by Emily Asad
My heart begins to thump in hope.
She looks at me, her eyes full of compassion. “You know what you’re missing at the college level?”
I shake my head.
“Foreign language.” She chuckles. “Don’t you speak Spanish? Fluently?”
“Yes.”
“And you can read it? Spell, write?”
“Of course.”
“Then schedule a test at the community college to prove your mastery. If you pass it, it’s another free credit.”
“Really?”
“Mostly.” Her gaze shifts over to the Ambassador. “Here’s the dilemma. Until she earns that performing arts credit, we can’t award her a high school diploma. That’s almost irrelevant, though, in light of the college degree. Let her continue the two AP classes she’s currently taking, and schedule that Foreign Language test immediately. She could graduate with an Associate’s on the same day she gets her high school diploma – provided, of course, she can put together a portfolio that demonstrates her competence in the missing area. Do you think she can handle it?”
I can’t believe my ears. I expected to get suspended or arrested, or both. Instead, she’s offering me dignity! But it all depends on the Ambassador, who has only met me once.
I can’t look at him. Too much rests on his answer.
“Would you like to know what I see?” he replies. “I see a kid who fights to do the right thing. How many other teenagers do you know who could pay bills if their parents were out of the picture? How many of them could even figure a budget, or land a job steady enough to make ends meet? She’s seventeen and she already has skills that could turn into a career. Life has been hard to her, but she’s not bitter. Instead, she makes the best of it. I don’t hear her complaining. And believe me, she’s got a lot to complain about. So what do I think? Let her study as she pleases. I’ll hire a tutor, if she needs one. Besides, I’ve heard about the balloons and flowers and God knows what else. How’s a kid supposed to concentrate in this kind of environment?”
I peek up.
His smile is kind and fatherly as he turns toward me. “Is this something you want to do?”
I nod, pressing my lips tight together.
“Then I think we’re finished here.”
The other teachers get up to leave.
Mrs. Halverson stays seated. “What about the truancies?”
Principal Lathrop scowls. “She doesn’t seem to have any priors. Mr. Akakios, I presume you’ll have a chat with her about the legal repercussions?”
He nods.
“A chat?” Mrs. Halverson screeches her words.
Principal Lathrop raises an eyebrow at her. “She’s not a criminal, Naomi. Now, about your documentation. I’d like to have a word with you in private. Have a good day, Ambassador. Zenia, study hard, okay?” She pats me on the shoulder as we leave, and then she closes the door for her next meeting – with Mrs. Halverson.
Diana’s waiting on a bench outside the office. “How did it go?”
“Whatever you said, thanks.”
“Any time. Call me, okay? I want to hear all about it.”
“I owe you another limo ride.”
“Oooh! I’ll hold you to it!”
I trail the Ambassador, my heart full of mixed feelings. Gary’s face is full of questions. A glance passes between him and the Ambassador. They seem relieved.
When we’re settled in the limo, facing each other, I try to thank the Ambassador. All I can do is stare at his tie, the words locked in my throat.
He understands anyway. “I have daughters. Think you can manage your new plan?”
“Easy enough.” The school grows smaller and smaller as we drive toward the mansion. Sharp pinpoints of snow ping off the window as we gain speed.
“So you’ll attend school for two courses each day, plus whatever it takes to get that performing arts credit. Do you need me to hire a tutor for that?”
How fortuitous – I’m already taking performing arts lessons: dance with Nathaniel and guitar with David. Surely one of those will qualify. “No. I just need to schedule a formal performance. And I’ll have to create a portfolio to show that I’m making progress. You’ll have to sign it…”
He lifts a shaggy white eyebrow. “Show it to me each week. Personally. Don’t have Amelia or anyone else bring it to my office. I think you’d have suffered less if we’d have talked from the beginning. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. What else do you need?”
This could solve two problems at once. “I could use some more privacy,” I say, thinking about how paranoid I am Amelia will walk into my room while I’m visiting the dollhouse. “I really wish people would just leave me alone.”
“You’re alone a lot, from what I’ve seen.”
“Well, everyone wants to give me encouragement, tell me my mom’s gonna make it, and they don’t really know for sure. Sometimes I just feel like slapping their faces. I know I shouldn’t when they’re trying to be so nice, but I do. Really. It’s better if people just leave me alone right now.”
“For a time, then,” he agrees. “But I’m here, if you need anything. Or if you just need someone to talk to. And that’s another thing. You’ve given a valiant effort to keep everything under control, but you wasted your efforts. You know about your mother’s plan of action, right?”
“Sure. All military parents designate someone to take care of their kids if something happens.”
“Yes, and she left her responsibilities in my hands, not yours. Not to be cruel, but if she’s dead, her debts do not pass to you. You’re not responsible, understand? And if she’s alive - which we have to believe - she’ll be earning special pay and benefits. That means she’ll have plenty of money when she gets home. That’s great news! So here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll send a moving truck to your apartment and have my men pack everything up so you don’t have to worry anymore.”
“What about rent? Mr. Larson said we signed a year contract…”
“Your mother signed. Not you. You get to take a break now and focus on being a kid. And speaking of that, how are you doing in the kitchen? Do you want to hold down the fort until your mom comes home, or should I hire a replacement so you can have your evenings to yourself? She can still have her job back when she comes home. It’s totally up to you.”
Cooking was always Mamá’s passion, but I’ve found friends and comfort in the kitchen routine. “Is it okay if stay?”
“I’d be grateful if you did. But your wages are yours to spend. If you want to keep working at the bakery, that’s fine with me, too – just arrange your schedule with Michael. Tell you what.” He opens up his wallet and pulls out a fifty-dollar bill. “New rules. Today you’re going to go shopping and buy something for yourself. Don’t even think about paying bills.”
“No, sir, that’s too much-“
“My house, my rules.” He presses the crisp green bill into my palm. “Besides, for such a young lady, you’re too old for your age. I know you’ll argue you’re not a kid anymore. But don’t belittle childhood. These are supposed to be some of your best years. So I am ordering you to enjoy yourself. You wouldn’t take that away from an old man, now, would you?”
I stare at the money, not knowing how to react.
“Bubblegum,” he says.
“What?”
“In my day, if I had a penny, I’d go buy bubblegum.”
I laugh.
“That’s better. Why didn’t you come to me in the first place?”
“It didn’t even cross my mind. I guess I’ve been taking care of Mamá for so long…”
“Well, she was right. You do complicate things.”
I smile back at him. For the first time in a long time, I’m no longer drowning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
PHOEBE
I wake up to screams, the kind I can only hear in my head. The kind that make me check the mirror to see what Phoebe wants this time.
/> It’s the third time this month, a total of seven tantrums since I moved in. The pattern I’m tracking indicates the Ambassador’s absences – whenever he travels, Phoebe acts up. Poor Amelia looks even grumpier and more tired those days, too.
As far as I can tell, Amelia’s the only one on staff who knows about Phoebe. She’s the only other person I’ve seen whose jewelry sparkles. Michael could never keep a secret. He’s too talkative. Gary might know, but he’s the sort who will take his secrets to the grave so there’s no sense in asking him.
Tonight Phoebe’s taking longer than usual to quit fussing. There’s no way to block out the noise. Covering my ears with a thousand pillows doesn’t work. There’s no way to cover inside my head.
It’s bad enough she makes Amelia get up in the middle of the night. But Amelia’s paid to take care of her. I’m not. And I’d like to get back to sleep.
Someone has to confront her. The Whitmans can’t. Amelia clearly won’t.
My riddle, my responsibility.
So far, though, I’ve failed to develop even an inkling of a plan to confront her. It can’t be as easy as knocking on her door and saying, “I’m Zenia, the girl who found your enchanted dollhouse. The Whitmans are tired of being your prisoners. Would you be so kind as to let them go?” But my other ideas are equally lame.
Maybe it’s time to tell Amelia, after all. Without new facts, I’ve done as much as I can. Surely Amelia knows more about Artemics than the Whitmans do.
Phoebe continues to screech.
Seething, I find myself in front of the secret door without a second thought, but when I open it and see the giant dollhouse standing there in the dark, I hesitate. David’s warnings ring in my ears. Phoebe’s a century older now, maybe even a century stronger. If she captures me, shrinks me, or kills me, who will take care of the Whitmans? Maybe I should leave a note for Amelia to find. Just in case. But… if I turn into a doll, won’t the Whitmans go back to being dolls, too?
The shrieks in my head put a halt to my calculations. That selfish, manipulative tyrant! How dare she control peoples’ lives this way?
The door on the other side of the study functions exactly the same as the first one, so I step through the shimmery curtain of sparkles to find Phoebe on the floor beside her bed, wiggling her legs and arms in the air like a giant cockroach. She freezes mid-flail when I stride to her rug and stand over her, my fists on my hips.
“Knock it off! It’s past midnight. What gives you the right to wake people? Or to shrink things? Or to shrink other people, for that matter! Do you know how miserable you make everyone around you?”
She’s so stunned, her little arms and legs drop to the floor.
Great. I’m yelling at an adorable, chubby six-year-old. Who’s the bully now?
“I… I’m sorry,” she says, trying to swallow her sobs.
Wow. Maybe I’ve seen too many superhero movies, but I expected more of a fight. Darting around the room as she casts curses at me, hiding behind furniture before tackling her and forcing her to surrender. Right. This is worse. Logic over magic, huh? Where’s the instruction manual for human-versus-Artemic?
She doesn’t seem as awful as Henry made her sound. Deflated, I clear my throat and try to sound less harsh. “That’s more like it. You shouldn’t throw tantrums, you know. It’s not nice.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
I’ve been watching her for months now. She doesn’t feel like a stranger. But the mirror only seems to work one way, so I take my hands off my hips and introduce myself. “I’m Zenia. I work in the kitchen with Michael.”
“Oh. That’s different. I already know who you are. I love those little dulce de leche thingies you make.”
“The churros?”
“Sure.” She hurries to stand to her feet, wiping out the wrinkles in her nightgown as if she’s preparing for an important event. She holds out her hand. “I’m Phoebe. Phoebe Akakios. How do you do?”
If I touch her, will she turn me into a wooden doll? Shrink me? My hesitation borders on rude, so I hold my breath while I shake her hand, touching it with as little pressure as possible. “How do you do?”
I stay human. My knees nearly buckle when she releases my hand.
She’s so short she needs a footstool to climb back into her high four-poster bed. How on earth can anything this small cause so much suffering?
Her brilliant blue eyes are still bright with tears. “Will you get me back to sleep?”
There doesn’t seem to be any danger in that, so I tuck her stuffed moose under the covers with her. As I read a book from her nightstand, she leans her head against my shoulder as if we’re best friends now. Just as I read the last page, a noise scratches against her nursery door like someone’s swiping a room key.
“Quick, hide,” Phoebe tells me. “I’m not supposed to have visitors.”
I tumble onto the far side of her bed and stay low. I can see Amelia’s feet as she comes into the room.
“Here it is, miss. Chocolate ice cream with peanut butter and jelly topping.”
“I don’t want it anymore. Take it away. I’ve decided to go back to sleep now.”
Amelia’s sigh is full of long-suffering patience. “Yes, miss.”
“And turn off the light. I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.”
“Yes, miss.” She flips off the switch on her way out.
Phoebe’s face appears over the edge of her bed. “Why didn’t you just disappear?”
I straighten up. “I don’t have that kind of power.”
“Oh. My friend Cynthia uses her cloak of invisibility when she doesn’t want people to see her. Maybe she can get you one.” Then she frowns. “Are you real?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Because Cynthia’s my imaginary friend. You can be my imaginary friend, if you want.”
I tug her silky pigtail, surprised by my own protective, nurturing instincts. Am I under some spell? I don’t feel enchanted – or cursed. Either way, I’d rather believe I’m operating under my own power. Maybe this is what it’s going to take to free the Whitmans. “I’ll be your real friend. If you’re nice and don’t shrink me or turn me to wood.”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“Really? Amelia seems afraid of you.”
“Well, I’ll turn her into something nasty if she doesn’t do what I want, and she knows it. Now, come tuck me in and sing me to sleep.”
“I prefer to be asked, not ordered.”
Her pink lips part in surprise, but she changes her tone. “Will you, please?”
I just want to squeeze those little cheeks! Instead, I pull her quilt up to her chin.
“And you will you please sing to me?” She uses the word like she’s never practiced it before.
“I don’t have a good voice. I’d just give you nightmares.”
She opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Okay.”
This could be the first time in her life she hasn’t argued back with anyone, so I decide to sing for her because she’s trying so hard to be good.
“Little punkin’, little punkin’, what are you doing?” I croon. “Why is it you weep? Those tears make your eyes look very tired. Maybe you need some sleep…”
She grows drowsy, and her eyelids close. But she rouses herself enough to ask, “Will you come visit me tomorrow?”
Tomorrow’s Saturday. Halloween. I had promised to help Michael prepare trick-or-treat bags in the morning, and then help Eleanor for her party decorations. “I’m awfully busy. I don’t know if I can.”
Her eyes fly open. She’s angry. But again, she clamps her mouth shut. “Okay.”
“I tell you what. I’ll try.”
“Yay!”
It’s hard to believe such an innocent-looking angel is the source of so much trouble. If I hadn’t seen how frightened Amelia was, I never would have believed it for myself. Now the town gossip makes more sense.
“Maybe they’d tell better storie
s if you were a nicer little girl,” I whisper.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
ARTEMICS
Uh-oh. When I finally sneak out of Phoebe’s room back through the empty study twenty minutes later, I know I’m in trouble. The porch light has been turned on. Its tiny electric blue glow flickers out into the dark room. I always forget the Whitmans can hear me coming; my giant footsteps shake the loose boards whenever I enter the study. Clearly I woke someone up.
It’s George. He’s waiting for me on the porch swing.
I could just walk past him and pretend I don’t see him. But that would be dishonorable. I brace myself for a lecture and pop onto the porch to join him.
“What were you thinking?” he cries, not bothering to keep his voice low so he won’t wake up the rest of the family. “You could have been lost to us forever.”
“I had to try. How else are you going to get out of here?”
“It’s not worth the risk. If she had turned you into a doll, who would have brought you back to this house so you could have a life? Who would have ever known? You’d be stuck on some shelf somewhere, Zenia, awake for eternity. You have no idea what that’s like, and I hope you never will. Don’t ever, ever do that again!”
I shrug. “Nothing happened.”
Guilt glues my gaze to the porch swing.
“You don’t have a father to take care of you, Zenia. Maybe you don’t consider me that way, but you’ve become like a daughter to me in the time we’ve known each other.”
I wish he really were my father. He’s everything I ever imagined, only real. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Promise you shan’t do it again?”
I balk. “I already told Phoebe I’d go again.”
“Are you even listening to me?” A little vein on his balding forehead begins to pulse in agitation. “She may seem like sugar and lace, but she’s unpredictable. Make her angry, and poof. Or if she likes you too much, poof. Zenia, please!”