Unwritten Books 2 - Fathom Five (5 page)

Miss Stevens shrugged and nodded at the phone on the wall. “Hit nine to get an outside line.” Then she returned to her manual and tapped tentatively at her keyboard.

The phone was on the wall beside the door to Principal Jenkins’ office, and she had to reach to pull the receiver off the hook. She started to key in Peter’s number, then stopped. She heard Peter’s name through the principal’s door.

“I’m worried about Peter McAllister.” It was Mr. Hunter’s voice.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Jenkins.

“His marks are dropping,” Hunter replied. “He’s showing less interest in class. He’s isolating himself from others.”

“Teenagers. There’s no cure,” said Jenkins.

“Something’s different,” said Hunter. “If he’d been like this after coming to Clarksbury, I’d expect it, but not now. It’s been too long. Rosemary Watson is worried about him, too.”

“I’m sure you’re overreacting,” said Jenkins. “Have you talked to him?”

“He ditched school today,” said Mr. Hunter. “I tried calling him, but nobody’s answering the phone.”

Rosemary put the phone on the hook and slipped out.

***

The ride back on the bus was quiet. The fog and the sound of the shipwreck put a pall on everyone’s mood. Most just sat and stared out the windows. Rosemary sat in Peter’s seat again, and sighed.

One student had a radio and was listening to the news about the shipwreck. Everyone could hear the report that emergency crews were trawling the coves between Clarksbury and Cape Croker, looking for the downed ship but turning up nothing. Not even wreckage.

“The fog is getting in the way of our investigation,” said a firefighter the station had found for comment. “But we have all of our boats out on a search. If a ship went down today, we’ll find it.”

If, thought Rosemary. He’s not sure a ship went down. He’s as confused as we are.

The fog lifted as Rosemary left the bus, but she brooded through the rest of the afternoon. She ate dinner in silence. She dried the dishes listlessly. She sat in the living room but she couldn’t keep her attention on the book. Finally, she set the book aside and muttered, “It has to be done.”

“What was that, Rosie?” asked her father.

“I’m going for a walk,” she announced, pulling on her shoes before her father had a chance to comment.

She pulled up her collar against the nippy air. On top of the escarpment, the sky remained clear, with the first stars coming out in the autumn twilight.

She walked briskly, because she knew that if she slowed down, her nerves might make her turn around and go back. As she walked, she muttered to herself.

“Peter, we have to talk.”

Firm and to the point. Possibly too grim.

“Peter, can we talk?” she tried again.

Too wishy-washy.

“Peter, can I have a word with you?”

I’d never say that.

She sighed. Perhaps the words will come when I see Peter at the door.

Biting back her fears, she quickened her pace.

She found Peter on his driveway, bouncing a basketball and practising a lay-up. The ball went clean through the hoop above the garage. He caught the ball on its first bounce and went straight back into that same lay-up. His face was sullen, his movements mechanical.

“Peter?”

Another run. Another lay-up. Another basket.

“Peter!”

Another run. Another basket.

Rosemary caught his arm as he passed. “Peter, are you okay?”

He stopped and held the basketball under one arm.

He gave her a cold look. “I’m fine.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Why didn’t you come to school today? People were worried about you.”

“I wasn’t up for school today,” he said.

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Please tell me, I’m your friend.”

“Oh, absolutely. A friend.” He began bouncing the basketball. “A good friend.” Bounce. “A special friend.” Bounce. “Just a friend.”

“What are you talking about?” She grabbed the ball from his hands. “Why are you so upset? Was it something I said?”

“No. You said nothing. You made yourself quite clear. I appreciated the honesty, though I wish you had told me to my face.”

“What do you mean?”

But Peter ignored her question. “I’m sorry I freaked you out. Maybe I wasn’t ready, but I thought you were. You seemed to like being kissed for the first few minutes at least. I’m sorry I was wrong.”

Peter’s words sounded so familiar. With a jolt she realized why.

“How did you —” she stammered. “Peter, you weren’t supposed to see that letter!”

“Wasn’t I? What was I supposed to do, then? Stand around in the dark while you worked out your feelings?”

“Peter, I —”

“Well, what am I? A friend? Boyfriend?

Acquaintance?” He snatched back his ball. “When you’ve decided what you want us to be, tell me. You know what my address is. I’d give you my fax number, except I don’t have one!”

Rosemary flared. “Fine! And when you’re ready for a mature conversation, give me a call! I’ll be waiting!” She stormed off down the road.

Peter’s glare faltered and he made to follow her, but he checked himself. After a moment’s hesitation, he threw one more basket, and then kicked the basketball into a corner of the yard. He stormed inside.

***

“Who mailed my letter to Peter?” Rosemary shouted as she burst through her front door. “Was it you, Trisha? Was it?”

Her little sister dropped her fork with a clatter.

Her father stood up. “Rosemary, calm down.

What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Somebody in this house delivered a letter Peter wasn’t supposed to see! It said all the wrong things!”

“Rosie, what are you talking about?” said her father.

“What letter? What’s wrong with Peter?”

“Peter’s furious! My letter told him I just wanted to be friends with him.”

“But you’re already ....” Mr. Watson pushed up his glasses. “Oh!”

Rosemary beat her hands against her sides. “What he must think of me! And after I was ready to tell him how I felt. It’s all ruined!”

“Rosemary, I’m sure it will be all right if you just give things time —”

“Time?! Peter and I have had three years! Why didn’t I see this happening? Why wasn’t I ready? Why was I so stupid? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

“Rosemary, I —”

Rosemary’s eyes were glistening now. Her voice quivered. “And now Peter thinks that I don’t love him, and I do, and he doesn’t love me, and I’m so confused, and everything is ruined, and you don’t understand, and I can’t take it anymore!” She could hold back the tears no longer. She ran to her room, slamming the door behind her. She flung herself onto her bed and cried into her pillow.

After a while, there was a soft knock at her door.

“Go away!” she yelled.

The door opened with a click and Rosemary’s mother sidled in. She sat at the edge of her bed and brushed back her daughter’s hair until Rosemary was through crying.

“I’m sorry I shouted at Dad,” said Rosemary at last. “Is he angry?”

“No. Befuddled, but not angry. He muttered something about not understanding women. I’ll have a few words with him about that.”

“And Trish?”

“Not affected at all. She’s playing with her helicopter.”

Rosemary chuckled. “Good ol’ unflappable Trish.” Then she curled up into herself. “I’m so embarrassed! It was like I wasn’t even there. I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out that I was in love with Peter … to my father, no less!”

“Rosemary, dear, that isn’t news to us.”

Rosemary rolled over and looked at her mother. “It’s not?”

Her mother laughed. “It’s plain as day. The whole town knows. Except you two, apparently.”

Rosemary flushed. “I thought they were just teasing us!” She frowned. “Oh, dear.”

Her mother smiled. “It’s about time you saw what was in front of you. That’s why I can tell you that it’s going to be okay.”

“But Mom, I wrote him a letter that told him that I wanted us to just stay friends!”

“Then you’ll just have to tell him otherwise. I’m sure he won’t mind if you change your mind. Peter may not know it, but he loves you as much as you love him. If you’re courageous enough, you’ll get over this rough spot. I think that you two deserve each other.”

She sat up. “You
wanted
me to date Peter? My best friend?! Moms aren’t supposed to do that! Dad’s teasing was bad enough!”

“Well, your dad might have to change his approach,” said her mother. “Depending on what you two do, there could be a man-to-man talk with Peter in the near future.”

Rosemary winced. “Poor Peter.”

Her mother chuckled. “Your dad does love to play the clichés.” She squeezed Rosemary’s shoulder. “Consider yourself lucky I waited this long. You could have had me matchmaking.”

***

Rosemary spent the rest of the evening reading
War for the Oaks
by Emma Bull. Finally, at ten, she finished her chapter and cringed. “Poor Eddi.” She marked her place and set the book on her bedside table.

She undressed and slipped into a long t-shirt. She washed and brushed her teeth and, returning, hesitated a moment at her door. Across the hall from her, Theo’s room stood open. Bed made, floor clean, everything so tidy it screamed emptiness.

Maybe I can catch him on instant messenger, she thought. Ask him what to do.

She wrinkled her nose. Ask my older brother for boy advice? We’d hear his screams all the way from Toronto. But I guess it’s less weird than getting boy advice from Mom. Slightly less weird.

She shut the door and stared a moment out her window. The view to the bay was still a sea of grey.

I can figure this out on my own. I’ll talk to Peter tomorrow, she thought. If he doesn’t show up at school, I’ll talk to him at home. I’ll apologize, and then I’ll invite him over for dinner.

And if the first conversation goes well, we’ll have more to talk about. And we’ll need some place to do that alone. Back at his place? Or possibly the woods. Hmm … kissed beside a sink of dirty dishes, or under an autumn canopy? Definitely the woods.

She cast one more glance out her window.

She blinked. A waft of cloud rose from the top of the fog and moved towards her, pushed by a sudden wind, like a white schooner making sail.

She shook her mind clear. Her imagination was playing tricks again.

Rosemary drew the blinds and climbed into bed.

***

Peter jabbed the remote control to turn the television off. The house fell silent. He could hear his breathing again and he knew it was going to keep him awake. But in the end, he decided that bed was the only option. His joints ached from lack of sleep.

After washing and brushing, he slipped into sweatpants and slid under the covers. He spent the next several minutes staring at the ceiling.

“I’m such an idiot,” he said at last.

Rosemary is never going to speak to you again.

I’ve got to call her. Tell her I’m sorry.

It’s one-thirty in the morning. Call her tonight, and she’ll really never speak to you again.

Tomorrow. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. If she’ll let me. Maybe if I corner her at her parents’, she’ll let me.

Peter fluffed his pillow. But sleep still would not come.

Something shone in his eyes: a bright light through the window.

Darn moon, he thought. Must be full. I thought that wasn’t for a whole week. Why now? I’m almost asleep. Let me sleep, moon, please?

“I should have pulled the blinds,” he muttered.

The light faded. Darkness covered his eyes.

“That’s better,” he whispered as sleep took him.

Silhouetted in the moonlight, a feminine form clung to the window frame.

***

There was a sickening thump.

Peter ran for the park gates, screaming for his mom and dad. He slipped on the icy pathway.

Then Rosemary appeared from nowhere and grabbed him before he hit the ground.

The boy of nine stared in awe at the girl of fifteen. She took one look at him and drew him into a close embrace, shushing him gently. Her shoulder was soon wet with his tears.

The shattered light from the ice-covered willow shimmered over them. The frozen branches shifted with wooden clacks. A blurry shape stepped close. Blinking away the wash of tears, Peter saw Fiona standing over Rosemary’s shoulder, her hands on her hips.

Then she vanished into smoke. A dense fog rolled around them, and ice turned into water. Waves lapped against their boat.

Boat?

Yes, they were in a boat, so far out into Georgian Bay that the escarpment was a black smudge on the horizon. Cape Croker’s lighthouse shot a pinprick of light towards them at regular intervals.