The St. Gregory’s tour group trekked across the cemetery throughout the morning. The final stop was JFK’s gravesite, and the John F. Kennedy Eternal Flame. All sixty students encircled the single flame, which burned from an opening in the ground. A simple stone circle surrounded the flame, and then a patchwork of cobbled stones surrounded the circle. Grass grew around the edges of each of the different-size stones. Across the way, Fern saw Preston and Sam together, laughing as one showed the other something in a guidebook Sam had pulled out. Not wanting to see anything else that reminded her of how alone she felt, Fern turned away.
The Eternal Flame was more understated than the Tomb of the Unknowns but as strikingly sad. Fern thought briefly about President Kennedy, buried underneath the flickering flame. Without realizing it, she began to wander toward the rear of the group of students. She unthinkingly reached into the inside zippered pocket of her jacket, pulled out Phoebe’s letter, and sat down on a bench on the perimeter of the gravesite.
Chapter 12
Phoebe’s Letter
Fern looked fondly at the wrinkled letter she’d slipped out of its original envelope and flattened it against one knee. Phoebe Merriam never wrote in cursive. Instead she had used tiny, neat printing. Realizing that she had very little time before the presidential groups assembled and left the Eternal Flame, Fern began reading the letter she’d read dozens of times before.
Dearest ML,
It has been TOO long since I wrote you last and I’m sorry about that. But I have some news! This spring I hitched from Tucson to Portland and then train hopped my way down to San Francisco. Train hopping is pretty crazy. There are all these people who hop on and off when a freight train is moving, and it’s the biggest rush I’ve ever experienced. Anyway, now that I’m in San Francisco, I can’t imagine ever leaving a place this beautiful. You can see the bay sparkle from every part of the city. It’s impossible not to feel inspired.
Have you ever been? You’ve got to come! I bet we could even scrape enough money together to get a place in the Mission or Haight or something. You can play your guitar and I can paint and we could be true bohemians! I don’t know how else to say it, but things are really happening here. I’ve been selling some of my artwork down by Fisherman’s Wharf and it’s going pretty well, if I do say so myself! I actually sold TWO pastels yesterday. You’re the only one who’s ever believed in me, ML. Everyone else thinks I’m a huge screwup. I’ll make sure to thank you when they award me the Oscar for painting, or whatever it’s called.
The other big news . . . I met someone! His name is Haryle (you pronounce it Hair-uh-Lee, okay, so I don’t want you messing it up when you meet him). I guess it’s Greek or something. Anyhoo, he’s just like me, ML! In every single way. He thinks like me, he feels things like me, we get along perfectly, and he says that I could be great someday. The best part is that he’s crazier than I am.
He’s a scientist. But not a nerdy scientist—he’s dreamy, ML! He’s got this dark hair and these piercing eyes the color of the ocean in the morning. You can’t imagine the adventures he thinks of. His latest plan is to steal the moon! Well, not the entire moon, but a part of it—he’s got this experiment going. Anyway, he’d get mad at me for telling you, he acts like everything’s SO top secret, but it’s going to be fun, I can tell you that much.
You should come up here and stay with me! We can conquer the world together . . . everything’s more fun with you. It’s about time you ditched that sad-sack town anyway. You know, there’s a reason the swallows never stay for more than a season.
Miss you like crazy.
XOXO,
PM
Fern looked up and saw the crowd around President Kennedy’s grave beginning to move. Quickly folding the letter and returning it to its envelope and then to the inside pocket of her jacket, Fern hopped up from the bench and joined the group once more—yet her thoughts lingered on the letter’s contents. According to the date on the postmark, Phoebe was twenty-two years old when it was written (as was Mary Lou).
There were several reasons why Fern had chosen that particular letter to carry with her. First, it was one that demonstrated the enduring friendship that Mary Lou and Phoebe shared. In addition, it was one of Phoebe’s most upbeat letters, and her carefree attitude was infectious. Fern liked to imagine that the woman who had given birth to her and the woman who was raising her had the kind of close relationship that other girls envied. She loved thinking they had plans to move to the city and to be free and bohemian together.
But there was another reason Fern kept the letter so close and read it so often. It was the only real clue she had about her father. Fern wasn’t even sure the man Phoebe mentioned was her father. But it seemed likely—Fern was born not very long after the letter was written.
Perhaps the most important reason Fern treasured that letter was that it was the last one in which Phoebe had seemed at all happy. Reading it made Fern forget the handful of unhappy letters that had followed. In those, Phoebe spent most of her time lashing out at Mary Lou for abandoning her or ranting about how everyone was out to get her. Then the letters stopped.
After Fern had read all of them the first time, she understood why Mary Lou got a pained look on her face each time Phoebe was brought up. It must have been excruciating to witness her best friend’s distress and be helpless to do anything about it. Sometimes, though, Fern wondered what Mary Lou had written in response to Phoebe. Had the Commander tried to help Phoebe?
Fern had been mindlessly following the horde of St. Gregory students. They’d reached the bus and were lining up to board it. Candace had found Fern again and was now alongside her.
“What were you reading?” Candace asked. Fern rolled her eyes as she realized that Candace was now her official shadow. As soon as she thought it, she was reminded of Sam. Anytime someone said he forgot something he’d said or done earlier, Sam would tell the person that he needed to hire a shadow. Sam would go on to explain that when Albert Einstein was at Princeton, the university hired a student to shadow the genius physicist wherever he went, in case Einstein uttered something brilliant and then forgot it later.
Fern frowned as she clambered up into the bus. She spotted her brother sitting near the back, next to Preston and Lindsey, and decided right then that she needed to make things right with the two of them—she didn’t know if she could rescue Miles alone, and, more importantly, she didn’t want to even try.
In any event, Fern was sure that even Sam would agree, if he ever spoke to her again, that Candace Tutter was the most annoying shadow in the history of shadows.
“I read lots of things, Candace, so you’re going to have to be more specific,” Fern said. The bus lurched forward. Most of the St. Gregory’s students began buzzing about the next stop in their day. Fern had no idea where they were off to next. She no longer cared.
“On the bench. By the Eternal Flame,” Candace said. “Whatever it was you were reading made you look really sad. I noted it in my study.” She dug into her backpack and produced the spiral-bound notebook filled with her observations. She began reading: “’Eleven thirty-four a.m. Fern McAllister has wandered off by herself again. She looks like she’s reading a sad story. Must inquire further when given the opportunity.’”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fern said, angry at herself for not picking a less conspicuous place to read her letter. “Maybe your powers of observation aren’t so good anymore. You may have worn them out.”
“Fern,” Candace said, taking a pause from her rapid-fire approach to speaking. “Do you know what the word Schadenfreude means?”
“Shah-den-what?”
“Schadenfreude . . . it means to be happy because another person is sad or upset or has bad luck. See, Mother is a psychologist, and she says that Schadenfreude is very common among middle schoolers. She says that’s one of the reasons I don’t have many friends. . . . People our age are insecure, and Schadenfreude explains the complex emotions that ar
e a result of trying to feel better about oneself by taking joy in the misery of another.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Fern said sarcastically. “Really good stuff to know.” She decided that it was no surprise that Candace’s mother was a shrink. Candace scanned the chaperones and students sitting around the two girls, trying to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation.
“My point, Fern, is that I’m not like Blythe and Lee and everyone else. Don’t you see that this isn’t about Schadenfreude. I’m not trying to make you miserable,” Candace said, looking up at Fern with earnestness.
“What are you trying to do then?”
“I’m trying to understand you. Mother says that’s the basic building block of friendship.” Candace reached into her bag once more. She pulled out a folded sheet of paper and placed it on her lap. “But I can’t determine what’s going on with you. That’s never happened to me before . . . you simply get more and more confusing. Nothing adds up.”
“I’m not a lab rat, Candace,” Fern said, growing more annoyed.
Candace lifted the piece of paper from her lap and placed it on Fern’s.
Sighing, Fern lifted the paper and unfolded it—why Candace felt the need to chatter constantly and pass her notes at the same time was confounding. But then she looked at the handwriting on the piece of paper. It was hers. In fact, it was the Ah Puch Potion list with the drawings she’d made at Aunt Chan’s house.
“Where did you get this?” Fern demanded, turning toward Candace.
“It fell out of your jacket after you got into that fight with your brother and Lindsey Lin, right after you waved it in their faces. You dropped it.”
“You took it, didn’t you, Candace?” Fern growled, inching her face closer to Candace’s.
“Your behavior does not comport with that of a girl who tested into the gifted class, Fern McAllister. In fact, you are acting like an idiot!” Candace hadn’t backed up an inch. Fern paused for a minute, wondering how Candace had gotten the note. Was she telling the truth?
Fern thought about it again. Why was she really upset? Was Candace the reason she was angry, or was it the fact that Sam wasn’t speaking to her? Or perhaps it was that Lindsey had gone against their express pact and told her parents everything about her dream and visit with Miles. Candace, Fern realized, wasn’t the actual root of the problem. It was her friends and family.
If Candace had stolen the list, Fern reasoned, why would she be returning it now? In fact, if Candace was out to expose her, she could have told everyone about Fern disappearing and reappearing in the bathroom. More than likely no one at St. Gregory’s would have believed her, but it would have certainly started tongues wagging about Fern again.
Fern stared down at the piece of paper, feeling like she was slowly losing her mind. Not everyone was out to get her, after all, and she couldn’t live the rest of her life trusting no one. Fern looked around. Though both girls had raised their voices, no one was paying them any attention.
“I’m sorry, Candace. . . . I shouldn’t have accused you of stealing it. Thank you for returning it.”
“That’s more like it,” Candace said, smiling her goofy smile. “See, Mother was correct. We’re finally starting to understand each other!”
“Sure,” Fern said, unable to stifle the smile forming on her own face. Fern might be an Unusual, but Candace Tutter was just plain strange.
“By the way, is that slip of paper for some game you’re playing? It’s like a puzzle or a scavenger hunt, right? Because if so, I think I know what Chac’s arrow is!”
“What?” Fern marveled.
“Chac’s arrow? The drawing you made on your paper . . . it looks exactly like the Golden Spike.”
“Say that again?” Fern said, trying to remain calm.
“Father is a train enthusiast,” Candace said, resuming her breakneck-speed speech. “I know it is a bit strange, but railroads are actually quite interesting if you give them a chance. Last summer, for Father’s birthday, Mother planned this trip duplicating the original path of the First Transcontinental Railroad.”
“What does that have to do with the drawing of the arrow?” Fern asked, growing impatient.
“Well, it’s just that when the two railroads were connected, they had a ceremony, and the final spike that joined the rails was called the Golden Spike, and it looks exactly like your drawing. Anyway, the Golden Spike is displayed at the California State Railroad Museum in Sacramento, which was the last stop on our trip. The museum is kind of boring, actually . . . wouldn’t recommend it. And Sacramento kind of smells like cows, you know?”
Fern pulled out the list again and placed it in front of Candace.
“You’re sure it looks exactly like this?” Fern said, pointing to the drawing of Chac’s arrow.
“My visual memory scores are in the top fraction of the top percentage of people tested. That’s it, all right. Of course, good luck trying to see it now. I read it was stolen about a month after we visited it. They nearly caught the thief, apparently, as he was taking it. I guess it’s rumored to have mystical powers because it was made from Mayan gold or something. Hey!” Candace said, putting her finger to her chin. “I’ve never thought about this before, but maybe I’m bad luck for museums. First the Golden Spike and now the Hope Diamond!” She began laughing uproariously as if she’d just told a very funny joke. She felt she’d made real progress communicating with Fern in the last few minutes and was loosening up.
Fern, on the other hand, felt sick. If Candace was right about the Golden Spike, then Silver Tooth only had one thing left to obtain before he had every item he needed to make the potion. She focused on the list, still unfolded in front of her. Ix Chel’s Essence. Though Fern didn’t know what that component was, one thing was certain: She’d better find some answers soon if she planned on stopping Miles’s kidnapper.
Chapter 13
The Mall
The food court at the Pentagon City Mall in Arlington, Virginia, had seen its fair share of class trips. Usually, after students had visited one of northern Virginia’s tourist hot spots (like the Pentagon, Arlington National Cemetery, or the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Space Center near Dulles Airport), the group would head directly to the Pentagon City Mall, where the kids could blow off steam and eat at one of the myriad of food court restaurants.
The students on the St. Gregory’s trip had been allowed to select whatever they wanted to eat but were instructed that they could not leave the food court area under any circumstances. The chaperones sat bunched around one of the tables, keeping a nervous eye on their charges.
The Pentagon City Mall was a hexagon-shaped building, with an open atrium in the center, white-trimmed escalators wrapped around each end, and clear glass sidings protecting the walkways. It was four stories tall and reminded Fern of a greenhouse because of its see-through ceiling, which let in the bright spring sunlight.
The line for Villa Pizza was already dozens of students long, so Fern opted for Panda Express. Not surprisingly, Candace was right behind her. Fern looked around the bustling food court and realized there were other large groups of students from other schools there as well—some of them were in school uniforms. Fern was glad that St. Gregory’s had not required students to wear their tartan-themed uniforms on this trip. They would have looked ridiculous.
Once Fern and Candace had picked up their Panda Bowls on cafeteria trays, they searched for open seats among the rows of white picnic and circular tables scattered on the mall’s first floor. The circular tables in the middle of the food court were all occupied, but there were some empty seats at one end of a picnic table near the outside cluster of tables. Hungrier than she’d realized, Fern dug in as soon as they sat down, scooping up rice and sauce-lathered broccoli into her mouth. The combination was delicious.
“Fern?” Candace looked across the white table at Fern. She had raised her voice, shouting over the hundreds of other middle schoolers now eating lunch in the food court. “Are you ev
er going to tell me how you disappeared from the bathroom last night?” Candace asked, meticulously sorting her vegetables into different piles. Fern considered how to respond.
“I wish you would drop that, Candace, because I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you’re into conspiracy theories, but I’m telling you, you were sleepwalking or something.” Fern thought she sounded convincing.
Still, a growing part of her wanted to tell Candace. Everything. She was sure Candace would think she was crazy, but lately Fern had the undeniable urge to tell one unbiased person her story, from her own perspective only, without interference. Fern thought about how good it would feel to confide in someone again—to be able to talk about the burden of being different, an Unusual. She trusted Candace, if only because Candace seemed to trust her.
“Candace, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone, no matter how crazy it sounds?”
Candace’s eyes bulged out of her head. She dropped her plastic take-out fork.
“Ooh—trust!”
“Huh?” Fern responded.
“Mother says that if someone trusts you, they tell you things and ask you not to tell anyone else. That this is what friends do! We’re friends!”
“Okay . . .” Fern said, unsure of how to interpret Candace’s reaction to her request.
“So you trust me!” Candace leaned across the rectangular table.
“I guess that’s what I’m asking. If I tell you something, you have to promise not to go blabbing all over school. To anyone. Even your mother.” Fern was growing so nervous at the thought of what she was about to tell Candace that the feeling was close to exhilaration.
Candace held up her right hand, right next to her face.
“I, Candace Tutter, do solemnly swear not to tell a single soul—“
“Ewwwwwww!” Candace stopped abruptly as she and Fern shrieked simultaneously.
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