A Box of Bones

by Marina Cohen

  First, dice could be loaded—weighted down from the inside so they would always land on the same number. It was an old trick used by crooked gamblers.

  Second, just as Grandpa Jess had said, the box was mechanical. By turning the circles, Kallie must have cranked the mechanism, and then, like a wind-up toy, it was set to play music as it unwound.

  And last, she had been overtired. Exhaustion could cause hallucinations. Frighteningly real hallucinations. The animal she’d seen the previous night was no wolf—it was probably nothing more than a stray dog. She scolded herself for having allowed emotions to trick her senses and rattle her security.

  Kallie slipped out of bed and stretched. She had selected an entire week’s wardrobe a month in advance. All she needed to do was reach for the hanger in her closet labeled Wednesday. She opened the door and was greeted with undulating waves of navy, gray, white, and black.

  The first day of school was important. It would set the tone for the year, so she’d chosen a white button-down shirt and a gray jumper. She liked that it resembled a uniform even though her school required none.

  She snatched the hanger and shut the door, not even glancing at the box that lay hidden in shadow. Luckily, the long-range forecast said it would be warm and sunny all week—no jacket or umbrella would be necessary.

  She ate her usual breakfast, packed a nutritious lunch, and prepared her bag, equipping it with plenty of sharpened pencils, several erasers, two boxes of tissues, and five bottles of hand sanitizer. Most kids carried backpacks, but Kallie preferred a leather satchel. It had a variety of compartments for maximum organization.

  “All set?” said Grandpa, reaching for his Catamounts cap.

  Kallie slung her bag over her shoulder, stepped into her black Oxford shoes, and proceeded down the porch steps.

  The school was exactly 1.2 miles from her house—2,543 steps according to her watch, which doubled as a fitness tracker. They weren’t even halfway there when she began to slow.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Grandpa Jess. “Case of the first-day jitters?”

  Kallie frowned. “Certainly not. You know I love school.” She stooped to rub her ankles. “I’m just tired, I guess.” She had missed her regular bedtime, had tossed and turned most of the night, and now she was paying for it.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a streak of white. Her head snapped in its direction, but nothing was there. She took a deep breath, gathered herself, and then trundled the rest of the way to the old three-story brick school.

  “I can take it from here,” she said.

  Grandpa Jess gave her a tight squeeze. Kallie watched him cross the street and disappear toward the lake. He never missed an opportunity to take his boat out on the lake.

  There were a few minutes before the first entry bell, so Kallie stood off to one side listening to kids buzz excitedly about summer adventures and lament the loss of freedom. She was happy to be back at school. She much preferred strict routine and rigid schedules to the paralyzing pandemonium known as free time.

  “Hey,” said Pole. “How was summer?”

  “Perfectly predictable.” Kallie grinned. “Yours?”

  “Unequivocally uneventful.”

  It was their usual post–summer vacation greeting. They both chuckled.

  Though Kallie was not disliked by anyone in particular, she had very few of what she considered friends. Her best friend, if you could call him that, was Napoleon Rodriguez.

  Pole understood Kallie. Like her, he lacked coordination, excelled in math and science, and had no time for frivolities known as the arts.

  He had two older brothers who were away studying chemical engineering in New Hampshire, so, like Kallie, he, too, was the only child in a house of adults. And, just like her, he disliked his full name, Napoleon. Unfortunately, with his short stature, deep-set eyes, and brown hair, he bore a striking resemblance to the French dictator.

  Kaliope Jones had been named after the muse of epic poetry and eloquence. In Greek, her name meant lovely voice. A great joke The Writer had played on her, since Kallie despised poetry, and when she opened her mouth to sing, the music teacher, Mr. Pagliacci, would often say, “Just mouth the words, dear, or you’ll ruin it for the rest of the children.” She’d tried to change her name to Pythagoras in third grade. Sadly, it didn’t stick.

  “Do anything interesting?” asked Pole.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Kallie, “I spent the entire month of July relating the Fibonacci sequence to nature. It’s extremely prevalent in the petals of various daisies … and don’t even get me started on pine cones.”

  “Interesting,” said Pole. “I spent my summer on pi. I’ve memorized 356 digits. Did you know that if you measured the meandering distance of a river from its source to its mouth, and compared that with its direct distance, it’s approximately pi? You can find pi in light and sound, in a supernova, and in apples. In fact, pi can show up in the strangest of places…”

  “Did someone say apple pie? I adore apple pie!” trilled an excited voice. “Though my favorite is strawberry-rhubarb—especially during the month of June when strawberries are in season and so much sweeter than when they have to bring them all the way up north from Florida or California or Mexico. Spending all that time in refrigeration drains the sweetness, don’t you think?”

  The girl gave them no chance to reply before her mouth was moving again.

  “Of course, I love other pies—like key lime and peach—with a crumble top, not that lacy kind which is just extra crust that, if you ask me, belongs on the bottom. I tried mincemeat once, and, do you know, it’s not meat at all—”

  “Ahem.” Pole cleared his throat, interrupting her soliloquy. “Who exactly are you?”

  Kallie stood staring, stony-faced. The girl was no longer soaking wet, and as a result her hair seemed significantly lighter—and shorter—but Kallie recognized her all the same. It was the rain-dancing girl in yellow.

  “I’m Velikaya Knyazhna Anastasiya Nikolayevna Romanova—named after my great-great-grandmother, the Grand Duchess, daughter of Tsar Nikolai the second, last sovereign of Russia. And you are?”

  Kallie examined the girl, as thin and short as Pole, with huge teeth and a smile that took up her entire face. She was wearing the same yellow T-shirt now over a pair of faded jeans two inches too short. Her purple backpack was soiled, and the seams were frayed. It was stuffed to splitting. She did not look at all like the great-great-granddaughter of a Grand Duchess.

  “I’m Pole,” he said, extending a rigid hand.

  The girl grasped it in both of hers and rung it like a bell. “Pleased to meet you, Paul.”

  Kallie’s hands remained stiffly at her sides. “Pole. Not Paul.”

  Pole smiled. “She’s Kallie.”

  The girl studied Kallie, a hint of recognition lighting up her eyes. She tilted her head, put a finger to her lips, and then pointed, tapping the air between them. “I know you from somewhere. I’m good with faces. Have we met before? Perhaps in a past life?”

  The crease between Kallie’s eyes deepened, and her lips drew thin. “You get only one life,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, I’ve had hundreds,” said the girl, chuckling and shaking her head. “I’ve been an Egyptian princess, a coal miner, some kind of protozoan…” She seemed to linger on this thought for a moment before proceeding. “A snow leopard, a yellow-bellied swallow … Oh, I really liked that life…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I still feel like I can fly…”

  The bell rang. Kallie heaved a sigh of relief. The girl’s chatter was exhausting. It was making her dizzy.

  “Well, we’d best get inside before you take wing.” She turned sharply and made her way toward the steps. “Saved by the bell,” she muttered.

  “Yeah,” said Pole. “Right.” Though Kallie noticed he kept glancing over his shoulder.

  Kallie clutched her satchel and paced steadily into the flow of traffic, leaving
the new girl behind in the frothy current of excited bodies. She and Pole were in Mr. Bent’s sixth-grade homeroom this year, and Kallie couldn’t be happier. Since they didn’t have locker assignments yet, she went straight to her class, satchel in tow.

  Mr. Bent stood in the doorway. He wore a crisp blue shirt and a black bow tie under a white lab coat. He had the reputation of being the best science teacher in the school. The entire country, if you asked him.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Hello. Step right on in and take your seat…”

  Desks had been arranged in neat rows with names printed on white cards placed on top of each. The walls were free from cheerful clutter, the bulletin boards trimmed in plain black borders, and the shelves perfectly organized. Kallie took a deep breath. She already felt at home.

  Nearly all the desks were filled with the usual suspects by the time the second bell sounded. The voice of Principal McEwan crackled over the intercom with his customary first-day speech sounding like he was talking to them from Mars. Once announcements were over, Mr. Bent took over.

  “Welcome to sixth grade,” he said. “This year will prove to be quite rigorous, with plenty of homework and absolutely no wasted time.”

  There came a chorus of groans, while Kallie nodded approvingly.

  “Shortly, I will be assigning lockers, but first I will take attendance. Pole, can you pass out the timetables?”

  Mr. Bent had a brusque, no-nonsense voice. He called each name sharply, and each was met with a Here or Present. When Billy Whibbs tried to say Yo, Mr. Bent paused, looked over his pince-nez glasses, and waited patiently until Billy cleared his throat and in a far less enthusiastic voice whispered, Present.

  Mr. Bent was halfway through the roll call when the door burst open. He stopped, and everyone stared as the girl in yellow with the huge purple backpack tumbled inside.

  “Sorry I’m late. I’ve never been in a school. I got lost in the labyrinth of twisting hallways and stairwells and…”

  “Yes, well,” said Mr. Bent. “Take your seat, Miss…”

  “Anastasiya Romanova,” she announced proudly.

  The teacher frowned. He searched his attendance list. “There doesn’t appear to be an Anastasiya Romanova on my list.” He adjusted his pince-nez and looked at her squarely. “There is, however, an Anna Glud.”

  “Of course. Yes. It would say that,” said the girl. “After all, my great-great-grandmother had to escape execution. Bolshevik revolutionaries have been trying to track us down for over a century. Officially, I go by my father’s surname. Purely for safety purposes.”

  “I see,” said the teacher dully. “Well, aside from the fact that any rumors of the survival of Anastasiya Romanov have long since been conclusively and scientifically disproven via DNA analysis, and due to the necessity of the school to use your official name, I will be referring to you as Anna Glud. Now, please take your seat, Miss Glud.”

  Anna nodded cheerfully, and then her smile broadened when she found her name tag on a desk right beside Kallie. She kept trying to catch her eye, but Kallie kept her gaze trained on the timetable Pole had handed her.

  She gave it a quick scan. All seemed in order. Math—Bent, Science—Bent, Music—Pagliacci, Physical Education—Mandala, Visual Arts—Washington, English—

  Wait. What was this? Was Kallie seeing correctly? She adjusted her glasses and looked again, but the words were there, plain and simple. How could this be?

  “As you can see,” said Mr. Bent, “we have more rotation this year. The staff thought it best that I teach science and math for various classes, seeing as they are my specialties, and I am the very best…” He paused as though accepting an award. “While Ms. Beausoleil will teach you English.”

  Kallie’s heart deflated like a punctured beach ball. Not Ms. Beausoleil. Anyone but Beausoleil.

  “What a lovely name,” whispered Anna. “Beau … soleil. It means beautiful sun in French. She must be quite stunning.”

  Kallie cast the girl a sour sideways glance. Whatever Anna Glud was picturing, she had a surprise coming her way.

  6

  DARK WATERS

  Kallie spent the rest of the school day receiving textbooks, organizing her locker (she brought a magnetic whiteboard, a pencil holder, a mirror, an additional shelf, and a gray rubber mat for the bottom), and, most important, dodging Anna.

  At least Ms. Beausoleil’s class had been canceled because of orientation assembly. Kallie wouldn’t have to face that unpleasantness until the following day.

  After school, Grandpa met her at the front of the building. On alternate days, if the weather cooperated, they would make their way down the steep-sloped sidewalks of Main Street toward the lake. It was only a short jaunt to Waterfront Park where they would sit on one of the swinging benches and have heated discussions about politics and science.

  Lake Champlain was enormous. About one hundred and twenty miles long and over twelve miles across at its widest point, it was the thirteenth-largest freshwater lake in the country. Its shimmering surface covered more than four hundred square miles, and in some spots, it dropped to four hundred feet deep. It contained seventy-one islands and countless inlets and bays. On one side, the Adirondacks rose and fell like petrified waves, while on the other, the Green Mountains faded to blue.

  “Any sign of Champ?” said Grandpa Jess, nudging her shoulder.

  Kallie sighed.

  Locals believed the lake harbored a secret—a giant, prehistoric sea monster lurking in its depths. Hundreds of eyewitnesses—beginning with the explorer Samuel de Champlain himself—claimed to have seen greenish-brown humps slithering through the dark waters. Travelers and tourists pumped loads of money into the local economy just trying to catch a glimpse.

  Grandpa Jess liked to tease Kallie about the creature. Probably to distract her, because he knew every time she looked out at the lake, she was keeping her eye out as well—though for something entirely dif–ferent. The lake held secrets all right. Only, for Kallie, they had nothing to do with Champ.

  Grandpa Jess was a retired fisherman. When he was young, the fish from Lake Champlain were safer to eat. Now, with higher mercury levels from coal-burning utilities and municipal waste incineration, plus microbeads—tiny plastic particles from beauty products flushed down drains—many species were no longer edible.

  With only two marinas in the area, dockage was extremely limited. Wait lists could take as long as ten years. Grandpa was lucky to have a dock slip at Perkins Pier, where he kept a small boat, the Escape, moored. To him, fishing wasn’t just a job or a sport—it was a way of life. It was in his blood. He always said that he was born an angler and that he’d be an angler until the day he died. It was also how he met Grandma Gem.

  Geneviève Bonenfant came from a fishing family in Quebec. According to Grandpa Jess, one day, when Grandma was sixteen, she had ventured out alone into the Richelieu River. A powerful wind had driven her into Lake Champlain. Her small boat was jostled perilously. Grandpa had noticed her in distress and had rescued her. Kallie’s father often corrected him, stating that the Richelieu River actually flows north out of Lake Champlain and that it was, in fact, Grandma Gem who had noticed Grandpa Jess in distress and had fought the current to rescue him and not the other way around.

  In any case, the two had fallen in love instantly, had gotten married, and never fought about anything other than who produced more maple syrup and who won the War of 1812. There was a festival across the lake every year commemorating the Battle of Plattsburgh. Grandpa and Grandma took part in the reenactment—on opposing sides.

  Unfortunately, Kallie remembered as little about Grandma Gem as she did about The Writer. She watched a dragonfly skim the water’s surface. Its blue-green body shimmered in the late-afternoon light.

  All the while, Grandpa Jess fired a barrage of questions at her. How was the first day? How did it all go? Who was her teacher? Did she find her classroom okay? How was Pole? Her other classmates? What was her locker assignment?
What did she do during recess?

  There was little wind, and few sailboats on the lake that day. A lone Jet Ski zigzagged in the distance, forcing curtains of water to rise up around it. Tiny waves rippled out and lapped gently and mesmerizingly against the rocks.

  After a good half hour, it was time to leave. They passed the ECHO center with its bright lettering: Ecology, Culture, History, Opportunity. Kallie knew everything there was to know about the seventy species of fish, amphibians, invertebrates, and reptiles housed in the aquarium. She couldn’t wait until tenth grade, when she could apply for an internship in the facility.

  When they arrived home, Kallie’s after-school snack awaited her in a white bowl on the kitchen table: an orange sliced into exactly six equal wedges. Grandpa Jess sat across from her, continuing to quiz her on her day. Once he had exhausted all questions, they sat for some time in silence.

  Kallie finished her snack, and her fingers were sticky with juice. She opened and closed them, frowning hard, until finally she broke the silence.

  “Tell me more about the day The Wri—” She stopped, took a deep breath, and continued, “The day my mother drowned.” She winced, the words sharp in her throat.

  Grandpa’s smile melted, and the warm light ever present in his eyes dimmed. He volleyed glances between the clock and Kallie, biting his lower lip. Then, finally, he responded, “All I know is what your father told me.”

  A shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her father had come home early. They hadn’t heard him enter. “And what exactly have I told you?”

  Grandpa jolted. He spun round to face Kallie’s father.

  “Um, er … to make sure Kallie washes her hands before and after eating. You always say that, Victor. Now, go wash your hands, Kallie.” He wagged a scolding finger. “Just like your father always says.”

  Victor Jones narrowed his eyes, as though not utterly convinced that had been the topic of conversation. His gaze swung like a pendulum from Grandpa Jess to Kallie, then back to Grandpa. “I suppose I do say that.”