Rippler (13 page)

Will looked at me, nervous. “Probably better not mention this around her.”

We curved by the willows, and I held my arm out, swish-swish-swish, as we ran past.

***

Come pick up your pledge form for gold panning when we’re released from prison. I
mean school. You need to catch me up to date on the biology research paper. And I have
something to show you. And if you are there Ma might let me take the afternoon off.

I wrote back that I would.

But when Polwen dismissed our class, Will said he needed a minute. I waved Gwyn on

ahead.

“What is it?”

“Mick got another wedding invitation in the mail today.”

“Did she tell you what it said?”

“Just that it’s intriguing.”

“I told Gwyn I’d come over.”

Will shrugged. “Come by when you’re done then, okay?”

I nodded. I
had
to go to Gwyn’s first. Not just because she’d asked first. I felt big-time guilty, about what I’d done to the building Gwyn called home. I owed her a lot right now.

I parked my bike in front of Las ABC. The delicious scents were the same; Bridget’s smile was the same; but I felt changed. I wanted to disappear as she gave me a quick hug.

“Gwyn said you’d be by.” Bridget brushed a stray hair from my face and handed me a

pledge form. “Three more day ‘til
Panning for Felines
. We sure appreciate your help.”

I smiled back, guilt oozing from every pore of my being.

“You can go through the kitchen; use the door that leads outside. I gave Gwyn the

afternoon off.”

I said thanks and stepped out the back to the yard. Against the back fence, Gwyn closed a cat kennel door.

“Hey Sam!” She carried a litter box to the trashcan. “I’m doing a little house-keeping first.”

“Your mom said she’s giving you the afternoon off.”

“This isn’t work, according to Ma. Lend me a hand?”

“Can I say no?” I did
not
want to go into those cat-rooms again.

She looked at me, grinning like she thought I was funny. Then her face changed. “Oh.

You’re not joking.”

I hated myself.

“I forgot.” She kicked open door number three. “You’re not big on cats.” She took a moment to reappear during which I agonized over my inability to tell Gwyn the truth.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she offered as she came back out. “I’ll finish later.” She soaped her hands at an outdoor sink.

I knew she’d like it better if I protested and offered to help. Would that make up for being a vandal and a liar? I stood by, melting into a warm puddle of guilt.

“I don’t mind doing the work now, while it’s warm and sunny,” Gwyn said. “But I’m not looking forward to cat-care in the winter. I hear you got snow last year.”

“Just a little; it looked more like powdered sugar.”

“That’s more than I want to see. I wish cats hibernated to survive the cold.”

“Hibernating
cats
?” I laughed in spite of my solemn mood.

“I’m serious. Wish I could talk Ma into using that Cat Jar money to pay someone to clean the kennels this winter.”

“Ask her. There’s probably a hundred bucks in there.”

“More like six or seven hundred,” Gwyn whispered.

“Seriously? She needs to take it to the bank.”

“Try telling her that. She’d have to actually close up on time to get to the bank while it’s still open.”

“Can’t you take it in with the daily receipts?” I asked.

Gwyn shook her head. “She wants to ask Mrs. Gutierrez, the bank manager, to match the funds. So, basically, until she stops chatting after closing time, no.”

“At the very least, she should take it out of plain view.”

“Right.” Gwyn laughed. “The whole point is that people see it and donate.” She smiled as she finished drying her hands. “Come upstairs. There’s something I’ve been dying to show you. You hungry?”

“Not really. But you grab something, if you want.” At the least, I could be agreeable.

“I’m starving.” She opened the apartment door at the top of the enclosed stairwell and bee-lined to the world’s smallest refrigerator—the only one in their kitchen—pulling out a plate of leftover pizza. It didn’t look like frozen, and I wondered where she’d gotten real pizza.

“Look what I made.” She displayed it, proudly.

“You made that?”

“Actually Will made it, but I helped. Turns out he’s a very nice guy.” She took a huge bite and sighed with pleasure.

“Um, why would Will come here to make pizza?”

“Will heard that Ma doesn’t cook dinner—”

“Your mom doesn’t cook dinner?”

Gwyn shrugged. “She cooks all day. She’s tired by dinner. Anyway, Will says how that’s terrible and how he’s going to teach me to make pizza so I don’t starve to death. He brought it up like five times Tuesday until we finally set a time for him to teach me. He wouldn’t let it go, like he was personally responsible for Ma not cooking. Catholic guilt or something.” She took another huge bite.

I knew what Will felt guilty for, and it wasn’t Bridget’s refusal to cook. I
so
should have offered to help with the cats.

I grabbed a slice and took a bite. It was delicious. It looked like plain cheese, but there was nothing ordinary about it.

Gwyn pulled the last slice protectively her direction. “Hey, I wonder if we could get him to make this for our biology study session Saturday? You need healthy food for your brain to function well.”

“Totally,” I agreed, taking another bite. “So you ready to get up-to-speed on our

research?”

Gwyn groaned. “Hit me.”

“It’s actually rather interesting,” I said. “In a creepy kind of way.”

“Creepy?” asked Gwyn, a smile curving her lips. “Like zombies?”

“No, dweeb. Just listen. So we picked ‘The History and Future of Eugenics’ for our

topic.”

“Sounds fascinating,” said Gwyn. “If I wanted reading material to help me fall asleep.

Seriously, Sam, I’ve never even heard of Eugenics. Can’t we pick something interesting like, I don’t know, plastic surgery? I could get my boobs done as my contribution.”

“Gwyn, please? A little focus here?”

She folded her hands and sat up straight. “I’m all ears.”

“Let’s say your mom has three milking goats.”

“Ma is lactose intolerant.”

“Shut up. Let’s say one produces three quarts every day, like clockwork. The second produces one quart a day, and the third has chronic infections and produces a pint in a week.”

“Shoot the third one,” Gwyn muttered.

I ignored her. “Which goat would you breed? The first one, right?”

“I guess,” said Gwyn.

“Okay, so imagine my dad working on his Syllaberries. If he had two different plants, and let’s say one of them yielded three pints of berries a season and one of them yielded one pint, which one would he use for root stock?”

“Duh. The three pint one. Is that seriously how your dad got rich? Eugenics?”

“Eugenics is taking those principles and applying them to humans. But, yeah, I guess that’s how dad made it big in farming: Eugenics for plants.”

“So, basically, if my mom had dated some guy with man-boobs, I’d be better endowed?

That’s the kind of thing you’re talking about?”

I shook my head. “You are clearly not in the mood, my friend. I’ll email you some

articles.”

“Thank God,” said Gwyn. “You’re right. My head’s not in the game. I promise to read everything you send me. With a highlighter in my hand. Which I promise to use. And when you see me on Saturday, I’ll be an encyclopedia of Eugenics trivia.”

“Okay, okay; I believe you. So what did you want to show me?”

“Oh,” she said, taking another mouthful of pizza. “Right!” She stood up, walked over to a bookshelf stuffed with scrapbooks, and pulled one down. “Don’t tell Ma I touched one of these while eating. She’s a little obsessed. And don’t get any food on the cover.”

“Who’s obsessed?”

“Shut up. She’ll blame me, is all.” She flipped past five or six pages. “Here.” She pointed to a picture of our first grade classroom during a Halloween party. I saw me in my Princess Jasmine costume, with white long johns underneath because Mom wouldn’t let me go out bare-bellied. I was clutching an enormous stuffed tiger.

She pointed to a picture of herself in a blonde wig as Cinderella. “Look at me being all Caucasian. And you trying to look Asian.”

“Jasmine’s
Middle-Eastern
, dweeb,” I said.

Gwyn shrugged. “Whatever. Rajah there looks like he’s big enough to eat you whole.”

She giggled. “So, you haven’t always had it in for cats.”

“Cats are fine,” I said. I was really going to have to make it up to her for not helping with the cat-house cleaning.

“I found some other pictures—from when your mom taught Art. Ma made a whole book

of those Art classes. If you want to see them . . .” she drifted off.

“I’d love to.” Then I added hesitantly, “But I might cry.”

“Silly girl. As if I’m afraid of tears.”

Looking at her gentle smile, I felt another wave of guilt.

Gwyn retrieved a different cloth-bound volume from the book case. I opened the first page and saw my mom, beaming at us from the photo. My throat constricted.

We flipped through pictures for an hour. Gwyn brought a whole box of tissues over

because I was such a wreck. I tried wiping off my mascara smudges, but I must have done a bad job, and Gwyn offered to help.

“Hold still,” she said, gently dabbing under my eyes, along my jawline.

I winced when she ran the tissue over last Sunday’s bruise. Even after five days, I still needed cover-up.

“Whoa, Sam!” Gwyn eyed me and then my bruise. “What’s this all about?”

“Er—I—uh, smacked into a wall a week ago.”

She saw the guilt written all over my face and misinterpreted it.

“Sam, girlfriend, did someone hurt you?” Her dark eyes pierced mine.

I looked down. “Of course not. Just me being clumsy.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she intoned, still inspecting the bruise.

I turned that side of my face away from her gaze. “Seriously.”

She stared at me until I wanted to disappear. She sighed heavily and took one of my hands. “I want you to know you can talk to me. If you ever need someone, okay?”

I nodded, blinking back tears, wishing I could tell her the truth. “I should head home now.”

She reached over and gave me a hug, and then she walked me down the stairs and around the alley to get my bike. Just before I kicked off, she reached in her pocket and handed me a tiny ceramic frog.

“I want you to have it,” she said.

On one of the Saturday Art classes with Mom, we’d modeled clay frogs. I’d lost mine years ago, but I still remembered Mom’s excitement each year when the frogs came out of hibernation and started croaking. I hugged Gwyn one more time and took off down Main Street blinking back tears.

Once I reached home, I stopped long enough to drop off my backpack and ask Sylvia

when I should be home for dinner. She gave me just a half an hour, and I rushed through reapplying mascara and cover-up. Feeling something in my pocket, I reached in, pulled out the ceramic frog, and remembered Mom saying some toads could hibernate for three years.

They’d wake up when it was time and go about their lives, no big deal that they’d missed a few years.

Crazy.

I looked down at the frog again, and a great and terrible thought came to me.

Excerpted from the private journal of Girard L’Inferne, approx. 1945

Private lesson, Test Subject: Helga

“Tell me,” I ask, “why this particular weapon?”

“The rock is hard and sharp. We call that kind shin-biter. If you fall upon it, you bleed.”

She is sullen, defiant.

“It is a stone from another world,” I say, smiling. “Strange stories are told of the powers
of tobiasite.” I drop the smile and ask, “Did you mean to kill Karl?”

Clearly she expects punishment, perhaps even death. “He was mocking the Führer. He
could not be allowed to cause the other children to join in.”

I nod. “Older persons than you underestimate the danger of permitting others to laugh at
what is sacred.” I pause. “Helga, I must know. Did you intend that he die?”

The girl’s face shifts slightly. Her jaw clenches, as do her fists. She nods.

“You know you cannot be permitted to remain here after such a crime.”

The girl nods again.

“What would you think of joining a special school? One that trains loyal girls and boys
like yourself to protect the brave leaders of The Thousand Year Reich?”

The girl looks up, eyes full of desire.

“Would you work hard at such a school? Would you prove to me that I made the right
decision in not sending you to prison for your offense?”

“In such a school,” she declares gravely, “I would work harder than anyone else.”

-translation by G. Pfeffer

Chapter Eleven

CORRESPONDENCE

I biked the mile to Will’s home, bursting to share my idea with him, praying I’d find him alone. I couldn’t bring it up around his sister until Will and I had a chance to talk it through.

To the side of the cabin, I saw Will and Mickie. She pitchforked through a compost of leaves, dirt, and what looked like old newspaper where I pulled up my bike. Frustrated that I wouldn’t have Will to myself, I braked too hard and my tires shimmied in the dirt. The air smelled a little like coffee. Rotten coffee. I wrinkled my nose and backed away.

“Give me a minute,” Mickie said. “I’m feeding my compost. Bridget gave me twenty

pounds of coffee grounds today.” She grinned broadly. “Wish I’d thought to ask sooner.” Her enthusiasm as she dug must have offered protection to her nasal passages. Why did everyone I know have smelly jobs?