Dead Boy

by Laurel Gale

  Crow supposed that he had to go home, too.

  He didn’t have a key. Why would someone who wasn’t allowed outside need a key? The door was unlocked, though, so it didn’t matter. He pushed it open slowly, holding the bells so they made as little noise as possible, and tiptoed inside. If his mother had fallen asleep, maybe she’d never find out how late he was coming home.

  Not that he actually expected to be that lucky.

  Mrs. Darlingson was sitting on the living room sofa, very much awake and with a book in her hands. “You must have a lot of candy. You’ve been trick-or-treating since five o’clock. That was more than ten hours ago.”

  “I gave it away,” Crow said. “Since I couldn’t eat it anyway.”

  “And did you give away my pillowcase, too?” She put down her book, not bothering to mark her place, and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Oh, come here, will you? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  Crow sat next to his mother, who gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I need to call your father. He’s been driving around looking for you.” Mrs. Darlingson took out her cell phone and dialed. “You can call off your search. Crow’s back home.” A pause. “Okay. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  “Dad’s coming over?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed his arm, the one without a hand. “What happened? What have you been doing all night?”

  Crow took his hand out of his pocket. “Can you sew it back on?”

  She gave him a long look. “Of course. Wait here.” She went upstairs to fetch her supplies, leaving Crow alone—except for the maggots.

  Several minutes later, the front door opened, and Mr. Darlingson ran in. His thinning brown hair was a mess, his shoes were mismatched, and while he had changed into a pair of jeans, he was still wearing his flannel pajama top. “Crow, what were you thinking? Your mother was so worried! I was so worried! Don’t ever do that again.”

  Crow looked down at his shoes, filthy from the night’s events. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m just glad you’re okay.” Mr. Darlingson frowned. “What happened to your hand?”

  “It fell off,” Crow said. And it was true, he told himself. His hand had fallen off—right after the guillotine blade had sliced through his flesh and bone.

  Mrs. Darlingson came down the stairs. “This is why I don’t want you going out, Crow. The world’s too rough for you. Don’t you see that you’re safer here with me?”

  Safer, yes. Crow couldn’t deny that. He nodded, his eyes still focused on his dirty shoes.

  “What really happened to your hand, Crow?” Mr. Darlingson asked. “This looks like a clean cut. And don’t lie to me—I can tell when you’re lying. And when you’re leaving something out.”

  That was a bluff, Crow thought. His father couldn’t really tell when he was being untruthful. His mother could, but she usually seemed more interested in pretending that everything was okay so they could forget about any problems.

  Crow told his parents everything anyway. Well, almost everything. They listened intently, never once interrupting to ask a question.

  When Crow had finished, Mr. Darlingson shook his head in disappointment. “You’re smarter than that, Crow. You should have come to us for help. We’ve dealt with the Meera before. And we didn’t know where you were. If you hadn’t been stuck in your room for the last two years, I’d say you should be grounded.”

  “I tried asking you about the Meera,” Crow pointed out.

  Mrs. Darlingson took his hand and began sewing it back on. “The Meera’s very dangerous. But you’re home now, and an injured arm isn’t too high a price to pay, assuming you’ve learned your lesson. You have learned your lesson, Crow, haven’t you?”

  Crow hesitated before nodding.

  “What are you leaving out?” Mr. Darlingson asked. Maybe he knew more about what Crow was thinking than Crow gave him credit for.

  “The Meera said something about me,” Crow said. “About the way I died. It said that Luke had something to do with my death. Is that true?”

  Mrs. Darlingson’s stitches became fast and sloppy. “It was all so long ago. Who can even remember? What matters is that you’re home now. Forever. With no reason to go back out.”

  Mr. Darlingson took a deep breath and sat on the sofa, motioning for Crow to do the same. “It’s true. Do you want to know what happened?”

  “No, he doesn’t want to know what happened.” Mrs. Darlingson finished the stitches. “He wants to go to bed and forget about all this.”

  “I think he’s old enough to start deciding what he wants for himself,” Mr. Darlingson said.

  “How would you know? You hardly see him.”

  Mr. Darlingson’s face grew red with an anger Crow had never seen on him before. “Because you refuse to let him come over to my apartment!” He took a deep breath. “Caroline, we agreed not to fight in front of him. The two of us are going to talk now, if that’s what he wants, and I think we both know it is. We can talk here, or we can talk back at my place.”

  Mrs. Darlingson glared at him with a rage that could melt ice caps, but she didn’t protest anymore.

  “Crow,” Mr. Darlingson said, “would you like me to tell you what happened?”

  Crow nodded and, trying not to look at his mother, sat beside his father.

  “Do you remember the spelling bee?”

  “Yes,” Crow said, so uncertain that it sounded like a question. What did a spelling bee have to do with his death?

  “You were the fourth-grade champion. Luke Ebsworth was the runner-up.”

  Crow nodded, still unsure of where this was going. Maybe his father had decided not to tell him after all. Maybe he was trying to distract him with an unrelated story.

  “And do you remember the school play?” Mr. Darlingson continued.

  Crow nodded again. The school had put on a play called Tour of Outer Space. He’d been chosen for the lead role, but only because he already had the perfect space suit, an astronaut costume his mother had made for him for Halloween. He died before opening night, though, so all the time he spent memorizing his lines went to waste.

  “And what about the academic bowl?” Mr. Darlingson asked. “Do you remember that?”

  “I remember.” The academic bowl was a competition held every year at his old elementary school. The classes in each grade competed against each other by answering math, science, grammar, and history questions. He’d been the team captain for his class, the winning class. They’d gotten a pizza party.

  Crow remembered pizza. It had been one of his favorite foods. But he still didn’t see why it mattered now.

  “Luke accused you of cheating,” Mr. Darlingson said. “He complained to his parents. He thought he deserved to win—”

  Crow remembered that very well. Even though no one had believed Luke, the lies had stung. “Luke was a sore loser. But what does this have to do with my death?”

  “Luke complained to his parents, and they complained to us. Remember that day at the park, when I almost got into a fistfight with Mr. Ebsworth?”

  Crow nodded again.

  “We left. After that, Mr. and Mrs. Ebsworth were taken by the Meera. They passed the Meera’s tests, and the Meera gave them a wish. Do you see where this is going?”

  “I think so.” The Meera must have dragged Mr. and Mrs. Ebsworth underground to punish them for what it considered bad behavior, just as it had done with Luke. Unlike Luke, though, his parents had proven themselves worthy in the Meera’s eyes. “My death had something to do with their wish?”

  “Yes. They wished for their son to have a turn at being the best. You died, and he got into the school-level spelling bee. He got to play the astronaut in the school play. He got everything he wanted. But when Mr. and Mrs. Ebsworth returned home, they heard about your death, and they realized that it couldn’t be a coincidence. They confessed everything to us immediately. We went to the Meera, passed its tests, and wished for you to come ba
ck to us.”

  “What were your tests like?” Crow asked. “Each of mine was based on an animal.”

  “So were ours. Let’s see, the first one was a turtle—or a tortoise—and we had to walk forever, even when the passage kept shrinking.”

  “Whoa! Ours was a tortoise, too, and we had to walk a long time, but it didn’t get smaller. There was mud. I probably still have some in my ears.” He stuck a finger in his ear to check, but all he found was yet another maggot. “What about the second test?”

  “We had to build a bridge. It was actually kind of neat—”

  “Stop talking about this like it’s some sort of game!” Mrs. Darlingson yelled. “You could have been killed tonight, Crow. Really, truly killed.”

  For the first time, Crow noticed that her usually perfect makeup was smudged. She’d been crying.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to meet the Meera. It just kind of happened. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “I’m only trying to do what’s best for you.” She dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye.

  That was why she protected him, even though he’d proven that he could fend for himself. That was why she isolated him, even though he’d shown that he could have a friend.

  “I know,” Crow said. But he was starting to wonder whether she had any idea what was best for him anymore.

  —

  Mr. Darlingson went home, which now meant somewhere else, and Mrs. Darlingson went to bed, even though the sun would be rising soon. Crow, alone with his thoughts, wished more than ever that he could sleep. If he could just escape into his dreams, he thought, things wouldn’t be so bad. But sleep evaded him as always.

  He took out a sheet of paper and some colored pencils. First, he outlined the Meera’s goatlike body, complete with wings and scorpion tail. Then he drew the face, with its horrible beak, rectangular pupils, and single horn. The mix of fur, scales, and feathers proved difficult to reproduce, but he got the idea across. Last, he added the collar, though he couldn’t remember what the swirling symbols had looked like, only that it seemed to shimmer in even the darkest room.

  By the time he had finished, the neighborhood outside his window bustled with Sunday-morning activity. Young women pushed baby strollers down the sidewalk. Children rode bicycles and skateboards in the street. Melody, unsurprisingly, was not among them. She’d arrived home just as late as Crow, and as a result she’d probably spend the rest of the weekend, and maybe the month, grounded.

  Hopefully her wish had been worth it.

  Crow took out another sheet of paper. Without thinking about it, he began drawing bees. He’d never drawn insects before. Dinosaurs, aliens, and monsters—his usual choices—seemed much worthier subjects than puny bugs. But now they swarmed over every inch of his paper. As he drew them, his latest encounter with the Meera played in his mind, over and over.

  At the time, his attention had been focused on the Meera and, to a lesser extent, Melody and Luke. In comparison, the room itself hardly seemed to matter. Details had been ignored.

  Now he remembered.

  There had been engravings on the walls. Engravings of bees.

  A sense of dread grew heavy in his useless stomach.

  After everything that had happened, Mrs. Darlingson hadn’t locked his bedroom door. Crow crept downstairs to the living room. The computer booted up noisily, but Mrs. Darlingson was sleeping too soundly to stir.

  The engravings had never been simple decorations. The spider had stood for patience, the dog for loyalty, the tortoise for perseverance, and so on. Every animal had stood for some admirable quality, even if he hadn’t figured out what at the time. Every animal had represented the focus of a test.

  The bees must have meant something, too. But what?

  Crow searched the Internet for information.

  Bees were social insects. He’d known that already, but he didn’t see how it related to anything that had happened in the last room. Bees pollinated flowers. That seemed even less relevant. Populations had been dwindling in recent years. They were related to ants and wasps. They lived in hives with one queen and many workers.

  None of this helped Crow at all—not until he came across an article on animal altruism.

  Worker bees spent their entire lives helping the queen. They gave up the ability to reproduce, and some even died in defense of their queen.

  The bee represented selflessness. Which meant that the wish itself had been a test.

  A test that Melody had failed.

  When Mrs. Darlingson’s bedroom door opened upstairs, Crow was still reading about bees. Knowing that she wouldn’t want to discuss the Meera—and not wanting to make her cry again—he typed the address of an educational website. As his mother came downstairs, he started a spelling game.

  “Defenestrate,” Mrs. Darlingson said, reading his first word off the screen. “Very nice. Listen, Crow, your father and I were talking last night. You’re growing up, in your own special way, and I can’t stop that. I don’t want to. Of course, this doesn’t excuse your sneaking out, but if you like, today we can move the computer back up to your room.”

  “What about the lock on my door?”

  She frowned. “Well, taking it off seems like a lot of unnecessary work, but I’ll promise not to lock you in—unless you give me a reason.”

  This was good. Really good. Crow tried to feel happy, but something nagged at him. Returning the computer to his room meant going back to the way things used to be. And things used to be awfully lonely.

  “What about Melody? Can I see her again?”

  Mrs. Darlingson tousled the clumps of hair on Crow’s head. “I suppose you could invite her over sometime. I could fix dinner.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. It was just an idea. Your father’s idea, actually, not that he’ll be the one to cook for—”

  “No!” Crow interrupted. “I mean, yes. I want her to come over. I’ll email her right now.”

  “There’s no rush,” Mrs. Darlingson said, and she went in the kitchen to get her morning cup of coffee.

  —

  Crow kept checking his email for Melody’s reply. It finally came that evening.

  Their late night had landed her in trouble, just as Crow had predicted. She had to spend Sunday in her bedroom. She also had to do extra chores for the next three months, and she was never allowed to hang out with Grace, Hannah, Luke, or Travis again—Mr. Plympton still thought she’d gone trick-or-treating with them.

  He also thought that they were to blame for the times Melody and Crow had sneaked out back in early October. They’d pressured Crow and Melody into going to the park, Melody had convinced him, and Crow had been against it from the start. She also told her father that Crow’s skin problems came from complications related to chicken pox, a virus she was fully vaccinated against, so there was nothing to worry about.

  She’d done a lot of lying. But it was for a good cause, Crow thought, so maybe it was okay.

  She promised to come over for dinner Monday night.

  The email didn’t mention anything about the wish until the very end. There’s more magic than I realized. I can’t get away from it.

  —

  Mrs. Darlingson prepared a pot roast. As the smell wafted through the house, Crow wondered if perhaps he’d made the wrong wish after all. Sure, a selfish wish would have caused him to fail the last test, but if it meant he could have pot roast, it might have been worth it.

  And Luke really hadn’t deserved his help. He knew that now, after what his father had told him.

  Melody came as promised. She wore what was, for her, a normal outfit: blue-and-green-checkered leggings and a pink sweater decorated with purple pom-poms. But she had pinned a bouquet of herbs to her sweater, which was strange even for her. Her skin glistened as if coated in oil.

  “I’m so glad you were finally able to make it over,” Mrs. Darlingson said, though Crow thought it sounded a little forced. �
�Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Crow and Melody sat down at the dinner table while Mrs. Darlingson went into the kitchen.

  “I’m glad your dad doesn’t hate me anymore,” Crow said.

  “Yeah. Now he hates Grace and Hannah. They weren’t at school today. Travis, either.”

  Melody’s pupils darted back and forth as she spoke, tracking something Crow couldn’t see. Every once in a while, she jumped a little.

  “How’s your wish going?”

  “Huh? Oh. Not as well as I’d expected.” She jerked her head. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Never mind. It’s gone. Luke avoided me today, which seemed pretty ungrateful if you ask me. He’s fine except his hands are still burned. Everyone thinks he hurt himself with the firecrackers—Okay, you have to see that. It’s right on your nose!”

  Crow frowned. Even crossing his eyes, he couldn’t see anything on his nose. Couldn’t feel anything, either, not even when he poked his nose with his finger.

  Melody took a small jar out of her pocket. It contained oil with green, purple, and black specks in it, which she daubed on her neck. “Want some? It’ll protect you from magical dangers.”

  Crow noticed that she had specks all over her hair and skin. She must have been using that oil a lot. It smelled like basil. “No thanks.”

  Mrs. Darlingson walked in with dinner. “I hope you like it.”

  Crow was used to sitting idly by during meals, so despite how good the pot roast smelled, he didn’t really mind. Melody, however, was not used to it at all, and she kept shooting him awkward glances—when she wasn’t distracted by things no one else could see. As a result, she hardly ate anything at all.

  “So Crow tells me the two of you have become rather good friends,” Mrs. Darlingson said. “I hope you don’t plan to share what you’ve learned about him. We like our privacy, you understand.”

  “She’s not going to tell anyone,” Crow said.

  Melody had speared a green bean with her fork, but before she could take a bite, she put down the fork in order to shoo something away. “Crow’s right. I’m good with secrets.”