The Spell Book Of Listen Taylor

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  I told him I was writing a letter to a magazine problem page, and he kissed my elbow.

  I will cancel our meeting on Monday. I will never see him again.

  Yours,

  Temporarily Insane, but Now Recovered

  PART 5

  Cassie’s Birthday Party

  Neighborhood children were playing a skipping game on the street. Occasionally, the game would pause as the sun-heated tarmac became too much for one or another of the children. A garden hose was turned onto burning soles. Then the game would continue.

  Across the street, Marbie said, “Hmm,” Nathaniel took a sip of beer, and Listen shook her head and murmured, “Why no shoes?” They were sitting in a row on their front porch, waiting for their party guests.

  “If this front driveway belonged to us,” said Marbie, “instead of to the whole apartment block, what would you do with it?”

  “I’d put in a duck pond,” said Listen. “And gentle, grazing horses.”

  “I’d build a university,” Nathaniel said. “Educate the youth around these parts. Talking about education and the youth around these parts, what’s happened to Donna and the others that they prefer researching at the library to coming to our party? That just doesn’t sound like the Donna I remember.”

  “I know,” agreed Listen. “It’s because they’re all scared of the teachers at Clareville? And we got this assignment yesterday, and it’s due Monday, so, actually I should be with them at the library too. But they said they’d photocopy the research for me, and I’ll meet them tomorrow and collect it.”

  “So it’s worked out perfectly,” Marbie said.

  “Exactly,” Listen nodded.

  Two cars of party guests arrived, and the neighborhood children had to clear off the road.

  “Look at that!” cried Grandma Zing, bustling out of the first car. “We all arrived at once!”

  Grandpa Zing got out more slowly, and saluted the hosts one at a time.

  “We’re here!” cried Fancy, climbing out of the second car. “And we’ve got the birthday girl!”

  The birthday girl opened the back door, twisting her mouth around to make her face casual. She stepped out and brushed down her dress.

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CASSIE!” Nathaniel, Marbie, Listen, and Grandma Zing shouted, and Cassie looked up with a shining smile.

  “I’ve got my friend Lucinda too,” she remembered, and everyone said, “Oh!” as another little girl emerged from the car.

  “What’s Radcliffe doing?” said Grandma Zing, squinting through the window of Fancy’s car. “Why isn’t he getting out? Radcliffe! What are you doing in there?”

  “He’s just trying to figure out the air-conditioning,” explained Fancy. “He couldn’t get it to work.”

  “Fancy, darling, tonight’s good, between seven and ten. I’ve got the new code; it’s in the mint leaves.”

  “All right,” agreed Fancy, but her mother had already turned away, and was rapping on the driver’s window with her keys, calling, “Too late, Radcliffe! You’re here now!”

  In the living room, everyone exclaimed about the multicolored beanbags and the table covered with treats. There were banana fritters, chocolate bananas, banana tarts, banana bread, a pavlova covered in bananas, and jugs of banana smoothies. Also, there was a large bowl of punch in which bananas and strawberries floated.

  “Look at all the strawberries in the punch!” cried Grandma Zing. “Cassie, do you know, I almost forgot to bring your presents! Can you imagine?”

  “Not really,” said Cassie.

  “Your place is looking gorgeous,” said Fancy.

  “A garden apartment is such a precious find!” declared Grandma Zing.

  “What kind of a security system do you have?” said Radcliffe.

  “Does it have a bathroom?” asked Cassie’s friend Lucinda, politely.

  “You got a pest inspection done, right?” said Radcliffe.

  “That’s not termite damage, what you’re looking at there, Radcliffe,” said Grandpa Zing. “That’s just regular wear and tear.”

  “Haven’t they done it up nicely,” said Grandma Zing. “They’ve put silver covers on all their electrical outlets. Isn’t that a nice touch?”

  “Nice painting job here,” said Radcliffe. “Professional or…?”

  “This is not just a housewarming party,” said Cassie. “This is also a birthday party. As far as I recall.”

  After Cassie’s presents had been opened, they toured the apartment, establishing, several times, that: there were six apartments in the building; this one was on the ground floor; they were almost finished renovating; and Marbie had only been joking when she said they were going to tear down the outside bathroom wall and bathe alfresco. Then Cassie suggested they play pass the parcel.

  They played pass the parcel, musical chairs, and pin the tail on Grandpa Zing. Cassie had painted a picture of Grandpa Zing for the purposes of this game, and Grandpa Zing was a good sport about it.

  Later, they sat down, still breathless from the games, and ate banana treats.

  “I’ll never get out of this beanbag,” said Grandma Zing, now and then.

  Nathaniel took Radcliffe and Grandpa Zing onto the roof of the apartment building, to see where the air-conditioning vents came out. Grandma Zing remembered she had a housewarming present and returned from her car with a fig tree. Marbie watered the tree, and Fancy made cocktails. She used vodka, vermouth, apple juice, and apple gratings, then she put a curl of apple peel on the edge of each glass.

  “Look,” she said, carrying the glasses carefully, as their contents lapped over the edges. “I’ve invented an apple martini.”

  Listen took Cassie and Lucinda into her bedroom so they could play Cassie’s new game of Valerio Rock. You took turns composing melodies on the keyboard, sang into the microphone, and then waited while the game added beats and backup singers, so that you were, for a moment, a rock star. After that, the game became complicated, and you had to spell, mime, draw pictures, and do the hokeypokey.

  “Hang on a minute,” said Cassie, and she ran into the living room, where she announced to the room, “Listen is such a great dancer,” before running back into the bedroom. “Keep dancing, Listen,” she ordered, “until everyone comes and sees.”

  In the main bedroom, Grandma Zing admired the curtains, and then took them down so she could redo the hems.

  The game of Valerio Rock ended, and Listen said, “Cassie, your nose is bleeding.”

  “It’ll stop in a minute,” said Cassie. “It’s because it’s summer.”

  “She just needs a cloth,” explained Lucinda, “and I have to put a key on the back of her neck.”

  Listen gave Cassie a cloth and the front door key, and left the girls to work on the bleeding nose.

  In the living room, Marbie put on a Red Hot Chili Peppers album and asked Listen to teach Fancy how to dance. Listen jumped on the spot to the music, shaking her head wildly, and Fancy obediently copied.

  Quietly, Grandpa Zing and Radcliffe retreated to the porch.

  In the bathroom, Cassie leaned over the tub and allowed her nose to bleed. She tried to write her name but it just went: spot…spot…spot, each spot leaking in a different direction.

  Lucinda sat on the edge of the tub, holding the key against the back of Cassie’s neck, and watching the blood with interest. Every now and then, she reached to turn the taps on and wash the blood away.

  Later, Grandma Zing asked Listen how she was finding Clareville Academy these days, and whether she had made any new friends.

  “She likes her old friends, don’t you, Listen?” Nathaniel said affectionately. “They’re doing her homework for her today, so no wonder she likes them.”

  Everyone congratulated Listen on having such generous friends.

  “Tell us about your teachers, Listen?” Fancy said. “Tell us some funny teacher stories.”

  “Well,” said Listen, slowly. “There’s a Food Technology teacher who taught us how
to make lamingtons. It’s not a funny story, but I could make some now?” She was walking backward toward the kitchen.

  “But will you need eggs?” said Marbie. “Because I used them all in the pavlova.”

  “Yes,” said Listen, hesitating again. “I’ll need eggs.”

  Fancy looked at her watch. “Gosh,” she said. “It’s eight o’clock. Let’s go to the corner store and buy some eggs for Listen. Marbie?”

  “Tell us about Grade Two while they’re gone,” Grandma Zing said to Cassie. “How’s your teacher, darling? What do you think of your teacher?”

  “I prefer Mr. Woodford to our teacher,” chatted Lucinda. “He’s the other Grade Two teacher? And he’s REALLY funny. I wish I was in his class instead.”

  “Do you?” Grandma Zing regarded Lucinda, and then turned back to Cassie.

  “I like my teacher,” declared Cassie. “She’s nice.”

  “That’s my girl,” said Grandma Zing. “Come here and give me a hug.”

  Cassie gave her grandmother a hug.

  “We might be awhile, okay, everyone?” said Fancy, drawing a black chiffon scarf from her handbag. “Because I think we should go into Baulkham Hills for the eggs, don’t you, Marbie?”

  “I agree,” said Marbie.

  “Be careful, eh?” said Nathaniel, reaching for a handful of peanuts.

  “Over there, behind that station wagon,” Fancy pointed, and Marbie pulled over.

  “Have you got it?” said Marbie.

  “It’s in my scarf.”

  “And the new code?”

  “Apparently it’s in the mint leaves.” Fancy opened the back door and reached into a wicker basket. “Got it.” She fell into step alongside Marbie.

  “Final check,” said Marbie, drawing out her pager and tapping in a number. They walked on side by side, until a cat gave a faint meow from Marbie’s pocket. “That’s it,” said Marbie. “You okay?”

  “You bet,” said Fancy, and they separated smoothly, Fancy floating into the distance. Her earrings glinted in the moonlight.

  Lucinda had fallen asleep on her beanbag when Fancy and Marbie returned.

  “Here we are,” said Fancy, opening the front door.

  “All right?” said Radcliffe.

  “All right,” agreed Fancy.

  Listen reached out for the eggs.

  PART 6

  The Story of the Watercolor Painter

  Once upon a time there was a watercolor painter who thought he could invent a parachute.

  This was in the early days of parachutes.

  Out in the meadow, with his easel and his brushes, he saw an early parachutist dripping from the sky.

  “How was it?” he cried, jogging up to the gathering crowd.

  “Oh,” cried the parachutist, tangled in the parachute: “I feel sick.”

  But this was in Paris, so they spoke in French.

  Those days, parachutes had a design flaw: They did not float gently to the ground. They spun through the air at dizzying speed, and parachutists turned an olive green.

  So the watercolor painter went home, and put up his feet for a coffee and a think. How can we stop these brave falling men from feeling sick? is what he thought.

  After thirty-five years of thinking, he figured it out. He put down his coffee, picked up his sketchpad, and called to his wife. “Look,” he said, calm with pride as he tilted the sketch toward her.

  His wife squinted, and her eyebrows bounced, for his parachute was upside down! Instead of being shaped like an n, it was shaped like a u.

  “Will it work?” she mused.

  “Of course!” he exclaimed. He made a parachute out of her handkerchief to prove it. The handkerchief flopped to the floor, but, as he pointed out, it didn’t spin.

  So convinced was he that this was the solution to the spinning parachute, he decided to make one of his own. He ran it up on his wife’s sewing machine. Next, he persuaded a friend to let him try it, by jumping from the basket of the friend’s hot air balloon.

  He was so excited that he didn’t test it first with a dummy (or a cat), which would have been the custom in those days; he just strapped himself in and jumped.

  He plummeted straight to the ground—like a vase knocked from a shelf—and was killed.

  When she first heard this story, Maude Sausalito (aged eleven at the time) felt a cold gust of sadness for the painter. Then she imagined (yearningly) the things he might have landed on which would have saved his life.

  A haystack; a pond; a freshly turned garden bed.

  A vat of mulberries!

  A gigantic banana milkshake!

  A stack of blueberry muffins!

  (She was hungry.)

  If only, she thought—and she still thinks this often, even now—if only the stupid, overexcited man could have caught an updraft in his useless parachute! If only the updraft could have carried him high into a zinging blue sky, over a hill of whipped butter, across a maple-syrup pond. And finally, gently, deposited him on a buttermilk-pancake bed.

  Years later, after the terrible thing had happened, Maude lay in bed for several weeks. Loss and pain were put into context at that time: broken hearts, blisters, paper cuts, scaldings—all grains of sand pouring calmly through an hourglass. She was used to them. But this new thing was a sharp rock lodged in the neck of the hourglass, choking the flow. No time, no breath, just monolithic pain holding everything still. If only she could pick up the glass, shake it loose, throw away the pain as she had thrown away that life.

  Sometimes she dreamt herself out of the hourglass and into the basket of a hot air balloon. But then she could only watch helplessly as an inverted parachute fell from the basket and crashed through the air to the ground.

  PART 7

  The Last Few Weeks of the School Term

  One

  It was well-known at Redwood Elementary that Warren had a wife up the coast. He just hadn’t mentioned this, specifically, to Cath.

  In fact, in the weeks after the Borrowed Cat, it seemed to Cath that “Warren’s wife, Breanna” was the subject of constant conversation at Redwood, even among her friends. For example, Suzanne would say to Lenny, “What are you up to this weekend, Len?” To which Lenny would reply, “Going up the coast to Terrigal, I think.” To which Suzanne would declare, “Terrigal! Isn’t that where Warren’s wife, Breanna, lives?” To which Lenny would demur, “No, Warren’s wife, Breanna, lives at Avoca. It’s the next beach around.”

  Or, for example, Mr. Bel Castro (teacher, Grade 5A) would say, “These muffins are delicious!” To which Ms. Waratah (teacher, Grade 4C) would reply, “Oh, thank you! The recipe is Warren’s wife, Breanna’s!” To which Mr. Bel Castro would say, “Gosh.”

  That’s how it seemed to Cath in the weeks after the Borrowed Cat. Warren’s wife, Breanna was like one of those new phrases you learn and then find that it’s been kicking around for years.

  Of course, the night of the Borrowed Cat itself, she only knew that Warren had kept the wife a secret, and then sprung it on her, cheerfully, like a novelty mousetrap. Driving home that afternoon, she felt a flash of terror at how stupid she had been. Then the terror became a fierce blush of self-loathing at how VERY, VERY STUPID SHE HAD BEEN.

  The blush lasted almost all the way home, and blazed up again when she found her favorite dress set out neatly on the ironing board. Also, her black opal necklace, whimsically looped around the fridge door handle as a reminder to herself to wear it. She opened the fridge and slammed it so hard that the kitchen shook.

  Then she opened the fridge again and poured herself a glass of apple juice, in order to calm down. “So what? He’s married. Big deal.” She wandered carelessly into the dining room where she stamped once and flung the juice at the window. It dribbled over her reflection.

  At her law class, tears welled in her eyes. She realized, drawing sad little squiggles in her notebook, that there would be no shy, meaningful glances tonight, no bluesy conversation. No! There would be Warren-and-his
-Wife-Breanna. They would sit opposite her with their hands intertwined.

  Actually, now that she thought about it, it would be more than just Warren-and-his-Wife. It would be the whole gang!

  “Come along,” he had written in his quiz at the Monday Assembly. “Come along to see the Carotid Sticks where we will meet a jolly circle of my friends, my wife, incidentally, among them!”

  That’s what he had meant. It was so obvious she was blinded by her tears, and her breathing became tangled. Dr. Carmichael, the lecturer, leaned toward her from his podium and his turban almost fell off.

  Warren’s friends, she realized, would stand up noisily when she arrived, their ashtrays and drinks in a clutter. There would be a shortish woman in a large-collared blouse, who would swap a cigarette to her left hand, and squint a smile at Cath through the smoke. There would be two skinny men in corduroys, each saying “Hi!” in a witty, friendly way. Also, a little later, breathless from the Central Coast train, there would be Warren’s wife, Breanna.

  By the time Cath reached the Borrowed Cat, she was furious with Warren and his gang. Don’t you smoke in my face, she commanded angrily, as she pushed open the door. And, What’s with the corduroy, boys? she sneered as the waitress welcomed her.

  The Borrowed Cat was in a basement. An unexpected spotlight roamed the room, but otherwise it flickered darkly like a shaded candle. The waitress led Cath to a corner table where Warren was sitting alone.

  She gave him a vicious, complicated smile, which he returned with a dazzling beam, stretching out his arms in welcome.

  “You’re not late at all!” he said.

  “Yes I am. I am fifteen minutes late.”

  “It’s okay, they’re not starting for another hour,” he reassured her.

  “Where’s your wife, Breanna?” she said archly. “And everybody else?”

  “There is nobody else,” he apologized. “And Bree just called. She’s not going to make it and she’s disappointed. She wanted to meet you. She said to say ‘Hi,’ okay?”