The Snow (7 page)

Christina stared at them. They appeared to be serious.

Michael and Benj made faces, groaned, and clutched their throats. Junior-high girls, they announced, were the lowest creatures on earth. They would sleep at friends’ houses, so they wouldn’t see or help or clean up after this slumber party.

“Who is coming, Christina?” said Mr. Shevvington, his smile still resting on his face, as if he had borrowed it at the library and forgotten to return it.

She rattled off as many names as she could remember, hoping she was not off by more than five or ten.

They made her invite Vicki and Gretchen.

“It’s not nice to leave people out,” Mr. Shevvington reproved Christina. “If you are going to invite all the others, you really must invite Vicki and Gretchen. Or you will cause hurt feelings.” He turned to Mrs. Shevvington. “It’s an uphill battle teaching Christina manners, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Shevvington nodded sadly.

Michael and Benj did not listen; they had never been interested in good manners. Only sports, food, and cars.

Dolly frowned. “Christina,” she said reproachfully. “And you said the Shevvingtons never did anything nice. They’re being wonderful to you. Plus, you set up the party before you even asked permission. Chrissie, you owe them an apology.”

Christina had planned to warn Dolly yet again: They’d like you to have an accident, Dolly. Then think how they could control you! Every minute and every muscle of you. So be careful. Be careful on stairs, and at the top of Breakneck Hill Road!

But now she was shaking with fury.

“What kinds of games will we play?” Dolly asked, bouncing around.

Christina nearly said, “
You
won’t play any of them. I didn’t invite
you.
You’re only in
sixth
.” But she didn’t.

Mr. Shevvington stroked the silk scarf he had tied around his throat. He looked like a fashion ad from a Sunday paper. He smiled across the room at no one Christina could see. He said very softly, “A nice game for little girls is Murder. We’ll all hide, and I’ll choose the victim.”

The next day after school Christina stood in the sun waiting for Jonah.

But it was Dolly who found her. Running up, braids swinging — and no books in her arms. Without books, she looked unattached, as if her tiny body might come loose from the earth and blow away in the wind. Christina could hardly remember seeing Dolly without something to read.

Dolly’s pixie face puckered with tears. “Mr. Shevvington talked to the elementary school principal about my reading. They agreed that I am too sedentary.”

“Too what?”

“I sit too much. They say I have to take dancing lessons. Every single day after school. At Miss Violet’s.” Dolly’s legs and arms flapped like pages of a book. It was hard to imagine her learning graceful patterns for her feet. “I don’t want to take dancing. I just want to read, Chrissie. Can’t you talk them out of it for me, Chrissie?”

Christina had two fine daydreams. In the first, she ordered the Shevvingtons to let Dolly read books and be sedentary forever and they knelt and obeyed her. In the second, Christina was the dancer — clad in shimmering silver, leaping across the stage to wild applause.

“Walk with me to Miss Violet’s?” begged Dolly.

They walked together, Dolly swinging Christina’s hand. “Chrissie, what will I do?” Dolly cried. “I’ll fall down. I won’t be able to learn the steps. I won’t get the rhythm right, I’ll go in the wrong direction. Everybody will laugh at me.”

Miss Violet’s School of Dance was a pretty brick building with outside stairs that swooped: the sort of stairs a famous dancer would stand at the top of to receive photographers and journalists who wanted to interview her.

You could fall dancing, Christina thought. Is that what they want Dolly to do? “The Shevvingtons are making you take dancing on purpose,” she said. “That’s what the Shevvingtons are like.”

Mr. Shevvington unfolded like a huge paper doll from a parked car next to Miss Violet’s. “Christina,” he said sadly. “Still fighting that sick and twisted jealousy, aren’t you? We are doing this to help Dolly overcome her fear of failure, to build her frail body and fragile confidence. This is our gift to Dolly. And you, poor girl, are eaten up with jealousy.” He patted Christina’s shoulder. She wanted to bite him.

Dolly clasped both her hands in front of her, like a child in the nativity scene seeing an angel. “Oh, Mr. Shevvington!” she cried. “
You
paid for the lessons! You are so wonderful! I love you so much!” She turned to Christina. “You don’t have to come in with me, Chrissie. Mr. Shevvington’s here. I’ll be fine now. You go skate in the parking lot. ’Bye.”

Jonah and the boys had taken over the parking lot ice. They were speed skating: bent low, thrusting forward, circling as hard and fast as they could. All the little kids had been pushed away and were sitting sadly on the benches over by the tennis courts. All the girls who wanted to practice figure eights or spins had been knocked down enough times that they had given up and left. Christina laced on her skates and skated hard and fast. She pretended her skate blades were slicing Mr. Shevvington.

“Jonah,” she said, skating even with him, “do you think I am sick and twisted?”

Jonah grinned. “Sure. That’s why I like you. I’m drawn to sick and twisted people.”

Jonah’s legs were long. It didn’t matter how determined Christina was; Jonah could cover more ground. Her muscles cried out for rest, but she disciplined herself, pretending it was the Olympics, her country’s honor at stake.

What’s really at stake, thought Christina, is being a friend to Dolly. How can I be Dolly’s friend when she listens to Mr. Shevvington, not me?

Jonah pulled ahead. Two tenth-grade boys spun by Christina as easily as birds on the wing. Jonah called back over his shoulder, “Hey, Christina, you wanna come over to my house? Have something hot to drink? My toes are freezing off.”

“Hot date!” shouted the tenth-graders. “What an invitation — his toes are freezing off! You gonna warm ’em up, Christina?” One of them swiped at Christina, knocking off her cap. Her hair spilled out, blowing in the relentless winter wind.

A true friend, Christina thought, is a person who helps even when the friendship isn’t close anymore. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” she said. How nice to call somebody
else
jealous.

The wind separated the strands of her hair: silver and gold, chocolate laced. The tenth-grader grinned and slowed down. They skated in step: her right leg swirling across the ice in tempo with his, then left legs together and right again. When his hand reached toward her hair, Christina knew he was not going to yank it, the way seventh-grade boys would. “I love your hair,” said the boy softly. “Silver and gold and brown. It’s — ”

Jonah skated between them.

The huge clumpy feet he tripped over in class were graceful in long, black, men’s skates.

Jonah said firmly, “Leave it alone.”

Jonah’s mother acted as if Christina came every afternoon. They made hot chocolate in a big, friendly, messy kitchen, with Jonah’s little sister swinging her legs from the counter and Jonah’s little brother yelling because it was his turn to sort the laundry. They played Monopoly on the table, and Mrs. Bergeron hardly noticed when chocolate got spilled on a Community Chest. There were dripping winter boots and newspapers sliding off their stacks; school books tumbling into the unsorted laundry; and between Monopoly turns they all investigated the freezer for things to microwave.

It was like her own home, cluttered with love and talk.

Christina bit into a sugar cookie, and suddenly she was so homesick she wanted to weep. She could actually taste home: a taste of crunchy sweetness, of cookies still hot from the oven.

Jonah walked Christina home because it had grown dark. She felt the way she might after Thanksgiving dinner: stuffed. But with friendship, instead of turkey. Jonah’s mother had said to come back anytime.

Can I come back to live? she wanted to beg. Can I stay with you? I’ll sleep in the hall, I’ll sleep standing up — oh, please let me live here instead of at Schooner Inne! But of course she didn’t. She said, “Thank you, I will.”

And when Jonah said good-bye on the steps of the Schooner Inne, and she went inside all alone, it was truly a temperature change. The chill of loneliness lowered Christina’s resistance. All her fears lived here, and none of her allies.

In the gloomy front hall, where the slender white railings twirled up and up toward the black cupola, she remembered her slumber party and the game of murder. In the dark, she thought, there will be an accident.

After all, little girls get silly. Would it be surprising if one toppled off the balcony onto her spine? The Shevvingtons would be absolved of all blame. People would feel sorry for them and bring casseroles and potted plants.

M
RS. SHEVVINGTON RENTED A
charming, antique maid’s costume for Anya. It was a long, black cotton dress with a starched lacy white apron and cap. “That’s sick,” cried Christina. “You should make her wear school clothes and go back to school. Not dress her like a maid!”

“She’s happy, Christina,” said Michael irritably.

“I think she looks pretty neat,” Benjamin added. This was amazing. Benj never expressed the slightest interest in girls or their looks.

Christina tried to explain her point to the Jayes. Benjamin, Michael, and Dolly Jaye frowned at Christina, an impenetrable family unit.

Mr. Shevvington said sadly, “Can’t you rejoice when poor Anya has a moment of pleasure? Must you always keep happiness for yourself?” He put an arm around the trio of Jayes and the other arm over Anya’s black shoulder.

Christina, the outsider, flushed.

Benj and Michael teased their little sister, told her to have fun, and dashed out before the guests arrived. The girls came in a clump, giggling and pushing. Including Gretchen and Vicki; Katy, who never got invited anywhere; and Dolly, who wasn’t in seventh grade at all.

The first game Mrs. Shevvington organized was Pin the Tail On The Donkey.

“Mrs. Shevvington,” protested Gretch, laughing. “Nobody’s played that since they were little. That’s a baby game.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Shevvington, “but we need to be in a certain order, and however well you do in
this
game is the order in which you will enter the second game.”

Christina was not surprised when Gretch won, Dolly came in second, and Vicki third. She was not surprised when Mrs. Shevvington lined up the girls in order of winning, so that fat Katy was marked the loser, last in line, while Dolly stood up front, between Gretch and Vicki.

“Everybody pair up now!” ordered Mrs. Shevvington. “Next game is in pairs!”

“I get to play with Gretchen!” cried Dolly joyfully. She beamed at Gretchen, who said to her, “I love your red hair, Dolly. And your name! It’s so sweet. You are sort of a dolly.” Gretchen and Dolly held hands and talked about dancing class.

Christina stood with Katy. We’re the losers, she thought.

She gave Mrs. Shevvington the dirtiest look she could. Mrs. Shevvington said loudly, “
Why,
Christina! As hostess I expect you to make sure
every
guest has a good time. Are you complaining about your partner?”

Poor Katy bit her lips and stumbled. Her plain face turned splotchy red and her eyes welled up with unshed tears.

Dinner was wonderful: huge platters of lasagna, soft hot rolls with sweet butter, and salad for greenery. “Nobody is actually required to eat any salad, of course,” said Mr. Shevvington, smiling down at the girls, “because this is a fun time, and we want even vegetable haters to have fun all night long.” The girls applauded Mr. Shevvington, who bowed and escorted each girl into the formal dining room. During dinner Mr. Shevvington told wonderful scary stories about the sea captain who built the house and his bride, who flung herself to a horrible death from the cupola of this very house, exactly one hundred years before. “Tonight, when it’s dark,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you what happened to the sea captain after his wife vanished in the terrible tides of Candle Cove.”

Gretch and Vicki screamed with delight. “Horror stories!” shouted Vicki. “I love them.”

“You are one,” muttered Katy.

Christina laughed for the first time that night. Katy had potential.

After supper they popped popcorn and made caramel popcorn balls. They sang crazy songs — the sort with twenty verses you learn in summer camp. Mrs. Shevvington had them play Charades of brand names. Gretch did Wrangler jeans; Vicki got Coca-Cola; Dolly got Burger King. Mrs. Shevvington explained that Christina would go last, because the guests always came ahead of the hostess. Then, when it was finally Christina’s turn and she was aching to act, Mrs. Shevvington said everybody was bored now, and they would do something else.

Mr. Shevvington looked across the popcorn at his wife. Mrs. Shevvington looked back. Their smiles seemed to fit in midair like a key and a lock. Their eyes slid around the room and landed on Dolly. Dolly was sitting between Gretch and Vicki. Vicki was feeding Dolly a popcorn ball, Vicki holding it, Dolly nibbling. Gretch talked about Dolly as if she really
were
a doll. “Isn’t she adorable?” giggled Gretch.

“She’s so sweet,” agreed Vicki, stroking Dolly’s braids as though she had just purchased Dolly in a department store.

Dolly preened.

“We’re going to play,” said Mr. Shevvington softly. “
Murder
.”

The girls all screamed joyfully.

“Now you must listen to the rules very carefully. Especially the first one. This is a big house and a scary one. You must not go into the cellar. Is that absolutely clear? Everybody repeat the promise. ‘I will not go into the cellar.’ ”

They all promised.

There is something down there, Christina thought. They don’t mind if I am trapped by the thing. They don’t mind if it comes and goes from the school and the cellar. But they mind if people like Gretch and Vicki find out.

“Next rule,” said Mrs. Shevvington. Her eyes never left Dolly. She was smiling, her little corn teeth lying between her thin lips. “You will all hide in pairs.” She was breathing heavily, excited about things to come.