by Douglas Rees
“I played water polo against these guys,” I said.
“Spare me the jock talk,” Turk said, and parked the car.
She opened the door and walked around to my side of the car.
“Get out,” she said.
“Why?” I said.
Turk shook her head.
“Why did I get all the brains in the family?” she said. “I’m teaching you to drive, Cuz.”
Turk was being nice to me. Amazing. But I wasn’t in the mood to be amazed. I just sat there.
“Why?” I said.
“Because the way you’re feeling right now is the way I feel most of the time,” Turk said. “It’s nice to have company. Even yours.”
I got out and slid in behind the wheel.
When Turk was beside me, she said, “You know gas from clutch?”
I nodded. That was one of the things about driving I already knew.
“Then show me,” she said.
I turned the key. The noisy little engine roared behind us.
“Let the clutch out sloooowly,” Turk said.
I did, but not slowly enough. There was a loud bang-thump, and the car stopped.
I swore.
“No problem,” Turk said. “Do it again.”
Ten or twenty tries and I was beginning to get the hang of it. And no matter how many times I killed that engine, Turk never lost her cool or said anything sarcastic.
“Okay,” she said after I had managed to start and stop the car several times in a row without any mistakes. “That is reverse gear. Put us in it.”
I did, and after three tries I got it right. The car began to move backward. Because I was doing it. Slowly, slowly. I didn’t want to have any more nasty moments involving the clutch.
I did, and we were facing in a whole new direction.
“Now it starts to get interesting,” Turk said. “That is first gear. Put us into first gear and drive us forward. Forward is the opposite of the way we have been going. Turn the wheel so the pointy end of the car goes that way.”
I snickered. If Turk was starting to get razor-tongued again, I must be doing all right.
I ground, bashed, and lurched through the three forward gears, over and over, trying to figure out where the point was where you eased into the next one. Around and around that parking lot for more than an hour.
It didn’t change anything, but it gave me something else to think about. I had to pay attention to that engine, those pedals, that gearshift. Oh, and the steering wheel. The steering wheel was very important.
Turk kept telling me to do this, try that, change what I was doing to something else, but always in her calm, low voice. She had a good voice, really. I’d never noticed it before.
By the end of the lesson, I could go from a cold stop to third gear without jerking, killing the engine, or making the transmission fall out. Driving around the parking lot at twenty-five or thirty miles an hour felt like a NASCAR rally to me. And really, it was the same thing. Just a lot slower.
“Well, Cuz, I think you’ve got it,” Turk said. “Too bad I have to give up my wheels tomorrow. With a little more practice, you could be a real menace to navigation.”
“Thanks, Turk,” I said.
“Whatever,” she said. “Let me take over now.”
We drove back to New Sodom through a night that was so sad and so beautiful I wanted to cry. And the weird thing was, Turk had been right. Nothing had changed. I still had to go back to Vlad knowing that Ileana and Justin wouldn’t talk to me. But right now, driving with Turk beside me, I was in a place where it didn’t matter quite as much. Maybe something had changed a little after all.
17
I don’t know what time it was when I finally got to sleep. All I know is, my phone buzzed way too early.
And it was Gregor.
“Gadje, how did you do this?” he asked. “Even I am a little impressed.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“How did you get Dumpsters delivered overnight, and on a Sunday?”
I didn’t understand. “Look, Gregor. I told you. We’ll try to get the Dumpsters lined up today,” I said. “I’ll call as soon as the places open.”
“You did not do this? Then listen, gadje,” Gregor said. “Last night, Vladimir had the duty to guard the mill. He was flying around and he saw a line of headlights coming down the road. Trucks. One after the other, they drove up to the mill and dropped off these large trash bins and went away. There are a dozen, gadje. Call in sick. Get yourself and your lazy cousin over to the mill. We will meet you in an hour.”
All of a sudden, I wasn’t sleepy anymore. I got up and hauled down Turk’s hatch.
“Turk, get up. Major news,” I said.
Mom forced us to eat something, which took five minutes. Then we roared across town to Crossfield.
Turk went zipping in and out around the other cars like she was daring them to hit her. I felt like calling my mother to say good-bye and thanks for a good life.
When she jerked up in front of the mill, it was just like Gregor had said. Our place was surrounded by Dumpsters.
Gregor was standing in the entrance with Constantin, Ilie, and Vladimir.
“Did you do this?” Turk snapped, slamming the door of the car.
Gregor shook his head. “Gadje, I had nothing to do with these things and you know it,” he said. “If you did not hire them, then we have a true mystery. A boring, stupid mystery, perhaps, but a mystery.”
Turk turned to Vladimir.
“Why didn’t you grab one of the drivers and ask him who was paying him?” she demanded.
“Why?” Vladimir answered. “I thought surely you and Cody must know.”
“Then who the hell did this?” she said. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Because it means somebody we don’t know is involving themselves with our thing,” Turk said. “And we don’t know who they are or what they want.”
There was nothing on the Dumpsters to tell us who owned them. No phone number on the side.
“I think they want us to clean this place up,” I said. “I think we ought to get started.”
“Yes,” Constantin said. “Let us fill these mysteries up, before they perhaps disappear in a puff of smoke.”
He tossed an old machine part into the nearest Dumpster. It clanged like a cracked bell.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Turk said.
But the jenti ignored her, and started filling the Dumpster. All the unnamable stuff we’d thrown out of the building went sailing into the big green containers. Things that it would have taken two men to lift, the jenti tossed overhand.
Gregor started singing in high jenti. The other guys joined in on the chorus. I couldn’t understand more than a few words of it: Blood. Swords. Fangs. Death. And Burgundy.
Burgundy, over and over.
“Well, come on,” I said. “They can’t do all the work.” But Turk stalked off with her arms wrapped around herself. We didn’t see her again until half the Dumpsters were filled.
She came out of the mill with her cell phone and said, “There are three places in town that rent Dumpsters. I called them all. None of them had a contract to do this. So where the hell are they from? And who the hell is paying for them?”
Gregor said something in jenti. The others laughed.
“What?” Turk said.
“He said, ‘She must drink the blood of angels.’ I think,” I said. “But I don’t know what that means, exactly.”
“It means you think you are too good to accept good fortune,” Gregor said. “Real blood would not be good enough for you. You must have that which does not exist.”
“What I want is to know what’s going on,” Turk said.
“I have an idea,” Vladimir said. “Do not go home, gadje girl. Stay here until the mysterious trucks come and remove the containers. Then jump out and capture them all.”
“Maybe I will,” Turk said.
Constantin and Ilie didn’t say anything. They just moved on to the next Dumpster and started filling it.
When we were done, the land around the mill was clean, and there were two empty Dumpsters left over.
We’d beaten the town. Or whoever in town wanted us out of here.
But I didn’t feel like a winner. I was totally wasted, worn, and beaten. I had put a lot into this work, trying not to think about Ileana and Justin. I guess it had worked. Right now, I couldn’t think about anything except how tired I was.
Even the jenti were wiped.
“Gregor, is this enough?” Constantin panted.
“Yes,” Gregor said. Then to Turk he said, “What next, gadje?”
“We need heat and light,” I said wearily. “And I don’t know yet how we’re going to get them.”
We all looked toward the sound of a car coming closer. It had an old-fashioned engine that made almost as much noise as Turk’s VW, but sounded infinitely classier. A low, elegant car that looked a little like a canoe with headlights pulled up in front.
Only one person in town had a 1923 Hispano-Suiza, and she got out and strode over to us with a swing of her long hair that every boy at Vlad knew. But what was a science teacher doing here?
“So, it is true.” Ms. Vukovitch smiled. “There are still pioneers in New Sodom. How’s it going with the homestead?”
“We’re getting there,” I said.
“I tell you why I came,” Ms. Vukovitch said. “I hear from somewhere that this old place has the original power plant. Is that so?”
“It sure looks original,” I said.
“I have some students. They need a senior project. I hear you’re doing this, and I think, ‘Vukovitch, maybe restoring an old power plant is hard enough to qualify.’ Can I see it?”
“Wait a minute,” Turk said. “You do know you’re in Crossfield, right?”
Ms. Vukovitch waved her hand and waltzed back to her car. She pulled out a couple of flashlights and handed them to us.
We all went down to the basement and spent the next half hour listening to Ms. Vukovitch practically singing about how great the power plant was.
“My God, what turbines. Built to last a hundred years. And practically mint condition. Old, but also very good. Of course, the wiring needs to be brought up to code. But any idiot can do that. In fact, I have just the idiots. We get this system working again, modernize lighting, throw in redesign of heating plant to make a green building out of it—worth an A or two, maybe. What do you think? When can we start?”
“Who’s going to pay for it?” Turk asked.
“The richest school in the state,” Ms. Vukovitch said. “I’ve got a huge budget for senior projects.”
“What’s your budget for Dumpsters like?” Turk asked.
“What?” Ms. Vukovitch sounded confused.
“Never mind,” Turk said. “You can start as soon as you want.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Ms. Vukovitch said. “Me and a few of the boys will come out and see what we need to get started.”
The sun was setting when we came back out. Ms. Vukovitch’s Hispano-Suiza bounded away toward the river. The jenti spread their wings and flapped them slowly, flying away from town, except for Ilie, who stationed himself on the roof.
Turk and I got into her car.
“Do you believe that story Vukovitch gave us about the school paying for everything? I sure as hell don’t,” Turk said.
“Why not?” I said. “Vlad has plenty of money.”
“Maybe. But why did she just show up, two seconds after school was over for the day? How did she know anybody was going to be here? Why is she offering us help at all? This is Crossfield, damn it. The Great Unmentionable.”
“Yeah,” I said. If I hadn’t been so tired and sad, I might have thought of that myself.
“I feel like I’m part of somebody else’s game,” Turk said. “But what game, and what are the rules? And what’s the prize?”
I looked back over my shoulder at our mill and its necklace of Dumpsters. It looked a little like Stonehenge, or what I thought Stonehenge might look like if it had been made of large trash containers.
It was a mystery, all right. But maybe it meant somebody was on our side.
18
Tuesday, when I saw Ileana at Vlad, I handed back the books she’d loaned me.
“Thanks,” I said. “I really liked them.”
“You are welcome. I am glad,” she said, and took them and went on down the hall.
I could hear the Rustle starting around me.
Cody Elliot and our princess are fighting.
What is it about? The cousin?
No. This is something else. But the cousin is part of it.
And Justin Warrener?
He is part of it.
Okay, I was imagining the words. But it was real.
Rustle, Rustle, Rustle.
I didn’t see Justin. He was absent, which was strange because he was never absent. But it was just as well. Parting from Ileana was hard enough.
I hurt like I had never hurt before. And the day sped by like a rock rolling uphill.
One good thing did happen. After school, we met the guy from code enforcement out at the mill.
Turk and I were waiting when he drove up.
He took a look around and said, “Man, how did you kids do all this?”
“Never mind,” Turk said. “We did it. So certify us, or whatever you do.”
“Well,” the guy said, “I’m not sure I can. The Dumpsters are still here.”
I raised my hand over my head.
From up on the roof of the mill where they had been lying, Gregor, Constantin, Ilie, and Vladimir came spiraling down. Ms. Vukovitch, who had been watching from inside the mill, came out with six big seniors.
Vladimir and Ilie leaned on the guy’s car. Gregor came over to us.
“Everything is fine now, yes?” he asked me.
“He thinks the Dumpsters might be a problem,” I said. “But he’s not sure.”
“Oh, I can let it go for now,” he said. “Let the guys downtown sort it out.”
“It is sorted out,” Gregor said. “It is sorted into the Dumpsters, yes? What more is there to sort?”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” the guy said. “I’ll just sign off on it. I mean, you’re not going to keep the Dumpsters, are you?”
“Not even one,” I said.
The guy scribbled his name on a certificate of compliance that looked like it had been printed in 1890, and got out of there.
We all waved.
“Score one for the homesteaders,” Ms. Vukovitch said. “Back to work, guys.”
The Dumpsters disappeared that night.
So the settlers had stood off two attacks now, and I should have at least been happy about that, right? Right. But then, the next day, I saw Justin and got my guts kicked in again.
He was walking down the hall talking to Ileana. His right hand was bandaged.
As they passed me, I heard him say, “Yeah. Burned it over the weekend, camping. With the Mercians. Stupid of me.”
I was pretty sure those words were for me. And I was even more sure that they were a lie. Justin camping was about as likely as me singing grand opera. And I had a sickening feeling that I knew exactly where, and how, he’d really burned his hand.
“You’re right,” I said to his back. “You don’t know how stupid.”
Justin didn’t seem to have heard.
At least the work on the mill was going ahead. Ms. Vukovitch and her seniors treated the old turbines and generator like they were a work of art they were restoring. And when they had them running again, they replaced every rat-eaten, rubber-covered, hundred-year-old conduit in the place with new wiring, and ran extra lines for all the new features.
“What’s down in that generator room was built to run big, inefficient machines,” Ms. Vukovitch told me and Turk when we went by to help. “We’re going to have extra power to
burn.”
They modernized the heating system, too. The old place would never be a very green building, but from somewhere came triple-paned windows and insulation for the attics.
Meanwhile, Turk, Gregor, Ilie, Constantin, Vladimir, and yours truly did all kinds of stuff. My hands stung from feathery little fiberglass cuts. My eyes were red from sawdust and cleaning chemicals. I was wiped when I fell into bed each night, and I barely thought about my schoolwork. But the building was coming to life under our hands. I clung to that.
But homework was homework, whether I did it or not.
Friday night, when I would normally have been doing something with Ileana, I was up in my room staring at the science assignment that was due last Wednesday. It was a Vlad classic.
Compare and contrast the anatomy of the modern cod with that of the bony fishes of the late Devonian period. In part one of your answer, confine yourself to a detailed analysis of jaws and skulls. In the second part, speculate intelligently on what might be deduced about the soft anatomy of the Devonian species from the modern examples. 2,500 words.
I knew what the words meant. But as far as doing anything about them went, they might as well have been in Babylonian.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Justin and Ileana. Literally could not stop. Even when I was working at the mill, my mind kept running over what they had said, remembering Justin’s burned hand. The world was a gray, hollow place without them, and there was nothing that would help that. Plus, they’d always been there to help me with the impossible assignments that made Vlad the toughest school in the known universe. And now there was no one.
I was giving serious thought to jumping out the window when there was a scratching at my door.
“Beat it, Turk,” I said.
But the scratching went on.
Finally, I got up from my desk, went over to my door, and jerked it open.
“Leave me alone,” I said.
Turk was standing there with two hot mochas in one hand and her laptop under her arm.
“Want to do homework?” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “Me neither.” And she came in.
She looked at my science assignment.