by Chris Miller
The first thing I noticed about her was her eyes: one green and one blue, but both outlined in dark eye shadow. She wore dark blue jeans, which were torn in all the right places, and a white form-fitting tank top layered with a short wool sweater that looked like a tiger had torn it to shreds. Her hair was black, pulled back in short pigtails and covered with a white bandana.
“Violence isn’t always the answer, you know,” she said, holding the tortured smoke detector out to me.
“He started it,” I said, not really wanting the dumb thing back.
She raised a neatly plucked eyebrow and narrowed her eyes curiously, but she didn’t walk away as I thought she would. She seemed to expect something more from me.
“Thanks,” I said, realizing I hadn’t said it before.
“Mmmm,” she answered, bobbing her head in acknowledgement but still not leaving.
Intrigued by her boldness I decided to find out more about her. Fighting my nervousness, I searched for something intelligent…something cool to say.
“So, you from around here often?” I said, stumbling over my words. The girl smirked, amused at my slip up. It was a curse I had to live with—the king of bad first impressions. Already, I could feel my ears turning red.
“A few streets over, actually,” she replied as she whipped a postmarked envelope from her back pocket. “We’re ‘2012’ same as you. Mailman must have mixed up his delivery.”
“Oh, right. Thanks again,” I said, taking the envelope but not looking at it.
“Just doin’ my civil duty, Mr. Brown,” she said, finally walking away. She was already a few steps past the driveway. I’d have to move fast if I wanted to keep things going.
“Wait. How do you know my name?” I called out to her.
She spun around and shouted back with a feisty smile, “It’s on the letter!”
Oh, duh! I thought to myself.
I wanted to ask her name, but I couldn’t think of a way without sounding as interested as I was. Just then a noisy car with peeling blue paint pulled into the driveway between us, ending any chance for more conversation. Emily was home.
“Later,” the girl called back, sparing a casual wave good-bye as she strode off. I let my gaze linger as she disappeared around the corner.
Moments later Emily, track star that she is, came sprinting across the yard with her cell phone at the ready. She’d apparently seen the smoke coming from the kitchen window.
“Meatloaf?” she asked.
“Fish sticks,” I replied.
She sighed, pressing a few buttons on her phone. “What’ll it be, teriyaki or pizza?”
As if she needed to ask….
“Pizza,” I replied automatically.
Emily pressed the speed dial and launched through the front door to help Mom with the aftermath. I glanced back to where the girl had just disappeared, hoping to catch sight of her once more.
“Did ya lose something?” Trista asked coyly, walking up behind me. In all the commotion, I had almost forgotten she was coming over for dinner.
“No,” I said, feeling a bit nervous. I held the smoke detector out in front of me. “Just putting old Smokey to sleep.”
“I see,” Trista answered in a clearly suspicious tone. She folded her arms with a playfully jealous look. “So....who’s the girl?”
I tried not to sound too interested when I explained that I hadn’t gotten her name. “I don’t know. Just some neighbor, I guess,” I said, waving the letter in my hand. “She gave me this.”
“Ooo, let’s see,” Trista snatched it out of my hands before I could take a look at it. She quickly handed it back with a bored look on her face when she realized it wasn’t a personal note. It was addressed to me from Destiny Public Library of all places. That counted as a first. I didn’t even have a library card.
Satisfied with the explanation, Trista went back to her usual smiling self as we walked toward the house. We reached the porch and decided to wait for things inside to settle down before heading in. Trista flipped her blonde, pink-highlighted hair back over her shoulders and pulled herself up onto the railing. She looked cute, in that “sister’s best friend” kind of way.
“So, did you tell them about what we did?” she asked.
“What we did?” I replied. I had no clue what she was talking about. “What do you mean?”
“You know,” she said with a bit of sass in her sparkling green eyes. “Going to Solandria and everything!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Hang on,” I said, holding a hand up. “I thought you didn’t believe in Solandria.”
“Yeah, but that was before we went there, duh!”
“You and me? Together?” I asked.
“And Rob,” Trista added, starting to sound worried. “Don’t you remember?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Hunter, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting like the whole thing never happened.”
Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach. Not remembering thirty minutes is one thing, but missing an entire trip to Solandria. Why didn’t I remember that? What was going on?
“I wish I knew,” I finally said, resting my elbows against the porch rail and gazing into the early evening sky. “Last thing I remember before waking up at the hospital was getting into the Sky Car ride and then our gondola flew away.”
A lone raven flew overhead and I watched curiously as it circled down, finally landing on our mailbox. The large black bird cocked its head every which way as if looking for something lost. You and me both, buddy, I thought to myself.
The bird seemed content to stay and listen while Trista tried her best to reignite the memories in me, telling me of how the Shadow had chased me, Rob and her through the fairgrounds; of our journey to Solandria in the flying gondola; of the Consuming Fire and its seven marks; of the ruthless assassin Xaul and our race to rescue Hope. It was a fantastic tale. Apparently the raven’s friends thought so too, because soon there were a handful of black birds quietly roosting along my fence and in my yard.
Although I knew I should believe Trista’s accounts were the truth, the fact remained that they were someone else’s memories.
“Still nothing?” Trista said, noting my look of frustration.
I shook my head slowly, absentmindedly fingering Hope’s medallion beneath my T-shirt.
“Here,” Trista said, determined to win me over. “Have a look at this.” She pulled down part of her shirt collar, revealing her left collarbone. “See the mark? I got it in Solandria. It was the mark of the Flame.”
I blinked. Besides a few scattered freckles, her skin looked perfectly clear to me.
“I don’t see anything,” I remarked.
“Really?” Trista looked shocked and tried hard to tilt her head just right so she could see what I evidently couldn’t. She even checked the other collar, just in case. “I swear it was there just this morning after my shower.”
I shrugged my shoulders again, and gave her an “I have no idea what you’re talking about” look. Realizing the mark was no longer there, Trista started to panic. Then, unexpectedly, her panic turned to anger.
“Oh, I get it. This whole thing is one of your pranks, isn’t it?”
“No, I swear,” I said shaking my head. She seemed unconvinced.
“What did you do, slip me some kind of crazy juice to make me think I’d been to another world with you? Wait a minute, that’s it! You started talking about Solandria and then…” her eyes lit up. “The Boojum bar! You put something in the Boojum bar, didn’t you?”
“No, I…” I started to say, but by now Trista had gotten herself more worked up than I had ever seen her.
“I can’t believe I fell for it. I even made a fool of myself in front of the police. They all had a good laugh at me when I told them about the flying gondol
a. Even my family thinks I’m crazy and it’s all your fault. Grrrrr….” She punched me in the arm. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this whole thing.”
Things were not going well. She hopped down from the porch rail and started to walk away, but I caught her arm. She almost slapped me again, but I grabbed her wrist before she could connect.
“Trista, will you stop for a minute!” I said firmly, trying to calm her down before releasing her wrist. “I believe you. It’s just that I’m missing a lot of my memory right now, more than even I know, apparently, and I can’t change the fact that your memories aren’t my own. Something happened to me.”
Trista’s breathing eased slowly as I spoke. I relaxed my hold on her wrist.
“Are you okay?” I asked. Trista took a deep breath and nodded her head a few times.
“Are we okay?” I rephrased the question.
She started to cry. Sniffling, she leaned into me, unable to hold back the emotions. Unsure how to proceed I put my arms around her, holding her close.
“I’m sorry, Hunter. I just feel so alone, you know. I wanted…no I needed you to tell me what we experienced was real because nobody believes me. I thought for sure you’d understand. I’m frustrated.”
“Trust me. I might not remember, but I do understand. That’s how I felt last time I went to Solandria. Stretch went with me, but he doesn’t have a clue that he did.”
We stood silently, holding each other for a moment. Then she pulled away and dabbed her eyes with her shirtsleeve.
“What did you think of Vogler?” I asked.
“Who?” she answered, looking somewhat confused.
“Big. Bald. Black. Detective.”
“Oh right, the guy they interviewed on TV? I never met with him, just with a couple of regular cops at the scene.”
“Well, with any luck, you won’t ever have the privilege,” I said with added sarcasm.
“He’s really that bad?” Trista asked, still sniffling from her cry.
I nodded emphatically. “Worse. He gave me the creeps.”
Upon hearing this, the raven perched on my mailbox bristled its feathers and cawed angrily; clearly he agreed with me too.
“What do you mean, creeps?”
“I don’t know exactly; I can’t explain it but I just felt like he knew way too much about me. About us.”
“But he’s a cop. Isn’t that like, his job?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I guess so, he’s just weird that’s all.”
A second car pulled into the driveway, causing the birds to finally fly away. An illuminated “Flying Pie Pizza” sign sat atop the car’s roof. Dinner was served.
“Listen,” Trista said, sounding much more upbeat but still looking like she had just cried. “I’m going to track down Rob at school tomorrow. Maybe hearing some of it from him will help sort things out.”
I nodded, knowing I could use all the help I could get. Trista went inside to clean up as the pizza man approached the front porch. I asked him to wait and carried the smoke detector inside in search of Mom’s purse. Emily stopped me short.
“Hunter! Why was Trista crying? What did you do?”
Ugh! Why did girls have to be so much trouble!
That’s when old Smokey decided to go haywire again. Annoyed, I chucked him back out the front door onto the front lawn and decided to leave him there.
Tucking the library letter deep in my back pocket, I brushed right past Emily and headed in for pizza. Whatever the letter was about, it could certainly wait until dinner was over.
Chapter 8
Library Games
Visiting libraries can be hazardous to your life; I should know, I nearly lost mine trying to avoid late fees.
The next morning when I stepped into the newly renovated public library, I found myself awestruck by the sheer size of the place. Everything about it was different than I had expected. From the modern design of the slanted ceiling, the giant wall of windows, the sculpted columns and the rows of computer workstations, everything felt new and fresh. The centerpiece of the polished cement floor was an inlaid design of an open book placed over a globe and compass. The words that encircled the design read: A World Awaits Within a Book.
“If only they knew how true that is,” I muttered to myself as I crossed over the design.
Not being a bookish person myself, I hadn’t made a point of visiting the library on my own. Of course, without a library card there had never been a need to, which made the late fees all the more perplexing. How can you have a late fee if you’ve never checked out a book in your life? I was about to find out.
“Can I help you, sir?” a hushed voice asked from behind the counter. The line of people ahead of me had disappeared and it was my turn. Stepping forward, I found the voice belonged to a tall, slender, young man with a reddish goatee, rectangular glasses and a button on his pocket that read, “Head Librarian.” He was a far cry from the small silver-haired lady I had imagined would work here.
“Actually,” I answered, “I got a letter about a late fee for a book that I haven’t checked out and I was hoping you could help clear it up for me.” I dropped my backpack off my shoulder, letting it fall onto the floor with a thud. I dug through the large pocket in search of the notice I had received in the mail. It was tucked behind the Author’s Writ, lying atop my Veritas Sword. I slipped the letter across the desk and waited. The librarian picked it up and glanced over the information.
“I’d be glad to help. When did you last use the account?”
“Well, that’s the trouble; I haven’t got one,” I answered. “I’ve never actually had a library card, which is why I was surprised when I received this bill.”
The clerk went to work typing in the account number that was displayed on the late fee sheet.
“Your name is Hunter Brown, right?”
“Yes, it is, but…”
“Do you live at 2012 King Street?” he said, cutting me off.
“Yes, but…”
“Then your account is active. Is it possible that someone else has used your card, or that you’ve misplaced it perhaps?”
“No, I don’t have a card—I never have. I don’t even know anything about this book.”
The librarian raised his eyebrow and pursed his lips in thought. A moment later his fingers flew across the keyboard again, typing at a feverish rate, presumably to pull up further information.
“Our records show your account was just opened two weeks ago. Is this your signature?”
He turned the computer screen to face me. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. All the account information was mine, including my own sloppy signature.
“Yes, but I just don’t remember getting the card.”
“I can print you a new one if you’d like,” the clerk offered, trying his best to be helpful, but clearly confused.
“No thanks,” I answered. “The main problem isn’t my account, anyway, it’s the fact that I don’t have the book. I don’t remember checking it out.”
“Oh, I see,” said the librarian in a rather grim tone. “Well, in that case the best I can do is to make a note on your account. If the book does show up in our system again, we can always credit your account, otherwise you’ll have to purchase the book, I’m afraid.”
“How much would that be?” I asked.
“In this case the book is a very rare hardcover edition. It could be as much as eighty dollars.”
“Eighty dollars!” I blurted out in a much louder voice than I had intended. My voice carried across the room and echoed from the arched expanse overhead, disturbing readers nearby. The clerk frowned and answered with a decidedly lower tone.
“Look, I’m sorry but like I said, that’s all I can do. You can always check the shelves upstairs. It’s possible the computer made a mistake. Find t
he book and I can reverse the charges.”
The librarian handed me a scrap of paper with a sequence of letters and numbers on it. He then pointed to a broad stairway that led up to the second floor before promptly turning his attention to the next person in line. I was left to navigate the maze of books alone, with a cryptic code written on paper to guide me. Fifteen minutes later I had found my way to what seemed to be the correct aisle—the third shelf to the left of the stairway marked 1500-1600.
Three times I walked the length of the aisle, and three times I came up empty-handed. I threw up my hands in frustration and was about to give up when a short red-haired girl about five years old bounced into view. There was a sizeable gap where her front teeth used to be, and she was wearing purple-rimmed glasses to match her outfit.
“You look lost. Are ya lost?” she asked in one of those obnoxious little kid voices.
“No, I’m just trying to find a book, that’s all,” I answered.
“You’re not very good at it, are you?” she said in a blunt way that only kids can get away with.
“I’m browsing,” I said awkwardly.
“Butcha been down the same row lots of times. I was watching you from the other side of the shelf. What’s on the paper?”
“A number I got at the front desk. It’s supposed to help me find a book or something.”
The girl eyed me with a sympathetic look.
“Oh boy. You need help. You sure you don’t want me to show you, ’cause I’m really good at finding stuff and I’m smart too. My mommy says I know too much.”
I’ll bet that’s not all she says about you, I thought to myself. But before I could brush her off again, it occurred to me that she might actually be right.
“You know what? Fine. If you can find this book I’ll give you a quarter,” I said, handing the paper to her.
She eyed the paper, contemplated the offer for a moment, then raised her eyebrow with a mischievous grin.
“A quarter can’t buy nothin’ anymore; make it a dollar.”
“A dollar? What are you, an extortionist?”
