Period six was a single-semester course called America Today. I had no idea what Mr. Masensik was saying; I was thinking about make-believe. How the carousel in Something Wicked was like the sundial in that land of Other, for instance. The secret of my longevity, Mr. Bowditch had said. Jack had stolen gold from the giant; Mr. Bowditch had also stolen gold from… who? Or what? A giant? Some pulp-fiction demon named Gogmagog?
Once my mind started down this path, I saw similarities everywhere. My mother had died on a bridge spanning the Little Rumple River. And what about the little man with the funny voice? Wasn’t that how the story described Rumpelstiltskin? And then there was me. How many stories of make-believe featured a young hero （like Jack） on a quest in a fantastic land? Or take The Wizard of Oz, where a tornado lifted a little girl out of Kansas and into a world of witches and munchkins. I wasn’t Dorothy and Radar wasn’t Toto, but—
“Charles, have you fallen asleep back there? Or perhaps my mellifluous voice has hypnotized you? Entranced you?”
Laughter from the class, most of whom wouldn’t have known mellifluous from a pisshole in the snow.
“No, I’m right here.”
“Then perhaps you’d give us your considered opinion concerning the blue-on-black shootings of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling.”
“Bad shit,” I said. I was still mostly in my own head and it just popped out of my mouth.
Mr. Masensik favored me with his trademark thin smile, then said, “Bad shit indeed. Please feel free to reenter your trance state, Mr. Reade.”
He continued his lecture. I tried to pay attention, but then I thought of something Mrs. Silvius had said, not fee-fie-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman but I still smell hooky. I smell it all over you.
Surely a coincidence—my father said if you bought a blue car, you saw blue cars everywhere—but after what I’d seen in the shed, I couldn’t help wondering. And something else. In a fantasy story, the author would invent some way that the young hero or heroine could explore that world I was starting to think of as the Other. The author might, for instance, invent a retreat his parent or parents had to attend for several days, thus clearing the way for the young hero to visit the other world without provoking a bunch of questions he couldn’t answer.
Coincidence, I thought as the class-ending chime went and kids bolted for the door. Blue Car Syndrome.
Except the giant roach was no blue car, and neither were those stone steps winding down into the dark.
I got Mr. Masensik to sign my community service slip, and he gave me his thin smile. “Bad shit, eh?”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“Actually you weren’t wrong.”
I made my escape and headed for my locker.
“Charlie?”
It was Arnetta Freeman, looking relatively gorgeous in her skinny jeans and shell top. With blue eyes and blond hair down to her shoulders, Arnetta proved that white America ain’t all bad. The year before—when I’d been more sporty and at least a little bit famous for my Turkey Bowl heroics—Arnetta and I had spent several study sessions in her basement family room. Some studying had been done, but a lot more making out.
“Hey, Arnie, what’s up?”
“Do you want to come over tonight? We could study for the Hamlet test.” Those blue eyes looking deep into my brown ones.
“I’d love to, but my dad’s leaving for most of the rest of the week tomorrow, some kind of business thing. I better stick around.”
“Oh. Poo. That’s a shame.” She hugged two books tenderly to her breasts.
“I could Wednesday night. If you’re not busy, that is.”
She brightened. “That would be fantastic.” She took my hand and placed it on her waist. “I’ll quiz you on Polonius and maybe you can check out my Fortinbras.”
She gave me a peck on the cheek, then walked away, backside switching in a way that was, well, bewitching. For the first time since the library I wasn’t thinking about real-world parallels to make-believe ones. My mind was on nothing but Arnetta Freeman.
6
My dad left bright and early on Tuesday morning, carrying his traveling bag and wearing his I’m-going-to-the-woods clothes: corduroy pants, flannel shirt, Bears hat. He carried a poncho slung over one shoulder. “Rain in the forecast,” he said. “That’ll put the kibosh on any tree-climbing, for which I’m not sorry.”
“Club soda at cocktail hour, right?”
He grinned. “Maybe with a slice of lime. Not to worry, kiddo. Lindy will be there and I’ll stick with him. Take care of your dog. She’s limping again.”