Unwritten Books 2 - Fathom Five (2 page)
With a mighty effort, he swallowed. “Nope.”
“You know, Peter, if you’d just set your clock radio to go off five minutes earlier —”
Peter laughed. “You say that every day. It’s not going to happen.”
Rosemary snorted. Then she frowned at him. “You look tired.”
Peter caught himself in a yawn. Last night had not been good, but he couldn’t remember why. “Funny dream or something,” he said after a while.
“Not worried about your French mid-term, are you?” Rosemary gave him a teasing smile.
Peter stared at her, his stomach leaden with toast. He had forgotten to study for his French mid-term last night.
***
When Peter next saw Rosemary, after the school bells summoned them from first period, she was pulling books from her locker amidst the torrent of students rushing between classes. She had her textbooks around her in neat piles, and was sorting through them for the one she had misplaced. Her face lit up when she saw Peter. “How did the French test go?”
Peter’s smile vanished. He began thumping his head on the nearest locker. “Oh, God! How do you say ‘I’m going to kill myself’ in French?”
“Um …
Je vais me tuer
, I think. Was it really that bad?”
“I’ll be lucky if I get a ‘B’!”
“Oh, a ‘B’! You’ll be lucky if you don’t die of shame!”
He drooped. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
Rosemary smiled sympathetically. She touched his shoulder, and there they stayed a moment. The background chatter seemed to soften.
Then Benson barged in and opened his locker with a clatter, sending Peter and Rosemary scrambling apart. “Hey there!” he exclaimed. “How are the lovebirds today?”
Rosemary reddened and Peter flared. “We’re not lovebirds!” said the two in unison.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Benson’s friend, Joe, as he stepped up to his locker. He stopped and nudged Peter’s school bag with his foot. “Pete, isn’t this bag new? What do you do, play soccer with this thing?”
Peter sucked his teeth and said nothing.
Benson’s voice came from deep within his locker. “Either of you figure out question four from our history assignment? Stumped me.”
“Benson!” Rosemary exclaimed. “The War of 1812 ended in 1814!”
“Yeah?” Benson closed his locker. “Then why do they just call it the War of 1812? Doesn’t make sense, does it? History never makes sense. Speaking of, you folks ready for your history presentation? I’ve got the coolest!”
“I’m not presenting till Wednesday,” said Rosemary.
But Benson turned away. He focussed on a girl with golden curls who’d opened a locker beside them. He grinned, slicked back his hair, and stepped forward. “Hey, Veronica!”
Veronica gave him a glance, then buried her face in the locker. “Hey, Benson.”
Benson sucked in his breath. “You want to go to the Halloween Homecoming Dance?”
Veronica lit up. “Oh! I’d love to!” She turned back to shelving her textbooks.
Benson beamed. But as Veronica continued to focus on her locker, uncertainty crept across his face. “Um … so, when do I pick you up?”
She looked at him. “What?” Then her mouth twitched in mock sympathy. “Oh! You meant with
you
, didn’t you?” She closed her locker and strode away.
Joe patted Benson’s shoulder. “Ouch.”
“Oooo,” Rosemary winced. “Bet she’s going as the Ice Queen.”
Despite himself, Peter snorted. “Yeah, cold. You walked right into that one, B.”
Benson scowled at him. “I haven’t seen you try to invite anybody.”
Peter suddenly found himself staring at Rosemary. Rosemary looked back at him. Her brow furrowed. They stood a long moment, blinking at each other. Peter felt his cheeks redden. “Well, I —”
But Benson turned back to his locker. “So, what are you presenting, Pete? You’re up after me.”
Peter stopped cold. The leaden feeling in his stomach returned. History homework. That was the other thing he had forgotten. What
had
he been doing last night?
“
Falling
,” answered a small, lost voice.
He flicked his hand past his ear and looked over his shoulder, but no one was there.
***
Peter stepped out onto the porch of Rosemary’s house. The sky was a deep blue, with the moon rising over the trees. Rosemary stepped out after him.
“Thanks,” he said. “Your father’s a good cook.”
Rosemary smirked. “He can teach you, you know. Then you won’t have to rely on pot noodle when you’re home alone.”
“Well, maybe someday,” he shrugged. “How’s your brother doing?”
She rolled her eyes. “Still fretting over which graduate school to go to, poor Theo. He’s thinking about literary criticism at McGill.”
“I’m sure he’ll pick something good.” He grinned at her. “Thanks for the homework help, too.”
Rosemary touched his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
The front door opened again and Mr. Watson peered out. “Still here, Peter?”
Peter and Rosemary split apart, taking great interest in the posts and the cracked walk.
Mr. Watson smiled. “You’re sure you don’t want a ride home?”
Peter shuffled on the concrete steps. “I’m sure. It’s only a mile, and it’s a nice night.”
“See you at school tomorrow,” said Rosemary, starting towards him but bringing herself up short. Mr. Watson was still in the doorway.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “See you.” He turned away, trudging down the front walk and along the gravel shoulder of the road, cursing himself for being so tongue-tied around Rosemary’s father.
Why do I feel like I’m under a microscope when he’s around? he thought. It’s not as if I’m Rosemary’s future husband.
He lingered over that image a moment, then shook it out of his head.
Rosemary would die laughing if she heard that. Or kill me.
The road on which he and Rosemary lived was lined with trees for half a mile between their homes. Emerging from a tunnel of leaves, he was hit by a sharp wind blowing across an open field. The trees behind him shook with a sound like surf.
He pulled his windbreaker closer to his throat and whistled a tune. It was lost in the rush of wind around him. Clouds scudded in front of the moon.
Maybe a storm’s coming in, he thought. Maybe there’s a Small Craft Advisory on Georgian Bay. Gales across the bay can push small boats against the rocks just like one of those … what were they called? Water witches? Sirens?
Peter’s lips went dry, and he stopped whistling. He pressed on towards his house, kicking up the gravel along the shoulder of the road. He jumped when an owl hooted nearby.
He laughed at himself. Wrong setting. Sirens could hardly tempt
him
to crash his ship against the rocks on 45th Parallel Road. He was on dry land. He wasn’t even in a car. Perhaps sirens could entice unwary drivers into ditches, but people walking? That would be an interesting twist on the old legends.
He pressed on past the hissing leaves, until something on the side of the road stopped him in his tracks.
A stone fence ending in a tall gate pushed out along the property line. A shape was perched on top of the gatepost, just a silhouette in the moonlight. The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck rose. He was sure that the shape was looking at him.
Obvious explanation, said Peter’s rational mind. It’s a garden gnome.
Too big.
Maybe the Hendersons put in stone lions.
It doesn’t look like a stone lion.
And stone lions don’t move.
Peter stood stock-still. The wind rose again, whipping the branches into waves. He began to hear whispers off the leaves and wind. A woman reclined on the brick-and-concrete gatepost in front of him, her arms and legs too long to be human and her hair long enough to cover her like a shroud. Her gaze pinned him until the moon emerged from behind clouds. Pale light shone with such intensity that the telephone poles cast shadows. Peter blinked, and looked at the gate again. There was nothing there.
See? Nothing to worry about.
Peter crunched down the shoulder of the road and up to his front door as fast as he could walk. He burst into his house, slammed the door behind him, and leaned against it, breathing heavily, wondering why he should feel so scared.
Then he wondered why he should feel so safe.
He had been alone with his thoughts out there, with nothing but the wind to interrupt them. His imagination had gone off on a wild tangent. In his uncle’s house, this hadn’t changed. The place was dark and empty. His imagination prickled like the hairs on the back of his neck.
Peter turned on every light he passed as he paced through the house, using the bathroom, changing out of his school clothes, and then fixing a snack to eat in front of the television.
The television squawked and babbled. He cycled through the channels with the remote twice, then set it aside with a sigh. After a moment he picked up the phone and dialled.
“Watson residence,” answered Rosemary’s voice.
“Hey, Rosemary.”
“Peter! You only just left here! Dad’s going to tease me again!”
He winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. What’s up?”
Peter hesitated. This was Rosemary he was talking to, his best friend. But he was still ashamed to say that he had spooked himself in the night and needed a human voice to tell him he wasn’t alone.
“Peter, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” said Peter abruptly. “Yes. I just needed to hear a friendly voice, that’s all.”
Rosemary laughed, and they settled down to talk.
***
Outside Peter’s house, a wisp of light flitted from window to window, before settling upon the kitchen. Inside, past the pile of dirty dishes stacked in the sink before the window, Peter could be seen across the room, talking on the phone and laughing.
The wisp hovered by the window for a moment before vanishing into the night.
A
horn lared. His father looked up. There was a sickening thump.
Fiona screamed and ran for the street. Peter fell on the ice-hardened asphalt. A pain shot up his arm.
People were stepping out of their homes, looking on in horror. The streetcar driver had taken command of the scene, ordering people to call an ambulance. The driver of the pickup truck stood at the curb, his arms around himself, and he was quaking.
Peter held his broken arm and began to cry. In the distance, sirens wailed.
“Come home, Peter.”
Peter started. Fiona was beside him, extending her hand.
“Come home.”
Something shocked through him like cold water.
Peter’s eyes snapped open. He sat up in bed.
***
Peter staggered back as the basketball sailed into his hands.
“Heads up, Pete!” shouted Joe, his team captain.
“Where’s your mind been all day?”
“Huh?” Peter shook the fog from his mind.
“And the prosecution rests, your honour!” Benson snatched the ball from Peter’s hands.
“Good practice, boys!” Coach Beckett shouted over the smack of basketballs and the squeak of sneakers. “Group into threes and let’s finish with games of keep-away. Then hit the showers.”
Joe and Benson each clapped one of Peter’s shoulders and marched him to the centre of the gymnasium. Benson bounced the basketball once and tossed it up over Peter’s head.
“So ....” Joe snatched the pass and hoisted the ball out of Peter’s reach. “Who are you taking to the Halloween Homecoming Dance?”
Peter stopped short. “Nobody.”
“What?” asked Benson. “You’re going all by your lonesome?”
“I’m not going,” Peter huffed as the ball bounced past him.
“Why don’t you take your girlfriend?” called Joe.
Peter half-turned, and Benson bounced the ball through his legs. “Hey!”
“Where is Rosemary, anyway?” asked Benson as Peter darted in front of Joe. “She’s usually in the stands on Tuesdays.”
Peter batted the ball out of the air and caught it. He nodded Joe into the centre. “She couldn’t stay. She had stuff to do.”
“Too bad,” said Joe. He darted into Peter’s space, reaching for the ball. “Why don’t you ask Rosemary to the dance? It would be a nice treat for her. You have the pick of the girls from Grade 11 on down; she’ll be lucky if anyone takes her.”
“That’s not true!”
“Someone’s defending her honour!” sang Benson. He grunted as Peter fired the ball like a bullet.
“Good arm, Peter!” shouted Mr. Beckett from across the gym. “That’s the spirit!”
