“But we must also do something about HAARP?”
Papers nods and then hops down into my lap, curls up like a spiral, and falls fast asleep.
Alex looks at me. “You do realize we just had a very sophisticated conversation with a monkey, don’t you?”
FIVE
Alex and I work together and by the end of the second day we manage to get everything accomplished, even stuff we didn’t originally think of, like a live stream of data from the PEAR center that shows this slow, steady climb in coherence, or unity.
In the late afternoon, Mrs. Findlay comes in to tell us she needs to go to town, emphasizing the fact that she will be back in no more than forty minutes. We pretend to be so engrossed in our computer screens that we barely say goodbye, but the minute I hear Thomas start up the Land Rover, I say, “Do you want to see inside the tower?”
“Aye,” Alex says, jumping up so fast it startles me.
“Come on, then!”
We run as quickly as we can upstairs. From the rabbit ears key to the ladder in the hole, he is completely fascinated. It isn’t until I show him everything, even the vesica pisces that drops below ground, that he even looks at me. But it’s worth the wait.
Right after I show him how to make the rocks glow with the lanterns, he pulls me close to him, takes my chin and tips it up so I can look into his blue eyes. Then he bends down and gives me the longest, sweetest kiss. Saving the best for last, I gently push him from the edge of the rock to the center. Slowly, because we’re entwined as one, we start to rise. He pulls away and starts flailing his arms at first, not knowing what is happening. Then I grab him tightly and we rise together. When we’re about two feet off the ground, we lose our balance; he starts tipping backwards and I tip on top of him.
And there we stay, locked in a magnetic kiss, for the best few minutes of my life. Even the feeling of floating seems mundane compared to the swirling I feel in my heart.
The faint beep of a horn startles us both. Thomas must be alerting us that he and Mrs. Findlay are home. We scurry back up to my room and then take separate staircases down—Alex runs straight out to help Mrs. Findlay with the groceries and I run back to the library.
When I sit back down at the computer, it feels like my heart is four times its size, pumping blood and love and fear and excitement all at once.
A few minutes later Alex is in the doorway with Mrs. Findlay. “I’ve got to go, Caity,” he says.
“Oh, bummer. Hey, thanks so much for your help on the project.” When Mrs. Findlay turns to leave, Alex stands for a moment and gives me a crooked smile.
After he’s gone I move to his chair and close my eyes. If everything in this world leaves an energetic imprint, I want to bask in his for as long as I can.
––––––
That night, my parents call. They sound far away in every sense; preoccupied, distracted, sad. They tell me they spent the day going through a storage unit where the insurance company put all the stuff that could be salvaged from the house. Mom said she’ll have the nauseating smell of wet, burnt things in her nose for weeks.
“Is there really anything that’s okay to keep?” I ask.
“Some silver, some porcelain, things like that,” Mom answers. “I’m afraid not much from your room survived.”
“That’s totally the least of my worries,” I tell her. It’s true. I picture my room with its lavender walls and corkboards full of magazine cutouts and the white furniture that seems doll-like after the enormous furniture in the castle. It was all so innocent.
That naïve Caity is gone, up in flames with the furniture and stuffed animals and childhood toys.
“Do they have any idea how it started?” I ask.
“They’re still investigating,” Dad says. “Most likely an electrical thing. These old houses are just a rat’s nest of wires.”
We chat a bit more about the weather and what we’ve eaten, all of us wanting to stay connected but not wanting to go back to heavy subjects. Finally, when there is nothing left to say, we hang up.
My bedroom windows and doors are shuttered and bolted and a large club-like weapon that I got from the wall of the Salon sits beside my bed, but I still shiver as I try to fall asleep.
I can’t seem to get the image of Barend Schlacter’s nasty face out of my mind; it was probably he who started the fire.
When I close my eyes all I see is his fat hand striking a match, burning down my childhood.
––––––
I spend a lonely week by myself trying to tie up loose ends with the website and the tones that Alex created. Mrs. Findlay, Thomas, and I eat every meal together in the kitchen and I live for little updates about Alex and what he’s doing. Apparently the butcher shop is a complete nightmare of rotting wood and the demolition has been tough.
Mrs. Findlay is staying in the room off the kitchen and Thomas is sleeping on site in one of the East Wing rooms, yet I still bolt my door every night.
The day before my parents are scheduled to come home, I get great news from Justine: her parents are letting her try La Escuela Bohemia. It was the exclusivity of the place that tipped it over the edge with her parents. Anything with “world’s most expensive” in front of it attracts Mr. Middleford like ants to a Popsicle stick.
Meanwhile, I have everything submitted except the parental agreement and wire transfer, the only things I could not do by myself.
Seeing the bit about the transfer of money made me think about Dad’s covert operating style and the fact that we should not enroll with our real last names. So I used the fake email address I’d made for Mom to email the school about a couple of key things, like can we enroll with covert names (for security reasons) and could two students who enroll together be paired with the same teacher—or Pedagogue, as they call them. The answer was “yes” to both. Students can use whatever name they choose at school as long as one person in the travel department has the student’s real passport name on file. Best of all, students can pair up prior to coming if both parties consent and both parties keep up their grades.
I think this might actually happen.
––––––
Mom and Dad arrive home looking older than I’ve ever seen them look. Without question, sadness can change a person’s appearance.
They’re worn out, so we spend the day together playing Scrabble and reading in the parlor while being fattened by Mrs. Findlay, who is happy to have lots of people to cook for again. It feels good to just do nothing.
In the evening, after they’ve relaxed a bit and the sadness has lifted, I spring the school thing on them, being sure to include the fact that this was one of the brochures they sent away for. I fill them with info about La Escuela Bohemia’s unique concept, the notable alumni, the teacher-to-student ratio. I save the money bit for last. They both gulp and look at each other. It’s a lot of money.
“If you want me to stay here, I’m totally cool with that,” I say. “That little island school should be fine.”
“Um, no,” Mom says.
“Well, any boarding school will be expensive,” Dad says, “so I guess it’s matter of scale.”
Mom adds, “And it is just two years ...”
“Small price to see the world, I suppose,” Dad replies.
Mom shrugs. “The whole reason we work so hard is to give Caity a good future.”
They are trying to convince themselves, and are getting pretty close.
I trot out the part about SAT scores, college acceptance, and royal alumni. As they’re chewing on these tasty facts, I play my last card. “I haven’t even told you the best part yet—Justine wants to go with me!”
They both look shocked.
“Her parents agreed to this?” Dad says.
“When did this all happen?” Mom asks.
“We talked about it while you guys were in San Francisco,” I say. “So what do you think?”
No one answers. Wanting to fill up the dead air, I say, “Honestly Mom, you
know how much I did not want to go away to school. Now I’ve found one that actually has me excited to go and has all the academic requirements you guys want.”
“I know, Caity,” Mom says.
Dad runs his hand through his hair and says, “I’m sorry we’re not more excited, Caity. I think we’re still getting over the shock of the house.”
“Let me call there tomorrow,” Mom says. “I have some questions, but I suppose if the Middlefords approve, it must be top notch.”
I squeeze her hand. “I just think you’re right about me needing a much more challenging school. I’m really glad you’re supportive of this. It would just be a tragedy if I ended up being the dumb one in our family.”
Without it ever having being said, I know their greatest fear is having a dumb child.
I’m as good as in.
SIX
Once my parents find out I’m accepted—and how soon I have to go away to school—they don’t let me out of their sight. Suddenly they want to spend every waking moment with me. It’s difficult to even find a sliver of time to say goodbye to Thomas and to Alex, who has been totally monopolized by the old butcher’s remodel. I honestly think we’ll be able to get more face time over Skype sessions from school than in real life, because of my parents stealing all of my time and Cormag stealing all of his.
By mid-July, just when I’d usually start getting into the swing of summer, I have to pack up and leave. Mom was definitely regretting her decision when they watched me walk through security at the Edinburgh airport; Dad had to hold her up because she was sobbing so hard. I think if she could go back and change things, she would have chosen homeschooling for sure.
I’m only holding up because I know what’s at stake. But secretly I’m so sad to leave the island and my parents and Alex. I tell myself it won’t even be a year, to keep me going. If Justine and I can do what we need to do, maybe in a few months I can be back at Breidablik with my parents and Alex.
––––––
Justine and I meet up at the Miami airport for our last leg to Buenos Aires. As soon as I see her I get nervous—because I’m reminded that it’s really happening. She’s cut her long black hair a few inches so now it’s just to the top of her chest, which makes her seem older. A couple of weeks at her family’s place in Santa Cruz has given her olive skin a deep tan that makes her eyes look as vibrant as green glass marbles in sunlight.
We jump up and down and hug, both nervous and excited and scared. It’s one thing to imagine going to school across the world, it’s another to be doing it.
I hold up the travel carrier—more like a puppy purse—that Mr. Papers is in. “Justine, meet Mr. Papers. Mr. Papers, Justine.” Justine holds a finger to the mesh window and Mr. P touches his palm to her finger.
“Seriously, I have to hold him right this second!” she says.
“We need to go somewhere private.” I look around and see a sign for a family bathroom and motion to it. “We’re a family of sorts, aren’t we?” Locking the door to the little room, I set the dog tote on the small settee and zip open the top.
Mr. Papers looks up at Justine and holds up an origami peony with what seems like hundreds of intricate petals.
“Unbelievable!” she says as she pets him on the head. “Okay, having a monkey makes up for everything.”
“I know, right? Can you believe we ever lived without one?” I ask, showing her how to scratch him right below the ears so that his leg twitches.
We let Mr. Papers run around since he’s been cramped up for so long until a knock on the door forces us to pack up and go. A woman travelling alone with two kids and a baby is standing impatiently outside and does not look amused when two teen girls open the door.
Knowing we have a nine-hour flight ahead of us, we eat a big meal and stock up on snacks for our bags. I slip a banana and some dried mango into the carrier for Mr. Papers.
We have a little time, so I fill Justine in on all that Alex and I have done—and why. She didn’t know that the daily Tzolk’in picture and tone was key to unifying the youth in a unique and subversive way, just as the gathering had. It’s all a part of literally getting us on the same wavelength, I tell her.
The flight takes all day, but it’s night to me so I sleep the whole way. I don’t wake up until Justine nudges me and opens the window shade to show me the pink sun setting over miles and miles of lush greenery.
After we weave our way through customs at the massive and modern Buenos Aires airport, we see a man holding a board with “Caitrina and Justine” professionally printed on it like we’re diplomats.
We walk over and smile at the man. “I am Ramón,” he says, as he offers his hand. “On behalf of La Escuela Bohemia, I welcome you to Buenos Aires.”
Justine and I giggle at the formality of it all and he gives us a little smile and a wink.
“Please, your bags,” he says as he takes our two large rolling suitcases from us and leads us out to the town car he has waiting.
Once in the car, I let Mr. Papers out. He sits on my shoulder with his nose through the cracked car window like a dog. He seems younger, more alert. I think he’s been cooped up in the castle for far too long; this experience will be good for him.
Justine and I both call our parents to let them know we’ve landed safely, and I’m surprised to hear that they have already been notified. Ramón was one step ahead; he’d texted the school to let them know that he’d picked us up, and the school had called to let our parents know we were en route. I guess that’s what super steep tuition gets you.
One of the rules of the school is that first-year students only get to talk to their parents when they arrive, and then not again until fall break around Thanksgiving. You can email all you want, you just can’t call or Skype. I guess psychologically there’s a difference between hearing your parents’ voices and reading their words. Apparently a lot of boarding schools do this to fend off the homesickness that happens with first-year kids. This fact makes me stay on the phone longer that I normally would even though there’s not much to report. It’s just weird that once I hang up I won’t talk to them for a couple of months.
Even though the sun is going down, it’s hot and sticky in Buenos Aires. The city is beautiful in the golden glow of evening as lights flick on and candles are lit on sidewalk cafés. The smell of meat and garlic cooking is driving me mad. People are laughing, walking arm and arm, and stopping for drinks and dinner. I like Buenos Aires already.
The city seems to go on forever. When I think about how many massive cities there are like this around the world, my head hurts. There are so many people doing so many things, and trusting the people in power to have their best interests at heart.
Can we really change any of this?
From the isolated view of the Isle of Huracan it seemed reasonable, but in this city teeming with people—just one of hundreds of thousands of cities like this around the world—it seems absurd.
I hear Bolon’s voice in my head saying, Focus on the quality of the frequency. I say it again in my head, in my own voice, so I’ll remember it.
We finally get to the outskirts of the city and turn up a driveway, under an arch that bears a golden star and the school’s motto: Siga la Chispa. Follow the Spark. I love that their motto isn’t something stupid and boring like Commitment to Excellence.
I wonder where the spark will lead us.
When Ramón stops, rolls down his window, and puts his thumb to a fingerprint reader, two massive iron gates open up. The number of thick trees on either side of the winding drive block out the fading light completely. When we round the final corner, we both take a breath. It’s stunning—a fairy tale of lights and limestone and wrought iron that no brochure or website can come close to capturing.
Justine grabs my hand and Mr. Papers wraps his arms around my neck.
We are here.
SEVEN
The car pulls through a roundabout and stops right in front of a building of pale pink limestone
with a black roof; it looks like a gorgeous drawing of a French estate that you might find in a Madeline picture book. I put Mr. Papers back in his carrier, and Ramón leads us to a two-story-high wooden door that bears the La Escuela Bohemia crest and the words Siga la Chispa emblazoned at the bottom. Beside the door there is a brass sign that reads La Administración.
It’s dimly lit inside, and set up like a hotel lobby—a large reception area, cushy seating around low tables, and soft classical guitar music playing. I can hear what sounds like a party in some distant part of the building, but the foyer is quiet except for the sound of our shoes on the creamy polished-stone floor.
As we approach the check-in desk, a door opens to the side of it and out walks a tall man with gray hair and the posture of a model. His dark suit fits him so perfectly that it looks as if it were part of his body.
“Welcome, mademoiselles,” he says as he holds out his hand. “I am Monsieur Didier, the Dean of Students here at La Escuela Bohemia.”
We shake his large, tan hand and introduce ourselves. I have to consciously remind myself to use my new name, “Caitrina Luxton,” and once I say it Justine remembers to say hers. She picked “Devereux” because she’s in love with all things French and thinks it sounds good with “Justine.”
After introductions, Monsieur Didier pulls out two business cards from the inside of his suit jacket. “It is my responsibility that you receive the finest education in the world,” he says, while handing us each a card. “To that end, there is absolutely no time or day that I am not available. Should you need me, all of my contact information is on this card.”
We thank him and slip the cards into our pockets.
“You’ll find a schedule printed on your desks in your dorm room. Most notable is orientation for new students, which starts at ten tomorrow morning, and the Spark Ball, which will begin after formal dinner at seven.”
I give Justine a quick worried glance. A ball? I don’t have anything even close to appropriate for a ball.
The Serpent's Coil Page 3
