Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  Penny and I discussed the upcoming production of The Snow Queen. On Friday, there would be rehearsals for the following week’s auditions. We were deep into our design-class project for costumes and sets. It was due by the end of January, and the winning teams would be announced the first week of February.

  “I really think we should try out for the production,” Penny said. “At least for small parts. It’ll give us a better feel for what they’re looking for set-wise. Plus, it’ll be fun.”

  A turn of events I hadn’t seen coming. “I’m not really an actor,” I said.

  “You don’t have to go out for a speaking part. There’s a chorus.”

  “I’m not much of a singer, either.”

  “I think they judge more on dancing, anyway,” Penny said.

  I wasn’t about to fess up, but I’d spent enough of my childhood at Madame Bleu’s Dance Academy to know the difference between a grand plié and a ball change.

  “Just think about it,” Penny said.

  The last time Penny had pulled that line on me, I’d ended up as the fashion editor of the school paper — not five minutes later.

  I pointed a recently filed fingernail at her nose. “Don’t sign me up. I haven’t said yes yet.”

  She raised her hands in a gesture of innocence. I knew better. I looked over to Jack, having expected him to offer some sort of comment on the prospect of me dancing, or worse, singing. His nose was buried in a book. I leaned over and read the cover: Ice Sheet Data and the Melting of Greenland by Brigid Fonnkona. Big surprise.

  I looked at my watch. “Bell’s gonna ring soon.”

  Jack jumped to attention. “Sorry, guys. The time got away from me today.” He flipped open a notebook. “Did everyone get some work done?” He was met by a sea of blank stares. He continued to fiddle with the notebook on his desk. “Don’t forget stories are due on Monday.”

  Everyone began gathering their things.

  “Listen, Penny,” Jack said, resting an elbow on my desk. “Is there any chance you could write my column for this issue?”

  “I’ll do it,” Pedro said, walking up.

  I had been a little surprised when, at the start of the meeting, Pedro had sat across the room from Penny. Whatever had happened between them at Matthew’s party wasn’t over yet.

  “He asked me,” Penny said quickly. “And I’d be happy to.”

  Pedro scratched at his cheek. “Whatever. Just offering.” He turned and left.

  “Why can’t you do it?” I asked Jack.

  The bell rang.

  “Kinda caught up with something for Brigid — and Stanley,” Jack added quickly. He stood and picked up his books.

  I followed him out of the room wondering who I was more likely to get a song and dance out of these days: Penny or Jack.

  Unbelievable. At 8:59, Afi’s back room had been a jumble of boxes and crates wedged on wobbly shelving units or piled high on the floor. At 9:01 it was transformed into our Stork crib, complete with heavy oval table, the somehow-mended bird chairs, and lit — by whom? — candled sconces. I would never, ever get used to some of the more fantastical aspects of this soul-delivery business. I pinched myself as a reality check. It hurt.

  I sat in my Robin’s chair this time. Grim was the last to arrive. Her dragging feet were an obvious sign of her continued opposition to a prescheduled meeting.

  “Fru Birta,” I began. “Is our book still missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no need to call roll. It’s obvious, anyway, that we’re all here — besides Fru Hulda, of course.”

  I saw Grim stiffen, bristling at this change to our meeting’s program. What’d she expect Fru Birta to do without the book, though? Whittle attendance into the table? Ink it onto her lined palm?

  Two spaces down from me, I eyed Dorit’s old chair, turned away from the table as mine had been that fateful first night. Also catching my attention were its carvings. They were, again — as mine had once been — birds of all kinds, no longer Dorit’s puffers.

  A commotion at the door lifted my eyes. There stood Ofelia with a curious look on her face and an armful of papers.

  Shoot. A security breach. What was she doing back? I’d sent her home an hour ago. I was about to quickly invent some sort of explanation for this crazy meeting and usher her out, when she pulled a soft brown derby from atop her stack of papers, placed it on her head, and walked briskly to stand behind Dorit’s old chair.

  “Fru Ofelia Dagmundsdottir submitting transfer papers,” she said, placing a small pile of crumpled sheets onto the table.

  What the —? Transfer papers? It made no sense on several levels, the obvious one being that it sure didn’t look like her head was bugging her. And documents for a swarm of old gals who used hand signals, not ballots, to decide the fate of hovering souls? And transferring from where? She told me she was from North Dakota.

  Ofelia looked to Hulda’s empty seat. “Your first chair. It’s vacant?”

  Grim rose from her own chair and walked to where Ofelia stood. “Fru Hulda, our Owl, is not well.” She lifted Ofelia’s papers from the tabletop. “Katla, as second chair, would you like to check these, or should I?”

  And what exactly would I be checking for? Spelling and punctuation errors? Watermarks against the light?

  “If you’d be so kind, Fru Grimilla?” I said.

  Grim rifled through the pages quickly. I watched Ofelia as she stood patiently behind Dorit’s place. She would be, besides me, the youngest member of this group. Even Grim, well into her sixties, was spry for this lot. I also remarked that her sister, Paulina, owner of the used bookstore, was not among our ranks, though she seemed slightly older than Ofelia. Interesting. As was so much about the Storks.

  Grim straightened the papers against the table and handed them to me. “Everything appears to be in order. Until our book is returned, we cannot formally enter Fru Ofelia. Until that time, Katla, you may welcome her to our group.”

  Luckily I remembered how Hulda had welcomed me. “Velkominn, vinur. Welcome friend.”

  “Velkominn, vinur,” the Storks chorused in reply.

  Ofelia turned her chair, which now bore the chiseled images of turkeys, to face the table and seated herself. So Ofelia would be our Turkey. It at least explained that little wattle under her chin.

  All eyes turned to me. I had, after all, called the meeting. “Fru Maria,” I said to one of the cortege members. “Would you be so kind as to update us on Fru Hulda’s condition?”

  “I believe it would be best if I updated the group,” Grim interrupted.

  When and how did Grim come by this “update”?

  Grim sat up straight and placed her clasped hands on the table. “Fru Hulda is extremely sick, but in a safe place. She is unresponsive — in a coma of unknown origin. Praise be that she is being cared for, but the situation is very, very troubling. It can only be assumed that Hulda was attacked.”

  The room erupted in gasps and squawks and cries of alarm.

  “What can we do?” Birta asked.

  “I fear for all of our safety,” Svana said.

  I needed to calm everyone down and bring some sort of order to the meeting. “Sisters, let’s discuss this rationally.”

  “Would it not be helpful,” Ofelia interrupted, “to begin by repeating Fru Hulda’s last words that fateful night?”

  Hmmm. I didn’t remember saying that Hulda had spoken, nor was Ofelia present the night of the attack. Besides, to term them “last words” was definitely not cool.

  “Before she fell ill, Fru Hulda said, ‘Enemy in our midst.’ This only days after one of our former sisters had her Stork affiliation terminated and had warned us all that we’d ‘be sorry,’” Grim said.

  Sure. Now Grim wants to be helpful.

  “What about Dorit?” I asked, trying to remain in charge. “Does anyone know anything about her state of mind?” I asked.

  The room was so quiet I could hear the flare of the candlewicks.
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br />   Finally, Fru Svana spoke up: “The family has moved without a word to anyone.”

  That couldn’t be a good sign. Granted, there couldn’t be many happy memories for them here, but the timing was suspicious.

  “Fru Svana, you were friendly with Dorit, weren’t you?”

  Svana looked around nervously. “Before the events of . . . September.”

  “But of everyone, she trusted you most,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Fru Svana, would you feel comfortable trying to locate them? It seems to me that we should know where she is.”

  Svana squirmed in her seat. “I could try.”

  “Thank you. And to all my sister Storks,” I said, looking around the room, “I want to ask for your help during this difficult period. I am new to the council and the second chair, and I never asked for any of this.” Grim cleared her throat with a loud honk. “But I’ll do my best to serve during Fru Hulda’s absence. Fru Grimilla, I trust if there is some change in Fru Hulda’s condition that you will call a meeting.”

  “I will.”

  “And if anyone feels in danger or threatened or encounters something unusual that they will call a meeting?”

  A roomful of heads nodded and said, “We will.” Even Ofelia joined in.

  “Have we reported our missing book to anyone at the World Council?” I turned to Grim as I asked this.

  Grim’s chin jutted forward as she spoke. “Fru Birta could accomplish such a task.”

  There was the smallest of nods from Grim directed to Birta.

  “I would be honored,” Fru Birta said.

  “And of course, business as usual, should a soul seek guidance,” I said.

  More nods and affirmations.

  “Then meeting adjourned.” Hulda’s customary peace be just wouldn’t spill from my lips. I was determined to do things my way. Besides, I didn’t think we were at peace — far from it, in fact.

  Friday arrived without too much drama preceding it. Penny and Pedro made up. He’d apologized to Matthew, and a whole group of the football players had pooled money to pay for a new bar stool and repairs to the wall. Jack continued to head over to Walden as soon as school let out, while I relieved a still-weakened Afi from his post behind the register or, alternately, found Ofelia in his place.

  After school, Penny stopped at my locker. “Don’t forget rehearsals start today.”

  Phooey. I had. Plus the fact that I’d even agreed to give it a chance. Penny’s successful angle had been that these were just optional rehearsals so kids had a chance to learn the songs and dance steps before actual tryouts. I’d held my tongue, but honestly — practice to audition? Wasn’t that kind of like begin to get going? Still, I supposed it was cool that everyone got a fair shake.

  “So I’ll see you in the auditorium,” Penny said, walking away.

  Jack popped his head around my open locker. “What for?” he asked.

  Ugh. We’d barely spoken in the past two days, so I hadn’t shared the fact that Penny had sucked me into another of her extracurriculars.

  “Penny and I are attending the practice auditions for The Snow Queen. You know, for our project.” I left it ambiguous enough that our participation could be nothing more than note taking and stage measurement.

  “Sounds like fun,” he said distractedly. So distractedly, in fact, that I suspected any reply of mine — shaving our heads or becoming circus acrobats — would have received the same reply.

  “So you never called last night,” I said.

  “Sorry. I stayed late because . . . guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I got offered an internship. I’ll earn math and science credits for the work I’m doing. Plus, I’ll get out of school two hours early every day so I can log more lab hours at Walden.”

  I could tell that Jack expected me to act happy, so I plastered a smile on my face in a big good-for-you facade, but there was something I didn’t like about Jack getting sucked into Stanley’s research project.

  “I’ll get to work on Brigid’s field studies.”

  Bingo.

  “And it’s not just high-school credit. If I attend Walden in the fall, I’ll get three units of university credit as well.”

  “But you’re just a high-school student. Aren’t there college kids who should have priority?”

  “Just a high-school student?” I could hear the hurt in his voice.

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult, it’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s so sudden and all-consuming.”

  “Brigid is only here for a short time. I have to take advantage.”

  Something about the phrase “take advantage” made me recoil. I wondered just who was taking advantage of whom, but judging by the squint in Jack’s eyes, I didn’t dare air the remark. “Congratulations,” I said. “Really. I mean it. And I’m sorry if I didn’t sound supportive before.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Gotta run.” He hurried off so quickly that I wondered if my apology had truly been accepted. I didn’t have much time to dwell; I was cutting it close for auditions already.

  There were about thirty kids hanging around in the auditorium when I got there. I’d expected a bigger turnout. I thought back to when my school in LA had done a production of Oklahoma. A friend of mine had been in the chorus, and I attended a sold-out opening day with so many cast and crew on the stage at curtain call I had honestly wondered if we were approaching the real Oklahoma’s census numbers.

  Penny waved me over, and I skirted around the small crowd. I noticed Monique, our prom queen and Wade’s former girlfriend, was one of the hopefuls. No longer a victim of Wade’s mind control, she was almost tolerable. Almost. She still had a whiff of entitlement about her. Due to the story Hulda had concocted to explain Wade’s demise, Monique was now the former girlfriend of a hero — a dead one, all the more noble. Or so she thought. At least she now acknowledged others, though her inner circle remained small. Matthew was there, too, with a couple of his fellow band members. Not a huge surprise. The guy loved music.

  As we waited, gathering around the back of the auditorium, I heard a voice behind me. “Kat, Penny, I’m so glad you girls are trying out,” Ms. Bryant, our design teacher, said with a warm smile. “As a first-time assistant director, I’m glad to see some familiar faces.” Ms. Bryant was, hands down, my favorite teacher, ever. She was friendly, smart, funny, attractive, and could accessorize like nobody’s business.

  “I had a hard time talking Kat into it,” Penny said with a beatific daze in her eyes. We were all a little in awe of Ms. Bryant.

  “I’m glad you did,” Ms. Bryant said, rubbing Penny’s arm. “As always, your enthusiasm is infectious.” She walked up the steps to the stage with a flash of toned leg peeking out from under the dark mocha of her side-slitted skirt.

  What Penny had said was true, but, still, a little help up from the bus she threw me under would be nice.

  “This is going to be a great production,” Penny said, nudging me in the side. “Are you in now?” she asked.

  I brushed tire marks from the side of my face. “Possibly.”

  “Let’s get everyone onstage,” said Mr. Higginbottom, the speech and drama teacher and the production’s director.

  I led Penny to a spot way in the back, well-positioned for hiding and keeping an eye on the rest of the talent pool.

  An hour into the tryout, I had to admit it didn’t suck. I’d always loved to dance. Mr. Higginbottom had an over-the-top enthusiasm for all things Broadway. That, paired with surprisingly graceful moves from his burly-chested, triangular frame, had me giggling and having way too much fun to deserve the sweat glistening my forehead. But that was just the dancing; the singing portion was next.

  We were sorted into three parallel lines and handed lyrics to the opening number: something entitled “Village Life.” I expressed a sigh of disappointment at the opening words of the song:

  Another day of happy lives w
e villagers embrace,

  Lucky are we one and all to live in such a place.

  Penny shot me a look — one I deserved. No way would the Blade Runner commando theme I had envisioned for the sets and costumes work.

  And dang if the little ditty wasn’t kind of catchy. During the first two run-throughs, Mr. Higginbottom and Ms. Bryant sat in the audience and listened to us as a group. On our third time, Mr. Higginbottom walked between the rows.

  “Very nice, Peturson,” he said to Penny. “Breathe, Leblanc, breathe,” was directed at me.

  “No offense,” Penny said once we were finished and retrieving our bags and coats from the auditorium seats, “but you’re chirping out the words. I don’t think you open your mouth wide enough.”

  Chirping? If only she knew.

  “Tell you what,” Penny continued, “if you help me with the dance moves, I’ll help you with a few vocal basics.”

  “Am I really that bad?”

  “Not bad. Just a little tweety.”

  Great. Another bird reference. “All right. Let’s team-tackle this thing.”

  My throat was dry, my legs were achy, and I still had a gob of homework to do — nonetheless, focusing on something other than my worries had been a good diversion. The Christmas blizzard still weighed on me heavily and continued to be a taboo topic between Jack and me. Pile onto that my fears for Hulda, and no wonder I welcomed the distraction.

  I worked at the store Saturday morning. Penny and I sang and danced that afternoon till we got the giggles and snorts so bad that I accused her of enlarged adenoids and she claimed I peeped. We were both right, which only made us laugh more. I spent my Saturday night at the movies with Penny and Tina and our noses in a big tub of buttery popcorn, which was cool, but still it wasn’t like that heady rush I got just sharing air with Jack. We had last checked in with each other around noon. He was at the lab and expected to be there for a while. “Don’t count on me” was his advice for the evening’s plans.