Читать книгу The Unwritten Books 3-Book Bundle - James Bow - Страница 5

THE GIRL WHO FOLDED HERSELF

“What if we could travel at the speed of thought?”

— Marjorie Campbell

Rosemary Watson slapped her schoolbooks down on a study cubicle. The Outsiders has to be the most depressing book ever, she thought. She pushed her fingers beneath her thick glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

The school bus was late and getting later. Through the window behind her came muffled laughter and the smack of icy snowballs. Rosemary sighed and slumped in her seat.

“Really, Rosemary,” said a voice behind her. “You would think someone as bookish as you would appreciate good literature!”

She whirled around. Benson sat twisted in his seat by the study cubicle behind her, grinning.

“Go away,” she snapped.

“What’s the matter, Sage?” said Benson. “’Fraid of a little snow?”

“Don’t you have homework?” said Rosemary.

The school librarian shushed them. They looked up and caught her grim look. Benson flashed Rosemary a cheeky grin and turned back to his books.

Rosemary turned away. Benson had been imitating what Mr. Reed, her English teacher, had said when he’d discovered she was a chapter behind in her assigned reading of The Outsiders. The class, of course, had laughed. She hadn’t bothered to explain. She’d sat silently in her seat, her face red, feeling as though a spotlight were on her.

It had been a bad day, and her classmates weren’t about to let it end, not while everyone waited for the school buses after the first snowfall of the season. So instead of standing in the schoolyard with an invisible target pinned to her forehead, she had chosen to hide in the library, taking refuge in the Encyclopedia Britannica.

The school library was half the size of the public library her father managed, but at least it had encyclopedias and the smell of paper. She felt the stress of the day seeping out amongst the hushed tomes and the facts and figures. She took a deep breath and smiled.

Then she coughed. The scent of old paper was suddenly more powerful and tinged with mildew. It clung to her like cobwebs.

Rosemary stood up and looked around. The smell seemed to be coming from one of the fiction aisles. She slipped past racks of battered paperbacks and stepped into the stacks.

A burnt-out light cast the aisle in shadow, and the shelves towered over her like a hedge maze. A girl stood where the shelves met the wall. She was flipping through a book. There was something odd about her.

Rosemary pushed her glasses further up on her nose for a better look.

The girl looked a lot like Rosemary. She was about the same age, wore glasses, and had shoulder-length brown hair. She wore a school uniform, though, and that was what made her look odd. Rosemary’s school didn’t have uniforms, and more than that, the cut of the girl’s clothes was out of date. Her glasses were horn-rimmed instead of round. It was as though she had stepped out of the 1950s, or Rosemary had stepped in.

The girl stopped paging, then turned and looked at Rosemary. Their eyes locked. The girl’s eyes were not friendly.

“Who —” Rosemary stammered. “What’s wrong?”

The girl turned towards Rosemary and disappeared.

Rosemary jumped back. The girl had not faded into nothingness, as though she were a ghost. A ghost Rosemary could handle, maybe. Instead, she had folded out of existence, growing thinner as she turned until she was a line and then nothing at all, as though she were a piece of paper. Rosemary goggled at the empty space, and she swore it was looking back at her.

The smell of dust was so intense, Rosemary thought her throat would close. She choked.

A hand fell on her shoulder. Rosemary gasped and whirled around.

Behind her was a tall boy with a flop of light brown hair, a lot of freckles, and eyes that looked friendly, or maybe sad. He smiled at her. “Hey!”

She struggled a moment to place him, then remembered him: the new kid in English class, off to one side, neither perched near the front of the class nor hiding in the back. When the rest of the class had laughed at her, he hadn’t joined in. “You’re ...” she began.

The boy grinned ruefully and recited, “Peter. Peter McAllister, the new kid. From Toronto. The school buses are here.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder. Benson was already checking his books out.

She looked back at the aisle. The sense of being watched by empty space returned. She tried to steady her breath.

“What’s wrong?” said Peter. “You see something?”

She took a step back and turned away. “It’s nothing,” she said. It’s nothing, she thought. Don’t act crazy. Leaving Peter behind, she grabbed up her backpack and her winter coat and ran for the door.

The blast of cold air blanched Rosemary’s cheeks, but that was not why she staggered to a stop outside the entrance to Clarksbury Junior High. Across the yard, she could hear the shouts of the children heading towards the school buses, but around her it was too quiet. She could hear the whistle of the wind. The low walls nearby seemed to be giggling.

She judged the distance between herself and the school buses, calculated how long it would take for her to run, then nixed that idea. Never let them see you run.

The door swung open, and Peter stepped out with Benson. Peter gave her a smile as he passed. Rosemary shouldered her backpack, pushed her glasses further up on her nose, focused on the nearest school bus, and strode forward.

For several steps, nothing happened. Then, as she got out into the open, somebody shouted, “Get her!” Kids leapt out of cover, and the air became alive with snowballs. They caught Peter as well as Rosemary. He laughed and scooped up snowballs of his own, returning fire. Then Rosemary yelled as an incoming shot caught her on the ear and sent her glasses flying.

She waved her hands at the blurry white onslaught. “Stop! Stop, you idiots! I’ve lost my glasses!”

The volley stopped. Rosemary clawed snow from her eyes and sank to her knees to paw at the ground. There were chuckles from the crowd. Peter dropped the snowball he was holding. “Hey, are you okay?”

Rosemary couldn’t stop her angry, rasping breaths. She would not cry. “Just help me look!”

“Looking for these?” A shape pressed forward and picked up something off the snow. Rosemary froze. She recognized the voice of Leo Cameron, noted schoolyard bully. Great, she thought. First The Outsiders, then folding people, and now this.

“Give them to me,” she growled.

Leo chuckled. “Now, now, Sage, ask nice!”

“Come on, Leo,” said Benson. “Go easy on her.”

“Yeah, don’t make her crazy like her brother,” shouted someone from the crowd. There was a ripple of laughter.

Rosemary shot up from her hands and knees. Her breathing quickened. Her eyes glistened. Then she let out a yell and charged, arms swinging. Leo ducked back, and she spun herself around and landed heavily in the snow. Leo laughed. “Where’re your manners, Sage? Say please!”

Peter pushed forward and stood chest to chest with Leo, looking down. He stuck out his hand. “Please.”

There was a pause as everyone stood poised, waiting for something to happen. In her blurred vision, Rosemary saw Peter, tall, towering over the bullies, and for a minute she thought of her brother, Theo.

Finally, Leo tossed the glasses to Rosemary. They hit her chest and she caught them. “Go ahead and have your glasses; like I care. C’mon, guys!”

His friends filed after him, followed by the rest of the crowd. Peter stayed close while Rosemary smeared her glasses with her scarf.

“Thanks,” she said, bitterly. Almost as bad as being teased was being rescued from it. Almost. She put her glasses on again.

Peter handed over her fallen hat. “You’ve got a nice left hook.”

Rosemary flushed and looked away. “I lost my temper.”

“Better than just standing there. You’re Rosemary, right? Rosemary Watson?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You know me?”

He shrugged. “I see you get on the bus every day. I live just down the road.”

There was a pause. The two stared at each other. “So ...” Rosemary began.

Then there was the sound of engines. Rosemary whirled and charged across the snow. “Wait! Hey!” But the buses pulled into the street, turned a corner, and were gone. She stumbled to a stop and threw up her hands.

Peter caught up with her, puffing. “I’m sorry! I forgot they were about to leave.”

She sighed. “It’s okay; my fault. Perfect ending to a perfect day. I’ll walk.” She turned to him, nodding curtly. “Thanks for the help. See you Monday.” And she turned away and trudged off.

A moment later, she heard the scuff of snow behind her. “Why do they call you ‘Sage’?”

She froze. “Are you following me?”

“Do you mind?” He had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He smiled at her sheepishly. “It’s a long way, and we live on the same street.”

She considered a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever. Free country.”

They walked through the main street of Clarksbury, passing fish and tackle shops closed for the season and a single, quiet convenience store. The proprietor of Luigi’s Pizzeria and Bait Shop looked up from the scrape of his shovel and waved to them as they passed; Rosemary took no notice. On the road, a single car breezed by.

“So, why do they call you Sage?” asked Peter.

She hunched forward. “My family called me Sage. My brother let it slip. It stuck.”

“Your family calls you Sage?”

“Because I read encyclopedias,” she replied. “It was okay when they did it.”

“‘Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.’ That’s a folk song, isn’t it?”

“How would I know? I don’t sing!”

“Leo probably doesn’t either. He sounds like a cat with a hairball.”

Rosemary snorted.

They neared the edge of town. Their boots squelched on slush as the sidewalk gave way to gravel. The houses receded, and the Niagara Escarpment, a one-hundred-foot rise of rock and trees that surrounded Clarksbury on three sides, drew closer. They turned at a sign pointing to a road that broke off the main highway and ascended the Escarpment. “45th Parallel Road,” it said, with a sign beneath boasting, “Halfway between pole and equator.”

Peter puffed as they trudged up the slope. “Well, not much further, Sage.”

She rounded on him. Her fists clenched. “What did you call me?”

“S-Sage,” he said, swallowing. “Do you mind?” He raised his hands. “Look, I won’t say it like they mean it, but like your brother meant it and stuff. It’s a good nickname; it means ‘wise one.’”

She looked at him. “You always quote dictionaries?”

He shrugged. “Got a problem with that?” He gave her a grin.

She rolled her eyes. “And it’s me they tease.” She looked over his shoulder. “Uh-oh. A squall’s coming in.”

He looked back. Behind them, the slate expanse of Georgian Bay swept out to piled black clouds on the horizon. A white chop was developing on the dark water. “What’s a squall? A snowstorm or something?”

“You’ll find out if we don’t hurry.” She turned up the slope.

The squall overtook them before they’d gone half a mile, starting with a few flecks and a short gust of wind pressing at their backs. As they topped the Escarpment, the world disappeared into whirling snow and icy daggers slipped under their collars. The slush turned crunchy. Rosemary stumbled, and Peter hauled her up. She stared at his hand in hers, then shook it off. Then a gust nearly knocked them off their feet. Rosemary grabbed Peter’s hand and ploughed forward. Finally, they came to the Watsons’ mailbox and leaned on it, gasping. “I wish we hadn’t missed the bus,” Rosemary wheezed.

“I don’t.” Peter gave her a smile. It looked wistful. “Well, I guess I’d better get going.” He turned to leave.

She stopped him. “What are you doing?”

“Going home.”

“In this weather?”

He raised an eyebrow with small smile. “Where else would I go?”

The wind blew snow into her mouth and she spluttered.

Behind them, a screen door banged open and a man shouted, “Rosemary! Come inside, for heaven’s sake!”

They stumbled along a pathway and up swayback steps to an old stone house. The wind blew them past a front door plastered with snow. They entered a room lined with bookcases. The house smelled deliciously of spicy tomato sauce.

A German shepherd ploughed into Rosemary, knocking her down, and started licking her face, despite her muffled protests. Then it looked up at Peter and growled.

“Shamus!” Rosemary grabbed her dog. “No! Friend! Peter’s a friend!”

Shamus stopped growling, sniffed Peter’s leg, barked once, and then trotted off. Peter swallowed.

“He approves of you,” said Rosemary.

Rosemary’s father came back from the kitchen, wearing glasses, a “Kiss the Cook” apron, two potholders shaped like pig puppets, and a scowl. “Young lady! Why didn’t you call me for a lift? The radio has been going on all afternoon about this weather!”

“I’m sorry, Dad!” Rosemary pulled off her coat and boots. “I didn’t know about the weather. I walked home with —” She hesitated, hardly believing she was doing this. “Peter.”

Rosemary’s father pushed his glasses further up on his nose and peered at Peter. Then he snatched off his potholders and extended his hand. “I’m sorry! This is hardly a proper welcome. You live up the road, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Peter McAllister.”

“I’m Alexander Watson, Rosemary’s father.” Mr. Watson shook Peter’s hand and smiled brightly, all trace of his anger gone. “Come in! It’s not often Rosemary brings home gentlemen callers. In fact, I think this is a first. May I ask what your intentions are towards my daughter?”

“Dad!” Rosemary flushed red. Peter kept his eyes on the floor and didn’t say anything.

Rosemary’s father chuckled and patted Peter on the back. He nodded over his shoulder. “The phone’s in the kitchen. You’d better give your father a call; dinner’s almost ready.”

“He’s my uncle, actually,” said Peter, pulling off his coat and heading for the phone. He jumped back as a small blonde girl bounded down the stairs, holding a Lego model aloft and making engine noises.

Mr. Watson cleared his throat. “Trisha, no landing airplanes in the kitchen.”

The girl made a graceful turn and flew back up the stairs.

“Trish,” Rosemary explained to Peter as she passed.

In the kitchen, Mr. Watson lifted the lid off a steaming pot. “Rosemary, could you and Peter set the table? Your mother and Theo should be home soon.”

Rosemary nudged Peter as he hung up the phone. “Come on, I’ll show you where the placemats are.”

As he followed her into the dining room, rich and dark after the bright kitchen, she added, “Sorry about my dad. He likes to tease everybody. It’s his way of making people feel welcome.”

“I didn’t mind,” said Peter. He looked around. Bookshelves lined the walls like wainscotting.

Rosemary glanced at the table and sighed. “Dad forgot to put the plates out again.”

She pulled up a chair and climbed up to reach the top of a tall Victorian cabinet full of plates, linens, and a shelf of cookbooks. Grabbing what she needed, she hopped down and bumped into Peter, who’d had his arm out to steady her. She frowned at him a moment, then passed him the plates.

They circled the table, laying out mismatched china and an assortment of cutlery. Rosemary asked, “You live with your uncle?”

Peter looked away. “Um ... yeah.”

“Your parents are ...”

He shifted on his feet. “They died in a car accident when I was nine.”

Rosemary set a plate down with a thump. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

Peter coughed. “It — it’s nothing. It was years ago.”

“But you only just got here.”

“I bounced around foster homes for a while before the province allowed my uncle to take me in. Something about my parents not having a will or something saying who’d take care of me after —” He took a deep breath, then grinned at her. “Anyway, it’s over now. I’m with my uncle, whisked away from downtown Toronto to greater Clarksbury.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rosemary again. “What a thing to bring up.”

“Don’t worry,” said Peter. “I’m looking forward to dinner. I like my uncle, but ... well ... it’s just him and me in that place and he doesn’t believe in suppertime. He buys things you heat up in the microwave. You have a real family, Sage.” He grinned at her.

She looked away. “Hardly normal, though.”

“I wouldn’t wish normal on my worst enemy,” said Peter. “But I see what you mean. I’ve never seen so many books outside of a library. And where’s your television set?”

Rosemary grimaced. “Mom won’t have one in the house.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Explains your love of books.”

Rosemary looked up at him. His smile was perfectly benign. No teasing here. “Partly,” she said at last. “Dad’s the other reason.”

“The other reason for what?” Mr. Watson set a steaming bowl of spaghetti on the table. He took off his pig-puppet potholders and untied his apron.

“We were talking about the books,” said Peter.

Mr. Watson laughed. “Oh, yes. Town librarian isn’t a job; it’s a way of life. My love of books doesn’t turn off when I get home.” He glanced at a clock on the wall in the shape of a cat, its tail a pendulum. “Listen, kids, I think we’d better dig in before dinner gets cold.”

“But what about Mom and Theo?” asked Rosemary.

“Your mom’s already two hours late from picking up Theo.”

Peter nudged Rosemary. “Is Theo your brother?”

“Yeah,” she said. “He’s studying English at the University of Toronto.”

“The storm may have slowed them down,” Mr. Watson continued. “Waiting for them is likely to leave dinner cold, so let’s eat. Just make sure you leave enough for them to warm up in the microwave.”

After dinner, Mr. Watson led Peter on a tour of the house. “Books, books, books!” said Peter, staring up the main staircase and the shelves lining one wall of it. “How did you get so many?”

“Forty years of shopping in used book stores,” Mr. Watson replied.

“Have you read them all?” Peter asked Rosemary.

She snorted. “No!”

“I haven’t read them all, either,” said Mr. Watson. “Almost as intense as the joy of reading is the joy of just having a book. They may be able to put books on the computer these days, but it’s not the same.” He pulled out a thick tome with a dust jacket: All The Strange Hours by Loren C. Eiseley. “Here, feel the weight! Feel the quality of the paper!”

“I read it,” said Rosemary brightly.

Peter flipped through the pages and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “This is a book about geology.”

“Rosemary is an avid reader of science books,” said Mr. Watson. “I hardly ever see her in the fiction section. Which reminds me: Did you remember to bring your English homework home this time, Rosemary?”

She drooped. “Yes, Dad.”

“What is it?”

“Another two chapters of The Outsiders.”

Peter studied her face. “What’s wrong with The Outsiders?”

“Only that it’s the grimmest book on the planet!”

Peter chuckled. “Wait until they make you read That Was Then, This is Now. Talk about dreary.”

Mr. Watson laughed. “I once heard Ms. Hinton say that the ending of That Was Then, This is Now made readers throw the book against the wall. She seemed rather proud of that. But be that as it may, Rosemary, if two chapters of Hinton have been assigned, then two chapters shall be read.”

She sighed. “I can’t read A Midsummer Night’s Dream again?”

“You don’t get credit for reading the same book over again. Come on, Rosemary, you’ve got to build an appreciation for good literature.”

“Why do people have to die to make it good literature?”

He blinked at her, then mussed her hair. “It’s not always like that.”

“It’s like that a lot!”

Just then, they saw lights turn into their driveway. Rosemary brightened. “Mom’s home!”

They ran for the door. Shamus beat them to it, his tail banging into an umbrella stand. Then he stopped. He whimpered once and shied away.

Rosemary frowned. “Shamus, what’s wr—”

Mr. Watson yanked open the front door. The squall had broken, but snow was still falling. Two figures stood on either side of a station wagon, recognizable even as silhouettes.

Rosemary’s mother darted towards her husband. “Alex!”

“Kate,” said Mr. Watson. “Kate, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Theo!” said Kate Watson. “Alex, there’s something wrong with Theo!”