by Emily Asad
George greets me as when I pop into the dollhouse and rush to the corner fireplace to toast my fingers. He rubs his eyes, obviously tired from getting up every half hour last night to spoon butter over the turkey. “How’s the Turkey Vigil going?” I ask him.
“Another seventeen minutes and we can eat.”
“Seventeen minutes, huh?”
“Not a moment more.”
He takes basting very seriously. I try to smother my grin. “Better get those rolls in the oven, then,” I call to Alexis, who bustles about in the kitchen with Eleanor, cheerfully stirring the buttered corn and mashed potatoes for today’s feast. Alexis takes the rolls I prepped last night out of the refrigerator and pops them into the oven alongside a banana bread she’s already baking.
Now that Amelia provides groceries for the Whitmans, Eleanor takes great delight in showcasing her pie-making abilities. Today she has created four kinds: cherry, pumpkin, apple, and blueberry. I bet there won’t be any left, not with all the exercise we get from building my Tiny House.
Seventeen minutes isn’t enough time to do much building today. Nathaniel already told me about the after-feast entertainment he’s planned for the family, so I take this time to hurry out to my Suitcase to put a few more shingles on her sides.
As I position the next shingle in place, I frown. First, holes gape where nails have already pierced it. Worse, the section of wall I’m about to hammer also has holes. I inspect the wall more closely and then my pile of shingles. They’re the same ones I used yesterday.
Someone has removed all my work.
But who? Why?
I finish placing a row before Henry’s voice floats down to me from an upstairs window: “Zenia, Father says it’s time. Come wash up.”
As Nathaniel pulls my chair out for me, I tell him what I noticed. “What’s going on?”
His usual smile fades pretty fast. “Ask David.”
I meet David’s eyes across the table. “Did you undo a section of my shingles from yesterday?”
He freezes. “I intended no insult. Your rows were crooked. I meant to fix them for you before you noticed.”
I don’t know whether to thank him or dig deeper – his family has gone silent, the way they do when they’re avoiding conflict. Or truth. Now that I’m thinking about it, lots of setbacks spring to mind: missing floor panels when I thought I’d finished them, hinges I’d already installed needing to be installed again, pencil measurements getting erased. Those weren’t poor quality. George approved them himself. Before, I accounted my suspicions to imagination or déja-vu. Now I can only stare at David’s guilty face.
“A Thanksgiving toast,” Henry says, holding his cider goblet in the air. “To family, new friends, and the future of our choosing.”
I hold up my goblet and mumble the words along with everyone else, but all I can think about is one question: Why is David sabotaging my work?
* * *
Hours later, when we’ve stuffed ourselves silly and played after-dinner games, Eleanor insists I take some pie to Phoebe.
“She’ll have eaten already,” I tell her. “Michael was making his own feast.”
“But this was made with love,” she replies, holding out a plate of blueberry pie.
A sudden rush of tears sting my eyes. I wouldn’t be able to share anything with a person who destroyed my life and my family, yet kindness has purged all resentment from Eleanor’s heart. “You’re the most generous person I’ve ever met,” I tell her, kissing her cheek as I take the pie slice. “I hope Phoebe understands what a gift this is.”
Phoebe doesn’t look up when I enter her room. I can’t believe she’s the same kid who screamed us all awake just a few weeks ago. A gangly teenager now taller than me, her long blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders as she searches behind pillows and under her bed. She’s already filled several crates with old toys and baby things.
“You look like you’re packing,” I say.
“I know I put her right here. And the baby, too.” She tosses pillows this way and that, making a mess on her floor with her frantic moves.
I gulp. She’s hunting for Alexis and Baby John.
“I’ll never grow up if I don’t find them!” She begins to hyperventilate. “What will I do? What will I do?”
Her frenzied motions make me feel even worse. This isn’t a simple case of a child losing a favorite toy. This is sheer panic.
“I took them.” I have to repeat it in a louder voice before Phoebe stops crawling around on the floor.
“You took them?” She closes the distance between us with rapid steps. “Why?”
“They were suffering. They were conscious, like in a coma.”
“Not possible. Why would you think that?”
Confession time. I take a deep breath. “Because they told me everything.”
An aura of angry green sparkles builds up around her head and shoulders. “You’ve known about them this whole time, and you didn’t tell me? What kind of friend are you?”
“The I’d-rather-protect-myself-from-magical-brats kind.”
“But they’re my responsibility.”
I snort. “You’ve done a fine job of caring for them, haven’t you? If they belong to anyone, they’re mine. I found them. I took care of them. All you ever did was hurt them. Why would they trust you again?” I don’t add I’m afraid to lose them. It’s Phoebe’s mansion and Phoebe’s magic. I have no rights to the dollhouse – except for the ones I’ve stolen.
The air begins to crackle with her anger. She balls her fists to keep them from twitching. Then she wipes her hands on her nightgown and continues wiping until her fingers go soft and calm again. In a controlled voice, she asks, “What did you do with Alexis?”
“Put her back in the dollhouse. It woke her up. She’s alive again, even if she’s bound to the dollhouse now and forever. Like you did to the Whitmans.”
Her big blue eyes grow round in surprise. “The Whitmans are awake, too?”
I can only nod.
“Are they… okay?”
“They’re miserable.”
“I have to see them. Where’s the dollhouse now?”
I shrug. “You’re not ready. I won’t let you break their hearts again.”
“Zenia! Is it still on the other side of that door?”
“Maybe.”
Phoebe tromps back to her bed and sits in the middle with her back to me. After a few minutes of meditation, she returns. “Look. I know I was a spoiled brat when you first met me. And I was angry a few minutes ago, but not now. I’m changing, Zenia. I’m gaining more control. Each day I’m getting a little bit better, and it’s all thanks to you. You believed in me when nobody else would. Take me to them?”
I knew this moment would come. It’s what we’ve all been working toward. But I’m not ready. How stupid was I, to let down my guard? I know better than to make friends. This goodbye will hurt so much I may never recover.
Time to turn my family over to their enemy. Time to solve this riddle.
I’m not ready.
“They don’t want to see you ever again. George hates you.”
“Figures,” she says softly. “But as soon as I fix things, they’ll never have to see me again. I’ll have Daddy set them up in Minneapolis like they wanted.”
No, no, no! Am I cursed to lose every friend I make? September, October, November – it’s the three-month mark, the time when Mamá and I would be finishing renovation on a crappy apartment and getting ready to move to the next one.
Phoebe’s eyes stare at me, unblinking and somber. “It’s part of my passage rites, to reverse any bad spells I made when I was younger. If I don’t do this, I’ll never grow up all the way. You’re the only one who can help me – help us all, now.”
I snort. “Apparently, I am. Your friend Kynthia gave me a riddle to solve.”
“Cynthia?”
“Whatever. Have you ever heard of the Lumberjack’s Dilemma?” I borrow some of her toys and sh
ow her the riddle along with its solution.
“How does this apply to me?”
“We think you’re the boat. You’re the only one who can get the Whitmans through the barrier. I already tried. Didn’t work.”
She snatches up a teddy bear and holds it to her chest as she paces around the room. When she returns, she’s frowning. “You’re human. How do you get in here?”
“Same way Amelia does. I’m vaccinated.” I unwrap my bandage.
“That explains everything.” She flops onto her mattress, her legs kicking over the edge. “But it solves nothing. I’m still stuck.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m grounded, remember? Sealed here forever.”
“But you’re growing up. Can’t you break your seal?”
“Do you think I haven’t tried? I’ve spent a century staring at that weave. It’s too complicated for me.”
As soon as she says it, I yelp. All those sparkles in the dome – they’re woven together, like fabric. Like the braid around my ring? “Phoebe, look close. I’m convinced these knots are a clue, like Morse code or a molecular chain. Does this pattern make any sense to you?”
She bends over my ring, twirling it around so she can see the knots in the rope theme. Suddenly, she barks a sharp laugh. “It’s a release thread.” She runs over to the door and studies the glittering seal. “You tug it and the whole thing is supposed to unravel.”
I join her in searching for the pattern. To me, all the sparkles seem pretty much the same. But she finds the release thread after just a few minutes.
“Here we go.” She reaches into the weave and snags the thread. Nothing happens, no matter how hard she pulls.
“You can do it,” I urge. “Don’t let go.”
She starts to pant like she’s been flipping on her trampoline. Soon, she drops her hand. “You can’t see it,” she gasps, “but I’ve opened a hole. I’m going to shrink down now. I need you to carry me through. I’ll jump through the hole and meet you on the other side. Okay?”
I nod. She shrinks down and jumps onto my shoulder, where she continues shrinking until she’s the size of a flea. Then I step through the shimmering curtain as slowly as I can, hoping I’ve got her in the right position.
Once I’m through, I wait in the study. She’s on my shoulder – growing, growing, until she runs down my arm and jumps to the floor, where she grows back to her regular size. “I’m out! I’m free!” She dances in place, twirling in excitement.
Her excitement fades when she sees the old radios and TV’s. “I made Daddy bring those up for them, once, when I got it into my head my dolls might be bored.” She shudders. “I didn’t think they’d actually be bored. It was just something I pretended…”
“You’re going to make it better. Ready?”
We step under the dome and then head for the parlor.
Everyone’s there. Baby John has fallen asleep in David’s arms.
George is the first to recognize their visitor. He jumps out of his seat, his face covered in hatred and terror. “Phoebe! What are you doing here?”
The others freeze.
“I… I came to apologize.”
When Phoebe sees her sister on the couch beside Henry, she loses her breath. “Oh, Alexis. You’re so pale.”
“And you’ve gotten tall.” Alexis embraces her. “We forgive you.”
“No, we don’t,” George snarls.
“Now, dear,” says Eleanor, “let’s hear what the child has to say.”
“She shan’t remain in this house unless she’s here to get us out of it.”
“That’s why I brought her,” I say.
Phoebe shoots me a look of gratitude.
“Is it true?” Eleanor asks me.
“I guess. She can make things bigger now, like wagons and toys. Even dollhouses.”
“And people?”
“She shrank me small and restored me.” I hold out my arms out for inspection. “I didn’t feel a thing.”
“I’d like to try to fix what I’ve done, if you’ll let me.” Phoebe’s humble, unassuming attitude throws George off guard. He stares at her for a minute, probably considering her new height, and then drops a nod.
She closes her eyes and raises her hands, palms up.
“Not in here, dear,” Eleanor says. “We’ll go through the roof.”
“Oh. Right.”
We all gather on the porch, but it’s George who joins Phoebe on the study floor. He glares at her, his face filled with pleading as well as doubt.
The two of them grow full-sized without a hitch. But when Phoebe steps outside the dome and holds her hand out to him, he hesitates.
For a minute, I don’t think he’ll touch her. He hates magic even more than he hates her. But he closes his hand around hers and lets her pull him through the perimeter.
He’s flesh and blood!
…until he passes all the way through the sparkles. Then he stiffens into a life-sized wooden doll and freezes mid-step.
She seems as frightened as the carved expression on his face.
“Push him back in!” we cry – all of us, because our tiny voices are hard to hear when someone’s so far away.
I turn myself big and help pull George back under the dome.
Inside, he softens and catches his balance. He’s about to weep, I just know it. Instead, he opens his mouth to say something to her. And decides not to. He pounds the side of the dollhouse so hard the windows rattle.
“Let me try again,” Phoebe pleads. “Alexis can help.”
David passes his sleeping brother to Nathaniel. “Come back inside, Father,” he calls, giving Phoebe a meaningful glance.
She understands and shrinks George small again while David takes his place as the guinea pig. Alexis makes herself tall, too, leaving little room for me in my current height. I pop back onto the porch. Poor George can’t stop quivering. I tuck myself under his arm and hug him tight.
The two sisters raise their hands toward the ceiling. The air snaps with energy. They both slump at the same time, breathing hard.
“Try it now,” Phoebe tells David.
He’s so tall now that his head almost brushes the top of the dome. He gulps as he steps through the barrier.
Wood.
Alexis helps haul him back inside.
They try again. Green sparkles ignite the sphere’s weave. It starts to hum.
“It’s no use,” Alexis says, swaying from the effort.
“We can’t give up!” howls Phoebe. “We’re so close!”
Nothing.
They drop their hands, defeated.
George excuses himself to his workshop, his lips set in a thin line.
Phoebe crumples to the floor. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”
Alexis shrinks herself and David so they can rejoin us on the porch.
Eleanor takes a hesitant step toward Phoebe, then raises her tiny voice. “Come inside, dear. Have some tea. We need to chat, you and I.”
When Phoebe shrinks down to our size, Eleanor wraps an arm around her and guides her upstairs to the sewing room. Alexis begins to follow, but Henry catches her wrist.
“Better let Mother have her say,” he tells her.
“She’s my sister. I haven’t talked to her in decades.”
“Maybe that’s what she wants to talk about.”
Alexis nods and allows herself to be drawn into a tight snuggle.
I pretend to be disappointed like everyone else. Except I’m thrilled they’re still stuck. It feels like the cosmos has granted more time with them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR:
BLACK FRIDAY
Diana invites me to go shopping for Black Friday. I hate shopping and I fear crowds, so I decline. Then I call back because I remember I still owe her a ride in the limo.
I’ve been putting together a plan to help the Whitmans. Now that I’m not paying bills, I have nearly $800 saved in the bank account Mr. Akakios helped me open. He directly deposits
my paychecks there so I don’t have to worry about getting to the bank. He also negotiated fairer wages for me with Mrs. Nelson by threatening to help me start my own business. It’s not quite what Mamá makes, but it’s better than minimum wage so I’m not complaining. I never told him I would hate the idea of owning and running a bakery. I’m just lucky his strategy worked.
When we pick Diana up from her house, she hands me her shopping list. “They’re Christmas presents I’m going to hunt for,” she says, tapping the items in red. “And these in green are the ones I want for myself.”
I pass her my own list.
“They’re all movie titles? What for?”
“I’m doing a historical survey through Hollywood media. It’s a project designed to track changes in society over the past hundred years.”
“You’re crazy. Homeschool must suck.”
“It’s not too bad.” I still haven’t told her about the dollhouse or the Whitmans. Too complicated. But if anyone would believe in magic, it’s probably Diana.
“I know where to find titles,” she says. “How do you tell your driver where to go?”
“You shout at him,” Gary calls over his shoulder.
We spend the morning pushing our way into the thick of things. Diana’s quick. She can snag things off shelves before anyone else has a chance to grab them. And she’s got a nose for low prices. She finds everything I’m looking for, everything she wanted, and more. “I wish we could go to the Mall of America just once,” she says after lunch as we drop her off at home. “But my mom is afraid of traffic in the Twin Cities.”
“I could drive us. We should plan to go one of these weekends.”
“Oh, totally! That’d be so much fun!” She hugs me and then tumbles out of the car. Gary has to help her haul her loot to her porch. The soles of their boots never leave the ice as they slide-glide up the sidewalk.
“Got anything for me?” Gary asks when he returns.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Hmph. Just for that, carry your own bags to your room.”
The gloom of last night’s defeat still lingers when I visit the Whitmans. Phoebe’s up in her old room with Alexis. They’re busy catching up on decades’ worth of gossip. I don’t want to interfere. My gifts aren’t for them, anyway.