Her shriek died the moment she crossed into the blackness, leaving nothing but eerie silence. I let myself collapse. And I bled quietly on the field, enjoying the clean air.
It was another five minutes before our miniature gap could be taken down. When it was, the empty black void of the private universe Tabbabitha and I had shared flickered and was gone, revealing a rather curious scene.
Dr. Plaskington and Ms. Botfly stood where the edge of the gap had been. Dr. Plaskington looked ready to either faint or cry. Ms. Botfly, on the other hand, was flapping her free hand and bouncing on her heels like a kid who has just gone on her first roller coaster and can’t wait to go again as soon as possible.
“‘You’re actually a bit prettier this way’!” she cackled. “What a line! She HATED that!” She held her phone up sideways to get a better angle. Was she recording video?
I didn’t care about them. I craned my neck around, looking for my friends. “Where are they?”
Dr. Plaskington pointed at the end zone near the entrance. “They’re alive and well, but don’t go agitating them, because—” I didn’t hear the rest because I was already running.
Warner and Hypatia were laid out on collapsible stretchers near the entrance to the field, looking like they had just come out of a yearlong stay in a haunted house or maybe like they had been dead up until a moment ago. Hypatia’s face was caked with dirt, and there was a little grass in her hair, which probably had something to do with when I’d sent her sliding face-first across the sod. She looked at me in an unfocused way out of one blue and one brown eye.
Warner had a deep gash across his cheek and a dark purple bruise on his shoulder. On the upside, he’d really nailed the disheveled hairdo. Behind them stood Dr. Foster, who was holding little blinking metal caps the size of teacups on top of each of their heads.
Hypatia tried to sit up, but Dr. Foster pushed her back onto the stretcher. “Not until the program completes. Keep still.”
Warner tried to rise, too, but Dr. Foster knew what he was doing.
“I have straps, if that’s what it takes for you two to wait another minute.”
“They’re all right?” I asked. “I thought they . . . I mean, I was worried . . .”
Dr. Foster nodded. “I was, too. I’ve never treated anyone who has been fed upon by an Old One before. Honestly, I’ve never heard of anyone surviving it. Hypatia was in bad shape when I arrived, but Warner . . . he was almost dead.”
“Oh god,” I whispered.
“I think what saved them was having something to focus on. That trick they pulled with your bracelet . . . That was remarkable.”
“They’re going to be okay?”
“I believe so. The trauma helmets should be done in a second here.”
“I saw where they go . . . ,” Hypatia said dreamily. “It was like she pulled us into their world or something. It was horrible. Dark all day and all night. A dark city with a circle of light around it. A grave.”
“Heh-heh, good one,” Warner mumbled, staring off in a random direction. “I saw a storm, but it was a nice storm, not one of the bad ones you always hear about in the media.”
Had they lost their minds? I made eye contact with Dr. Foster. “So . . .”
“It’s the trauma helmets,” Dr. Foster replied, indicating the goofy blinking bowls on their heads. “They call up and rewrite a bad memory thousands of times while it’s still fresh, which has a way of wearing it down and making it seem more distant. They prevent psychological and emotional scarring when used soon after an incident. Temporary disorientation, hallucinations, and stupor are common side effects.”
“Your mom is a common side effect!” Warner crowed.
Dr. Foster paid him no mind. “They’ll be fine soon. Speaking of which, I have one for you here.”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I said.
“You saw an undisguised Old One. You spoke to it and . . . killed it. I can’t think of a single case in medical literature where direct physical contact—”
“I get that, but I’m fine, really,” I said.
“No, you aren’t,” Dr. Foster said. “This isn’t my first day on the job, you know.”
“Okay, I’m a little—a lot shaken up. But I want to keep it, okay? I want to remember what they feel like. I might need to feel them coming someday, and I want to be ready for it.”
Dr. Foster looked like he wanted to argue. “I can’t make you accept treatment if you choose to refuse it, but I’m going to have the Chaperone monitor your condition for the next few days to alert me if you start showing symptoms. I’ll also ask you to schedule a few sessions with the counselor to confirm you aren’t having other adverse effects. Some problems can’t be seen from the outside.”
“Seems fair,” I said.
“Will you at least allow me to patch up the cuts? You look like you tried dancing with a thornbush.”
Once my cuts were healed or on their way to recovery a few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Dr. Plaskington standing within hugging range with her arms outstretched. I stepped back and opted for a handshake instead.
She held my hand in both of hers, patting it in sympathy. “Nikola, I’m so sorry you had to endure that terrible—”
“Terrible?” Ms. Botfly interrupted, sidling between us to show me her phone. “Don’t you mean magnificent? I’ve been watching the whole thing on repeat since you put her down. Brilliant work, I must say! You get a permanent A in every class you’ll ever have with me!”
“We do not assign grades, Ms. Botfly,” said Dr. Plaskington, a little stiffly.
“Oh shut up, you old poop. This is the first time we’ve been able to get photographic evidence of an Old One in their true form, and I have it on video! Look!”
She pressed a button, and I looked away just in time to avoid seeing the screen. The phone’s speaker made a low groaning sound, and I was instantly hit with another nauseating wave of that familiar Old One sickness. Warner and Hypatia went a little paler than they had been.
Dr. Plaskington batted her hand away. “Turn it off, Muriel! The charge on the trauma helmets won’t last long enough for you to go re-traumatizing everyone!”
“Sorry,” she said, switching it off.
“Come and sit down, dear,” Dr. Plaskington said, gesturing for me to join her in the front row of the stands.
“I believe I owe you an apology. After the shooting started, I became aware that something was happening, and the Chaperone was kind enough to share your plans with me, after a bit of prodding.”
“She threatened to format me,” the Chaperone said.
“Quiet, you!” Dr. Plaskington snapped at nothing in particular. She seemed to remember herself and continued, “What I mean to say is that . . . I believe I may have been incorrect when I said it was impossible for an Old One to find their way onto campus.”
“YA THINK?” I said, as politely as I could.
Dr. Plaskington nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes. I apologize for not taking your concerns seriously. It is a shame that . . . thing would not disclose where your father is being held.”
“Well, I have a feeling Dad’s going to cause them more trouble than they can cause him, especially if the rest of them are as clever as Tabbabitha. By the way, I’m sorry for calling you a dumb—for being combative,” I said.
“Very good,” she said. “I think that settles things, unless you have any questions for me . . .”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’m the principal. Shouldn’t I summarize things? Put a nice bow on the events we’ve all experienced? Maybe provide a little perspective or explanation?”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I was there, remember? I think I understand everything pretty well.”
“Thank goodness,” Dr. Plaskington said, picking an errant leaf out of her bluish-whit
e hairdo. “I’m not quite sure I get the whole time-travel thing myself yet. However did that beast come up with the idea?”
“No idea,” I said. “But someone here helped her.”
She scoffed at the suggestion. “I think we’d know if that was an issue. The monster was just saying that to toy with you, I’ll wager.”
I was starting to know this routine well. “Let me guess: the notion is ridiculous because it is completely impossible that a student or staff member would provide assistance to the Old Ones?”
“You do catch on quickly,” she said with a wink.
I nodded. “So since we know the sonic cannon was a part of Tabbabitha’s plan, and we know how impossible it is that someone helped her with that plan, we can of course be certain that Bob had absolutely no involvement in anything illegal or punishable, right?”
She thought this over. “Well, I’ve already done the paperwork and notified his parents of his long-term imprisonment. Why don’t we just leave things as they are and make sure we get it right next time?”
I shook my head. “You know, I was thinking of writing an article in the school paper about just how dangerous it is around here, what with the Old Ones running around and their presence being recklessly ignored. Do any parents subscribe to the school paper?”
I suppose some parents do get the paper because Dr. Plaskington pardoned Bob for any and all crimes on the spot, as long as I promised not to go “publishing fake news stories.”
By the time Hypatia and Warner were declared psychologically healed, the sunset was in full bloom. We walked in silence along Main Street toward downtown, watching shadows grow long through the park as students at sidewalk cafés shielded their eyes against the daytime’s last gasp.
“He wanted to make nunchuks,” Hypatia said.
“Big ones, though,” Warner added. “Maybe with spikes or something.”
“Don’t you hit yourself with nunchuks sometimes to control them?” I asked.
Warner considered this. “Yeah, spikes would be a design flaw. But you have to hand it to me on the ultrasonic sword.”
“I sure do,” I said. “Almost half the credit. Sounds like the spinning microscopic blades on the edge of the sword were mostly her idea.”
Hypatia blushed. “No, I just—”
“They actually were,” Warner interrupted. “But making it cut faster by adding vibration, that was all me.”
“Sorry your agar is gone,” Hypatia said.
“It’s okay, there are worse things to lose than . . .” I trailed off. Something in my head was trying to be remembered.
“Worse things to lose than what?” Warner asked.
“My hair!” I said.
“Not sure I get what . . .”
I ignored him and reached into my unruly shrub of knotty brown hair and found it: a tiny ring of agar I’d used that afternoon to tie my hair up. With one or two observations, I was able to place it back on my wrist with the same blue stripe through the center. It was a little less than full size—and much lighter—but I was glad to have it back, like a part of me that had been paralyzed suddenly worked again. It made me feel better about everything, somehow.
Out of nowhere, a cat sidled against my calf. A device attached to its collar blinked and announced, TRANSLATOR ERROR. A Frisbee glided across our path, stopped to let us pass, and continued on its way. Something exploded and caused a massive glittery purple-and-orange-striped mushroom cloud to rise above the residential section of School Town.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” I said.
“Me neither,” Warner said.
“What time is it? Is it too late for dinner?” Hypatia wondered.
Warner pointed at a restaurant across the square. “Nemo’s is open.”
“No, they sell oysters—I’m allergic. How about pizza?” Hypatia said.
An agreement was reached. “I’ll race you guys,” I said. “Last one buys dessert! Go!”
I watched Hypatia and Warner dash off into the evening gloom as fast as their legs could carry them, chuckling to myself.
I still had serious problems, but they didn’t feel overwhelming in the same way they had just a few weeks before. Maybe that was because I knew I wouldn’t be facing my problems entirely alone. Through some cosmic accident, I had acquired friends willing to risk their lives for me, and for a moment, that feeling of relief was almost more than I could bear. I stopped, blinked a few times, took a deep breath of wonderfully fresh evening air, and hopped aboard the unattended scooter I’d spotted when I proposed the race.
Just because I’d die for them doesn’t mean I won’t cheat to win a free dessert.
I have principles, you know.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I want to acknowledge you, the reader. This goes at the end, which means you probably just read the whole book, or you have a thing for acknowledgments and skipped right here. Either way, that’s awesome, and so are you. Thank you!
I also owe the following people a great deal of thanks (probably more than I can convey here): First, my mom and dad for being wonderful parents, no matter how difficult I made it. My wife, Stephanie, for tolerating . . . everything. Stephanie Marshall of Marshall Editing for taking a scattered disaster of punctuation and lackadaisical attention to grammar and turning it into something acceptable. My daughter Marilee for being my first focus group and second editor. My daughter Zoë for her artistic counsel and inspirational weirdness. My nieces Bailey, Emerson, and Isabelle for also being guinea pigs. My agent Josh Getzler (and everyone at HSG) for all his support and for not yet having a bad idea. Danielle Burby of the Nelson Agency (formerly HSG) for her support, suggestions, and for pulling this from the slush pile. My editor, Katherine Perkins at Putnam, for her expert input and for knowing what the heck I was trying to say and how I should have said it. And lastly, everyone else who has contributed to this—from copy editing to art and everything in between—has gone above and beyond, in my opinion. They aren’t paying you enough.
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A Problematic Paradox Page 27
