in your clothes?” Mom asks crossing her arms. She raises an eyebrow to let me know that she isn't buying my explanation.

  “Um, I was embarrassed because I was dripping duck pond slime so I walked through the woods instead of on the sidewalk, and I guess I wasn’t being careful.” Also not technically a lie.

  “Chelsea, there are ticks in the woods!” Mom cries aghast.

  I muster a weak smile. I wonder if there are ticks in Amar. “I'm wearing long pants, so they shouldn't have been able to get on me.”

  Mom shakes her head. She regards me for a long moment before her expression softens. “Chelsea, is there anything you want to tell me, sweetheart?”

  I feel a pang of guilt, but shake my head. I've already determined that Mom and Dad won't believe me, there’s no use second guessing myself.

  Mom sighs and turns back to the food, obviously disappointed. “You should go get cleaned up then.”

  With those words, I'm free to go. I dart for the stairs before Mom can think up more questions to ask. I take the stairs two at a time, but all the while my mind is reeling.

  What am I going to do? I can't keep going to Amar. Sooner or later, I could die. I've already come closer to death today than I would care to admit. What if next time I die there? Then no one will ever know what happened to me.

  Or what if I end up stranded in Amar? What if one day, the portal never returns? I feel like I’m about to be sick. I lurch into my bedroom and slam the door shut. I lean shakily against it.

  I struggle to regain control of my breathing.

  And what if I’m not even going to Amar at all? What if I’m just going crazy? What if, instead of going to Amar, I'm actually wandering around the neighborhood like a mentally deranged person.

  I’m not sure which would be worse. Going crazy or going to Amar.

  I stand there for a good minute trying to figure this out, before my need to wash the duck pond slime off my skin overcomes my desire to mope and brood. I push myself away from the door and go into my bathroom.

  After disinfecting my scratches and putting band-aids on the exceptionally bad ones, I get in the shower. I take a far longer shower than I think I've ever taken before, but it's totally necessary. I mean, hello? Duck pond.

  When I'm done showering, I change into a fresh pair of clothes. I leave my old ones in a wet heap on the bathroom floor. As I turn to leave, my reflection in the bathroom mirror catches my eye. I turn and study myself.

  I look… normal. Exactly the same as I've always looked. Somehow that doesn't seem right. I should look different. Nobody would ever guess that this slightly taller than average girl with freckles, hazel eyes, and damp honey brown curls spends her afternoons trapped in Amar.

  I turn away with a shake of my head. Life is just too weird for words.

  By now, I'm more refreshed. I decide against a nap, and instead head downstairs to help Mom finish making dinner. She doesn't mention what happened earlier, but I know she's waiting to tell Dad when he gets home from work.

  Just as soon as dinner is ready, Dad pulls into the driveway. Punctual as always.

  I call my twin brother Clint to the table and we all settle down for dinner. It's a silent affair. I don't want to draw any undue attention to myself, and Clint doesn’t even look like he’s fully awake. He stares at his plate with droopy eyes and pushes the food around on his plate. How late did he stay up playing video games last night? My silly brother is trying to cram as much video game time as he can into the last couple weeks of summer vacation. Mom and Dad try making small talk about how their days went, but even that is strained.

  Clint excuses himself early and disappears back to his room. Then after thanking us womenfolk for the delicious dinner, Dad retires to the living room sofa to “watch” TV. More likely he’ll be taking a nap. This leaves Mom and me to clean the kitchen.

  When we finish cleaning the kitchen, I head for the foyer. “I’m taking Hercules out for a walk,” I say. I pull on my combat boots since my sneakers have been totaled and grab Hercules’s leash.

  “Take care,” Mom says as she heads into the living room. Probably to wake Dad and tell him about what happened earlier today.

  Rolling my eyes, I exit the front door. That's not a conversation I want to stick around for. I start down the sidewalk dragging Hercules- who'd stopped to examine some flowers- with me.

  The August air reinvigorates me. I smile as I stroll along enjoying the beautiful summer day. It won't be too long before fall sets in, and then winter, so I'm determined to enjoy the beautiful weather while it lasts.

  For some reason at the thought of summer ending, my mind turns to the cookouts that will be ending with summer.

  We have them every Saturday in the summer. My dad and his two buddies, Edward Princeton and Charles Moncrief, get together with their families and have a cookout at our house.

  The dads go off and grill burgers, while they reminisce the good old days. Once Clint dared me to eavesdrop on their conversation and I swear they were talking about the pros and cons of wearing armor while wielding a short sword.

  Our moms get together and as they prepare the rest of the food, they talk about mom things. Like how cute we were when we were three, etc., etc.

  Clint and I usually hang out with Bobby Princeton and Easton Moncrief. We play board games or something equal
ly trivial until it's time for the food to be served then we figure out some way to pass the time until their parents decide to leave.

  We used to be the best of friends. We're about the same age (Easton is four months older than Clint and I, and Bobby is three months younger), and we've known each other since we were babies. Our childhood was spent playing with each other. We were practically inseparable.

  But when we started middle school we drifted apart. We made friends with other people and started spending time with them instead of each other. Even Clint and I are not as close as we once were. Bobby, who was never good at making friends, is probably the only remaining member of our little clique. She is generally the one to keep things from getting too awkward when we are all together, especially with Easton.

  It's not like I don't still consider Easton a friend, because I do, even if it's only for old time's sake. It's just that we don't really know each other that well anymore. We only see each other at the cookouts, and occasionally we wave at each other at school. When we talk, unless we're reminiscing our childhood, we don't actually have much to say to each other.

  I look up the street, feeling nostalgic over what was once a close friendship. I spot Easton's house which is about five houses down from mine. Bobby's house is across the street from his.

  I consider stopping by to see Bobby. I could tell her about my trips to Amar. She'd probably believe me. Bobby has always been very open minded. She could help me figure out what's going on. You know what they say, two heads are better than one.

  My thought process is interrupted when Hercules suddenly stops walking and yanks against the leash, causing it to dig into the palm of my hand. I glance over my shoulder to see that Hercules has latched onto one of our neighbor’s prized petunias and is now happily chomping away.

  “Hercules,” I hiss, glancing up at our neighbor’s house. Nobody has noticed… yet. “Drop that flower.”

  Hercules doesn't listen to me. He continues gnawing on the petunia.

  “Really, dog? I am not in the mood?” I kneel next to him, and dig my fingers into his slobbery little mouth. I try to pry his jaw apart. For such a little dog, he has some tremendous jaw strength and his sharp little teeth cut into my fingers.

  “Hey, Chelsea, do you need a hand with that?”

  I startle at the proximity of the voice, and glance over my shoulder at the tall, brown haired boy standing behind me. Jeez, was Easton somehow summoned by my thoughts?

  I shake that notion out of my head. Of course he wasn't. I don't know why I'm so surprised to see him. He lives on this street too.

  As soon as Hercules hears Easton, he lets go of the flower and starts jumping around Easton’s legs like a happy kangaroo, which is his customary way of greeting people (I just hope a burglar never chooses to rob our house).

  “Hi, Easton,” I say straightening. I wipe my slobbery hands on my jeans. Yuck, Hercules is so dead when we get home.

  “Bark!” Hercules- well- barks. He stands on his hind legs and dances in front of Easton trying to get attention.

  Easton stoops to scratch behind his ears. “Hello there, Hercules, how are you this fine evening?”

  “Bark!” Hercules barks again.

  Easton looks up at me and smiles, but he looks tired. His pants are ripped and he has scratches all over his face. In fact, he looks a lot like I did earlier when I came back from my little adventure in Amar- minus the duck pond slime, of course. This gives me a pause. What if I'm not the only person going to Amar? What if Easton is going there too?

  Probably not. There are many reasonable explanations for why Easton looks like this. Ones that do not involve unexplained trips to another world. He was probably practicing soccer in the park when some bully threw his ball into the woods and he had to retrieve it. Then again, he's dressed in his usual button down shirt and jeans, not a soccer jersey. And he doesn't have his ball.

  “Uh, Chelsea, are you feeling all right?” Easton pushes himself to his feet and with a start I realize that I’ve been staring at him this entire time. I feel a blush travel up my neck.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just wondering...” I trail off. Should I really tell him? He’ll probably think I’m crazy. But what if he goes to Amar, too? I need to know. Besides, we’ve known each other since we were babies, that’s got to count for something, right?

  “Yes?” Easton looks at me expectantly.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Easton nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Sure. Ask away.”

  I pause considering how to word my question. Before I can come up with a non-crazy-sounding way to ask Easton if he's been teleported to a magical world recently, a portal opens up in front of me and sucks us both into the realm of Amar.