by Sonja Yoerg
There was only one person in her life she could rely on, one person she could trust not to hurt her or ignore her or misunderstand her: Mr. Bayliss. Alison hadn’t known what to do when Lester said Mr. Bayliss had been kissing Miss Honeycutt. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now it didn’t matter, because even if it was true, Alison had the solution. She’d found out this morning what the blue box was for. The box’s power had been obvious from the beginning; she just hadn’t known what sort of power it contained. One question was bugging her though: should she use the blue box in a spell with the pearl and the soapstone, or should she just give it to Mr. Bayliss?
Maybe she could figure it out if she went to the river. She slid open her top dresser drawer and fished out the white sock with the objects inside. She unzipped her jacket pocket, took out the box and spilled the pearl and the soapstone into it. All set.
As she sprinted downstairs, Alison gripped the box to protect it and to feel the pearl leaping inside like the trout, as if the pearl had made the fish surface and take the bait, delivering itself to the light and coming to rest within the blue box.
Between having to go to school and the buckets of rain pouring down nearly every day, Alison hadn’t been to the river in ages. She chose the longer path, tracing an arc past the Dalrymples’, and gave only a passing thought to what Delaney might be doing. Delaney wasn’t worth more than that. Alison entered the woods, the leaves underfoot a brown, soaking mess, sunlight hitting the ground head-on the way it never did in summer. The sun wasn’t warm, though, and the woods didn’t protect her from the stiff wind in her face. She tugged her jacket tighter.
She heard the river before she saw it, a rumbling like distant thunder that slowed her step. The trees thinned and the roar deepened. She came to the edge. The muddied water, not a yard from her feet, had flooded the shore. It surged past, slicing at the banks, the rapids foaming and churning.
How had she not noticed this, even from a car or the school bus? She searched upstream, toward the swimming hole, for something familiar, a reminder of her favorite place. There was nothing. On the opposite bank, a large maple tilted over the water with some of its roots hanging free. The tops of the rapids slapped the roots again and again. That maple might end up in the river. It was a scary thought.
Her river had changed from a playful, bounding puppy into a snapping, vicious dog. She hugged herself, shocked and sad and frightened. A gust of wind blew a spray of water into her face. She turned her back on the river and ran through the woods, as fast as she could, in the direction of home but not for it. She ran to leave the cruel river behind. If she could, she would run straight off the earth.
• • •
Monday morning, Alison packed her book bag and checked her bedside clock. Ten minutes before she had to go outside and wait for the bus. She still hadn’t made up her mind about what to do with the blue box. Her great-grandmother had given it to Grandma, so maybe that’s the way it was supposed to go. But Alison had the pearl and the soapstone, too, and refused to accept that they didn’t have their own power and were supposed to be used together with the box somehow. A spell made sense to her, a love spell, of course. It would work best if she had something of Mr. Bayliss’s, something personal.
With a little luck she’d take care of it today at school. If that didn’t happen, if she couldn’t get the last piece for the spell, then she’d do exactly what her great-grandmother had done: she’d give the blue box away—to Mr. Bayliss. It might not be today or tomorrow, but it would be soon, and she had to be prepared.
Alison left the pearl and the soapstone behind inside the white sock. She zipped the blue box into her jacket pocket. She might need it anytime. Her inner voice would tell her when.
It took Alison all morning to realize that snatching something personal from Mr. Bayliss wasn’t simple. She couldn’t just waltz up to his desk and take his coffee cup, which she wasn’t sure was personal enough anyway. He kept his wallet in his pocket (not that she would take his wallet—she wasn’t a thief) and his car keys and other stuff in the top drawer of his desk. The best thing to get would be some of his hair, but she’d never seen him comb it except with his fingers, when he was thinking. Blood would work, too, but she couldn’t exactly stab him. If she was lucky, he’d get a paper cut. She kept a tissue in her pocket, just in case.
The lunch bell rang and she lagged behind, pretending to dig in her book bag. She looked up and he was waiting at the door.
“Got what you need, Alison? I’m off to a meeting.”
“Sorry.” She grabbed her lunch and scurried past him. She shot him a smile, but he was shuffling papers and didn’t see.
During sixth period, the second to last of the day, Mr. Bayliss handed back their social studies tests. Alison’s stomach knotted up when she saw her grade: a seventy-nine. She had never scored that low in her life. She folded the test in half and straightened the other papers on her desk. He moved on.
That low grade was a shock, but by the end of the day she had a plan of how to use it. The last bell rang and the kids scrambled out of their seats, grabbed their coats and bags and zoomed out the door. Alison went, too, then ducked into the bathroom and slid into a stall. A few seconds later, another girl came in, peed and left. Alison waited for the noise in the hall to die down, then waited several minutes more. She’d miss the bus—there was no way around that—but she didn’t care. Either she’d find what she needed from Mr. Bayliss’s desk or, if he was there, she’d use her test as an excuse for staying late to talk to him.
Enough waiting. She unlatched the stall door, crossed the bathroom and stuck her head into the hallway. All clear. In three steps she was across the hall. She turned the knob and stepped inside, glancing around, as if her teacher might be hiding under a table or in the closet. The skin on her arms tightened and her mouth went dry. Kids weren’t supposed to be in classrooms without a teacher. She’d better be quick.
She closed the door behind her and crossed to his desk. Nothing on top. She moved the swivel chair and pulled open the top drawer. Her hands were sweaty as she shoved aside erasers and notepads and boxes of thumbtacks in search of something, anything.
The door latch clicked. Alison froze.
Miss Honeycutt stood in the doorway. Alison slowly closed the drawer. “What are you doing in here? Alison, isn’t it?”
Alison’s face was on fire. She moved out from behind the desk. “I was looking for a pen to write Mr. Bayliss a note. I wanted to talk to him about my test.” She opened the flap of her book bag, pulled out the test and held it in front of her. The papers shook so hard she could hear it. She clutched them to her chest and stared at the floor.
Miss Honeycutt said, “Mr. Bayliss left for a meeting at the district office. Did you tell him you wanted to see him?”
Her voice was soft. She wasn’t suspicious or mad. No wonder Lester liked her so much. And Mr. Bayliss. Alison wished she could sink right through the floor and disappear forever.
“No, I didn’t tell him. I was embarrassed.” It was true. Everything was embarrassing and awkward and painful.
Miss Honeycutt came closer to Alison, smiling. “It’s only a test.”
Alison shook her head. If only Miss Honeycutt knew. But Alison was too hurt and too tangled up inside to explain, or to hope that explaining would matter.
“Gosh, will you look at the rain?” Miss Honeycutt pointed to the drizzle outside. “You’ve missed the bus, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell you what. I’m done for the day. Why don’t I give you a ride home?”
• • •
It wasn’t raining hard but the air had a bite to it. Alison followed Miss Honeycutt to her car and climbed in, shivering. Miss Honeycutt started the car, and they sat there a minute, waiting for the engine to warm up. The windows fogged.
Miss Honeycutt grabbed a towel from the backseat and
wiped the windshield. “Manual defroster.” She rolled her window down an inch. “Can you crack yours, too?”
They left the school and drove through town. Cars coming the other way sprayed arcs of water from their tires. The sign at the Lamoille County Bank blinked “3:14” then “34o.”
“Maybe we’ll get our first snow tonight,” Miss Honeycutt said. “I hope it won’t spoil trick-or-treating Wednesday. Are you going with your friends?”
“Sure.” In fact, she’d been avoiding all the talk about Halloween costumes, parties and plans, just like she’d been avoiding everything else. It was simpler.
As they passed the library and the last houses in the town, Alison began feeling something was out of place or pulled inside out. Or maybe the way she’d been looking at everything was messed up, like when she’d lie on her back and stare at the ceiling and imagine it was the floor. The windows were still windows but the world was upside down in them. She walked along the ceiling and stepped over the threshold at the door, because the top of the door in this world went all the way to the ceiling, which was actually the floor. She’d meander through the entire house that way, crawling along the sloped ceiling over the upside-down stairs, peering out into the green field, trees dangling into the blue sky at the bottom. It gave her a wide-open feeling. The world could be many ways at once, and she had it in her power to choose. She only had to decide what it was she wanted.
The houses were farther apart now and set back from the road. They passed Grantham’s Dairy and began dropping into the valley, going pretty slow. Alison glanced at the speedometer. Not even forty.
Miss Honeycutt noticed her look. “It almost freezing, so it might be a little slippery.”
“Okay.”
The long bend of the river came into view below, blanketed in mist. Halfway down the hill, Miss Honeycutt moved her foot to the brake. She grabbed the wheel tighter. “Oh God.”
“What?”
“The brakes! My foot’s all the way down. They’re not working.”
Fear crawled up Alison’s legs and arms. Miss Honeycutt pumped her foot up and down, up and down. The car was gaining speed. The road curved to the right just ahead, right before the bridge.
Alison’s heart raced and a metallic taste filled her mouth. She pressed her hands against the seat, her insides turning slippery, her mind swallowed up with fear. Miss Honeycutt hit the brake again and again, staring at the road, her mouth open, but the bridge only got closer.
“I’m pulling into the field. Hold on!” She yanked the wheel to the right. The windshield filled with yellow grass. Alison squeezed her eyes shut and pushed against the seat, waiting to hit the ditch. Her stomach lurched as the car slipped sideways. She opened her eyes. A scream burst into the air. The guardrail, the bridge zoomed to her window, in slow motion. She threw her arms to cover her face. A massive crunch and Alison was knocked onto her side, the seatbelt tearing into her belly. The car jumped forward. A jolt from below threw her upright again.
The river.
Screams filled her ears. The car tipped nose down. Alison braced her feet on the floor and grabbed the door handle. A bump yanked it from her. Water rushed over the hood.
“Help!” Alison reached for the door again. “Help!”
The river swallowed them. An arm clutched at hers. The car swayed, one way, then the other, and leveled. Freezing water poured onto Alison through the gap in the window. Leaks sprouted everywhere: the floor, around the steering wheel, through the dash.
“Help!” Alison sputtered. She flailed in panic. Her hand hit the seatbelt. She groped for the buckle. The car tilted. She glanced at Miss Honeycutt. She wasn’t moving. Water streamed through the window and sprayed off her. Blood flowed from a gash above her ear.
Alison pushed her shoulder. “Wake up! Wake up!”
She had to get out. Now. Alison’s fingers found the seatbelt buckle, lifted the latch. She reached for the other buckle, Miss Honeycutt’s. The world went black at the edges. Water rose to her shins. She reached again and opened the seatbelt latch. Miss Honeycutt fell against the door with a thud, water streaming over her face.
Alison grabbed her door handle, jerked it up and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. She threw herself against it, her breath cutting her lungs, her sobs choking her, water pouring onto her head and shoulders. She got ahold of the window handle and cranked it. The force of the water knocked her backward, but she held on to the handle. She grasped the window frame with her free hand, bracing herself against the river flooding in, pushing her. Alison took a breath, gave the handle another turn and thrust herself headfirst into the water. She squirmed through the opening, her knees scraping the window edge. Her shoe caught on something. She tried to kick it loose and her foot slammed into metal. Pain shot up her leg. Her lungs burned. She kicked again and her foot was free.
The river took her. The cold entered her. She clawed her way to the surface, sucked in the cold air. A wave threw water into her mouth. She was sinking. Her clothes weighed her down. She kicked and fought to stay afloat, carried downstream, the car somewhere beneath her or behind her, Miss Honeycutt inside.
Yelling. Someone was yelling. Her legs were frozen. She didn’t know if she was kicking. She went under, swallowed water, grabbed for the air and surfaced. Her name. She turned to the sound. Her head snapped sideways, a searing pain shot through her skull.
Black.
36
Carole
The rain had eased to a drizzle. Carole rose from the office chair, pulled on Walt’s quilted jacket from the stand by the door and went out to get the mail. She skirted the pumps and heard Walt’s voice come from the open garage. At least she assumed it was Walt. She couldn’t make out the words, and these days if she heard talking and there was a reasonable explanation for where it was coming from, she didn’t investigate further. The crowd noise was always in the background, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, but always there, even in her dreams. It put her on edge, but it was soothing compared to the others. Others smothers. Smothers mothers.
She lowered the mailbox door, reached inside and pulled out the mail, hoping it wouldn’t take long to sort through, hoping it was ordinary. Then she heard a different sound, not voices, but the whine of tires on the wet road; a car coming down the hill. Carole closed the mailbox. A loud crunch startled her. She oriented to it. A pale blue car, sliding sideways. A flash of red in the window. She stood transfixed as the car careened off the barrier and hurtled down the bank, toward the river, and fell out of view.
“Walt!” She glanced at the garage. No one there. She screamed with all her might. “Walt! The river!” He appeared, Warren beside him. “A car went in the river!”
She dropped the mail and ran up the road. The car. It was familiar. And in the window. Red.
Red hair.
She sprinted harder, gasping for air. A sharp pain stabbed her side and her foot slipped sideways on the icy road. She regained her balance and moved to the shoulder, shoes crunching, lungs burning.
She neared the bridge. Stumbling down the embankment, Carole pushed through shrubs, yanking her arms from entangling vines. She emerged at the riverbank, alarmed at the force of murky water rushing past. The car was gone. She glanced downstream. Something red. The back of her daughter’s head. Carole raced along the bank toward her.
“Alison!”
Alison spun around, mouth open. A log floated in her direction. A wave tossed it at her head and she went under.
A surge of electricity shot through Carole. She stripped off her coat. Walt shouted her name from behind. She ignored him, stepped to the edge and dove into the river, the shock of the cold forcing air from her lungs. She opened her eyes but it was impossible to see. She searched with her hands, probing frantically. Out of breath, she climbed to the surface, stole a lungful of air and dove again. Carole kicked hard, grasping, reaching. Her hand hit fabric. She grabbed it and
pulled it toward her. An arm. She wheeled herself upright and clutched her daughter tightly, scissoring her way to the surface.
Her head emerged from the water. She gasped for air and laid back, Alison on top of her, waves splashing over them. Carole sculled out of the faster current with her free arm.
“Carole! Alison!” Walt rushed down the slope and waded in. He scooped their daughter into his arms and laid her on her side on the grass, raking the hair from her face.
Carole fell on her knees beside Alison. “She’s not breathing!”
Walt held Alison by the shoulder and hit her upper back with the heel of his hand. Her body convulsed and water spewed from her mouth. She coughed and gasped, her face contorted. Carole sobbed with relief. Alison coughed, again and again.
Walt patted her back. “Easy does it, sunshine.” His voice broke.
Alison’s gasping eased. She blinked her eyes open. “Mom?”
Carole gathered her daughter in her arms. Alison buried her face into her mother’s chest, coughs racking her body. Walt touched the top of Alison’s head and hurried off. Carole almost called out after him, but noticed figures upstream, under the bridge. Warren squatted, holding someone. Lester stood over them, flapping his arms at his sides, wailing.
“Put her on her side!” Walt shouted as he ran. “Smack her on the back. Hard!”
Carole bent over Alison, rocking her and smoothing her hair. Her daughter’s chest heaved. Carole heard the voices of a large crowd at the edge of her mind. Go away, she told them. Please. She spoke over them. “Alison, are you all right?”
She nodded, lips quivering.
“Whose car were you in?”
Her daughter’s body tensed. She jerked up and looked at Carole, her eyes wide. “Miss Honeycutt! The brakes didn’t work and the car skidded—” She twisted around, scanning the river, the far bank, her eyes finally alighting on the group under the bridge. “Is she okay? Mom?”