Last Stop (2 page)

I was running across Deerfield at the corner of Orpheus when I heard a familiar voice cry out, “David!”

Heather. What was she doing here?

Honnnnnnk!

A car swerved by me, its brakes squealing.

I jumped back, colliding with a streetlight.

Heather raced up to me. “Are you okay?”

No.
I couldn’t tell her. It was crazy. I needed to be alone.

“Fine,” I grunted, turning away. “See you.”

“David, what is wrong with you?” Heather asked.

“Nothing!” I snapped. “Why are you following me around?”

“Uh, I live in your building, remember? I have to walk in this direction.”

“You didn’t have to get off a stop early.”

“Excuse me for being concerned? I just saw the quietest guy I know—you—banging on a subrail door and screaming like a maniac. So, being your friend, I ran after you, just in time to save your life from a speeding motorist, and this is the thanks I get?”

What luck. Just when I need privacy, a little bonding time with my sanity, I am tailed by the motormouth of Franklin City Middle School.

“It was a joke,” I said.

“Yelling ‘wait’ to the empty subrail track?”

“To shake up the commuters. Make them think I’m a total filbert, so they’ll move away and give me room.”

“Liar.”

I turned in the direction of Wiggins Street, toward home.

“Face it, David,” came Heather’s voice behind me. “You need to talk. You’re having a tough time…I mean, psychologically, with your dad and all—”

I stopped in my tracks.
“What does my dad have to do with it?”

“Nothing…I’m just saying…you haven’t been yourself since…you know…”

“So isn’t that
my
business? Isn’t it my business if I’m stressed out and seeing things and needing time alone?”

“Seeing things? Like what?”

“You really want to know? You want to be my shrink? Okay, Heather—
like my dad
! On subrail platforms, on the street, at the Granite Street station! Okay? Happy?”

Stop.

What was I saying?

I wanted to reel in the words. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to put my life into reverse, go back to school, and never go near the subrail system again.

But I couldn’t. And Heather was not going to let this go away.

“You saw
your dad
?”

I felt nauseated now. Smothered. As if the street noises had been sucked away, leaving only the sounds of my brain, churning and rumbling like an oncoming train.

I saw nothing but Heather’s eyes, looming closer.

“I’m listening, David. Go on.” She was touching my hand now. Half of me wanted to recoil, but I felt my fingers gripping hers.

I did go on. I told her everything, all the details. Hoping that would ease the pain and confusion I felt.

Heather looked stone-faced at me the whole time. When I was done, she leaned back against the wall of a building and sighed. “Who-o-oa…”

“You have to promise not to tell anyone,” I said. “Ever.”

Heather nodded.

“I know, I know. You think I’m crazy.”

“No, I don’t…” Heather said softly.

“You don’t?”

“I just have one question. How much sleep are you getting?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I read somewhere that you need a lot more sleep when you reach adolescence. Which could possibly be happening to you. I mean, it’s a difficult time of life, especially for guys. Look how it warped Max—”

She didn’t believe me. I wanted to kill her.

I ran off and let her babble to herself.

When I reached our apartment building, she was nowhere near me. I stepped inside, walked across the vestibule, and pressed the elevator button. The number 12 lit up on the metal plate above the door.

That’s where the elevator was. Twelve. Top floor. By the time it came down, Heather would be waiting beside me.

I decided to take the stairs to my apartment, which is on the fifth floor. The building’s stairwell is behind a locked metal door, opposite the elevator. I ran toward it, fumbling for my keys.

With a loud
ca-chunk
, the door flew open, clipping my arm.

A man with a greasy beard and a long, ragged coat leaped out.

I can’t watch this.

We have to be ready, too. For anything.

“A
AAAAAAGGGGGH!”
I
SCREAMED.

“AAAAAAAGGGGGH!” he screamed.

I shot back against the wall.

The man stood, stoop-shouldered, staring at me. His rank smell filled the entire vestibule.

I recognized the smell before the face.

Anders. Anders the Mad Hermit of Wiggins Street.

“You scared me,” I said.

Anders giggled. I could see his missing front tooth.

His hair was stringy and matted, not to mention his clothes. It looked as if he hadn’t bathed or changed or cut his hair since…well, since Dad started going off the deep end.

I felt kind of sad. Dad was always doing stuff for Anders—visiting him occasionally, helping him clean up his apartment, running errands. Why? Because Dad loved everyone, including total filberts, I guess. Dad used to insist that Anders was once a normal guy. Which was kind of hard to imagine.

Dad used to be Anders’s connection to reality. Now
Anders
was the one sane enough to still be alive.

How ironic.

“Excuse me,” I said, pushing past Anders.

“Has…he…come…back?” he growled.

“Who?”

“Your papa!”

“Uh, no,” I replied. “He’s…well, gone.”

Anders’s beard moved, which I took to be a smile. “To ‘the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns.’ ”

“You could say that, I guess. Whatever.”

“Are you sure?”
Now Anders was glaring.

“Well…yeah. I guess. I mean—”

Ding!

The elevator opened behind me. I glanced at the door. No Heather.

“Talk to Mom about it!” I blurted out as I backed in.

Hallelujah. Escape.

I rode up to the fifth floor and went straight to my apartment. Swinging the door open, I threw my backpack into the living room.

As usual, it landed on the sofa.

As not usual, my mom caught it.

Her hair had been set into curls, and she was wearing makeup. “Where have you been? Don’t tell me. You used dial-a-turtle to get home. You know, we have to be at the studio in
fifteen minutes
.”

The show. I had totally forgotten about the show. The Sophie Karp talk show.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Bleeeeeep!
went the voicephone.

“Go transform yourself into a prince.” Mom snatched up the receiver. “Hello?…Yes, this is she…Where? No, he doesn’t…Well, okay, thank you very much.”

Mom groaned as she hung up.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Woman. Old. From a place called Talmadge Swamp. Saw Dad’s photo in a tabloid and swears she spotted him alligator hunting.
Now hurry. I am leaving!”

Zoom. Into the bathroom. I showered quickly, wrestled my hair with a comb, and tucked in my shirt.

We sped downtown in an ancient taxi that sounded like pneumonia on wheels. The driver cursed every time he hit a pothole, which was about four times a block.

I didn’t mind. I would have been happy on a camel.
Anything
besides the subrail.

By the time we reached TFCT, Franklin City’s local TV station, my stomach was fluttery with nerves. Once inside, Mom and I were whisked away to a makeup room, where three or four people fussed over us. It felt kind of cool, until I saw the final result.

My hair was all puffed up and hard as a helmet. The hairspray was making my eyes itch. And I was wearing eyeliner and rouge.

I looked like an idiot.

Next thing I knew, Mom and I were sitting on the living room set of
The Sophie Karp Show.
And Sophie Karp was smiling at us, talking a mile a minute.

I have no idea what she said. All I remember is that
she
looked great—killer smile, friendly face, great hair.

The lights blinked on. White. Harsh. Glaring. The theme music began. The studio audience broke into applause.

I was shaking. My stomach felt like the inside of a cement mixer.

“Today we meet a courageous family,” Sophie Karp said as the music died down, “a mother and son on a mission of faith. Six months ago, in the middle of the night…”

Dad.
In my nervous state, the images were flooding in. The train grinding to a stop. The lights…

“…and now,” Sophie Karp went on in a hushed, dramatic voice, “when Taylor Moore and her son meet in the kitchen each morning for breakfast, they must remind themselves not to put that third strip of bacon…”

The blood was rushing from my face.

“…not to scramble up that extra egg…”

Keep calm
…

“…and I know it’s a lot of stress for a twelve-year-old, isn’t it?”

Now the audience was staring at me.

I turned. Sophie Karp was to my left. Her microphone was in my face.

“Uh, thirteen.” My voice squeaked on the “teen.” Great.

The audience laughed. I felt about two inches tall.

Sophie Karp made some dumb joke, then her face grew serious again. “Every year, thousands disappear, never to be heard of again…”

Mom gripped my hand.

“Are they all dead?” Sophie Karp continued solemnly. “Not so, says our next guest.”

Guest? Who had said anything about a guest?

“Will you please welcome…Gardenia Rouelle-Savant!”

The curtain behind us opened and the audience clapped loudly. In walked a woman about six feet tall, wearing a silk turban and a long, flowing dress. She took a slow bow, her face solemn and dark.

As she walked to us, she seemed to be floating. She sat grandly in a chair to Mom’s right, then leaned over and folded one hand over mine and another over Mom’s, as if we were old friends. She greeted us with a deep, accented “Helllllooo.”

I felt as if lizards were racing up my spine. I did not like this. Not at all.

“Ms. Rouelle-Savant’s book,
The World Unseen
, has been on best-seller lists for months,” Sophie Karp announced. “She specializes in mysterious disappearances and the life in the hereafter…”

I gave Mom a glance. She looked like someone under attack.

Gardenia Rouelle-Savant’s eyes were closed tightly. “Yesssss,” she moaned. “Ohhhh, yes.”

People would be
watching
this. My heart was sinking.

“What is it?” Sophie Karp asked. “Do you feel something? Do you know something that will help these people?”

Gardenia Rouelle-Savant let go of Mom and held out her hand toward Sophie Karp, as if to say
Be quiet.

“Alan,” she whispered. “Alan Moore? Is that his name?”

Mom nodded warily.

“He’s here,” said the woman.

The audience gasped.

Sophie Karp looked around. “Here
in our studio
?”

“No,” Gardenia Rouelle-Savant replied gravely. “In a world that coexists with ours. A world that very few of us can see, I’m afraid…only those with the sight.”

A few giggles broke out in the audience.

Gardenia Rouelle-Savant’s eyes slowly opened. They turned toward Mom briefly, then rested on me like dark sunbeams. “And you have it,” she said softly. “Don’t you, young man?”

Phony. She’s a phony.

I knew it, but it didn’t matter. Those eyes were spearing me. I felt light-headed. Freezing cold.

“David?” Mom whispered. “Are you okay?”

He was waiting. He was sane and breathing and happy and waiting for me.

The entire studio seemed to be disappearing in white light, all except the face of Gardenia Rouelle-Savant.

“May I be excused?” I asked.

I didn’t wait for an answer. I stood up and ran toward the men’s room.

Behind me, I could hear the voice of Sophie Karp. “I—I’m sorry. This is a very emotional segment, folks. We’ll have to take a station break. When we come back…”
Sniff, sniff.
“…men who love women who love their jobs more than men who don’t. Stay tuned.”

She’s trouble.

“Y
OU LOOK AWFUL ON
TV,” Heather said.

“Thanks,” I replied.

Clack-clackety-clack-clack
went Heather’s fingers on her computer keyboard.

The words
SUBRAIL, FRANKLIN CITY
slowly appeared on the screen. Heather clicked on “Search” and sat back.

C
ONNECTING
…a message flashed.

Outside Heather’s window, the sixth-day-morning dog walkers were heading for the park. They looked as bleary-eyed as I felt.

Heather’s parents were asleep in the next room. Her baby brother was asleep, too.
I
should have been asleep, recovering from the Sophie Karp show the day before. But no. Heather had to call and apologize, then insist I come over.

And I had been stupid enough to accept.

“Uh, why are we doing this?” I asked.

Heather ignored the question. “You should be excited. I mean, if someone told me
I
could see into parallel worlds—?

“I can barely see
our
world at this hour.”

“Click on, David. Gardenia Whatever is famous. What if she’s right? Haven’t you read any science fiction?”

“Those are stories, Heather. This is real life. That woman is a fake. She doesn’t have a license or a degree or anything.”

“Then how did she know your dad’s first name?”

“She could have looked it up in the directory.”

“And how did she know you saw him in that train station?”

“She didn’t
know
! All she said was—?

Heather wasn’t listening. A list of sites had popped onto the screen. Heather scrolled down, then clicked on one of the titles: “Abandoned Treasures: Stations of the Past.”

An article appeared instantly. Heather skimmed through it, then stopped.

“Listen to this.” She began to read:

“ ‘Thirty years ago, at the height of the city’s financial trouble, several stations were discontinued rather suddenly’…blah blah blah…‘Passengers who used the Granite Street station were appalled one morning to arrive at their familiar entrance, only to see a freshly cemented sidewalk.’ Aha! That’s it!”