The Boy Who Could Fly

by Laura Ruby

  “That would be great, Phil,” said Solomon.

  The officers filed out, followed by the men in suits, who thanked Bunny for the coffee before leaving. The door shut, and Georgie was alone with her parents. With her sad and disappointed parents.

  Bunny sat on the couch next to her husband. “I don’t understand this,” she said quietly. “Why did you have to lie to us?”

  For a moment, Georgie thought about telling them, telling them that a Punk and a vampire had come, that she had to go to this gallery opening or all of them would become vampires too, that all the strange things happening in the city might be connected, but she couldn’t find the words. Even if they believed her, how would they protect her? How would they protect themselves? What if the vampires bit them? What would she do without them? She had lost them once; she was determined that it would never happen again.

  “Like I said, it was just a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Georgie told them. “I didn’t mean to scare you. And I don’t know what that coffin thing was.”

  “Are you talking to strangers on the Internet?” Solomon wanted to know.

  “No!” said Georgie, horrified.

  “Has anyone threatened you?”

  Georgie crossed her arms and looked at the floor. “No.”

  “Did you make yourself invisible at any time today?” Bunny asked.

  Georgie didn’t, couldn’t answer.

  Solomon and Bunny Bloomington were silent for a long time, so long that Georgie wondered if they would ever speak again.

  Finally, Solomon stood. “We tried very hard to make sure your life was as normal as possible considering what happened to you. To us, to our family all those years ago,” said Solomon. “When we got you back, we thought about sending you out only with bodyguards, or keeping cameras on the building at all times. And we did some of that for a while. But then, we realised that we had to try to let you be a normal girl. We had to try to be normal parents. And I guess we are normal parents now.” He patted Bunny on the shoulder and then faced his daughter. “You’re grounded.”

  “What?” said Georgie. “But—”

  “No buts. You lied to us. And we can’t tolerate that. Plus, it seems that some crazy person has focused on you, probably because we have money, but perhaps because they found out what you can do. And we can’t tolerate that either. So, you’re grounded till further notice. Agnes will escort you to and from school. There will be no visiting Bug, no visiting The Professor, no films, no library, no computer, no nothing until we figure out who sent those flowers and what their intentions are.”

  Georgie saw his face, saw the determined set of his jaw and her mother’s frightened eyes, and knew that there was no talking them out of this. She nodded.

  “We love you,” he said. “But we’re very upset with you. I think you should go to your room and think about this.”

  Georgie nodded again and slouched off to her room. She almost didn’t hear what her father said next: “We need to be able to trust you, Georgie. And now we’re not sure we can.”

  In her new duties as Georgie’s personal chaperone, Agnes donned a hockey jersey that hung down to her knees, striped leggings, and high-top Skreechers trainers in bright purple.

  “Agnes, you can’t wear that,” Georgie said.

  “Why? What’s problem?”

  “None of it matches,” said Georgie.

  Agnes looked down. “Jersey is blue, stripe is blue, trainers blue. Matches good. We go now.”

  They marched to the Prince School, because Agnes thought marching was great exercise. Georgie trudged after Agnes as if she were being led to the gallows.

  “Stop moping,” Agnes said.

  “I’m not moping,” said Georgie.

  “Moping,” insisted Agnes. “No point. You figure nothing out by moping.”

  Georgie marched faster to catch up with Agnes. “What do you mean? What do I need to figure out?”

  Agnes gave Georgie her signature don’t-make-me-get-out-the-horseradish frown. “You know what I talk about.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I told you. Stop moping. Start thinking.”

  “But I don’t know what you—”

  “Here now,” Agnes announced as she opened the door to the school. “Which room?”

  Oh no, thought Georgie. Please don’t come in with me. The Prince School is not the sort of place you can wear jerseys with striped leggings and trainers. This is not the sort of city you can wear jerseys with striped leggings and trainers. This is not the sort of planet you can wear any of those things, ever. I love you, Agnes and I will eat all the horseradish in the universe if you please please please don’t come in with me.

  Agnes marched inside like she was leading an army. She glanced at Georgie, one eyebrow raised.

  “Room one eighteen,” Georgie said, defeated.

  Agnes nodded. When they reached the door to room 118, Agnes turned. “Here is pass.” Agnes took Georgie by the elbow to steer her into the classroom.

  “Wait,” Georgie said, looking at the folded pink slip in her hand. “Where did you get this?”

  Apparently, Agnes had been told that if Georgie put up any sort of fuss, she could use force. When Agnes ushered Georgie inside, Georgie felt like a five-year-old being dragged into the doctor’s office for a shot.

  “Georgetta,” Agnes said.

  The class began snickering, Roma Radisson louder than everyone.

  Ms Letturatura peered at Agnes over her glasses. “I know who she is. And you are?”

  “An acrobat from the Cirque du Soleil!” yelled Roma.

  “I am Agnes,” said Agnes.

  Ms Letturatura squinted. “Of course,” she said. She glanced at Georgie. “Do you have a pass from the office?”

  “Um,” Georgie said. “Yeah?”

  “Good,” Ms Letturatura said, snatching the pass out of her hand. She glanced at it, and then gave it back. “Have a seat, Georgetta.”

  “I come back later,” Agnes said. “Which room?”

  “Two thirteen,” Georgie mumbled.

  The class snickered again. Georgie’s face burned as she sat down at her desk. Roma, who was sitting diagonally in front of Georgie, turned and smiled at her. “How are you, Georgie? How was the weekend? Do anything fun? I got my fortune told by a woman on the East Side. She told me I would live for ever.”

  “Settle down, class. Today, we’re reading William Cullen Bryant’s beautiful poem ‘New Moon’. London, why don’t you start?”

  London, who was filing her nails, stopped in mid-file. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Read the first stanza of the poem. On page fifty-six.”

  “Page fifty-six of what?”

  “Your textbook!” said Ms. Letturatura.

  “Oh!” said London. “I don’t have anything like that.” She went back to filing her nails.

  Ms Letturatura had to go through five students to find a girl with a textbook. One by one, the students read the poem about the moon, and how beautiful it is, and how everyone loves to look at it. Georgie tried to listen, but her mind was on other things, like how she was going to convince her parents that sending Agnes along with her to school every day was a bad, very bad idea, and certainly wasn’t going to help her learn to be more trustworthy. She was tempted to become invisible right then and there.

  “Georgie!” barked Ms Letturatura.

  “What?”

  “I said, read! Starting with ‘most welcome to the lover’s sight’.”

  Georgie rubbed her forehead and read:

  “Most welcome to the lover’s sight

  Glitters that pure, emerging light;

  For prattling poets say,

  That sweetest is the lovers’ walk,

  And tenderest is their murmured talk,

  Beneath its gentle ray.”

  Roma giggled. “This poem could be about me and You-

  know-who!”

  London paused in her admiration of her own fingernails
. “What do you mean?”

  “This poem’s about the moon, right? And something?” said Roma. “We were out last night and we saw the moon. Duh.”

  “But,” said Bethany Tiffany, “I thought that he was going out with…” She paused, looking pointedly at Georgie. “Her, too. They said so on TV.”

  “Don’t make me laugh!” said Roma. “Who would go out with her when they could go out with me? It was a total publicity stunt, that’s all. His agent put him up to it. Anyway, I could write something so much better than this William Culvert Bubble guy. Maybe I’ll get my agent to get me another book contract. Maybe I could write some poetry. Love poetry. That would be so fab™.”

  “Girls, can we save this conversation for after class?” said Ms Letturatura.

  “I think the class is very interested in my book contracts. And they also have a right to know what kind of person Georgie Bloomington is. She’s tried to steal my boyfriend. Right after I was nearly murdered by a hamster. So not fab™.”

  London had pulled off her shoes and socks and put her feet up on the desk to paint her toenails. “I thought the hamster was cute,” she said.

  “Thinking is not one of your talents,” said Roma. “Giant hamsters are a lot less cute when they’re going to eat you for dinner.”

  London frowned. “I thought it liked M&M’S?”

  “You thought, you thought!” said Roma. “Except you don’t think!”

  “Girls!” said Ms Letturatura.

  Georgie’s head ached and her eyes felt scratchy from lack of sleep. She wanted to yell at Roma, wanted to tell her to shut up, shut up, but she couldn’t find the energy. She twisted the pink slip Agnes had given her and then smoothed it out on the desk.

  1) He not like her, silly.

  He who? Bug? And her who? Roma? How in the world would Agnes know any of it? But Agnes knew things, lots of things. And Bug was a lot of things – impatient, sarcastic, a little angry sometimes – but he wasn’t stupid. Not stupid enough to get mixed up with Roma, not stupid enough to stay mixed-up with her.

  Her eyes slid to the next thing Agnes had written:

  2) The world only seem crazy. There is pattern. You find it if you look hard enough.

  Georgie frowned at this, which sounded to her just like chaos theory, and she did not understand chaos theory. She skipped to number three.

  3) Books are powerful things.

  She didn’t have time to consider this last one before Bethany Tiffany slid a newspaper clipping on to Georgie’s desk. The headline was CAUGHT IN A CLINCH. At first, Georgie thought it was a picture of Bug and Roma embracing, and her stomach withered to the size of raisin. She scanned the article: “Just hours after Bug Grabowski was photographed with Georgie Bloomington, paparazzi found Roma Radisson out on the town with an unidentified new guy.”

  “She doesn’t even like him any more,” said Bethany. “You can have him. He’s a loser.”

  She doesn’t like him any more! He’s a loser! Georgie’s heart practically burst with relief. Until she noticed that though the face of Roma’s new guy was mysteriously blurred in the picture, his clothes were not. He wore a shiny shirt and slim velvet trousers.

  Just the outfit a fashion-conscious vampire might wear.

  Chapter 20

  Hello, Hewitt

  Of all the things Hewitt Elder wished could be removed from the public library, the public was at the top of the list. Which was why she made it a habit to visit on Sundays, when the library was officially closed and there were no stupid patrons milling about, pestering her with stupid questions. Hewitt had a special set of keys, a set that she wasn’t supposed to have, a set that dangled from a cheap Statue of Liberty key chain. (She’d stolen them from the janitor and had copies made.) She also knew all the alarm codes, even though she wasn’t supposed to know them. (She’d found a list in her supervisor’s computer.)

  Today, after letting herself in and disarming the alarms, Hewitt was making the usual rounds. She loved floating from room to empty room, gallery to empty gallery, admiring the rows of books undisturbed, the chairs and tables unoccupied. The library held all sorts of marvels – the first edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1866) that belonged to the real Alice, the work of Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Twain, Shakespeare, Dickens and Washington Irving (though they’d had to put some of his papers in a locked trunk after someone discovered the secrets that were in them. It was bad enough that he had documented the sleep of Rip Van Winkle and the rides of the Headless Horseman. Good thing everyone believed those things were fiction). And then, of course, were the millions of volumes housed in the basement, volumes secretly studied by only the most prominent scholars and librarians, volumes kept hidden and protected by The Trustees.

  Yes, the library housed many wondrous things from the most fabulous to the most dangerous. What it also had: the three volumes of poetry written by Hewitt Elder herself. Twenty-five copies of each, to be precise.

  Hewitt wished she could pile up those seventy-five books and burn them on the library steps.

  “Go ahead, Hewitt. Tell the nice lady what your poem is called.” This was Hewitt’s mother talking. She was pushing the seven-year-old Hewitt forwards towards the front desk at the local library. They were having a poetry contest. The first prize was publication in the library newsletter and a fifty-dollar bond. Little Hewitt didn’t know what a bond was, but she did understand fifty dollars.

  “My poem is called ‘Happy Candy Rainbow Bunnies’,” Hewitt told the librarian, shoving her composition across the desk. It had been carefully composed in coloured pencils. “It’s inspirational.”

  “How nice!” cried the librarian. “I can’t wait to read it.”

  “Did you hear that?” said Hewitt’s mother on the way out of the building. “She said she couldn’t wait to read it! I think you’re going to win, Hewitt, I really do. I think you’re going to have your own books one day. You’re going to be rich!”

  “And famous?” said Hewitt. Her mother nodded eagerly. “Of course! Rich and famous! You’re my little star!”

  This is exactly what Hewitt’s mother had said during Hewitt’s short flirtation with tap-dancing, derailed by Hewitt’s utter lack of balance and coordination. And what she said about Hewitt’s attempts at acting, hampered by Hewitt’s wooden delivery and lack of facial expressions. And also what she said about Hewitt’s singing, which sounded more like the bleating of disgruntled sheep than music.

  But Hewitt’s mother was the hopeful sort, and never gave up the dream that her daughter was destined to be a star. The kind that she saw every day being interviewed on early morning news shows and late night talk shows, chatting up the hosts with witty yet innocent repartee. The kind that enchanted audiences the world over.

  Hewitt’s mother was not daunted in the least when her daughter didn’t win the library’s poetry contest. She was inspired. She encouraged her daughter to write more poetry, which she then typed into her computer and printed out herself. She assembled the manuscripts and submitted them to publisher after publisher, receiving rejection after rejection. Finally, after some thirty-five submissions, a bored executive at a small publishing house got the manuscript – and the accompanying head shots of Hewitt – and was instantly struck with the most brilliant idea of her entire career. She was going to publish this nonsense. And then she would book the girl on every talk show, every late show, every news program. And that’s exactly what happened. At the age of eight, Hewitt Elder published her first volume of poems. Her second was published at nine. A line of greeting cards followed. Hewitt appeared on talk shows. She was interviewed by news reporters and magazine journalists. She was touted as a prodigy and a genius. Her third volume of poetry made Hewitt a millionaire and an international celebrity.

  And then the bottom fell out.

  Hewitt turned thirteen, and got sour and grumpy and not the least bit inspirational. Why was the world such an unfair place? she wanted to know. Why was school so boring? Why were a
dults so boring? Why could some people fly and others couldn’t? What was the evolutionary purpose of the pimple? Why did it seem that so many other people who didn’t deserve fame and fortune were getting famous and amassing fortunes? She began to write a new book of poems, poems with titles like “Bad Hair Day”, “Suing Your Parents for Malpractice” and “The Dumb Girl on TV”. Her editor balked. Her agent begged. Her mother – who had bought herself a yacht, a mansion on each coast and a dozen different cars, all with Hewitt’s money – demanded. But Hewitt wouldn’t budge. After three best-selling books, her publisher pulled the plug. Unless Hewitt wanted to inspire the public with more “lighthearted” verse, she wouldn’t get published.

  It was just as well, thought Hewitt now. People were too unbearably, unbelievably, unwaveringly idiotic to understand poetry with any sort of deep meaning. No, they just wanted to read “funny” poems about puppies and kitties and rainbows and sunsets. And there were no puppies and kitties and rainbows and sunsets in Hewitt’s future.

  What was in Hewitt’s future: justice.

  Hewitt hummed to herself as she entered the Arents Collection room and pulled the volume on Cuban tobacco products. The secret panel in the wall opened to reveal the staircase beyond. Keeping her flashlight trained on her feet, she crept down the staircase, sure not to lose her footing as that conceited Bug Grabowski had. That people paid him to be in advertisements was further proof that the world had gone completely and utterly insane.

  Georgetta Bloomington was another story, though. She wasn’t like all those other brats. She was humble. She was different. Hewitt thought that given a little time, Georgie Bloomington might even be a friend.

  Hewitt finally reached the basement floor. The flashlight cut a wan swathe in the gloom. No lions to be seen. That was interesting. She wondered what they were doing. A person who had never been to the realms underneath the library might think of checking the stacks. Even in a basement this large, how could two enormous stone lions be hard to find? And yet Hewitt knew better. Hewitt knew that one could get lost walking the stacks in the basement of the library. Hewitt knew how quickly one’s perspective got skewed. That certain shelves seem to go on and on for ever, impossible as it may seem. That what looked like neat parallel rows turned into a vast maze if you weren’t careful, if you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for. That a stone lion able to wander about on its own wasn’t something you necessarily wanted to find.