Texting the Underworld (22 page)

Richard showed Conor how to make a carnivorous spruce tree look like it could jump off the page and bite your nose.

Conor stopped working on his South Boston map because he knew where he was. He went to visit Boston Latin School and totally forgot to calculate the distance from the West Fourth Street Bridge. He also went to visit the arts academy, which didn't appear on any map anywhere.

He finished mapping the Land of Shanaya and moved on to Dragonia. Richard taught him to draw a dragon that couldn't decide whether to fry you or eat you raw.

Richard also taught him to figure out the correct scale of things on a map. He wrote down a formula that turned out to be algebra. Up till then Conor had thought algebra was good only for figuring the speeds of Train A and Train B.

Conor allowed himself to ace his next pre-algebra test. As usual, getting the answers right was easier than getting them wrong.

Summer school was awful, but also okay. And also totally awesome.

The classes were held at Glennie's school, so he and Javier could walk there. That was the okay part. Also, Javier was pretty happy with his computer science class, even though Olivia Kim was in it and seemed to need a whole lot of help with her homework. Javier even went to her house a couple times. He said he didn't really mind.

Conor's art class, on the other hand, was horrible. The teacher was nowhere near as good as Richard. He set up a still life for everyone to draw and then stared out the window and sighed while they worked on it. The still lifes were stupid—all fruit, not like dragons and carnivorous trees. Conor felt he was wasting his time.

The totally awesome part came in the middle of July.

Desperate for entertainment, Conor was turning a pear into a zombie peach-eater when the door at the back of the classroom opened and a deep voice asked, “Is this remedial math?” Conor whipped himself around so fast that his pencils and erasers and sticks of charcoal rained to the floor.

Nergal, Babylonian lord of the dead, had his tail stuffed into a red tracksuit under his turquoise raincoat.

The art teacher pried his gaze from the windows. “Dunno, man. Ask at the office.”

Nergal smiled as if the teacher had been extremely helpful. “I did. They sent us to room”—he checked a slip of paper in his hand—“3-D.”

“This is 3-C. So 3-D's across the hall.”

“Thank you.” Nergal winked at Conor and turned to leave, showing the class the suspicious and oddly active hump in the back of his raincoat. “He got hamsters in his pants?” whispered the kid next to Conor.

Conor was paralyzed. Why did the Babylonian lord of the dead need remedial math? As the door was about to close, a girl's voice from across the hall said, “What Greek math whiz noticed in 530
B.C
. that the morning star and evening star were one and the same?”

“Pythagoras,” Nergal said. “Smart fellow.”

“Hey, man, where you going?” the art teacher cried as Conor ran for the door. “Your stuff's all over the place.”

He made it into room 3-D with no recollection of opening two doors and crossing a hallway. He stood there staring at Ashling with a stupid grin on his face and not a clue what to do next. He certainly wasn't going to
hug
her, for cripes' sake.

She smiled back at him. Her red hair was chin length. She was wearing purple capri pants and a lime green Grateful Dead T-shirt.

“Sit there, please.” The math teacher pointed to a seat in the third row. “Can I help you?” she asked Conor.

“He's Ashling's cousin,” Nergal said. “Her return is a surprise.”

“For the moment, her return is none of his business.” The teacher wrote Ashling's name in a ledger and handed Nergal's slip of paper back to him. “Please leave. Both of you.”

Conor sneaked another look at Ashling as Nergal swept him out the door. She beamed at him, so excited and happy he thought he himself might never stop grinning.

“How . . . ?” he croaked as Nergal shut the door behind them.

“Dude.” Nergal put out his hand for Conor to shake. “Awesome to see you.”

“How . . . ?”

Nergal smiled. “Your new rule almost worked. She ate the Fruity Foolers and became mortal, although not dead.”

“Ohhhh.” Conor slumped against the wall. “I was afraid of that. I didn't think of it until later.”

“The Lady was, shall we say, annoyed. For a time, I feared that she would make the child live out her mortal life in the Underworld.”

Conor groaned. “I'm so stu-u-pid.”

“No, no, no, boy,” Nergal said. “Yours was a very clever solution. It simply required follow-through.” His smile broadened. “Also called bribery.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Silly Mustache Brothers. I put them on her phone.”

“She let Ashling go for a
cell phone game
?”

“She isn't really mean, you know—just bored. And even the Lady knows, when somebody invents a new rule, the rational response is to make it work.”

Conor went back to art class, where he watched the clock until the bell rang. He and Ashling met in the hallway between their two classes. “The whole-number system begins with zero,” she said by way of greeting.

“Glad to see you, too.”

She put her hand on his heart. “Dude. You rescued me after all.”

“Pixie-poop has a girlfriend,” said Andy Watson, who was taking remedial math for the second time.

“Shut up, Andy.”

Ashling was gazing into his eyes—probably looking for Declan, the sword-wielding hero with muscles and metalworking talent. Maybe she was expecting him to kiss her or something.

“Listen,” he said. “I'm not Declan. I mean, I sort of am. I remember some things. But mostly I'm me. And, you know, I'm only twelve years old.”

“I do not know how many years old I am.” With absolutely no warning—shouldn't there be a beeping sound or something?—she leaned forward and kissed him right on the lips. The hallway erupted into hoots and catcalls.

Conor's ears got so hot it was surprising his hair didn't catch fire.

Kissing wasn't as gross as he'd expected, although close enough.

Ashling smiled at him. “When is the midday meal? I can eat food now. I want macaroni and cheese.” Turning, she skipped down the hall toward the stairs.

“I'm not Declan,” he repeated to himself as he followed her down.

It turned out Ashling was living in an apartment four blocks away from Crumlin Street. Various demigods took turns staying with her when the Lady didn't require their services. Anubis, Egyptian protector of the dead, became adept with the vacuum cleaner, while Kisin, the Mayan lord of the Underworld, discovered that he was an excellent cook even though he couldn't eat anything. The Latvian goddess Mara did the shopping. She loved the scent of blue cheese.

Conor's parents were delighted when Ashling's chief guardian, one Nergal L. Babylon, revealed to them that she actually was a distant cousin. “I thought so,” Dad said. “She's got the O'Neill Spark.”

Conor was almost happy—the Declan part of him no longer felt guilty about Ashling's death, and the rest of him was relieved that she wasn't serving a life sentence with the Lady. But despite everything Javier, Glennie, and his own logic could tell him, he still missed Grump and wished he'd been able to save him.

“He would have died in a year or so anyways,” Glennie said.

Didn't matter. Conor felt restless, like he'd left something undone.

Eighth grade started. Ashling was elected to the cafeteria committee. Conor tutored sixth graders in math and joined a study group for the high school exams. Ashling did not attempt to kiss him again and seemed to have forgotten she'd ever done it.

Javier totally crashed the office computer, then managed to rebuild it without losing everyone's grades, despite strong peer pressure to the contrary. He went to a dance with Olivia Kim that turned out to be a total bore. That's what he told Conor, anyway. And Glennie, who gave him a whole package of Fruity Foolers to remind him who his real friends were.

One sunny Sunday, everybody was standing around after Mass when Meghan O'Neill, Grump's eldest niece, hustled up to Mom with a young woman in tow. The young woman wheeled a baby in a stroller.

“Do you believe it?” Meghan said. “This is my Corey from Nebraska! And she's had a boy this time. Cutest little thing. Five months old next week.”

Glennie and Ashling were right in there, poking their fingers out for the baby to grab, wrinkling their noses because he needed a new diaper. Conor wasn't too interested until he heard Meghan say, “He's got the strangest birthmark on the back of his leg. My dad says it's shaped like Ireland.”

“They may run in families,” Mom said. “Conor, what are you doing to that child?”

Conor was on his knees, lifting up the baby's stinky leg to see the birthmark.

Purple, with a red spot for Dublin.

Conor rocked back on his heels. The baby's nose had the barest hint of a bulb at the end. He thought the O'Neill Blue Eyes had a glint to them, a hint of mischief.

There was no other sign that the baby knew who he used to be.

Still.

“I'd start making up some house rules right now,” Conor told Grump's new mum.

This book takes liberties with Celtic religion. (Several religions, come to think of it.) I tried to be more respectful of everyday life, and am deeply indebted to my South Boston advisers: Kim Simonian (organizer supreme), Paul Williams, John Murphy, Jeannette Hurley, Alicia Jurus, and Mo Hanley. The staff and students of the Oliver Hazard Perry School also were of great help, and the fifth graders of May 2011 will find their first names sprinkled throughout the book. I'm grateful to Danette Vigilante for her advice about Javier. (Any mistakes or idiocies are mine alone, of course.)

Here in Maine, Conor's tale benefited from the sharp eyes of “beta readers” Seeta John, Catherine Nevin, Mia Vierthaler, and Sosha Sullivan. Lisa Heldke's Socratic dialogue was helpful as well as entertaining. Ed DePasqual provided rocket know-how. Friend Memorial Library is a researcher's treasure trove, thanks to Stephanie Atwater, Tracy Spencer, Nancy Randall, and interlibrary loan. And I would have keened and turned into a wraith long ago without my writers group: Ann Logan, Becky McCall, Gail Page, Kim Ridley, and Susa Wuorinen.

Copy editor Dan Janeck knows his way around a manuscript—a calming fact.

Shelly Perron is a friend and adviser beyond price.

Rob Shillady read and commented astutely on every friggin' draft.

It's impossible to express what Conor and crew owe to the mystical powers of Kathy Dawson, their editor at Dial Books for Young Readers. And of course Conor wouldn't exist at all without super-agent Kate Schafer Testerman.

As the ancient Irish would say, you all are totally awesome.