When I woke up, I was tucked beneath my blue comforter and light was pouring in through the open window. I could hear birds chirping from the tree just outside, children singing down the street, the dragon killing his breakfast . . . It was another morning in Fiction and all seemed well, minus the throbbing in my head.
“I’m so sorry about having to knock you out last night,” Randy said. He was sitting at the foot of my bed holding a heavy black frying pan. I blinked a few times and looked around the room. The piles of clothes had been picked up, the floor had been swept of crumbs, and the stinking carton of orange juice/detergent had been removed from the corner, leaving only a dark spot on the floor in its place.
Randy was watching me carefully and went on in a rush of words.
“I do appreciate you wanting to help find my wife, but it’s just, you were really killing the tone with all of that Beth nostalgia, and I thought I might just skip things forward a bit, so . . .” he nodded toward the frying pan and shrugged apologetically.
The old “blackout” trick is used a lot here in Fiction as an easy way to get from point A to point B. It’s quick, it’s efficient, and no explanations are necessary. Of course it is usually the author’s not the character’s decision when to end a scene or a chapter. Come to think of it, inter-character-blackout devices are rarely ever used, if at all. I was just going to tell him that I hardly thought the frying pan was a fair plot device, and to please warn me the next time he wanted to “skip things forward,” when, out of nowhere, something came crashing down onto my already tender head.
“Too much exposition . . .” I heard as though from far away. And then, yet again, all was black.
CHAPTER THREE
Randy’s one-night stay had soon turned into one week; the week had slipped into a month; and before I knew it, my new roommate, Randy, had been living with me for nearly six weeks.
I was getting more and more accustomed to making decisions on my own. I started helping Randy in his search for Gail, and I’d even picked out a few outfits and decided that I did not, in fact, like argyle. But every day that we pored over my old books, I was painfully reminded of how little was actually going on in our current story. At Payne Academy it had been a risk just to walk into the cafeteria. I always knew something was going to happen, and I always knew I’d be powerless over it, as it was already written. After all of the fights, the loss, what had happened to Beth . . . well, I wanted things to happen now, but on my own terms. And I wanted to stop reading my damn books.
So I decided to take matters into my own hands. I would be my own author. I would write my own destiny one page at a time! I would traverse the river called Life with a paddle called Free Will! I would grab my destiny by the reins and ride into the sunset! And . . . I would lay off the Metaphor Bran at breakfast.
I walked into the kitchen one morning where Randy, yet again, was at the little round table poring over the Peter Able books. Since Randy had been living with me, the apartment had undergone somewhat of a makeover. It seemed as though every day I would wake up to find some new home accessory—a fluffy pillow or a throw rug, for instance—lying around. And that day was no exception. Randy was sitting beneath the open window, a new diaphanous curtain billowing pleasantly behind him in the late summer breeze. His pen scratched along as he jotted notes in a small spiral notebook. He didn’t look up as I entered.
“Toast is in the toaster and eggs are—”
“In the pantry. I know, I know,” I said. It was always the same: he woke up early, did some scribbling in his notebook, then handed me an earmarked and worn copy of one of my books as soon as I entered the kitchen. He would have my toast waiting for me in the toaster to keep warm, and a plate of eggs in the pantry—this, I never knew why.
I sat down with my plate.
“Here you go, Peter,” Randy said, handing me a copy of the third book in my series, cleverly titled Peter Able: Boy Wizard, Book Three. I’d been over the book at least twice already looking for clues about Gail. The only things I’d learned were that there had been an awful lot going on in my books that I hadn’t known about, and that my author had an affinity for the word “macabre.” As I flipped through the book idly, I once again found myself wondering how I had missed so much. These characters—these people—had in one way or another affected my story. Where were they now that the series was over? And where was Gail?
I stared down at a page, not really taking it in, as Randy’s pen scratched along furiously. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the search for hints seemed futile. If this Mrs. G. Potts was in fact his wife, there was no indication of where she was now. But I didn’t say that. Randy was my friend, and I’d told him I would help. Besides, I knew what it was like to lose someone forever, and I’d promised myself to keep Randy’s hope alive if I could. So I set the book down on the table, my own young face staring up at me so full of hope, and cleared my throat.
“Did you find something?” Randy asked, his own face suddenly hopeful as well. I shook my head and he resumed writing, his brow furrowed.
“Randy, I’ve been thinking. We need to do something to move things along. I feel like we are kind of in a rut here. Well, I know I am, at least. In my series, it was just one thing after another—Payne Academy, bullies, having to watch over Beth, and then . . . well, the end . . .” I looked out the window meaningfully, and paused for a long moment to really let the Emotional Moment sink in. Randy didn’t seem to be paying attention though, so I coughed and went on.
“I’m not saying we won’t find your wife, but maybe we’re going about this in the wrong way. Maybe . . . maybe if we start making things happen, the clues about Gail will just kind of uncover themselves.” Randy was still scratching along, his scowl growing more pronounced with my every word. Still he didn’t say anything, so I went on. “Of course we’ll still search for your wife, but I think . . . I think it’s time I started making things happen for myself. If I’m not being written anymore, I might as well make things happen on my own. In honor of my sister.” I looked out the window poignantly again, aware that the light was illuminating the sad lines in my face, my brow, my— “Randy, are you even listening to me?” I asked, swatting his outstretched finger away from my face. “What are you doing?”
He was holding his hand up, about an inch away from my cheek, as if he were examining his nails. He moved his hand back and forth a few times before dropping it back to the table.
“It’s nothing. You just looked a little, well, shinier than you did only yesterday . . . but it must have been a trick of the light.” He coughed uncomfortably and scooted his glasses up his nose. “Anyway, Peter, I don’t know what you’re talking about—we’re kind of in a rut here. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I am making some real progress in my search for Mrs. Potts.” He waved the notepad at me for emphasis, and I saw that it was covered in Garfield drawings. “And you’re, well, you’re helping me! I feel like we are really on the edge of a breakthrough. You know what they say: it takes at least ten reads before a story really sinks in.”
Unless “they” meant Randy, I hadn’t ever heard that before.
“And aside from helping me out,” Randy went on, “you’re still going to the meetings and . . . going to the grocery store when we need things . . . and the other day you even killed that roach in the bathroom! This is exciting stuff, Peter!”
He raised the book in front of his face, unable to meet my eyes. When he glanced down, he saw the pamphlet I’d slapped onto the table: Fiction Academy: The Book World’s Premier Institute for All Things Fiction.
He set the book down on the table, looked at me quizzically, and opened up the pamphlet:
Do you dream of becoming a Main Character, but you’re not sure how? Do you fantasize about taking control of your Fantasy Fiction, but you don’t know where to begin?
Our Creative Inspiration classes will show you the way! At Fiction Academy, the world’s premier institute for all things Fiction, you can learn abo
ut plot twists, character development, and conflict! We even offer electives in the thrilling worlds of Memoir and Essay!
At Fiction Academy’s three-year program, you’ll be joining the ranks of Fiction’s elite. From Action Heroes to Zombies, our professors are all certified best sellers in their respective genres, and have been turning out successful graduating classes for centuries. Just some of our alums include: Long John Silver, Othello, Big Brother, Merlin, Meg March, Spot, Scylla . . .
“Why does it just trail off like that?” Randy asked as he turned the pamphlet over. “There’s nothing else.”
“I imagine it’s because the pamphlet-reading scene was taking too long,” I said. “Now I don’t want you to be mad, but I’ve gone ahead and enrolled for the fall. I think Fiction Academy is just what we need to get things moving around here, start making things happen. And who knows, maybe this will be just the catalyst we need to find your wife.”
“I think you are exactly right!” Randy said, clearly relieved that the discussion was over. He picked his notebook up again, eager to get back to work. “A young Boy Wizard such as yourself should know more about the Fiction around him: how to create atmosphere, the appropriate use of ellipsis, unexpected developments in plot . . .”
“I enrolled you too,” I told him.
“Touché.”
I spent the rest of that week searching through my old books with a new, almost manic fervor. Even after Randy went to bed, I would stay up late, reading by candlelight, with sweat dripping from my forehead, staining the pages of my past. Of course I could have turned on a light and taken off my coat, but it’s more intense that way, don’t you think? Anyway, I knew I didn’t have much time. School would start soon, and I felt I owed it to Randy to find something about his wife before our time was devoted to our studies. After all, it was because of me that he’d have to start school in the first place.
And so it was the night, or rather a few hours, before our unofficial career at Fiction Academy began, and I was poring over the end of book five for perhaps the tenth time. The headmaster had just raised his macabre glass, in honor of my late sister (I don’t think my author actually knew what that word meant), when the narrative shifted restlessly around the room, leaving me in the front row, numb and unblinking. A few rows back, a girl named Molly was tearful; to my left, an unnamed professor was solemn; in the back, someone else was wearing a macabre scowl; to his right, a lone macabre was blowing her nose like a trumpet; and then, there was Mrs. G. Potts in the back row. She was idly tapping her fingers . . . along the hilt of a knife.
I don’t know why it suddenly jumped out at me the way it did. Perhaps Randy was right about it taking ten reads. What kind of person carries a knife around a kids’ book? And to a eulogy for that matter? I didn’t think it would really help us find Gail now, but it was something. I was just about to wake Randy to tell him, but with a glance at the clock, I realized he would be awake in a couple of hours anyway for our first foray into a new genre.
See, Fiction Academy believed in testing a student’s aptitude in various genres. Rather than simply allowing freshmen to choose the classes we found interesting, we’d have to jump through a few hoops first—which I only hoped were metaphorical. We were starting out in YA with something called “Rush,” and we had to be there at 4:30 a.m.
“I’ll tell him in the morning,” I grumbled into the quiet living room, too tired to wonder if I might be losing my grip. I closed my eyes; I closed the book; and I fell asleep on the couch.
By the time I woke for YA, the candle had burned out, and we were immediately in a rush to leave. Something was nagging at me though.
“I still don’t see why we have to be there so early,” Randy whispered with a grimace, recalling me to the moment. It was pitch black outside, and he had just smacked into the couch for the second time in our frenzied attempt to get out the door.
“I don’t know,” I hissed back, bumping my shoulder on the door frame, oddly distracted. “Why didn’t we turn on the lights?”
“I thought that was for atmosphere. Isn’t that why we’re whispering?”
I thought it must be. Whatever I’d needed to tell Randy would have to wait until later. We left the apartment quietly and tiptoed our way down the stairs. The early morning was warm and balmy, and the only sounds were the occasional distant screams from Thriller. Even the fairies had stopped singing. I couldn’t tell if I was just nervous and delirious from lack of sleep or if the mood really was so tense, but we didn’t speak for several minutes.
“Turn right,” Randy finally said, steering me down a side street I’d never seen before. Soon the ground went from the smooth river rocks of Fantasy to something shiny and almost metallic looking. I raised my gaze and saw not one but two moons looming over us in the sky, casting an eerie green glow over the street.
“Shortcut through Sci-Fi,” Randy said. “There’s an entrance to campus where Sci-Fi mysteriously disappears into Mystery, kind of over by that old candlestick store, you know?”
I didn’t know, but I nodded, and we moved through the strange green light down the main road. The tall, towerlike buildings surrounded us on all sides, often obscuring the glow from the moons. There was no sign of life from within them or without. No lights on, nobody out for an early, early morning jog, no stargazers. It was creepy, and the mood was not helped by the screams from Thriller, which was now much closer.
“So, where to now?” I asked a little too loudly. Randy jumped and made a shushing sound, bringing his finger to his lips. He didn’t answer me, because just then we came out the end of an alley and were suddenly, and very clearly, no longer in Sci-Fi. Before us were the cobblestoned streets of Mystery and a few older, run-down looking shops, one with a broken and loosely hanging sign that simply said, “Candlesticks.” The air was thick with the smell of . . . something metallic. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It was a mystery. But it did send something heavy back into place in my head.
“A knife!” I blurted, grabbing Randy’s arm. “Last night I was reading the fifth book in my series and, I don’t know how I skipped over this before, Mrs. Potts was holding a knife! And she seemed bored,” I added, unable to hide my indignation. To my surprise, Randy just shook his head and smiled.
“I know,” he whispered wistfully. “That’s one of the reasons I just know it has to be her. Toward the end of our time together, she started carrying around this knife. She said it symbolized her love and protection for our family.”
“Randy, don’t you think that’s a little . . . weird?”
“Well, maybe a little. But Gail was always so eccentric. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think you’d understand.”
He was right about that.
“Okay . . . well I just thought you should know, but I guess you already did,” I said a little uncomfortably. This Gail woman didn’t sound like the kind of person I’d care to run into, let alone help track down. But the weirdo was important to Randy, and Randy was important to me. For now, we had more pressing matters to deal with.
“Let’s get back to where we left off,” I said.
And so we walked on. Just down the road, we came to a large stone archway with the engraved words “Fiction Academy: South Entrance.”
We silently made our way up a slight hill and into the main part of campus where there was a large stone courtyard with benches and picnic tables dotting the edges. Around the square were buildings of every size, color, and material, but closest to us on the left was a looming brick structure. Next to it, a section of dense trees must have stretched back for miles. On the other side of the trees, there was a sprawling, 1950s-style cubelike building with small windows, and, to our right, what looked like a miniature castle, complete with towers and a tiny mote. I was still gawking at the little castle, whose sign read “Math” of all things, when I heard Randy speaking to somebody near the edge of the square by the trees.
“Excuse me. Do you know where the Old Gymnasium is?”
he was asking the least-lethal-looking of a group of ghosts. “Or have you seen a group of Stereotypical Frat Boys around—probably big, beefy, and with the wits of cattle?”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me!” The nearly transparent ghost glided toward him with surprising speed, his arms outstretched theatrically.
“Oh no,” I mumbled, and jogged the distance between us. As I approached, I glanced down at my watch. It was almost five o’clock, and we simply didn’t have time for a long-winded allusion. I grabbed Randy by the arm, and we hurried from the square, skirting the math building and its mote. Just behind it I’d seen a structure that looked low, large, and promisingly gymlike.
“I’m sorry about that, Peter. I guess the chains should have been a warning.”
“It’s not a problem,” I muttered, not really listening. A large sign on the front wall of the building told us that it was, in fact, the Old Gymnasium, and our instructions were to meet the group in front of the sign. But where was the group? I was just about to ask Randy if he had any ideas when a net fell from the top of the building onto our heads.
“Gotcha, FRESHMEN!!!” somebody shouted from the roof.
We looked up and saw about ten heads attached to torsos leaning over the top of the building, most of whom were holding open cans of beer, poised to be poured. It was at this point that Randy and I decided to remove the lightweight, ineffective net from our heads and step aside.
“Oh my God, Dude . . . They’re like . . . they’re like gone!” one of the group said, mouth agape. They all looked around in confusion, holding their beers pointlessly over the side of the building with nobody to pour them on. We’d only stepped a few feet away, but we were hidden by shadow.
“Drink!” the apparent leader of the Frat shouted. “Chug, FRESHMEN!” And with that, the ten heads attached to torsos disappeared back onto the roof and all was silent, except for the quiet sound of guzzling.
“Another!” the leader shouted thickly, as crushed beer cans, which in all likelihood had been smashed on their heads, came raining onto the grass near our feet. After another lengthy pause, several of the boys belched, the noise echoing across the silent grounds.
The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able Page 3