The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2

by Ken Brosky

  “I hear he was totally pranking us,” said a senior named Gustav. He laughed briskly. “He totally got me! I bought into it hook, line and sinker.”

  Everyone was curious, even the teachers. During first period, a few people in my Genetics class said they’d seen him walking. I still didn’t believe them. No one did. It really did seem like some kind of cruel prank. Ms. Rome hushed them up, desperate to keep us focused on Y chromosomes.

  In U.S. History, even more students confirmed the bizarre news. Paige Smith, who had first period Algebra with him, said he was “totally, like, totally seriously” walking around. I think that meant she was pretty confident in her assertion.

  Mr. Feinman wasn’t convinced, wandering around the room with his arms crossed as we worked in groups. Our room hardly looked like a room at all anymore because of all the posters we’d created on various topics. We were putting on a play this week in small groups, acting out the War of 1812. It was insane, awesome, and even the kids in the back who slept were getting into it.

  But before we could act out our plays, we needed to rehearse. And we couldn’t get any rehearsing done when everyone couldn’t stop speculating about Chase.

  During fencing practice, we all waited with bated breath. Even Mr. Whitmann had heard the rumors and seemed on edge.

  “It has to be some kind of new surgery,” said Jasmine.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Aaron stated. “He wasn’t walking yesterday.”

  “It’s probably some kind of brace,” said Max, setting two fencing foils on the rubber mat. “My brother got braces for his knees and now he can play soccer again. Totally couldn’t do it without the braces, though.”

  It all seemed unlikely.

  As if on cue, Chase walked in. My mouth nearly dropped to the floor. Everyone stared for a moment. Then the boys started cheering. The girls clapped pleasantly. I couldn’t believe it. He was wearing old patchy jeans and his Washington High baseball jersey—vintage Chase, the kind of outfit only Chase could pull off. He was smiling, practically beaming, as he strode into the weight room.

  “What?” he asked with a broad smile. “You didn’t really think I’d never walk again, did you?”

  “I was pretty convinced,” mumbled Mr. Whitmann. He tapped his clipboard. “Well! Are you joining the fencing team or what, Chase?”

  Chase shook his head, still smiling. “Sorry, Mr. Whitmann. I’ve got a baseball team to lead to the playoffs.”

  More cheering from the boys. I was standing half on the mat, watching the way Chase shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He was hesitant, testing, as if he didn’t fully believe it either.

  “Well, I’d still love to have you on as assistant coach,” Mr. Whitmann announced, and the boys cheered their approval. “Lord knows you’ve been a great help so far.”

  Chase nodded. “I’ll think about it, sir. Right now, I need to take some swings in the batting cages.”

  And with that, he was gone. Needless to say, I didn’t win any of my matches.

  In the lunchroom, I sat with Rachel and Clyde, neither of whom seemed particularly concerned about whether Chase was walking or not. They’d brought their robot game again, and this time they let me have one of the stronger and more complicated robots. I was becoming a bit of a professional when it came to robot attacks.

  “Have you given any thought to joining the fencing team?” I asked Rachel.

  Clyde chuckled. “Oh, she totally has, man.”

  “Ignore him.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “I said I might. That’s all.”

  “I’m on Alice’s side,” Clyde announced, raising his eyebrows above the top of his black sunglasses. “Anything is better than gym. They’ve got us playing badminton, man! My grandma’s the only person in my family who knows the rules to that game, and you know grandparents are pretty lame.”

  “Hey, that was a good rhyme,” Rachel said.

  Clyde looked at me. I nodded. He crossed his arms and smiled in satisfaction.

  Everyone in the lunchroom began cheering. I turned in my chair, watching Chase walk in. He grabbed himself a burger and milk, tossing a five-dollar bill to the cashier and walking away without change. He plopped himself in a seat beside his baseball buddies.

  I watched him, anxious for some kind of affirmation. I got it, finally, after a handful of tense breaths.

  Our eyes met. He gave me a curt nod, then turned away.

  Total bummer, as Clyde might say.

  I hung out in the library a little longer than usual that afternoon, sure Briar would show up. But the library was empty all afternoon, not even the click-clicking of the computer keyboards to break the silence. Fran had a cold, and each of her sneezes sent a jolt through my body. I was on edge. I needed Briar’s help to straighten all of this out.

  As I walked home, realizing I hadn’t exercised in days, I felt more than a little lost.

  The dream that night didn’t help things. I was back on the very same ship, only instead of crashing waves and shadowy sailors moving frantically from sail to sail, the deck was empty save for the man with the stringy long hair who’d spoken to me the previous night. The sails were tied tightly to the masts. I looked over the bulwark: the water below was calm.

  I could feel the wooden deck shift beneath my feet. My stomach lurched as the ship listed softly from side to side. I could control myself so much easier than I ever had when I was wandering through the orphanage of doom. I felt like I was really there, not just in “ghost form.”

  “Ain’t no sailing tonight, lass,” said the man. He reached down, struck a match to his boot, then lit a fat white candle sitting on the bulwark railing. “Tonight, the boys sleep while the captain makes his plans.”

  “Plans for what?” I asked. I could hear my voice. What was happening?

  “He wants the fish,” the man said.

  “What fish?”

  “The one that got away.” In the candlelight, I could see the man’s face more clearly. He looked about as old as my dad, and his skin had begun to sag along his jaw line. His lips seemed incapable of closing around his rotted teeth and so his mouth hung open even when he wasn’t talking. Each breath went in with a wheeze and came out with a groan.

  But still the shadows clung to his skin, fighting desperately with the candle’s light so that the man’s features seemed alive, always changing.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The man snorted. “Nobody’s asked me that for a long, long time. Call me Ishmael. That was my name long ago. Now I’m just a sailor aboard the Leviathan.”

  “Leviathan?”

  The man smiled. “Every good ship’s got a name, girl. And there’s no better ship than the Leviathan.”

  There came a crash from the rear section of the ship—the aft, as it was called. Through the single circular window beside the wooden door of the cabin, I could see someone had a lamp of some sort lit. A shadow passed over the light; the sailor beside me grunted.

  “Captain’s not in a good mood. He wants his fish.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. He don’t say. It’s not for us to know. We’re just his crew. But we’re all hoping he finds it.” He looked up, watching a cloud pass over the moon. The light in the cabin window went out. The entire ship seemed to go dark, save for the dancing candle flame. Ishmael sighed. “Perhaps if the captain finds his prey … he will release us from this hell.”

  A cold wind blew over the ship, snuffing out the flame. I felt the skin on my neck grow cold. I was thankful I’d put on my heavy wool pajamas for bed.

  “Tell me about the captain,” I said, remembering Briar’s voice in my head: details!

  But the sailor simply shook his head. He turned to me and the clouds above parted. His eyes reflected the moonlight. Each of his breaths came out in raspy coughs, as if the shadows clinging to him were choking the very life from his body.

  “Please,” I urged. “Tell me about the captain. Tell me a sto
ry about him.”

  “A story?” The man choked out a laugh. He walked toward the foremast. I followed him, taking a cord of thick rope when he held it out. We were under the massive sails of the foremast, which were still. Water gently splashing against the hull was the only sound to break the silence. Without anyone else walking safely across the rotted wooden planks making up the deck, I felt as if I might crash through the floor with any step.

  “Tie a knot,” he said.

  “Oh. Um, OK.” I held the end of rope, bending it with my fingers. “Like, if I were tying my shoe or something?”

  The man sighed. “Tie a zeppelin bend.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  He raised one eyebrow. The shadows on his face reacted, as if surprised by the muscle movement. “Like this,” he said, grabbing the end of another rope and setting both on the wooden dock. It was hard to see with just the moonlight overhead, but as he formed a bend in each rope and then slipped them around each other, it was clear he was tying the two together.

  “A zeppelin bend,” he said, standing up. “If you’re going to be part of our crew, you’ll need to learn how to tie knots.”

  “I’m not part of your crew,” I said.

  “Then why are you here?” When I didn’t respond, he grabbed another cord of rope that was hanging from the mast and began tying an even more complex knot with practiced ease. “Lass, the captain don’t take stragglers. And he don’t give back. When the curse takes you over, you leave the old world behind. All that’s left in your soul is the captain’s obsession.”

  “Who is he?” I asked, kneeling down beside him as he began working his fingers through one of the massive black nets that were spread out beyond the foremast.

  “Don’t got no name,” the man said. His fingers worked meticulously around each square of the net, checking for damage. “That’s what he prefers. Silence. Obscurity. He told us once …” He took a deep, raspy breath, shaking his head. “He told us once that the Leviathan had been boarded by pirates off the coast of South America. It was night, when the Leviathan travels fastest. But the crew had killed a sperm whale just a day prior and its hold was full. Full of guts. Full of blubber. Full of meat. Full of spermaceti. It was a pirate’s dream.

  “They boarded easily enough. The captain let them, knowing with the hold full the Leviathan wouldn’t be able to escape. It was a bloody fight. Two dozen pirates, dead. Not a single crew member from the Leviathan worse for wear.”

  “How?” I asked, feeling a chill run down my spine.

  The man wiped sweat from his forehead. The shadows seemed to slip away, too, then just as quickly resumed their embrace. “The curse’s shadows protect us. Two dozen pirates wielding flintlocks—”

  “Flintlocks?”

  “Pistols that used black powder. All of the pirates had a least one. And a cutlass, their favorite close-combat weapon. The captain claims he took a dozen bullets. That was when the pirates realized they’d boarded the wrong ship. They tried to escape but the captain and his sailors followed them onto their ship, cutting down all who remained. No one was spared, not even the deckhands. In the hold were valuables of all kinds: clothes, money, silver, trinkets … the captain took none of it. He sank the pirates’ ship and took the Leviathan east. He could hear the fish’s song somewhere far, far away.”

  The fish’s song. That was something. A detail that seemed important.

  “You have to tell me more,” I urged. “And then you need to get off this ship and as far away from this weirdo as possible. I’m not stupid. I can see how different you are from the others. The shadows … they haven’t …”

  Ishmael shook his head sadly. His fingers clutched the netting. “I’m sorry, lass. The curse has already consumed me.” He looked at me with sad, gray eyes. Slowly, the shadows consumed them too.

  I woke up with a start. My alarm seemed louder than usual and I smacked it hard to shut it off. My head hurt. The early morning sun coming in through the windows seemed to burn my eyes. As if …

  As if they’d been used to the darkness.

  “Not a dream,” I whispered, surprised to hear my own voice. I looked around. Still no Briar. Where was he? I was still the hero, right? I hadn’t made my wish. The fish had escaped, or Briar had taken him …

  “Or was it Chase?” I wondered, going to my closet to find my favorite pair of jeans. I needed to talk to Chase. I needed answers.

  In the halls at school, all anyone could talk about was Chase’s “miracle.” There was talk of the baseball team going to the state championships. Some of the younger kids wondered if it had all been some kind of bizarre scam just to warn everyone about the dangers of drunk driving. Others were convinced he’d undergone some sort of super-secret experimental operation.

  Me? I had an even stranger idea. But I didn’t know exactly how to broach the subject with him. “Hey, Chase … soooo did you by chance steal a magical talking fish that was sitting in my closet? More importantly, did you touch my bras and panties that were sitting in my dirty laundry pile? Perhaps you noticed the pile of clean clothes on the bed from the half dozen times I changed before you came over?”

  No. Wouldn’t work. Definitely not if someone else was within earshot.

  I expected him in fencing class, but he never showed up. Jasmine said he had “better things to do” now, specifically getting back into baseball shape so he could re-join the team in time for the weekend games. With him on my mind, I lost both of my matches. Again. The second match wasn’t even close. I couldn’t counter-riposte because I couldn’t think about anything other than Chase.

  But Jasmine and Margaret looked good. So good, in fact, that their second matches were against boys. The team was coming together while I fell apart.

  In the cafeteria, Chase was back with his baseball buddies. They’d commandeered three tables near the front, talking colorfully about some video game. Chase’s ex-girlfriend sat beside him, one leg resting on top of his. She was wearing skinny jeans and a pink t-shirt with short sleeves, her three girlfriends who sat nearby were wearing nearly the exact same thing.

  I stared a second too long. Chase looked up, saw me, and gave a thin smile. His ex-girlfriend—apparently no longer an ex—turned and scowled.

  “Great,” I muttered, clutching my pasta bowl tightly as I made my way to the back. “More enemies.”

  Seth and Rachel and Clyde were already seated and sharing a whole pizza slathered with pepperoni and green peppers. Rachel had returned to her usual outfit of a black t-shirt and baggy jeans. Clyde was wearing his red flannel over an old Pearl Jam t-shirt. Of course he had his sunglasses. Seth had on his favorite t-shirt: an old faded brown Led Zeppelin thing that looked like it had been picked up at a hippie’s yard sale. The picture of the actual burning zeppelin was chipped away from too many washing cycles.

  “Don’t look over your shoulder,” Seth said. When I instinctively cocked my head, he reached out with one hand, blinding my peripheral vision. “No, don’t! Trish is right there, dudette.”

  “Dudette,” Clyde repeated, chuckling. “That’s a great word. I dig this guy. He’s, like, my brother from another mother.”

  “Thanks.” Seth rolled his eyes. “Anywho, It would be totally awesome if I didn’t have to acknowledge my ex-girlfriend’s existence in any way, shape or form until the end of time.”

  “Seems tough,” Clyde says. “Time is pretty relevant, man. It never ends.”

  Rachel grabbed another slice of pizza. “I think he was just being melodramatic.”

  “Hey fatty!”

  I spun around, recognizing the voice, ready to more than happily throw a slice of pizza at Joey Harrington in exchange for an afternoon of detention. But he wasn’t looking in our direction at all—instead, his focus was on anyone sitting across the aisle who was foolish enough to turn and look. He pointed out one girl wearing a stretched red cardigan—obviously a freshman—and started laughing. His three guy friends joined in.

  Including Ted.<
br />
  And then, not to be upstaged, Trish and the other girls joined in, too.

  “I could just dunk Trish’s head in a toilet,” I muttered, feeling a pain of sympathy for the poor girl whose face had turned beet red. Thankfully, most of the students sitting nearby hadn’t joined in the laughter.

  “Yeah.” Seth stripped the cheese off his slice of pizza, dropped it into his mouth, then licked his fingers clean. “I wouldn’t mind dunking Trish’s head in the toilet, too.”

  “That poor girl,” Rachel murmured.

  Clyde nodded. “Yeah, man. Freshman year’s tough enough. It’s like The Hunger Games in this cafeteria.” He picked a piece of pepperoni. “Not sure how I made it out alive. I mean, I remember some things, like gym class, but it’s mostly a blur. Maybe I was in a coma or something.”

  He was being a little melodramatic, but he was kind of right: freshman year was hard enough. The last thing that poor girl needed was the attention of the bully. And where was Chase during all of this? Where was the guy who’d written such a great book report on how tough it was being an outsider?

  Well, isn’t it obvious? He was sitting with baseball buddies and his ex-ex-girlfriend, smiling at the bully.

  At the end of lunch, Trish cornered me. Seth slipped away with Clyde, using a crowd of underclassmen as a shield.

  “Hey,” she said with a pouty face. “Ted told me you guys didn’t work out. What the heck happened?”

  “Uh … he’s a weird, controlling creep.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing!” I exclaimed. We pushed our way out into the hallway, heading toward the staircase. Trish was wearing a cute denim jacket with a pink top underneath; she also had a considerable amount of blush on. That was new. She never wore so much blush before.

  “Well, OK, point taken. Geez, will you take the steps one at a time like a normal person?”

  I slowed down. We let two of the baseball guys pass so we had the hallway to ourselves.

  “Look, you need to reconsider because you’re on the verge of becoming a total loser.” She put a hand on my shoulder. As if she was consoling me after a death in the family, for crying out loud. “It doesn’t help that you’re hanging out with Tina Hyena and that weird Clyde guy. You’re becoming irrelevant.”