The only thing I could think of, stomach suddenly sinking . . .
“Did something happen to Jenny?”
The vampire paused from mussing up his stupid-looking hair. “Who?”
Then I realized, This was a joke. It was a cruel joke, which I sincerely hoped Jenny was not in on. I made my way over to the couch to gather my backpack and school things, and pulled out my wand, ready to kindly escort Ed, or whatever his name was, the hell out of my apartment, when I heard the door to Randy’s room click open behind me.
“Okay, who’s yelling?”
Ahhhh!!!! Beth!
Beth! Eeeeee!!
Yayyyyy!
Beth! Beth! Beth! Beth Beth!! Beth!!!!!
Such was my excitement at hearing my sister’s voice that the tiny little thoughts buzzed, bubbled, fizzed, whizzed, banged, popped, and generally onomatopoeia-ed all around me, as excited words tend to do. I whipped around, batting the little words away (“Weeeee!”) and saw, standing in the doorway, hand on her hip, my little sister.
Sort of.
“What did you do to your hair?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
The last time I’d seen Beth, she’d been sixteen—her hair was sandy blonde; her eyes, big, bright, and blue; and her clothes had just been . . . clothes. Jeans, shirts, shoes. I don’t know, I’d never really paid much attention. But now . . .
“What are you talking about?” she asked in cold voice, twirling a black strand of hair around her finger—her nails, also black. “What are you still doing here, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” She said it with such loathing, I found myself looking to the vampire for support. He shrugged apologetically.
“Beth’s just upset because we had a bit of a fight last night . . . hence the couch.” He gestured at the couch—which I only then noticed was not my old, pilled green couch but an even older, dingier, and slightly smelly-looking gray couch. And if you don’t think things can look smelly, you’re wrong.
Again, I looked at my sister, who was still standing there, hand on hip, and glaring out from behind about nine layers of thick black eye makeup. She had three piercings along her bottom lip, two on her left eyebrow, a septum piercing dangling from her nose, and if I wasn’t much mistaken, I could see the edges of a tattoo creeping out from the collar of her black shirt. She was every cliché of a disturbed teenager I’d ever seen, and it broke my heart a little.
“What?!” she snapped. Then she walked over to the couch, her heavy boots thudding along the bare wood floor (where was the rug?!), and sat down so close to the vampire, she may as well have sat right on him. She grabbed his face roughly in her hands and, to my horror, kissed him fiercely on the mouth.
Ahhhh!!!! Beth!
Beth! NO!!
Ewwwwwww!
Beth! Beth! Beth! Beth Beth!! Beth!!!!!
I slapped the little words away before their lips broke apart with a loud smack and busied myself looking at the hem of my jacket sleeve.
“We’re made up,” she announced, draping an arm around Ed’s shoulder. “Now you run along to school, Peter. You wouldn’t want to be late for your magic lessons.” And with a last withering look, she grabbed the vampire’s hand and pulled him along behind her into the kitchen.
“Okay, I’m just going to go to school then!” I called after them. “So, I’ll see you later, Beth!” No response. All right then, I thought, that went well.
Before I headed off, I banged on the apartment door across the hall from mine, assuming that since Randy couldn’t possibly be living in my apartment anymore, he’d probably be back in the one he’d lived in earlier this year. Of course I didn’t really expect him to answer, as it was already midmorning on a workday—but I also didn’t expect anyone else to answer either.
“What do you want?” a very squat and very old and weathered-looking hag asked, behind the few inches of open door.
“Uh, is Randy here?”
“No! Go away! You pompous little prat!” And with that, she slammed the door in my face.
Okay, so far, not going as I’d planned. I cheered myself slightly, though, on the way to school, knowing that I could find Randy in his office and sort this whole thing out; and if all else failed, I’d simply change the backstory. Piece of cake. Easy as pie, and speaking of pie—
“Good morning, Pip!” I called to the little gingerbread man, half owner of Pip and Pop’s. I started heading toward the little bakery, images of a rich slice of lemon meringue and a cup of coffee swirling around happily in my head, when Pip put down the crate of apples he was carrying and blocked my path.
“Well, well, if it isn’t His Majesty of Magic.” He was glaring at me with almost as much malice as Beth—which is hard to do when your face is made of cookie. “Was his Majesty thinking about gracing us with his presence today?” he squeaked, bowing low.
“I think I’ll just . . . head off.”
I backed away, Pip’s little icing eyes still glaring as I went, and jogged the rest of the way to school. I needed to sort this out, and fast.
Once again, I barreled my way into the Detective building, past the secretary, down the labyrinth of halls, and threw my weight into Randy’s door to open it—
But it was locked.
“Randy!” I banged on the door. “Randy, you’ve got to let me in. Something really weird is going on!”
Cynthia came running behind me, panting, holding a stitch in her side. “I told him . . . to . . . wait,” she breathed, as the door swung open.
Randy stood in the doorway, a look of utter confusion on his face. I walked under his arm and plunked myself down in the chair across from his desk heavily—with a quick look around, I realized, thankfully, it was largely the same. The only thing that I noticed out of place was a silver picture frame on his desk that hadn’t been there just the day before—I turned it around.
It was Randy, his two children, and his ex-wife, Gail Potts the Assassin.
“Randy!” I gasped, holding the picture out to him. “What are you doing with Gail in this picture?! This looks . . . well, this looks really recent!” I exclaimed, turning the picture back toward him.
Only then I realized Randy was looking at me in a very . . . odd way. Sort of like you might watch an animal who might suddenly attack.
“Peter Able, isn’t it?” he asked, slowly, carefully. He jerked his head toward at Cynthia, motioning her to close the door, to leave. “Peter Able, Boy Wizard?”
My stomach dropped. Randy didn’t know me; he didn’t remember me at all.
I put the picture back on his desk and blinked a few times, surprised to find that I’d started to cry.
“Can I call you Peter?” he asked, still slowly moving toward the other side of his desk. I could see that he had his hand in his pocket.
He sat down and pulled out his wand. For a moment I thought he was going to attack me—which wouldn’t have been surprising, considering the day I’d had—but instead, he just waved it over his desk and there appeared several pieces of paper. I recognized one of them immediately.
“My backstory!”
Automatically, my hand went to my pocket, and sure enough, it was empty.
“How did you get my backstory? I just had it!”
Randy was looking at me in confusion, then something seemed to dawn on him.
“You’re not the first one that’s come in confused,” he said sympathetically, nodding his head. “Not long ago, Alice herself came in, sure that she’d never been to Wonderland at all and was very upset to find one of my colleague’s ‘sitting in her desk.’” He laughed softly. “Unfortunately, we aren’t exactly sure what’s causing all this confusion—and the disappearances, I don’t doubt you’ve heard about those—but we have several strong leads, so not to worry, not to worry, Mr. Able . . .” He picked up my backstory from the desk and started skimming it.
“You mean . . . you don’t know about??” I asked.
“I don’t know about . . . what?” he asked, confused.
I didn’t want to do this all again, so I just sighed and shook my head.
“Listen, Randy,” I said.
“No offense, son, but I’d prefer it if you’d call me Detective Potts.”
This was worse than I’d thought.
“Okay, Detective Potts. Is there any chance I can have my backstory back . . . please?”
I’d expected a no, but I hadn’t expected my friend to start laughing at me. He shook his head, and looking torn between disbelief and amusement, he said, “Now listen, Peter. I’d heard that you were a bit . . . well, a bit big for your britches after reviving your sister. How you strut around boasting about your magic, making everyone else feel inferior—and don’t get me wrong, we’re all very impressed with what a powerful wizard you are at such a young age. But just because you’re good at magic doesn’t mean you’re going to be able to fix this.” He shook my backstory at me. “So, no, I’m sorry. I can’t give it back to you.”
He watched me, struggling to compose his face in some sort of professional manner.
“You really don’t know about ‘?’?” I asked more clearly, desperate for him to understand. But there was no recognition in his eyes—he didn’t remember our friendship, he didn’t remember learning about the villain,?, and he sure as hell didn’t remember me.
Sadly, I left his office and wondered what I could do to fix this shitty situation—and where in the name of Aslan was Dach-shund?
About two hours later, I was sitting outside of Mattie’s classroom, just waiting for her to show up. I needed something normal. More than ever, I was craving magic, not just as a distraction but as a way to dispel some of these emotions.
“Hello there,” she said as she approached the door. I’d been pondering all of the ways that I had messed things up, feeling very sorry for myself, and my head was hanging down like an angsty teen’s from YA, but when I looked up, her footsteps stopped.
“Oh. Hello, Peter.” Any trace of a smile vanished from her round face. She looked . . . scared. I’d never seen Mattie look scared.
“Hey. I’ve just been waiting outside until class starts. It’s been a weird day and—”
And . . . why was Mattie backing away from me, eyes darting around the hallway?
“Listen, Peter. I thought we’d settled this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Circe can use my classroom for lessons—you just need to give me some notice. I’m sorry,” she added in barely more than a whisper. “I have a class coming in five minutes, I c-c-can’t let you u-u-u-se the space t-t-oday.”
“Circe?” I asked stupidly. At that moment the rest of the class began to file in behind Mattie, most of whom were the same as usual, but then, coming along in the back, was Jenny.
At this point, I’d stood up, hovering near the door awkwardly as the class filed in. Some of them were whispering to one another, but most of them were simply pretending I wasn’t there at all. Jenny was in the latter category.
“Hey, Jenny,” I whispered, very aware that Mattie had hung back to make sure her class all went in safely. She was watching us closely.
Jenny stopped in the doorway, positively alarmed that I was speaking to her. She looked pale—not just because she looked like she hadn’t been written in years, but because what color she did have had drained quickly from her face. But far be it from Jenny to show that she was scared of something.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
“I just . . .” I wanted so badly to tell her everything: how we used to be together, and how when she left, I felt so miserable, I ruined it all. I wanted to explain how I’d changed my backstory, how everything was different now and suddenly I seemed to be different—someone everyone hated or was afraid of—and I didn’t know what to do because I didn’t even have my backstory, and all the while? was probably growing stronger here, just because Randy wouldn’t even listen to me, and, and . . . Didn’t Jenny remember any of this, somewhere deep down?
For just a moment, her face softened into a look of understanding, but then Mattie stepped forward and said, in a stronger voice than before, “I think it’s time I started class, Peter. Circe will be waiting for you in the tower.” And with that, she ushered Jenny into the classroom.
I stood in the hallway for several minutes, not because I was crying, but because I had to . . . tie my shoes. A few times. Once I was finished (tying my shoes, that is), I decided I may as well head up to the tower. I figured if anyone knew about powerful dark magic, it was Circe. And, unfortunately, that’s just what I needed.
“You’re late, Peter,” Circe said from the shadows. Her voice was low, velvety, and predatory. I moved into the room, a room that I’d only ever heard rumors about before. It was always said that Circe lived at the top of the North Tower on campus and was responsible for the odd rainy days over the school, when the rest of Fiction was perfectly sunny.
“I’m . . . sorry . . .” I breathed. I addressed the room at large, because still, I couldn’t see her.
“Sit,” she instructed. A high-backed chair appeared, one shimmering particle at a time, hovering about three feet from the ground. It solidified and then dropped to the dark wooden floor with a clunk. I sat.
“Listen, uh . . . Professor Circe,” I said, again to the room. “I know we’re supposed to have a class right now and all, but I really need—”
“Have a class?” she growled. I had the terrible sensation of sitting in a dark cave, knowing a wolf was lurking in the shadows. “A class?” She laughed then, and all of the sudden, I felt very light and safe indeed. Surely this woman wasn’t a wolf; she might turn me into one, or maybe a pig, but that felt okay just then. I might quite like that . . .
Finally, she stepped into the light filtering down from the high, domed windows. For a minute, I just stared at her; I think I forgot to breathe. She was radiant—in a literal sense. Her golden skin glowed and glittered like a rare stone shimmering in the sunlight as she moved; her hair was long, but I couldn’t tell exactly how long, as it flitted about as though blown by a breeze; and her eyes, her perfect almond-shaped eyes, were violet beneath her thick lashes.
“Peter, are you done?” she asked after several minutes. “You’re acting like a common human! Wake up!”
She raised her palm toward me, and immediately I felt a powerful wave of magic surge from her to me—the force of it would have knocked me through the stone tower wall, if I hadn’t jumped up from my chair and blocked it with a spell.
“How did I . . .?” I looked down at my wand, not even aware that I’d taken it out. It seemed to be buzzing slightly.
“How did you what, Peter?” she laughed, not kindly. “How did you block an almost rudimentary spell? Dear me, dear me, my mother was right . . .” She walked around my chair, staring down at me. I felt more than a little uncomfortable.
“My mother called from Italy this morning,” Circe went on. She waved a hand in the air across from me, and suddenly, a lavish, golden throne materialized, along with a little table laden with a decanter of wine and glasses, a plate of grapes, cheese, and bread. She lazily situated herself on the throne, her feet dangling over one armrest and her arm draped over the other, as though she couldn’t possibly be bothered to simply sit. “She had a very odd vision last night, you see—that Peter Able would somehow, with the most powerful of magics, alter the very fabric of time.”
“I don’t know about that; I just . . . well, I erased some words in a backstory and—”
“Ah, but don’t you see, Peter?” Circe paused as the glass of wine floated into the air and titled some of its contents into her mouth, as though she couldn’t possibly be bothered to simply hold anything. “Words are some of the most powerful magic. Our words . . .” She did an impressive bit of magic in which the little table next to her shifted in rapid succession from one thing to another—an olive tree, pop!, a swine, pop!, a vase filled with diamonds, pop!, what looked like my backstory, pop!, and then back to
the table. “Our words create our reality, Peter. Whether spoken or thought.”
“Uh, any chance you can bring back that last one?”
She smiled, not kindly. “Allow me to fill you in on this version of the story, Peter, because if Mother was right, you won’t have a clue. In this world, Peter, you are a god among men—not literally, no, I’m the only immortal in this room, but you’ve allowed your magic to grow. You revived your sister from the dead with some of the most powerful spellwork I’ve seen in centuries, from a wizard anyway, which is why I took you on as my apprentice.” A few grapes from the table lazily floated through the air and into her mouth.
“Is that why . . . is that why Beth hates me? Because she was supposed to be dead and I brought her back?”
“Oh, Peter, I wish you’d stop harping on about that. ‘My sister hates me, everyone is scared of me, people don’t invite me to their birthday parties.’” She rolled her magnificent eyes, “Who cares what people think, Peter? You could be the most powerful wizard of all time, if you didn’t care about people so much.”
But that wasn’t right at all . . . it was only because I cared about people so much that I’d even been able to start practicing magic again. Suddenly, I knew what I needed to do, and it didn’t have anything to do with dark magic.
“Uh, Professor Circe, I’m sorry, but I have to do something. I have to go.”
I got up to leave, and she raised her eyebrows—her face suddenly darkening (a cloud passed over the sun). “Go?” she repeated. “No, I don’t think so, Peter. You see, I’m not going to let you throw away this version of things—for what would happen to me? No, no, I quite like the way things are going. No more messing about with time for you, Peter. My little piglet.” Before I could even lift my wand again, she’d made a violent slashing motion with her arm—I felt as though the air around me had solidified, closing in on me, making me smaller, I was shrinking, shrinking . . .
But then it stopped. Something in my mind seemed to say, No, I don’t like this very much, thank you. And I was expanding, expanding, but I didn’t stop—I felt myself expanding beyond my body, beyond the confines of this physical world on a page, beyond Fiction itself—I was the essence of words, the magic behind books, I was pure energy.
The Timeless Tale of Peter Able Page 15