Snow: Fog, Snow, and Fire

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “That hair’s weird, don’t you think?” said a secretary. “Those three colors, like a painted flag? She’s stained. Marked.”

  Christina could hardly breathe from shame and rage.

  She remembered the September morning when she and Anya, Michael, and Benj had stood among the tourists on Frankie’s boat, headed for the mainland and the first day of school. The tourists had whispered about Christina’s three-colored hair and Anya’s chalk-white countenance. “They look like ancient island princesses. Marked out for sacrifice. Sent away for the sake of the islanders, to be given to the sea.”

  Had it been a prophecy? Was it coming true?

  But Mr. Shevvington laughed. “Now, ladies. Christina is a difficult child, but she chooses to be. It is not a result of her unattractive hair.”

  Christina almost put her fist through the cement block wall. I have beautiful hair!

  “You must love teaching,” one mother said to Mr. Shevvington.

  “Yes, indeed. I think of each class as a zoo.” He laughed. “Twenty-six to a cage.”

  We are animals to the Shevvingtons, thought Christina.

  The mothers matched chuckle with chuckle.

  “Mrs. Shevvington and I are very fond of the island children, for all their flaws,” said Mr. Shevvington. “We’re taking them all skiing over the next three-day weekend. You know how isolated those island children are. Not one of them has ever been on skis. Isn’t that amazing? In Maine? We’re trying to broaden their horizons a little bit.”

  “Mr. Shevvington, how generous of you! Downhill skiing? Lift passes, ski rentals, ski lodges, and everything?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Shevvington.

  Christina could actually hear his smile. It had a stretched, false sound.

  “Little Dolly Jaye has a fear of heights,” Mr. Shevvington said lovingly. “I thought we would cure her of it in the most delightful way. We’ve bought her a darling little ski outfit. I can hardly wait to see Dolly going down the slopes at full speed, all her fears behind her.”

  And what accident, Christina thought, do you want her to have in front of you?

  She might never have a friend again, but she still had a mother and father. Her parents’ visit was wonderful. They made no mention of the fire, the weeping phone calls, or the expense of new clothes.

  Refusing the Shevvingtons’ offer of a guest room at Schooner Inne, Mr. and Mrs. Romney drove to Boston to a huge city hotel. Christina sat squashed in the front seat between her parents, her father’s hand on her knee, her mother’s kisses on her cheek.

  They went to the Children’s Museum and the Science Museum; they all played the strange games and tests at the Computer Museum. They hiked the historic walks and talked of Paul Revere and John Hancock.

  At night they sat in an enormous lounge, where the pianist played long, slow, soothing pieces, and a waiter in black tails brought trays of steaming hot snacks.

  Her mother and father told the island gossip — who was mad at whom, who was late paying the oil bill, whose kids were shaping up to be good at basketball. After supper they went to a late movie she had yearned to see but the Shevvingtons had said was too “mature” for her.

  “It wasn’t very mature,” said Christina afterward. “Just violent.”

  When they went shopping, instead of the plain sweater Christina had expected, they found two lovely shaker knits: one peach, one so green and foresty that Christina knew Dolly would want to borrow it. Her father found a sweatsuit of bright yellow with orange parrots floating among lime green leaves. It made her feel safe as summer and lemonade.

  Her father gave her more spending money than she had ever had at one time, all in new, crisp one-dollar bills, so she felt like an executive, with a real wad of money. “I like that word, wad,” she told her father. They measured the bills across, and it was really nice and thick and waddy.

  Christina knew she was safe. It was time to tell the truth. “We have to sort out what’s been happening at Schooner Inne,” said Christina. She thought, They will rescue me somehow. And Dolly and Anya. I won’t need the proof in the briefcase, just my own mother and father. I should have known that all along.

  “Chrissie,” said her parents. “No matter what happens, we will stand by you.”

  Ice touched Christina’s heart. “What happened was something Mr. and Mrs. Shevvington did,” she said.

  They looked at her sadly. “Christina, at some point a person must take responsibility for her own actions. You cannot blame the Shevvingtons for Anya’s mental collapse. You cannot blame the Shevvingtons that Dolly is afraid of heights or doing poorly in dancing class. And sweetie, you cannot blame the Shevvingtons for your own uncontrollable rages.”

  Christina could not believe this! All their cuddling and shopping meant nothing! They were on the Shevvington’s side! They too, like Michael and Benj and Dolly, thought if the Shevvingtons said so, then it was so. “If somebody accused you of bad things,” she cried, “I would know they were lying, no matter how much proof there was.”

  Her parents talked gently of counseling, of telephoning every single night to keep in touch, no matter what the cost of the calls out to sea. Their talk was like the sea itself, lapping away at the shore.

  Her father wiped away her tears with the flat of his big, thick thumbs, and her mother rocked her. “Try to stay calm, darling. See if you can last until vacation. If it’s still bad, I’ll rent an apartment in the village, and we’ll live together.”

  Christina wanted to scream Yes, yes, yes, do that!

  But her mother and father would be separated. He on the island, she on shore. She would have to close down the tiny restaurant that supported them through the winter. They would have to admit to the islanders, as Anya’s parents had before them, that her daughter could not survive on the mainland. They had splurged on this lovely weekend as a way of saying, We love you. They would also pay a second rent to say, We love you.

  But it was Christina’s task to say, No, I’m fine, don’t worry about it, it’ll all work out. So she said it. “No, I’m fine now,” she told her parents. She hated her words. They sounded like an admission that she had burned her clothes. But some of the lines on her father’s face smoothed away, and her mother’s cheeks seemed pinker. So Christina did not say to them, the Shevvingtons are going to take us to a ski resort! They are going to get Dolly there! Instead she said softly, “Don’t worry about it.”

  Now more than ever, what the Shevvingtons had planned must be stopped. For her own sake … for Dolly … for Anya … for her mother and father.

  Chapter 14

  IN ENGLISH, AN AMAZING thing happened. Mrs. Shevvington picked on Gretchen. This had never happened before.

  The essay was to be about the most precious possession in your household — perhaps a baby photograph or an old dish of a grandmother’s, a cherished wedding present. Mrs. Shevvington had Gretchen read aloud.

  “The most precious thing in my house,” read Gretchen proudly, “is my private telephone line.” She knew she was the only person in the seventh grade with her own phone book listing. “I have three different phones I can plug into the jack. My favorite is an Elvis phone. It — ”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Shevvington, sparse eyebrows raised contemptuously. “Are you saying that the sound of your own voice is your most precious possession?”

  The class laughed at Gretchen. She was not used to it. She stumbled. “No — I — um — it’s the phone I like.”

  “Oh. I see,” said Mrs. Shevvington in that cruel, silken voice. “So that all your admirers can reach you?”

  Gretchen turned beet red. She looked ill.

  “Nobody else listed herself as the most precious object,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “I’m fascinated, Gretchen. I don’t know which is more interesting. That you consider yourself an object, or that you consider the sound of your voice so magnificent.”

  Gretchen’s essay pages shivered in the air. The meaner boys — the boys
Gretchen herself had trained to do this — began flapping their arms to match her shaking hand.

  “Try to be less self-centered, Gretchen,” said Mrs. Shevvington. Mrs. Shevvington sat calmly, her thick body like a piece of the desk, her oatmeal face solid. “Think of another subject.”

  The mean people leaned back and smirked. Gretchen was as exposed as if she had been stripped of clothing.

  “Well?” said Mrs. Shevvington.

  Gretchen was now white as kindergarten paste.

  “I can’t think of anything,” mumbled Gretchen. “My head is empty.”

  Empty, thought Christina. Mrs. Shevvington had emptied her. Just for today, of course. Nothing permanent, like Val.

  A minute passed. The big old school clock made a slight tick as the minute hand twitched and moved on. Gretchen stood hot and stupid in front of the class. Even Vicki did nothing. Gretchen had not a friend in the world.

  Christina knew how that felt. “If I had an Elvis phone,” said Christina, “I would list it first, too, Mrs. Shevvington. I don’t think it’s fair of you to decide what is important to other people.”

  She had truly caught Mrs. Shevvington by surprise. “I do not think I was addressing you, Christina Romney,” said Mrs. Shevvington.

  “No, I don’t think you were either, Mrs. Shevvington. But I would like to hear about the other two telephones. Could you read the rest of your essay, please, Gretchen?”

  Gretchen looked at Christina suspiciously to see if it was a trap.

  The clock clicked again, with a little quiver of the long black hand.

  The passing bell rang. But neither Gretch nor anybody else fled. It was Mrs. Shevvington’s class. The hallways filled with shouting and noise.

  Mrs. Shevvington said at last, “Class dismissed.”

  I had the last word, thought Christina, her grin of delight tucked safely inside her face.

  Jonah was the first to stand. He walked straight to Christina’s desk. He looked down at Christina with a curiously gentle expression. He touched her hair with his fingers spread, as if resting one finger on each color hair. “You know, Chrissie,” he said, a grin crossing his face, “I’m kind of attracted to you.”

  “Kind of!” teased the other boys.

  Jonah’s grin filled his face, along with his new braces, and all of him seemed to shine and laugh.

  Mrs. Shevvington became nothing — merely a toad behind a desk. The entire room belonged to Jonah, and all the faces of all the seventh graders were upon him and upon Christina.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a creep since that fire thing,” said Jonah, loud enough for everybody to hear. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  In May Christina would be fourteen. It seemed very significant. Thirteen was too young to be in love. Thirteen was playing games, imitating high school kids.

  But fourteen: fourteen would be just right.

  Behind Christina’s house on the island grew apples. They were called Northern Spy. She loved that name.

  I am the Northern Spy, thought Christina.

  One advantage to old houses was that each door had a big old keyhole. Mr. Shevvington was in his study, which had a traditional mice-talking-to-Cinderella-shaped keyhole.

  Christina, the Northern Spy, put her eye to the hole.

  “Come in, Christina,” said Mr. Shevvington. He was laughing at her. “What did you want, my dear?” he said. He waved her toward the high wooden seat in front of the desk. It was the kind of seat you could not get comfortable in. The back cut into your back, the bottom made ridges in your bottom. She remained standing.

  On his desk was a stack of ordinary manila file folders. The top one was open. Stapled to the right side were papers, and to the left cover, a photograph of Dolly.

  Mr. Shevvington closed Dolly’s file. Then he counted the stack. Ten files: not new — wrinkled, much used.

  Not future victims, thought Christina. Past victims. The file beneath Dolly’s is Anya’s, and behind that Val’s. I knew there were papers! I knew it!

  “How is your counseling coming along?” said Mr. Shevvington. Slowly, lovingly, he closed the briefcase. “Are you making progress?”

  He knew perfectly well Christina had not said a syllable to the counselor he had picked out. And never would. “I am making a great deal of progress,” said Christina. “I know the truth.”

  Mr. Shevvington smiled, unworried. He patted the briefcase in a friendly way, like a dog. The files were his pets. He fed them with his horrible appetites.

  Neither Dolly nor Christina had homework. They played with Dolly’s Barbie and Ken. Dolly had everything, from the swimsuits to the miniature hair dryer to the wedding gown. But she looked as if she would rather be reading about Barbie and Ken than dressing them. “Why aren’t you reading?” said Christina. It was fun to play with Barbie and Ken. They always did what you told them to. And they always smiled and were happy to get new clothes.

  “Mr. Shevvington took away my library privileges.”

  Christina laughed. “No, really,” she said. “Why aren’t you reading?”

  “Mr. Shevvington says I’m not living in the real world,” explained Dolly. “He says when you live entirely through characters in books it’s a sign of dementia. He says I’ll do demented things like — well — like — ” Dolly had the grace to blush; obviously Mr. Shevvington had said she might burn clothes like Christina or go crazy like Anya. “Anyway, I’m not supposed to read every single minute.”

  Dolly looped her braids around her throat, chewed the tips for a while, and put high heels on Barbie. “I slipped going down Breakneck Hill, Chrissie. And yesterday I fell on the stairs. Every time I see a slant, I feel as if I’m falling. I was telling Anya and she said she always feels that way. She’s felt that way since she moved here.”

  Christina held tighter to Ken and Barbie.

  No! I’m not ready! I’m trying to survive without people to sit with at lunch. I’m trying to get through each day knowing my parents think I’m half crazy. I can’t save Dolly now. I haven’t saved myself. How can you be somebody else’s savior when you can’t be your own?

  “Sometimes I think it’s named for me, Chrissie.”

  “What is?” Christina decided to set up the barbecue for Ken to broil steaks.

  “Breakneck Hill. I think I’m the one who’s going to break her neck.”

  “No, you’re not. It was named a hundred years ago for some little boy who rode his bike down it.” Christina stood Ken by the barbecue. If I don’t think about what Dolly’s saying, it won’t be true, thought Christina.

  Dolly folded her Barbie so that Barbie reclined in the bubble bath, her white toes poking up out of the tub. “Mrs. Shevvington told me that sometimes things repeat themselves when it’s exactly a hundred years.”

  A tiny gold-and-red foil fire glinted in Ken’s barbecue.

  Christina thought of falls and fires. Was it just one step from burning a person’s clothes to burning that person?

  “Dolly, don’t worry. You won’t fall. I promise. I’ll be there for you.”

  Dolly beamed. “And will you do another little favor for me, too, Chrissie?” A voice half whine, half love. “Would you get books for me out of your school library? I have a list. I can’t get them from the elementary school library.”

  “Why not? Are they sex manuals?”

  “Of course not. They’re just stories. I can’t get through the week without some good books to read.”

  “You mean you’ve read every single good book in the elementary school library?”

  An odd, sly look came over Dolly’s face. “Yes,” she said. “That’s it.”

  So the following day, Christina checked out five books from Dolly’s list and brought them home. It was near supper. Everybody was there. Mr. and Mrs. Shevvington, Michael, and Benj. You could not count Anya anymore. She seemed to occupy no space. Hardly more than air.

  “Here are your books, Dolly,” Christina said. “Hope these are good enou
gh. The librarian had to substitute one.”

  Everybody stared at Christina.

  “Christina,” said Mr. Shevvington, “I don’t know how much farther this can go. You know perfectly well we are trying to wean Dolly from her obsession with fictional characters. You know we are struggling to get her to dance and have friends over to play, instead of curling up with escape stories. And here you are, undermining our decisions, boldly and blatantly marching in here with the forbidden objects.”

  Christina said, “Since when do high school principals and English teachers forbid a kid to read books?”

  Michael whirled on Christina. “Since they have gotten concerned for her health, Christina. You think we want Dolly to be some nut case like you or Anya?”

  But I’m the good guy! Christina thought.

  “She was always spoiled,” Michael said. “The Shevvingtons are good for her. If you’d ever follow their rules, they’d be good for you, too.”

  What did Michael see, upstairs at night? Did he see happy, funny Dolly? Did he not notice that Dolly was afraid of more and more things every day? Did he not think that when his little sister was even afraid of frost on the windows there was something radically wrong? “She’s your sister!” cried Christina. “Put her first.”

  Michael said very quietly, “Do you ever put me first? How many of my games have you come to since the season started, Chrissie? You and I used to be really good friends. Do you even know whether I’m a starter or whether I warm the bench? Do you know how many points I’m averaging each game? Do you know who we’re playing next Friday? Have you ever brought my own sister to see me play?”

  Christina flinched. While I was busy trying to be a savior, she thought, Michael stepped out of my mind like a stranger out of a bus.

  “On the cupola of Schooner Inne,” said Mr. Shevvington, the Perfect Principal, “is a weathervane. A copper fish. Frozen in place. No matter how the wind blows, he points the same way.” Mr. Shevvington looked sadly at Christina. “No matter how the wind blows, Christina, you point only at Mrs. Shevvington and me. It’s time to melt, Christina.”