Paperquake (20 page)

Lily was shaking her head, but to Violet's relief, she saw her dad nodding. "Let's get clear on one matter first, before we discuss this any further," Greg said gently. "Baby, you were born with a bad heart murmur and there was a problem with one of the valves. You had a rough start. But the operation you had when you were six was completely successful. Mom and I are not afraid you are going to drop dead of heart Mure or anything else, and I don't want you worrying about it, either. Maybe we do worry about your health more than we should—I guess it's because we nearly lost you. Worrying about you became a habit." He reached out and ruffled her dark hair, so like his own. "I think maybe Mom and I have been overreacting, and your sisters have caught it from us. I'm sorry about that, honey. You're just
fine.
Got it?"

"Yes," she whispered gratefully, her eyes filling with tears.

Lily reached over and hugged her tightly. "You're a strong, healthy girl," she whispered.

"Good," Greg said. "Okay then. When I was looking through renovators' catalogs to get ideas for fixing up the new shop, I saw some ads for staircases. They weren't really very expensive at all, and I bet we could find one that would fit right inside the linen closet. Maybe a spiral staircase. Something that would give easy and safe access to the attic—and we could do away with the ladder entirely."

"Oh, Dad! That would be perfect!" cried Violet.

He smiled at her. "I'll look into it on Monday."

"But the cold, Greg," objected Lily, tightening her arms around Violet. "And the light switch. And there's no bathroom!"

"Lily, dear," Greg chided her, "we've just promised not to fuss so much."

"I'll just come down the stairs," Violet said quickly. "Or—or use a chamber pot like—" She'd been about to say "like Verity must have," but she swallowed the words. "Like in the old days," she finished. "People had to go outside to outhouses," she told her mom. "And they didn't have central heating. And
they
did all right. I'll manage."

Lily released her with a little laugh. "You're certainly determined, I'll give you that."

"We'll have to see what can be done," Greg said. "It might be worth insulating the attic anyway—help keep the heating costs down. And it would be a small job to put some oudets up there. The wiring is already there, after all." He was getting interested, Violet was pleased to see. Renovation projects always held an appeal for him.

Jasmine and Rose grinned at her. She smiled back at them for a moment, feeling strong and proud and healthy. It wasn't Disneyland or a dinner with a sports hero, but it looked like she might get this last wish after all. She felt that, despite her dad's reassurances about her health, whatever happened to Verity Stowe was quite likely just around the corner for her. But until it made itself known to her, Violet resolved, she would keep on trying for a few more last wishes. Who knew? She might live longer now that she was aware of the danger. She might be lucky.

One other last wish, she realized after she'd kissed her parents good night and climbed the stairs, carefully holding the rail, was to go to the middle school dance. Why should Jazzy and Rosy be old enough to ask boys to the Halloween Ball but not Vi?

And Violet knew just the boy she'd like to invite.

She'd call Sam tomorrow and see if her luck held.

That night Violet dreamed of Mr. Koch. He was taking the science class on a field trip to San Francisco, and they were all walking across the Golden Gate Bridge to get there. The hot sun directly overhead blazed down and cars rushed past. As Violet walked, she looked down over the side of the bridge and saw sailboats floating languidly on the bay. There seemed to be no breeze to fill their sails. And yet, mysteriously, the bridge under her feet began trembling, then swinging back and forth as if propelled by mighty winds. It felt as if the whole contraption were a new ride at an amusement park—the kind of ride Violet hated. Cars slid into each other and burst into flames. From the smoking, twisted metal of a car just in front of Violet, three figures emerged. It was hard to see through the black smoke now swirling everywhere, but Violet knew they were children. Their cries rose above the crackle of flame—and she clutched Mr. Koch, calling for him to help them, but he kept trying to thrust a pile of books into her arms. "Have you started on your report?" he boomed, his voice louder even than the screams all around them.

Violet cried out as she awoke. "Save them! The bridge—!" Then she sat up, her limbs feeling heavy, her head groggy, and groaned aloud.
Why is this happening to me? What does it mean ?
She leaned forward till her head rested on her knees and the dream receded. She lifted her head and saw that the morning was gray, covered by mist.

She was
just
like Verity now, talking in her sleep and having visions of doom.

On the other hand, Beth would say the dream was just a sign of a guilty conscience. Violet still had not started on her science project and the deadline was approaching fast.

Whatever it was, vision of doom or reflection of guilty conscience, the dream kept Violet lying in bed for a long time. She lay with her hand over her heart, counting the beats. She listened to her breath. In, out; in, out. She thought about breathing. How could it be that her lungs drew breath and expelled it, on and on and on throughout the day and throughout the night, then more days and nights—for years, for her whole life long? How could it be that her heart—she pictured it looking like a fist-sized piece of uncooked roast beef—could beat steadily on and on without her even having to think about it? That seemed nothing short of magic.

Magic—like the organ-grinder. Like the letters, the diary entries, the other strange connections between now and then.
Magic?
she thought.
Or a miracle?
The miracle of life, as much as the steady beating of her heart was a miracle.
Or part of a plan?

She stretched in her bed, feeling stronger. No longer heavy and groggy, her body now felt energetic; she was ready to face the day. She glanced over at the alarm clock. Only 6:30. Plan One—she could go over to her desk and start reading some of Mr. Koch's books. Or Plan Two—she could go down and surprise everyone by making breakfast.

Then there was Plan Three—she could take a long shower before her sisters were awake and phone Sam before making breakfast and working on her paper. Plan Three won.

She washed her hair half a dozen times in the pounding shower. Close inspection in the mirror revealed that the purple traces in her hair had faded even more. Already she couldn't recapture the urgency that she'd felt only days ago to look like her sisters. The last few days had provided more troubling matters to ponder than whether the three of them matched.

Shivering, she raced back to her alcove wrapped in a towel, murmuring hello to her parents, who were just beginning to stir. She dressed warmly in jeans and a white sweater and socks, then found the piece of paper on which Sam had written his phone number. She went downstairs to the kitchen. It was pretty early to call anyone, especially on a weekend, but she told herself that most families with little kids were up early anyway. She sat at the counter near the phone. She pushed Sam's number. Mrs. Lauer answered on the second ring.

"Hold on just a minute and I'll see if I can pull him out of bed," Mrs. Lauer said with a laugh after Violet identified herself and asked to speak to Sam. "He's usually a terrible beast in the mornings, but a call from you might just be enough to lure him out of his lair."

It took quite a while before Sam's groggy voice came through the receiver. During the wait, Violet stretched the phone cord across to the counter and grabbed an apple from the big blue pottery bowl. She stared out the kitchen window above the sink and admired the crisp red leaves on the bushes outside. When your life was in jeopardy, the world became a more beautiful place.

"Hello? Maid-of-All-Work? What's up at this ungodly hour of the morning?"

She swallowed her bite of apple quickly. "Hi, Sam. I know it's early, but I'm calling to see if you—well, I mean, to invite you—" She stopped and swallowed again, feeling shy.

"To your birthday party? Do triplets have one big party or three little ones?" His gravelly voice was teasing.

She cleared her throat. "It's not a birthday party. Our birthday isn't until the spring. But there's this dance at school this coming Friday. A Halloween Ball. It's probably going to be stupid, but I thought it would be more fun if maybe you could come, too. With me."

There. She'd said it.

"Well, I'd kind of like to," Sam said slowly, and his voice grew softer. "But, I mean, I don't know how to dance."

"No problem," replied Violet. "I don't know how to, either. I don't think anybody does."

"Oh."

She wasn't sure whether that meant he'd come or not. "If you want to, you could come over to Berkeley by BART after school on Friday and have supper with us before the dance. Then maybe you could sleep over here and go home in the morning when we all go back to work on the Chance Street shop. We have a sleeping bag you could use—" She was making these plans up as she went along and just hoped they would be all right with her parents.

"Okay, cool," said Sam. "Let me ask."

She ate more apple while he was gone, remembering the way his dark hair dipped into his eyes. Nice dark hair, just the color of hers, or the color hers used to be—would soon be again.

In a few minutes he was back with the news that he could come. "But my mom wants to clear it with yours," he said.

"That's great," said Violet. "But my mom's not up yet. I'll have her call your mom later." Then she fell silent. She wasn't sure what else to say. Fortunately Sam had something to say instead.

"I asked my dad about looking up old newspaper articles and stuff," he said. "And he told me, no problem. He can do it for us and print out whatever he finds. He just needs to know what names to look for."

"Well, we don't know Hal's last name—or Laela's, either," said Violet. "But if it's not too much trouble for him to look at all the wedding announcements for June of 1906, we might find something. And he could look up Verity Stowe. Or any of the Stowes, really."

"I'll see what he can do," promised Sam. "And I'll bring whatever I get when I come on Friday. And—uh—about this ball. Is it, you know, something fancy?"

"Just wear a costume," said Violet. "My sisters and I were planning to be aliens and dress all in black, with antennae. But I don't know. I might decide on something else."

He laughed. "How about an organ-grinder?"

Magic? Miracle? Or a, plan?

That hadn't been so hard after all, Violet thought after they'd said good-bye and hung up. She didn't know why she'd said she might not be an alien. Maybe it had something to do with how she didn't want to be part of a threesome around him. She wanted to stand out.

But now there was the long week to get through—going to school, writing her paper ... and watching for death traps—until she would see him on Friday.

Later that day the whole family helped Violet wash down the walls in the attic and wipe up the dust, and on Monday Greg bought two gallons of cream-colored paint. "Not lavender?" asked Lily wistfully. "It's always been your color, Baby."

"No," said Violet decisively. "If I want color on the walls, I'll hang up some posters."

On Tuesday Lily gave Violet the old dining-room rug for her new bedroom. It was an oriental pattern in deep reds. Unrolled and vacuumed, it made the attic room seem larger and cozier. Violet hugged herself with anticipation. On Wednesday she brought Beth home after school and they made cream puffs filled with vanilla yogurt and carried the after-school snacks up to Violet's attic. In a last-ditch effort to remove all the purple traces from her hair, Violet and Beth washed her hair for a half hour, using up most of the shampoo. Beth scrubbed so hard that Violet screeched that her scalp would come off—and afterward Jasmine and Rose agreed there was no more than a sort of sheen left. Going to a dance with purple hair—even dressed as an alien—would be bad enough, but
dying
with purple hair would be even worse.

Violet had to smile at herself. She had never felt farther from death.

On Thursday at school, Mr. Koch stood by the window and glowered at the class. He said he was looking forward to reading everyone's report, due in class on Monday, and Halloween was no excuse. No late papers accepted. Thursday night Violet
meant
to get busy writing about the 1906 earthquake, but Greg and Lily started moving Violet's furniture up to the attic and, of course, she wanted to help. She still didn't really know what to write, anyway. All the bits of information she'd learned about 1906 didn't seem the sort of things that belonged in a paper for Mr. Koch.

Violet's bed had to be taken apart and reassembled in the attic, but everything else fit up through the hole. Her sisters came in to sit on the bed, and both proclaimed the room better than theirs and said they were jealous.

On Friday morning, Halloween, a series of small, sharp jolts sent the Jackstones bolting from their beds and into the doorways and under tables and desks. Violet huddled under her desk in the attic, fighting back the swirling smoke and cries of children in her head by concentrating on breathing. In, out; in, out. She heard a crash and cautiously edged across the attic to the hole in the floor. "Dad!" she wailed. "Help!" The ladder's bolts had shaken loose, and the ladder had fallen to the floor of the hallway below.

Lily and Greg emerged from their bedroom, and Lily gasped when she saw the ladder. "This is just too much, Greg," she quavered. "These quakes have got to stop."

Greg stood the ladder back up and held it while Violet climbed down. "I agree with you completely," he said, hugging Violet. "I'll tell them to stop immediately."

Jasmine and Rose pelted into the hallway. "It's not funny, Dad!" Jasmine cried.

But Rose was laughing. "What a way to wake up!"