Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green

by Helen Phillips

  But then—get this!—Miss Perfect’s beak opens, just the tiniest bit, like at first I wonder if maybe I’m imagining it, and Roo drops the toe-flower into Miss Perfect’s mouth. And then she drops in a second, a third, and Miss Perfect blinks and rolls over and stands and pecks up all the other toe-flowers lightning-quick, and then she steps onto Roo’s outstretched hand, and Roo stands up with Miss Perfect on her palm, whispering something into the bird’s ear, and I’m thinking, Dang, that is one sick-looking bird, but at least she’s alive, she’s definitely alive!

  Miss Perfect spreads her wings and pushes off from Roo’s hand. With just a few flaps, she rises high above the stage, hovering there for a moment before swooping dramatically toward the crowd. As she passes, I see her chest glinting, her feathers gleaming, her body expanding. In the candlelight her throat looks truly golden, glimmering as though her feathers are creating their own radiance. She glides over the audience, proud and potent and alone, looking exactly like the last member of a magical species.

  For once in my life something is actually happening the way I imagined it, or even better than I imagined. Miss Perfect is perfect, soaring over La Lava, bright! breathtaking! larger-than-life!, silhouetted by the red light of the volcano. I have this feeling almost like my heart is attached to her tail feathers, like with each beat of her wings my heart is being lifted up above everything until I’m no longer scared, until I can finally believe that the good things in the world will overcome the bad, that we’re going to bring La Lava down and get Dad back and be happy again. We did it! I shout inside myself, looking at Kyle and Roo with my best smile. But their thrilled eyes are fixed on Miss Perfect as she approaches the end of the dining area, magnificent.

  It suddenly strikes me, though, that something is off about this whole scene, and a cold anxiety cuts through my exhilaration. The crowd remains strangely, uncomfortably silent—not the silence of awe, none of the oohs and aahs you’d expect at a time like this. Maybe they don’t realize Miss Perfect is an LTVT because of the female plumage … but even so! Isn’t it wildly obvious that the bird soaring above them is something special?

  A loud shout from the back of the audience breaks the silence—an outburst of Spanish in a man’s voice. Kyle raises his eyebrows in surprise, and Roo glances over at him, similarly surprised. (I hate it how everyone knows Spanish except me!)

  “What is it?” I whisper at Kyle. “What did he say?”

  Kyle just mutters.

  “What?” I say.

  “He said, ‘You guys are cute,’ ” Roo tells me.

  I’m sure she misheard, but then another cry comes from another part of the crowd, a woman’s voice, in English: “Too adorable!”

  The audience avalanches us with supportive words, in English and Spanish and other languages too but of course I only understand the English ones.

  “Great performance, kids!” “You were awesome!” “Bravo, budding actors!” “Thanks for the show!” “Very convincing!” “You’ve sure earned your dessert!”

  At first I think they’re being really nasty—nasty and sarcastic—but then I realize they mean every word. They love us—they truly do think we’re fantastic, charming, entertaining, talented. They think this whole thing is some kind of cute skit.

  Rage rises hotly in my chest. Don’t they realize they’ve just seen something that’s basically a miracle?

  They’re clapping, grinning at us, showering us with approval. And now they’re standing. A standing ovation. For the three of us, clustered on the stage, feeling smaller than ever.

  As the clapping roars around us, Kyle looks over at me with the most awful expression on his face, anger and bewilderment and, more than anything, sadness. The disappointment of it all hits me hard in the stomach. We’re not going to be taken seriously.

  I can’t stand to look at Kyle so I turn toward Roo. But Roo is completely spaced out, ignoring the standing ovation, gazing entranced at Miss Perfect, who’s swooping way out there in the dimness beyond the dining area, swerving now to fly back to her beloved Roo.

  Even though I’m following Miss Perfect with my eyes, I still don’t see exactly what happens—one second she’s flying and the next she’s falling, tumbling downward as if she’s been shot, yet there was no gunshot, no sound, no flash—

  Roo screams a spine-chilling scream, but that noise is covered by the noise of the volcano, which lets out a tremendous roar just then, a sound to go along with the huge burst of redness up there, a growl like the earth itself has awoken in anger.

  CHAPTER 19

  I’m so distracted by the sight of the growing redness at the top of the volcano that I don’t notice the three men in black tuxedos until they’re centimeters behind us on the stage. Before I can say anything to Kyle or Roo, the men take hold of us. They grab our shoulders in what might, to the crowd, look like congratulatory hugs, but the grip is tight enough that I can hardly move.

  Patricia Chevalier steps between the tuxedos and puts her red lips up to the microphone.

  “Thank you!” she screeches into it, her voice tearing across the night. “Thank you, thank you very much, to our talented young performers—muchas gracias, jóvenes. Muy bien. Muy interesante. What great imaginations! It never ceases to amaze me how creative kids are! Thanks to our honored guest Vivi for paving the way for that delightful performance. Now, ladies and gentlemen, damas y caballeros, let the dancing begin ahora!”

  The instant Patricia Chevalier says ahora, a drumbeat booms right behind us. I twist around as much as I can with this guy holding on to me, and I’m shocked. An entire band has taken its place on the stage—men in gold-sequined tuxedos and a lady in a black ball gown, brass and bass and all, the drum set coming to life.

  I’m not tough enough to put up a fight against my tuxedoed guard, and whatever fight Roo and Kyle put up against their tuxedos is hidden by the three of them surrounding us as they remove us from the stage. No scuffle, or so it seems. They herd us away with nice smiles on their faces and tight grips on our shoulders. As they press us down the stage stairs, I look over at our table, desperate to make eye contact with Señora V or Señor V or Mom or Ken/Neth, desperate to show them that we need help, that these grinning guys are not actually grinning—but our table is empty, which creates a whole other bad feeling in my chest.

  The tuxedos “escort” us across the dance floor toward the marble steps amid the sound of hundreds of bottles of champagne being uncorked. I wonder why Roo isn’t squirming to get out of their grasp. I thought I could always count on her to behave like a wild animal, defending herself (and me) from anybody who tries to mess with us. Isn’t she the one who got kicked out of preschool for biting? But she just floats alongside the tuxedos, gazing at the place where Miss Perfect fell, a single quiet tear on her cheek. Roo hardly ever cries, and it’s upsetting to see. Her mouth crumpling in on itself, becoming very tiny.

  I glance back at the stage, where the lady in the black ball gown is singing very fast and furious in Spanish, where the brass is going ta-da, ta-da, ta-da, where one of the digital red translator screens scrolls a series of English words: “PLEASE SHOW YOUR SUPPORT FOR OUR YOUNG PERFORMERS WITH A STANDING OVATION! PLEASE WELCOME SERAPHINA AND THE BRASS BOYS!”

  And I’m going: What? The audience was getting instructions that whole time? They were being told to clap, to stand, to tell us we’re cute? And I realize: These people, these La Lava people, they’ve thought of everything. They’re cleverer and mightier than we could ever hope to be. We never, ever should have tried to outsmart them.

  Before I can figure out a way to get Roo and Kyle’s attention so I can point out the digital banner, the tuxedos sweep us up the marble steps and into the lobby. And there, in the lobby, is Dad, a bodyguard on either side of him.

  “I brought you a bird!” he’s saying to them, his voice harsh with fury. “It may’ve been last-minute, but I brought you a bird! That was the deal! You can’t do this to them!”

  Then he turns to look at
us with an expression somewhere between tenderness and horror.

  “Kids!” he says. “How did you find her?” And when I hear his voice I understand four things all at once: (1) Dad is himself, his total normal noncrazy self, and always has been, (2) he captured an LTVT, so Miss Perfect isn’t the only one! (3) he’s flabbergasted that we found a female bird, and (4) he thinks we’re in a ton of danger.

  Before I can say anything to Dad, before I can even get a grip on how petrified I am, there’s a commotion beside us, a pair of guards shoving Señor V and Señora V into the lobby, and behind that comes Mom—“VIA!” Dad exclaims—in the grip of another tuxedoed guard, her gown slipping off one shoulder, the Yoga Smile completely vanished from her face, and behind all that is Ken/Neth with another pair of guards. So many strong, silent guards with emotionless faces, standing around us like a wall, making us look extra helpless in our party clothes.

  Thank goodness for Ken/Neth! Gosh, I never thought I’d feel this way about seeing Ken/Neth, but boy is it nice to spot his bright orange tie amid all these guards, and boy are we lucky that he knows the La Lava people and can reason with them. He’s our best hope for getting out of this mess. I’m waiting for him to greet us with a Whoa, hey there, kiddos, what’s up here? or something along those lines. But, strangely enough, he doesn’t have his regular old goofy grin on his face. In fact, he’s not smiling at all. His face has gone absolutely flat. He jerks his neck slightly to the left and the ten tuxedoed guards immediately line up and start marching us off down the long, white marble hallway with the numbered golden doors on the left side and the open-air arches on the right.

  And then it’s a very, very dark feeling that fills me.

  Because I knew all along, didn’t I? I knew all along, but I let myself forget. A bright rage—rage at Ken/Neth, yes, but mainly rage at myself—flashes through me, making me nauseous. How could I have been so stupid, to ignore what was one hundred percent obvious, just because he put on a silly smile and told dumb jokes and dressed like a dork?

  “Ken!” Mom cries out, the yoga softness fallen away from her voice. “KEN!” I look over at her, twisting this way and that in her guard’s grip, her face fierce, her features rich with emotion and intelligence and fury. Mom is back! Normal, smart, great, brave Mom! Being manhandled by La Lava guards seems to have broken La Lava’s spell. This is no time to celebrate that, though. “Ken!” Mom shouts again. But he turns away like he can’t hear her.

  “Via,” Dad calls out to her as his guards yank him violently forward, “it’s no use. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—he’s on the inside, always has been, he—”

  But Dad’s words are drowned out by the great groan released by the volcano, a groan that shakes the marble beneath us. Behind us, in the dining area, a collective gasp of fear rises from the crowd, and a woman’s scream arcs above the lively jazz music.

  The guards rush us along with such force that I’m having trouble staying on my feet without tripping. I’m at the back of the line and my guard is shoving me forward to keep up with Kyle, who’s just ahead, and Roo, who’s ahead of Kyle.

  Far off down the hallway, Dad’s guards stop in front of a white marble wall, and that’s when it hits me. Of course. A prison cell, awaiting us. One of Dad’s guards looks up at the same little device thingy on the ceiling that Patricia Chevalier looked up at (was it really less than a week ago?) when she brought us to visit Dad in the windowless marble room. The white marble wall begins to slide open, exactly as it did last time.

  Just then something clicks in Roo, her old ferociousness snapping her out of her grief—she screams another spine-chilling scream and clamps her teeth into the wrist of her guard. It must be one of her best bites ever, because the guard lets out his own horrific howl and holds up his bleeding arm. Roo is squirming like crazy to escape from his good hand, and meanwhile Kyle is spitting in his own guard’s eye and wriggling his strong, skinny shoulders back and forth, and I’m just standing there being amazed by how vicious Roo and Kyle are, so it’s my guard who rushes up a couple steps to give their guards a hand, and it’s only when Kyle glances back at me for a split second and urgently slides his eyes to the right that I realize I’m free, duh, plus there’s a half-open golden door right there, and there’s no time to think before I find myself slipping through that door and diving under a golden bed frame. Seconds later, the door slams behind me, and I know my guard is about to grab my ankles and pull me out from under the bed and drag me weeping across the marble floor of the hotel room.

  But instead, I hear a woman’s voice. With a British accent.

  “Good God, Seth,” she says. “What a nightmare!”

  I watch her feet squeezing their way out of a pair of insanely yellow stilettos.

  “Well, man, we’re getting outta here now,” Seth says. He sounds like a surfer dude.

  “I’m furious, Seth!” the lady says, beginning to cry.

  It’s as though her words set off another rumbling deep in the volcano—you can hear it but also you can feel it.

  “Utterly furious!” she screams above the noise of the volcano, her voice rising with panic.

  “Keep it together, Kate,” he says in his chilled-out way. “Where’s the suitcases?”

  “That nineteen-hour flight!” Kate shrieks at him. “And then they were out of the treatment! And now we’re being evacuated because there’s about to be a natural disaster! We might die, Seth! What do you think of that! I should never pay attention to anything that silly little starlet recommends.”

  “But she looked so great at Cannes. You can’t deny that, Kate.”

  Now Kate is taking lots of quick in-out breaths and crying and moaning and going, “Oh oh oh, I’m having a panic attack, oh, oh, oh. My pills,” she demands, “in the bathroom, in the pink case—”

  Seth jogs across the marble floor. “Which pink case?” he calls out.

  “Not the maroon case, not the rose case, the pink case, FAST!” she screams.

  My whole body-and-brain feels like one huge beating heart, and I keep waiting for a hard, angry knock at the door. Out in the hallway there’s the ruckus of evacuation, suitcases rolling on marble and doors slamming, a super-shrill woman’s voice and the noise of people disagreeing about something, while I cling froglike to the floor beneath the bed—terribly, completely stuck. Alone. I’ve felt this way before, but only in nightmares.

  Soon Kate and Seth leave, joining their noise to the hallway noise of rich people shrieking, of tuxedo shoes and high heels pounding marble. Then even those sounds start to fade, until eventually there’s just silence. But it’s a silence that feels slithery, like snakes.

  And now I have no idea what to do.

  Part of me wants to stay under this bed, protected by the golden dust ruffle, hoping no one will find me, hoping lava won’t come pouring down the hallway. Besides, aren’t there probably still guards roaming around out there? Aren’t they all probably walkie-talkieing about a missing girl in a green dress? Isn’t it best just to stay here?

  Then there’s the other part of me. The part that wants to run down the hallway to that sliding marble wall and figure out how to open it and get everyone out of there before the volcano erupts.

  But it’s so peaceful here, under this golden bed, and the marble feels so cool against my cheek, and I can pretend I’m safe, pretend I’m still little, playing hide-and-seek with Roo under Mom and Dad’s bed.

  And right then—like it’s reading my mind—the volcano roars its loudest roar yet. I can feel it trembling against my stomach as I scoot myself out from under the bed.

  I creep to the doorway and peek out. Most of the golden doors lining the hallway are thrown open, and beyond them I glimpse beds with messed-up comforters and closet doors flung open and trash cans overturned and vases of flowers knocked over and the general chaos left by people packing in a panic.

  I take a breath and, quietly, step out into the hallway. The whole place seems deserted, though it’s still bright with l
ights. I try to be completely silent as I move down the hallway. Tiptoeing past the open archways, I glance at the stage and see an abandoned tuba, the musicians’ chairs cockeyed, and the dining area with desserts half-eaten, champagne half-drunk, napkins scattered on the floor. In the distance, sparkling red flames shoot out of the top of the volcano, accompanied by swift bursts of smoke spiraling upward. And above all that, the night sky looks weird, orange, threatening.

  At the end of the hallway, I run my hands over the marble wall. But it feels so solid, so cool and smooth and blank, that it’s hard to believe it’s a sliding door, even though I know it is. So: My little sister and my mom and my dad and the guy I love—too freaked out to pretend this isn’t true—and his grandparents are there on the other side of this unmoving wall.

  I press and push against the marble, trying to find, I don’t know, a weak spot or something.

  The hallways have been dead silent this whole time, so at first I think I’m imagining things when I notice a distant sound, the tap-tap-tap-tap of footsteps approaching. They’re coming from the stairs we took when we were “escorted” out of the dining area. My heart speeds up and I flatten myself against the side of the hallway, remembering the chameleon Kyle showed me today and trying to pretend that even though I’m a human being in a green dress I can blend into a white marble wall.

  The footsteps are crossing the lobby now. There’s the harsh buzzing sound of static, like on a radio. “I SAID, GET THEM!” a woman’s screeching voice blares out of the static. “BRING THEM WITH YOU!” Then her voice goes fuzzy again.

  A man’s voice replies to the static: “Lab A, right?” he says. “Pen 98?” And now he’s approaching the mouth of this hallway, and I spot his bright orange tie as he speaks into the walkie-talkie.