The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (26 page)

“We need to go to the docks,” I told Chase. His ex-ex-girlfriend looked at me, wrinkled her face, and made an “Ew” sound before clicking her tongue. “Just give us a minute,” I snapped.

Chase laughed, watching her slink back to her seat farther down the bleachers. She joined the “cool” seniors, which included Joey Harington. He was wearing his little cut on his forehead proudly—and by that, I mean he had a bandage on it. Talk about a drama queen.

“I know what you did,” I told Chase.

The crowd on the other side of the diamond cheered. Chase turned, watching his distraught teammate skulk back to the dugout. “One out,” he said. “That means I’m up after the next guy. Sorry, Alice.”

I followed him to the end of the dugout, where he grabbed his bat from a green barrel and stepped out onto the on-deck circle. He took a few swings, giving his teammate in the batter’s box an encouraging nod. The teammate swung at the first pitch, missing.

“Chase!” I called out, clutching the chain-link fence. “Chase, I know what you found. You need to listen to me!”

“Do I?” he asked. He took a step closer. He had horizontal black lines under his eyes to reduce the glare from the lights. From the bleachers, his parents waved. He turned, waving back, then spun around to me. “I got my legs back, Alice. That’s all that matters. That’s all that ever mattered.”

“Then why’d you make more wishes?” I asked. “Why’d you go back?”

“Because I was struggling,” he snapped. “I missed three months of practice. I couldn’t just jump back into the game. I needed help. So I got it.”

“Chase …” I didn’t know what to say. People behind me were no doubt cocking their heads, trying to listen to our conversation. His ex-ex-girlfriend was now openly glaring at me from the other end of the bleachers.

“Time for the show,” Chase said as his teammate struck out. He gave the bat one more swing, then stepped into the batter’s box. Behind me, the crowd went wild. They started chanting “Home run!” so loud that the pitcher actually stepped off the mound to wipe the sweat from his brow. Energy pulsed through the bleachers. They pounded their feet on the aluminum seats until the pitcher stepped back on the mound.

Then they went quiet. The catcher stood up, holding one arm out. When the pitcher threw the ball, he threw it as far away from Chase as he possibly could. The catcher side-stepped, caught the ball, then tossed it back.

The crowd booed.

“He’s intentionally walking Chase,” his dad called out. “What a bunch of bums! Hey you bums!”

“Coward!” shouted Joey Harrington. Chase’s ex-ex-girlfriend and all of their friends heckled the pitcher as he threw another intentional ball.

Chase, upset, tapped his shoes with his bat, then got back into his batting stance. The next ball that flew by, he tried to reach out and hit it anyway. He missed. The crowd went wild.

The pitcher threw two more balls as far away from Chase as possible, the catcher sidling right so that he could catch each one. Chase threw his bat down on the ground and walked to first base.

I pulled my phone from my purse, checking the time. It was 5:30. The ship would arrive soon. I had to make a decision: either get home before my parents freaked out or see this out and risk being grounded forever. The Old Alice in me told me to go home, but the New Alice—the Alice who’d saved the children from the orphanage—told me something more was going on here. Something that involved Chase. Something that was going to end badly.

There was only one thing to try. I walked away from the baseball diamond, dialing Mom’s number. I waited for her to pick up.

“Yes, dear?” she said after the fourth ring.

“Mom.” I swallowed, feeling my heart race. “One of my friends is having a crisis. I need to be with him for a while tonight.”

She was silent for a moment. “Is it Seth?” she asked finally.

“No. It’s Chase.”

“The boy who got in the accident?”

“Yup. Yes, I mean. I don’t want to leave him alone tonight. None of his other friends understands.
Please
let me be with him until his parents come back. No one else will help him. Please. I
promise
you I’m telling the truth.”

I waited. There was silence. The next batter struck out, throwing his helmet on the ground and kicking up dirt. Washington High’s players took the field.

“Fine,” Mom said finally. “Only because what you’re doing is a good thing. When will you be home?”

“As soon as he’s OK,” I said. “I
promise
.”

“All right. Thank you for calling and asking permission.”

I hung up, satisfied and only slightly guilty. It wasn’t the
full
truth, but it was true. And I was going to live up to my promise, too … as soon as I was sure Chase was OK.

He came up to bat again in the ninth inning. The score was now 4 to 5—Greendale High was up by one now. The pitcher threw another intentional ball, more than happy to give Chase first base instead of risking a home run. Chase grew even angrier than last time, swinging twice just to egg on the pitcher.

“Come on!” he shouted. The umpire gave him a warning for unsportsmanlike conduct.

The pitcher threw another intentional ball. Ball four. Washington High’s fans booed. Chase turned toward his dugout and threw his baseball bat in frustration. It bounced off the chain-link fence, causing the fans in the first row to flinch. He jogged toward first base.

Then, suddenly, his left leg gave out from under him. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes. The crowd in Washington High’s section gasped. I clutched the chain-link fence with tense fingers. Now I knew. The wish was short-circuiting. I didn’t know
why
and I didn’t know
how
, but I definitely
knew
. We had to get that fish.

Chase slowly got to his feet. Washington High’s fans cheered. When he got to first base, he waited for the pitcher to wind up, then took off for second base. Everyone in the crowd went nuts. The catcher stood up, throwing over the pitcher’s head to the second baseman.

It wasn’t even close. Chase slid headfirst into second base, touching the white bag before the second baseman even grabbed the ball out of the air.

The Washington High crowd went wild. The pitcher stepped off the mound, wiping sweat from his forehead. When he stepped back on the mound, he gave Chase one look, then stretched his leg and pitched.

Chase took off running again. The catcher grabbed the ball and threw to third. It was a good throw, right on the money, but by the time the third baseman could bring his glove down for the tag, Chase was already safe, his hand firmly clutching third base.

Washington High’s crowd went even wilder.

The pitcher stepped off the mound again and took off his hat, taking a deep breath. Everyone in Washington High’s section was going crazy. The batter—a junior slacker I recognized from my Genetics class—stepped out of the box to take a few swings, then nodded to Chase.

Everyone was on the edge of their seats. I clutched the cool chain-link fence even harder, finding myself rooting for Chase despite everything.

The pitcher moved the ball around in his glove, shaking off signs from the catcher. Suddenly, Chase was off! He’d taken two big steps before the pitcher even realized, and now the pitcher was winding up and throwing awkwardly toward home. Chase had already taken two more steps, his arms pumping up and down like a steam engine’s pistons. It was as if he was wearing the magical boots I’d taken from the orphanage of doom.

He was going to make it. Everyone in the crowd knew it, too. The ball seemed to float toward home plate in slow motion while Chase continued speeding toward home.

Then his right leg buckled. He fell to the ground just three feet short of home plate. Everyone in the crowd suddenly quieted. The catcher plucked the baseball out of the air, bent down, and tagged Chase out before he could right himself.

The game was over.

Chase lay there for a moment, then slowly got to his feet on shaky legs. No one from Washington High applauded. Instead, they simply dispersed, not bothering to wait for Chase to skulk to the dugout.

I made my way through the thinning crowd to the third base side, where the chain-link fence stopped abruptly. By the time I got there, Chase was already waiting for me. He reached out and grabbed my hand, then pulled me toward the parking lot.

“You’re giving me answers,” he said. “Tonight. I want to know what’s going on.”

“You didn’t want to know earlier,” I pointed out, letting him pull me. No point in fighting back—I knew exactly where we were going.

We got in his car. He peeled out of the parking lot, taking the turn onto the main road at a crazy speed. He was silent until we reached the freeway, heading toward downtown Milwaukee. The sun was nearly set, leaving only fiery red and orange clouds in the sky behind us. The engine of Chase’s car—a black sports car with a big futuristic-looking spoiler on the back—hummed angrily.

“Why did you have a talking fish in your closet?” he demanded.

“Why did you go through my closet?” I retorted.

“Because I heard someone calling out to me! I didn’t think it was a
fish
, for crying out loud!”

“Chase, you shouldn’t have made a wish. That fish is …”

Chase pounded the steering wheel. He seemed angry,
really angry
, on the verge of losing control in some way. “He offered my life back! How can you not understand that? I would have done anything for it, and you’d better believe that includes throwing a talking fish into Lake Michigan, as insane as it sounds.”

“The fish was in your backpack,” I said, thinking aloud. Of course. The fish had mentioned to me he could hold his breath … heck, I’d hidden him in my purse until I got home from the orphanage. Then Chase had simply stuffed the little guy in his backpack and then found a way to get to the lake. Maybe he’d even asked his parents to take him.

“Now
what
is going on?” Chase asked. “Why did you have a talking fish in the first place and what’s happening to my legs?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I found him, all right? I didn’t get a chance to make a wish because you
stole
him from me.”

He switched lanes, taking the turn-off that brought us downtown. Milwaukee’s tall commercial buildings went by on our left as we sped along the interstate to Lake Michigan. The moon was out now, the last rays of the sun fading on the horizon behind us.

“This is just like that fairy tale,” Chase said. “The one about the fisherman and the wishes. I can’t believe it’s happening. But I can’t
not
believe, either. Because I
want
to believe it’s happening. I want to keep my legs.”

“Chase …”

“I can summon him,” he interrupted. “I can call out to him and he’ll come, just like in the fairy tale. I’ll force him to fix my legs again.”

“Chase, the fish … it’s not what you think it is.”

“I can be the best,” Chase said. He laughed, but not the warm laugh I was used to. It was a frighteningly hollow sound. “The best baseball player on the planet!”

“But it’s not real, Chase!” I turned to him, wishing he’d just glance my way and make eye contact. “You
wished
to be the best. Your success isn’t coming from your abilities—you’re relying on a wish. A
crutch
. You’re no better at baseball than an athlete who uses steroids. A cheater.”

He didn’t respond. I gave up, clutching the handle of the door as he turned onto the exit for the port. What are you thinking, Alice? He had to be confused. In denial about all of it, maybe. And most importantly, he had no idea what the Corrupted were. He’d stumbled into all of this and it was my fault.

My fault for not killing that stupid fish. My fault for selfishly assuming a Corrupted could help me escape my destiny, no strings attached. My fault for hiding it from Briar, and maybe losing my friend for good.

Chase turned onto an old road that led us under the expressway, closer to the port. There were a few cars parked at the curb but the port looked otherwise deserted. We passed one tall concrete warehouse, then another. Then another.

Then I saw it.

“Stop!” I shouted. My voice must have thrown Chase off-guard because he slammed on the brakes, pulling over on the wide road in front of a small glass building with a rusty sign over its first-story windows reading “Milwaukee Port Authority.”

“What?” he asked, turning to me. He frowned, as if he didn’t trust me. As if all of this was about
just
him
.

“Look.
Look at me
.” Finally, he looked me in the eye. I took a deep breath, steeling my nerves. “
Listen
. I know all of this is really weird and you don’t understand exactly what’s happening. I know how badly you want your legs to be OK again.”

He sighed, staring down at the gearshift between us. “It should have just been that. You’re right. I made more wishes and they were a shortcut. I got greedy. I couldn’t stop. I’m still thinking about asking the fish for another wish, to be even better, even though I know it’s wrong.”