Mr. Summers smiled back. The two stared at each other. Grown men, up to this point, had never played a significant roll in the McAllister household—Mrs. McAllister wanted it that way. But now that her children were older, it looked as if Mrs. McAllister was on the verge of breaking her own rules.
Fern looked at her twin brother. Sam’s face moved like a revolving sprinkler head between his mother and the stranger in the living room. His eye caught Fern’s. Sam put his index finger down his throat and made an audible gagging sound.
“Are you okay, son?” Mr. Summers had caught the end of Sam’s display of disgust and failed to acknowledge that Sam was mocking him.
“I’m fine,” Sam said. “But I’m not your son.” His voice was full of contempt.
“Sam,” Mrs. McAllister said, “where are your manners? It’s a figure of speech. There’s no need to take things so literally.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem, Mary Lou. I appreciate someone who says what they think.” Mr. Summers extended his hand toward Sam like it was an olive branch. “Sam, I’m Mr. Summers.” Sam took the man’s hand and shook it limply, refusing to look the neighbor in the eye. “Good to meet you,” he said before moving on down the line.
“You must be Fern!” Mr. Summers bent over so he was closer to her eye level.
“You know my name?” she asked warily.
“Eddie mentioned it. Now what’s this I hear about your record on predicting the weather? Is that true?”
Fern looked quizzical. She found it very unlikely that Eddie had told this man about her predictions on the weather.
“I’m pretty good at it,” Fern said.
“Pretty good? I’d say correct forecasts over two years is better than pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Fern said, slightly embarrassed.
“You climb trees, too?”
“Yes,” Fern said.
“Mrs. Atwood down the street works at St. Gregory’s—she says all anyone’s been talking about is your disappearance at school. Do we have a Houdini Jr. in our midst?”
“No,” Fern said as her face turned hot.
“I remember playing hooky once or twice when I was your age.” Mr. Summers smiled and his dimples made him seem perfectly innocuous. He looked up at Mrs. McAllister and winked. “Of course, I’m not encouraging such behavior.”
Fern was now terribly self-conscious. Was she really that much of a topic of conversation? Sam stepped in between Mr. Summers and Fern, rather awkwardly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions, Mr. Summers?” Sam asked with scorn. “Or is it only Fern that you’re interested in?”
Mr. Summers took a step back. Fern thought she recognized a glint of anger in Mr. Summers’s otherwise charming face.
Eddie, still on the couch, jumped up, yelped, and pumped his fist. “Holy . . . awesome!” Kobe Bryant had sunk a long three pointer just as the halftime buzzer sounded.
Mrs. McAllister caught Sam’s eye and raised an eyebrow at him. She would deal with him later. The four of them were still crowded in the doorway.
“Please sit back down, Wallace,” she said. “Sam, why don’t you ask Mr. Summers if he would like something to drink?”
Sam didn’t move an inch. He looked at Mr. Summers as if the two were about to duel.
“Sam? Did you hear me?” Mrs. McAllister said, losing patience by the second.
“Sorry. I thought you told me not to take things so literally.”
Mrs. McAllister zeroed in on Sam and was about to send him to his room for the night when Wallace Summers stepped in.
“No, no, Mary Lou, don’t trouble yourself,” Mr. Summers said, sitting down. “I’ll just watch with Eddie here and let myself out when the game’s over.”
Upstairs, minutes later, Sam was unable to shake his anger at Mr. Summers’s intrusion. Fern, still grounded, had been sent up to her room after her brief encounter with Mr. Summers, and Sam snuck into her room, hoping to discuss the strange arrival. The two were now whispering back and forth.
“You really made Mom mad, Sam. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grounds you or something. She hates it when you get mouthy.”
“I didn’t like all the questions he was asking you. What if he knows you can teleport?” Sam said, sliding their newly discovered word seamlessly into the conversation.
“I thought you said I shouldn’t be worried about people finding out about me teleporting.”
“You shouldn’t worry,” Sam said, folding his arms and sitting in Fern’s rocking chair. “I just don’t like him is all.”
“You’re mad because he has a crush on Mom,” Fern said.
“I don’t care if he wants to marry Mom. He seems nosy.”
“Yeah, a little,” Fern said, thinking of the chilly feeling she’d had when Mr. Summers arrived.
Suddenly, Fern doubled over in pain, clutching her sides. It was her stomach.
“Stomachache, again?” Sam said, unable to hide his alarm. She was having more and more of these lately—
usually right before something significant happened. Though Mrs. McAllister was convinced Fern had a case of irritable bowel syndrome, nothing helped.
Fern, near the point of doing anything to stop the pain, couldn’t move her thoughts from the note she’d received last night. Earlier she’d resolved to keep its contents to herself. But she thought sharing it with Sam might ease the tension in her stomach.
“Look . . . ,” Fern said, concentrating, trying to will the pain away. “Look . . . in my top desk drawer.” Although slightly disappointed in herself, Fern could feel the pressure in her stomach relent.
Fern’s desk, a rolltop she’d inherited from her mother, was cluttered with books and papers. Sam jumped up and retrieved a folded white piece of paper. He unfolded it gingerly, sat back down in the cushioned rocker, and began to read the note aloud.
“‘I know who you are. I want to help. Please meet me at . . .’” Sam’s voice trailed off. “Fern?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who wrote this?” Sam’s eyes were as big as two pickle jar lids.
“I don’t know.” Fern’s words came out slowly.
“When did you get it?”
“It came in through the window last night, after Mom left.”
“I’m coming with you,” Sam said, studying the note. He was determined—Fern could see that.
“Who says I’m going at all?” she asked. Though she was miffed at her inability to keep her own secrets, the shared burden was much easier to bear. If she did go, Sam would be with her every step of the way.
“Maybe it’s Mr. Summers!” Fern said.
“We’d better find out who it is, that’s for sure.”
“I’m not sure I want to know.”
“You have to go. This person says they can help you.”
Sam’s last sentence hung awkwardly between them in the dim light of Fern’s bedroom. Sam, always the protector, was normally very careful to say nothing that indicated his confusion about Fern.
“You think I need help?” Fern could feel the lump in the back of her throat swelling. Her brother’s view of her was no different from the rest of San Juan’s. She was a misfit, through and through.
“You’re different from the rest of us, Fern,” Sam said, pleading.
“I know.” Before she disappeared, none of this had mattered. Now, Fern thought, her difference was the only thing that mattered.
“We need to find out all the information we can. Who knows? Maybe I can learn to disappear, too.”
“What if it’s a hoax? What if it’s a kidnapper—or someone out to get me?”
“If someone wanted to hurt you, instead of chucking a paper airplane through your bedroom window, they’d have come in themselves.”
“You really think we should go?”
“Think about it, Fern. If we don’t find out who this is, we’ll worry about everything and everybody. Even Mr. Summers. We need to get to the bottom of this, whatever happens.”
“I’d better scram before Mom gets wise. I’ll be back at eleven forty-five.” Sam hopped off his sister’s chair, still gripping the note. “I’m going to keep this for now, if you don’t mind.”
“What, are you going to dust it for prints or something?” Fern said, wondering what Sam could possibly do with the note.
“I don’t want you losing it, that’s all. It’s our only clue to who you are.”
Sam’s last sentence stung Fern a little. Being a McAllister wasn’t enough anymore.
Fern couldn’t sleep—not that she expected to. Against her better judgment, she decided to pass the time by reading Lord of the Flies. (She was still a little nervous that somehow she might be transported back to Pirate’s Cove, only this time at night.) Things were not looking good for Piggy, Ralph, and the boys. Jack, who had his eye on Ralph’s position as chief, did not seem trustworthy.
A rustling caused Fern to look up from the book.
Pulling off the covers, she began to get out of bed, but she stepped on something that wasn’t the floor. She stumbled and cried out. She was soon able to see what she had tripped over. Sam had managed to sneak into her room and had crouched beside her bed. He held his head in his hands and grimaced as he stood up.
“What are you doing? I’m not a human step stool!” Sam spoke in a fierce whisper, wondering if his mother had been awakened by Fern’s yelping.
“You scared me half to death, Sam!” Fern whispered back. She took one look at her brother in the faint glow of her reading light and cupped her hand over her mouth to suppress her laughter. “What are you wearing?” Sam stood before her in camouflage pants, a black turtleneck, and a black leather hat with earflaps. He looked like Elmer Fudd on his way to a funeral.
“I’m going to hide while you meet with the note writer. I’ll only come out if I need to, you know, go under cover.”
Fern shook her head in disbelief, forgetting all about the potential danger that awaited her in the grove. Moments like these, when Sam tried his best to take on the role of the strong male protector of the household, cracked Fern up.
“Are you going to wave your earflaps at them if they make trouble?”
“Never mind,” Sam said, annoyed at his sister for belittling his efforts.
The two siblings were silent for a few minutes, letting the situation sink in. Neither had any idea who or what was waiting for them in the grove. Sam hoped it was answers. Fern hoped she wasn’t putting her brother in danger—she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if something happened to him.
“The Commander came in and talked to me about my ‘inappropriate’ behavior with Mr. Summers,” Sam said. “She came down pretty hard on me.”
“You were acting a little psychotic,” Fern said.
“I wasn’t that bad,” Sam said.
“Yeah? You looked like you were ready to bite his hand off.”
“Whatever,” Sam said, feeling a little guilty but trying not to show it. “Hey, is that what you’re wearing?” Sam scrutinized his sister’s outfit. She was wearing flannel pants with clouds all over them and an old Anaheim Angels shirt she’d inherited from Eddie.
“I’m going to put flip-flops on,” she said. Sam walked to her bedroom window and lifted it open. Cool night air rushed into Fern’s room. Her stomach contracted with pain, almost as if the air triggered it. She doubled over.
“You okay?” Sam said.
“Yeah. I’m just looking for my other flip-flop,” Fern said, unwilling to give Sam another reason to worry about her.
Midnight was fast approaching.
“You’re wearing both of your flip-flops, idiot.”
Sam reached out the open window to the jacaranda branch just outside. He swung his skinny legs and feet over the windowsill and fell forward, so he was crouching on the branch with both his legs and arms wrapped around it. The branch let out a slow creak as it bent under Sam’s added weight. Slithering along the branch till he got to the trunk, Sam looked precarious as he made his way down the jacaranda. He slipped down the tree and finally hit the grass with a soft thud.
Fern followed her brother, nimbly crawling from one branch to another. She had climbed up and down this jacaranda for much of her life—scrambling down its maze of branches and trunk was her preferred way of exiting the McAllister house. In the spring, when the tree was in bloom, she’d constantly be told she had bits of tree in her hair. No matter how hard she’d tried, she could never pick out all the lavender blue flowers. She was down in half the time it’d taken Sam.
The Salt and Pepper Twins faced the quiet street. Sam wished he’d thought to bring a flashlight with him. Fern longed for a sweatshirt. Silent, they made their way down to the grove under the flickering orange light of the suburban energy-saving street lamps. Walking quickly, they had reached the corner of Acacia Avenue and La Limonar when the crackling of breaking twigs stopped the twins dead in their tracks. On the left side of the sidewalk, by the McGraw house, a lone cypress tree swayed back and forth. Fern broke into a cold sweat, and even in the sputtering moonlight, she could tell Sam’s face had paled.
The combination of movement and noise could have been any number of things: a coyote, a cat, an escaped pet, a raccoon, even an opossum. But Fern and Sam both thought it was a sure sign of danger.
“Run,” Sam said, in a voice so calm, it seemed less of a command and more of a plea.
“Wait,” said a voice coming from the general vicinity of the cypress tree. It was almost as if the tree itself was speaking. The voice was female and young—the antithesis of dangerous. The cypress tree shook furiously. Soon a mess of arms and legs spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of Fern and Sam. A girl had fallen out of the cypress tree. Fern leaned over the body and could discern a fanned-out mane of black hair and a tall frame. The owner of the voice was lanky, wearing dark jeans and a ribbed blue tank top.
“Wait, wait!” said the tree person, who was out of breath and speaking into the sidewalk. As she got up and brushed various twigs, leaves, thorns, and dirt from her body, she looked up at the twins, standing in front of them for the first time. Her almond-shaped eyes blinked curiously at them; her dark pupils were massive. A thin brow and pointed chin gave her face a delicacy. She had the straightest and glossiest black hair that Fern had ever seen, resting just below her shoulders. Sam and Fern recognized the girl immediately.
“What are you doing here?” Sam stammered, still in shock that this familiar face had cascaded out of the tree.
“Nice to see you too, Sammy!” Her voice was chipper. Fern took in her red lips and round cheeks. All of her features seemed slightly exaggerated, but they came together to give her face sophistication rarely found in thirteen-year-olds. She turned to Fern.
“Fern, I’m Lindsey Lin, and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her tan arm toward Fern. Fern took Lindsey’s hand for her second shake of the night.
“I know who you are,” Fern said.
“I figured, but we’d never been formally introduced. I know Sam, here, because he’s in my math class.”
Anybody at St. Gregory’s would have recognized Lindsey Lin. She was Associated Student Body President for the middle grades, boasted more friends than almost anyone, and was the MVP of the volleyball team three years running. Lindsey Lin wasn’t just popular; she was a social force of nature. She was the kind of girl who could start the fashion of wearing underwear as a hat simply by doing it a few times.
She was also the person Fern and Sam would have guessed they were least likely to find at midnight getting closely acquainted with the inside of a tree on their street corner. Sam, unimpressed with the social icon in front of them, was all business.
“What are you doing here, Lindsey?”
“I was going to go meet you at the grove, but then I decided that we’d just be walking right back to your house, which seemed kind of pointless. I wanted to make sure you were actually going to come. The grove see
med so poetic, you know? But it wasn’t practical and I knew I couldn’t knock on your door, so I picked the tree and waited. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes.” Lindsey caught her breath. Fern had never heard anyone talk so fast.
“You sent the note?” Sam said. Fern detected the anger in his voice. Was this entire thing another prank perpetrated by one of the popular kids trying to get at Fern?
“Of course I sent the note,” Lindsey said. “Why would I be here if I hadn’t sent the note?”
“What did you mean by it?”
“I want to help,” Lindsey said. “I heard Fern’s disappearing story. My parents would kill me if they found out I was here, or I was messing with the ‘balance’ or whatever they call it, but I knew I just had to help. I just know you’re all right—that you’re one of us.” Lindsey’s beautiful smile radiated confidence in the dewy night. She put her hand on Fern’s forearm gently. “I don’t know how you got here, but you’re not the bad kind at all. You couldn’t be. Just look at you!” Lindsey then threw her arms up in the air, as if what she had just said followed normal conversational cues and logic.
“What is the bad kind? And why would your parents kill you?” Sam said.
“My parents are your stereotypical overly protective sorts. It’s a school night,” Lindsey said, waving Sam’s question off. “Look, I don’t have time to explain everything, but you have a dog, right?” Fern thought of Byron’s soft ears and bad breath. The McAllister dog’s specialties included lounging, licking and moping.
“Yeah,” Fern said, wondering how Lindsey Lin knew anything at all about her family. “Byron.”
“Good.” Lindsey said, thinking aloud and talking to nobody in particular. She stepped toward Fern and grabbed both shoulders with her hands. Lindsey’s breath was hot on Fern’s face. Though nearly a head taller, she was staring right into Fern’s eyes.
“You’re wearing contacts, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Fern said.
“What color are your eyes normally?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s looking at them.”
“Are they gray?”
The Otherworldlies Page 6