Frost (16 page)

Through the train’s half-open window, the sun splashes over my arms and up onto my face. I turn to take in the scenery: baby-blue sky, cotton-puff clouds, and leafy green trees. We take a bend and pass under an old stone bridge, and then the seaside rolls into view. Turquoise waves lap at a pebbled beach. The setting is happy, the hues are vibrant, and the music bright and cheerful. I look down at my lap, my hands folded neatly, one perfectly peach-colored fist over the other. I lift my right to examine the flawless tone, and I gasp. One thumb and three fingers. Three fat nail-lacking fingers. I turn to the glass of the window finding my reflection easily, but, again, I’m startled. As expected, they’re my features: white-blond hair, pale blue eyes, even my new pink top, but all of it, every last detail a cartoon. And I’ve never felt better, more lively, more invigorated — or more animated. I am, after all, a drawing.

Sunlight dapples over the waves with a sparkle that snaps. I hear the
click
and the
clack
of the happy train that, as if sensing my approval, blows its high whistle.

I stand and look about. No one else is in the passenger coach with me. I walk forward, pulling open the door to the forward car. No one in the next coach, either. I push my way through this empty passenger coach, and then another. At the front of the third, I can see into the engine — the bright blue engine. I see Jacob, his cartoon image anyway, busy at the controls — too busy at his engineering duties to notice me.

The train slows, and a station comes into view. Once the train glides to a screeching, hissing stop, my no-cap knees descend with two easy glides to the spotless platform. From this gleaming, vine-covered depot, I watch as the fussy blue engine pulls away with a
Peep! Peep!
The coaches clatter past. Annie’s name painted in script on the side of the first coach, followed by Clarabel. The third coach is painted a sunny yellow, but I’m alarmed to note it has no name painted on its side. I run with stiff legs to keep pace with the train, but it quickly passes me. Then on the back in a loopy cursive, there it is — Julia. Onto the gated back end of the train steps Jacob. He waves as the train pulls into a tunnel and disappears behind a final puff of steam.

Waking following one of my Stork dreams was always disorienting. Even to call them dreams was somewhat of a misnomer. They were more altered state than REM cycle. This one, though, with its picture-book quality, was a brain-boggler. I was keenly aware that what I was doing was risky, a wildcat maneuver in a flock of jittery birds. I had no idea if there was a precedent for my actions. Was I the first to ever actively recruit a soul and reconnect it with grieving parents? If it had been done, what was the outcome? If it hadn’t, what was the risk? And should my manipulation be discovered, what would happen? So many worries and doubts were banging around my head that I could hear them. The slightest shake, and I clanged like pots and pans. So why, aware of all that was at risk, was I so committed to proceed? Why was I excited? I felt that same post-Stork-dream sense of elation and purpose and even a little bit of that check-me-out self-confidence that put a rocket behind my heels for a full day. I even dressed differently following a Stork dream, usually representative of its theme. Today, I chose primary colors: a red jacket over a yellow-and-red polka-dot cotton blouse, an above-the-knee denim skirt with white knee socks, and jay-blue, ankle-high suede boots. I bounded up the front steps to our small-town high school feeling as bold as the palette I wore. Yeah, I got looks, but they were fleeting. My classmates at Norse Falls High were used to my fashion sense by now.

In the hallway, on our way to fourth period, Jack sniffed out my fidgety mood.

“Is something up with you today?”

I pulled my hand out of his, as if skin contact had somehow been the giveaway. “It’s kind of a big day,” I said.

“Anything you can tell me about?”

Like I wasn’t in enough trouble already. Like I hadn’t seen blabbermouth Dorit scalped of her life’s purpose and pride before us. Like I hadn’t already prompted Jack into a misuse of his powers. Like I wanted to admit even
that
hadn’t taught me a lesson.

“In Design today we start taking Penny and my winning drawings from concept to pattern to costume.” It was something I was both proud and excited about, but it wasn’t technically what had me firing like a pinball machine.

“Clear the runway,” he said.

I knew he didn’t mean to trivialize something that I’d worked hard for, but it was there in his flat tone: condescension. And as much as it wasn’t the real thing that had me lit up, was just a dumb duck of a decoy, I still took offense. Maybe it wouldn’t solve the global warming problem, but it was going to be a very appealing use of velvets and fur trims.

“Well, we can’t all be a part of Brigid’s super-elite climate commandos, now, can we?” I caught a quick glimpse of Jack’s startled face before I marched off in a huff. In addition to making me one ball of nerves, this particular round of Stork duties had me so hot-tempered, flames were spouting from my nose. I smelled smoke.

Going off on Jack like that put me in a foul mood for the first half of class, even though Ms. Bryant had distributed booklets of our costume designs to everyone. Finally, Penny’s sunny aura lifted my spirits, and I was honored to have our drawings so praised and complimented. The next step in the process was for the class, working in teams to create patterns from our drawings, sized to the individual playing the part. Penny and I naturally chose her character, Gerda. Even though our designs for the Snow Queen, Monique’s character, were the most elaborate and ornate, I was pleased to be working on Gerda’s. For the Snow Queen we’d chosen icy white silks and shimmery blue taffetas, whereas for Gerda, the resilient and plucky young heroine, we’d gone with crimson velvets and gold and plum brocades — all colors that would suit Penny’s copper-colored hair.

After class, I looked all over for Jack, but he’d apparently left early for the day, though I only heard this via editor in chief Pedro. Jack’s phone had gone straight to voicemail when I tried to get hold of him.

I had a dance practice after school. After that, I stopped home to check on my mom. Stanley had driven her to a morning doctor’s appointment, but then had a training session all afternoon. I assumed that was where Jack disappeared to, but I still hadn’t gotten hold of him. I did know that those who had been chosen for the Greenland trip were expected to be familiar with basic field procedures, to have experience with the monitoring equipment, to know basic first aid, and to have a few cold-weather survival skills. It all had me a little curious as to how and why a high-school senior had ended up as part of this group. My mom reiterated that such an honor spoke very highly of Jack and that it had been Brigid’s, not Stanley’s, decision. She obviously thought this would make me happy or proud. Instead it made me even more suspicious. Not that I didn’t think Jack more brilliant than the sun, but I was supposed to, right? I couldn’t help wondering just what it was about Jack that had Brigid singling him out. I didn’t like it, and I didn’t like Brigid.

I made us a quick dinner of spaghetti with jarred sauce. It was my go-to meal. We had it about three times a week, but my mom was too appreciative of all my help to complain. In truth, even I was tired of it, but not as tired as I was of being the kitchen wench. I rinsed and stacked the dishes in the sink and then told my mom I was going to go check on Afi, though I really didn’t need to invent an excuse. My asleep-by-nine mom was way past trying to keep tabs on me.

At the store, I found Ofelia alone.

“Your
afi
went home hours ago,” she said. “I was just about to close up.”

“You’d just have to turn around and come back again,” I said, fake-clawing at my head.

“Oh,” she said. “Are we meeting tonight?”

“Yep,” I said, scratching for real this time. “I’m sending the signal right now.”

It was late, way late. I was giving my sister Storks a mere half hour to report to duty. Grim would go barbarian with rage. As much as I knew I was way too far down this road to turn back, I’d procrastinated out of fear and nerves. What the heck was I doing?

“How odd,” Ofelia said, fixing me with one of her weird kindred-spirit stares. “Because I didn’t get . . . I mean there wasn’t any . . . Oh, listen to me rambling.” She checked her watch.

She made it seem like she usually had some kind of advance notice or forecast of these things. But how could she? It was my turn to stare at her. She soon invented an excuse to pop down and let her sister at the bookstore know to head home without her. Worked for me. I was grateful to have the last twenty-five minutes pre-meeting to myself, even though I was too nervous to do much more than google heart-attack symptoms on my iPhone.

At nine straight-up, the Storks began filing in. Last to arrive was the very put-out, red-faced Grim. Man, she liked to turn her entrance into some sort of death march. What had I taken her away from, anyway? It sure wasn’t charm school, and it sure wasn’t beauty sleep.

I watched as Birta walked in with a gleaming leather book tucked under her arm. I also saw that we had new bowls of medicinal herbs and brand-new candles running the length of our table. I waited until everyone was seated before I began. “Fru Birta, I notice you have a new book.”

“It arrived just the other day. Special delivery.”

“And our herbs and candles, so nice to see them replenished, too.”

“
I
took the liberty of ordering those, as it appeared no one else would,” Grim said. There could be no mistaking who the “no one else” was.

“Thank you, Fru Grimilla,” I said. “As always, you go above and beyond.” I probably shouldn’t have thought
and behind my back.
Ofelia giggled and then tried to cover it up with a hacking cough into her fist, but Grim wasn’t fooled. She clubbed us both with a bullying look.
Great.
Like I needed to piss Grim off right before I launched into my riskiest move ever.

“I have, myself, called this meeting,” I said, “with a soul to place.” I took a deep breath. “A boy: willful, and playful, and a lover of travel. There are three potential vessels. The first is a highly efficient individual who works well with people.”
Carrying them, their little cartoon figures anyway, from station to station. Answers to the name of Annie.
“The second is a very sweet-natured woman who works as a . . . coach.”
They’ll think basketball, soccer, or some other sport, right? Not Clarabel, Annie’s sidekick and Thomas’s passenger train.
“And, finally, a woman who has recently suffered the loss of her only child. Her strength, and courage, and capacity to still love are proof of her character. My recommendation is, wholeheartedly, the third. Your show of votes, please,” I said quickly, before Grim could interject.

Everyone, Grim and Ofelia included, supported my recommendation with a wag of three fingers, though Ofelia stared at me with full-moon eyes. Even as I was thinking all the little asides about Annie and Clarabel, I knew it was dicey, but how do you stop your thoughts? It was advanced mind control, way beyond my rookie skills.

“In conclusion, then, Fru Grimilla, is there any change to Fru Hulda’s condition?”

“None.”

“And anything any of us can do?”

“No.”

“Then, I wish everyone a pleasant evening.” I bowed my head in a very Hulda-like manner and said, “Peace be.”

Borrowing Hulda’s traditional closing remark was an olive branch for Grim’s benefit. Seeing as she hadn’t been a dissenting vote had me feeling generous. So much for my token. Grim passed behind my chair and said to Fru Svana in a loud voice, “A mere half-hour notice. I guess some of our members think we have nothing else to do.” I heard my peace offering snap under Grim’s ugly black clodhoppers.

And the look Ofelia gave me on her way out. Good God, it was ghoulish. I hadn’t fooled everyone.

“This cannot happen tomorrow!” Mr. Higginbottom yelled like the diva-possessed creature he had become.

A stageful of blame-filled eyes turned toward me, the primary offender. Technically they turned down on me to where I lay in a crumpled heap, having just fallen during my dress-rehearsal solo. Crap. Twenty-four hours to go until opening night and my legs had deserted me, leaving me with two clumsy stand-ins who didn’t know the dance, or who just possibly — like me — had had enough. Neither I nor my impostor legs were in any hurry to get up.