by Emily Asad
Amelia’s sharp knock makes me scream again.
I’ve never been a screamer, and here I’ve already done it twice. I tried it a few times back in middle school, to try to fit in with the dainty girls in their cute clothes, the ones who only screamed in order to get boys to notice them. But it’s a useless sound. It doesn’t change facts, and facts are better than fear. So I gave up screaming, even when boys chased me with frogs, even when Mamá said we were moving yet again.
Amelia glares at me. “I brought a mousetrap.”
Is she disgusted by my cowardice? I am. I force myself to emerge from my protective cocoon. “Didn’t want to step on the mice. Thought I’d wait here. You know.”
“They’re not dangerous,” she says in a flat tone. “Mostly they chew and poop.”
Should I confess? But her medallion isn’t sparkling anymore. If I show her my ring, she might think I’m a thief. “They carry rabies,” I hear myself say instead.
“True, but not likely.” She holds out a bundle of fur toward me. “Her name’s Mouser. Bet you can guess what she’s good at. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
Mouser pads over to me and curls up as if snuggling under the covers was her idea all along. She licks me with her scratchy tongue. She’s not a pretty cat, just an ordinary shorthair, but her purr is enormously comforting.
“If she doesn’t catch that mouse, nothing will. Need anything else now?” Amelia waits. When I don’t answer, she reminds me to stay in my room. Away from the guests.
I get the feeling she doesn’t think staff members are supposed to chat with the celebrities and politicians who come here for conventions. Like I’d have anything to say to them! Does she think I’m going to beg for money? Mamá and I are poor, but not that poor. We still have dignity. For crying out loud, she refused to accept the Ambassador’s offer of two weeks’ paid leave. She’ll never take free money. It was her idea to use me as a replacement for the next two weeks.
Amelia moves my unused pillows to a basket beside my bed. “You’re sure you don’t need anything?”
“No, I’m good.”
“See you in the morning, then.”
As she turns to leave, I blurt, “Is this room haunted, like they say?”
The coldest expression I’ve ever seen enters Amelia’s eyes. “There are no ghosts here and I will not have you spreading rumors. If you’re going to work here, you will avoid such gossip. Understand?”
“Sure. It’s just… I thought I saw someone… Little blonde girl, pink ribbons?”
She clamps her hand around her medallion. Her face goes pale. Is she having a heart attack? “This might not be the best room for you,” she mumbles. Then her voice grows stern. “What a vivid imagination you have, Zenia. I suggest you put it to better use, perhaps by concentrating on the desserts you’ll be serving. I’ll send Gary, our chauffeur, to take you to school tomorrow morning, and then you can meet Michael. He’ll keep you too busy for this type of nonsense. Good night.”
When she leaves, I bolt the door. As if a mere lock can keep out phantoms.
Mouser looks offended for getting robbed of a warm lap. I jump back in bed, grateful for her company. “I read somewhere ancient Egyptians regarded cats as guardians who could see invisible enemies. You tell me if anyone comes in while I’m sleeping, okay?”
No answer. I’m glad for this one shred of proof I’m not totally insane.
An antique wall clock strikes nine. I don’t usually go to bed until eleven. Midnight, if I’m studying for an exam or just reading a good book. How am I supposed to fall asleep? Too many thoughts. Who’s the girl in the mirror? If she’s the missing Alexis, why did she look six years old instead of twenty?
Are there two people haunting my room?
Haunting – a term I’m reluctant to use. Yet it’s the only word that comes close to describing what’s happening. Ghosts? That term’s harder to apply. Amelia was so fierce in her objection… but I know what I saw and heard. If not ghosts, then something unnatural.
And she knows it, too. The question is: will she let me in on the secret?
CHAPTER FOUR:
BUZZED
By midnight, I still haven’t fallen asleep. I’m proud of myself for no longer flinching at every little noise that creaks and pops around me. Still, I’ve opened the curtains in the bay window as far as they’ll spread, in case there’s a power outage tonight and my lamp loses electricity. Between the dying orange firelight, my table lamp, and the bright silver moon, I’m pretty sure I’ll see whatever wants to sneak up on me.
As I slip into that space between conscious thought and total oblivion, Arthur’s piano tune finds me again. I don’t need ears to hear its melody, all curious and probing. Friendly, as if it’s trying to offer an introduction. Wasn’t it desperate and sorrow-filled before?
Wait a minute. How can a doll create music?
I rouse myself back to semi-consciousness, forcing my fancies to the back of my brain. Dolls are definitely not what I want to dream about tonight. Think about cottage designs instead.
Well, I won’t be invaded. Not by Alexis, not by unwanted music. Not by my own neurotic tendencies. I open my eyes and scowl at the rose on my new ring. “You’re a real thorn in my side,” I joke.
But my dark sense of humor only seems to encourage it. Across the room, the mirror flares. I close my eyes before I can see anything – or anyone – again.
Arthur’s tune returns. Now it’s soft and soothing, a lullaby to calm my nerves. It becomes thicker and thicker, almost a physical presence beside me. I must be shifting into dream stage, because I can almost see a young man with hazel eyes wrapping his steel arms around me. This is going to be a great dream.
Imaginary or not, I’ve never felt so protected. I surrender to the beckoning nothingness of sleep.
* * *
Six soft chimes bring me back to consciousness. My lamp is off. I distinctly remember leaving it on last night, too much of a chicken to sleep in the dark. Also, the fire had burned to embers when I last looked. Now a fresh blaze casts an orange glow on the rocking chair in front of the hearth.
Someone has been here.
My heartbeat rises at the thought of a ghost. Then my brain kicks on. Would a ghost bring breakfast? Duh. Logic wins. My pulse returns to normal.
I shuffle over to the tray of food, which is filled with thick toast triangles, a tiny pot of apricot jam, a pat of butter shaped like a butterfly, scrambled eggs, and a half-moon wedge of yellow cheese. Simple food, but arranged with such sophistication I have sudden doubts of my ability to take over Mamá’s kitchen duties here at the mansion. What am I doing here? Sometimes we live out of our car! We’re not fancy people. My best dress shoes are scuffed, and Mamá and I share lipstick and mascara because it’s so expensive.
Yet I’m supposed to make dessert for the Ambassador’s guests. Emissaries. CEO’s. Possibly royalty.
Mamá won this position. Twenty candidates applied, chefs with formal degrees and powerful résumés. All she has is her knack for fusing different cultures and styles together, yet she made it here. And she expects me to uphold her reputation.
The scrambled eggs taste perfect.
I don’t belong here.
A card lies under the edge of my plate. For Zenia is inscribed in elegant handwriting. I open it up to read a riddle called the Lumberjack’s Dilemma.
A lumberjack in Northern Minnesota must take his goods into town to sell at the market. He has a fat loon, a bag of wild rice, and a live timber wolf cub. He must row across the river, but the boat is only large enough to hold the lumberjack and one of his items (the timber wolf, the loon, or the wild rice). If he leaves them together, the timber wolf will eat the loon or the loon will eat the wild rice. How does the lumberjack get himself and all his goods safely to the other side of the river?
What a relaxing way to start a day. And what a kind gesture from Amelia. I didn’t think she was the welcoming type. Guess I was wrong.
&nbs
p; I carry the breakfast tray – and the riddle – back to bed, where I can enjoy them both properly.
Can’t leave the loon with the timber wolf, or the grain with the loon. Hmm…
Halfway through breakfast, my fork halts midway to my mouth. It’s metal. Why isn’t it sparkling? Everything else is. But now I have to concentrate really hard to catch the soft sparkles dancing about the room. Better solve this riddle first. The timber wolf can wait.
Hypothesis #1: If I want to see the sparkles, they’re there. If I forget about them, they disappear.
Hypothesis #2: Metal from outside this room isn’t affected.
Hypothesis #3: The Ambassador is involved in a secret science experiment that will explain the sparkles and ghosts.
I’ll have to test my guesses today, but now my mind must turn toward something even more urgent than sparkles or riddles: getting ready for school.
Gary knocks on my door promptly at 6:45, dressed in a chauffeur’s gray uniform, shiny black boots, and a huge grin. “Happy Monday!” he booms. He carries my backpack, yammering about stuff on the way downstairs.
I don’t listen because I’m trying to take in as much of the mansion’s architecture as I can. I only got a few glimpses of wide mahogany doorframes last night as Amelia rushed me up to the Alexis Suite. But Gary, too, rushes me out to the front door. What are they so worried about?
We zigzag our way to town, surrounded by tall, thick trees. In Minneapolis, streets are gridded. Here in Otter Paw, though, there are so many tiny ponds everywhere it’s impossible to drive in a straight line. We’ve already stopped twice – once for a mother deer and her fawn, and once for a skunk who punishes us for the close encounter.
“Autumn’s coming early this year,” Gary says when we can breathe again.
I glance out the window. “How can you tell?”
“Sugar maple.” He taps a finger against the glass. “Leaves are starting to turn yellow. They’ll give us a fireworks show before too long.”
“All I see are pine trees.”
He snickers. “Pine trees, huh? Which kind – jack pine, red pine? White spruce or black?” He grins at me in the mirror. “Don’t worry, city child. Akakios Preserve may not be as big as Maplewood State Park, but we have everything they do. Plus a tour guide who will teach you the names of this glorious fauna that surrounds you. Did you know you can crush pine needles and soak them in hot water to make tea? Light flavor. Smells better than it tastes.”
So he takes it on himself to give me the condensed history of the park. Apparently, Akakios Mansion sits on the outermost border of Otter Paw, surrounded by four square miles of its own private forest. The mansion was a conservation effort to restore the environment after excessive logging destroyed most of the region’s forests. Nowadays, Akakios Preserve is a haven for wild animals. The mansion itself is a testament to sustainable living, with four acres of vegetable gardens and another ten acres of edible landscaping.
“Just ask before you pick anything to eat,” Gary says. “Our head gardener gets a little protective about that sort of thing.”
Minneapolis is mostly concrete. What experience do I have with The Great Outdoors? I can just see myself eating a poisonous leaf instead of a kitchen herb. “I’ll ask,” I promise.
He keeps talking about the estate, but I tune him out. I wish I had checked email before I left. Not that Mamá’s flight has landed yet. She’s heading to Middle East waters this time, near Somalia and Djibouti. I hate that. She’ll be stationed on a warship, since the Navy keeps peace in some dangerous waters. Somalia’s been a busy area for pirates lately. Modern pirates with machine guns. Of course they won’t attack a Navy ship, but I’d like to know she’s safe, all the same. Can’t wait for school to finish – I’m sure she’ll have sent an email by then.
The drive only takes ten minutes. Gary opens my door, pulling my wandering thoughts back to the present. As he tells me he’ll pick me up after school at this spot, I cringe at the other kids gawking and pointing.
If I weren’t so tan, my cheeks would be bright red with embarrassment. Who am I to get chauffeured in a limousine? School started a week ago. Until now, nobody’s given me a second glance or tried to talk to me. That’s okay. I’m used to being the outsider.
Now, however, their stares follow me all the way to first period, where my 12th grade English teacher, Mrs. Halverson, has rearranged our desks into a circle. I find a seat and take out my notes from the poem she told us to read over the weekend.
“I Heard a Fly Buzzzzzz,” she says, calling class to order. “By Emily Dickenson. Who wants to start the discussion?”
All the other kids seem to know what’s expected. I have to give them credit for interpreting the poem pretty well. But I already covered this poem back in ninth grade. When they start discussing the fly, I can’t help but shaking my head at their theories.
“It’s a symbol of her inner strength,” Mrs. Halverson finally tells them. “The last thing she notices before she dies. Clearly, she’s using her final ounces of strength to stay alive, and the fly helps her concentrate.”
I roll my eyes.
She notices.
“New girl.” She points at me with her pencil, then looks up my name on the roster. “Zinnia.”
I correct her pronunciation. “Zeh-nee-ya. A zinnia is a flower.”
“Whatever. You don’t like the fly?”
I hate being put on the spot like this. I wish I’d just kept my eyes on the poem. I shrug and drop my gaze, hoping she’ll leave me alone.
“You transferred from a Minneapolis district, didn’t you? Must be a genius. You’re the only junior in this course. By all means, show us what city schools are capable of. What’s your interpretation?”
I shrug again.
“The only way to earn points in this class is to participate.”
Her words are professional, but her tone borders on the edge of contempt. She doesn’t seem to like me much, either. Maybe it’s a small-town thing.
“Zero points, then.” Her pencil hovers over her grade sheet.
My heart begins to thud. I’m an A student, mostly minuses, granted, but a few plusses. Is Halverson the kind of teacher who appreciates my type - the brainy kind of student who actually enjoys learning something? Or does she simply expect us to spit back what she’s feeding us without bothering to chew it up for ourselves?
This is the worst part of starting over in a new school. But it must be done.
I clear my throat and begin. “I think the fly symbolizes life’s little irritations, the things that get in the way of you and greatness. I mean, the lady’s waiting to die, right? She knows she can’t live forever, but she wants her end to be glorious. She’s looking toward the light, maybe the light of eternity. And the fly gets in the way. Besides, Dickenson says it’s a Blue fly. Regular houseflies are black. Blue are the kind that lay eggs on rotting carcasses – which the lady’s about to become. So no, I don’t think the fly symbolizes the lady’s inner strength. I think it represents the irony and hollowness of death.”
“City girl’s too good for us,” shouts one of the boys.
There’s a general explosion of “Miss Halverson, she should be teaching this class!” and scattered applause, though most of it seems mocking.
Mrs. Halverson’s thin lips nearly disappear as she presses them together, like she’s trying to hold back whatever’s forming inside her head. “I’ll give you points for a thoughtful answer, even if your conclusion is incorrect,” she tells me in a tight voice. “Eight out of ten.”
Whatever happened to the theory there are no incorrect conclusions for interpreting poetry? The unfairness makes my eyes sting. Now that I know what type of teacher she is, I keep my gaze where it should have been all along – down, avoiding conflict.
Nobody calls on me for the entire rest of the period. That’s fine because I’m hit by the sudden, horrible realization I might be stuck here until I graduate!
Usually I switch schools
every few months, so whatever problems I might have end up solving themselves. But Mamá thinks we might be able to buy a house in a year, now that she’s got her evening shift at the mansion and her day job at Otter Paw’s only bakery. Her big goal is to give me some stability for my last two years in high school.
Stay? Here? The thought freezes my very desire to live.
CHAPTER FIVE:
COMPLICATED
The limousine returns to the mansion. I haven’t seen any sparkles – pink or green – all day. I only remember the weirdness when Amelia greets me at the entrance, her medallion peeking out from behind her buttoned-up blouse. Worse, she escorts me straight upstairs again.
“Thanks for the riddle,” I say as she takes me to my room.
“What riddle?”
“That Lumberjack’s Dilemma thing. I haven’t had a chance to think about it, but I just love that sort of…” I stop talking when her expression becomes confused. The clipboard she carries with her has a hand-written schedule of things she wants to accomplish today, scribbled in tiny, angular, deep letters. There’s no way she’s responsible for the elegant card. “Never mind,” I falter. “I bet it was a last-minute thought from my mom.”
“I’ll introduce you to Michael at four-thirty.” Her smile is cold but polite.
I nearly toss my backpack on the bed, but after yesterday’s fiasco with the ring that still won’t budge, I set my bag on a chair instead.
Mouser meows a lazy greeting, refusing to abandon her spot in the bay window where she’s soaking up sunbeams.
Everything is tidy. New towels in the bathroom, the fireplace stoked with fresh logs, the breakfast tray gone and replaced with an afternoon snack. Even the pillows on the bed are arranged in the exact order I found them yesterday. I hope Amelia doesn’t think I can’t keep my own room neat. Maybe room service is just another part of being at a mansion, but the thought of people coming into my room makes me frown. Not like I have anything to hide. Still, I decide to keep my stuff zipped up. Living out of my suitcase is nothing new.