The Mostly True Story of Jack (14 page)

“Well, not for a while. Wendy and I’ve been there a bunch of times and we’re fine. But it’s like something’s asleep, you know. Been like that ever since—” He waved toward Frankie with a jerk of his chin.

Frankie stood on the top landing and launched three more pebbles. Two taps sounded. He took a step closer to the door.

“Him?” Jack asked. “So what happened to—”

“
Frankie
,” Wendy said sharply. “Don’t go in there.” Frankie stood just inside the doorway. It seemed to Jack that the entire structure sagged a little more, as though it were hugging Frankie in toward itself. Frankie didn’t seem to notice. He walked slowly into the front
cloakroom, its old metal hooks glinting strangely in the low light. He turned, and Jack could have sworn the boy looked
right at
him. Jack squinted. Frankie was deeply shadowed and difficult to see. But Jack
thought
he saw Frankie reach into his pocket and pull something out. He extended his arm to the archway separating the cloakroom from the classroom, and, with a shudder, he
disappeared
.

No
, Jack told himself.
He just stepped into the shadow.

Wendy stood on the first step. “Frankie,” she said, more loudly now, her voice sounding like a big sister’s, though, in truth, she was only fifteen minutes older, which isn’t enough to count. The stair under her feet cracked suddenly, sending up gray-brown clouds of dust and dirt around her feet. She nimbly hopped to the third step, which collapsed immediately, sending her down through broken wood to the ground. Anders and Jack ran to either side of the old wooden stair, held out their hands, but she ignored them. She righted herself, stood her ground, and looked up into the darkened hole where her brother hid.

“Franklin James,” she shouted, “come here right now or I’m telling Mom.” There was no answer. She looked to Anders. “Can you give me a boost? I’ll get him out of there myself.”

“I don’t think you should go in there,” Anders said, eyeing the roof and the bulging walls.

“And I don’t think you should be telling me what to do,” Wendy said with an upward tilt of her sharp chin,
her hair streaming away from her body like a flag. She looked as though she should be holding a sword, leading an army, or killing a dragon. With one quick motion, Wendy grabbed the edge of the top stair and kicked her feet up and around, scrambling gracelessly to the top landing. She crouched there, looking in, moving slowly as though afraid to move too fast and fall through again.

“Frankie,” she said quietly into the dusty silence. “Come on now.” Her voice was hushed, barely a whisper. “You guys, I can’t see him in there.”

“Maybe he’s hiding,” Jack said.

“Where? It’s just a room. Four walls, four corners. There’s nowhere to hide.” She stood, grasping the flaking trim of the old door just in case. “Frankie,” she called. “Frankie!” Her voice scratched the sides of the walls, sent breezes flooding into the old schoolhouse and rushing out the gaping entrance. And, from behind them, the sound of someone laughing.

“Who is that?” Jack asked, turning around. “Is that Frankie? Wendy, I think he snuck out and he’s back…
there
somewhere.” He waved his arms toward the green field. Nothing moved. “I swear I heard something.”

“Yeah,” Anders said, peering across the road. “Me too.”

Crack.
The roof shivered and drooped. A whoosh of dust fell from the outside walls and out through the doorway. Wendy rubbed her bare arms. “It’s cold in there,” she said. “Why is it cold?”

“Wendy,” Anders said. “Get out. Now. The roof is sagging even more.” Another crack. And a long, slow sigh.

“Frankie’s hiding,” Wendy said, her voice steady and toneless, as though dreaming. “I just have to find him and then we can go.”

“Wendy,” Anders said, “listen to me. Frankie isn’t in there. You don’t see him and there’s nowhere to hide in there. I don’t know how he got out without us seeing, but he did, and, well, that’s Frankie for you, isn’t it.”

Dry wood snapped and squeaked. More dust poured from the glassless windows and doorless door.

“I’m just going to check—”

“No, Wendy!” Anders and Jack yelled together.

The building cracked again. Anders jumped up on the disintegrating stairs, grabbed Wendy by the arm, and pulled her onto the grass. She screamed. The schoolhouse closed in on itself, like a hand rearing into a fist before punching. The roof buckled and curled, and the sides shivered and crumpled down like an accordion left on its side. All that was left was the doorless entrance, the post and lintel red with peeling paint, dust pouring out of its open mouth.

J
ACK
, W
ENDY, AND
A
NDERS STARED AT THE CLOUD OF DUST
that had been, just a moment before, a schoolhouse. Wendy scrambled out of Anders’s grip, scraping her knees on the gravel.

“Frankie!” she screamed. She turned to Anders and grabbed a handful of his shirt, giving him a good shake. “Get him out of there,” she ordered.

“But,” Jack said reasonably, “he wasn’t in there. You said so yourself.”

“Well,” she said, rounding on Jack. “Where was he,
then?” Her face blazed and Jack squinted. He felt himself crumple in front of her, like a piece of tissue paper that’s too close to a very hot fire.

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “Sounded like there was
someone
somewhere behind us.” Or in front. Or underneath. Whatever. Another thing that defied any kind of explanation.
Nothing in this town makes any sense
, Jack thought, rubbing madly at the back of his neck. Everything itched. He tried desperately not to think about it.

“It doesn’t matter where he was,” Anders said, putting a hand on each of Wendy’s shoulders and turning her away from the schoolhouse. He got her to walk back toward the road. “We can’t get him out by ourselves, even if he
is
in there. Jack, do you think you can find your aunt’s shop on your own?”

Jack fished in his pocket to see if the map that Clive had drawn for him was still there. It was. He opened it up and saw the old man’s neat little drawings of the house, the college, Wendy and Frankie’s house, and the gallery. There was even a little picture of the schoolhouse. Underneath were the words
Don’t go here
.

“Ah,” said Jack. “Yeah, I can find it.”

“Good. Then run. Tell her what happened. She’ll know what to do. Wendy and I will go get her mom.”

Jack ran. He ran past houses with little old ladies sitting on front porches and yards where little kids played jump rope and hopscotch. It seemed to him that everything moved in slow motion. It seemed to him that the whole
town was staring at him. It seemed to him that everyone
knew
that Frankie had somehow vanished from a creepy, collapsing building and, worse, that no one really cared. And suddenly it was as though the world was made from molasses or glue and was slowing imperceptibly to a stop.

Even without the map, Jack would not have had a problem finding the gallery. Aunt Mabel’s gallery was not one to blend in. It was neither nondescript nor ordinary.

The gallery announced itself.

The windows had been painted with twisting vines and heavy blossoms, while the door broadly declared
THE FAERIE QUEENE
in elegant, curved lettering that glinted gold in the sun. He threw open the door and ran inside.

A man stood in front of his aunt. A very tall, very broad man who had to stoop to look her in the eye. His arm extended toward her, and a long, pale finger pointed. Jack stopped in his tracks. He had a wild notion to push the man down, make him point that finger somewhere else.

He knew exactly who the man was. Jack had seen him squeeze out of Mr. Perkins’s awful car and head into the nicest house in town. Mr. Avery. Jack shuddered.

“I’ll give you a week, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” The man’s voice was rough and without kindness. “One week and that’s it. After that, you’re going to wish that you had taken my offer.”

Aunt Mabel smiled sweetly. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you so much for stopping by, Mr. Avery.”

Jack stood still, watching his aunt. Though her voice, as usual, was warm and sweet and comforting as good food, her eyes glinted, sharp as knives. Jack told himself to never, ever make Aunt Mabel mad.

The man turned to walk out and saw Jack for the first time. “You!” His eyes went momentarily wide and livid before narrowing into two thin slits. “You, young man, while you are”—he cleared his throat—“
with us
, you will stay away from my boy. He has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

Jack stepped backward. “Um,” he said, his voice wavering. “Hello, sir. It’s… nice to actually meet you.”

The man pinched his mouth into a tight downward hook and flared his nostrils, as though to let Jack know that
nice
would be the last word he would ever use to describe this meeting. He strode to the door, his polished shoes clicking crisply against the wood floor, and he was gone.

Mabel pressed her hands flat on the long counter and closed her eyes. For the first time, Jack noticed that she looked old. Also for the first time, he noticed that someone else was in the room.

“Frankie?” he said, his mouth open in disbelief.

Mabel looked up. Instantly, the tired expression fell away as her face curved into a smile. “Yes, he likes to show up now and again.” She sat heavily on the rocking chair positioned next to the cash register, and sighed. Frankie crossed the room and stood next to Mabel. He
laid his hand on her shoulder and fixed his mild eyes on Jack. For a moment, even though his lips didn’t move, Jack felt as though Frankie were speaking. But he couldn’t understand a word of it.

“What is it, Frankie?” Jack asked, utterly exasperated, but the moment was gone. Frankie was just Frankie once again.

“He is my big helper around here,” Mabel said. “Some days I don’t know what I would do without—” The door opened, swung so hard it hit the opposing wall with a rattle and a clunk. Wendy rushed in with a woman who Jack assumed must be her mother.

“Oh, thank God,” the woman breathed, and strode across the room, enveloping Frankie in a bone-crushing hug. Frankie still managed to peer through the nook between her neck and shoulder, to peer directly at Jack, who was starting to feel slightly unnerved.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Anders said. “It was the schoolhouse. It… collapsed.”

“Again?” Mabel turned quite pale. “Was there anyone…” She gulped. “Is anyone…” She couldn’t continue.

“Frankie was inside,” Anders said. “And then he was gone. And we thought…” He stared at Mabel, who had gone from pale to quite gray. “But nothing…
bad
happened, you know?” He glanced nervously at Wendy, who was staring hard at her brother and didn’t notice.

He seems more worried about Wendy than Frankie
, Jack
thought.
In fact, he’s not that worried about Frankie at all. I wonder why.

Mabel stood. “Tea,” she said with a shaky finality, and Mrs. Schumacher nodded. While Mabel poured from the pot under an embroidered towel, she motioned for Mrs. Schumacher to sit in the rocker.

“It’s not that hot, I’m afraid, but it will do. I had a feeling I would need some a little bit ago, but Mr. Avery paid me a rather unpleasant visit and my sense of timing is all off.”

Mrs. Schumacher didn’t sit, but insisted that Frankie sit down instead. Kneeling in front of him, she inspected his eyes, his ruined face, and his palms. She peered into each ear as though looking for explosives, felt his forehead, and checked his pulse.

“You,” she said to her son, her voice a fierce combination of exasperation and worry and love, “are going to give me a heart attack. You hear me, young man? You are
killing your mother
.” She shook her head, ruffled his hair, and kissed him loudly on his bad cheek. “You’re a good boy, Frankie. Most of the time.” She turned to Mabel. “You got anything stronger than cream for that tea?”

Wendy crouched down on a painted stool that Jack thought must be for sale and laid her forehead on her knees, shaking slightly. Jack walked over and, feeling that he should be doing something but not really sure what that something should be, gave her a little pat on
the shoulder. He considered saying something on the lines of “there, there,” but, fortunately, Wendy, in a violent jerk of her shoulder, forced his hand away.

“I’m not crying,” she said, her red eyes pouring out tears. Jack looked over to Anders, who shrugged.

“Okay,” Jack said.

Mabel glided over with a plate of cookies and told them to grab a pop from the fridge if they felt like it. Wendy claimed she wasn’t thirsty, but Anders said, “Come on, now, Wendy,” and helped her up by her elbow. Wendy continued to sniffle.

Frankie stared at Jack. Not next to. Not above. He stared at Jack full in the face, his mismatched eyes boring into Jack’s head. Frankie reached into his pocket and pulled something out, held tightly in a closed fist. Jack raised his eyebrows, and Frankie nodded his head ever so slightly. Jack walked over to the rocking chair and leaned down. Frankie took Jack’s hand and placed something hard and heavy and warm into his palm, closing the fingers around it. It felt like a rock. Stretching upward, he put his lips next to Jack’s ear.

“
Don’t lose it
,” Frankie whispered, clearly and audibly. Jack nearly fell down.

“Wha—Ouch!” Jack began, but Frankie pinched him hard on the arm.

“What was that, dear?” Aunt Mabel said from the back room.

Frankie pursed his lips, his eyes wide and pleading.

“N-nothing, Aunt Mabel,” Jack said. “Nothing at all.” Without taking his eyes off Frankie, he put the object in his pocket. Frankie nodded and gave a grim smile. He jerked his head toward the back room, where the others gathered and drank and looked meaningfully at Jack. Slowly, Frankie’s mouth began to form silent words.

Don’t tell.

T
HAT EVENING
, J
ACK ATE HIS DINNER ON HIS OWN IN HIS ROOM
while his aunt and uncle were at the neighbors’ to meet with a lawyer about… well, Jack wasn’t sure. Something about the house. Jack hoped they’d see a contractor, too, because the house was moving more and more each day. It swayed and shivered so much that cracks were starting to form on the ceiling and walls, and the doorways heated almost to burning every time he laid his hand on the trim.