The Somebodies

by N. E. Bode

  “How is that?” Fern asked, tipping forward in her seat.

  “I shut my eyes and cup my hands together like I’m whispering in his ear, like we’re kids again and I’ve got a secret.”

  “Does he answer?” Fern asked.

  “Not as a voice in my ear. But he answers,” Dorathea said. “He does in his way.”

  6

  EMERGENCY MEETING

  WHEN THEY PULLED IN TO THE BOARDINGHOUSE driveway, passing some talking crows and the hobbit mounds, the Bone said, “Now we wait for the Drudgers. You two should go straight to Fern’s room and reflect on the day. There’s a lot to unravel, a lot to learn.”

  The day’s events were swirling in Fern’s mind so furiously that she wasn’t sure what she’d learn from it all.

  “What’s going to happen next?” Howard asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dorathea said. “I just don’t know. Go on now.”

  Fern and Howard walked quickly into the house, happy not to have to talk to the Drudgers just yet. The Drudgers, they knew, would be terrified by the rantings of Mrs. Fluggery. They would think there was some truth in all the hysteria. They disliked hysteria and rantings, and being terrified only made them more terrified.

  Fern and Howard walked up to Fern’s room. They propped their chins on their elbows and perched at the small grate covering the heating vent, where they’d be able to hear the conversation in the living room when the Drudgers showed up. They were quiet, both thinking their own thoughts. Next to them on the floor were their Abstract Origami expulsion papers. Fern was watching the miniature pony, its fur the skim-milky color of Mrs. Fluggery’s hair. The pony was nosing the nubs of the throw rug, nudging Fern’s backpack with its long muzzle. Every once in a while Fern would put her hand in her pocket just to make sure the invitation was still there. What was the Secret Society of Somebodies? And who was its founder, Ubuleen Heet? Fern glanced at the fish in the pond often. Frozen in place, its sad eye was on her.

  She pulled out The Art of Being Anybody to see if any more had been written about them. She turned to the page with the entry Fern Battles the Blue Queen. There was a full sentence now. It gave a date—that day’s date. Fern read on silently: Fern and Howard, without his full will and desire, swam, thitherly, through an Invitation.

  There it was in black and white. Fern looked at Howard. He was slouched against the wall, worn down, exhausted, his briefcase flopped down beside him. He popped a breath mint and chewed. Should she tell him that the adventure was just beginning? That they were going to swim through an invitation, and do battle tomorrow at midnight? No, she thought to herself, it would only make him anxious. She knew that he’d be able to handle it when it came; no need to rile him now.

  She pulled out the foldout map. She couldn’t resist. She let it cover her knees and gazed at its winding streets. Dorathea came up with two bowls of soup and glasses of milk. They ate quietly. It grew dark. And finally there was the sound of a car in the driveway.

  “They’re here!” Howard said.

  The two kids raced to the window. There were the Drudgers. They sat stiffly in their beige car, waiting there for a moment—bracing themselves?—the windows closed.

  Eventually they walked through the yard. There was a series of short knocks. The door squeaked open on its hinges. The talking started up. Fern and Howard jockeyed for position over the vent. But the heat was on, blowing hot air in their faces, and it was impossible to hear a thing.

  “I thought you said we’d be able to hear everything,” Howard said.

  “It’ll click off.”

  More waiting. Fern was anxious now. Howard was too. They sat there poised and restless. Howard checked his wristwatch.

  Then the heater clicked off with a moan, and Fern put on her sweatshirt. The kids could hear the voices, at least faintly. The Drudgers were talking about work.

  “The actuarial committee was still going. We’ve missed out on a lot of insurance discussions because of this, and we won’t be able to get those insurance discussions back,” Mr. Drudger was saying, obviously shaken.

  “We don’t like things to disrupt our schedule,” Mrs. Drudger said anxiously. “We don’t like surprises of any kind, and especially not an awful surprise!” This was true. Once upon a time, they’d both been the kind of children who disliked Halloween because it makes everyone so fond of saying “Boo!” The kind of children to hide a jack-in-the-box in the back of a closet. The kind of children who never, not once, asked a trucker on the highway to blow his horn with that fist-pumping motion, because truckers and their horns are so unpredictable.

  Howard looked at Fern warmly. “Aren’t they the best?”

  “Shh!” Fern said. “Listen.”

  “We are concerned,” Mr. Drudger said, “about the welfare of these two children.”

  “The kids are fine. I mean, this isn’t the best situation, but they were doing the best they could. Good kids, after all,” the Bone said.

  “Of course they’re good kids, Bone,” Dorathea said. “I’m sure that Mr. and Mrs. Drudger aren’t suggesting that they’re bad kids.” But the way she said this made Fern think that was exactly what Mr. and Mrs. Drudger had been suggesting in the part of the conversation they’d missed due to the heater.

  “When the vice principal called,” Mr. Drudger went on, “we could hear that poor woman, Mrs. Fluggery, screaming about how they’d attacked her with a small, violent horse. Is that what good children do to their teachers?”

  “It was a pony,” the Bone corrected.

  “And what will it be next time, Mr. Bone?” Mrs. Drudger asked. “An alligator? A shark?”

  “These children need restraint. They need a controlled environment. We can’t wait on this any longer,” Mr. Drudger said.

  “What kind of controlled environment are you thinking about?” Dorathea asked.

  “Gravers Military Academy,” Mr. Drudger said.

  Fern and Howard both reared away from the heating grate, stirring the Abstract Origami expulsion papers. The pony let out a wild whinny. Fern felt sick. Gravers Military Academy! I once disguised myself as a cadet of no particular academy and, while just minding my own business, walking down the street, was mistaken for a runaway cadet and was sent back to a military academy that will go unnamed. I lived there for seven months until the whole mess was straightened out. So, I can tell you, Fern and Howard had every reason to be terrified. I still sometimes wake up in the morning and find myself saluting.

  The idea of visiting the city beneath the city seemed farther away than ever. Was The Art of Being Anybody wrong? Fern folded up the large leathery map, one corner at a time. The rotund mosque gone, Bing Chubb’s Ballpark gone, Willy Fattler’s Underground Hotel gone. Finally it was all gone, even the castle’s dirty bell tower. The map was as small and flat as an empty pocket.

  Fern looked at Howard. Howard looked at her.

  “I can’t go to a military academy!” Howard said.

  They both edged back to the heating grate.

  “We’ve already made the call. We will be driving Howard there immediately. The program is for both boys and girls. They have a spot for Fern as well.”

  “You’re joking,” the Bone said. “Howard isn’t military. Howard is Howard. He likes to sit around and read math books and be, well, Howard.”

  “And Fern! Ha!” Dorathea said. “She couldn’t possibly!”

  Fern paced. The invitation chose that moment to start humming softly again. She pulled it out of her pocket. She looked at her palm. Merton Gretel. She thought of dead books and the Blue Queen. She wouldn’t be going to a military academy. She was going to the city beneath the city. This was it. This was the moment she’d been waiting for.

  Mr. and Mrs. Drudger were silent. There was only the sound of shuffling papers. “Court orders,” Mrs. Drudger said.

  “Court orders?” Howard whispered.

  “What?” the Bone said loudly.

  “We’ve got the necessary paperwork,”
Mr. Drudger said, as if that cleared everything up.

  “You’ve got to do something!” Howard said. “Figure something out, Fern! We don’t have much time!”

  Fern was staring at the invitation. She couldn’t help but think that it wanted an answer, and now she knew what the answer would be.

  “What are you doing with that thing?” Howard was alarmed. “Put it away! It’s no good.”

  Fern couldn’t put it away. This was her destiny. She belonged at the convention—it was written in the book. She would battle the Blue Queen.

  As soon as Fern had this thought, she felt a tug toward the envelope. The envelope popped open. Fern stared into it, the invitation in her hand. She felt another tug forward, and the envelope grew wider, big enough for shipping a fat book.

  “Look, Howard,” Fern said.

  “What?”

  “The envelope is growing.”

  Howard stared at it. “We need a plan! Not a growing envelope. I don’t have time for any weird stuff now!” Howard was beside himself. Fern heard a slap of water. The toothy goldfish was swimming around in the painting now, the white lily pad flowers swaying over its head. The fish seemed to be urging her toward something with its unblinking glare, or warning her against something—Fern couldn’t tell. The fish seemed to know her; she could sense it. It wanted to tell her something.

  The conversation downstairs continued. “Fern is our daughter by law. You haven’t adopted her. And I’ve proven that Howard is our biological son,” Mrs. Drudger said. “We’ve begun the guardian process.”

  “But,” Dorathea said. “But, but, Fern belongs here with us.”

  “Here?” Mrs. Drudger said. “With all these stuffy books, with all these dangerous creatures and these awful habits? Fern has become a menace over the course of one short summer. She’s gone from straight-A student with us, to being expelled. She’s out of control!”

  “The court is on our side,” Mr. Drudger said. “We’re doing this for the children’s own good.”

  But Fern wanted to tell them that she wasn’t a menace. She’d been invited to attend the meeting of the Secret Society of Somebodies—maybe they would help her defeat the Blue Queen—and the more she thought about all this, the more she felt pulled toward the envelope, which was now the size of a plastic baby pool.

  Howard couldn’t deny the weirdness anymore. “What do you think it means?”

  Fern was being pulled so hard now toward the envelope that she was swaying. “It’s an invitation,” Fern said. “It wants me to accept. It wants me, I think!”

  “Do you want to accept?”

  “I do.” Fern felt a strong pull forward. Just then she heard her grandmother’s voice below, and she knew that Dorathea would be disappointed in her. She’d told her that she couldn’t go. Fern didn’t want to defy her. “I’m scared. It might not be the right thing to do.” The pull loosened its grip, and Fern wobbled backward. “I think it’s letting me decide.”

  “Don’t leave me here, Fern! Don’t go!”

  Mr. Drudger’s angry voice rang up through the heating grate. “Well, we’ll just go up and get them ourselves.” Fern could hear the Bone and Dorathea saying, “No, no, no!” And then there were footsteps on the stairs.

  Howard yelled, “They’re coming!”

  “I’ve got to do it,” Fern said. “And you’ll have to come with me, Howard.”

  “Where?”

  “Into the envelope. Take my hand!”

  “No,” Howard said. “I can’t. I don’t want to. I’m too scared, Fern. Don’t make me.”

  “C’mon,” she said. She held tight to the growing envelope with one hand and reached for Howard with the other.

  The fish was going wild, leaping and twisting. It jumped out of the water and chomped a white lily pad flower. Petals flew out of the painting and drifted to the floor. Was the fish angry? Did it want her attention?

  There was a sharp knock on the door.

  Howard shook his head.

  “Grab that book!” Fern shouted, pointing at The Art of Being Anybody on the bed. Howard was making a weird whine in his throat, an agitated and terrified whimper. But he grabbed The Art of Being Anybody and held on to Fern’s arm with both his hands. The door to the bedroom flew open. Fern saw the Abstract Origami expulsion papers gust up, all fluttery for a moment. And then she looked up into the astonished faces of Mr. and Mrs. Drudger. “What in the world?” Mrs. Drudger said, pointing at the enormous envelope.

  Dorathea and the Bone charged up behind them. Dorathea’s mouth was a shocked “O.”

  The Bone said, “What in the—”

  “I’m sorry,” Fern said.

  “My, my!” said Mrs. Drudger. Although that doesn’t sound terrified, it was as strong as Mrs. Drudger’s language got.

  Mr. Drudger, not usually a man of action, lunged for Howard, but he was too late.

  Howard shut his eyes tight as Fern shouted out, “I accept your invitation!”

  And with that, Fern and Howard were yanked into the envelope, which seemed to open up in front of them bigger and bigger. They seemed to be falling into and then out the other side of it, where they landed on a hard floor. It was dark.

  In Fern’s bedroom, Mr. and Mrs. Drudger, Dorathea and the Bone watched the envelope shrink back to its normal size. It froze in that shape for a moment or two, and then it shrank some more, until it wholly disappeared, and all that was left in its place was a handful of lily pad flower petals on the floor and a little tune that hung in the air for a moment. And then they, too, were gone.

  The toothy goldfish swam into the depths of the painting. If anyone had noticed, they’d have seen his tail swishing—sadly?—away.

  PART 2

  THE CITY BENEATH THE CITY

  1

  CHARLIE HORSE

  LET’S BEGIN HERE WITH AN ELEVATOR OPERATOR. Why an elevator operator? Well, because Fern and Howard (and the miniature pony, now safe again in Fern’s pocket) had fallen through a hatch at the bottom of the envelope that was attached to a hatch at the top of an elevator—a glass elevator—and they landed on the elevator’s floor. On the other side of the glass, on every side and below, was dirt.

  It isn’t easy to imagine, I know, falling through hatches in swollen envelopes into glass elevators, but I have complete faith in you, because you have a wildly vivid imagination. (For example, the wildly vivid imagination of Missy in Hoboken; the strong, smart, and bold perceptions of Chantelle from Girls Inc.; and the mazelike mind of Sister John Elizabeth, principal of Mount Aviat Academy! Stick with me now!)

  Fern wondered if the glass elevator could fly. She’d read a book about a boy and a candy factory owner who flew in one such elevator. She would have asked right away, but the elevator operator was frowny and stern and proper.

  He didn’t react to Fern and Howard falling through the hatch. He pretended this kind of thing happened all the time, and it did. He was a formal man in a black cap who sat on a little black chair next to the automatic doors. A row of shiny buttons lined his vest, and they were under pressure, these buttons. The buttonholes were stretched so tightly, they puckered. The thread holding each button was exposed and frayed by the strain. The buttons stood out like a row bulging guppy eyes. The buttons were menacing, dangerous, like little pop guns all ready to go off.

  The elevator operator simply said, “Floor, please!” in a way that made it seem like he wanted some flooring—tile, linoleum, fake hardwood—and he was going to be demanding about it.

  “Floor?” Howard asked Fern. “Please?”

  They were standing up now, brushing themselves off. Fern checked on the pony who, luckily, hadn’t gotten crushed. There was elevator music, something sleepy and tinkling. But it wasn’t very loud, and Fern and Howard could hear the gasps and muffled rantings of Dorathea, the Bone and the Drudgers overhead. Fern and Howard both looked up at the hatch, which had shut itself. Would the others find a way through to the elevator? Would they come after them?

&n
bsp; “I think he wants to know what floor we want to go to,” Fern whispered urgently to Howard.

  “How do we know what floor?” Howard whispered back. He pointed at the hatch. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Fern turned to the elevator operator. “We’ve been invited. We’ve come, um, through an invitation.” She squinted at him, fearful that one of his buttons, trembling with pressure, might pop off and put out her eye.

  The elevator operator glared at Fern, squinting away as she was. Evidently she wasn’t the first person to fear his buttons.

  “I know why you’re doing that with your eyes. You think my buttons are going to blow! You think I’m too fat!” He let his fingers ruffle down the buttons. “Well, they do blow occasionally, but I fix them right up. I fix them right back into place.”

  The voices above were growing louder, and clearer, too. She could hear them arguing. Howard’s and Fern’s names were being tossed around angrily. Howard paced in a small circle, The Art of Being Anybody gripped under his arm.

  “Where are we?” Howard was saying, looking at the dirt on the other side of the glass panes. “I don’t understand. Are we underneath your bedroom? Are we downstairs? What’s with the dirt? It doesn’t make sense!”

  The buttons were still irking Fern, however. She couldn’t help but mutter the obvious questions. “Why do you fix the buttons, sir, if you don’t mind me asking? Why don’t you just get a bigger vest?”

  “Code!” the elevator operator barked, rearranging his cap, angrily and for no apparent reason; the cap was just fine. “I’m union! This vest is to code. They don’t come in bigger sizes. There’s a maximum weight, you know! Can’t take up too much weight! We’re not like umpires!” He sighed sadly. “Lucky umpires.”

  Just then there was a bing, and the doors slid open, revealing an elderly woman with a wire laundry basket on wheels in an apartment hallway.

  “What is this?” Howard said, befuddled. He shoved his head out of the elevator and glanced up and down the hall.