The cottage only has one room. The glassless windows are partially rotted, and the door is designed to keep out people but not small animals and insects. It looks more like an old gardening shed than someone’s home. It’s a mash-up of sinks, flower pots, dirty dishes, broken jars, and dusty books. Some of the volumes are rare editions, but Mr. Coxworth does not discriminate. They are all piled haphazardly, each of them only as valuable as its usefulness. Dried and drying plants hang from the ceiling rafters by thin wires so the mice can’t climb down and chew them.
A rickety twin bed sits squeezed into the narrow alcove. Right now, Mr. Coxworth is stretched out on top, hands folded on his chest, eyes closed. His gray dreadlocks are squashed against the pillow. His two pet mice scurry up his arm to his face.
“No, Disney,” he murmurs in his British accent. The white one runs along Mr. Coxworth’s arm and collides with the other mouse, Munch. They chitter and roll together onto the mattress and then scramble to the floor before disappearing into the shadows under the bed.
Mr. Coxworth opens one eye and then the other. “Fee fie fo fum, I smell a girl as tall as two thumbs.”
I laugh and fly over to his nightstand. He’s greeted me this way since I was the size of one thumb. He’s had to adjust his rhyme over the years.
“Good morning,” I say with a smile.
“Is it?” He scratches his head. “Seems a rather average morning to me.”
“Fine. Be ornery then.”
“Well, now that I have her majesty’s permission…” He sits with a grimace, then swings his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his wrinkled feet on the floorboards. He smells of old sweat, garlic, and lemon soap. “I suppose you’re here for your pay.” He nods at the nightstand drawer.
“Yep. You’re going to make me work even harder for it, aren’t you?”
He grunts and grabs his water glass from the nightstand. There’s a leaf floating in it, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he gulps down the liquid.
I fly to the knob, wrap my arms around it and push against the nightstand frame with my feet until the drawer pulls open a couple of inches. Inside, I find a drawstring pouch just small enough to fit in my arms. It’s full of the best tobacco money can buy on the black market. While George has always been my friend and protector, Mr. Coxworth is more like a partner in crime, and I’ve never been completely confident he wouldn’t squeal on me if it would benefit him.
Mr. Coxworth raises his eyebrow. “Don’t smoke it all at once. Your head will explode.”
“Oh, it’s not for me.”
“As far as I know, it’s you who smokes it. But I can’t judge. Smoked worse stuff myself when I was your age and it didn’t hurt me a bit.” He looks at the glass in his hand then fishes inside it for the leaf. He pulls the limp bit of green out with a flourish and holds it up. “How did this get in there?”
“I guess it was thirsty.”
He flicks it onto the packed dirt floor.
“The tobacco really isn’t for me, though. Gotta buy a favor!”
“Good. Don’t tell me what it is. If you’re up for it later, I’m going to need more moss.”
This is our trade-off. I fetch him samples of the moss that grows at the top of the trees, and he gives me tobacco. Then I bribe George with the tobacco whenever I want something I’m not allowed to have. I have an online date with Jack on my birthday. It might even be our last one. I push that thought out of my head.
“Mr. Coxworth?”
He’s pulling on his socks. “Yes?”
“What happens to the people who come here for food? Isn’t there anywhere else they can go?”
“My. my, Lina. I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” he says, but he sets his half-socked foot back down on the ground. “That isn’t part of my research.”
“That isn’t really an answer.”
He laughs, but it has a brittle edge to it. “You’re very perceptive. My best answer is that I don’t know for sure, but you needn’t worry about it. Lilliput is committed to the wellbeing of the world.” He gestures vaguely in the air, as if the world is a pesky fly to be swatted.
I try really hard to be comforted by that explanation, but the starving man’s expression when he realized he had been caught isn’t an image I can easily dismiss. Still, I know I’m not going to squeeze out any more info today.
He points to the pouch I’m holding. “Don’t get caught with that, love. Although there’s more where it came from if you want to scavenge for me again soon.”
I blow Mr. Coxworth a kiss and wave goodbye as I fly toward the door. “Maybe later!”
I look furtively in all directions before flying out into the open. I have no intention of getting caught today. All of the workers are busy at the main buildings at this hour, so I hold my bag of contraband snug against my chest and take off toward my house.
I stare at the forest floor below me as I fly, looking for exceptionally colorful leaves to use for decoration. Summer has only recently rolled into autumn, but some of the trees have already begun to turn orange and red and yellow. Not many have shed their leaves yet, but there are still a few gems littering the ground.
Green, muted yellow, pale orange, brown. White tennis shoes.
Oh crap.
Chapter 2
I dart to hide behind a tree and lose my grip on the pouch. It plops right on top of a pair of brilliant red leaves. Just my luck.
“Good morning, Lina.” Dr. Christiansen’s tone is laced with ice, per usual. She’s a snow queen in a lab coat, all white and blonde and pale. She could have been pretty if she’d ever cared about such things.
I desperately want to retrieve the tobacco, but I’m hoping she didn’t notice it and the last thing I want is to draw attention to my precious stash.
No such luck. She walks over and kneels to retrieve the pouch. Her fingers give it an exploratory pinch.
“Now, what is this?” She holds it to her nose and frowns. “Tobacco? Where did you get this?”
I clamp my mouth shut.
A blizzard forms behind her eyes. “Lina, did one of the interns give this to you? I won’t allow this on the grounds. The chemicals interfere with natural development and impede my observations.”
Her voice is like plastic scraping against packed snow. Why does she always have to talk to me as though I’m utterly stupid?
I fold my arms. There’s no way I’m giving her any information. She won’t be returning my bag, and I worked almost every day for a month to get that stupid pouch.
She cocks her eyebrow at me. I cock mine right back. We’re locked in yet another nonverbal gun-slinging contest. First one to speak loses, and it’s not going to be me.
“Well.” She flares her nostrils triumphantly. “I’ll confiscate this, take it to the lab, and run the fingerprints. I’m sure that will reveal your accomplice.”
And I’m sure Mr. Coxworth already thought of that and used gloves, but nice try!
“We’ll speak later, Lina. After I determine which of your privileges to take away.”
I try to think of something snarky and clever to say but decide against it. Best not to push my luck any further today. She walks past me, clearly not expecting an answer. I take a deep breath and continue on toward my house.
Now I’m going to have to think of some other way to get out of that party. In a perfect world, I would be able to just ask George for favors, but since I’ve already put his job into jeopardy several times, I can’t keep a clear conscience and continue asking without giving him something in return. Something he really wants.
Something that is now in the doctor’s pocket.
I dive down until I’m gliding along the ground so I can give the leaves several good kicks. And then the path opens into the clearing which surrounds my little home.
My treehouse is at the center of the woods, far from the other living quarters. The house itself wraps around the trunk of one of the oldest trees—a gnarled beech, but you probably wouldn’t eve
n notice it at first glance because it’s covered in moss and tree bark. It’s my own forest refuge.
I fly through the garden below the house to check on my herbs. They don’t get a lot of sunlight here, so I have to give them extra love to help them survive. The beech’s roots serve as handy section dividers between my basil, lemon balm, and spinach. I also grow blackberries, even though they tend to choke out the other plants and their thorns are a pain. But nothing’s better than a blackberry for dessert, so I think they’re worth the hassle.
I also have a little landscaped section with lily of the valley, mushrooms, moss, and…weeds. When I first planted the garden, weeds didn’t last a day if I could help it, but I have grown to appreciate their unruly wildness. It’s nice to have some part of my life not under strict control. I love to sit in my flower garden on the stone bench George carved for me and watch the weedy stems curl around the flowers until the whole thing is a big bed of green and white and purple.
I dig my hand into the rich brown to inspect the soil underneath my basil. It rained last night and everything is still damp. That’s a good sign. I pat one of the beech’s roots.
“Don’t hog all the water,” I whisper before flying up to my porch, which resembles an alien mushroom landing pad. I unlock the door and step inside.
Quiet.
I stand there, listening. I hear nothing but the wind tugging at the branches of my tree. The wood floor rocks with gentle motion under my feet, and I breathe in deeply. The asthma attack has passed, and my lungs feel brand-new.
I wipe my bare feet off on the rug. I rarely ever wear shoes because no one makes decent ones this small. In fact, I sew the majority of my clothes, but I can’t get the shoes right quite yet. Instead, I wear several layers of stockings when it’s cold. Dr. Christiansen says they considered engineering me with insect legs instead of human ones but decided against it in the end. Thank goodness.
The thought of Dr. Christiansen reminds me of the tobacco, and I fling myself onto my couch in frustration. What am I going to do? I’ve had this date planned with Jack for weeks now, and I can’t postpone it. As soon as I step outside the compound the day after my birthday, the press will have my picture, and everyone in the entire world will find out what “Thumbelina” looks like for the first time. Everyone, including Jack.
I run my finger along the edge of the upholstery. The couch is a little overstuffed since it’s actually for dolls, but I can’t complain. George finds collectible doll furniture for me from all sorts of exotic places, even though Dr. Christiansen disapproves. She would prefer I weave my own bed out of grass to increase my survival skills. Too bad for her. The outside of my house might belong in the forest, but the interior is a castle. Silk curtains, handmade rugs, carved wooden furniture. I even have a canopy bed.
I just wish I could show it off or have someone over. Anybody. And not only through the Internet.
At the other end of my living room sits my computer desk and halojector. The halojector is a fancy pair of goggles that allows me to enter virtual online worlds and chat rooms. It can read your facial expressions, and it uses sensors to determine how you would move, walk, talk, etc., without you having to do any of those things in the real world. The result is an almost perfect avatar of yourself. I’m not supposed to have it, but George (once again) came to my rescue when I guilted him into it three years ago. I still remember that conversation.
“But Dr. Christiansen said…” George protested.
“This is the only way I can have friends. Do you want me to not have any friends?”
“I’m your friend.”
“No, you’re like a nice uncle. And you’re old enough to be my dad, so you don’t count.”
“You are going to get me fired one day, Lina.”
“That’s what the Germans would have said in Nazi Germany. Do you want to be like a Nazi?”
That settled it. He adapted a halojector to my scale and even gave me a webcam so I can talk to people with my regular face instead of an avatar if I want.
Right after George installed it, I got involved in Internet games and chat parlors. I experimented with all sorts of different haircuts and skin colors and fashions in order to meet people of all stripes. Sure, their voices still had to come over the speakers and occasionally someone would disconnect and vanish into thin air, but it was the closest I’d come to having real friends my own age.
After a while, I got tired of playing someone so different from myself, so now my avatar is authentically me…sans wings. I started going into chat parlors—big virtual living rooms. Some have themes; some are run-of-the-mill meeting spaces with nothing fancy in terms of decorations. I always find a place along the edge so I can watch the comings and goings. There I wait, stuck closer to the wall than its last coat of paint, and hope someone comes over to strike up a conversation.
That’s how I met Jack one year ago.
He sat sprawled in his chair in a chat parlor, tracing his finger around the rim of a glass. Jet black hair dangled in his eyes and grazed the tops of his tanned cheekbones. He was alone but didn’t seem to be in a hurry to be sociable. A couple of teenaged guys walked past him, gave him high-fives, but didn’t stay long. He was friendly with them but didn’t look desperate to get anyone’s attention.
I started plotting how I could inch my way along the room’s perimeter, but then two girls giggled their way over to him. He smiled and leaned forward with casual interest.
One of them was pretty. Prettier than me, anyway. She had hair to die for—smooth sheets of spun gold. I patted at my frizz ball, but taming it was impossible. Why oh why did I scan in with my real hair?
Those girls laughed and talked too easily, as though they’d popped out of the womb with a bachelor’s degree in flirtation. Goldilocks sat down next to him (really close, practically on his lap) and started working the space between them as though there was a rubber band of desire pulling her close, then easing up, then pulling her toward him again. But he was an immovable object, firmly friendly and unaffected by her advances. He didn’t flirt back the way I’d seen other guys respond.
Goldilocks must have realized her mating display wasn’t getting her anywhere, so she and her friend stood with little waves of farewell. He smiled but didn’t get up.
Then he turned his head and caught me staring at him.
I have never averted my eyes so quickly in all my life. Unfortunately, I also averted my neck in the real world and gave myself a horrible cramp. After massaging the resulting knot for a few painful moments, I worked up the courage to look at him again.
He was hiding his mouth behind his hand, laughter in his eyes. He had totally seen my contortionist impression.
Then he stood up. I’m used to people towering over me, but I couldn’t help noticing how tall he was, even with my adjusted height.
He breached the space between us far too quickly for comfort. I needed time to figure out what do with him, how to meet those eyes without blushing. But there he was, standing in my space, looking at me. Looking at me.
A grin spread across his face, easy as breathing. I didn’t want to look too eager. Then again, I didn’t want to turn him off either. I certainly didn’t want him to go away.
“Hi,” he said. White teeth, crinkling eyes. “You must be Thumbelina.”
The words wrapped around my throat, choking me. How did he know? “What?”
“Thumbelina1847? I really thought I’d guessed it right.”
“Oh. Oh.” I held the relief from my face as much as possible. “How did you figure it out?”
“Well, let’s see here. You don’t look like an ‘aragornnn20’ or a ‘woodchuckman’ or a ‘nosteroids.’ Shall I continue?”
“So which one are you?”
“I’m Jack.”
“Jacknostalk?”
“That’s me.”
“Kinda creepy name.”
“Yeah. I didn’t realize it until it was too late to change it. I should have made it ‘bea
nstalk’ instead. Do you mind if I park my chair here?”
“I guess. Since you left your stalk at home.” Oh, me of little wit.
I slid down along the wall and stared at the floor as he scraped his chair into place.
“I’ve seen you in here before,” he said. How come I’d never noticed him? “You always stay by the wall with this look on your face like you’re thinking really hard about something.”
“Oh.” What could I say to that?
“So where are you from?” he asked.
“Um.” I decided to tell the truth. “Denmark.”
“Really? I don’t think I’ve met anyone from there before. Where is that exactly?”
“Northern Europe, right on top of Germany.”
“Oh, okay. You speak English really well.”
“Thanks. I mean, it’s my first language. One of my moms is American.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Two moms? That’s cool.”
I blurted out a nervous laugh. “No. Not that. I mean, I have step-parents. How about you?”
“No step-parents here. Not anymore, anyway. Just a mom.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, his dark hair scattering from his forehead. “My dad died years ago in the civil war. I live in South Dakota now. On a reservation.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“The reservation isn’t that bad.”
I threw my head back and laughed. My nervousness evaporated when I saw the delighted look on his face.
Jack leaned forward in his chair, his eyes locked on mine. I held my breath and returned his gaze. It was easier than I thought.
“So, Thumbelina, do you have a name?”
“Lina.”
“How old are you?”
Shoot, what if he thought I was too young? “I’m almost fifteen. You?”
“Sixteen. When’s your birthday?”
“In two days.”
There was that gorgeous smile again. “Happy birthday. Any big plans?”
“I really hope not.” Visions of a Dr.-Christiansen-orchestrated-debacle paraded through my mind.
“Not much of a party animal, are you?”
Damselfly Page 2