A Clatter of Jars (10 page)

Renny

I
N A MILL
ION YEARS,
R
ENNY NEVE
R WOULD HAVE GUESSED
that he'd find himself paddling a canoe in the middle of a lake with his older brother. But if he ever
had
guessed it, he would have predicted that it would be exactly this horrible.

“
No water.
” Miles's voice was a trembly, terrifying whisper. His knuckles were white as he clutched the sides of the canoe, his chest heaving underneath his orange life vest. “
No water.
”

Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!
went his fingers against the wood.

“It's okay,” Renny told him as he paddled. He tried his best to sound comforting. “It's only water, Miles. And I'm right here.”

Miles pulled his gaze away from the murky water. “You're right here,” he repeated, his eyes wide and wet.

“Why don't you tell me some Talent history?” Renny said. “How about old Howard Greenspan?”

“Howard Greenspan,” Miles started. “Thirty”—he let out a tiny
whelp!
as the canoe rocked, but then went on—“Thirty-six as of his last birthday. Talent: Obliv-Obliviator.”

Toes to hair, that was what Jo had told Renny, in a hushed whisper so Miles wouldn't overhear. Miles needed to be fully submerged in the lake for Jo to get her copy of his Talent. She hadn't explained any further.

As Renny pressed them into deeper water, Miles continued his shaky recitation. “Able to erase objects from the visual field of any pers—” He let out another
whelp!
when the canoe rocked again.

“It's okay,” Renny assured him. It was hard to push out the words, caught as they were behind the lump of guilt in his throat. “It's only water. It can't hurt you.” He swallowed the guilt down.

Miles nodded, but he didn't finish his Talent history. Instead, he stared at the water around them and flicked his fingers. Busy with his paddling, Renny was unable to stop him.

Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!

The lake was quiet, except for the soft
slook!
of the paddle in the water. The occasional
hdup-hdup!
of a frog.

Renny could row back to shore right now, he thought, watching his brother.
Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!
They could still make it to the arts-and-crafts cabin with enough time to join the Talent show rehearsal.

Except, if they did that, Renny wouldn't have anything real to rehearse.

It's only water,
he told himself.

As Miles continued to flick his fingers—
flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!
—Renny stowed the paddle beneath his seat. Then, gripping the sides of the canoe, he took a deep breath and jerked, with all his might, to the right.

There was a fraction of a second when Renny thought the canoe would stay upright. And he was surprised to find that he was actually relieved. Renny didn't need a Talent. He'd been a disappointment his whole life, so why stop now?

He heard the splash before he realized the boat had tipped.

“
Miles!
” Renny shrieked, once he'd bobbed to the surface. He splashed in a frantic circle until he spotted his brother.

“
WATER!
” Miles shrieked, bobbing and flailing. His fingers flicked wildly. “
WATER! RENNY! WATER!
”

Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!

“It's okay,” Renny said, swimming the few strokes to Miles. The frigid water clutched at every inch of Renny's body, squeezing the breath out of him. “It's okay.” Even though it wasn't. It wasn't at all. “Here. Grab on here.” Renny tugged the overturned canoe toward them. Squeezed Miles's hands until he stopped his flicking. “It's only water.” And then, from the shore, Renny heard Jo.

“Toes to hair, Renwick Fennelbridge!”

Miles's head, Renny realized, was still dry. In his life vest, Miles hadn't gone completely under.

“
No water!
” Miles shrieked. “
No—!
”

Renny grabbed hold of Miles's shoulders, and—swallowing down that lump of guilt—he pushed his brother under.

When Miles popped back above the surface, gasping and sputtering, Renny latched his brother's flicking fingers around the canoe's rope handles. “We need to kick, all right?” he said. Miles was fine. “I have a Caramel Crème bar back at the cabin. I've been saving it for you.” Just fine. “Can you kick?”

Miles didn't kick. It was all Renny could do to keep his brother clinging to the canoe. By the time they reached the shore, Renny's legs were practically icicles, and his teeth were chattering. Renny grabbed Miles under his arms and walked him up the pebbly beach.

Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!

Jo was grinning when they reached her. “Why, Renwick Fennelbridge,” she said, and she looked proud. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

For the first time, Renny wished he were a disappointment.

Jo tossed him a key. Silver, with a square top. The key to her office. “Help yourself to any jar you want,” she said, her eyes fixed on the sun, which was just considering a dip toward the water.

Renny pressed the key into his palm, slicing at his skin. “Come on,” he told Miles. “We'll change into some dry clothes.”

Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!

The whole way back to Cabin Eight, Renny swallowed and swallowed, but that lump in his throat simply wouldn't budge.

• • •

There were hundreds of memories coursing through the woods of Camp Atropos—big ones and small ones, heavy and light. Memories about building sand castles and practicing long division. Memories about trips to the eye doctor and visits to the shore with second cousins. One fellow even lost the memory of how to tie his own shoes. Some of the memories went whizzing on their way, eager to locate the perfect mind to settle into. Others took their time, floating along on the breeze with the birds. Miles had tugged many memories out of many minds, and most people didn't even notice their absence.

One memory—bitter like coffee and heavy like bricks—had been plucked from the mind of Liliana Vera, while she was standing outside the arts-and-crafts cabin. Lily didn't miss the coffee-flavored memory when it left. Truth be told, Lily might have been happiest if the memory had never encountered her again. But sometimes memories have a way of cropping up in the most unfortunate places.

The coffee-flavored memory crept along the dirt path, danced among the ants, and then slunk its way beneath the door to the kitchen, where a certain blond-haired someone was working on a batch of punch.

Lily

“
L
ILY, WE'RE S
UPPOSED TO BE REHEAR
SING!”
E
LLIE
called from inside the arts-and-crafts cabin. “It's on the schedule!”

Lily wound the length of yarn around her thumb. There was an itch below her ear, but as hard as she scratched, she couldn't seem to reach it.

“No one else is even here,” Lily replied through the window. Miles and Renny had branched off somewhere on their way over. “Where's Chuck?”

“I haven't seen her since free swim,” Ellie said, and Lily could practically hear her frown.

Lily looked left, then right. The coast was clear.

“Tomorrow's dress rehearsal, you know,” Ellie called through the window. “Are you going to practice with me or not?”

It was now or never.

“Lily?”

But Lily was already kicking up dirt on the path to the lodge. When she reached Jo's office window, Lily focused her thoughts at the bridge of her nose, twisted the latch, and
cre-eeak!
ed the window open.

Hundreds and hundreds of jars, lined up on the shelf. All of them with brightly colored bracelets at the bottom, holding Mimicked Talents.

Lily shifted her focus and concentrated hard.

Together, the jars began to rise.

Up.

Up.

Up.

Straight off the shelves, into the air.

Everyone was busy rehearsing for the Talent show, so they didn't see it: the jars, floating out the window, clanking against one another. Lily, her thoughts focused,
focused
, at the bridge of her nose, walking backward down the path. The jars, clattering in the dirt as they followed, past the archery ring, through the trees, to the center of the camp, like a long row of glass ducklings.

No one saw as the jars wove their way to the Camp Atropos fire circle, through the spiral of logs, through the ring of rocks, under the heap of chopped wood, down deep into the ash at the heart of the fire pit where, once the fire was set that evening, the jars, along with the Talent bracelets inside them, would be sure to melt into nothingness.

Every last jar.

Well, every last jar save two.

• • •

As Fate would have it, two jars remained in Jo's office.

One was the jar that had wedged itself under the filing cabinet the week before, its label firmly affixed, with a green Talent bracelet settled at the bottom.

The second, with a yellow bracelet inside, was one that, as Fate would have it, Lily had failed to carry off with the others. That jar sat all alone on the very bottom shelf, and the ink on its label was so smeared that it was nearly impossible to read.

Renny

M
ILES
HAD BEEN ACTING STR
ANGE—STRANGER THAN
usual—since the lake.

“We're supposed to be at the campfire,” Renny told him, when he'd finished rubbing the lake water out of Miles's hair. “That's what it says on the schedule. Friday Night Campfire. Then the slumber party, in the lodge.” Out the window, Renny watched orange sparks light up the darkening sky as campers streamed to the fire circle at the center of the camp.

But Miles seemed completely uninterested in schedules. “You have to get a jar from Jo's office.” He picked the key off the dresser beside their bunk and pressed it into Renny's hand. It felt cold. Sharp. “Jo said.”

“We can do that later,” Renny told him. Swallowing. “Right now we should go to the campfire.”

“
You need to get a jar!
” Miles shouted suddenly. He began flicking his fingers.
Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!

Renny grabbed at his brother's hands. “Fine,” he said, with as much calm as he could muster. “Fine, Miles, if that's what you want, we'll go, okay? But then the campfire.”

“Then the campfire,” Miles agreed.

• • •

There was a single jar sitting on the shelf in Jo's office, on the very edge of the very bottom row. Miles plucked it up and held it out to Renny, who was still gripping the silver key in the door lock.

“Here,” Miles said. “This is yours now.”

Renny examined the jar. A yellow Talent bracelet was coiled at the bottom, holding a Mimic of a real Talent. Even if that bracelet would only grant him a Talent for a single year, it was a million times better than the useless bracelet at his ankle, still murky with lake water, dyeing his sock a hazy blue-green. Renny squinted at the smeared ink on the jar's label, nearly impossible to read.
COST
, perhaps. Or
COAT
. All he had to do was slip the bracelet on.

“I don't need it,” Renny told his brother, pressing his fingers tighter around the key in the lock. “Put it back. Let's go.”

Miles didn't put the jar back. “But it's
yours
,” he insisted. “Jo said for you to have it, because you pushed me under the water.”

Renny was certain then that no amount of swallowing would ever dislodge the lump of guilt in his throat. “You heard that?” he said. He searched Miles's eyes for anger. Disappointment. Betrayal. Something.

But Miles just looked like Miles.

“It's yours,” Miles told him again. “You earned it.”

Renny took the jar. Examined the yellow bracelet inside. “I . . .” He could apologize. Put the jar back on the shelf and lock the office door.

Renny slid the jar into his pocket.

“You're okay,” he told Miles. “Right? It was only water.”

“Only water,” Miles replied.

Renny swallowed again.