Unwritten Books 2 - Fathom Five Page 2

  “Yeah,” said Peter abruptly. “Yes. I just needed to hear a friendly voice, that’s all.”

  Rosemary laughed, and they settled down to talk.

  ***

  Outside Peter’s house, a wisp of light flitted from window to window, before settling upon the kitchen. Inside, past the pile of dirty dishes stacked in the sink before the window, Peter could be seen across the room, talking on the phone and laughing.

  The wisp hovered by the window for a moment before vanishing into the night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SEA-CHANGE

  Ahorn lared. His father looked up. There was a sickening thump.

  Fiona screamed and ran for the street. Peter fell on the ice-hardened asphalt. A pain shot up his arm.

  People were stepping out of their homes, looking on in horror. The streetcar driver had taken command of the scene, ordering people to call an ambulance. The driver of the pickup truck stood at the curb, his arms around himself, and he was quaking.

  Peter held his broken arm and began to cry. In the distance, sirens wailed.

  “Come home, Peter.”

  Peter started. Fiona was beside him, extending her hand.

  “Come home.”

  Something shocked through him like cold water.

  Peter’s eyes snapped open. He sat up in bed.

  ***

  Peter staggered back as the basketball sailed into his hands.

  “Heads up, Pete!” shouted Joe, his team captain.

  “Where’s your mind been all day?”

  “Huh?” Peter shook the fog from his mind.

  “And the prosecution rests, your honour!” Benson snatched the ball from Peter’s hands.

  “Good practice, boys!” Coach Beckett shouted over the smack of basketballs and the squeak of sneakers. “Group into threes and let’s finish with games of keep-away. Then hit the showers.”

  Joe and Benson each clapped one of Peter’s shoulders and marched him to the centre of the gymnasium. Benson bounced the basketball once and tossed it up over Peter’s head.

  “So ....” Joe snatched the pass and hoisted the ball out of Peter’s reach. “Who are you taking to the Halloween Homecoming Dance?”

  Peter stopped short. “Nobody.”

  “What?” asked Benson. “You’re going all by your lonesome?”

  “I’m not going,” Peter huffed as the ball bounced past him.

  “Why don’t you take your girlfriend?” called Joe.

  Peter half-turned, and Benson bounced the ball through his legs. “Hey!”

  “Where is Rosemary, anyway?” asked Benson as Peter darted in front of Joe. “She’s usually in the stands on Tuesdays.”

  Peter batted the ball out of the air and caught it. He nodded Joe into the centre. “She couldn’t stay. She had stuff to do.”

  “Too bad,” said Joe. He darted into Peter’s space, reaching for the ball. “Why don’t you ask Rosemary to the dance? It would be a nice treat for her. You have the pick of the girls from Grade 11 on down; she’ll be lucky if anyone takes her.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Someone’s defending her honour!” sang Benson. He grunted as Peter fired the ball like a bullet.

  “Good arm, Peter!” shouted Mr. Beckett from across the gym. “That’s the spirit!”

  The gym squeaked and banged around them. Benson tossed to Peter. Peter threw the ball back, but Joe knocked it down and motioned Peter back to the centre.

  “Look,” said Joe as he tossed the ball past Peter, “you could do a lot worse, you know.” He caught Benson’s pass lightly. “So she’s a little short, but you could call her fun-sized — whoa!” He scrambled back as Peter lunged for him.

  “Good defence, Peter!” the coach called. “Don’t take a foul, though!”

  Joe covered the ball, twisted, and shot past Peter. Then he held up his hands for forgiveness. “Seriously, you two have been joined at the hip for years.”

  Benson laughed. “Yeah, so why not dance? She knows how, you know. She took step-dancing classes.”

  “Yeah,” Joe chuckled. “We never let her hear the end of it. Well, we did, but not for a long time.”

  Peter glared. “She doesn’t want to go.”

  “Did you ask her?” asked Joe.

  Peter kept a mutinous silence.

  Benson laughed. “He reads her mind, he knows her so well.”

  “Leave me alone!” Peter snapped. “It’s my life, okay?”

  “That’s big city talk, Pete. Here in Clarksbury, it’s everybody’s life.” Joe grinned shamelessly.

  Benson grabbed the ball and stepped closer to Peter, his expression serious for once. “You know, the only reason you two are being teased is because you’re both so totally blind. Do you know your freethrow average drops twenty percent whenever she’s around?”

  “It does not!” Peter yelled. Then he faltered. “Twenty percent?”

  “Not twenty, exactly,” Joe said, closing in behind him. “But you did fall over that first day she called to you from the stands.”

  “Something tripped me!”

  Benson snorted. “Yeah. Your feet.”

  Joe stepped around Peter and stood beside Benson. “Okay, so you say you don’t think of Rosemary as more than just a friend? Prove it! Repeat after me: Rosemary and I are just friends.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Rosemary and I are just friends.”

  “Rosemary and I have always been just friends,” added Benson.

  “Rosemary and I have always been just friends.”

  Joe’s grin was a challenge. “I have absolutely no interest in Rosemary being anything more than just my friend.”

  “I have no, I have absolutely ....” The words dried in Peter’s throat. Joe’s and Benson’s grins widened.

  Joe slapped the basketball into Peter’s chest. “Ask her out, you idiot. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  “Well ....” Benson clapped Peter’s shoulder. “She could rip out your still-beating heart and crush it under her heel as she walks away.”

  Joe shrugged. “Yeah, but at least then he’d know.”

  A sharp whistle cut across the gym. “Okay, boys,” shouted the coach, “we’re done here. Good practice! Hit the showers!”

  Joe and Benson jogged to the change rooms, leaving Peter standing in the centre of the emptying gymnasium, thoughtfully bouncing the basketball.

  ***

  “I’m home!” Peter tossed his coat into the closet. Then he remembered. He stood in the front foyer, listening, but the house said nothing.

  He sighed and stepped into the kitchen. He saw the light blinking on the answering machine and he pressed the playback button.

  Beep! “Peter, it’s Michael. Listen, it looks like they’re going to need me to stay another week here in Chicago. Sorry about your birthday — I’ll make it up to you when I get home. You, uh, have the number of my hotel, so call if you need anything. You know where my bankcard is. Sorry again, Pete. Love.”

  The machine clicked off. Peter stared at it a long moment. Then he turned. His eyes fell on his battered school bag: a gift from his uncle for the start of school year, presented fully stocked with school supplies along with a note the morning after his uncle had left for New York.

  Peter kicked it down the hall. It sailed into the front door with a satisfying explosion of pens, pencils, and paper.

  The house made no sound, not even the creaks of settling that he’d remembered from the townhouse in Toronto.

  He picked up the phone and dialled. “Rosemary? You eaten yet? Want to grab a pizza?”

  ***

  Rosemary’s father drove Peter and Rosemary into town.

  “I don’t mean to impose,” said Peter from the backseat. “I can’t wait until I have a driver’s licence.”

  “It’s no imposition at all.” Mr. Watson grinned. “Indeed, it gives us a chance to chat. How have you been, Peter?”

  “Um, fine,” said Peter. He shot a “s
ave me” look at Rosemary, but she didn’t.

  “How are things at school?”

  “Uh … good!”

  “How’s your uncle? In good form, is he?”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “So, when can I expect Rosemary back from this hot date?”

  “Bluh,” said Peter.

  “Dad!” Rosemary cuffed her father on the shoulder. “We’ll call for a ride before ten, okay?”

  Peter stared out the car window. Night was falling earlier every day, and the lights were already on, washing a sickly orange glow over the road’s rocky embankments.

  The shadows flickered as they passed, like frames of a moving picture. Peter thought he could make out a lithe figure running along the rock wall, keeping pace with the car, but when he looked closer, there was nothing there.

  A few minutes later, the car pulled up in front of a restaurant in the middle of Clarksbury’s downtown strip. The sign above the door read Luigi’s Pizzeria and Bait Shop.

  “Here you are, kids!” said Mr. Watson. “Enjoy yourselves!”

  Peter got out and held the car door for Rosemary. She raised her eyebrows, but did not comment.

  Mr. Watson leaned out the car window. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he said, giving Peter a nod and a wink.

  He drove off, leaving Peter staring. “I wish he wouldn’t do that.”

  “He’s my father,” said Rosemary. “Try and stop him.”

  Luigi’s Pizzeria and Bait Shop had last been decorated in the 1970s. Its look had only recently moved, of its own accord, from dated to retro. Battered wooden booths lined one wall opposite a long counter. The counter and the sides of all the tables were rimmed with black plastic and the seats and counter stools were covered in worn brown vinyl. Top 40 rock music played over the conversations. Nobody cared that it was too bright. Everything was spotless, and was kept that way by the proprietor, who greeted Peter at the door.

  “Peter!” exclaimed the portly, silver-haired man.

  “Hi, Luigi,” said Peter. “Two, please.”

  “I can see that,” said Luigi. “And who is this with you, this goddess, this vision? Why, can it be little Rosie Watson? You grow taller every day! I remember when you barely went up to my knee, but you still have the cutest cheeks!”

  Rosemary gave Luigi a long-suffering scowl as he pinched her cheek. “I have a little sister, you know. Why don’t you do this to her?”

  “Well, your little sister isn’t here, is she?” Luigi beamed at them. “Come on, come on! I’ll show you to your booth!”

  Some patrons’ heads had turned during this exchange. Most were students at Clarksbury High. Some snickered as Peter and Rosemary passed. Others nodded in greeting or said hello. Peter acknowledged everyone with a smile and a nod.

  They were seated at a booth three-quarters of the way to the back. Peter ordered a deluxe pizza.

  “Great!” said Luigi. “With anchovies?”

  “No, Luigi,” said Peter.

  “Are you sure? We have plenty of anchovies.”

  “Hold the anchovies.”

  Luigi smiled, patted Peter on the head, and departed, leaving the two alone to talk.

  “He’s gone to sneak in some anchovies, hasn’t he?” said Peter.

  Rosemary peered over his shoulder. “No, he’s staying away from the bait fridge this time.” She looked at him. “So, what’s the occasion?”

  Peter blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Tuesday. Pizza on Tuesday makes me wonder what’s up.”

  “Nothing’s up. Can’t I take my friend out to pizza whenever I want?”

  “I suppose.” They paused as Luigi cut in, delivering drinks. Rosemary sipped her soda. Peter noticed that she was not wearing her usual bulky grey cardigan, but a tighter, fuzzy green sweater that complemented her eyes, among other things.

  She sighed, breaking him from his reverie. “It’s not like I have any other dates.”

  Peter frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look at me. Nobody’s lined up to date me.”

  Peter snorted. Rosemary looked hurt. “It’s not that funny.”

  “No, it’s just wrong,” said Peter. “You’d be a great date.”

  Now Rosemary snorted. “Come on. I’m a geek. I’m a short geek. I’m a short fat geek with glasses —”

  “You’re not fat!”

  “What? You’re not going to argue with the rest of it?”

  She rubbed her right palm idly. Peter saw the blue spot like a birthmark at the centre of it, the only sign of the adventure they’d shared three years before when she’d dipped her hand in the Sea of Ink and faced down dozens of hostile characters.

  I’ve faced death with her, he thought. I can face telling her the truth. Can’t I?

  “Look ....” He took a deep breath, then the plunge. “You’re pretty, okay? You’re just the right size, and you have nice cheeks. I like your glasses and the way that one corner of your mouth is higher than the other. You’ve got nice ....” He suddenly realized he was cupping his hands out in front of him, and that Rosemary was staring at them in horror. “Um … ears! And I like the way you blush, and how you’re so serious when you’re reading and you don’t think I’m watching you, and … and ...”

  He stopped when he saw Rosemary giving him a look that was equal parts pleasure, shock, embarrassment, and panic. And tipping towards panic. The noise level in the restaurant had dropped several decibels.

  He sat on his hands. “And I think you’re pretty. Yeah. That’s what I think.”

  Rosemary flushed and looked away. “Thanks,” she said quietly. She curled up into herself for a moment, and then gave Peter a quick look. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Silence followed. They fidgeted. Finally, Peter coughed and said, “Nice place here.”

  “Yes!” Rosemary clutched at the line like a drowning swimmer. “It’s been here as long as I can remember. Luigi always likes to embarrass me, but he’s got a good place. Everybody goes here. I bet you wouldn’t see anything like it in Toronto.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Peter. “My parents weren’t big on eating out. If there was no time to cook, they went for a cheap fast-food chain. Plenty of those in Toronto.”

  Rosemary looked at him seriously. “What was it like? You’ve never told me about it. How do you sleep with all that noise?”

  Peter rolled his straw in his fingers. “You get used to it,” he said at last. “I had trouble sleeping when I first came here. Clarksbury was too quiet.”

  “How can anything be too quiet?”

  “You get used to the noises. You take them into yourself and make them a part of your sleep. The rumble of streetcars outside your window, the footsteps, conversations, all of it. Those are the sounds your mind needs to say that everything is all right. You miss it when it goes.”

  Rosemary stared at him across the table. There was something about her expression that made Peter flush and look away.

  “Was it hard coming here?” she asked, carefully. “Leaving all that behind?”

  He sucked his lips. “Er … yes … and no. It helped that my uncle was here. I hadn’t spent more than two weeks with any one foster family before that. My uncle may not be around much, but at least I have a house to go home to.”

  Rosemary started to say something, but Luigi arrived, delivering a steaming pizza and telling both to “watch out, it’s hot.” Peter changed the subject the moment Luigi stepped away; but he kept casting glances at Rosemary as she ate.

  ***

  “Let’s not call my dad,” said Rosemary as she stepped out onto the street. “It’s a wonderful night.”

  Peter didn’t hear her. He stared across the street. A shadow was standing in the lamplight, slender and feminine and odd.

  She’s standing in the light, thought Peter. Why is she in shadow?

  A car hissed past. Peter blinked, and found himself staring at a young tree, its branches
shifting in the breeze.

  Before he had a chance to think on this further, Rosemary took his arm and pulled him towards home. They walked in silence. Rosemary took deep breaths of the autumn air and scuffed through piles of leaves on the sidewalk.

  Peter kept glancing back. He saw only trees, nothing on the street that shouldn’t have been there. When they reached the end of town and turned onto the road that branched off the highway and ascended the escarpment to their homes, he took a long look back along the main road through Clarksbury. A lonely van honked at them as it passed.

  The sense of being followed continued as they puffed up the slope.

  Peter cast one more look behind him, and stopped dead.

  Rosemary stopped when she realized she was walking ahead alone. She came back.

  “I didn’t realize,” said Peter. “I’ve never walked this road this late. It’s beautiful.”

  They stared down the 45th Parallel Road. Clarksbury clung to a thin space between the escarpment and Georgian Bay. This late at night, Georgian Bay was normally an expanse of black, broken only by isolated lights of boats straggling home, and occasionally a Great Lakes freighter. Now the bay was white. A low cloud swept over Clarksbury, taking on the orange glow of the streetlights.

  “Fog’s rolling in,” said Rosemary.

  Peter nodded. “Toronto’s got nothing on this.”

  Rosemary took his hand. Peter felt his fingers tingle in her grip. He looked at her face, and he forgot all about looking behind him.

  “Come on,” she said. “Dad will be getting worried.”

  Holding hands, they walked the rest of the way home, reaching the top of the escarpment and enjoying the fresh breeze and the clear night sky. He saw her to her mailbox, then hesitated as he said goodbye.

  “Are you all right, Peter?”

  “Listen ....” He struggled for the right words. “I just wanted to thank you. You’re a really good friend. High school and Clarksbury would be a lot lonelier without you.”

  She smiled. “Come on, Peter. I should be thanking you. People don’t tease me nearly so much as they would if I weren’t … you know … around you.”