Miss Jung’s eyes change. ‘You were one of Kish’s.’
‘Pardon?’
A beat. ‘You were one of Miss Amar’s students.’
‘Yes.’ This wasn’t part of the plan. Peter wonders if his face is turning red.
‘You want to know what happened to her.’
‘Yes.’
Miss Jung’s eyes dart to the door, but Jem and Mrs. Diamond have already left. She digs her thumbnail into the leather handle of her bag. ‘I don’t know what happened to her, kid. I’m sorry.’
‘But weren’t you...’ Friends. Peter hesitates. Maybe they were wrong about everything.
Miss Jung looks over her shoulder again. The bell will ring any minute now. It is the loudest point of the morning, the students reaching critical mass—not just here but in every school in this city, all these unripened minds wanting answers, answers, answers.
‘What have your parents told you?’
‘They say the same things as everybody else. Nobody knows anything. Everyone just says she’s missing.’
‘Well, that’s just it,’ Miss Jung says, as if Peter has fluked the correct answer to a test. ‘Nobody knows anything. Miss Amar is missing, and that’s simply all there is to know.’
Miss Jung shuts the lid of the piano. She glances at the wall behind her, where some of the choir students leave their bags during the session. Only Peter’s bag remains. She gestures to it. ‘You’d better get to class. School’s about to begin.’
Peter manages to stare at Miss Jung for a bit longer. As with any teacher, it’s like staring at the sun, and eventually Peter has to look away in case his eyes start watering. He retreats to his bag, kneeling down to unzip it. He screws the lid of his drink bottle tight and seals it in his lunchbox, shuffling around his school books and the juice-stained Seeds of Time. He slings his bag on his shoulder. He looks up at Miss Jung. She reminds him of Mrs. Yorke at this moment. That long gaze, as if he’s a picture in a Magic Eye book, and Miss Jung can just make out something else. A hidden figure. A different plane.
‘I don’t know what happened to Miss Amar, kid,’ Miss Jung says. ‘But I can give you a clue. The only clue I know.’
They will look it up on YouTube that afternoon at Jem’s house—‘Little Waltz of the Telephones’ by Tristram Cary from his collection Polly Fillers. Jem says that it’s part of the seventh grade syllabus. Jem doesn’t think the piece is much of a useful clue but Peter doesn’t think the piece itself matters, that it could be any piece. Miss Jung had said that the song was a reminder for something, a trigger of some sort. A code, a password, a secret message. Wherever Miss Amar has gone, it is to answer that call; her disappearance was a willful one, a purposeful withdrawal.
Late at night, Peter turns on his lamp and slides out of bed, on his knees, to his schoolbag packed for the next day. The contents are tessellated like brickwork, and he extricates Seeds of Time. It is due for renewal tomorrow. Peter’s heart still squeezes up at the sight of the juice stains. He has so far renewed the book four times without anyone querying him, but he knows he’ll have to return it eventually, and explain the damage. The book has a yellow sticker wrapped around the spine, which means it’s actually for high schoolers only, but when Peter first checked it out he was lucky enough to be served by the sympathetic librarian, Mrs. Cleft. Peter has been in the habit lately of checking out books that he cannot quite read. He is attracted to plain, abstract covers that give nothing away: Seeds of Time is a creamy off-white color, like ageing bones. The author’s name and title are scrawled in careless, half-asleep handwriting, and there are lumpy clocks drawn by the same quavering hand, so misshapen that their faces can barely hold the numbers. Their crooked arms announce times that do not exist.
Peter hopes that the effort of reading the novel’s cloudy prose will exhaust him enough to put him to sleep. He opens to his bookmarked page. Seeds of Time isn’t like any novel he’s read before: each chapter seems to take vast leaps forward in time; characters disappear and return in strange ways, or they do not return at all. It is late in the novel, and from what Peter can tell, there are no more human characters.
Take heed (listen) (transform) little children (soon to be grown) and do not deny (make no mistake) our tenuous universe. Our existence is not autonomous (does not stand alone) (if not for language we would be a nothingness greater than nothingness). This world (our time) is merely the fiction of another (a fantasy) (a collective dream).
All the rules are reversed. The most wayward of you will survive (prosper) (find the way). Transform (listen) yourselves (don’t be a good bird). Forget what you know (unlearn). It will make the task easier (you will have to go backwards).
A seed contains (in perpetuity) all the information necessary to begin. It is an heirloom (a continuation of our conversation) (a speech act) (stories passed on).
Bear the likeness (you too contain the information necessary to begin). The foundation of our time (this world) is replication (a melodic science). Transform (heed).
This evolution is unauthorized.
The passage does the trick: the words weigh down Peter’s eyelids; the book falls shut. The lamplight is a tether that keeps Peter close to consciousness, but he cannot rouse the energy to stretch out his hand and flick the switch. Eventually he sinks; the urge dissolves, but it has only changed form, become liquid, an aquarium which Peter navigates, swimming down and deeper, until he reaches the bottom of the tank, where a forest of old-fashioned telephones grows like seaweed, their receivers dislodged from their rotary dial bases, the spiral cords swaying in the murk. Jem, in this dream, is a separate figure, barefoot like Peter, his trousers rolled up to the knees, advancing downwards in broad strokes. They are trying to find the right telephone; they swim to a receiver and cup it to their ears, release it, and move on to the next telephone, but it is hard to work methodically, hard to know whether you have already tried this telephone or that telephone. They are all identical; their cords are knotted like a complex root system.
‘Something’s coming,’ Jem says.
A shadow falls over the tank. Peter looks up, but he can no longer see the lamplight. The telephone receiver in his fingers begins to vibrate softly. He lifts the receiver to his ear.
‘Blue Screen of Death,’ the telephone says.
The shadow lifts; Peter releases the receiver, which bobs, twirls—Peter turns his head with submarine slowness. Jem is gone.
‘What did Miss Jung say Miss Amar’s first name was?’ Jem asks.
‘Kish.’
‘Kish Amar.’ Jem rolls the name in his mouth. It’s weird finding out the real names of teachers. Slightly embarrassing, even, as if you’ve caught them peeing.
Peter wants to ask Jem why he disappeared last night, but then he remembers it was just a dream. He has felt peculiarly sore all day about it, and he must keep reminding himself that Jem hasn’t actually done anything to wound him. He wonders if he should ask Jem if he had the same dream, but the details are already vanishing. Something about an aquarium. Telephones submerged in green water.
It’s recess and they’re walking to the library to renew Seeds of Time. ‘We can look up Miss Amar in the piano teacher directory,’ Jem says. ‘Her address might be in there. Want some?’ He opens a box of Pocky and holds it out to Peter.
Peter pulls one of the sticks from the pack. ‘What do we do if we find her house, though?’
‘Maybe her sister will be there. Looking after the house.’
Sunny Mrs. Cleft is behind the desk today at the library, to Peter’s relief, and she renews his book without voicing any suspicion. ‘It’s so nice to see you attempting such a challenging book, Peter. How are you finding it?’
Peter considers his feet. He is too embarrassed to admit he only picked the book for its cover. ‘Kind of... slow. But interesting.’
‘Yes, I suppose it can be a bit off-putting for some! Did you know that you’re the first person to borrow this book out from the library in about... hmm,
thirteen years?’
He wonders if the computer also tells Mrs. Cleft that he’s had the book for over two months now. ‘Oh. Cool,’ he says.
Only Jem thinks to ask: ‘Who was the last person who borrowed the book?’
She clucks. ‘An audacious question, Jeremy! Library records are private. But! Since it has been so long...’ She scrolls the mouse theatrically. ‘Hmm, the last borrower... was... Rebecca Jung. Oh! I always forget Miss Jung used to be a student here. Isn’t that funny?’
Peter and Jem freeze. Perhaps a beat too long. Jem quickly executes an innocent smile. ‘That’s interesting, Mrs. Cleft.’
‘Yes! She’s a huge fan of these sorts of ambiguous, strange books. You could have lots of intriguing conversations with her about this one, I’m sure.’
There’s a queue forming behind them, so they leave the library. Peter blinks at the sunlight, trying to figure out exactly why he feels dazed. Jem chews a Pocky stick meditatively.
And then, it is Friday morning, the day when all the students’ collars have wilted, graying at the folds, and our Peter Pushkin teeters at the edge of a group of three boys gathered at the bench outside their classroom—Quentin Silvy, Kyle Pickering, Andrew Sondergaard. It is only at this early hour before school that these unlike boys will converse; one cannot pick one’s companions at eight o’clock in the morning. Quentin is bouncing his ubiquitous tennis ball up and down like a yoyo. Peter, perched on the railing opposite the bench, finds a cornflake fragment stuck between his teeth, and tries to tongue it out.
Kyle says, ‘And then the octopus turns into a helicopter and SMASHES out of the building and THAT’S JUST THE FIRST EPISODE.’
Quentin’s tennis ball snaps back into his hand. He sighs loudly, turns away from Kyle, says: ‘Hey, Peter, shouldn’t you be at piano?’ He moves his hands up and down like a velociraptor.
‘That’s on Mondays,’ Peter mumbles.
‘You as good as Jem yet?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Kyle says, ‘You can’t COMPARE them like that Jem’s a what’s-it a progee.’
‘Prodigy,’ Andrew corrects.
‘Well, Peter could be a prodigy.’ Quentin looks Peter up and down. ‘Maybe not at piano. But like at reading, say. I’ve seen the books you read in Silent Reading, Peter. The words are like ants. You need a magnifying glass to read them.’
‘Ha ha YEAH Mrs. Cleft lets you borrow the yellow dots.’
‘Yeah,’ Quentin says. ‘So you’re probably heaps smarter than you let on, Peter.’
Peter grips the railing. He’s not sure how exactly Quentin swerved into this topic, and there is something menacing in the transition. Andrew is looking at Peter curiously.
Quentin asks, ‘What’s the book you’re reading right now about? The one with the clocks?’
Quentin’s lethal eyes like burning meteors.
‘Well,’ Peter says. ‘It’s a science-fiction novel.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. And. And it’s about...’
‘Hey guys.’ Jem appears suddenly. He hooks his thumbs around his bag’s shoulder straps. Peter breathes a sigh.
‘Hey Jem,’ Quentin says—and, apparently swerving back: ‘How’s piano going?’
Jem blinks. ‘Okay, I guess.’
‘Any assembly gigs coming up?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Quentin nods—and keeps on nodding, a half-smirk on his face, as if Jem had made an extremely subtle wisecrack. Peter wishes that Kyle would start motormouthing about that TV show again. Or any other TV show. Anything but this weird knowing silence between these boys with such expensive names, so assured of their right to exist.
Jem points at Quentin’s tennis ball. ‘Why aren’t you guys playing four-square?’
Quentin snorts. ‘Four-square’s boring now.’
‘We’re waiting for Ryan to get here he has a NEW SOCCER BALL,’ Kyle sings.
‘Wanna play three-on-three when he gets here?’ Quentin asks.
Jem catches Peter’s look. ‘No thanks,’ he says. Quentin nod-smirks. ‘Actually, I have to go to the canteen,’ Jem continues, sliding off his bag and setting it down with the others. ‘See you guys.’
Peter jumps off the railing and follows Jem. Even though they can feel Quentin’s gaze tracking them, they walk slowly. The school is greenest in the morning, glossy with dew, like a just-completed painting. Jem, for a moment, is uncharacteristically thrown. He looks around. ‘This reminds me of a dream I had with an aquarium in it,’ Jem says, and Peter—startled, relieved—allows himself for one instant to feel the warm safety of belonging, inclusion.
Mr. Cutbush, eager to avoid Monday’s dismal softball session, has changed today’s activity to British Bulldogs. The entire class is bunched up at one end of a playing field delineated by blue plastic markers, while three random students roam the center. On Mr. Cutbush’s whistle the players are meant to run to the other side without being tagged by the students in the middle. If you’re tagged, you become a tagger. Peter has only medium-level hatred for this game because while the action is too frantic to allow for a smooth conversation with Jem, being tagged isn’t really such a bad thing when you’re surrounded by other taggers.
Jem is saying, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you—I get it now. It’s so easy; I can’t believe we didn’t see it before.’
‘Huh?’
‘She saw your book. Miss Jung saw Seeds of Time when you opened your bag. That’s why she gave you the clue.’
Mr. Cutbush blows the whistle and everyone runs for it. Peter follows Jem’s zigzagging path, twisting away from a hand trying to tag him. They make it to the other side.
Jem says, ‘Tuesday choir—we’re sneaking in again. We’ll ask Miss Jung about the book. When she knows that we know about it, she’ll definitely help us find Miss Amar.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m sure of it. We can prove that we’re smart and she can tell us things.’
The whistle sounds. Peter takes off, Jem this time a step behind him. They weave in and out, effortless as birds. Then Quentin Silvy jumps in front of Peter. Jem manages to swerve but Peter runs straight into Quentin’s outstretched arm hard enough to knock himself over. As the ground punches the wind from Peter’s lungs he reflects dizzyingly that Quentin never ever gets tagged so soon in this game.
‘Sorry, Peter!’ Quentin grabs Peter’s hand and yanks him to his feet. Their eyes lock; Peter feels the chill of premonition. He separates himself from Quentin’s grasp. The other students are waiting for Mr. Cutbush’s whistle. Peter’s eyes find Jem within the crowd, and Jem shrugs.
The whistle trills, and then everything happens.
Quentin sprints for Jem, intent as a missile. The collision is epic. On this afternoon Peter discovers that, talent or no talent, bones all break the same, and gravity does not discriminate. He watches them fall—Quentin, Jem. The snap of Jem’s arm is decisive as prophecy. Everyone hears it—Peter, Mr. Cutbush, Quentin—even Kyle Pickering lodges a knuckle in his mouth, his face scrunched in sympathetic pain. ‘What the hell was that, Silvy?!’ Mr. Cutbush roars, while Peter closes his eyes and hears five notes, one for each finger on Jem’s broken left arm. G, B, D, F, A.
Mrs. Lavignac is incensed enough to bulldoze through Handwringer Hamsden and talk to Principal Alteruthemeyer himself. Jem and Quentin are absent for the rest of the day. ‘I don’t understand how this could happen,’ Mrs. Lavignac will say, over and over, mining Principal Alteruthemeyer for answers he cannot provide. Peter will never know any of this for sure, but he does know that adults can let these things escalate to impossible heights. He knows that Mrs. Lavignac would have no qualms enrolling Jem in another school, that she could make Alteruthemeyer sweat blood with such a threat. He knows that different rules apply to boys like Jem Lavignac.
After Phys Ed, Peter changes back into his uniform and eats lunch alone. Kyle Pickering tries to talk to him—pours out an unpunctuated stream
of cheer-up speech that makes Peter’s head buzz. When people are this kind to Peter he feels that happy-sad ache, that troubling bothness. ‘I reckon Quentin’s gonna get suspended or even expelled I mean WHAT WAS HE THINKING I don’t get why he did that...’
Peter doesn’t get it either, this sudden hostility from Quentin, the way he quizzed Peter about the book. Why Quentin would annihilate his good standing at this school—Quentin Silvy, who, as far as Peter could perceive, had no inclination for conflict before. As if Quentin has been replaced overnight, or abducted and brainwashed.
Thankfully the bell rings before Kyle can get too lathered up, and they head back to class. During the break Mrs. Calbourne has distributed the school newsletters and other notes to bring home to parents. On Peter’s desk, on top of the newsletter, is a pink card from the library. Waiting to crush him.
RECALL NOTICE
Dear PETER PUSHKIN
The following item(s) have been recalled by another borrower and are now due for an early return:
KWAI, H. R. / Seeds of Time
New due date: MONDAY 16 MAY 2011
Please ensure that the item(s) above are returned by the new due date to avoid incurring late fees.
That evening Peter’s father stays late at the office, so it is just Peter and his mother at dinner. Recently his mother has taken to playing classical music as they eat. At first Peter supposed it was to fill in the silence that normally grips the Pushkins at dinner time, but he has come to understand that there is never just one reason with his mother—all her stones must kill at least two birds. So he suspects that the second bird is himself, and that his mother is playing classical music the same way mothers play classical music to their children while they’re in the womb, as if there’s some kind of IQ osmosis going on. Tonight it’s Disc Three of 50 Classics from the World’s Greatest Composers. Right now it’s Camille Saint-Saëns, ‘Aquarium’, from The Carnival of the Animals, a song Peter always finds unnerving. It’s the song he imagines playing inside his body, vibrating through all that sad blood and water. Those falling piano notes, like coins disappearing into a wishing well.
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