Spirit’s Key (5 page)

Inches from my head, the big bird does an abrupt about-face and spins toward the window. Out she flies, and in a flat second the chaos is over. The eagle sails into the sky.

Mrs. Borse puts down the gun and brushes her hands together. “Good riddance!”

*   *   *

I'm still shaken up for what feels like a long time after I leave Mrs. Borse's. I watch the sky as I walk to school. I'm looking for the eagle to make sure she finds her way home. But instead I spot a pack of baldies at the edge of the woods tucked between some people's houses. They stare at me.

I stare back, but I'm careful to make my eyes soft so I don't seem like a threat. At first, they look so much like Sky it takes my breath away. But when I look harder, it's easy to see how different they are, mangy and skinny. More ribs than fur. I brushed Sky's coat, gave him baths, and he got two meals a day, every day. Wild baldies survive on small birds and sea grass. But I still think they're beautiful. I decide right then and there that all animals are sacred. One no more than another.

 

7

T
HE
T
ASTE OF
F
EAR

I'm so late for school there're only thirty minutes left before the whole day is finished. But when I arrive, Mrs. Dialfield stops teaching to greet me. “Spirit's here! Isn't it wonderful?”

My classmates stare like I am the dingbatter of all dingbatters.

“Nector, show Spirit what we're working on.”

There are kids of all ages in our class, so Mrs. Dialfield tries to have us all on the same topic but at different levels. Nector and I are the only ones doing the exact same thing.

When I sit down, Nector bursts out words like a whale holding in the ocean. “I'm sorry about my family this morning. I wanted to apologize earlier about my mom, then Gomez was rude, and I—”

“Don't worry about it,” I say.

He breathes a sigh of relief and pushes over his drawing of soil sections so I can see what we're learning. His drawing has a bunch of lines and labels sticking out in every direction. “I never realized dirt was so complicated,” he says. “Did you?”

I shake my head and think about how Nector's family has been on this island so long, people say they sprang from the soil. Like all those living organisms under our feet could multiply into the skinny brown boy next to me. I don't think this is literally true, but sometimes it's hard to know what to believe.

Gomez and Yasmine sit with the ten- and eleven-year-olds. Gomez was four and Yasmine five when the wave hit the pier.

“Your mom should be grateful we live here,” I say suddenly, because I can't help myself and, well, she really should be. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have the people they love still alive.”

“She's grateful. She's just…” Nector dog-ears the page in our science book. He keeps folding it back and forth, not finishing his sentence.

I'm afraid he's going to make that tiny piece fall off, and Mrs. Dialfield will have more reasons to be disappointed, us having ripped a textbook other kids for years to come need to use. But I'm so curious about what he's going to say, I let it slide. “She's just what?” I prompt.

“Worried. She doesn't want anything else to fret about.” The tiny piece Nector's been creasing falls off. He stares at it in his hand like he had no idea that would happen. “Your dad orders all those supplies. Every time Mom sees them, she gets nervous.”

“Oh.” I guess having your house knocked down in every storm would be enough to worry about.

“We never have more than a day's worth of food. Mom doesn't like to keep much because the storm always takes it.”

“If there's a disaster and you need something, we have extra,” I offer. “Or even if there isn't and you need something … assuming I can find it. Our house is kind of a mess.”

“Thanks.” Nector smiles. He tries to fit the tiny triangle, the torn piece of textbook page, back into place, but without tape it'll never stick.

Finally he gives up and slides the book over so I can begin reading. I do, but eventually I get to the part about how what's buried in the earth decomposes, and it's hard not to be sad about Mom and Sky.

Inside my pocket I rub Sky's dog tag the same way I used to rub his fur if I was nervous or needed to think hard.

A flash. A flutter. Like before, only this time outside the window, Sky's blond fur and big brown spots. Sky's paws on the window glass. My heart races, and my brain screams,
It's him! It's really Sky!

But I resist the urge to jump out of my seat and chase him, because I'm dreaming. I have to be. Dreaming and its sister, a miracle that can never be.

I close my eyes, then reopen them.

Sky doesn't budge. Once he has my attention, he takes his paws off the window and sits. It took me months to train him to sit politely like that.

He waits, patient. His eyes lock onto mine.
Follow me,
they say.

When I don't, he repositions himself into what looks like a four-legged foot stomp.
Follow me.

I bury my nose in my textbook and try to concentrate. This is science, and if I have any hope of helping more animals, maybe being a vet someday, I have to stop missing assignments. Stop daydreaming and wishing for miracles. Stop seeing what I want to see. Dr. Wade is the only doctor on the island, and he doesn't know a lick about animals. When Sky was a puppy and we found him sick, Dr. Wade just wiggled his gray eyebrows and shrugged. He wouldn't even come look at him.

It felt great to help the eagle. It would feel great to help more animals.

But my eyes wander back to the window—to Sky, clearer than any science book. I lean over to Nector.

He jumps a little, like he forgot I was there.

“Do you see that?” I point to where Sky waits for me in the grass.

“See what?” Nector's stare is blank.

I'm the only one who sees a dog come back to life.

Dad was right. I'm floundering.

I rub Sky's tag to calm down, but it doesn't work. It's hard to be calm when you realize you're crazier than trigger-happy Mrs. Borse.

After school, I wait until all my classmates leave, then I approach Mrs. Dialfield. She is making tea.

“Would you like some?” Mrs. Dialfield asks, her thin arm already reaching for a second mug.

“What kind is it?”

“What kind does it smell like?”

Mrs. Dialfield can't smell or taste things, so I inhale the sweet honey air for her. But underneath the sweet smell is a real stink. Yaupon tea reeks like a rotten holly bush, and it tastes bad, too. You're only supposed to drink it if you're angry, like I was this morning when Dad didn't believe me about seeing Sky. But Mrs. Dialfield has lived on this island less than a year, so maybe she doesn't know that.

“It smells sweet, like yaupon tea.” I lie about the smell, because it doesn't seem nice to sour things for Mrs. Dialfield. “Are you angry?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she hugs me. I can feel her bones. She might be thinner than the baldies. It occurs to me that I've never seen her angry, though she must have lots of reasons to be mad.

After a minute she lets me go and smiles, calm and warm like always. The smile she gives even when kids like me don't turn in their assignments. “I'm not angry. I haven't said this to you yet, but I want to now: I'm sorry for your loss.”

It's the first time anyone's been sorry about me losing Sky, and it feels right.

“When I lost the ability to taste, people said things that made me furious.
You're lucky to be alive. You can hear and see, and those are the important senses. Life is more than food. You'll find something else you love.
I needed an entire island to contain my rage. Do you know even though I couldn't taste a bite of food, I could taste my anger?”

“Really? What did it taste like?” I ask.

“Fear.”

This doesn't really help, since I'm not sure what fear tastes like either, but eating anger seems like an odd thing to do anyway.

She keeps talking. “So I picked up and moved here, and then I waited to die.”

“You can't die,” I say.

“Your dad is such a blessing. He saw the good coming in my life when I could see none. Today there's a girl in front of me with an imagination so strong, her dog will never die.”

“I see him. His ghost,” I whisper, because Sky is still waiting for me in the grass, and I figure crazy people who see ghost animals need help. “But I know it's not possible.”

“Lots of impossible things happen on this island. I thought I'd never cook again, but when I see you sad and hurting, I want to make a feast.” She holds out her arms like she's showing me a long table filled with food.

Before she got cancer, Mrs. Dialfield used to be a famous chef in New York. She says she can't cook professionally anymore because a chef has to be able to taste the food to know if it's good. Thankfully she didn't lose her vocal cords, or she couldn't be our teacher. I can't say if she was a good chef or not, but she's a really good teacher.

“I like cookies,” I suggest.

She laughs. “Honeysuckles are nice this time of year. What about honeysuckle sorbet? Last day of school is next week. Could be a great way to celebrate.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What's a sorbet?”

She laughs again. “You'll see.”

 

8

P
OOR
M
R
. S
ELNICK

On Saturday I stop by the Hatterasks' to pick up my bike. Mr. Hatterask and Mr. Selnick are sitting in the gravel yard in short beach chairs.

“Is Nector home?” I ask Mr. Hatterask. “He was fixing my bike for me.”

“The kids went to the beach,” Mr. Hatterask says. “But it's ready for you in the backyard.”

A pang of sadness hits that Nector didn't invite me, even though no Hatterask has ever invited me anywhere before. Why would they start now? I shake it off. Saturdays are lonelier without Sky, is all.
Where are you, buddy?
I look to the Hatterasks' trees again, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. If Mrs. Dialfield thinks it's possible for Sky to be a ghost, then maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe like everyone else on this island, Dad just doesn't realize the baldies are special.

“Spirit, help me up, will you?” Mr. Selnick reaches his big arms toward me.

The chair is so low to the ground, I can't see how a man his size got down there. When I pull him up, I see the chair is the kind good for dipping your legs in the ocean. The plastic strips probably used to be red, but the sun has faded them ghost white.

Instead of using these awful beach chairs, Mr. Hatterask should build some nice benches. He could do it easy. Maybe if he nailed them down, a hurricane wouldn't get them.

“I'm happy to make you another key if you think that'll help,” Mr. Hatterask says to Mr. Selnick. He grabs Mr. Selnick's arm to help steady him. The big guy seems a bit wobbly on his feet.

“Girl's father has never been wrong before.” Mr. Selnick nods in my direction. “I hate to admit it, but I'm sure he's right.”

Just like Dad predicted, Mr. Selnick has come around.

He shakes his head. “Knows everything, that man.”

Not everything. Dad didn't know that Sky and Mom were going to die. Or that I'd see Sky's ghost.

“He certainly doesn't know everything,” Mr. Hatterask says, like he read my mind. “Even Mint says so these days, and you know how addicted Eder is to knowing every little thing.”

“My dad's been distracted lately, is all. He knows a lot of things. Had a fine vision the other day for Mr. Selnick. Real specific.”

“He knows enough for me,” Mr. Selnick says.

I'm so glad to see Mr. Selnick's loyalty is back, even when the future is bad news.

I'm about to head to the back of the house when Eder Mint's truck pulls up. What happened to his loyalty? I want to ask him why he hasn't been in for a reading in a while, but Dad wouldn't like it. He thinks it's important people come to him by their own will.

“Selnick, glad I caught you,” Eder says. “Has anything—”

Mr. Selnick shakes his head. “Nothing so far.”

Eder shakes his head, too. “If we don't watch out, baldies are going to be the death of us all sooner or later.”

“Now wait a minute.” Mr. Selnick holds up a finger. “No one said anything about me dying. It's something terrible, no doubt, but…” The big man wobbles again like he's too weak to keep standing.

“Be careful now or you'll fall over,” Eder says. He looks thoughtful. “Sure hope you wore gloves when you moved that baldie to the beach to burn him.”

Mr. Selnick looks surprised. “I didn't.”

Eder's eyes fill with worry. “You could get sick.”

Mr. Selnick wobbles again to the right. Mr. Hatterask tries to catch him, but suddenly Mr. Selnick wobbles left. Eder grabs for his arm and misses.

I grab for the other arm. But Mr. Selnick pitches forward before any of us can steady him and lands in a heap at my feet.

I scramble to help him back upright. His face is colorless and slick with sweat. It's pale, not black like Dad said it would be. His shirt isn't the blue plaid one Dad predicted either. “He's not wearing the right shirt,” I say.

But Mr. Selnick groans like he's in terrible pain.

I frown at Eder. “The baldies don't make people sick. Why would you think that?”

Eder ignores me. “You need to see the doctor, Selnick.” He nods at Mr. Hatterask. “I'll take him.”

Eder and Mr. Hatterask carry Mr. Selnick to the truck. I insist on helping. I'm little, but I'm strong from swimming.

Mr. Hatterask says, “He's burning up. Get him a cold washcloth, will you?”

I rush into the house. The walls are wide and blank, and the only furniture looks lightweight and temporary. The Hatterasks' house is as plain and empty on the inside as it is on the outside. I almost trip on a piece of wood coming out of the floor. I realize the boards aren't nailed down. I pause and wonder for a moment if Mr. Hatterask forgot to secure them the last time he rebuilt after a hurricane, but when I pull on one, it rises up like the floor itself is a trapdoor.