Before he could say anything, Imogen sighed like she had just eaten the best piece of cake ever. “Isn’t this the best, Charlie? Mom’s cooking. Scrabble after dinner. Scavenger hunts. This is what I wanted: us all together again.”
Charlie looked around and lowered his voice. “Something about this place is off. Did you see the pictures in the hall? Dad’s not in any of them.”
Imogen pursed her lips and shook her head. “No way. You must have missed him.”
“Missed Dad? In every single picture? I don’t think so.” How could Imogen even think that?
Charlie continued, “And the pictures of us are strange, too. Like parts of us are being erased.”
“I think you’re seeing things.” Imogen had an answer for everything. His words weren’t getting through. She wasn’t listening.
“And did you see the kind of weird looks that Mom’s been giving me? I think she knows that I suspect something.”
“Well, you didn’t look very happy about hugging her before,” Imogen replied. “What’s wrong with you? Mom is back and it’s the greatest thing ever.”
Charlie glanced at the door again. Still no Mom. “Maybe if you take everything alone it doesn’t add up to much, but together, don’t you think it’s kind of weird? She cooks for us, but she hasn’t eaten with us. Not a single bite.”
“She ate beforehand.”
Charlie focused on the scratchiness of the carpet underneath his palms and the way the letter tiles lined up just so on the little wooden game racks. “You’re different now. Up there. Down here. Something’s changed.” His voice gained momentum. “And you put all that with the pictures and the looks and the fact that we traveled through a hole in your bedroom floor to get to an alternate world or whatever where Mom is alive . . .”
At this point, Charlie felt like he was going to erupt. He took a deep breath to settle his heart, which threatened to thump out of his chest. “I just think something’s wrong down here.”
Imogen’s lip trembled. “No, you’re wrong, Charlie! You are wrong. Mom is here, and things are better than I even remember. They’re perfect. It’s like Mom never even went away.”
“But she—” Charlie said softly.
Imogen shook her head as if to block out his voice, and then looked at him, her eyes burning. “Don’t ruin this,” she practically spat. “This is all I’ve wanted!”
Charlie knew, now, that he had gone too far. He shouldn’t have told Imogen everything at once. He should have broken it to her better. He could have shown her the pictures in the hall, made her see. Maybe that was why Mom had been so insistent—she didn’t want Imogen looking around.
But instead, Imogen sat on the floor, arms crossed over her chest.
He heard a noise behind him; he turned to look. Mom stood in the doorway. Charlie felt his insides deflate like the air being released from a balloon in one giant whoosh. How much had Mom heard?
“I’ve found one!” Mom crowed, waving a pencil in the air. She sat back down on the carpet. “Ooh, and I’ve got a word, too.”
“M-O-T-H-E-R,” she said, using the last of her tiles. “Eleven points. And a triple word score!”
“Yay, Mom!” Imogen cheered, shooting one last glance at Charlie. She added up the scores on the notepad, then subtracted out the tiles she and Charlie still had left. “And you have the highest score!”
“I win!” Mom said, a satisfied smile on her face.
OUT OF BALANCE
Someone was shaking Charlie’s shoulder. “Charlie, Charlie, wake up.”
Charlie rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the figure before him coming into focus. “Dad, what are you doing in here?” He squinted at the clock on his nightstand and rolled back over. “It’s midnight.”
“It’s noon.” Dad pulled up the blinds on the windows, allowing sunlight to stream into the room. It made Charlie’s eyes hurt. “You and Imogen both—what’s gotten into you? Do you feel okay?”
Dad leaned over and put his hand on Charlie’s forehead, just like Mom used to.
“No fever,” Dad said. “Maybe I should call Dr. Tortora, just in case.”
“We’re fine,” Charlie said, pasting on a smile even though it hurt to do so. “Just a long week.” Under the blanket, he wriggled his fingers and toes. Then his arms and his legs. They were heavy and hard to lift, like they had been filled with sand.
“All right.” Dad scrunched up his forehead. Charlie recognized the look. He had seen it a lot on Dad’s face when Mom was sick: he was worried. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.” A lump formed at the back of Charlie’s throat. He nodded.
“I’ve got to get a little work done today. But there’s some leftover pizza in the fridge that you guys could split.” He paused. “I’ll try not to be gone too long.” Charlie nodded again. He didn’t trust his voice. He tried to push the thought of Dad eating alone in front of the TV out of his mind.
Charlie listened until he heard the garage door close and leaned back on his pillow with a groan. Again his head felt like someone had been playing very loud drum music in his ears all night. He tried to keep his head very still as he turned over on his side. When he did, a paper crinkled underneath him. Moving very slowly, he pulled it out, unfolded it, and smoothed out the wrinkles. It was dated with yesterday’s date and a time: 5:20 p.m.
SCRABBLE WITH MOM
• At hospital.
• Camping trip. Raccoon attack—lost X tile.
• Friday nights with pizza.
It was Charlie’s handwriting. He remembered writing it and tucking it into the pocket of his jeans—the jeans he was still wearing—before they went down the hatch last night. Imogen had told him to hurry up, so the last two were sort of scrawled, but he could still read them.
But it might as well have been someone else who wrote them, because he couldn’t remember any of those times. What he held in his hand now, though, was proof. Before, when he had talked to Elliott about the spaghetti, he had suspected things, but it was hard to prove you were losing your memories when you couldn’t remember what they were in the first place. This piece of paper, though, proved it.
Maybe Imogen would believe him now.
Charlie’s stomach rumbled. He shoved on some slippers, padded into the kitchen, and pulled the pizza box out of the fridge. He didn’t bother heating it up and jumped up on the counter stool. The answering machine light blinked; taking a bite, he pushed the button.
“Hey, Charlie—it’s Rohan. Where are you? We’re at school waiting for you. Remember we were supposed to practice today. Mathletes? Mr. Spencer even brought doughnuts. I’ve had seven so far. Get here when you can. We need you.”
Charlie’s heart sank right down to the bottom of the soles of his feet. He had missed the extra practice. He forgot and slept right through it. He remembered talking to Rohan about it last Tuesday. Mr. Spencer had set it up special; it was the only day he could get the gym. The team was going to do a practice round on the stage with buzzers and everything.
The machine continued playing. “Where are you, Charlie?”
It was Miranda, and she sounded mad.
“You’re already twenty minutes late. Rohan ate all the glazed doughnuts and only left me jelly filled. I know that’s not your fault, but it kind of feels like it is.”
There was a scuffle at the other end and a yelp. Then June came on.
“If you don’t come soon, you won’t get a say in the T-shirts.”
Miranda yelled in the background. “Good! He doesn’t deserve one.”
The call ended. There were no more messages.
Charlie thought about throwing on a clean shirt and riding his bike up to school, but glancing at the clock, he realized they were done an hour or so ago. So instead, he opened the trash can and threw the rest of his pizza away. He had lost his appetite.
Mom had said that you could only be in one place at a time—this world or the other. But Charlie was finding that wasn’t exactly true. The worlds seemed to
be spilling out into each other, mixing together and making a giant mess of both.
THE ROTATION OF THE EARTH
Time began to blend together for Charlie. One hour into the next. Sunday night, Dad didn’t ask if they wanted to have dinner together, which made Charlie want to rewind time and say yes to Dad’s pizza. And actually show up at Mathletes practice so he didn’t feel like he was letting himself and everyone else down.
Instead, he and Imogen went down to see Mom again. They had a dance party in the middle of the living room and started on a five-hundred-piece puzzle of the Golden Gate Bridge and ate ice cream sundaes complete with rainbow sprinkles. They talked about things they had done in the past, too. Mom loved hearing about their old times together, she said.
Charlie started to keep a list of memories he was losing on a sheet of loose-leaf. He found himself studying these instead of the invertebrates, thinking that maybe if he closed his eyes a little tighter, he might be able to force the memories out.
It didn’t work.
What it did do was make Charlie late to school. Dad had pounded on his door and Imogen’s around eight thirty Monday morning, saying, “You’re late for school, you’re late for school!” like he was some kind of town crier that Charlie had read about in his social studies textbook.
With five minutes to get ready, Charlie splashed some water on his face in the bathroom to try to wake up. He splattered some on the mirror, and when he went to wipe it off, he really looked at himself for the first time since this all began.
What he saw made him jump back and then look harder.
He looked like Imogen had the morning of her birthday, after she’d seen Mom for the first time—hair askew, kind of vacant look, puffy face, bruised eyes.
He looked like Frank before he disappeared.
Charlie made it to school just as the second-period bell rang. Dad had dropped them both off—Imogen first and Charlie second. Right as he was getting out of the car, Dad grabbed his arm. “Are you sure everything’s okay? Is it school? Your friends?”
Charlie just shook his head. “I’m good. Thanks for the ride.” In response, Dad held on to him a second or two longer.
At his locker, Charlie opened his book bag to unpack his stuff and groaned. In his hurry that morning, he had totally forgotten to pack his lunch. And Dad hadn’t given him any money to buy something in the cafeteria. The wrong kind of bread tasted better than nothing at all.
He rested his head on the cool metal of the locker, resisting the urge to smash his fist into it. Then came a gentle touch on his shoulder.
“Charlie!”
He turned. A flush-faced Elliott stood in front of him.
“I called you last night—after I got home from the campout. I wanted to see if you wanted to study for our science test.”
Charlie’s stomach began to churn—a mixture of hunger and the anxious feeling that this day was going to be full of these moments.
“Did you get my message?”
He shook his head.
“I was calling your name all the way down the hall. It was like you didn’t hear me. In the zone, I guess, or something.” She laughed, but her voice was strained. Concern washed over her face. She reached out and put her hand against his forehead. “Are you sick or something? You look kind of terrible right now.”
If only she knew. He looked terrible. He felt terrible. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. He shook his head. “I’m okay.”
He wasn’t.
“Umm.” She tilted her head to the side, waiting. When it became clear that Charlie wasn’t going to say anything else, she continued, “So I ran into Dr. Miller in the hallway this morning before homeroom, and remember how I said that the balloons weren’t as bad as the grief picnic?”
Charlie nodded.
“Well, we’re going to release the balloons at a grief picnic. In Tiny Meadows. On Friday.”
Charlie started to shake his head, but Elliott kept talking.
“And I know grief group’s not really your thing. And that’s okay, but there’ll be hot dogs and hamburgers and I know you really like those—that’s a plus, right? And if you have food in your mouth, you won’t have to talk. So there’s that.” Elliott looked at her shoes. “I’d also like it if you were there.”
Almost every part of Charlie wanted to say no. He didn’t want the talking about your feelings or the thinking about your feelings or really anything to do with feelings—even if they did come with cookout food.
He raked his hands through his hair and let out a breath.
Elliott took a step back. “Did I say something wrong? I mean, if you don’t want to go, that’s okay—”
“Oh no, no,” Charlie said. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t know—I’ll go.”
“Really?”
Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, it will be fun, right?”
Elliott broke into a giant grin. “Great! Oh and Dr. Miller wanted us to partner up for things—you know decorations, food, activities. . . .”
Charlie groaned inwardly. He hadn’t known there was work involved. Besides, if the balloon thing was any indication, the activities at the picnic were going to be lame.
“And I told her I’d be your partner. You know, if you were coming.” She paused for a beat as if gauging how to finish her thought. “I volunteered us for decorations! I have extra paint and stuff from Pep Squad. So I thought we could meet tonight and plan. My house at seven, okay?”
Charlie nodded, mentally thinking about how he could stall Imogen for a few hours. He didn’t want her going down to visit Mom alone.
Elliott glanced at the clock on the wall. “Ooh. I have to go. We have an emergency Science Olympiad meeting. You know scientists. I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’ll be there.” It was as much a promise to Elliott as it was to himself.
For Charlie it was as if the rotation of the earth had picked up speed and he was losing his grip—on Dad, on Imogen, on Mathletes, on everything he loved. One false move, one little slip, and Charlie felt he’d lose his balance and go flying out into space. And he couldn’t help but think that the one difference, the one change, was seeing Mom again.
BAD TO WORSE
Every time Charlie sat down in science, June would turn around before class and say, “Did you know . . .” followed by some crazy, almost unbelievable fact about things like wombat mating rituals or the strength of human hair. June remembered most everything she heard, which was why she was so great on Mathletes and on Science Olympiad with Elliott.
But it also meant she didn’t forget things easily. Or forgive. Which was why, Charlie guessed, she didn’t turn around that Monday.
“Did you know . . . ,” Charlie began to the back of June’s hair. She leaned back slightly. He could tell she was listening. “. . . that I really did forget about Mathletes? And I’m really sorry.”
June turned around and peered at him through her large, dark-framed glasses. On anyone else, they would have looked ridiculous, but June made them look really cool. “Okay, I believe you,” she said. “But you still didn’t get a vote on shirts.”
“What did you pick?” he asked.
“Miranda’s idea,” she said. “And I got to pick the color—orange. So Rohan’s pretty upset—about you and the shirts.”
Charlie winced. “Thanks for the heads-up.” He had already guessed that based on the messages and also the fact that he hadn’t called Rohan back last night at all to explain. Because he had been with Mom.
June scanned him up and down. “You look awful, by the way. No offense.”
“None taken, I guess.”
“Maybe you aren’t getting enough sleep,” she said. “Did you know that you need at least eight and a half hours a night? That’s what I tell my auntie at least when she tries to wake me up at seven. Science, right?”
Charlie stifled the urge to laugh because if he started, he wasn’t sure that he would stop. Eight and a half
hours a night? Right now, he was averaging about three.
The bell rang and Mrs. Looper flicked the lights on and off. June turned back around.
“All right, scientists,” she said. “Ready or not, and you better be ready—” She scanned the class, her eyes squinted. Charlie was pretty sure they settled on him. But maybe he was just feeling guilty. “We’re taking our science test. Pencils out, books and papers away, you have forty-five minutes. Take your time, check your work, et cetera, et cetera.”
Mrs. Looper handed a pile of tests out to each row. June handed him one over her shoulder, and he began to skim. With every question he read, his heart beat faster, faster. The words blurred in front of his eyes. Sure there were a few he could answer from paying attention in class, but for most of these, he only had guesses.
At the end of forty-five minutes, Charlie stared at his test. He had never done this terribly. It wasn’t the kind of fake terrible where he’d tell Miranda he’d done awful on the math test and then get an A. This was legitimate failing. He had only answered ten questions and hadn’t even done any of the extended responses.
When he handed the test to Mrs. Looper, she kind of shook her head and put her hand on his back. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, Charlie,” she said, and moved down the row.
Charlie wasn’t sure how this day could get any worse.
Charlie knew he needed to talk to Rohan, but he couldn’t hang around at the end of the day. He had to get Imogen from play practice. When he opened the gym door to her school, though, he saw another girl he didn’t recognize in Imogen’s ruby slippers. He watched for a moment; the new Dorothy stumbled around the stage, missing lines and speaking out of turn. Charlie sighed. He didn’t even stop to ask Mrs. Talley where Imogen was. He knew. She had quit the play, just like she said she was going to. He stepped back out into the cool autumn air and closed the door behind him.
Imogen was lying on her bed when he got home.
She didn’t move when he opened her door and stepped into her room.
“Imogen?” he said, taking another step toward her. Her bed was still pushed to the side from the first time Charlie had moved it, and the door to the hatch was open, waiting. Even though he had so many uncertainties about Mom and that other world, he was still drawn to it.
The Remarkable Journey of Charlie Price Page 8