Rippler (4 page)

Crinkled molasses cookies. And at my eye-level? Doily-ed plates of pastries: European bear claws and croissants beside Mexican
pan de huevos
and cinnamon-sugar coated
polvorones
.

I’d spent most of my allowance here the past year.

Gwyn waved, helping guests with her mom, Bridget, who remembered me from before

and still called me Sammy. As Will and I waited to order, a fluffball cat wrapped himself around my legs, purring.

Will leaned in, saying, “I’ll go grab that last booth.”

“Don’t you want anything?” I asked.

“Ice water?” He dropped down to retie a broken shoelace to itself. “I’m not really

hungry.” He gave me a smile, stood, and walked back to the booth.

I frowned; I knew Will and Mick didn’t have much. My own allowance was ridiculous,

way more than I needed. Would he feel insulted if I bought him something?

I ordered an ice water, a syllaberry bubble tea, and two orders of
polvorones.
Bridget grinned and popped two quarters into a large jar labeled “Feline Assistance Fund” on the counter.

The grey fluff-ball at my feet meowed, and Bridget noticed him as she handed me a flyer.

“You naughty cat. Why can’t you stay in the kennels?”

I smiled, taking the flyer. It announced an event called “Panning for Felines” happening on Labor Day.

“Rufus is not allowed in the bakery, Gwyneth,” said Bridget. “How many times do I

have to tell you?”

“Like I’m the boss of him,” Gwyn replied.

“Grab the register while I make a bubble tea,” Bridget said to Gwyn, dashing to the kitchen. “And get Rufus out.”

“I did
not
let him in, Ma,” Gwyn said. “Did she hit you up for the gold panning fundraiser yet?”

I waved the flyer in reply.

“You have a new best friend.” She pointed to Rufus, purring loudly at my feet. “He’s adoptable, you know.”

“I’m not what you’d call a ‘cat-person,’” I reminded her.

“Cats aren’t for everyone. Only, don’t say that in front of Ma,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“We’re up to fifteen or sixteen in the cattery. I forget. Hence, the fund raiser.” She pointed to the stack of colored flyers. “We need pledge sponsors for each hour we pan in case we don’t find much gold.”

“You’ll find flakes,” I said. “Maybe nuggets.”

Gwyn’s eyebrows shot up.

“I mean, not
huge
nuggets.”

“No, no, no—not that!” Gwyn’s voice dropped to a loud whisper and she tipped her head towards Will. “Are you guys finally dating?”

“Just . . . homework,” I said.

“Oh, and me working all day,” she said, shaking her head in mock regret.

I smiled. Gwyn acted like she hated school, but she pulled straight A’s.

She reverted to the whisper. “Homework—ha! I’m so asking Ma to tell me everything

about Will. Ma’s always chatting with the big sister.”

“You mean Mickie?”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Gwyn, eyes drifting back to Will. “It’s still a date, even if you’re doing homework.”

“Shut up!” I said, lowering my own voice.

A guest walked up and handed Gwyn a twenty and a ticket.

“Keep the change,” said the customer.

“God forbid I keep any for a tip,” Gwyn murmured, popping the change into the cat jar.

She moved on to help a customer who’d just arrived just as Bridget brought out my drink.

“Gwyn!” Bridget said. “Rufus?”

“I got him,” I said. Cautiously, I picked up a cat for the first time in eight years and carried him to the front door, setting him outside quickly.

“We’ll talk soon,” said Gwyn, winking as I grabbed my cookies and drinks.

I rolled my eyes and walked over to Will. He was bent over a small black book and had placed two manila folders on my side of the table.

“What’s that?” I asked, passing his ice-water across the table. “Your diary?”

“It’s my sister’s. It was Pfeffer’s.”

“You’re reading her diary? Or Pfeffer’s diary?”

“It’s not a diary. At least I don’t think it is. It was in that folder,” he said, tapping the one to my right. “Those are all things Pfeffer gave us for safekeeping before he disappeared.”

“So this will tell me everything I ever wanted to know about . . . myself?” I looked at the two folders.

“Yeah, I just grabbed everything in the end. I didn’t want Mick catching me looking through her stuff.”

“I’ll be really careful with it,” I promised. I wasn’t the most scientifically curious of students, but I vowed to read every scrap of paper in those folders. “And I’ll get it back by Wednesday, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

He was really distracted.

“So what is it?” I pointed to the black book and grabbed a bit of
polvorone
.

“Some book of riddles. I don’t think it’s actually related to what Mick or Pfeffer studied.

Maybe it’s math problems.” He scratched his head, eyebrows drawn tight in concentration as he looked down at the tiny handwriting.

“Let’s hear one of them.”

He looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and flipped back a couple of pages. “Here’s the first one:

Twelve children and every morning, twelve knots of brown bread and twelve cups of
warm cow’s milk. Then one morning, eleven brown rolls with eleven cups of milk. There are
still twelve children. What will happen?

“But that’s dumb,” said Will as he raked fingers through his dark hair. There’s no

divisors you can use with eleven. It’s a prime number.”

“How about this?” I offered. “Ten of the kids can eat whatever, but one is gluten-

intolerant, so you give her the milk, and one is lactose-intolerant so you give her the bread.

Everyone’s happy.”

Will laughed. “That’s better than what I was thinking. I pictured a fight.”

“Math books aren’t so big on fights.”

Will flipped to the next page. “Listen to this one. ‘
Ten children rest under ten blankets of
eider-down. One chill morning the eider-downs are taken to be cleaned. Five filthy lengths of
scratchy wool are brought in while the children march outside in snow. What will happen this
bitter night?’
”

“Whoever wrote this has serious issues! What’s with all the filth and scratching?”

Will cracked up. His laugh was deep and throaty. “Okay,” he said. “One more:

‘
A bowl of poisoned water sits on a table before eight thirsty children. As their thirst
increases, they try the door, but it remains locked.

‘What will happen when thirst drives them mad?’”

“That’s twisted. Your sister’s advisor had a psycho math book.”

“I’d say it’s no math book,” replied Will. “See this?” He pointed to a section in blue ink.

“That’s Pfeffer’s handwriting. He was translating this. Or he was trying to. He didn’t get very far.”

“Is the whole book like that?” I asked.

“Only the first couple pages have English translations scribbled down.” Will flipped through a few more pages. “It’s sort of like French, maybe. See here? ‘
Les enfans’
—”

“The children,” I said. “But it’s spelled wrong.”

“Right,” agreed Will.

He puzzled over a couple more pages while I drank my bubble tea. I smiled,

remembering the first time I’d noticed him in French class last year when our pregnant teacher’s water exploded all over the ugly brown-and-grey linoleum. Everyone but Will wanted to puke; Will helped her to the office.

“I think I’ll hold on to this book,” said Will. “But you read through everything else, and let me know if you have questions.”

I pushed the plate with the remaining cinnamon
polvorones
towards Will. “I’m done.

This bubble tea is really filling.”

Will stuffed one in his mouth and grunted a thank you, still poring through the black book. “This is some weird stuff,” he said, stopping on another page with a long section in blue-inked English.

Gwyn walked past, winking at us. Will didn’t see it, fortunately.

Will’s cell vibed loudly from inside his pack. He flipped it open and frowned. “It’s my sister. She sent me a text from
online
. That’s creative.” He scrolled through the message. “She wants to know where her stuff is.
This
stuff,” said Will, tapping the packets in front of me.

“Unbelievable. She hasn’t looked at any of this for months and now she needs it?” He shook his head.

I pushed the manila folders back, one at a time. It felt like they weighed two hundred pounds each. I wanted that information so badly it hurt.

“Hey,” said Will. “I think Mick’s helping at some all-day plant sale this Saturday. I could get everything back for you and we could go somewhere. You want to go to Yosemite?”

I smiled. “I haven’t been in forever.”

Will stuffed everything back in his pack, and I texted Sylvia to come get us. She showed up a few minutes later in her TT, greeted Will, and tossed me the keys.

“Really?” I groaned.

“A woman needs to know how to drive a car with a clutch.” It was something she said all the time. That, and,
a woman needs to know how to use a can of pepper spray.

“A woman should not have to embarrass herself in front of her teammates,” I said to Will as we stuffed ourselves in the tiny Audi. “Get ready for a bumpy ride.”

Will and Sylvia did all the talking as I drove to his house. I had to concentrate to keep from killing the engine at the stop signs. I sent clouds of exhaust into the air each time, revving the car to keep it from dying. And as I watched the toxic clouds dissipating in the rearview mirror, I found myself wondering what kind of person would jot down sick riddles about bowls of poisoned water and thirsty children.

Excerpted from the private journal of Girard L’Inferne, circa 1939

Experiment 23, Control Group A

Twelve hands grab at the basket of rolls and one comes up empty. The tray of tin cups is
set down. Twelve hands reach and two close on opposite sides of the last cup.

“What does it mean?” the children ask one another.

The two who hold the cup battle. Fritz wrenches the cup free after kicking the other child.

But the milk splatters everywhere.

“What does it mean?” the children ask again, faces turned to Franz, the clever one, who
is also the best in a fight.

“It means that if it happens again tomorrow, the last two can fight for it. The winner
eats.”

Weeks pass and some of the children begin to hope for days when not enough food is
served. Others realize they can force a fight by taking an extra roll.

How swiftly and how well the children learn the lessons they are set.

-translation by G. Pfeffer

Chapter Four

ILLILOUETTE CREEK

Dad wasn’t real big on me going anywhere with Will, and I got an earful of that through the ducting that goes from our kitchen to my bedroom. He and Sylvia were arguing; I was making my bed—not an everyday occurrence—while waiting to hear the outcome. Will

would come by in an hour.

“I’m not saying his dad isn’t a drug-addict,” said Sylvia. “But his sister is the one with custody, and she’s doing a great job raising Will. She brought him here to
protect
him from their dad.”

That was the rumor, but I knew
now
what else Mick was protecting Will from. I heard Sylvia rapidly tapping her foot. She does this when she’s really irritated but doesn’t want to come right out and say you’re an idiot.

I couldn’t make out my dad’s response, but Sylvia’s foot tempo increased.

“Sam’s going to Yosemite,” she said. “Will’s a great kid. He’s a good friend to

Samantha, and we both know Sam needs friends.”

My dad sighed long and loud; I had no trouble hearing that. Then he conceded. “Long as he gets her back before nine.”

My curfew was eleven, but I guessed Dad needed to win at something. I smiled. He was a good man. More in love with crops than people at times, but that’s what made him a

successful farmer.

My cell buzzed with a text. Will’s sister was coming with us. I frowned and slapped at my comforter, trying to make it lie flat. This changed everything. I kicked a lone flip-flop across the floor. It stopped short of my open closet. Scowling, I walked over, picked up the sandal, and threw it into the back of the closet, slamming the door shut.

Mickie was fine in the abstract. She’d even been by the house a few times to trade plant starts and gardening tips with Sylvia. But why couldn’t she have stuck to her plan of hanging out at the plant sale all day?

I sighed.
It is what it is.

Sylvia somehow squashed two six-packs of Gatorade, two bags of chips, and a small

cheesecake on ice into my day pack. Will was bringing sandwiches. Dad asked me three separate times about my cell: did I have it with me, was it charged, was the ringer on? It was annoying, but I gave him a big hug and told him I’d be fine. Then I saw him frowning at Will and wished I could take the hug back.

“Samantha, do you get car-sick?” Mickie asked as we finished loading the Jeep.

“Sometimes, a little,” I admitted.

“Okay,” she said, “Will drives and you ride up front. Narrow, curvy roads don’t sit well with Will. He hurls if he’s not driving.”

“Mick—geez,” Will groaned.

I chortled, then turned it into a throat clearing as I climbed in beside Will. I’d found Mickie’s abrupt manner intimidating in the past, but she was kind of funny.

We began the drive, crawling through Oakhurst, Sugar Pine and Fish Camp.

“The Valley’s going to be full,” said Will, pointing at the line of hulking RV’s ahead of us. “How about we stay up top? The high country will be less crowded and a few degrees cooler.”

“Illilouette?” asked Mickie.

Will nodded. “Illilouette is this great waterfall that people never see because you have to hike in to find it. Above the falls, there’s a beautiful stretch of creek. Mostly hikers think of it as something to get across, not an actual destination. Which is fine by us, eh, Mick?”