Rippler

by Cidney Swanson

  “And my version is called Rippler’s Syndrome.”

  Will nodded. We had to stop talking as we climbed through a shady mix of blue oak and digger pines. The digger pines weren’t impressive like the nearby giant sequoias tourists flocked to see each summer, but I loved their ghostly–gray needles and charcoaled–bark. Mom had called them survivors; they defied the blistering summers that withered our foothill grasses and California golden poppies.

  We reached the long flat stretch that ran across the side of the hill and Will spoke again. “Of course, officially, no one is studying Rippler’s Syndrome at the moment. It’s just a name Mick and Pfeffer used. You won’t find anything if you look online.”

  “So who named it? Are they dead?”

  Will looked embarrassed. “I named it.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  We curved around a small bend and Las Abuelitas winked at us through a stand of dead pines burned out ten years ago. The skeletal shapes left behind were creepy, even in daylight. The trail narrowed after the burnt stretch to where only one person could run. I let Will go in front.

  We now had a flat mile–and–a–half where talking would be easier.

  “How common is this gene?” I asked.

  “Mick could give you a scientific answer. All I know is it’s rare.”

  Will was panting pretty hard from the last uphill stretch; my questions were short. Some of his answers were long.

  “It’s really, really rare,” he continued. “But obviously not so off–the–charts rare that no one ever studies it. I mean, they invented a drug right after World War II that subdues the numb–ness form—Helmann’s.” He frowned and took a long pull of water. “I think I mentioned my dad has the disorder.”

  I nodded.

  “His drug habit started because he didn’t want to take his Neuroprine prescription.”

  “Does he ripple?”

  “No. Thank God. He only experiences numbness—regular Helmann’s.”

  “What a name, huh? Hell–man’s?”

  “Named after a scientist. He deserved the name,” Will said, breathing hard. “He ran a science lab in Nazi Germany, and he wasn’t known for his humane treatment of the patients he studied. After the war ended, he was accused of experimenting on children, but he either killed himself or escaped, so he wasn’t tried.”

  “And what about a prescription? For me, I mean? Would it help?”

  Will shook his head. “I honestly don’t know if it would help with Rippler’s or not. But, Sam, getting a prescription for that drug—it’s like putting a big bull’s–eye on your forehead. ‘Hello, here I am, I’ve got the gene for Helmann’s and possibly Rippler’s.’ Mick’s professor theorized that the person or group killing Rippler’s carriers uses prescription records to locate their targets.”

  “Got it,” I said, a shiver running along the back of my neck. “No meds.”

  “There’s other reasons to avoid Neuroprine,” said Will. “It causes some pretty undesirable side–effects.”

  “Don’t worry. You had me at, ‘they’ll find you and kill you.’” I chewed my lower lip. A prescription that took away the vanishing would have been awfully nice. “How sure are you I can learn to control this?”

  “I’m sure,” said Will. “I pulled some materials together for you. A lot of it is pretty dry reading, but there’s evidence that people who ripple learn to control it. You just haven’t had much experience yet.”

  I nodded. “Due to my extended residency in the Pit of Despair.”

  Will looked at me funny. “You don’t have to make a joke out of it. There’s nothing embarrassing about depression.”

  I felt tears stinging my eyes. I blinked them back. “Thanks,” was all I said.

  “We’d better pick it up on the stretch downhill,” said Will. “I can hear Carly and Nathan catching up to us.”

  “Okay,” I said, pushing myself.

  “Want to go to the Las ABC after? To look stuff over?” asked Will.

  The Las Abuelitas Bakery Café had booths with high sides and lots of privacy. And every good thing made of butter and sugar.

  “I’d love to,” I said. It was practically a date. We approached another narrow stretch and I shouldered my way in front, thundering across a single–file wooden bridge.

  “No fair!” said Will.

  I laughed, my legs pumping crazy–fast.

  Coach was shaking his head and glaring as we pulled past him, completing the 7K. “Not good enough, Ms. Ruiz, Mr. Baker.”

  Coach gave the two of us trash detail after practice for twenty minutes, which meant all the warm water was gone by the time I got to the lockers. That was okay; I was hot. I was thirsty, which meant I was already dehydrated. I felt exhausted, but my heart sang. Will had my back and things were going to be fine.

  Chapter Three

  LITTLE BLACK BOOK

  I looked through rippled glass set into the river–rock wall of Las ABC, the place Gwyn’s mom opened last year. Will grabbed the front door, which held a massive oval of beveled glass set in an oak frame, hand–carved and probably paid for in gold–dust from Bella Fria Creek back during the California Gold Rush. We slipped inside.

  It smelled intoxicating—like Sylvia’s kitchen at Christmas: brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon. On the bakery–case bottom row sat thick–frosted brownies, layer cakes, and a berry pie—probably syllaberry, the drought–tolerant hybrid my dad invented. The middle row displayed cookies, all at a kid’s eye level. Monster cookies with M&Ms. Snickerdoodles. Crinkled molasses cookies. And at my eye–level? Doily–ed plates of pastries: European bear claws and croissants beside Mexican pan de huevos and cinnamon–sugar coated polvorones.

  I’d spent most of my allowance here the past year.

  Gwyn waved, helping guests with her mom, Bridget, who remembered me from before and still called me Sammy. As Will and I waited to order, a fluffball cat wrapped himself around my legs, purring.

  Will leaned in, saying, “I’ll go grab that last booth.”

  “Don’t you want anything?” I asked.

  “Ice water?” He dropped down to retie a broken shoelace to itself. “I’m not really hungry.” He gave me a smile, stood, and walked back to the booth.

  I frowned; I knew Will and Mick didn’t have much. My own allowance was ridiculous, way more than I needed. Would he feel insulted if I bought him something?

  I ordered an ice water, a syllaberry bubble tea, and two orders of polvorones. Bridget grinned and popped two quarters into a large jar labeled “Feline Assistance Fund” on the counter.

  The grey fluff–ball at my feet meowed, and Bridget noticed him as she handed me a flyer. “You naughty cat. Why can’t you stay in the kennels?”

  I smiled, taking the flyer. It announced an event called “Panning for Felines” happening on Labor Day.

  “Rufus is not allowed in the bakery, Gwyneth,” said Bridget. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Like I’m the boss of him,” Gwyn replied.

  “Grab the register while I make a bubble tea,” Bridget said to Gwyn, dashing to the kitchen. “And get Rufus out.”

  “I did not let him in, Ma,” Gwyn said. “Did she hit you up for the gold panning fundraiser yet?”

  I waved the flyer in reply.

  “You have a new best friend.” She pointed to Rufus, purring loudly at my feet. “He’s adoptable, you know.”

  “I’m not what you’d call a ‘cat–person,’” I reminded her.

  “Cats aren’t for everyone. Only, don’t say that in front of Ma,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’re up to fifteen or sixteen in the cattery. I forget. Hence, the fund raiser.” She pointed to the stack of colored flyers. “We need pledge sponsors for each hour we pan in case we don’t find much gold.”

  “You’ll find flakes,” I said. “Maybe nuggets.”

  Gwyn’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I mean, not huge nuggets.”

  “No, no, no—not that!” Gwyn’
s voice dropped to a loud whisper and she tipped her head towards Will. “Are you guys finally dating?”

  “Just … homework,” I said.

  “Oh, and me working all day,” she said, shaking her head in mock regret.

  I smiled. Gwyn acted like she hated school, but she pulled straight A’s.

  She reverted to the whisper. “Homework—ha! I’m so asking Ma to tell me everything about Will. Ma’s always chatting with the big sister.”

  “You mean Mickie?”

  “Mmm–hmm,” said Gwyn, eyes drifting back to Will. “It’s still a date, even if you’re doing homework.”

  “Shut up!” I said, lowering my own voice.

  A guest walked up and handed Gwyn a twenty and a ticket.

  “Keep the change,” said the customer.

  “God forbid I keep any for a tip,” Gwyn murmured, popping the change into the cat jar. She moved on to help a customer who’d just arrived just as Bridget brought out my drink.

  “Gwyn!” Bridget said. “Rufus?”

  “I got him,” I said. Cautiously, I picked up a cat for the first time in eight years and carried him to the front door, setting him outside quickly.

  “We’ll talk soon,” said Gwyn, winking as I grabbed my cookies and drinks.

  I rolled my eyes and walked over to Will. He was bent over a small black book and had placed two manila folders on my side of the table.

  “What’s that?” I asked, passing his ice–water across the table. “Your diary?”

  “It’s my sister’s. It was Pfeffer’s.”

  “You’re reading her diary? Or Pfeffer’s diary?”

  “It’s not a diary. At least I don’t think it is. It was in that folder,” he said, tapping the one to my right. “Those are all things Pfeffer gave us for safekeeping before he disappeared.”

  “So this will tell me everything I ever wanted to know about … myself?” I looked at the two folders.

  “Yeah, I just grabbed everything in the end. I didn’t want Mick catching me looking through her stuff.”

  “I’ll be really careful with it,” I promised. I wasn’t the most scientifically curious of students, but I vowed to read every scrap of paper in those folders. “And I’ll get it back by Wednesday, okay?”

  “Uh–huh,” he said.

  He was really distracted.

  “So what is it?” I pointed to the black book and grabbed a bit of polvorone.

  “Some book of riddles. I don’t think it’s actually related to what Mick or Pfeffer studied. Maybe it’s math problems.” He scratched his head, eyebrows drawn tight in concentration as he looked down at the tiny handwriting.

  “Let’s hear one of them.”

  He looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and flipped back a couple of pages. “Here’s the first one:

  Twelve children and every morning, twelve knots of brown bread and twelve cups of warm cow’s milk. Then one morning, eleven brown rolls with eleven cups of milk. There are still twelve children. What will happen?

  “But that’s dumb,” said Will as he raked fingers through his dark hair. There’s no divisors you can use with eleven. It’s a prime number.”

  “How about this?” I offered. “Ten of the kids can eat whatever, but one is gluten–intolerant, so you give her the milk, and one is lactose–intolerant so you give her the bread. Everyone’s happy.”

  Will laughed. “That’s better than what I was thinking. I pictured a fight.”

  “Math books aren’t so big on fights.”

  Will flipped to the next page. “Listen to this one. ‘Ten children rest under ten blankets of eider–down. One chill morning the eider–downs are taken to be cleaned. Five filthy lengths of scratchy wool are brought in while the children march outside in snow. What will happen this bitter night?’”

  “Whoever wrote this has serious issues! What’s with all the filth and scratching?”

  Will cracked up. His laugh was deep and throaty. “Okay,” he said. “One more:

  ‘A bowl of poisoned water sits on a table before eight thirsty children. As their thirst increases, they try the door, but it remains locked.

  ‘What will happen when thirst drives them mad?’”

  “That’s twisted. Your sister’s advisor had a psycho math book.”

  “I’d say it’s no math book,” replied Will. “See this?” He pointed to a section in blue ink. “That’s Pfeffer’s handwriting. He was translating this. Or he was trying to. He didn’t get very far.”

  “Is the whole book like that?” I asked.

  “Only the first couple pages have English translations scribbled down.” Will flipped through a few more pages. “It’s sort of like French, maybe. See here? ‘Les enfans’—”

  “The children,” I said. “But it’s spelled wrong.”

  “Right,” agreed Will.

  He puzzled over a couple more pages while I drank my bubble tea. I smiled, remembering the first time I’d noticed him in French class last year when our pregnant teacher’s water exploded all over the ugly brown–and–grey linoleum. Everyone but Will wanted to puke; Will helped her to the office.

  “I think I’ll hold on to this book,” said Will. “But you read through everything else, and let me know if you have questions.”

  I pushed the plate with the remaining cinnamon polvorones towards Will. “I’m done. This bubble tea is really filling.”

  Will stuffed one in his mouth and grunted a thank you, still poring through the black book. “This is some weird stuff,” he said, stopping on another page with a long section in blue–inked English.

  Gwyn walked past, winking at us. Will didn’t see it, fortunately.

  Will’s cell vibed loudly from inside his pack. He flipped it open and frowned. “It’s my sister. She sent me a text from online. That’s creative.” He scrolled through the message. “She wants to know where her stuff is. This stuff,” said Will, tapping the packets in front of me. “Unbelievable. She hasn’t looked at any of this for months and now she needs it?” He shook his head.

  I pushed the manila folders back, one at a time. It felt like they weighed two hundred pounds each. I wanted that information so badly it hurt.

  “Hey,” said Will. “I think Mick’s helping at some all–day plant sale this Saturday. I could get everything back for you and we could go somewhere. You want to go to Yosemite?”

  I smiled. “I haven’t been in forever.”

  Will stuffed everything back in his pack, and I texted Sylvia to come get us. She showed up a few minutes later in her TT, greeted Will, and tossed me the keys.

  “Really?” I groaned.

  “A woman needs to know how to drive a car with a clutch.” It was something she said all the time. That, and, a woman needs to know how to use a can of pepper spray.

  “A woman should not have to embarrass herself in front of her teammates,” I said to Will as we stuffed ourselves in the tiny Audi. “Get ready for a bumpy ride.”

  Will and Sylvia did all the talking as I drove to his house. I had to concentrate to keep from killing the engine at the stop signs. I sent clouds of exhaust into the air each time, revving the car to keep it from dying. And as I watched the toxic clouds dissipating in the rearview mirror, I found myself wondering what kind of person would jot down sick riddles about bowls of poisoned water and thirsty children.

  Excerpted from the private journal of Girard L’Inferne, circa 1939

  Experiment 23, Control Group A

  Twelve hands grab at the basket of rolls and one comes up empty. The tray of tin cups is set down. Twelve hands reach and two close on opposite sides of the last cup.

  “What does it mean?” the children ask one another.

  The two who hold the cup battle. Fritz wrenches the cup free after kicking the other child. But the milk splatters everywhere.

  “What does it mean?” the children ask again, faces turned to Franz, the clever one, who is also the best in a fight.

  “It means that if it happens again to
morrow, the last two can fight for it. The winner eats.”

  Weeks pass and some of the children begin to hope for days when not enough food is served. Others realize they can force a fight by taking an extra roll.

  How swiftly and how well the children learn the lessons they are set.

  –translation by G. Pfeffer

  Chapter Four

  ILLILOUETTE CREEK

  Dad wasn’t real big on me going anywhere with Will, and I got an earful of that through the ducting that goes from our kitchen to my bedroom. He and Sylvia were arguing; I was making my bed—not an everyday occurrence—while waiting to hear the outcome. Will would come by in an hour.

  “I’m not saying his dad isn’t a drug–addict,” said Sylvia. “But his sister is the one with custody, and she’s doing a great job raising Will. She brought him here to protect him from their dad.”

  That was the rumor, but I knew now what else Mick was protecting Will from. I heard Sylvia rapidly tapping her foot. She does this when she’s really irritated but doesn’t want to come right out and say you’re an idiot.

  I couldn’t make out my dad’s response, but Sylvia’s foot tempo increased.

  “Sam’s going to Yosemite,” she said. “Will’s a great kid. He’s a good friend to Samantha, and we both know Sam needs friends.”

  My dad sighed long and loud; I had no trouble hearing that. Then he conceded. “Long as he gets her back before nine.”

  My curfew was eleven, but I guessed Dad needed to win at something. I smiled. He was a good man. More in love with crops than people at times, but that’s what made him a successful farmer.

  My cell buzzed with a text. Will’s sister was coming with us. I frowned and slapped at my comforter, trying to make it lie flat. This changed everything. I kicked a lone flip–flop across the floor. It stopped short of my open closet. Scowling, I walked over, picked up the sandal, and threw it into the back of the closet, slamming the door shut.

  Mickie was fine in the abstract. She’d even been by the house a few times to trade plant starts and gardening tips with Sylvia. But why couldn’t she have stuck to her plan of hanging out at the plant sale all day?