Wander Dust (9 page)

::12::
A Tour

“You’re late,” says a short, spunky woman from behind a desk. She ceases pounding on her keyboard when we enter. By the look on her face, Gabe agitates her.

“Oh, fluff, Ms. Midgenet,” Gabe says, tossing his palms in the air toward her.

“He’s been waiting for you,” Ms. Midgenet says. Her eyebrows pinch together in annoyance. She jabs her pudgy finger in the direction of a pair of frosted doors.

Two people hover behind an elegantly engraved desk when we enter. An older man, seated, and to my intense displeasure, Terease.

I flash Mona an eye of disapproval. “What’s
she
doing here?” I don’t bother saying it low. Terease already knows how I feel about her. She’s a snake.

Gabe smirks at my comment but continues with the introductions. “Seraphina, this is our Head Master, Mr. Evanston. And I believe you’ve already met his
extremely
irritating pet, Terease.” He grins. Apparently, he isn’t a fan either.

Mr. Evanston steps from around his desk, rolls his eyes at Gabe’s verbal jab, and shakes my hand.

Terease’s face is pained with rage. Her dark eyes beam on Gabe’s. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s trying to burn Gabe’s brain into a french fry as well, but he’s not reacting. He’s just smirking.

“Please sit,” Mr. Evanston says as he hikes up his pants, showing his argyle socks, and seats himself on the front edge of the desk.

Terease slithers to a nearby window, acting uninterested in our exchange. However, I continue to watch her carefully from the corner of my eye.

“Well, Miss Parrish, we’re very happy to finally welcome you into our big family.” Mr. Evanston smiles through his pristine, white dentures.

“We were very sorry about your mother. She was an extremely gifted Wanderer,” he says. His eyes drop to the ground.

I squirm in my seat. I’m not in the habit of discussing Mom with strangers. That conversation is restricted to Mona and Ray. “Thanks,” I mutter in an uncomfortable voice.

“I realize that accepting your new life will take some time to flesh out in your mind. The faster we can get you acquainted with the other students, the more at ease you will feel,” Mr. Evanston says.

“Excellent strategy,” Mona offers.

Gabe stands quietly by the door, biting his nails.

Terease turns quickly. Her intense face locks onto mine, but her eyes don’t engage the fire as they have before. Instead, she saunters to sit by Mr. Evanston. “As Mona may have informed you, I’m the Harvester,” she says.

I nod.

“You see, I can peer into the minds of students to see if they have the capabilities to join us at the Academy.” She appears smug about her gift. “And when the time is right, I go—and shall we say—collect them.” She grabs at the air with her black claws.

“I’m sorry that your abilities didn’t work on me,” I say, knowing it will annoy her.

Gabe snickers.

Terease stiffens. Her eyes slowly roll over to Gabe. As she’s staring at him, she begins to talk again. “All eligible students have a gift that can be broken down into three categories: a Wanderer, such as yourself, a Seer, and a Protector. It’s possible for variations, depending on the student,” she explains in her deep accent.

Terease stands up and paces the office in sinuous moments. “There are three categories for a particular reason.” She turns to face me with her arms crossed. “You will be grouped with two other pupils and work as a team in your studies.”

“A team? Why?” I whine. I hate depending on other people, especially for schoolwork.

“Your abilities work best in a group. It will be all right. I promise,” Mona chimes in.

“Do we get to choose our group?” I ask. I envision P.E. class, where all the boys are chosen for teams first.

“No!” Terease picks up a ruler and smacks it against the bookshelf near Gabe. He screeches like a little girl. Terease laughs darkly. “In fact,” she continues and struts behind the desk, “it has already been decided. Fate decides.” She leans into the desk, locking her eyes on mine.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Gabe, why don’t you call in Seraphina’s team so they might get acquainted,” she says.

Gabe opens the door as requested. Seconds later, a poised girl with cascades of dirty blonde hair enters. Her eyes bolt to Mona for a moment and then more briefly with myself.

“Seraphina, this is your Seer, Samantha James,” says Mr. Evanston.

Samantha looks up through her cinnamon freckles then crosses her arms. Her posture is flawless, and she can’t be any older than thirteen.

Her apparent indifference to me doesn’t matter. I feel a connection with her immediately. Not as a friend or even family member because this is, in fact, the first time I have ever laid eyes on the girl. Somehow, she’s now an instrumental component of my makeup, like a limb. Fate has decided. I understand; I don’t have a choice because the connection was there before I ever could have protested it.

My mind trails to another thought. Samantha is most likely the “Sam” from my list. One more question answered and only a few more to go. Keeping a tally, I reel the remaining names off in my head:
CC, Max, Frances Germ Bum, the Grungy Gang, and British Stalker Boy.

“Hey,” I say to the girl, but she doesn’t return the sentiment.

“Where’s your other half, Sam?” Mr. Evanston asks, concerned.

“Couldn’t make it,” she says in an irritatingly cheerful voice.

“Well, fine. I’ll deal with that later.” Annoyed, Mr. Evanston shuts the door. “Sorry, Seraphina. It seems your Protector is unavailable. You’ll meet soon enough.”

Without giving me a second look, Samantha takes a seat next to me. She’s rigid in her chair, shoulders back, legs crossed at her ankles, hands neatly folded in her lap. She sits like a perfect lady. Attentively, she peers up at Mr. Evanston.

He hands each of us a piece of paper—a syllabus. My eyes search for anything familiar. “What kind of class schedule is this?” I read off the categories: “Team Tactics, Relics, Defense Arts, Field Trips,” and then the only thing I recognize, “History and Languages.” The last two items sit separately under a column marked Night School.

“We do, in fact, have those regular classes, math, English, so forth and so on,” Mr. Evanston adds, twirling the air with his hand, “but not in the traditional sense.” He hesitates a moment and slicks back his feathered, white hair. “Let me ask you a question, Miss Parrish. Did it ever occur to you that school is less than a challenge? Somehow, amazingly, you kept perfect grades?” he asks.

“Ray says it’s because I have such a great memory,” I respond.

“Ray?” He looks to Mona, perplexed.

“Her father. He’s a Normal,” she says.

I look at Mona, realizing they have a title for everyone else in the world. How original, “Normals.” It makes me uncomfortable knowing that I’m now
not
.

“Oh, yes, of course, well that would have been the only way he could have explained it to you, I suppose. The truth is that your memory works at its peak when you hear the information.” He points to his ear, his voice rising with excitement.

I consider his explanation for a moment. I should have realized that my memory works this way. My methods for studying have always been to read aloud to myself. I never bothered with writing notes for lectures in class. Listening always seemed good enough.

When I look up, Mr. Evanston is staring at me. “What does that have to do with the classes?” I ask.

“Well, instead of making you go to regular classes, we simply let you take those classes in your sleep.” He smiles as though anticipating my response.

“In my sleep?” My mouth drops.

I look at Samantha to see if she believes this too. She only rolls her eyes at me as though I should know it’s true.

“Yes, I know.” Mr. Evanston snickers through his nose. “Seems like a cliché... ‘you can do it in your sleep,’ but you
really
can. Your regular classes and a few others, such as languages, math, customs, etiquette and so on, are recorded so that you may listen to them while you’re sleeping. Having expert knowledge of all these subjects will allow you to blend easily into other time realms,” he explains while walking around the room.

“It’s our duty to travel with responsibility, never disrupting the carefully balanced blocks of time,” Terease adds.

The room is quiet. Everyone is just looking at me. I see they’re waiting for me to respond, but I’m too shocked.

“Well—I mean,” I search for the right questions to ask, there are so many. “Are you saying I can remember
everything
I hear?”

“More or less, if you choose to,” he confirms.

“What about college? How am I going to be accepted based on my grades in—” I glance down at the paper, “Relics?”

“Very simple. If you choose
not
to take your Oaths to the Society of Wanderers next year, and you want to attend a Normal’s university, they will receive the transcripts for your Night Class itinerary. If you choose to attend a wandering university, they will receive your real transcripts,” he says.

“There are colleges, too?”

“A few scattered around the world. We’re a small number compared to the rest of the population,” he explains.

Mr. Evanston must see the incredulous look on my face, and he begins again. “Really, Miss Parrish, you’ll find that you will be more prepared for university than most Normal students.”

The information settles heavily on the outside my brain, which seems impermeable to the possibilities at the moment.

Hesitating, I look over to Sam, searching for a normal reaction from someone else in the room.
Is she as stunned as I?
That’s when I see something that can’t be explained, and my heart absolutely stops.

::13::
Impossible World

All the impossibilities of my new world are waiting in line to beat down my personal wall of common sense. The stones are crumbling faster with each passing moment.

Standing, I gasp. Air sucks away from my lungs, holding my voice prisoner. I lift one finger and point it at Sam.

There’s no rational reason for what I’m looking at, but it puts me over the edge when I see it. Sam is twirling a pencil on the palm of her hand—suspended ten inches in the air. Weightless. I just stand paralyzed, watching in a stupor. What else can you do when the laws of gravity are denied by a thirteen year old?

When she finally lifts her eyes to mine and registers my reaction, the object drops to the floor. She casually leans down to pick up the pencil. “What’s with you?” she asks condescendingly. “Don’t you know
anything
?”

I’m speechless. Apparently, I know nothing.

Mona steps between us. “Sam,” she clears her throat, “Sera has only recently learned of her abilities.” Mona gives her a disapproving look.

“Right. I forgot.” The girl’s defense breaks. She gracefully recalls her previous pose. Turning her nose up at me, she folds her hands neatly in her lap.

“Well, maybe you’ve had enough for one afternoon,” Mr. Evanston quickly inserts. He rises from his desk. Terease saunters back to the window.

“Gabe, why don’t you finish up with Seraphina’s tour of the building,” he requests.

“Aye, aye, cap-e-tain.” Gabe snaps his legs shut with a quick salute then ushers us out the door.

Mona pushes me out of the office and down the hall, navigating me with one hand latched on my shoulder. She leads me in the correct direction behind Gabe. Right now, I lack enough wherewithal to make the action of walking happen on its own.

Out of nowhere, I receive a shove. Ramrod, in perfect posture, Sam speed walks past us down the hall. She doesn’t even look back to apologize to me. My face crumples. I’m not sure what her problem is, but I don’t exactly care at this moment.

“She’s been waiting for you a while.” Mona seems to assume I’m offended. She clarifies further, “Sam and your Protector, that is. They’re only permitted to take Normal’s studies until you arrive. You’d think she’d be happy that you’re finally here? Right?” She looks nervous.

The anxiety that has been building all morning, and possibly, my lack of sleep causes a rush of blazing heat to my face. My palms clam with sweat, and I stop in the hall to face Mona. “I don’t care about little Miss Snot, Mona.” I take a deep breath and continue my rant. “What was
that
—back
there
—that
thing
—with the
pencil
?” I point back toward the office, my eyes wide open in question.

The marble hall intensifies the sound of my rage. Gabe spins around, surprise written on his face.

Mona takes a long breath. She seems taken aback by my rigid words. Her bony arms collapse over her body. “It’s merely a part of her abilities,” she speaks in a controlled voice. “And I realize that doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.” She grabs my shoulders and looks me square in the eyes. “Seraphina, from here on out, you will be seeing the impossible. It goes well beyond your gift of travel. Just promise me you will try to remain—” she stops, her eyes search for the correct words, “open-minded.”

I stand rigid like a statue. My mind road blocks on the words “the impossible.” When my brain catches up to respond, it’s too late. Mona is already walking away from me. I nod, but it’s only to myself. There’s nothing for me to say.
There’s more than this? More that I have not seen?

“Sera,” Gabe calls out to me from down the hall. “Let’s move it—chop, chop! This place is as large as the Taj Mahal!”

In a catatonic mode, I walk to meet them. My thoughts are still lost when Gabe shoves me into an elevator off the main atrium. I fall in and prop myself up against the back wall. Digging my hands in my pockets, I let out a long breath. I close my eyes, hoping this will reboot my brain.

When the elevator jumps to life, my eyes pop open. I look down, surprised that this is the direction we’re moving. As we descend, clearing the first floor structure, sunlight peeks from behind the wall I stand nearest. I squint. Where’s the light coming from? It grows and intensifies, revealing the open aired, barred walls of the elevator. A breeze rushes into the cage. My new view is as I expect—unexpected.

When the car stops, Mona and Gabe step out from the elevator into the space as they have apparently done a million times before. They’re completely comfortable with their surroundings. When I step out, I halt at the sight of an ancient, redwood drawbridge at my feet and a wide river of turquoise water rushing beneath it. My gaze follows one of two bulky, rusted chains. One side is securely attached to the wooden drawbridge and the other to an ash covered stone wall. Lush, jade colored ferns and moss grow where mortar should be.

Tarnished bronze lions stand at attention on granite slabs on either side of the bridge. They look as though they belong on the steps of a large museum in New York, rather than at the foot of a wooden gate beneath the earth’s surface.

As I hedge forward, a low roar radiates from the bridge, rumbling beneath my feet. I’m not sure, but I think the sound is coming from the lions.

I look up at Mona, concerned.

Mona waves me in. She and our host walk through the lion gate and into a blinding light.

I harrumph, taking a moment to muster my courage. I straighten my posture and look ahead. I take one step. The growl becomes louder. The mechanical lions’ tails snap with the force of a whip. I jolt as though I’ve been momentarily shocked. Metal screeches, and I want to cover my ears, but I’m trying to refrain from too much movement. I inhale a large breath and step again. Their maned heads turn, and their yellow eyes glare at me. Finally, their mouths open, revealing their rusted teeth.

I wince and keep walking, trying to focus on the bridge’s planks. They’re organically shaped, but only a century of use would have worn them this way. They creak and moan under my weight. Slits between the timbers allow spritzes of freezing water to spatter the hem of my jeans.

When I reach the other side, I turn to see the lions snarl in unison before returning their attention to the elevator. They take a relaxed stance, lying on their stomachs. Their rusted gears grind to a halt as though the danger has passed.

A pulsing knot forms in my chest.
What am I getting in to?

When I turn back, a brilliant light steals my eyesight. I grab the cool, stone wall for support. I blink a few times. Slowly, shapes and colors take their places. As they do, all I can think about is the movie
The Wizard of Oz
in which the scenes change from black and white to color. Just as in Dorthy’s world, my whole world has turned to Technicolor.

Somewhere, somehow, the room brims over with cozy sunlight. The cold, slate colors of the wintery city above have disappeared. Every surface, living and not, is kissed with the warmth of a rainbow.

I take a deep breath. The refreshing air, unexplainable to me, smells like a simmering charcoal fire.

Another obelisk stands at the center of the room in an oblong patch of lush, green grass. A stone walkway wraps around it. The brilliant light above makes it impossible to see the top of the pillar. Butterflies, the color of champagne, playfully fly over me.

The fortified, underground city is a mix of Victorian and nineteenth century industrial components. Nature covers and drips off of every surface. A patchwork quilt of every kind of building material fights to show through. The city looks as though it has existed below the earth for—well, forever.

“Where?” Dumbstruck, the single word is all I can manage.

“I know. This is my favorite part of the school. Isn’t this place fabulous?” Gabe looks at me but doesn’t wait for an answer. “We’re several stories below the school’s courtyard.” Gabe points to the sky. “The kids call this area Olde Town.”

He continues on.

We follow.

My gaze locks back to the ceiling, searching for the top of the obelisk. “The obelisk continues into the courtyard above. It’s the top third you see outside. It’s a symbol of our people,” Mona explains.

“But the light?” I ask confused, recalling the snow covered yard above. “Where’s the daylight coming from?”

“It’s all fabricated to look like sunlight. It’s a weather and atmosphere controlled machine. At night, we have the stars, just like a planetarium. It’s so very lovely,” Mona gushes.

I realize this is the reason I rarely see students outside the east building. With perfect spring days down below, why would you ever come to the wintery surface? Recalling my conversation with Macey and Chris, these students don’t seem so unfortunate after all. On the contrary, they seem quite taken care of.

My eyes drop from the ceiling for the moment. Students move about the miniature town: sitting at a nearby cafe, reading, lying on the grass, exercising. Taking them in, the activities seem normal enough. No more hovering pencils—yet.

Gabe perches next to a nearby statue, obviously preparing to lurch into presentation mode. “Come, come,” he beckons us closer with his curling hands then clears his throat. “As I mentioned, this,” he throws his arms into a V, “is Olde Town. And this old dude here,” he gestures to the life-sized, bronze statue and becomes serious, “is Eli Vanderpool. He was a real estate tycoon in Chicago in the late 1800s, but most importantly, he was a Wanderer. He constructed the first school for our descendants on this piece of land, which became known as Washington Square Academy. By the grace of God, our home and historical relics were spared from the inferno of the Great Chicago Fire in 1871. Soon after the fire, Eli decided to build Olde Town below the school. This beautiful, little underground city protects our secrets and priceless relics.”

Gabe steps down quietly. His eyes drop in a silent reverence, and then he walks on. I wonder if I should do the same. Do I owe this historical figure as much regard as someone like George Washington?

Gabe can’t rein in his dramatics for long, and after a moment, he lithely moves to the center of the courtyard next to the base of the golden obelisk.

“Most of our class entrances are in Olde Town. They link off of this large piazza in one way or another.” He points to four enormous tunnels around the space like they’re emergency exits on a plane. “Classrooms have been added on over the decades to accommodate renewed needs.”

Mona adds, “The town was constructed out the leftover remnants from the Great Chicago Fire, which consumed over two thousand acres of the city. That’s why the buildings here have, shall we say, a mix and match look. It’s turned out rather charming, I think.” She glances around, clutching her handbag to her stomach.

“Remnants of the fire?” I question.

“Well, Vanderpool, although extremely young by today’s standards, was a fortunate man. He had quite a bit of wealth from his real estate developing ventures before the Chicago fire. When the city was destroyed, he saw the burned city as an opportunity to expand his fortune,” Mona said.

“He was an innovator,” Gabe adds.

“Displaced people were desperate to rebuild as quickly as possible. Vanderpool was only too eager to help. He hauled the rubble away for a small price. Then he salvaged what he could from the burned out stone and brick and used the pieces to construct Olde Town. He was paid to build his own city,” Mona says.

“Then he rebuilt Chicago. He was wildly wealthy when he died, leaving all his fortune to the Academy.” Mona continues, “At the time of the city’s inception, Olde Town was a working town, a self-sustaining community. Eventually, the school claimed the city, using it for classrooms and a common area for students.”

“It’s awesome,” I reply, “And really—warm?” I slip off my coat.

Gabe stands up and points west. “On this side we have the Relic Archives, the Book Archives, and the Costume Archives. At the far end,” Gabe points north, “we have the Defense Arts Gymnasium and the Clock Tower Building. The Clock Tower Building is a lecture hall and movie theatre. Behind us sits the Seer’s Meditation Rooms. You’ll see all of those and many more as you begin classes.” He finishes with a fluttering of his lashes. “That’s the gist of the building.” He looks at his pocket watch, signaling we are out of time. “The rest of the building is administrative offices and student accommodations,” he says.

“I wanted to show you your bedroom, but it isn’t quite finished. But I promise, it’ll be ready tomorrow.” He shoots me an apologetic smile.

“
My
room?” I give Mona a look of panic.

“Oh, uh, Gabe—Sera has some reservations and hasn’t quite decided if she’ll be joining you as a boarder. I thought I would give her the weekend to think it over,” Mona quickly explains.

She looks to me to respond, but I don’t. I can’t. My concentration breaks at the sight of a pair of curious eyes glaring at me, hidden in the shadows of the farthest tunnel.