Splintered (5 page)

“He’ll come for you. He’ll step through your dreams. Or the looking glass . . . stay away from the glass.”
Yelping, I whip around.
Nothing’s there but my shadow. The room seems to shrink, small and off balance, as if I’m stuck inside a box tumbling down a hill. My stomach bounces.
I burst into the dimly lit storeroom and almost trip over the laces of my shin-high boots in a panicked race to get back to Jen.
She rushes to meet me. “Jeez.” She leads me to the bar stool behind the checkout counter. “You look like your head’s going to pop. Have you had anything to eat?”
“Ice cream soup,” I mumble, relieved the customers already left and didn’t see my entrance. I’m shaking all over.
Jen feels my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Maybe your blood sugar’s screwy. I’m getting you something from the bistro.”
“Don’t leave.” I grab her arm.
“Why not? I’ll be right back.”
Realizing how crazy I sound, I change tactics. “The window display. We have to . . .” The explanation stalls on my tongue as I notice she’s already finished it. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Jen eases my fingers off her sleeve. “I relit the candles, too. Why’d you blow them out? You need all the relaxing vibes you can get. I’m going to bring you a croissant and a drink—something decaffeinated. Never seen you this wired.” She’s across the room before I can respond.
The door swings shut behind her, leaving me alone with her window display. A blue wig and a clingy black angel costume hug Window Waif ’s form. The giant wings are strapped into place around the mannequin’s shoulders with a matching leather harness. Black sequins glitter on the feathers, and smoke pours out of the miniature fog machine, snaking around the macabre scene.
Somehow, those wings and the smoke belong together.
I think of my moth friend. Why was Alison chasing it with the shears? Just because it lured me outside in a storm? It had to be something deeper, some kind of ongoing animosity, but I can’t quite grasp it.
Reluctantly, I turn to face the poster. His dark eyes look straight at me, piercing. “You know, don’t you?” I whisper. “You have the answers.”
Silence . . .
I snort—a hollow, lonely sound. I’m officially losing it. Whispering bugs and flowers are bad enough. Expecting a poster to answer? That makes me asylum-worthy.
Trembling, I move to the computer on the other side of the register and find the site from earlier. I scroll past everything I’ve already seen, trying to find a connection to Alison’s ravings.
There’s another group of pictures: a white rabbit, bony enough to be a skeleton; flowers sporting arms, legs, and mouths dripping with blood; a walrus with something protruding from his lower half like tree roots. It’s the Wonderland crew after a heavy dose of radiation poisoning. It’s also a connection: In some way, the moth and these nether-realm beings are tied to the Lewis Carroll tale. No wonder Grandma Alicia kept painting the story’s characters on her walls.
Ever since Alice, my family has been nuts. Could be she really did go down a rabbit hole and came back to tell the tale, but she was never the same after the experience. I mean, who would be?
The hairs on my body lift as if a current runs through me.
After the last of the graphics, there’s an antique ivy and floral border on either side of the black background, and a poem centered in a white fancy font.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

I’ve seen the riddle in Carroll’s original book. Notepad in hand, I scribble
Wonderland
at the top and jot down the poem, word for word.

I open a new search window to look for interpretations. One site has four different possible meanings. What if they’re all wrong? I skim over two until the third one catches my eye.

There are illustrations alongside the words—creatures with long curlicue noses digging holes beneath sundials. A sense of knowing overtakes me, and I close my eyes. Children play on the screen of my eyelids. A winged boy and a blond girl dive into a hole beneath a statue of a child that balances a sundial on his head.

I don’t know where the images came from. I must’ve seen them in a movie—but I can’t remember which one. They seem so real— and so familiar.

I jot down the definitions from that interpretation of the poem. According to whoever wrote it,
brillig
is four o’clock in the afternoon; a
tove
is a mythical creature—a mix between a badger and a lizard with a corkscrew nose. They’re known for making their nests beneath sundials.
Gyre
and
gimble
are verbs meaning to dig into the earth like a giant screw, turning out soil until a deep tunnel is formed. In the context of the poem, the hole is being dug in a distinctive location, considering a
wabe
is the grass plot under a sundial.

According to the poem and the images in my mind, it seems that the rabbit hole could be under that little-boy sundial statue.
Now I just have to find it.
I hop back to the netherlings site and scroll down to see if there are any details I missed. At the bottom is a huge chunk of black space all the way to the end. No more text, no more pictures, even though there’s plenty of room for them. Could be the Webmaster meant to save the space for later.
I’m about to exit the site and do a search on sundials in England in hopes to find a city and address, when movement in the dark background catches my attention. It’s like watching a cricket swim through ink. But instead of a cricket, a simulated black moth flutters across the screen, just like the one from my past.
I’m starting to think the moth is tied to everything: the little boy and girl I saw by the sundial, my family’s very real curse. If only I could remember more about the insect. But my memories are blotted and misty, like looking down through clouds from dizzying heights.
The animation catches my attention again. It starts at the top of the empty space. When it gets a quarter of the way down, glowing blue text appears beneath the drag of the moth’s wings.

I read and reread until my eyes burn, shocked by the similarity to what Alison said.
“The daisies are hiding treasure. Buried treasure.”
Dad plowed the flower garden after she was first committed years ago—destroyed it. There was nothing buried there. So what could she mean?
Another line of text appears onscreen.
If you wish to save your mother, use the key.
I shove back from the computer, heart pounding and palms sweating in my gloves. I didn’t imagine it. The words are staring back at me, blinking.
How is someone talking to me?
How would they know about Alison, and how did they find me?
I look around the empty store.
I should tell someone. Dad’s out of the question; he’d sign me up for shock treatments, for sure. Jenara will think it’s just one of my tormentors from school playing a sick joke.
But Jeb. Despite the weirdness between us, I know he’ll always be there for me. I’ll show him the website. Just the thought of his reassuring smile—the one that says he gets me in a way no one else does—coaxes me from the brink of terror.
At the sound of the doorbell, I glance up. Taelor’s face looks back and I nearly groan aloud. Her chic, shoulder-length hair glimmers gold in the sun. The words
Glitz and Flash and Everything Panache
are written in shimmery letters across the bag she carries.
I turn again to the computer. The screen’s gone blank and an error message flashes.
“Hey, Alyssa.” Taelor peruses the jewelry rack on her way to the counter. “Any good sales today?” She holds up a skull rhinestone brooch with glittery crossbone dangles. “Preferably something that doesn’t smell like a funeral home.”
Ignoring her, I search for the URL. The error message returns. I jiggle the mouse. If I can’t find the site again, I’ll never be able to convince Jeb what I saw was real.
Taelor strolls closer. One of the straps on her designer purse slips off a sun-bronzed shoulder. “Guess it doesn’t matter. People like you don’t care who’s been wearing this stuff or how dead they are.”
After pausing to crinkle her nose at a shirt, she plops her shopping bag and designer purse on the opposite side of the counter, lithe arms propped on the edge. She was once a force on the tennis court, but when her dad never showed up for her tournaments, she gave it up. What a waste.
The extra four inches of my boots set me almost eye level with her. “Don’t you have a prom to get ready for?” I ask, hoping she’ll leave.
Her gaze gets all round and innocent. “That’s why I’m here. I went next door to pick up Jeb’s graduation gift. I thought I’d drop it by his place this afternoon so he can wear it tonight.”
I don’t even ask what she could possibly be getting Jeb from a jewelry store.
“What’s this?” She thrusts a hand across the counter and pulls my notes toward her. I try to grab them away, but she’s too fast. “Wonderland, huh? So you’re doing some research on the family rabbits.”
“Good-bye, Taelor.” I wrestle my notes back, accidentally knocking her purse to the floor in front of the counter.
She doesn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, her expression hardens. “No good-bye yet. First we’re going to talk.”
That flittering presence in my brain taunts me to fight back. A surge of adrenaline kick-starts my tongue. “Thanks, but I’d rather talk to a dung beetle.”
Taelor’s eyes widen, as if she’s surprised by the insult. I smile. It feels good having the upper hand for once.
She takes a few seconds to work up a comeback. “You talk to beetles, huh? Glad to know you’ll have someone to play with once Jeb’s gone. And don’t be thinking you can pull your wounded-friend crap to keep him from moving to London with me next month.”
“With
you
?” My upper hand just got amputated. I feel like I did when I fell skateboarding—like I have a miner’s cap spotlight on me.
“He hasn’t told you yet?” Taelor’s practically beaming. “I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always so worried about your fragile state of mind.” She leans across the counter so her face is inches from mine. Her expensive perfume stings my nose. “I’m spending senior year at a prep school in London. I’ve been offered a modeling contract there. My dad’s renting Jeb a flat. It’s win-win all around. Jeb can make connections for his art through the people I’ll meet, and we can hang out at his place on the weekends. Cozy, right?”
My chest constricts.
She eases back. There’s panic behind her expression. Why? She’s annihilated my one chance to ever have Jeb’s friendship to myself again. She’s won everything.
“Wow, you really thought you had a chance, huh?” Taelor taunts. “Just because he asked you to pose for a few sketches, that doesn’t mean he’s hot for you.”
My jaw drops. Jeb’s never asked me to pose for anything. There were times he had his pencil and sketchbook out while we were together, but I never would’ve guessed he was drawing me.
“His art is all about death and tragedy, so of course he likes your mortician style. It’s not a compliment. Don’t delude yourself that it is.”
I’m too stunned to respond.
“We both care about him.” Her voice softens, and it’s apparent that for once she’s being sincere. “But do you care enough to let him do what’s best for
him
? He has way too much talent to get stuck babysitting you for the rest of his life like your poor dad. Don’t you think that would be a colossal tragedy?”
The urge to scratch out her eyes boils in my veins. “At least I have a dad who cares enough to be there.” The words shoot out like poison arrows. Her wounded expression makes me regret them instantly.
The doorbell chirps and the scent of espresso wafts in.
“Oh, fark.” Jen evil-eyes Taelor as the door slams behind her. “What are you doing here?” She stops next to me, setting down a croissant and a fruit smoothie.
Taelor clears her throat and her mask of nonchalance drops back into place. “Alyssa and I were just discussing London and why she won’t be welcome to stay with Jeb and me.” She snatches up her bag. “It stinks here in the land of the dead. I’m out.”
The minute she’s gone, Jenara turns to me. “One of these days, she’s going to slip up and show Jeb her ugly side.”
I pluck at the edge of my croissant. “She’s why he didn’t want me to go. He didn’t want me getting in the way of . . . them.”
Twisting her fishnet tights with a pen, Jen doesn’t answer.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes fill with regret. “I just found out about her going this morning. And I didn’t know how to tell you when you came in. You’ve got so much crap going on with your mom.”
Folding my Wonderland notes, I study the blank computer again. What does it matter that the website’s gone? Jeb doesn’t have my back anymore, and we’ll never have what we once did.
“Al?”
The sobs I’ve been smothering since my fight with Dad gather in my chest. They burst like a thousand acidic bubbles, silently eating away at my heart. But I refuse to cry.
“C’mon,” Jen nudges. “If anyone can convince him to give her up, it’s you. Tell him already. Tell him how you really feel.”
I think of Jeb’s amazing paintings. Of all the things he can be if given the opportunity. He doesn’t need any more emotional baggage to hold him back. And I’ve got enough to sink an oil tanker. Besides, I can’t bear to have him turn me down to my face. He’s already chosen Taelor over our friendship.
I tuck my notes into a skirt pocket. “Nothing to tell. I crushed on him when we were in sixth grade, so it doesn’t count.” She starts to say something, but I shut her down. “And you’re not spilling, either. Pinky swears are forever.”
A worried wrinkle appears on her forehead as she gathers her prom dress and makeup. “This isn’t over.”
“It is. Jeb’s made his choice.”
Shaking her head, she leaves.
The instant the door closes, I turn to
The Crow
. The emo guy stares back, his eyes bleeding black tears as if he knows my pain. I have the strangest longing to be in his arms—wrapped up in leather.
I’m waiting inside the rabbit hole, luv. Find me.
His gaze burns the challenge into my soul like a brand.
Startled by our deepening connection, I step back and topple the pen holder with my elbow. A pencil rolls off the counter in front. I walk around to pick it up and am surprised to see Taelor’s purse on the floor. She was in such a hurry to leave, she forgot to get it.
I fight the urge to toss her things out into the street. Instead, I lift the purse’s straps to store it under the counter until she comes back. One half of the zipper gapes open, revealing a huge wad of cash.
Almost in a daze, I dig out the money, unrolling the lump of twenties and fifties. There’s over two-hundred-and-forty dollars. If I added it to my savings at home, I’d have enough for a one-way ticket to England with a little left over for a fake passport and expenses; then all I’d have left to do is find an address for the sundial.
It wouldn’t be the first time we owed the Tremonts a debt. In fifth grade, Dad took out a loan from Taelor’s father to help pay Alison’s medical bills. That was how Taelor learned about my ancestry to Alice Liddell in the first place.
So, in a way, this is justified compensation. Taelor’s payment to me for all the years she made my life miserable.
My fingers quiver as I shove her gutted purse into the bottom of the trash can, piling papers on top. I reach under the counter to grab the air freshener and slide it—along with the money—into Persephone’s tome on mystical crystals. The book has an elastic band sewn into the binding that holds the pages shut.
I turn to the poster again. The darkness behind the guy’s eyes seems to be driving everything I do, and there’s nothing to pull me back from the brink this time.
No mother, no father, and definitely no Jeb. Not even his smile could save me now.