Unfurl (2 page)

“Will, hon,” said my sister, “You’re doing it again.”

I turned to see what Mick wanted. “What? I’m not doing anything.”

“Duh. And you need to stop. Now.” She shifted her voice from demanding to pleading. “Get up and exercise, okay?”

“Someone made running a felony,” I reminded her. She’d been extra cautious the last couple weeks in Paris.

“Fine. So read a book or a newspaper or something.”

I rose from the couch and crossed to the table by the window where stacks of books awaited. It wasn’t the first or last time I tried distracting myself with a book. Sir Walter provided me with plenty. But before long, my eyes wouldn’t be on the pages anymore ‘cause I couldn’t stop thinking about Sam.

Leaning my forehead against a cold pane of glass, I thought about our phone conversation, early this morning.

Sam had sounded so close. Like she was next door.

We’d talked a few minutes in a stilted “code,” passing information back and forth.
No, Sir Walter hadn’t made any new ‘friends’—
code for forming alliances against Helmann.
No, we still didn’t know when ‘winter’ might arrive—
code for Helmann’s apocalyptic slaughter of humanity.

No, I didn’t know how I was going to survive on two phone calls a month with the girl who’d taken my heart with her when she left.

“How’s school going?” I’d asked next, trying to sound caring. When all I really felt was abandoned.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re throwing Christian a party tonight, to help him fit in.”

“Fitting in’s good,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Will? I miss you so bad. It’s like a part of me got left back in France.”

I could hear her sniffling, maybe crying.

“The best part of me,” she said in a whisper.

I closed my eyes and it was like I could feel her breath all warm on my face, the way it would feel if she were really here, whispering to me.

“Close your eyes,” I said. “You’re here with me.” And I described how Paris looked that morning. How the sky went all pink around the edges. How the soaring buildings cast these chocolate–brown shadows along the avenue below me. How the birds were trying to convince spring to show up.

We were both silent for a minute, listening to one another’s breaths.

“Thanks,” she said at last, in a voice so sad it cracked my heart into tiny pieces.

We’d hung up feeling sadder and emptier than ever.

I pushed back from the pane of glass, sighing deeply.

“Will,” said my sister.

“I’m fine.” A complete lie. “Totally fine.”

She looked at me from under furrowed brows. “I think I know fine when I see it. Fine involves a healthy appetite. And an interest in basketball stats. And telling your sister you’re going to do dangerous things.”

I dragged my sneaker across the floor, listening to the low squeak it made on the polished wood.

“How ‘bout you open the book in your hands?” asked my sister.

I shoved my copy of
Chanson de Roland
her direction. “You read it. That way you can’t watch me.”

“It’s in French, dweeb.”

“Oh. Right.” I reached for the stack of books in English. Ones I’d already tried. Ones that couldn’t hold my interest either these days. I handed her the one on top. “English. Knock yourself out.”

She pushed the book back across the table towards me. “I’m not the one who needs to snap out of it.” She lowered her voice and muttered. “Plus I don’t
need
a history book living with the History Channel incarnate.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant me—for my love of history—or Sir Walter—for his ancient years. But the lowered voice probably indicated she meant him. If she wanted to insult me, she usually spoke louder, so I’d catch it.

Outside, the midday sky was trying to decide if it wanted to rain or not.

“That’s it,” Mick said, rising and shoving her arms through jacket sleeves. “Come on. We’re going shopping.”

I gave her a tired look that said
you–don’t–really–expect–me–to–come–along.

“You’re coming. Get off your lazy
derrière
, little brother. I can’t speak the language here. I need you.”

“
Derrière
’s French,” I said, not moving.

She growled. “Get up and put on your jacket or I start kicking your
derrière
out the door.” She waited for me to make a move, which I didn’t. “Please?”

I grunted and rose, pulling my jacket on just as Sir Walter materialized on our side of the front door.

Immediately, I sank back into the chair by the window. “Sir Walter, Mick wants to pick something up at the store. Would you mind going and translating for her? I was hoping to catch up on my reading here.” I waved my copy of
Chanson de Roland
.

Our grey–haired friend smiled at me. “But of course. I should be glad of the fresh air, having spent the entire morning apart from my flesh.
Mademoiselle
?” He opened the door, gallantly indicating with a raised arm that she precede him.

She shot me a sad glance and sighed. Then she left with Sir Walter.

I returned to staring out the window, thinking about Sam.

Mickie re–opened the door and stuck her head in. “You’d better not be sitting there like that when I get back.” The door slammed shut.

Sometime later, my stomach growled at me, a rendition of
feed me now
. It had probably been a couple hours since lunch. Hard to say, though, since I didn’t have a cell on me anymore. “Too dangerous, too easy to trace,” according to Sir Walter.

The door of our Parisian apartment flew open. Mickie laughed at something Sir Walter had said. I loved how he could put her in a better mood. Well, when she wasn’t arguing with him.

I grabbed
Chanson de Roland
and pretended to read.

“I
knew
it!” shouted my sister. “Don’t bother with the pretending. You’ve been staring out the window the past two hours, haven’t you?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Well, those days are
over
, Mister.”

Her boots clomped across the shiny wood floor. She pulled something blue out of a bag and thumped it in front of me, grinning.

“Another book?” I asked.

“No, idiot–boy. It’s
blank
.” She crossed her arms as if in triumph.

“You bought us a blank book?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Brain–damaged. That’s the only explanation. I bought
you
a blank book so you can write down all your depressing thoughts instead of thinking the same thing over and over.” She mussed my hair and reached into her bag, pulling out a stupid–looking pen that was maybe supposed to be a quill. “Look! I found you an authentic feather pen!” She smiled, clearly delighted with herself.

I handed the pen back to her. “It’s just a ball–point pen glued to a feather, Mick.”

Her face fell. “I thought you’d like it. It’s historical.”

A tsunami of guilt washed over me. “It’s … amazing. The whole idea is … brilliant, Mick. Really.”

A tiny smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “You’ll use it?”

“Of course I will,” I promised. “There’s a fine tradition of chameleons keeping journals. I should have thought of it myself.”

She frowned. “Oh. Yuck. I didn’t think of Helmann and his journals.”

The tsunami struck again, with double force. “Hey, I was joking. You’re the best sister ever. This is exactly what I need to stop staring at the sky all day.” Which was a total lie. What I needed was Sam.

Something in my guts knotted at the thought of her name. I ignored it. Shoved it down to my toes. “I’ll use it every day. Promise.”

Idiot
, said a voice inside.

But my sister smiled and hugged me, and the waters of guilt receded.

Sir Walter had busied himself perusing
Chanson de Roland
. He turned a page, the expression on his face one of intense interest.

“So what’s on the menu today?” asked Mickie.

“Hummus, I think. And perhaps falafel,” said Sir Walter, tapping the cover of
Chanson de Roland.
“I’m feeling inspired by this tale of valorous Arabs.”

“I didn’t mean
literally
,” said Mick. “I just meant, like, what are we going to do today to make Helmann’s life more difficult than it was yesterday?”

Sir Walter did his little thing of ignoring an immediate question in favor of moving ahead with his own agenda. “Do you know, if not for Monsieur Roland, we would all perhaps dine daily upon such delicacies of the Middle East.”

Mick covered her eyes with one hand and murmured, “Here–we–go–again–with–the–history.”

“Will,” said Sir Walter. “I believe you need exercise.”

Mick dropped her hand from her eyes and flicked a glance my way. “Badly.”

“We shall set forth in search of dinner: a dinner in honor of the Mohammedans who fought the noble
chevalier
Roland,” said Sir Walter.

“I think I’ll just nap on the couch ‘til you get back,” said Mickie.

I winked at her—she wasn’t up for a walk with me and Sir Walter discussing the finer points of a battle fought nine centuries ago.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We stepped out and down a set of stairs. Outside, the weather threatened rain, but couldn’t quite work itself up to it. Instead, it felt like the sky was spitting on us.

“We shall need to leave the elegance of Paris’ eighth
arrondissement
to find hummus worth eating,” said Sir Walter. Our French friend had set us up in some really sweet digs.

“So where do you get good hummus?” I asked, heading automatically for the Métro.

“We journey to the
banlieues
today. To Clichy–sous–Bois which is not reachable by Métro or RER train.” Sir Walter held out an arm to stop me from taking the stairs to the subway. “And considering we have promised your sister an evening meal, I believe we should travel more swiftly than would be possible by city transportation.”

Sir Walter veered us into an alley that led into a windowless courtyard. He extended a hand so we could keep track of each other while we rippled. “To be honest, young Will, I seek more than just hummus. And it lies within the troubled
ville
we visit today.”

As we prepared to ripple, I eyed Sir Walter out of the corner of my peripheral vision.

“Will?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“You are standing in a pose that puts me in mind of one who prepares for a race.”

I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks. I’d been doing this little tally with me and Sir Walter. Who could ripple fastest. He always won.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe I’m racing you,” I said.

“Are you indeed? And to what end?”

I tapped my shoe along a crack in the cement. “Something’s been bugging me. Ever since a couple weeks ago when you dodged Helga’s bullet. You know, in the cave? And I
didn’t
.” I had the scar to prove her bullet had been faster than me. “So I’ve been trying to speed up. I mean, I was always way faster than Sam, but you make me look like I’m standing still.”

“I see,” said my bearded friend.

“I
should
have been able to grab her when those dudes showed up at the Well of Juno with guns. But I was freaked that a speeding bullet would beat me. Which it did. And it bugs the crap out of me.”

Sir Walter nodded solemnly.

“And I noticed you sent your son Chrétien to protect Sam, so I’m guessing he’s like some speed–demon, too, or you would have let me go, right?”

“Your sister would not have consented to your leaving,” interrupted Sir Walter. “Nor would you have hurt her by leaving without her consent.”

“Hmmph.” I knew he was right, and it totally irked me that I cared so much about Mick. Right then, I missed Sam so much it hurt to breathe. “You didn’t answer my question. Is speed the reason you sent Chrétien and not me?”

“Of course not,” said Sir Walter. “You are foolish to frustrate yourself with these comparisons.”

I dropped my eyes and my voice. “I should have saved her. I should have been able to and I couldn’t.”

Sir Walter pulled his hand from mine and placed it instead upon my shoulder. “My dear young man, you are not the only one who failed to carry Sam to safety at that moment. Hear me when I say this: I judged it too close to call, whether or not I could reach her—and safety—prior to one of us being shot. My dear Will, I chose to stand my ground just as you did. Do not doubt your choice.

“In truth, Will, you are very nearly as fast as either Chrétien or myself. And perhaps, if you apply yourself, you can match our ability in changing form swiftly.”

He gave me two pointers on getting away fast: don’t hold any tension in your body and imagine you’re an arrow in flight. The arrow thing just messed me up worse. But the suggestion to relax was useful. I imagined tension as something pouring out of my body, and twice, I beat Sir Walter.

“And now, my swift young friend,” said Sir Walter, “I believe your sister awaits her dinner.”

My stomach gurgled like a broken garbage–disposal. “She’s not alone,” I said as we grasped arms and rippled.

I beat him that time.

Sir Walter pretty much knew Paris like I knew the layout of Las Abs High. Locker over here, track that way, Mr. Polwen’s six–period biology over there. So the old guy just
zoomed
through town with me in tow getting us to Clichy–sous–Bois. I won’t lie, it wasn’t as pretty as the part of town he kept an apartment in. Maybe it used to look better. Or maybe not. I mean, the buildings appeared pretty modern, but they looked so
old
somehow. Run down. There were a handful of restaurants, small hole–in–the–walls like you’d see anywhere in Paris, but featuring cuisines like
Turque
or
d’Afrique
. I saw some graffiti written in flowing lines not from the alphabet I knew.

What do you see?
asked Sir Walter from inside my head.

I wrote back on an imagined yellow note–pad.
Teeny restaurants. Like the Latin Quarter. And a bunch of freaking tall buildings.

One of those tall buildings is today my concern,
he said.