by Walsh, Sara
The voices of passing students punctuated the silence that followed. The gym door banged. Engines revved. Radios blared in the parking lot. And all the time, he stared at me. I started to wonder if I had ink daubed on my lips or huge boils on my face. Approaching Sol had been a huge mistake. He was clearly uninterested in everything and everyone around him. The chances of him opening up about the tattoo? Zero.
“What about it?” he finally asked.
So he could speak. His voice had a soft tone and a soothing depth, not ultra-deep, but in no way boyish. It was a bonus.
“I’ve seen something like it before,” I said. Seizing the opening, I stepped toward him. “I wondered what it meant.”
Though he was making this far from easy, I caught a glint of a smile on his lips. Up close, I saw shades of a whole different person. He was open and interested. What I’d judged to be arrogance appeared as curiosity. He was a mysterious bundle of contradictions. I wished him luck making friends at Crownsville High.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he said.
“But it’s huge. Where’d you get something like that?”
Again, that look, half guarded, half questioning. “No place around here.”
“Then you got it in the town where you used to live?”
Sol’s eyes narrowed. “I got it a long time ago,” he said. And then he left, before I could say anything else.
Completely bemused, I watched him from the steps. He was one of hundreds heading through the lot, but he was the only one I saw. The new guy. So out of place. So different from everyone I knew.
He climbed into a blue truck and drove away.
Sol. Sol, with a man’s knowing eyes and a tattoo like my brother’s. Sol, who would think of me as that crazy girl with lots of questions. Not that I planned on seeing him anytime soon. One dose of humiliation was enough for me.
I headed for Rusty, determined to forget the encounter and move on with my day. But the image of that curious look in Sol’s eyes lingered long after I’d left school behind.
FIVE
Normally, I’d be desperate to confess to Willie that I’d spoken to Sol, but I kept silent for no other reason than I’d never told anyone about Jay’s tattoo. I didn’t plan on changing that now, especially with Pete promising he’d finally get rid of it. There were other issues I wanted to avoid too, like admitting that my fascination for Sol went beyond the tattoo. It was crazy, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d looked at me. And there was no argument on earth that would satisfactorily convince Willie of why Andy’s schedule had taken me to Sol’s chemistry lab. So when we sat down to lunch on Wednesday and Willie announced that the cops had been at Old Man Crowley’s, I kept my ears open and my mouth shut.
“Got to be about Sol,” said Kieran. “The ‘never talks to anyone’ act. The ‘randomly shows up and no one knows where he came from’ story. There was never any trouble at Crowley’s until he came on the scene.”
Willie, who as usual was tying knots in her french fries, tossed one of her creations at Kieran. “I hate it when you ‘air punctuate,’” she said, mimicking Kieran’s finger speech marks. “So the kid’s new to town? Doesn’t make him an axe murderer.”
“Some ‘kid,’” said Kieran. He flicked back the clump of mangled potato. “I’d like to know what kind of a ‘school’ he got kicked out of before coming here.”
“Did he get kicked out?” asked Seth.
“Why else send him here? Did you see that tat? I bet it was a gang thing.”
I was determined not to get involved in the conversation. But, a gang? The idea had merit; it would explain why Sol had been so cagey when I’d asked about the tattoo. Obviously, Jay wasn’t in a gang, but maybe my dad had been?
“There are a million reasons for him to be here,” said Willie, refusing to give it up. “Maybe his parents died and Crowley’s his only living relative. Or maybe he’s a storm chaser. Or he heard what a great town Crownsville was. If all the students looked like him, I’d say ‘bring ’em on.’” She winked as she shot another air quotation.
“I bet your dad knows.”
“My dad might know his favorite candy bar and his shoe size, and I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Meaning he does know something.”
“Meaning, he wouldn’t tell me if he did!”
Kieran pushed aside his tray. He looked at us one by one, intrigue clear in his eyes. “Think about it. All these kids disappear, Sol turns up, and then Alex Dash goes missing too.”
Willie shook her head, then gestured like Kieran was crazy. “So that means Sol’s snatching kids? Get real, Kieran. Boys were disappearing long before he showed up.”
“But if we knew where he came from, then maybe we could find out if the same thing had happened there.”
I couldn’t help thinking that maybe Kieran had a point. Not his ridiculous theory that Sol was the Crownsville Kidnapper (that was just typical Kieran hysteria), but that Sol was far too mysterious. I’d asked about the tattoo and he’d given me nothing. Why be so secretive? Maybe it was a gang symbol, maybe it wasn’t. Whatever the truth, it all pointed in one direction: Sol was hiding something.
The bell saved us from more of Kieran’s conspiracies.
“Unbelievable,” muttered Willie, as soon as he and Seth had gone.
We grabbed our bags, then dumped our trays at the mess station.
“Time for study hall,” I said. “Any plans?”
Willie grinned. “Yeah. I’m gonna run circuits in the gym. Want to come?”
I really did. “I can’t. I haven’t finished Rifkin’s debate prep. He’s getting harsh with his grading.”
“You mean the ‘It’s about time you all grew up and faced the disappointments of adulthood’ speech that he gave last week?”
“Yeah. That. I’ll catch you later, Wills.”
Glad for a distraction from Sol, tattoos, and psychopathic kidnappers, I hurried to the library and bagged the largest table I could find to accommodate the mountains of books I’d need for Rifkin’s assignment. It was a monster—“Resolved: The clash of civilizations has no basis in reality.” Yikes. I grabbed the reading list, hit the shelves, and began taking notes.
Twenty minutes later I realized I’d only written three lines. Opulent blooms filled the margins of my page. A theme appeared between the doodles: Scrolling, curling Ss.
Give me a break.
I blamed Kieran that I was so distracted. All that garbage about Sol and the cops at Old Man Crowley’s—as if Sol had anything to do with those kids. The real mystery was his tattoo. Find out where he got the tattoo, find a link to my dad. Find a link to my dad and . . . Then what? Track him down? Was that what I really wanted?
My brain was beginning to melt. Trying to refocus, I reached for a different book. I didn’t expect what I found. An open book lay on top of the stack. And there, on the page, was a drawing of Sol’s and Jay’s tattoo.
Stunned, I glanced around. Sol was nowhere in sight. Heart racing, I looked again at the book. The colors burst from the page. It was definitely the same bird, a strange, otherworldly eagle. Its steely eye watched me.
The caption read: “The Lunestral, or dream bird, which descends to earth in a column of light, signifies resilience, protection, and hope. The Lunestral is said to appear in dreams and offers protection from demons in the night.”
The book, Symbols in Legend and Mythology, didn’t look like it’d spent much time off the shelf. I turned it over and examined the spine. No Dewey number. No Crownsville High stamp. I skimmed through the pages before turning back to the bird.
Resilience. Protection. Hope.
That didn’t sound very gang-like to me.
But I felt like I was now privy to some great secret. After all these years, Jay’s tattoo had meaning.
Again, I scanned the library. And there he was, watching me from the door. Sol.
He couldn’t have been there for more than a couple of minutes, but the thought that he’d bee
n watching me sent a shivery thrill through my spine. He leaned against the wall, his long arms folded, his expression totally unreadable.
I looked down at the book and wondered whether I should chance a smile. But when I looked up again, Sol had gone.
* * *
The wasted study session saw me back in the library at the end of the day. I set to work, but time and again my gaze wandered to the door. There was no question Sol had sneaked the book onto my pile. But why didn’t he think he could hand it to me in person? I took the book from my bag and opened it to the dream bird.
“You know this place causes dandruff.”
I just about sprang out of my seat at the voice. I was doubly surprised to see Andy, a species usually found in locker rooms, not libraries. The thrill from when I’d caught Sol watching me during study hall returned. Only this time, it was different. With Sol, I felt drawn, like he was luring me toward him. With Andy, everything felt fresh and real and now. My stomach tightened with nervous anticipation.
“You scared me to death,” I said.
“Sorry.” He slid into the seat beside me, his hair wet like he’d recently showered. It was a regular look among the senior jocks. “Overtime?”
“Debate for Rifkin.” I quickly covered the dream bird with my notebook. “He’s ranking our grades on this, and only giving five As.”
“And you want one?”
I shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
Andy’s eyes sparkled in the library’s fluorescent lights. It was clear he wanted to be here, unlike Sol whose gaze seemed to question everything about me. I had no idea why I was comparing the two of them; it was a bit like comparing gingerbread to prime rib. Both were delicious, but one was all warm and comforting, the other all flesh and blood. It didn’t take much to guess who was who.
“I had a great time last weekend,” I said, trying to rein in my excitement. “I haven’t been on the Ridge in ages.”
“Me neither,” said Andy. “We used to hang out there a lot.”
He shuffled, nodding as if the conversation continued in his head. I watched and waited, wondering why he seemed so restless.
“I never finished telling you about Jessica,” he finally said.
Jessica? My heart sank. This was the part when he’d tell me they’d gotten back together.
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He fidgeted again. It was so un-Andy. He was usually so calm. But it was kind of adorable, too, with his damp hair flopping onto his forehead. Shame I was probably about to get bad news.
“Me and Jessica should never have gotten back together last time,” he said. “It’s definitely over now. I just wanted you to know that.”
Hope rekindled. He just wanted me to know? Me?
Andy looked me straight in the eye. He took a deep breath. “Mia, come to the prom with me,” he blurted. “I mean, would you like to come to the prom with me?”
I couldn’t speak.
Obviously, he misunderstood my silence. His face fell. “I only mentioned Jessica because I didn’t want you to think this is a rebound thing. It isn’t. I swear.” He slumped. “Look, Mia, you know I’ve always liked you. We get along really well. If it hadn’t been for Jessica and . . .” He shook his head. “You don’t have to answer right away. You probably already have a date, right?”
Was he kidding me?
“I’d love to go.”
He faltered. “You looked kind of stunned.”
“I’d love to go,” I said, again.
He smiled and the scent of freshly grilled prime rib faded. “Then I’ll get us tickets.” He touched my arm, and for a second I thought he might do something really crazy, like kiss me right there in the middle of the library. He didn’t.
“I should let you get back to debate,” he said, and stood up. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked hugely relieved. “Don’t work too late. The fog’s coming down out there.”
Half shell-shocked, half boogying on my happy cloud, I grabbed my cell as soon as Andy left and shot Willie a text: “jst saw AM in libr. Gt bg nws! TTYL!”
There was no way I could tackle Rifkin’s debate now. Those clashing civilizations would just have to try to get along until my high wore off. Andy had just asked me to the senior prom!
I dumped my books on the cart, and then snatched up my notebook. Beneath it, the dream bird stared at me. I paused.
The dream bird, which descends to earth in a column of light.
But there was no light when I thought of Sol and his tattoo, only mystery and shadow, the kind of dark things I wanted to obliterate from my life. I saw light when I thought of Andy—Andy who’d been so sweet and nervous when he’d asked me to prom, choosing me over every other girl in school. So what if Sol and Jay had the same tattoo? It probably meant nothing. And even if it did, was that something I wanted to bring into my life?
I dropped Sol’s book into my bag and made a decision. It was time to turn my back on shadows for good.
* * *
Andy was right. By the time I hit the parking lot, the mist was pretty thick. Morning and evening were often foggy in Crownsville, because of the river. It probably wasn’t smart to head out of town, the mists would thicken as I neared the water, but there was no turning back when I was in such a decisive mood.
It was a simple plan: I’d drive to Old Man Crowley’s, thank Sol for the book, hand it back, and then put him and the tattoo out of my mind for good.
As predicted, the mist became a dense fog as I neared the bridge and the landing for Gus Mason’s ferry. Visibility sucked. I turned on Rusty’s low beams and kept below thirty.
About ten minutes later, two red orbs glowed in front of me. The traffic signal at the river bridge.
I hadn’t realized how far I’d come without anything to guide me but the winding road. The river bridge was narrow—only one car could cross at a time. Though I was little more than twenty feet away, the wooden railings on either side, which prevented a plunge into the river below, were barely visible.
Doubts surfaced. Could I even find the turn onto Old Man Crowley’s land? What if Sol wasn’t there? I had to put the book into his hands if I was to gain closure on this festering obsession.
The red light turned to green, and I came up on the clutch. Rusty shuddered, then died. Thinking I’d stalled him, I set back to neutral, tapped the dash, and then turned the engine. Nothing.
“Oh no,” I groaned. “Come on, Rusty. Please, don’t.”
I ran through the entire ritual again, conscious of draining Rusty’s less than reliable battery with every try. Still the engine refused to turn.
“This is bad.”
I grabbed my phone, called Pete, and begged for once that he’d answer. He didn’t. After garbling a voicemail, I turned on my hazards, climbed from the car, and took stock.
I was at least a couple of miles from home, farther if I had to backtrack to town and walk on from there. I also had to get Rusty off the road before someone tore up behind me. Whatever happened, I was going to have to explain why I was out here. There was nothing else to do: Willie would have to come to my rescue.
I was about the make the call when a voice came from the right, close to the bridge. “Hello, there.” A rustle in the undergrowth followed.
Suddenly conscious of being alone in the middle of nowhere, I spun around.
“Who’s there?” My heart pounded.
“That you, Mia?”
A short figure appeared on the towpath. I squinted through the fog. “Mr. Mason?”
Gus Mason emerged from the mist. Never had I been so happy to see him.
“What you doing out this way?” he asked.
Now wasn’t the time to explain. I skipped ahead. “My car died.”
“We should get it off the road, then,” he said. “Can you push?”
I knew I could. I was more worried about Gus, who had to be at least seventy years old.
“Just to the side here, Mia. I’ll take off the brake.”
I handed Gus the keys, cringing at the empty soda cans on the floor and the sports bra dumped on the backseat. Gus didn’t seem to notice.
Together we pushed Rusty onto the grassy shoulder. Problem one: solved.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I said, as I grabbed my bag from the backseat and stuffed the bra into one of my old sneakers.
Gus hoisted his baggy jeans onto his waist. He scanned the fog. “Pete coming for ya?”
“He’s not answering his phone,” I replied, hating that I had to give testimony to Pete’s unreliability. “I’ll probably walk back to town.”
Gus waved the idea away. “No need for that. I’ve got the ferry at the landing. I was about to take her back to the boathouse when I heard you cut out. Jump on. I’ll take you to Miller’s Crossing. It can’t be more than fifteen minutes for you from there.”
I couldn’t have been more grateful. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around Gus’s neck and plant a huge kiss on his shiny forehead.
“Have you been on the water in all this fog?” I asked, as we navigated the undergrowth to the river’s edge.
“Fishing for perch,” he replied. “Didn’t catch so much as a cattail. Lucky for you, hey?”
The path veered and the first boards on the dock appeared beneath us. Another twenty feet and the ferry emerged from the mist.
Gus’s ferry was a thing of magic to any kid younger than ten in Crownsville. More pontoon than boat, it was painted scarlet and decorated with scrolls and flowers reminiscent of gypsy wagons. A yellow awning, strung with fairy lights, sheltered six wooden benches. The captain’s station stood at the stern. Beside the wheel lived Admiral Sunday, a stuffed parrot complete with an eye patch and spotted kerchief. He perched over the rusted tin where, as a kid, you dropped your quarters when you boarded, and Gus, an awful ventriloquist would squawk, “Welcome aboard, shipmates.”
I pulled my jacket around me as I huddled on one of the benches and tried to avoid Admiral Sunday’s eye. In truth, the scrawny thing had always given me the creeps. Gus started the engine and the lights on the awning twinkled on. We drifted from the dock and onto the river. The vague outline of rocks and trees loomed on either side.
