Worlds of Ash: A Fantasy Tale
(hardback, and paperback, copies found at: https://www.austinmacauley.com/us/author/rutan-jonathan-lee)
Chapter Five
In the end, however, her father was right as well. Hardly anyone was at the service. Poppa Henry hadn’t made many friends during his life, and most of the attendees only showed up out of respect for her father and for her mother and maybe just a bit for her and Peter.
The whole thing was a brief affair. Her father didn’t say a word, and instead, their pastor, a very nice man who’d often led them in rather enjoyable Sunday sermons, spoke. Or, really, saying that he led them wasn’t absolutely correct.
Ash and her family were every other Sunday, an Easter for sure, maybe Christmas Eve too, attendance seekers rather than the always sitting in the same pew devotees. They weren’t around enough to be led—often or otherwise—by anyone.
Still, the pastor gave them his best. He kept up his nice and spoke some rather touching things taken directly from notes her father had written. Ash had no complaints.
It was a sweet goodbye, and after the Pastor was done, it was prearranged music, a bit of handshaking with the few that were there, and the family gathered into their car. Ash sat in the back with Peter at her side, her father driving up front as her mother sat next to him—a golden urn, that Poppa Henry was now inside of, held secure in her arms.
It took twenty minutes, a pleasant drive from the suburbs and into the country where a local park had in it a good-sized lake that everyone had agreed Poppa Henry would have loved. Back when Ash had been much younger and her mother didn’t yet have a job, the outdoors had beckoned loud and she and Peter—dragging their mother along—had eagerly followed its noise. They’d gone to a park and had found, not too far off a serene little path, something almost Penthyan in appearance.
Or, at least to Ash and Peter it had looked Penthyan, and when Poppa Henry was gone, they made sure to tell their parents that that lake and that path were the only spots they could use. After Ash brought it up with Peter quickly adding that nothing could be better, their father had said okay while their mother had smiled. She’d even mentioned she wished she’d thought of it herself.
They drove with a very determined calm, as if each was trying hard not to break the solemn nature of the service they’d left. Out of respect, they barely even breathed, and after a while, Ash had had enough. The heavy clinging nature of those who shared her grief was another change she could not endure. The way a group could make emotion into something that clogged her lungs—she had to get away.
When the car finally came to a stop, she leapt for freedom. She ran hard for a dirt path, one that would probably get her shoes way too messy. Peter was right behind, but she paid him no mind as she hit a winding cut in the ground—something filled with fine brown sand and areas of thick, red, clay.
The path was perfect, not loud and noisy like some of the asphalt ones dotted here and there all over the place. It was hardly used, which meant the lake it led to would most likely be devoid of any visitors, except for maybe a random bird that could disrupt the placid calm of a murky yet haunting body of water.
Ash couldn’t wait. She needed its isolation, and she made herself go faster. She left her family behind as she sped her way towards where her grandfather would finally be at rest.
“No, you go on ahead.”
Ash barely caught her father’s words as she came to a halt and turned around. He was taking the urn from her mother—shooing her off as it seemed he wanted to go much slower than everyone else.
Her mother nodded and left as Ash began to run again. She was almost to the paths end. She wasn’t about to slow for anyone, or anything, anymore, and when she at last reached where a small wooden pier began, she had a good forty-second lead.
Ash headed for the pier’s farthest point. The lake and its surrounding trees—even the vague bits of sunlight that drifted down to touch black water so that everything could hold a slight reflection of the sky above—really did have an air of Penthya about it. As she waited for her family to arrive, Ash knew this would be fine. In mentioning this place, she’d done good.
Peter came next, catching his breath before he joined her. He went to her side as their mother took up a position right next to him as soon as she arrived.
Her father appeared, so soft in his walk no one heard him approach. His footsteps were light beats of nothing, and before he cleared his throat and began to speak, Ash was simply immersed in what she was sure everyone else was doing—thinking only of Poppa Henry.
“Does,” her father began. “Does anyone have a few words?”
“I do,” Peter said.
Ash looked at him. He was still so tiny, reaching to just past her elbow, yet a year before, he’d been smaller than that, and she was sure that soon he would tower far above her. She could see the teenager and the man her brother was going to be. She even guessed that one day, the intelligence he had would lead him towards a political future, or maybe a scientific one. He had so much potential in him he could be a doctor, or a lawyer, of great esteem, and somehow, it fit that he would speak first. She had her own things to say, but Peter going ahead of her, ahead of everyone, seemed right.
“Go on,” her father said.
“I—” Peter let his eyes roam the expanse on the other side of the lake. He stopped talking.
Ash’s mother, even her father, was too lost in the moment to notice. They had their heads bowed—perhaps thinking that Peter was only gathering himself for what he needed to say—but Ash knew better. Something was wrong.
She followed his gaze, what she saw making her freeze as well. There were three of them; two men and one woman. They were on the other side of the lake, and sitting next to them was a large white dog. It reminded Ash of the dog she’d spied from her gym and then had tried very hard to forget.
However, the dog didn’t matter. What mattered were the people who were beginning to remind her of other things she’d been trying to force from her mind. Of the men, one was tall, while the other was quite short and squat, the lady also of a good height as each was dressed in an outfit Ash knew well. The green cloaks and cowls they wore were quite similar to what she’d seen on a stranger outside her school.
But now, Ash could also see the thick brown leather pants and black leather boots that the two men and one woman had on as well. She could even see how everyone had their cowls up—that heavy cloth obscuring their faces so no one could tell what it was they were looking at.
Still, Ash was sure they were staring at her, just as much as she was staring at them. Even the dog was staring, and while it gave her the creeps, it also, once more, ran happy all the way to her core. The men and that woman were familiar, the dog, too, felt known as if from a story she’d once picked up and had enjoyed, yet had never bothered to pick up again.
“Penthya,” Peter finally said. His voice was low—more of a whisper. Ash could barely make it out, and she was right next to him.
“What?” her father asked.
Ash looked at her parents, wondering if either had seen what had mesmerized her and her brother, but both still had their heads bowed in wait. All they had to do was look up and they would see everything, but they were lost in a moment of respect.
Ash couldn’t believe it. They were going to miss it, miss the people—miss the dog—but just as she was prepared to raise her hand and point, Peter nudged her. He nodded to the water where a blur of color, a mass of something, danced along the slight reflection of the sky above.
The sight was so odd. The shape wasn’t on the water or hovering over it. It wasn’t below the water either—it was in the reflection. The mass of color flew towards the bank where the three people stood, and when Ash finally looked up, what she saw shocked her more. Nothing was there.
Even the water was suddenly empty, and Peter saw it too. When she stared back at him, he mouthed, “Vanished.”
“Son, what did you say?” her father asked.
Peter shook his head to keep both he and Ash quiet. “I said Penthya,” he finally smiled as he once more turned to stare at the other side of the lake. “I was thinking of Poppa Henry, and it came to mind. He was a lord of that land, and I will miss it. I will miss him.”
“Well put.” Her father raised his head as he peered at Ash. “Honey, is there anything you wanted to say?”
“I,” Ash heard herself reply, even though she was quite sure she had nothing to add. “I just wanted to tell Poppa Henry goodbye.”
Chapter Six
Though he hadn’t been able to speak at the funeral, Ash was proud that at the lake her father gave it a try. A few hesitant hiccups, more of an apology than a true farewell, spilled past him as he haltingly made his way through a couple of “Dad I…I’m sorry I…” gasps that somehow fit in between long swallows of air.
But in the end, he couldn’t say much. He looked over at Ash’s mother who added in her own words. She started with a story. Something Ash had never heard.
“The first time I met Henry,” she said. But then she shrugged at Peter and at Ash. “Sorry, I mean the first time I met Poppa Henry, he told me there was a touch of magic upon me.”
She laughed. Some sweet note of harmony that caused everyone to feel better.
“It’s true.” She stared at each of them, as if expecting a few mumbles of doubt. But no one said a thing. “Steven, you’d stepped away to talk to your mother, and he just came up. He said he was sure I had a touch of magic; it was a grace within my eyes. He even told me why that magic was there, and it was then that I heard the most amazing thing—the first time the wonder of Penthya ever reached my ears.”
She went on, but Ash couldn’t follow. Each time her mother mentioned the tiny kingdom of Bayden, which was Penthya’s neighbor and rested between it and the Northern Reaches, Ash lost herself in trying to remember if Poppa Henry had once said the same. Her mother may have created an amazing list of things which tied up Poppa Henry and Penthya perfect, but Ash missed most of it.
However, she could never miss the fact that she’d been wrong. It hadn’t been her brother, it hadn’t even been her father, or she herself. Instead, it was her mother who’d said the right thing to send Poppa Henry off.
And, when her mother was finished, her father brought out an arm to pull her mother close. It was clear it was time, and everyone stood quiet. Together, he and her mother leaned forward, her father tilting the urn as the wind rose to help.
Ash watched a swirling cloud of gray cascade out into the world. It was taken in the air to dance for a while before it all came to settle near to the center of the lake. It was a beautiful moment. One Ash was glad everyone who had loved Poppa Henry had been there to see.
Except not all of them had enjoyed it. Peter was still looking at the other side of the lake, but Ash shrugged it off. It was his loss alone. If he was more interested in some weird figures, then she was sad for him, yet, really, there was nothing she could do.
No one had been there, and even if they had been there, they were obviously a part of all that change Ash was becoming more and more certain she shouldn’t bother with. What mattered was putting her grandfather to rest, and she was glad she hadn’t missed a second of that. If her brother didn’t want to do the same, then she was sure it would in no way affect how the rest of her day would play out. It would be more perfect.
As Ash turned to leave, following her mother and father, who were already walking arm in arm away, her mother snugged tight into her father’s side, Ash was sure of what would come next. It would be more quiet introspection. It would be a few more tears and a lot of hugs, and though that had seemed oppressive back in the car, it now felt familiar enough to be fitting.
Nothing else could be said to eulogize Poppa Henry, but someone would try. On the ride home, or at their house, someone would clear their throat and begin to speak, and soon, that would lead to laughs and smiles instead of heavy silences. Hours would be filled with how he’d once said that or how he’d once sighed after certain jokes, and Ash saw how that could be wonderful. Painful, yes, but with Poppa Henry put to rest, it was the only thing they could do.
But how her brother had acted on the pier should have been something she’d taken more to heart. It felt so wrong. Ash should have seen how it foreshadowed all that came next.
The walk back was fine. But as soon as they settled into their seats and her father started up the car, everything fell apart. First, her brother leaned over after he was buckled in. He whispered in her ear of if she’d really seen the people and the dog like he had. He also mentioned something about how the people had popped out of existence, as if the light around them had swallowed them whole. It was stuff Ash wanted to forget, but she didn’t have much of a chance to push it away before the second disaster of that day arrived.
However, when she thought back on it, Ash had to admit she’d been way too oblivious to this other disaster for far too long. It might have started on the walk back, or maybe mere seconds after her Poppa Henry had cascaded in gray. All Ash knew was that somehow her parents had acquired a new talent for yelling without really yelling even though they had, recently, become such pros at screaming. It was quite the surprise.
Ash couldn’t grasp how they could be upset, yet almost silent. Did they only yell in the privacy of where they lived? Or, was it something worse? Did her parents believe that if they were downstairs then their yells wouldn’t reach to her and Peter just a level above?
Ash didn’t know. All she was getting were fragments. She had to lean forward to catch more of this new world, watch as her parents tried to create the appearance of civility, perhaps not wanting to make a scene at a pretty empty park—or get all rowdy in a car with their kids in the back seat.
Ash wished they would yell. With their performance of love finally revealed to be a sham, she didn’t see why they kept up with their whispers.
“What about work?” her father asked. He was still trying to make his voice stay low, but, apparently, he couldn’t do that and endure the trials of driving. He pulled the car over, just off the road and into some random drive that Ash hoped didn’t lead to a house filled with very paranoid people.
Ash put out a hand in case Peter was about to lean over and whisper yet again. She needn’t have bothered. He, too, had picked up on this hushed argument. He was giving it his undivided attention.
“I have news,” her mother said. “Something I should have told you about already, but…well, you’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, it’s been…I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting.”
“Don’t be like that.” Her mother sighed. “I’m not trying to fight and…well, you’ve been way too sensitive long before…I mean… I don’t… I’m not making this sound right. You’ve been picking fights with me long before this happened, and I just…I don’t know how to say this without it sounding horrible, and…I-I just need to tell you something. But we can talk later. Let’s not do this in front of the kids.”
“Too late for that,” her father said. He looked in the rearview mirror—took note of Peter and Ash as they stared his way. He sighed as well. “Let’s…just tell me. What’s up with your job? A later schedule, maybe a promotion, what?”
Her mother turned to Peter, smiled slight, then shrugged, and looked at Ash. “They want me to move to another state,” she said, turning back around and getting comfortable in her seat. She wasn’t looking at anyone anymore. She kept her gaze centered on what was happening out the windshield.
Everything, at last, gained the full quiet Ash had imagined. But it wasn’t perfect as she’d hoped. Her father let his mouth hang open as if he thought maybe he would say something pithy or cruel, but only oddness arrived.
“I shouldn’t have spoken at the lake,” he began. He kept up his stare until Ash and Peter could take it no longer. They both let their gaze drift far from the rearview. “I mean…I must…I shouldn’t have ever apologized because I married my dad. I must be the only man in history to have ever done that.”
Her mother blinked surprise and, finally, centered herself back on him. “What?” she asked. Ash and Peter also let their eyes re-find their father. “Steven, that makes no…”
“I’ve been sensitive,” her father said, “because I’ve felt it! For a while now, long before Dad died, I’ve been sensitive…you’re right about that! The yells, everything that’s been happening for these past few months…I’ve felt it, and here it is! I was scared about dad, I really felt as if something was up with him, yet…yet even that isn’t right…I was worried about you too! It’s why I’ve been yelling!” Her father shook his head, her mother taking a breath as if to interject, but she never got the chance. “You’re taking off,” her father said, voice really loud now, rearing to beyond shout levels since it appeared the hushed part of this argument was over. “I never got to tell dad that…not even in his last few hours when I actually did yell at him! But I’m going to tell you! You’re taking off, just like he always did…up and bye-bye, and I’ll only see you every so often whenever you finally remember I’m around! I can’t…I knew this was going to happen, but I wanted you to have your dream, and I…I can’t believe I married my dad!”
The car returned to silence. Ash watched as her father shut his mouth, reversed out of the random driveway, and drove home, her mother again and again taking quick breaths, as if she was on the verge of adding something, but nothing came.
And, through much of the following week, her parents kept up that awkward potential of an about-to-arrive response. Ash and Peter went off to school in the mornings, and their folks didn’t speak—more quick breaths could be seen, so many close-to-forming words were right there, but instead, a thin smile would happen as her mother rushed to her job, and her father didn’t head out to his law firm where he’d just made partner.
In fact, Ash’s father didn’t do anything at all, and instead, he moped about, usually in a bathrobe and slippers. Her mother tried not to look too happy as she scampered off to something she loved with all her heart, but he just stayed all quiet and miserable until the day he finally figured a way to take a breath and speak.
“Even if it destroys this family?” he asked. “You’re really going to be like him and go off because there’s something better than what’s at home?”
Ash was watching from a far corner, Peter at her side as they took in what was quickly becoming the worst change of all. It was another reminder of how anything different sucked.
“Steven,” her mother said. Her head was downcast. She didn’t look him in the eye. “It’s too great an opportunity, and I’m not your father! I want you with me…please, come with me! I’m so sorry this is happening now, right now of all times, but I can’t let this get away! Just…just come with me!”
“Never! You’re supposed to stay…we’re both supposed to stay!”
They were back to thinking their house afforded them some level of cover—their yells something Ash could have heard from anywhere she wanted. She didn’t have to eavesdrop from close by, but the visuals did help. How her parents were near yet separate, her mother’s arms crossed defiantly over her chest, her father inches away as he glared ice daggers at anything that caught his eye. It all confirmed what was happening. Some division Ash didn’t yet understand but couldn’t look away from.
Still, the arguments did lead to one good outcome Ash could have never foreseen. Since her father was staying at the house, he had no problem running over to retrieve her and Peter once school was finished. He was usually already waiting after the last bell had rung, and while the future hadn’t gone as perfectly as she’d imagined, there were no more after-school activities for her to suffer through.
Maybe things were looking up.
Chapter Seven
It was a Friday when she ran into Emily Baker. Emily was as she often was, stunning, cool, a bright goddess who’d easily conquered middle school and who appeared, daily, to be ready for the change into high school where she would pretty much do the same. Emily was just her regular, spectacular…well, except for the fact that the more Ash stared, the more she knew something was off.
Ash racked her brains. Emily stood before her with a low-eyed glare and some weird expression playing heavy across her face. Ash had no clue what was going on.
Could it…but no…that day in the gym—underneath the bleachers with all that dust—it was the only thing of recent, school related, that came to mind. Ash had almost forgotten that day—she was getting so good at this selective forgetfulness thing—but now, it flooded back. How Emily had missed a free throw and how Ash had taken a moment’s insanity to join everyone in laughing at such a sight. Emily was good at everything, except for one minor part of basketball—why shouldn’t there be laughter—yet Ash’s crazed moment had been noted and had ended with Emily launching a ball her way.
It was why Ash had had to scurry past all that iron—she was the closest when everything had landed, who else could go beneath the bleachers? Yet, had Coach Littleton punished Emily after telling Ash to get up and find the ball? Ash didn’t know.
She had a bit, Emily sweaty and out of breath when she’d been outside watching Poppa Henry and his yells—was sweat a punishment? It was a question Ash tried to wonder at, but suddenly, a shift into Penthya occurred.
She tried to shake it off—all those people in their green cloaks, they buzzed in her mind like maddening pests she couldn’t swat away—until Ash finally sighed and gave up. She wasn’t about to rack her brains about anything if those dumb cloaks and those dumb people were all she was going to find.
“I’ve let you have your space.” Emily now had her hands on her hips, that low-eyed glare gaining a dark intensity—were her eyes even open? It was the last real day of school. One other was left—an optional Monday that was being used to make up for a long and dreary winter that had kept everything shut down for longer than the school board had liked. But that optional didn’t count. Ash had only been consumed with the thought of high school being so close—a safe thought, nothing else came to mind when she indulged that. Until someone spoke, Ash hadn’t even been paying attention to where she was walking.
“What?” she asked.
Her voice squeaked in nervous dread. Why was she feeling cornered?
Phyllis and Freddy King were with Emily—that was probably helping to add to the whole cornered thing. And the hungry intent in Freddy’s eyes—they weren’t at low-level glare, they were wide with menace. Ash wasn’t just cornered, she was trapped—most of the school already let out and gone, the hallways quite empty.
“What?” Ash asked again.
She tugged the straps of her black book bag down tight onto her shoulders. They bit through the orange tee shirt she was wearing and made the flesh beneath protest loudly, but Ash liked that.
Emily and her cronies stood in front of four large glass doors which spilled out onto a horseshoe drive where parents already were pulling up to look for their kids. That main avenue of escape was blocked, but maybe this trap wasn’t as perfect as it had first appeared.
There were two doors behind Ash, one she couldn’t use because of how it was alarmed, yet there was another—a small metal thing not unlike the emergency exit in the gym. Ash could make it there if she turned and ran, but such risk would take speed and fleetness of feet, and that meant her belongings needed to be as secure as possible. She didn’t want to take off only to feel her book bag—and some precious novels inside—slip away.
“Seriously, what do you want?” Ash asked.
She tested her white sneakers. Gone was the low-eyed glare, Emily was now looking at her with the same hungry intent Freddy had. Ash rolled her feet to see if she’d laced her shoes as well as she hoped. Was there some give she was feeling? She wasn’t sure.
“He made me run laps,” Emily finally said. “I blame you.”
There it was. The sweat, the out of breath—Coach Littleton really had punished Emily for the ball throw, and of course, Emily had shifted all blame off her shoulders.
Ash sighed again and studied Emily some more. She was already dressed in her usual red shorts and gray shirt after school ensemble. She was always so serious when first she put that outfit on. As far as Ash knew, Emily never talked to anyone after that. Instead, she just prepared for whatever Coach Littleton was about to throw her way.
However, Ash had to admit that whenever she’d seen Emily dressed like this, it had always been done from a distance. In her after-school clothes, did Emily Baker always look angry? Ash didn’t think so…in fact, Ash was terrified that this, absolutely, was something new.
“But your grandfather died,” Emily continued. It was as if those words somehow explained everything. “I heard it from a teacher. I suppose he was the old fellow I saw yelling, and so I thought to myself, Emily, Emily dear, you’re not a monster, so give Ash some time before you make her pay for getting you into trouble. And that’s what I’ve done, I’ve given you time—almost two weeks—now, your payment is due.”
“Seriously,” Ash said.
Something clicked. Ash was already annoyed at how such new revelations were finding such new ways to make her world different, but there it was. Another understanding that gave her the same feelings—a rising dread, a weary resignation—that she’d had back when she’d seen how her parents could yell without yelling.
Ash blinked away surprise. Usually, Emily taunted, or tripped, but as she saw Emily’s bunched up fists—and again took in her anger—she knew that teasing, or being pushed, was the least of her worries. She was about to get hit.
“You…you want to fight?”
“No.” Emily laughed. “I want Phyllis to hold you while Freddy keeps a look out. I don’t want you to make me too sweaty when I punch you in the face.”
“You…why…”
“I couldn’t make any free throws,” Emily said. She darted forward in a flash—with such speed that Ash never had a chance. Emily easily grabbed onto the straps Ash had just tightened. “I didn’t make any that day, or the next, and varsity…I tried for varsity at the high school, but I failed, and now…and…my mom says I’ve done it…I’ve buried the past completely, and she just drinks whenever I pass her by!”
It was pointless to struggle, but Ash did it anyway. Emily was strong for such a beauty; Ash was beyond impressed by her strength. She just kept expecting Emily to be the spoiled princess who liked to attack with her tongue rather than with her fists, but as Phyllis came up from behind and grabbed her arms so Emily could let her go, Ash knew she’d been foolish. She’d thought things might be getting better, but this—truly—was another change almost too great to bear.
“It was basketball,” Ash complained. She could figure this out, find the right words to slip free. “I’m sorry! It was just basketball, and I…I only laughed like everyone else! I’m sorry!”
Emily reached back over. She let Phyllis keep hold of Ash, but she straightened a few wrinkles on Ash’s shirt as she smiled. “I don’t believe you.”
“What?” Ash asked.
“Sorry,” Emily explained. “It’s what you just said—sorry, sorry, sorry, but I don’t think you even know why you’re supposed to be that way. You should be sorry for what you’ve done, but it isn’t just basketball, it’s my father, my life. I’m supposed to be like him so his memory never dies, and you…I can’t even change my name. You can, you can keep your stupid Ash all you want, but I had to let Em go the day after I asked to be called that. Yet, now…now I didn’t make varsity like he did, and it’s all because of you. Are you sorry for that?”
Emily took a step back. She patted Ash once on the shoulder before getting ready, her stance squared as she made a tight fist. Suddenly, Ash wasn’t at all concerned over how she would be hit. She was confused, yet also she was certain that if she could look around, she would probably see Phyllis, maybe even Freddy, appearing as confused as she. That had been a long bit of ramble from Emily.
“It’s just basketball,” Ash said again. For some reason, she was reminded of her father and his oddly confessional yelling done right after they’d spread Poppa Henry’s ashes. But she let that go. That was too weird to speak aloud. “You threw a ball at me, and Coach Littleton punished you because of that! I don’t know about your dad, but I’m sorry for that, for everything!”
“Not good enough,” Emily said. Her fists were balled even tighter.
“There she is.” It was Peter; his voice a much better salvation than running for any door. He caused Phyllis to push Ash away.
Ash skittered across the hall, bumped right into Emily who pushed her almost back to Phyllis. But Ash regained her feet before returning to that mountain of a girl. She straightened and brushed a few errant strands of brown and red off her temple, flattened her now back to being rumpled and disheveled tee shirt too, as she looked at her brother.
Peter was trying to make himself be as tall as he could be as he stood a few feet from the clueless Freddy King who hadn’t been doing a very good job as look out. Not only was Peter nearby, but Coach Littleton was there as well.
Coach Littleton looked disappointed, his head hanging low, his slightly gray hair shaking back and forth as he brought up a hand and pinched at his nose. For a second, Ash had the funniest insight. Her coach was obviously trying hard to keep his image of Emily as what he needed it to be—the popular goddess, the great beauty. He may have, every once in a while, interfered by doling out a few—slight—punishments, but on the whole, Ash knew that Coach Littleton only wanted to treat Emily as if she was her normal perfect.
Ash could imagine the war in his mind. How he pinched at himself to keep the thought of Emily the great from ever becoming Emily the bully. It was a war she wished he would lose—let him see, let the whole world see. But it was a war in which Ash knew Coach Littleton would try anything to escape from. The first out he saw, he would take it.
“Picking on Amanda,” he said. “I guess my running…pity it had no effect. Perhaps I should go talk to some of your other teachers. Maybe I should find out if you’re not such a nice—”
This wasn’t interfering. Coach Littleton was dancing around serious. Emily’s eyes went even wider as Ash had to wonder. Could it be, by some stroke of outrageous fortune, that this might be the day when some new change—not for her, just for a girl she loathed—would make everything better?
But again, Emily was quick. “Coach, Coach,” she smiled at Coach Littleton, yet she also made sure to turn her head slightly towards Ash. “I…not picking. I wasn’t doing anything except talking about this coming Monday. You see, we have school, but most of us don’t have to be here and I—”
It was his out. Coach Littleton may have been a good man, but Ash wasn’t surprised. The town was too small, and anything said here would travel onward. He could dole out those slight punishments, but if Coach Littleton wanted Emily to remain a middle school queen—who had a throne already in wait at the high school—he couldn’t go any further.
“I know when we have school,” he said, “but why was Phyllis holding Amanda’s arms like that? Did she have her pinned?”
He was still having the slightest struggle. But for a final time, Emily was so fast.
“Pinned?” She began to laugh. “That wasn’t…Phyllis was hugging Ash because we’re all so happy she’s agreed not to skip on Monday. Instead, she’s meeting us after school for one last game we’re going to play. Isn’t that right, Ash, you are going to meet us on Monday, aren’t you? Because I’d hate to think you wouldn’t, and then I’d have to delay our game till when I see you later. After I’ve had all summer to wait.”
Emily was only staring at her as she leveled a veiled threat that wasn’t veiled enough for Ash’s liking. She’d been so close to satisfaction without having to make that satisfaction come about on her own. But now…the fall of Emily Baker could still arrive, but Coach Littleton would only deny her lie if Ash spoke up to counter it.
Ash couldn’t say a thing.
“Amanda?” Coach Littleton asked. “Is that true?”
Ash tasted something metallic. It burned along her throat and dug a trench of acid towards her feet. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Tell on Emily and absolutely be the one that would be blamed for what came next or lie as well and think of something else later on?
The immediate option seemed best, to simply yell out that Emily had tried to beat her up, but she almost always never chose that route. It was still too different, and besides, the second option had its own appeal. Delaying meant she could start forgetting all about this, and Ash really was getting good at forgetting.
“Yeah,” she finally said, “we were talking about some game.”
Chapter Eight
“Why didn’t you tell on her?” Peter asked.
He slipped into her room. Dinner was long over and another fight was going on downstairs—this one rather epic, something that had passed as far from heated whispers as one could ever get. When her father got to the point where he swore he wouldn’t be moving anywhere, he said it so loud Ash couldn’t hear what was on the TV. She had to head to her bedroom for quiet.
“I don’t,” Ash began. She looked up from a novel she hadn’t been able to absorb. She’d almost achieved success—forgetting about Emily was just within reach—yet now her brother was going to ruin everything. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Why not?” Peter asked.
Ash sat at a desk set up across from her bed, her freestanding mirror somewhere off to her right. Ever since the day when she’d mistakenly imagined that her Poppa Henry was in it, the mirror had ceased to be trustworthy. Nowadays, she hardly looked its way.
Stationed as she was, sitting on a nice black leather chair and turned ever so slightly to peek back at her brother, she didn’t want to move. Her bed was completely free and Peter headed for it, sitting down and facing her as he tried not to wrinkle her sheets.
“Talk about Emily,” he said, “why didn’t you tell on her?”
Ash closed her book. Her comfort was over, and she swiveled in her chair. There was a lie making its way through her head, a good one where she could tell Peter she hadn’t said a thing out of kindness, or a sense of moral authority—not returning one bad for another. Peter might even believe her, or at least act as if he did, but as soon as it came, Ash cast the lie aside. Such a thing made her sad.
“I don’t know why. Coach Littleton was there, but I couldn’t. I thought if I was the one to bring her down, Emily would hurt me.”
“But,” Peter said, “she wouldn’t have.” He leaned forward until he could prop his chin in his hands. “I knew it the minute I saw her in front of you.”
“You saw her?”
“Yeah, it’s why I rushed to get the coach.”
“For me…”
“Of course, but I also went because I know Emily Baker, I know how she works.”
Ash laughed, such insight was something she would have killed for. “Really, you know her?”
“Sure.” Peter straightened. He tried to sit up tall and proud, make himself look as big as Ash knew his words were about to become. Had he been reading The Great Gatsby again—or perhaps War and Peace? She wasn’t sure, but what she was sure of was that for a conversation she didn’t want to have, it was about to get even worse. There was no way she could handle a nine-year-old lecturing her.
“Not happening,” she said, “not from you, not tonight.”
Peter paused. He wasn’t surprised, just frustrated. His small brown eyes rolled slightly from behind his black glasses. It was as if he’d thought she might fight him, but was annoyed because he’d hoped she wouldn’t.
They both heard a quick “you’re going to destroy this family,” before he could gather himself, Ash not sure what else could go wrong. She either had to endure her parents or the extreme oddity that was her brother. Maybe she should go outside—sleep in the yard?
“Come on,” Peter said, “talk about Emily…let me talk about Emily.”
Ash’s shoulders, her whole body, sagged in defeat. “Fine,” at least her brother might drown out her parents, “go ahead. But don’t…don’t you get all smart; use nine-year-old words!”
Peter smiled. It was still a great smile. “Okay,” he said. “Emily, I’ve watched her and heard her. You’ve heard her too—better than I have.”
Ash shook her head. That wasn’t right. “When,” she began, “I’ve never…”
“When Phyllis had hold of you,” Peter said, “Emily was talking about her dad, right? I caught a bit, but you were much closer. Wasn’t she talking about him, about how she had to be like him?”
“Oh, yeah, there was that.”
“Yeah,” Peter said, “there’s that, and when you add it to how I’ve been paying attention to her, you start to see. She’s the kind of girl who knows she has an image she must protect. Maybe it’s from her mother…probably it’s from her mother…but there’s this planned identity for her, and right now, she understands that at any moment any adult can take that away. She can act out a little around adults or be a lot worse when she’s alone with kids her own age, but if a teacher or a coach or even her mother is there, she can’t do much. She has no control with them.
“If you’d told—said she was a bully—she would have been angry, but with Coach Littleton there, she would have also been so devastated she wouldn’t have known how to respond. Her image would have been damaged. She would have been too concerned with it to deal with you.”
Peter paused. He leaned back forward too, far past where his chin could find safety in a palm-cushioned perch. He even tilted his head slightly to the side and studied Ash.
Though she had warned him, he’d used words like devastated—things way beyond his age. But Ash let that slide. It was just Peter being strange and crazy Peter, and anyway, she wasn’t quite sure he was correct. Adults could not be the only thing that frightened Emily Baker.
“You have to see I’m right,” Peter said. He caught her doubts before she could speak. “It’s obvious.”
“It isn’t,” Ash said. “With others, like Coach Littleton, they’re easy to get down pat—he’s good, a good man, but Emily, she’s…it’s complicated. You can’t have figured her out.”
Peter sat up straight again. Ash doing the same as her defeat began to fade.
Peter sighed. “She’s not complicated. You probably don’t understand her because you’re scared.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are. And it’s okay. I’m scared too. I’m scared of a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Things…like…like all of life changing way too fast,” Peter said. Suddenly, he was the one to sag—his shoulders the first things to sink as he could no longer meet her eyes. He looked anywhere else, at the mirror she still ignored, or at a pink canopy over his head. “I fear growing up. It’s why I constantly beg Mom and Dad to let me do school at my own pace. I like knowing that, right now, I’m in a place where everything is familiar.”
“Then why go to high school with me?” Ash asked. It flew out of her, the question she’d been thinking yet hadn’t voiced because she was worried it would only cause another argument, hers and Peter’s this time instead of their parents. But Peter surprised her. After she spoke, he stared right into her eyes.
“I knew you’d be upset.”
“Something else you’ve figured out,” Ash said. She was tempted to turn back around. Dig once more into her book.
This was it—the last great oddity of her brother she couldn’t stand. He could get all big, use words no kid should ever know, but when he also acted as if her every thought had been planned and edited in his mind, it made her fill up with such rage. He never smiled when it seemed as if he’d been spending his days memorizing the many twists and turns of their upcoming conversations. He only talked dry, speaking slowly too, as if he had a long script he would never deviate from.
Ash could ignore him—dig right into something she already knew she wouldn’t be able to read—but that probably wouldn’t be a surprise to how Peter had seen this unfolding. And besides, that would also allow her to rehear her parents with a clarity that had been missing since he’d been talking.
“You saw I have a problem with you, how?”
Peter sighed again. “The closer I’ve gotten to the grade you’re in, the more anxious you’ve become. You don’t hide it well.”
“I don’t.”
“Nope, I…you’re my sister. I see it because…well, I watch you more than anyone. I see how scared of change you are.”
Ash wasn’t sure if she should be touched or bothered. “You watch me…a lot?”
“Every day,” Peter said. “And I know you’re worried that if I’m in a class with you, it will be a change too great, something that will deny you any chance of being at a level of different you can control.”
There it was, spelled perfect—an exact summation of what she’d been thinking ever since she’d learned that Peter would be in ninth grade with her. He hadn’t taken the test yet, but he would, and he would succeed—that was a given. All her worries were as he’d described. It was like he was reading her every thought.
“I don’t care if you’re there,” Ash said. She hoped to at least look more convincing than she sounded.
“Don’t lie.”
“All right, I care, but I’ll get over it. Does that make you happy?”
“A bit, but you need to ask me again why I’m doing this. I know you want to, so go ahead. Ask why I’m taking yet another test and skipping yet another grade.”
It was true; she did need to ask it again. It was such a part of her worries that saying it once would never be enough.
“So why?”
“Because I know I can succeed,” Peter said. “I’ve gone way past what ninth graders learn. In my readings in the library and at home, I think I might even be past what they learn in all of high school—this test will be a breeze.”
“But why don’t you go on until you’re either finished with everything or you reach a point where you can’t go any further?”
“Because I’m scared,” Peter said. His voice was such a thin and wavy whisper. “I’m scared if I go too far, I’ll get lost. I’m like you…I don’t want too much change, and I…I can go somewhere a bit new, but I don’t ever want to find myself in some strange place where I don’t know a thing and I don’t have you and Mom and Dad to back me up.”
“You’re not afraid.” Ash had to make him stop. He may have been her little brother and she may have enjoyed any kind of protection he thought she could bring—just hearing him say he expected her to back him up gave her a warm thrill—but that didn’t mean she liked to see him so bare. “You’re never afraid.”
“Yes, I am. I fear the same things as you, don’t you see?”
It was the first part of Peter’s discussion she absolutely couldn’t follow. Ash had always been so sure he could never have the same fears as her.
“I don’t understand?”
“You have to understand,” Peter said. His frustration and annoyance etched deeply into his voice. “Everything else…Emily…that…if you don’t understand her, that’s okay, but we’re both scared, and I don’t want us to be scared anymore.”
“Peter,” Ash said. Though she had truly thought it would make her way too sad, she’d already lied this night. It hadn’t even hurt—just a few quick dips into a few untruths—but this was going to be the worst. Her voice would be low, her face unmoving, this lie would be so strong it might shatter her. “I’m not scared.”
“But you are,” Peter said. He was caught off guard. Ash couldn’t believe she’d been able to deviate from his script. “You couldn’t speak. You thought Emily would hurt you even with Coach Littleton nearby. But she wouldn’t have been able to retaliate because the truth would have embarrassed her so much she would have never bothered you again. I know you’re scared.”
“You don’t know a thing,” Ash said. She finally whipped back around—opened her book, and found the page she’d been on. “You don’t know what I am, and you can just take my word for it. I’m fine. I’m not scared of anything.”
“Then let’s talk about the people who were at the lake.”
Ash flinched. Through sheer will alone, she’d finally gotten to a point where all those cloaks weren’t flooding back. It had only been for an hour or two, but it had been an accomplishment. And then Peter brought them back.
Ash whirled again. It was kind of fun, her chair catching the wind and making her room blur. Maybe she could just do this, swing one way then, instantly, swing another. It felt so much better than talking.
But Ash knew she had some choice words she needed to speak. If she didn’t, they might attack her instead of reaching out to do that to Peter.
Ash slammed her book in righteous fury as her chair came to a stop. “I have Emily, my one fear! You got me! I was scared she would hurt me no matter who was around! You’ve observed me! You know me better than I know myself! I fear Emily Baker, happy!”
Peter didn’t reply. Ash glared so heavy at him he could do nothing except return her gaze. Let him look, she didn’t care, yet his lack of a response allowed them both to realize…their house was quiet. Just when had their parents’ argument ended?
“You think they’re okay?” Ash finally asked.
“Emily,” Peter said. He jumped off her bed and headed towards the door to her room.
“I said do you think that Mom and Dad are—”
“I heard you,” Peter said, “but I’m going to say this again. Emily fears adults—you could have told on her. With Coach Littleton nearby, you could have done anything, and she would’ve never laid a finger on you.”
“Well, great,” Ash said, “wish I’d known that.”
Peter shook his head. “I think you did know. I think you like to watch too. We both study people, and you—if you say you have Coach Littleton down pat, then you know why Emily acts as she does. But you’re afraid, and that’s—”
“I’m not afraid.”
Peter moved out of her doorway and up against a near wall. He slid back into her room, as if he was trying to get out of someone’s way.
“Yes,” he said, “you are. In fact, I think you’re so afraid you won’t go to school on Monday. You’ll find a reason to stay home so you won’t have to face Emily.”
Ash began to offer a retort, a fast and heated denial that would place a few more attacking words back out into the room. But before she could say a thing, her mother appeared. Red faced, her eyes puffy and swollen, as if she’d been crying, her mother sauntered right on in and paused in front of Ash before she looked back at Peter.
“I’m going to take the job.” She tried to sound happy, but the way her voice cracked and the way she stopped to gather herself, it caused her bravado to falter. “Your father has left for the night, he decided he needed to go on a drive to clear his thoughts, but the issue has been settled. I’m going, I have to, and if either one of you would like to help me pack, I would appreciate it. It will be an all-weekend-long thing; starting tomorrow and maybe bleeding over into Monday, so you would have to stay at home rather than go to school. But you both don’t have any work to make up…it should be okay. Do I have any takers?”
Her mother was going to go. Her father was going to stay. The division between her parents was getting greater and greater, and Ash could only feel her sadness as it returned with a vengeance. It coiled around her heart and sunk fangs into her mind. The world was no longer slightly off kilter. It had been set free; a random hunk of rock spinning into the unknown of a way-too-bleak universe. She didn’t know how to react.
Her mother kept her eyes on Peter to judge his reaction first. He seemed only slightly bothered—offering nothing more than a shake of his head as he adjusted to something he may have once read in that script of his, yet something he most likely had hoped would never come about. However, his moment of pause did give Ash all the time she needed. She put on a fake smile. As Peter shook his head one last time, Ash accepted every fang that was making her feel so sad.
“Sorry, Mom,” Peter said, “my test is Monday, I’ll help over the weekend, but I have to go.”
Nodding a reluctant yet understanding okay, her mother whirled. It was impressive. So much better than anything Ash could do in her chair.
She caught Ash’s phony bit of happy. Peter, too, stared her way as Ash saw her chance to prove him wrong; to prove it to herself as well. One day, she would change on her own terms. She wouldn’t always be a girl ruled by worries and doubt.
“I’ll help during the weekend,” Ash said. In the end, it was what she wanted. “And I’m more than happy to stay on Monday too.”
Chapter Nine
However, on Monday, there wasn’t anything to do. Ash spent Saturday and Sunday labeling box after box with a black magic marker, putting down onto the sides of some cardboard such phrases as “Mom’s Clothes” or “Mom’s Dishes” until her hands cramped and she was nauseated by the fumes.
It depressed her to no end how her parents kept escalating their disagreement. That was the way Ash liked to think of it—a disagreement or maybe a tiny misunderstanding. She and Peter could hate each other. They could get angry and fight and fight and hold on to that anger for days, but not her folks. Surely her mother and father would soon hug and forgive; say this whole thing had been a silly mistake.
But stuff kept getting worse. First, her mother was only going to bring a few things, a couple clothes, a random comb or two, maybe three or four dishes from that glass and wood cabinet in the dining room. Ash probably would have been done in a day. And with Peter also helping, her mother’s assertion that this was going to take all weekend bordered on the ridiculous. They would wrap things up in an hour.
Her father ruined it. He saw the few items Ash was packing and said her mother should just take it all. He put his foot down; started yelling that since he was never going to move, then why not. He began to throw so many extra things into so many extra boxes that soon, it wasn’t only a few more items her mother was taking—half the house was going with her.
It was kind of shocking, how so much Ash had once thought of as shared was separate. Once her mother agreed with her father’s demands—once they both began to look over every square inch to divide his from hers—it became all too clear. The china dishes from that glass and wood cabinet were her mother’s alone, and many books from the shelves in the den were not for all to enjoy, but were instead meant to stay and couldn’t be touched.
The mere act of packing soon became an arduous journey Ash wished she’d never volunteered for. But nothing compared to watching her father as he slowly began to react to the sight. He may have started it, but when everything became all too real, he froze in shock. Standing outside of rooms—or shuffling about in hallways—he looked in on each of them, yet refused to talk.
And anytime anyone attempted to broach the subject—if, maybe, they asked if he would change his mind about sealing everything up tight—he merely turned and left. It was heartbreaking, at least for Ash it was, and she couldn’t help but to work faster and faster until her hands didn’t cramp anymore. Instead, they screamed for her to stop.
Ash worked so hard that all the extra stuff she’d been given soon disappeared as fast as the original stuff had. She took a few breaks—was the one who went to her father to ask if maybe he wanted to empty some of those boxes he’d made—but nothing helped. Her work still went in a hurry, and only once—when Peter came over to tell her to stop—did she ever slow down again.
Peter whispered that talking to their father was a lost cause, that it was obvious no item was ever coming out of any box—she shouldn’t waste her time. But that was it. The final thing she couldn’t ignore.
He wasn’t a doctor yet—some grand therapist who had perfect insight into them all. Peter was her little brother, and even if he was a genius, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be wrong.
“Shut up! Shut your stupid mouth!”
“What,” Peter said. Once more, she’d surprised him. She was starting to enjoy doing that. “When you talk to…I don’t want you to get your hopes—”
“You’re an idiot!”
Forget not wanting to argue with him, arguing with Peter was something she understood. She should have been doing it constantly, with no regrets.
A rising anger began to burn away any leftover sadness and all its fangs that may have remained along the corners of her heart. Ash felt so upset—yet giddy—she almost wanted to thank Peter for how he was making her feel. Instead, she just kept yelling until her mother told her to be quiet and brought Peter to her side.
Ash was alone, but she didn’t care. Being alone meant she didn’t have to be bothered by her father or listen to her brother or even watch her mother who had become a robot, working almost as fast as she was. Ash could pack and pack until, by Monday, it wasn’t at all necessary—she and her mother had gotten every box ready long ago—but she stayed at home anyway. Ash stood by her dining room window and waved goodbye as her mother took Peter off to school. She even tried not to be too angry when Peter looked up, saw her wave, and refused to respond.
“You’re still stupid!” It felt beyond good to keep yelling. After so much time off, her father had at last gone back to work—Ash remained alone. For as long as she wanted, she could say whatever in perfect privacy. “Idiot!”
“Thought I told you to love and not hate,” a voice said from her kitchen.
A scream died in Ash’s throat. She knew that voice. But it couldn’t be who she thought it was.
“Poppa Henry?” she asked.
She looked over every inch of her dining room. She walked around the table behind her too—peeked beneath it before twisting a little towards the living room. She wanted to go anywhere else to delay a visit to where she knew she had to go.
“I’m in here, you know I’m here,” the voice said. Again, it came from the kitchen though Ash caught a vague movement—a kind of blurry reflection—in the glass doors of the now mostly empty wood cabinet that was sitting against a nearby wall. “I can see where you’re standing, but if you’ll come in here, you’ll be able to see me better.”
Ash made sure to say her next few words carefully. “Poppa Henry, you can’t be talking to me.” She hoped that by uttering that aloud, everything might make a bit more sense. “You’re dead.”
“Don’t I know it,” Poppa Henry, or just his voice, said. The movement in the glass cabinet came back. “Yet here I am.”
And he was. Ash walked towards the cabinet doors until her nose was almost touching them. After a few minutes, the movement there did begin to take on a more defined shape. It was the outline of a man, a reflection—still kind of blurry—of her grandfather as he’d looked the last time he’d been seen.
Except that wasn’t correct. Like what she’d spotted a few days ago in the mirror in her room, this reflection was better than when her Poppa Henry had been alive. His clothes were the same, but from what she could make out, he wasn’t pale and weak. He looked as healthy as she had always thought him to be.
“I’m here, I really am,” Poppa Henry said. His voice no longer sounded as if it came from the small desk in her kitchen, the one that held that tiny blue plastic mirror and the dark red cell. His voice was now in the cabinet. It was coming from the reflection. “I may be dead, but I’m also here.”
"He began to throw so many extra things into so many extra boxes that soon, it wasn’t only a few more items her mother was taking—half the house was going with her."
I've packed and moved before. Where in the world does anyone have that many boxes right off the bat? Did someone go to Home Depot? Also, unless they were professional movers in another life, when you have moving + divorce + kids there is no way half a house is getting packed up in a single weekend. Story gotta story and it's super minor, but still, I'm calling BS on that one.
I'm interested in the Emily subplot bit, mostly because I have a similar bullying line in my books. I kind of want to see where it goes, how they parallel :P
The cowl people with the dog are interesting, and I like your use of mirrors and reflections. Now we're getting into the good stuff :D
Observation: Not sure if it's intended, but I'm guessing this is for a 12-15 year old audience? Just judging by characters, plot, and use of language.