The House That Wasn't There

by Elana K. Arnold

  Alder couldn’t resist. “What’s the pocket for?” he asked.

  “The Henry’s pocket, Henrietta Swan Leavitt discovered, is used by cats to store residual energy to help them make the return trip home through particularly challenging portals. And get this—Henrietta’s cat, Henry, lived for twenty-one years, and he was able to teleport all that time! Most cats,” Oak concluded, a bit know-it-all-y, Alder thought, “can only teleport during their kittenhood. And some kittens reach the end of their teleporting season at a younger age than others.”

  The bus was pulling into the school parking lot, and all around, kids were beginning to shoulder their backpacks. It might not be such a bad thing when the kittens couldn’t teleport anymore, Alder thought. He knew Oak was keen to travel back to Mort, but Alder preferred staying in the here and now. It was more . . . predictable. Safer. “So, we don’t really know how much longer Fern and Walnut will be able to teleport.”

  “Exactly,” Oak hissed in unison with the bus’s hissing door. They had arrived. “Time is of the essence.”

  Time, Alder said to himself, was of the essence. He nudged Oak to stand up. He wanted to get off the bus before Beck made his way down the aisle.

  “See ya, tree kids,” called Faith.

  Alder answered, in unison with Oak, “See ya.”

  His brain was full of Tesla and Henrietta and Macak and Henry and Henry’s pockets and pockets of other worlds, and his house and Oak’s house and the house between, the house that wasn’t there. His brain was so full that he didn’t notice that his shoelace was untied until he tripped over it, just inside the school’s front doors.

  “I’ll see you in class,” Alder told Oak, bending to tie his shoe.

  When he stood, it was to find Marcus staring at him.

  “Hey,” said Marcus.

  “Oh,” said Alder, hotly blushing. “Sorry.” He didn’t know why he said “sorry.”

  “Hey,” said Marcus again, “are you avoiding Beck?”

  “What?” said Alder. “No,” he lied.

  “Beck thinks you’re avoiding him,” Marcus said, scratching his nose. “He waved to you on the bus and it was like you didn’t even see him.”

  Alder shrugged. “I guess I didn’t see him.”

  “Okay,” said Marcus. “Well, he wants to talk to you.”

  “What about?” Alder asked. His voice caught in the middle, squeaking a little.

  Marcus shrugged. “He said something about knitting?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Alder. “Well, I’ll go find him.” He headed off down the hall.

  “He’s in the bathroom,” Marcus called after him, but Alder pretended not to hear, and he went toward Mr. Rivera’s class instead.

  In the classroom, Alder dumped his backpack next to his desk and sank into it, miserable. If it were anyone other than Beck, Alder would be curious why he wanted to talk about knitting. But, if he was being totally honest with himself, Alder was intimidated by Beck. Everything seemed so easy for him: Making the teacher laugh. Running. Friend stuff.

  The rest of the class began to trickle in, and then Mr. Rivera arrived, carrying his ceramic coffee mug and whistling something happy. The bell rang and the rest of the students flooded into their seats, Beck and Marcus among them. Alder felt Beck’s gaze on him, pulling him like a magnet, but he forced his eyes to stay on his own desk.

  “Okay, friends,” Mr. Rivera said. “We’re going to start off our day with interdisciplinary work. Three fifteen-minute rounds, so everyone gets with their partners. I’ve made a schedule for today here. . . .” He tapped on his computer keyboard, and the schedule appeared over the projector.

  “I’ll set a timer. Ready, friends? Find your first partner and make some noise.”

  Alder saw from the list that he was supposed to meet with Marcus, then Oak, then Beck.

  When he got to Marcus’s desk, he found Marcus had already pulled out their shared notebook. Toenails had been written across the cover, but Alder saw that Marcus had added the words Fingernails and above Toenails.

  “I asked Mr. Rivera for permission,” Marcus explained. “I figured it would give us more to write about.”

  “Good idea,” said Alder.

  Marcus grinned and flipped the notebook open to the list of subjects:

  Language Arts

  History

  Current Events

  PE

  Math

  Art

  Science

  So far, they’d filled out current events (the longest toenail lady), science (onychomycosis, a fungal infection of the toenail), math (it turned out that the World Nail Competition judged the best nails based on a mathematical concept called the golden ratio), and PE (a list of all the physical activities that could lead to ingrown toenails).

  That left art, language arts, and history.

  “I took care of history,” said Marcus. “I researched the nail clipper.”

  “You did?” Alder was impressed. It had never occurred to him to think about nail tools.

  “Yeah,” said Marcus, pulling a sheet of notes from his backpack. “The first clipper was invented by two guys . . . Eugene Heim and Oelestin Matz, in 1881.”

  Alder wasn’t sure that Marcus was pronouncing the names right, but he didn’t say this. Instead, he copied the information into the notebook and asked, “How did people cut their nails before that?”

  “With a knife,” Marcus said. “If I had to cut my nails with a knife, I doubt I’d have any fingers left.”

  Alder laughed. “Remember that time you tried to slice up a peach and ended up in the emergency room?”

  Marcus held out his pointer finger. “I still have the scar.”

  “I’ve done some research, too,” Alder said, reaching into his bag. “For language arts.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Marcus. “What did you find?”

  “Well, I’m glad you checked with Mr. Rivera, because I’m pretty sure it’s about fingernails, not toenails, even though it just says ‘nails.’ It’s an old poem I found,” Alder said.

  “Let’s hear it,” said Marcus.

  Alder cleared his throat, and then read:

  Cut your nails on Monday, cut them for news;

  Cut them on Tuesday, a new pair of shoes;

  Cut them on Wednesday, cut them for health;

  Cut them on Thursday, cut them for wealth;

  Cut them on Friday, cut them for woe;

  Cut them on Saturday, a journey you’ll go;

  Cut them on Sunday, you’ll cut them for evil;

  For all the next week you’ll be ruled by the devil.

  For a moment, Marcus just stared at him openmouthed. And then he started to laugh—a big, friendly guffaw. Oh, Alder had missed that laugh so much that the sound of it, and the knowledge that he’d been the one to create it, made his eyes sting with unshed tears.

  “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Marcus said at last. “If you cut your nails on a Sunday, the devil is in charge for the whole next week?”

  “I guess so,” said Alder, and his smile felt so wide that he thought his face might crack open. “Which day would you cut your nails?”

  “Let me see that,” Marcus said, and Alder scooted his chair around to the other side of the desk so he and Marcus were shoulder to shoulder and they could read the poem together.

  “Definitely not Sunday,” Marcus said, “or Monday or Tuesday. Who cares about news and shoes?”

  Alder nodded in agreement. “And not Friday,” he said.

  “What’s ‘woe’?” Marcus asked.

  “Like, sadness, I think.” Alder didn’t know why he was pretending to be unsure about the meaning of “woe.” He knew exactly what it meant.

  “Well, I’m already healthy,” said Marcus, “so not Wednesday either.”

  “That leaves Thursday or Saturday,” Alder said. “Would you rather be rich or travel?”

  “Definitely travel,” Marcus said. “See the world. How about you?”

&
nbsp; Alder thought of the kittens, and the shimmer, and the house that wasn’t there. “Thursday,” he answered. “I sort of like it right here.”

  Mr. Rivera’s alarm sounded loudly. “All right, kiddos,” he called. “Time to switch.”

  Alder stood reluctantly. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  But Marcus had already turned his attention to his next partner, and after a moment, Alder drifted away.

  Oak waited for him at her desk, their “Family” file in front of her. They had most of it filled out:

  Language Arts: The Godfather (book) about crime families

  History: Romanov family, killed July 16, 1918

  Current Events: Family separations and border camps on the United States’ southern border

  PE: Research about benefits of family exercise

  Math: “Fact families,” math facts that use the same numbers

  Art:

  Science: DNA spit tests to learn about our families

  “So, did you buy a spit test?” Oak asked, looking over the list.

  “Uh-huh,” said Alder. “Over the weekend. I mailed it in. I didn’t understand half the questions on the form, so I just checked all the boxes.”

  “Me too,” said Oak.

  Alder craned his neck to see the list. “That just leaves art.”

  “I’ll research an artist who specialized in family portraits,” Oak said. “Easy.”

  Alder nodded. He looked over his shoulder at Beck, who was working with Cynthia on their project. “Say, Oak,” he said, “can I ask you a question?”

  Oak put down her pencil. “Sure,” she said.

  “It’s just—” said Alder. He rubbed his neck. “Beck wants to talk to me about knitting. And I’m . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m nervous?”

  “What about?” Oak asked.

  Alder shrugged. “What if he’s going to tease me about it?”

  “If he was going to tease you about it, he probably already would have,” Oak said. “And anyway, who cares if he does tease you?”

  “You know,” said Alder, “last year, Marcus and I . . . hung out a lot. And this year, he’s hanging out with Beck all the time.”

  “Oh,” said Oak. “You feel like Beck stole your friend.”

  When he heard Oak say it, Alder knew it was ridiculous. A friend wasn’t something you could steal, like a watch or something. But still. That was how it felt. He nodded.

  “Well, we’re friends now. And I like that you know how to knit.”

  “Thanks.” Alder felt better, a little.

  “Hey,” said Oak, changing the subject, “back to what we were talking about on the bus. The kittens. And Mort. There has to be a reason, don’t you think, that all that happened? We need to go back and find out more.”

  “I don’t know,” Alder said slowly. He knew how much Oak wanted to try to get back to the strange house. And he really didn’t want to disappoint her. Especially now that they were friends. “Do you think it’s even safe?” Alder asked.

  “We were fine last time,” Oak said.

  “Yeah, but maybe we just got lucky.”

  “It’s like Edith Phipps said in the book’s introduction.” Oak’s voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing Alder to lean in to hear her. “Who among us truly finds what we desire? If we’re lucky enough to have the book and kittens who can . . . you know . . . then we’re practically obligated to try to go back to Mort’s house!”

  “Anyway,” said Alder, reluctant to even explore the idea, “how would we get there?”

  “Well,” said Oak eagerly, “I’ve been reading the book, and—”

  Just then Mr. Rivera’s voice sounded again. “Okay, party people!” he called. “Rotate one more time.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Oak said. “After school.”

  Alder nodded. He gathered his stuff and stood. His stomach was a pit of dread.

  But when he got to Beck’s desk, Beck smiled with an open face. He didn’t look like someone who wanted to tease Alder.

  Slowly, Alder sat. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” said Beck. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. About knitting.”

  Alder nodded. “I know. What’s up?” He couldn’t help but feel nervous, even though Beck leaned forward eagerly.

  “It’s just—see, my grandma was knitting me a sweater.” Beck unzipped his backpack; inside, Alder could see a bright blue cable-knit sleeve. “But she died before she could finish it. And I was wondering—do you think you could finish it for me?”

  Alder blinked. “Oh,” he said. And then, “I’m sorry your grandmother died.”

  “Thanks,” said Beck. His voice was gruff. “I don’t even like wearing sweaters. They’re itchy and hot. But . . . I’d wear this one, if I could.”

  Alder nodded. “Let me see it.”

  Beck pulled out the sweater, in pieces. Most of it was finished—the front piece, the back piece, and one sleeve. All Alder would have to do would be knit one more sleeve and then assemble the pieces. It would be easy.

  “Do you have any more of this blue yarn?” Alder asked.

  Beck shook his head. “The rest of Grammy’s knitting stuff all got sold or taken to a thrift store.”

  “That’s okay,” said Alder. “I’ll bet we’ve got something pretty similar at home.”

  “Dude,” said Beck, “if you could finish it for me, I’d seriously owe you one.”

  Alder carefully folded up the sweater pieces and tucked them into his backpack. Maybe Beck didn’t exactly “steal” Marcus. If Alder were Marcus, he’d probably prefer hanging out with Beck too. He was as nice as he was funny, and athletic, and popular. Alder zipped his backpack. “I know what it’s like to miss someone,” he said, and he was as careful with his words as he was with the sweater. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m glad to help.”

  Chapter 24

  The next two weeks were a busy time at Oak’s house: the construction workers finished the addition; Oak and her mom went shopping for window coverings and new furniture for the upstairs; Oak read Feline Teleportation cover to cover and then began reading it again from the first page.

  Oak was fascinated by the compilation of stories about teleporting cats. According to Edith Phipps, PhD, it was usually children who noticed unusual feline activity. There was one story about a tortoiseshell cat in England who disappeared and reappeared in her family’s garden; the children insisted that she traveled through a portal, but their parents never believed them. And there were at least a dozen reports of cats staring off into the distance blankly, as if they were looking into a world their owners couldn’t see, and many examples of cats disappearing for months at a time and then reappearing, as if by magic, none the worse for the wear.

  And Edith Phipps, PhD, had a strong opinion about Schrödinger’s cat. “Probably one of the most famous misunderstandings of scientific theories is that of Schrödinger’s cat,” she wrote near the end of chapter 1. “It’s a frequent misinterpretation of his theory that a cat in a box could be considered to be simultaneously alive and dead until the box is opened; his original notes include the words ‘here and not here,’ which can be understood to mean both in this dimension and absent, gone through a portal. Since scientists abhor that which they cannot prove, they overwhelmingly favor the ‘alive and not alive’ translation to the ‘here and not here’ interpretation of Schrödinger’s thought experiment.”

  Oak had never even heard of Erwin Schrödinger before she read about him and his cat in Feline Teleportation, so this reference led her down an interesting rabbit hole of research into quantum physics. The world, it seemed, was full of things Oak knew nothing about.

  Of course, she’d known that she didn’t know lots of stuff; after all, she was only eleven. How much could she have learned in just over a decade? But the discovery of Feline Teleportation, the book’s disappearance and reappearance, the strange experience of visiting Mort, and even the unexpected friendship with Alder, a boy she�
�d thought she hated, were causing her to reexamine everything she’d thought she knew.

  What other secrets did the universe hold? If cats could portal hop and enemies could become friends, what else might be possible?

  Two of the chapters were each just a single page: there was “Chapter Three: Training Your Teleportation-Gifted Feline,” which simply read: “You cannot train a cat to teleport. You cannot train a cat to do anything it has not independently decided to do on its own. Perhaps the book you are looking for is Canine Psychics, a History.”

  And there was “Chapter Nine: Other Animals That Teleport,” which read: “There are no other animals that teleport. But opossums and other marsupial souls can inhabit certain pockets of time.”

  This piece of information excited Oak so much that it set her to trembling, and she reported it in an eager whisper to Alder on the bus.

  “That’s why Mort is there,” he said, eyes widening. “He’s a marsupial.”

  “Yes,” said Oak. “Pockets.”

  Pockets in space. Pockets in cats’ ears. Pockets on marsupials’ stomachs.

  In some ways, Oak felt that her world was expanding like an accordion.

  But in other ways, things felt . . . stuck. For one thing, she wished that Alder were a bit more interested in exploring the possibility of teleporting with the kittens. She’d tried to broach the subject several times, but although Alder was very interested in the concept of feline teleportation, he didn’t seem particularly interested in the execution of it.

  “Execution” was a poor word choice, and one that Oak would definitely avoid using around Alder. He was such a worrywart, and much more of a homebody than Oak could ever be. His sense of adventure was happily contained in trying a new brand of chocolate chips in a cookie recipe.