The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (11 page)

Bunk beds. Four of them inside the cramped little room. Thin white drapes were pulled back from the window, which had no iron bars. On the floor were a handful of plastic toys: a rocking horse, a box with different shaped holes, a few dolls with their eyelids frozen in a half-open position. All of them looked ancient, covered with dust and grime.

I moved slowly to the next room, losing my footing twice and feeling myself float like a helium balloon. When I reached the next open doorway, I grabbed the grainy wood again with an invisible hand and set my feet down, thinking about turning my body. The entire process felt disorienting, but as long as I imagined myself performing the actions, I could keep myself from simply floating.

I reached another room nearer the staircase, this one with six bunk beds, all of them lined up in one row. There were no toys on the floor. Nothing on the walls. I made my way to the window, pushing aside the drapes. There were no bars over it, but outside there was only a one-foot ledge and a fifteen-foot drop to the hard ground below.

The window was tall, double-paned, framed in old rotting wood with pieces of white paint flaking onto the floor. Outside, I could see a small factory across the street, all three of its tall smoke stacks billowing smoke. The building was made of old concrete, its second floor lined with old lights that gave off a pale glow. Some of the little square windows were broken.

I let my feet drift and floated upward. I could see the lock at the top of the lower window pane. I envisioned my hand reaching out, squeezing the little latch …

… And unlocked it.

I let go, letting myself float backwards. I drifted out into the hall, down the old staircase. I thought about putting my hand on the smooth wood of the banister and felt it happen even though I was invisible. I squeezed it, giving it a little tug. The rotted carved pillars moved a bit under the pressure.

At the bottom of the staircase, I found myself in a grand foyer, its walls lined with ancient oil paintings of knights and angels and royalty. The hardwood floor was partially covered by a long red-and-brown Turkish rug.

I stopped and turned toward the front door, examining it. Briar was right: there weren’t quite a
hundred
locks, but there were at least half a dozen, and each bolt looked at least an inch thick.

So they were prepared.

The sound of a door opening startled me enough that I lost control of my feet. They lifted from the ground, turning me once again into the floating phantasm. I drifted back to the foyer. At the far end, through the hallway, I could see kids slowly pouring out of the open door. The exact same heavy door where I’d heard the screams the night before.

The kids were all young, all short and thin and wearing either old pajamas decorated with toy trains or overalls and grimy undershirts. They walked toward me—shuffled, really, not able to walk very fast. They looked tired. Exhausted. As the first few got closer, I could see in the dim light of the foyer that their faces were encrusted in dirt. Their eyes looked bloodshot. They looked like little miniature coal miners.

“What are you doing down there?” I asked.

One of the children stopped at the base of the stairs. I recognized him immediately. Alex! He turned, looking right at me.

“We’re searching for the Juniper Tree,” he whispered.

“Hurry now!” called a woman from the other end of the hall. She herded the last of the kids to the staircase. She looked slightly younger than the Corrupted stepmother from last night’s dream, although she wore a two-piece brown dress that was just as old-fashioned as her accomplice’s. The skirt of the hideous dress reached her ankles, careful not to hide her heavy black shoes that looked as if they weighed more than bricks. Her skin was glowing a bit but her nails were downright radiant, bright enough that it felt as if they were burning my invisible ghost eyes.

“Everyone to bed,” she sang in a sweet voice. “Hurry up, you filthy little urchins. Hurry, or we’ll feed one of you to dear, sweet Gilda.”

The kids picked up their pace, scurrying up the stairs.

“Straight to bed,” the woman said, still with that same sweet voice. If the words coming out of her mouth hadn’t been so foul, I would have sworn she was an angel. “Perhaps we’ll feed one of you to Gilda anyway. You children can be oh so tasty with the right dash of cinnamon and pepper. Like a sweet treat you know you know you shouldn’t have.”

Her finger hooked the collar of the last child to reach the staircase. A little girl, no older than ten, with short blonde hair and soft cheeks. “Dear Jocelyn, I do believe you have kitchen duty, do you not?”

“But I’m so tired, ma’am,” said the girl. “Please. Please let me sleep.”

The woman smiled sweetly. It looked so innocent. So nice. “But then who will clean our bowls and pots and pans? Cinderella?” She laughed, pushing the girl back into the hallway toward the kitchen.

A noise caught my ear. I looked up to the top of the staircase. Alex was staring down, clutching the banister.

Watching me.

Chapter 9

“My mother killed her little son;

My father grieved when I was gone;

My sister loved me best of all;

She laid her kerchief over me,

And took my bones that they might lie

Underneath the juniper-tree

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”
[ii]

Seth picked me up for school in the morning no worse for wear. His dad had been at work all night and his mom had given him a light scolding for leaving during the night. The weird part? He totally seemed jealous that I got grounded.

“It’s not that he was jealous you got grounded,” Chase told me after fencing. “He’s jealous that your parents care enough to ground you. His parents totally suck.”

“They don’t suck!”

He shrugged, following me out of the weight room. At the entrance to the girls’ locker room, I turned and raised an eyebrow. “You showering with us or what?”

He smiled. “You’re funny. I’ll wait for you, though.”

I showered quick, borrowing lipstick from Margaret in exchange for some details on Ted. She was dismayed that I had few to provide.

“You haven’t kissed? You went on a date, right?” she asked, astonished.

“Yeah, but it …” I held my tongue. I didn’t want to give her too much.

Margaret must have sensed blood in the water, though. “But what? But
what
?”

“Oh, there just wasn’t a good time for it.”

She frowned, confused. “There’s always time for a kiss. Don’t be ridiculous. Boy, I thought you were one of the cool girls.”

Was I? As I made my way out, I noticed Chase had made his way over to the basketball hoops. The boys from the basketball team were letting him try a couple shots sitting under the basket. I leaned against the wall, watching. Chase missed the first, then hit the second. Everyone high-fived him.

“You could make the team,” said one. “You could be a secret weapon.”

“Just give me a few months,” Chase said. “I’ll be out of this chair in no time.” He gave them a wave and wheeled over to me, tossing back his hair.

“You need more gel,” I said.

He laughed, tossing his hair again just to be funny. He had a good sense of humor. “So we’re on for this afternoon?” he asked.

“Yup. But you have to meet me at the library. I’m grounded.”

“Grounded? You? What did you do, steal a book?”

A couple of freshmen heading to gym class pushed past us.

“Something like that,” I said. “Now, in exchange for this help with your book report, you promised me something, too …”

“You have to counter-riposte.”

I stomped my foot on the ground. “Chase! I need more than that. If that’s all I needed, I could just listen to Mr. Whitmann.”

He nodded, stopping a moment to rub his hands. He’d developed calluses from gripping the wheels. They looked painful—red and raw, like the ones I sometimes got when I broke in a new pair of flats.

“Do you want me to push you?” I asked.

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s fine. We’re almost there.”

We made our way into the lunchroom, splitting up after getting food. Chase went to be with his baseball buddies. I went to the back to be with Rachel and Clyde.

And Seth.

Later, at the library, I found myself wandering the bookcases, taking my time dusting all of the shelves. I couldn’t stop thinking about the kids in my dreams. What was going to happen to them? What would they become? They were caught up in all of this, and it wasn’t their fault.

It wasn’t my fault I was caught up in it, either. I know it sounds selfish to think about, but I couldn’t stop thinking
why me
? Why had I been picked for all of this? Why had the ex-slave, Eugene? Why had Juliette?

I turned, then did a double-take when I saw Ted walk by.

“Ted?” I whispered.

He popped his head around the end of the bookcase. “Oh. There you are. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just … putting away some books.”

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. His eyes wandered around the shelves. “Lotta books.”

“Yeah.” I waited for him to say something more. He didn’t. This was kinda weird. “So … what’s up?”

He shrugged. “Not much. Wanna ditch this place and go get an ice cream cone? They got Grasshopper for the flavor today. A bunch of the track team’ll be there, too. We might go down to the beach and do some volleyball.”

“I can’t just leave!” I exclaimed in a quiet whisper.

“Sure you can. It’s volunteer thing, right? Let’s just get out. We could sneak out the back.”

“The emergency exit? Oh geez. I can’t …” A strange thought hit me: what if I did sneak out? I mean, I was the hero. I could be eaten alive by a Corrupted any day of the week. Shouldn’t I sneak out and have just a little fun?

Emphasis on “little.” Grasshopper ice cream was delicious and all, but I’d still be there with Ted, and it was hard to imagine hanging out with him and the track kids would be a blast.

Volleyball, though … now that might be a nice little diversion …

I tried to remember the last time I’d played volleyball. It had probably been two summers ago, with Trish and Seth and a couple other sophomores we’d made friends with during our Biology class. We’d spent an entire day at the beach. Lake Michigan’s water was warm enough to swim in and no one was even thinking about alcohol, which meant no one was hiding drinks or spiking Gatorade or acting stupid. It was
fun
.

Maybe it could be fun again.

“Wait.” I slapped my forehead. “I have to help Chase this afternoon. I can’t stand him up.”

Ted nodded slowly, his lips pursed. His eyes were narrowed. What, was he jealous or something? “All right,” he said finally. “If that’s how you want to be.” I didn’t have a response for him. What did he want me to say?
Hey, maybe you’re right. I’ll just blow off the library and Chase and go get some ice cream!
Finally, he rolled his eyes. “All right. See ya.”

And then he was gone. And with him went my only chance of playing volleyball.

Chase came through the doors of the library at 4 o’clock on the dot. The doors had a button for wheelchair access but he ignored it, instead pulling the doors open awkwardly and squeezing himself through. He looked frustrated, but once he got through it looked as if a weight had fallen off his shoulders.

His broad, muscular shoulders.

I went over to the empty table Chase had picked out. Right next to the Sexuality section. And the Romance novels. Geez, Chase. Couldn’t have picked a different table, eh? Couldn’t just skip the intoxicating cologne this afternoon, could ya?

“OK,” he said, pulling out his notebook. “I think I’m onto something here. Maybe. But I’m just having trouble putting it into words. Sherman Alexie’s book … it’s, um, about how hard it is for a Native American to fit in at a white school, right?”

I leaned back in my chair, shrugging. “Tell me more.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just tell me more.”

He flipped a page in his notebook. I was surprised at all the scribbles. He’d even written in the margins in blue ink, contrasting with the black ink he’d written on the lines. He had neat, crisp handwriting. “Well, the kid is obviously struggling, but he finds a way to fit in through sports, you know? I can totally relate to that. And the way they always picked on him? It just, um, really sucked.”

“OK.” I inhaled through my nose, catching the scent of his cologne once again. Just a hint of lemon notes. “Not bad. But what about the basketball games?”

“The basketball games …” Chase tapped his pen loudly on his notebook. I reached over and gently stopped him, putting one finger to my lips. “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “So the main character plays on the basketball team, and that helps him become popular. I dunno. I sort of thought he lost his way there. He forgot that he was once a loser.”

“Loser?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Unpopular,” Chase corrected himself. “And so he gets more popular, but he kind of forgets about his old friend. That was a bummer. You don’t do that with your friends. I know the main character was a good guy and all, and I get the ending, but boy oh boy.” He leaned back, tapping his pen against his cheek. The sound echoed so I reached out again, stopping him and putting a finger to my lips. “Sorry,” he said with a smile. “I really liked the basketball scenes. I miss baseball practice so much. It’s like fencing. Do you ever feel a rush when you fence?”

“Sometimes,” I said nonchalantly. In truth it was an emphatic “Yes!” But I wanted to play it cool. Chase had enough of an ego, I bet.

“Like today, when you almost beat Rick,” he said, leaning forward. “That was awesome. You had such a good stance. You kept your foil low. Did you feel it? That rush of adrenaline? The heat of the moment?”

I nodded, unable to hide my smile. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s hard to control,” Chase said. “I don’t think the main character of this book always had it in control, either.”

“And so how much of this did you put in your essay?” I asked.

He looked down at his notebook. “Well, nothing.”

I flipped to a fresh page. “Start writing.”

When he was done, he had two pages. I had some notes of my own on Thomas Jefferson and his founding of the University of Virginia. For me, searching through the library and conducting research felt easy. But for Chase, it was a challenge. He’d spent years conditioning his body for sports and completely forgetting that his brain needed exercise, too. If he was serious about improving his grades, he was going to need to get back in
mental
shape.

“Let’s go find books for you,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked, pulling away from the table and following me toward the fiction section.

“Because if you liked Sherman Alexie, I bet you’re going to like a few other books, too.” And besides, I thought, his brain could use the exercise. “Here: a book by Louise Erdrich, another Native American author. Here: Margaret Atwood’s
Oryx and Crake
, a great science fiction tale. Here:
The Belgariad
, by David Eddings. One more:
Persepolis
, by Marjane Satrapi.”

He hefted the last book in his hand. “This is a comic.”

“It’s a graphic novel.” I smiled. “Just trust me, OK?”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. Finally, he nodded. “What about this one? It looks weird.”

I grabbed
The Belgariad
from his hands and tapped on the cover. “You like sword and sorcery stuff. This is one of the best sword and sorcery series ever.”

“How do you know I like that stuff?”

“Because you wore gauntlets for an entire year.
Gauntlets
, Chase.”

His face reddened just a bit. He snatched the book from my hands. “Touché.”

We went outside to the grassy area in the rear of the library. It had recently been mown and the green smell of fresh-cut grass tickled my nostrils. Chase wheeled to a stop in front of me, sneezing twice.

“Are you allergic?” I asked.

“No. Of course not. A baseball player allergic to grass?” He scoffed. “Now, you gotta pretend I’m standing,” he said. “And holding a foil.”

“Right.”

“Now, come at me slowly with an attack.”

I came at him, imagining myself stabbing at his chest. He waved his fist up. “My instinct is to try and deflect your blade upward,” he said. He kept his fist held up. “So what would you do if I had my blade way up here?”

“Aim low,” I said, “near the bottom of the ribs.” I swung my invisible blade low.

Chase brought his arm down, deflecting the blow. He looked up at me, smiling. He had little dimples and little whiskers that grew in patches on his chin and cheeks. “Now, let’s do it again. Only this time don’t wait for me to gather my bearings after your first attack. You know what I’m going to do, so counter-attack right away.”

I stepped back, then stepped forward and stabbed high. As he parried upward, I swung my invisible blade around and struck low before he could protect himself.

Chase smiled wider. “A counter-riposte. And
that
is how you’re going to kick some serious ass.”

We tried it a dozen more times, doing a couple different moves. I tried to feel him out, to get used to his parries so that I could anticipate what he would do and react accordingly. He liked to parry high, probably because he was in a wheelchair. He said as much, and promised a more exciting match once he was standing on his own two feet again.

Before I knew it, it was six o’clock. His parents arrived to take him home in a special minivan with a little ramp. It surprised me—it seemed like a lot of money to install an automated ramp if Chase was going to recover anyway. But it wasn’t my business so I didn’t press. Instead, I gave him a wave, hurrying back home where my parents were once again waiting.