The Otherworldlies (2 page)

“I guess you were right,” Fern said, still preoccupied.

“When something creepy like that happens, it’s better to try to make it fit into the normal scheme of things. I think that’s why funerals were invented, to make death seem normal, even though it’s totally not, you know?” Sam, who looked like a southern California beach bum in training, could be surprisingly philosophical. Fern realized that he was never like this with anyone else and treasured these moments. They were hers alone.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I think we should cut the swallow down on the way home from school.” She had no way of knowing that today, she wouldn’t be walking home at all.

“Deal,” Sam replied. “We’re about out; you’d better take those things off,” he added, nodding at her Breakfast Sunglasses.

Fern complied, crouching down and putting her head in her lap. She could almost make out the white stucco of St. Gregory’s through the maze of tree trunks. Fern’s sunglasses had caused quite a scene when she began wearing them into class each morning. If one of the cool girls had done it, like Blythe Conrad, it might have become a trend. But Fern wasn’t the kind of girl who started trends; she was the kind who murdered them and made certain they’d never rise from the dead. When she’d strolled in wearing her Ray-Bans, she’d pretty much insured that no one would be wearing sunglasses to school for the next few years. Fern brushed off the whispers and stares. “If you want your own pair, I can ask my mom where they’re from,” Fern said to Matt McGraw, who couldn’t take his eyes off her eyewear.

As always, it was Sam who recognized that the sunglasses were making his sister more of an outsider. Though at first he’d joked around with people that his sister wore sunglasses every morning to school because her future was so bright, the joke was tired to begin with and had gotten very old, very quickly. He suggested that they cut through Anderson’s Grove on the way to school, which would give Fern a chance to adjust without the sunglasses in private.

Fern let out a weak groan, covering her eyes.

“You okay?” Sam said, watching his sister wince in pain. Her eyes watered until tears ran down her face.

“In a second,” Fern said, not deviating from their routine.

Three minutes later, Fern and Sam had walked up Bimini Lane and were sitting in the back of their core class. As Mrs. Stonyfield called roll, Fern imagined her Breakfast Sunglasses resting snugly in the tree in the northwest corner of the grove. The thought made her happy.

The beginning of the day passed slowly for the McAllister twins. Fern was having trouble letting go of the Voices. She felt as if she had a brick resting in the pit of her stomach. Sam could sense that all was not right with his sister. He searched for something he could do to help. Although Sam thought his watchfulness went largely unnoticed, he was wrong. Not only was Fern aware that Sam wanted her to be accepted, to fit in like he did, but his unstated concern made Fern love him all the more.

Today the students of St. Gregory’s had come back from Presidents’ Day weekend. Once recess began, the entire school was buzzing with renewed vigor.

“Look at your idiot sister,” Lee Phillips said to Sam, casting a glance toward the elm tree in the corner of the soccer field. Fern sat perched on a low branch resting in the shade, her arms wrapped around her knees as she pulled them close to her face. The hem of Lee Phillips’s pleated skirt was too high by an inch and a half at least, but the school’s dress code never seemed to apply to girls like Lee.

“How could you two be related?” Lee Phillips scoffed.

“Someone should make her come down from there,” Blythe Conrad said, shaking her head. “It’s like she thinks she’s special.”

Blythe Conrad had not yet learned that some of the most special people have no idea of this very fact until someone or something calls it to their attention.

“Do you know if the water polo team won last night?” Sam asked, trying to change the subject. Lee’s older brother played on the team and she attended every game.

“Does Fern act like this at home?” Blythe asked, unwilling to let the subject die.

“Give her a break,” Sam said, knowing full well that Fern would get into more trouble if she were mingling instead of sitting up in the tree.

“We’re serious, Sam,” Lee said. “What’s her deal?”

“What’s her
deal
?” Sam repeated.

“She’s just trying to get attention, and it’s pathetic,” Blythe said, inching closer to Sam and raising her eyebrows.

“She knows that everyone thinks she’s weird. She could stop if she wanted—it’s like she
chooses
to be a freak,” Lee added.

“I don’t know why you care so much,” Sam said, pushing himself toward Lee. “She’s not bothering you.”

“I don’t care so much,” Lee said, stepping backward. “In fact, I don’t care at all. I just thought, she’s
your
sister and you might not want her holding you back anymore. Everyone likes you.” Lee turned from Sam. Blythe followed her and they both walked away.

Sam watched as they strutted across the blacktop. His eyes then turned to his sister, who, from his vantage point, looked like a china doll someone had thrown far up in the elm and then forgotten about.

From Sam’s perspective, Fern’s outsider status had almost reached a breaking point this year. Her quirks had become defining. Even Sam’s recent attempts to integrate his sister with some of his more laid-back friends had met with disastrous results. The harder Sam tried to defend his sister, the more hurtful his classmates’ insults became. He found that the best thing he could do when girls like Lee and Blythe were out for blood was to ease away from the subject.

Once Sam had asked his sister why she climbed the old elm, and her answer was simple: “Sometimes I want to be where nobody else is.”

“But doesn’t it bother you that people stare at you?” Sam had asked.

“I’d rather have them staring at me from a distance than staring at me from up close. Besides, it’s the best shady place in all of St. Gregory’s.” Fern, too, had begun to give up on the idea that she would ever fit in with her blond brother and the rest of his clan.

After recess was English, which used to be Fern’s favorite subject before Mrs. Stonyfield got her hands on it. The class began discussing
The Giver
, a book they had completed the previous week.

“I’ll assume everyone has read
The Giver
,” Mrs. Stonyfield began, her voice as pinched as ever. “Although the mint condition of some of your books leads me to believe you haven’t even bothered cracking the spine.” Mrs. Stonyfield rose from her chair and leaned over her desk.

“Who can tell me what the major theme of the book is?”

The class fell silent, fearful that Mrs. Stonyfield might call on anyone still talking.

“Giving?” Matt McGraw said.

“Another wisecrack like that, Matthew, and I’ll be
giving
you a detention,” Mrs. Stonyfield said, disgusted.

“It’s about being different,” Gregory Skinner volunteered from the front row. “Whether or not it’s better to allow differences and the bad consequences that go with them or to have no choice in anything and live happily in the dark.”

“You’re nearly there, Gregory,” Mrs. Stonyfield declared, at her most complimentary with her most favored student. “Are there any positives to the world that Jonas lives in initially? Would you want to live there?”

“At least they weed out all the
freaks
there,” Lee whispered to Blythe, her eyes wide as she smirked and pointed at Fern in the back of the class. The students around Lee snickered, glancing back at Fern. Fern felt her whole face turn beet red.

Fern tried to distract herself, hoping her anger would not show—getting angry would only satisfy Lee Phillips. She tuned Mrs. Stonyfield out and instead focused on
Lord of the Flies,
the next book on their reading list, which was tucked inside her copy of
The Giver
. As she surveyed the classroom from the back row, she was careful not to let any part of her smuggled book show.

Fern realized some time ago that if she paid attention to Mrs. Stonyfield about half the time, she could still do as well as she did when she listened to Mrs. Stonyfield’s every word. She’d started
Lord of the Flies
, taking it in the shower with her that morning, and had been completely riveted from the very first page. She envisioned the boys first exploring the beach, alone, cold, and disoriented. Fern found the place she’d bookmarked and plunged on.

Ralph
, she read,
turned neatly onto his feet, jumped down to the beach, knelt, and swept a double armful of sand into a pile against his chest
.

Fern imagined herself sweeping sand on her chest and legs, trying to bury herself—something she often did when she was at the beach. The water would be clear and bright, the sun almost unbearable. Imagination mingled with memory as the words on the page melded with her childhood. In Fern’s mind, Ralph, Piggy, and his friends must have landed on a beach that looked a lot like Big Corona, which was about ten miles up the coast from San Juan. Big Corona was known for its wide swath of sand and the long gray rock jetties that guarded the entrance to Newport Harbor. Her mother took the entire family there on cloudy, cold days when Fern’s fair complexion could handle it. In the morning, the sand was cool and damp and felt better than anything else against her skin. There was something about looking at the water that made Fern feel still and peaceful. The ocean roared, but everything in her head was crystal clear.

At dusk, Sam and Eddie would build a bonfire twice the size of Fern. Eddie would load five marshmallows on a straightened wire hanger and try to cook them all at once by sticking them in the bluest part of the flames. He would leave the rapidly blackening marshmallows in the fire until they were so singed, they cracked and oozed when he bit into them. Once it was time to leave, Mrs. McAllister would practically have to drag Fern across the sand and load her into the car. Fern never wanted to go home. Words failed her when she tried to explain it, but the beach felt like home too.

As Fern sat in the back of the classroom, it was easy to imagine the cragged cliffs on each side, fire pits, scattered palms, and ocean as far as the eye could see. Mrs. Stonyfield’s voice grew faint as Fern’s eyelids flickered shut. Slowly Fern felt a slight tingle run through her hands and feet. Her head grew ice-cube cold and her brain felt as if it were being jostled, bouncing from one side of her skull to the other. She felt like a feather being lifted into the sky, drifting back and forth on a black and gusty night. Her stomach surged and lodged in the back of her throat. The floating feeling frightened her. Fighting to regain command of her consciousness, Fern realized she couldn’t open her eyes.

Unable to escape the darkness, she began to panic. Groaning, she tried to wiggle her body to find something, anything, real. A shadow had wrapped itself around her like a mesh vice. She no longer felt the rigid wooden desk chair beneath her. No . . . now she felt something entirely different against her body. Though she couldn’t open her eyes to confirm it, she would have recognized the texture anywhere—Fern was now lying on a mound of warm sand. She could hear waves crashing around her. She let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Fern sensed that her eyes were open now, but all she could see was blackness. Part of her wanted to give up struggling, to curl up in the fetal position and wait for something to change. Instead she clenched her teeth and began pawing the sand, trying to dig her way to consciousness. Soon she felt the nudge of a human hand.

Chapter 2
the sunburned man

S
omeone was poking three fingers into the middle of Fern’s back. She tried opening her eyes. This time, though, her eyelids worked. The first thing she noticed were grains of sand. Fern hit the ground with her legs, determined to make her body respond. She was able to flip over so she was lying face up.

A man the color of an uncooked hot dog with a crusty long yellow beard leaned over her.

“Ya okay, girlie?” His formfitting white shirt was dirty and every inch of him was permanently sunburned. He had pink Bermuda shorts on and leaned against a long pole. On his left arm, he wore eight watches, three of them silver, four of them black. The watch closest to his actual wrist was shiny gold and different from the others—it looked like an antique that had been kept in mint condition for centuries. The top of the face had a small, gleaming crown. Fern traced the white pole down to the ground and immediately realized the man was leaning on a metal detector. Was she dead?

“Ya okay, girlie?” The man opened his mouth wide, revealing a conspicuous hole in the front of his smile. Although he was in very poor condition, the man seemed real enough. Quickly Fern ruled out the possibility that she had, in fact, passed on. There was no way St. Peter could look like such an unkempt slob.

“Ya got a pair a lungs on ya, dontcha?”

Fern wiped her eyes. She
must
gain control of herself.

“Yes,” she said, brushing the sand off her uniform as she wobbled to her feet. She felt very shaky. Her whole body was numb except for her fiercely beating heart. She put her hands to her chest instinctively, hoping to contain it.

The dirty man looked up to the sky and then back down to Fern. He laughed and held his clumpy beard with one hand. He smelled like rotting seaweed.

“If it ain’t my lucky day,” he said, smiling. “Those eyes,” he continued, peering longingly at her face. “Looks like someone took ’em out of Phoebe’s head and put ’em in yours.”

Fern held her hand out in front of her. If she slapped herself and couldn’t feel it, she would know she was dreaming. As soon as her palm hit her face, she knew this was far from a dream. Her cheek stung from the force.

“Now then, there’s no need ta be doin’ something like that. This must be the first.” The man inched closer to Fern. His mouth housed a random scattering of yellow teeth. “You’ll learn in time.”

“I fell asleep,” she said as her mind started to work for her again. “I was trying to wake myself up.”

“Ya didn’t fall asleep, girlie. I’s standing right here and I saw ya. Ya appeared from nowhere.”

Fern stared into the man’s eyes and a calmness descended over her. His clean blue eyes didn’t seem to match his hole-ridden T-shirt and ruddy face.

She looked behind her as her survival instincts kicked in. She was on a small strip of sand between the rocks and cliffs. Fern recognized the place immediately: Pirate’s Cove.

Pirate’s Cove, partially hidden from the larger crowds and waves of the main beach, was her favorite part of Big Corona. The small beach was accessed from the same parking lot as Big Corona, but faced the bay to the north instead of the open ocean. Parts of the beach were quite rocky, and there were a few small caves bored into the side of the sandstone cliffs surrounding the cove. Each visit, the twins usually dedicated hours to climbing Rocky Point and exploring every inch of the caves. Today the cove was deserted.

“I’s glad I seen it with my own two eyes,” the man said as Fern began brushing the sand off her uniform. “A course, a course, you appear,” the man said. “Today! The anniversary a da Titanomachy! I’ve been comin’ here for a hundred years hopin’ one a ya’d appear.” Fern wanted to run as far as she could from this stranger, but he stood between her and the uphill path to the parking lot—the only outlet from Pirate’s Cove.
Hundreds of years?
Fern began to step backward, away from the man, whom she’d decided was clearly a lunatic. For a moment, she contemplated launching herself into the bay and swimming to the main beach to safety.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the man said, his voice losing some of its strange drawl. “I want ta show you somethin’.” He gave her a wry smile, then dropped his metal detector and scurried to the furthest cave. Fern stared at him warily, unsure what to do.

“I don’t mean to hurt ya, girlie.” His tomato red face contorted into a look of earnestness. “I mean ta help ya.” His eyes bulged out of his head like a lizard’s.

Fern, who’d happened to be paying attention when Deputy Fairbanks had come to Mrs. Stonyfield’s class to warn the students about the danger of strangers, snapped back into stranger-danger panic mode. She stepped closer to the lapping tide, figuring she’d take her chances with the bay.

“I’ll make a deal, then,” the man said, touching his stringy hair with one hand. “I can tell yer afraid. The Den’s open now, but ya should take a look for yerself. It’s important to ya, I swears.” He pointed to the cave closest to the path up to the parking lot.

“I’ve seen that cave before,” Fern said, emboldened. She was sure she could outswim this man, should he lunge at her.

“Not like this, ya haven’t.”

“I really should go,” Fern said, taking another step backward.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said, looking Fern up and down. “The first Unusual’s a local girl. St. Gregory’s. The rumors were true. I weren’t sure, but thank my stars I’ve been preparin’ based on what I heard.”

At first, Fern’s heart jumped. How did this man know this? But she then looked down at her uniform. The man had made an educated guess.

“What’s yer name?” His watery eyes popped out of their sockets once more.

“I don’t know.” Fern said.

“Fine, fine. I don’t got time for this now—we gotta make sure this stays under wraps,” the man said. “What time did ya disappear?”

“What?” Fern said.

“What time did ya leave yer school?” The man displayed his gaping smile.

Fern had no idea what the man was getting at. The last time she’d looked at the clock on the classroom wall, it had been 11:15.

“Not very talkative, is ya? Well . . .” The man looked down at his left arm, scanning his seven watches. He twisted his wrist and the watches jangled together like metal bangle bracelets. Finally his eyes rested on the golden eighth watch.

“Let’s see now,” the man said, bringing his arm close to his craggy face. “It’s eleven eighteen right as we speak. Now, supposin’ you did ‘appear’ here, out a da blue, I’d say you should hang around before ya go telling people where ya are,” he said.

“What?” Fern asked, finding the man less and less threatening the more he talked.

“Tell ya what. I’m gonna leave ya alone, and I suggest ya go into that there cave. Ya better allow enough time ta have walked here. No one’s gonna believe that ya just appeared here from that thar school of yours. Trust me.”

Of all the things for this man to be concerned with, why would he care if Fern got in trouble? Though she was still scared of him, Fern couldn’t shake the odd sense of familiarity about him. Besides, he hadn’t tried to hurt her or even close in on her.

The man picked up his metal detector, turned away from Fern, and began walking up the path to the parking lot. He was out of sight in no time.

The wind kicked up, bunching Fern’s corduroys against her legs. The tide lapped a few feet away. None of the serene feelings the beach normally inspired passed over Fern today. She stared at the cave.

Fern told herself she would just take a peek into the cave on her way up to the parking lot. She had to, while she was here, or she would always wonder. Just a peek, to make sure nothing had changed.

Looking above her, Fern confirmed that there was no trace of the stranger. She wandered into the cave, which was only about seven feet deep and ten feet high. Fern scanned the jagged brown walls and sandy ground. Everything was still and silent. Fern kept turning around, afraid the sunburned man’s plan all along was to ambush her in the cave. She was almost panting with anxiety now.

In the deepest corner of the cave, Fern noticed a hole about two feet wide. The hole had certainly not been there when Sam and Fern had explored the cave countless times before. She thought her eyes must be playing tricks on her, but a small amount of light was coming from this new opening. She crept closer.

Many visitors to the cave had tried their hand at carving their initials into the sandstone walls. Most attempts were unsuccessful or were destroyed by time and weather. But the small trace of light made it easier to see many of the carvings. She began feeling around the rim of this new discovery.

She jumped back when she saw it. There, etched deep into the stone wall directly above her, were two sets of initials:

MLM
PM

Mary Lou McAllister. Those were her mother’s initials. PM? Could that be her father? It was probably a coincidence, but Fern was desperate to connect any dots she could.

Fern jerked her head around as her heart began to pound fiercely again. She was all alone in the cave. Almost as if by reflex, Fern was on her hands and knees, making her way through the new hole. The sand stuck to her knees and palms. She was through to the other side in seconds.

Fern gasped.

She’d entered another room of the cave. Deep cracks in the top of the stone let shards of sunlight through to the floor of the hollowed-out dome. The stone room was about the size of a jungle gym and the bottom of it was a perfect circle. The air was cool and damp. Fern was overjoyed at the thought of being able to tell Sam of this new discovery.

The walls were smooth, almost as if they were manmade. Fern scanned them first and then the floor. Her eyes focused on a line of faint writing in the very center of the room. She brushed the floor with her foot, clearing away sand, and the writing became clear.

The carved handwriting was so perfect, even Mrs. Stonyfield would have given it high marks. Fern stared at the letters. Though she had no idea what they meant, she felt as if she’d seen them before, somewhere.

She walked toward the opposite wall. Directly in front of her was a graffitilike image on the brown curved stone surface. She touched it with her hand. Though it looked as if it were drawn in chalk, it did not rub off. The picture was of a chamber similar to the one she was standing in. In the center was a white podium with an object resting on it. The perfectly black object looked like a sinister giant Easter egg. Its oval shape narrowed at the top.

Fern heard voices drifting into the cave. She turned around. Thankfully, the cave was still empty.

Her heart rattled in her chest. Fern’s adrenaline stores were finally running out, and as she looked around her, she began to feel unhinged.

She was out of the cave and back into daylight in just under thirty seconds. The voices she had heard belonged to an elderly couple. They were at the cove’s far end, letting the tide lap over their bare feet as they chatted.

Fern ran toward the path to the parking lot. Sand flew behind her and into her slip-ons. She knew she must look bizarre—the Episcopal school girl playing hooky in her full uniform, sprinting in the sand, her face caked with dirt and sweat. She looked over her shoulder, taking the stairs to the parking lot two at a time. Once there, she breathed a sigh of relief and slowed her pace, concentrating on what she needed to do next.

She zeroed in on the brown building at the far end of the parking lot—the public rest rooms she’d used on many occasions. She circled the building. The side closest to the parking lot had a pay phone. Fern grabbed the receiver, which was hot to the touch from the morning sun. She held it to her ear and put her index finger to the dial pad. Shaking, she laid the receiver back on the hook. Overhead a bird with massive wings circled like an oversized buzzard.

She took a deep breath, picked up the receiver again, hit 0, and then dialed her mother’s phone number. The automated operator took over after her mother picked up on the first ring.

“You have an AT&T collect call. Caller, please state your name.” Fern took a large gulp of ocean air. There was silence on both sides of the call.

“Caller, please state your name,” the automated voice repeated.