by Emily Asad
“Sounds about right.”
We chat for a while longer before George pokes his head in. “You haven’t met my family properly,” he says. “Would you like to?”
The thought of facing David again makes my stomach churn. But formal introductions seem to be important to George, so I follow him to the parlor next door. Henry and Nathaniel are playing cards, but they rise when I enter. So does David, who has to balance himself against the piano as he stands on his good leg to greet me. He’s changed back into his soft leather breeches and the hazel peasant blouse that makes his eyes twinkle beneath his scars. Pain pinches his mangled face, but his smile is warm and friendly.
Is he pretending to be civil because his parents are present? Or did I totally misread his hostility back in the kitchen?
“David’s sorry for scaring you,” Nathaniel tells me after we’re all introduced – they bow and I bob a feeble curtsey. “He wasn’t angry. It just takes a few minutes for him to get the pain back under control.”
David shoots a withering glare at his brother, the kind that accuses him of being a tattletale for exposing something he’d rather hide. It’s such a natural reaction – I’m struck by how close this family is. How often I’ve wanted a little sister to take care of. It would be less lonely than just Mamá and me. “I am sorry,” he says, his quiet voice reverberating in my chest. “I know you’ve been uncomfortable on my account.” He turns his face away as if he’s trying to hide the scars.
I frown. I never said anything about that during my outburst. “How do you know that?”
“It’s such a treat to use words again,” Nathaniel replies, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “We haven’t had a real conversation in eighty years.”
I gawk at them all. “You’re telepathic?”
“Nothing so refined,” Eleanor replies, her light laugh downplaying my discomfort. “We can only send each other general emotions. With David, it’s his music. Or in Nathaniel’s case, entire paintings. My sons are gifted.”
Her pride in her sons is so obvious, I have to grin. Eleanor sounds just like Mamá. But remembering Mamá makes me wince. “I need to leave.”
“Certainly, dear,” Eleanor says. “Could you do us a favor when you’re out?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Would you mind fixing the TV or finding us a new one?”
“I can try. But what good will it do, if you turn back to into dolls?”
George’s face grows hard. “We may look like wooden dolls, except we’re still conscious. We shall still see, smell, and hear everything that happens around us.”
It takes me several long seconds to comprehend the weight of his remark. Then I’m horrified. “Do you mean to tell me… you’re still alive when I leave? Like in a coma? How could they just throw you in a drawer and leave you here? That’s torture!”
“I rather doubt they suspect us,” Eleanor says. “When Phoebe used to play with us, we really were dolls when she left. It was only after Alexis’ accident that we stayed conscious. We must have been linked, somehow. And Phoebe was forbidden to play with us again after everything that happened. Her father was the one who put us away. He’s quite human, you know. I’m sure he didn’t realize what he was doing.”
“Someone must have guessed,” I point out. “Who delivered the radios and TV’s?”
“No idea. Couldn’t see a thing,” Nathaniel says.
“So you’ve been… awake… since 1945?”
“Aware, yes.”
I can’t imagine being trapped inside my own head, unable to move or ask for help. At least they had each other, even if communication was limited. “How else can I help?”
They all hesitate. Their desperate silence speaks volumes to each other.
Nathaniel clears his throat. “Anything’s better than the drawer, Father.”
“It’s true, dear,” Eleanor adds.
Henry drops a quick nod.
Everyone looks at David, who must suffer the most when he’s awake. He sighs. “I’d rather spend an eternity here, if I must.”
George seeks each of their faces and then drops a nod so brief I almost miss it. “Ask her,” he whispers to Eleanor.
She touches my ring. “Is there… Can you control your powers?”
“I don’t have powers.”
“Perhaps you can still learn to use this, though. You woke us up twice now, quite by accident, so your imagination must be powerful strong. Could you keep us awake?”
“I don’t know how.”
George refuses to meet my eyes. “You must want it. Do you? Want us to stay awake, with all your heart? And will you come back? If you leave us here, alone, we’ll starve.”
I cannot believe the joy that fills me. They’re inviting me back! I don’t have to be a sneak and a liar anymore. With a noble cause – to feed the prisoners – surely Amelia can’t object to my visits. I can see Nathaniel again!
The vote wasn’t unanimous. Sure, David gave his permission, but last night he was practically yelling at his brother to get me out of the house and never let me return. Does he blame me for waking him up to feel his sharp pain again? Maybe he’s happier in doll mode.
Eleanor catches me in a heartfelt embrace. “You’re our little savior. Come again soon, dear. Often. You’re quite welcome here.”
I’m surprised at the lump in my throat. How many emotions can I go through in one evening?
George turns to me. “Good night, young lady. See you soon.” His frown makes me doubt his words. It almost sounds like he’s telling me to stay away instead. He and Eleanor, holding hands, retreat to the library with Henry, leaving me alone with David and Nathaniel.
I have so many questions. But when I turn to David, he edges away from me and heads to the couch. Is he avoiding me? I see a lot of myself in his responses. At new schools, I use the same tricks to keep people at arm’s length. But it’s not nice to be on the receiving end. No wonder I get a reputation for being aloof and stand-offish.
“So I’ll try to come back tomorrow, then,” I tell them.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Nathaniel replies, “even though you won’t be using it.”
“Good-bye,” I tell David. “Nice meeting you.”
David exhales a long-suffering sigh when his brother takes my arm. Does his leg trouble him, or is it something else?
Nathaniel looks down at me, his clear blue eyes driving David’s injuries from my mind. My cheeks flush. I have to look away.
My heart doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but my body might!
We stroll toward the entrance. This dollhouse is filled with as many architectural delights as the Akakios mansion, except that here, I get time to appreciate them instead of speed-walking past them. Murals and gold-leaf edging decorate the high ceilings, and the walls are no less ornate. I find myself gawking at the paintings in the gallery. They reflect medieval themes – knights, damsels, kings, minstrels, and forests – in rich, bright colors. I pause in front of a majestic painting of a princess with long, reddish hair. She’s holding a sword to a young man’s shoulder in an elegant knighting ceremony.
“It’s called The Accolade,” Nathaniel tells me. “By Edmund Blair Leighton.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I painted it,” he brags. “Well, copied from the original. Phoebe adored knights and ladies, so she was drawn to a group of rebel artists who called themselves the Pre-Raphaelites. Ever heard of them?”
I shake my head, making a mental note to research the movement when I get back to my bedroom.
“That one’s a Waterhouse, and that’s a Dicksee. Phoebe used to bring me magazines and tell me which pictures to copy. Am I not amazing?”
“I’d have to compare your work to the originals,” I joke, finding his ego both repulsive and endearing. Then, still trying to figure out the logistics, I ask, “How does it work? Being a doll, I mean. Obviously you don’t age.”
“We might, now that we’re awake again
. Nobody knows for sure. I hope I get to stay sixteen forever.”
“You’re sixteen? I’m seventeen.”
“So is David.” He seems disappointed. But he doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation. He just tucks my hand around his arm and leads me to the next painting.
I spit out my next question, hoping to cover the fact that I’m distracted by the very solid bicep under his sleeve. “Um, do you get hungry or cold?”
“When we’re in doll mode, no. We only have lives when someone plays with us – otherwise, we’re wooden. Like sleeping.” He looks down at me and smiles that gorgeous smile again. “We’re really glad you’re here. It gets rather dull sometimes.”
My heart thumps so hard I’m afraid he’ll hear it. So I turn away, unsure of my own body’s reaction. It’s scary – but nice. I wonder if he has this effect on everyone. Careful, stupid! You’re acting like you’ve never had a crush before. Out loud, I say, “I really should be getting back to my room. Nobody knows I come here. If I’m discovered…”
“I understand.” He takes my hand in his larger one and presses his lips to it, never breaking eye contact – very debonair, the perfect Musketeer.
I withdraw my hand in a flash, hyper-aware of him as he opens the door for me and follows me out to the porch.
It’s a strange thing, to expect fresh air and clouds, yet to walk out into the dark study.
“You’re better than a sunset,” he tells me. “I shall paint you. Next time you come back.”
My cheeks flush warm again.
“Lovely.”
His compliments make me uncomfortable. I like them. I just don’t know how to respond. “I have to go.” Instead of waiting to hear the rest of his goodbye, I imagine myself outside the dollhouse.
No struggles this time. Maybe I want to get away so much I don’t have to force anything – and maybe that’s the trick.
I’m back to my regular size, but how are my new friends? I hold my breath. Nobody’s moving. Am I supposed to do anything special?
Nathaniel whoops down on the porch, making me smile. Upstairs, doll-sized George and Eleanor wave at me. “It worked!”
I look down at David, who’s still sitting on the couch. “Do you want me to put you upstairs? In your bedroom?”
“Thank you, no. I can take care of myself.”
His words are so faint, I have to bend to hear them. But he pretends to read a book when I crouch down. He’s avoiding me. Again.
Fine. Two can play this game. I’ll bring food for the family, of course, but I won’t make any extra efforts to be nice to him if he’s going to ignore me anyway.
Nathaniel, on the other hand, throws me a kiss. “Hurry back!”
At least some of the Whitmans like me.
“Good night, everyone.” Before I leave the sphere, I close up the dollhouse to give the family some privacy. From now on, I’ll knock before popping in.
From now on.
Happiness bleeds away as I remember Mamá and why I came back here in the first place. But the Navy is efficient. She’ll be home next week. I just know it. She promised.
CHAPTER TEN:
CIRCUS FREAK
Gary forgets to use the Benz today. It seems like the other kids are waiting for the limo to drive away. They flank me as soon as he’s gone, asking, “How’s your mother?” and “What happened?” and “Did the pirates demand a ransom yet?”
One boy even shoves a newspaper clipping in my face. “Will you sign this?”
I snatch it from him. I can’t believe it – the article reports my mother’s disappearance. By name! That’s totally not Navy policy. They never release names or specific details like this.
I hustle toward my class.
“I said sign it, not keep it,” the boy yells after me.
The halls are more crowded than ever. Everyone wants to talk to me – classmates, teachers, complete strangers. Fortunately, the assistant principle sees I’m the hub of attention. “Get to class,” he hollers. “Move! Don’t be late.” He weaves his way toward me and grabs the shoulder strap of my backpack, steering me into my first period class.
“How did they find out?” I gasp, following him through the crowd like a minnow swimming through seaweed.
“Small town. Nothing stays quiet in Otter Paw for long. You’re the closest thing we’ve got to a celebrity.”
Celebrity? My mother’s missing, possibly dead, and people are acting like it’s an exciting event to be celebrated. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
He pauses outside my class. “Be tough. She’ll get home safe and sound.”
My classmates descend on me, vultures to the kill, until Mrs. Halverson makes us all take our seats and take out our homework. “We can talk about pirates at the end of class,” she says. “Now, let’s review…”
I stare at the newspaper article again. It matches what I already know, except it also reports four pirates are dead along with two Navy sailors, both unnamed. The article goes on to describe how pirating is becoming more common, and how surrounding countries need to band together and pass tougher maritime penalties. It’s all so clinical – just the facts, no heart. Nothing to indicate that my world has been shattered. I’m sure the dead sailors had families, too.
We don’t deserve our pain to be reduced to a few paragraphs.
To my shock, the second bell rings. “So soon?” I look up to find new assignments on the whiteboard. I scribble into my notebook before dashing to my next class.
Each period, well-wishers flock around me. I learn to deliver my lines like a robot: “She’ll be home soon, thanks for asking. No, I don’t need anything…”
Gary notices I don’t want to talk when he picks me up – in the limo – and I’m grateful he doesn’t push.
I get through dinner prep without saying a word. I don’t even eat dinner with the other chefs. I carry my tray upstairs when Amelia takes me back to my room. It’s steak and potatoes with mushroom gravy sauce, a side of steamed asparagus, and a simple chocolate mousse tonight. But when I pop in for a visit to serve doll-sized portions to the Whitmans, they act like it’s the biggest feast they’ve ever had. I’m too tired to eat with them, though, and I end up falling asleep on their sofa.
In the morning, I wake up to find Eleanor has covered me with a rose-scented quilt. “You should get to school, dear,” she whispers. When I sit up and stretch, she begins to brush my hair. She works fast, and soon I’m sporting a fancy mermaid tail braid.
“Sorry I fell asleep,” I tell her. “I didn’t know I was so tired.”
George brings me a piece of my tiny bread loaf. Gross, gross, gross. I was just guessing at measurements when I mixed it together. Some honey makes it edible. “It’s all we’ve got,” he says.
I take the hint. “I’ll bring groceries after school.”
They both kiss me goodbye for the day. It’s weird getting affection from near-strangers, but they’re so sincere and open. They’re the parents I always wished for – not that I’d trade Mamá ever, but in my daydreams, our family would have been perfect like this.
Gary forgets the Benz again.
School’s even worse than yesterday. Now I’m greeted with flowers and cards and so many “Our Prayers Are With You” balloons I could open my own gift shop. In Minneapolis, nobody knew who I was. Here, I can’t get away from the label, “the girl whose mom was kidnapped by pirates.” It’s becoming my name.
Mrs. Halverson is not sympathetic. “No toys in class,” she tells me when I arrive, my arms filled with good wishes. “Too much distraction. I don’t know what those city schools allow, but here in Otter Paw, we’re here to read and write. Not play. Take those things to the office. Don’t bring anything tomorrow.”
Visiting Student Affairs to ask for a place to keep stuff turns into its own nightmare. The secretary wants juicy details. “Surely you know more than the news crews do,” she insists.
“No, ma’am.” My stomach clenches in anger, grief, and worry. I t
ry to stay polite, but I bolt as soon as she tucks my presents into a paper bag and tells me she’ll keep them safe ‘til the end of the day.
I can’t believe it when Mrs. Halverson makes me sign the tardy log! She’s punishing me for something. What did I do? She hated me even before my Blue Fly theory. But why? Humiliated, I find it difficult to concentrate. I slouch down in my desk.
A white piece of paper flips onto my textbook. It’s a note from the girl behind me, a sketch of a teacher shaking her finger at a student, saying, “No toys! We must write!” I snicker.
Bad timing – Halverson’s reviewing a new poem, and she probably thinks I’m challenging her interpretation again.
“You think this is funny?” she asks. “See me after class.”
There’s no way to win. I slump even further. When another note lands on my desk, I’m careful to unfold it when Halverson’s not looking. It reads, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
I resist the urge to look behind me, but I drop a single nod of acknowledgment. The girl leans forward in her desk so her soft voice can reach my ears. “I’m Diana. Don’t let her get you down. Teachers think their classrooms are their private turf.”
I nod again, wary of doing anything that will attract Halverson’s attention. I can’t afford to escalate this to detention. I need to get home on time to find food for the Whitmans before dessert prep. I find it comforting that Mr. Akakios expects me to continue my kitchen duties. I’d rather do that for my room and board instead of accepting charity.
I think Diana understands my reluctance to reply, because she whispers, “Later, okay? Look for me in the hall.”
Before class ends, Halverson says, “I almost forgot. We have a new student. Diana Kor… Kow…”
“Kourotrophos. It’s Greek. Means protector of young maidens.” She winks at me.
“Thank you. Go ahead. Tell us about yourself.” Halverson gestures to her podium.
Halverson never asked me to introduce myself the first day of class, even though I was the only new student they’ve had in years. Not that I would have wanted to. I hate talking to crowds of people. Diana, however, seems fine with it.