Dolly always had so much to say; she began talking long before she was close enough to be heard, so Christina came into the middle of Dolly’s conversation. “… because of people watching. I fall down too much. I’d rather read about skating than actually skate. So we won’t go to the parking lot ice. People would laugh at me. We’ll go to the pond.” She took Christina’s hand. Dolly was a great hand-holder. She held hands with teachers and boys, crossing guards, and cafeteria aides.
“We can’t skate on the pond,” objected Christina. “There are rules now.”
“I hate rules,” Dolly said. Dolly believed the entire world should revolve around her, and it often did. Dolly had been born on Thanksgiving Day and her mother let them use Dolly for Baby Jesus in that year’s Christmas pageant. She was only four weeks old and a ten-year-old Mary had dropped Dolly headfirst into the manager. There wasn’t any brain damage, the doctor who had flown in told them. (Her older brothers always said there was plenty.) Dolly wanted to be Baby Jesus every year. She thought it was boring to have Jesus always either in diapers or dying on a cross, and they should have a nice six-year-old Jesus (Dolly) or a really decent nine-year-old Jesus (Dolly).
Nobody could pout quite as well as Dolly if things did not go her way.
But everything was going her way right now. While Christina felt farther away from Burning Fog Isle than Siberia, Dolly had not been homesick once. Christina could get so homesick she’d open a window and let the wind carry her tears back to the island, but Dolly simply adopted the Shevvingtons as parents. And no matter how many warnings Christina issued, Dolly never listened.
Dolly said, “You don’t really want to skate, do you? Let’s go home and be cozy and read.” Dolly’s life was stacked with books. Books to underline, to read under the covers, to read out loud to Christina.
Christina could not imagine wasting a daylight hour on the written word. “Please, Dolly? I love to skate.” Christina wrapped her scarf around her throat. She loved the soft woolen caress under her chin. “Look at that field. Untouched snow!” cried Christina. “Let’s make a chain of angels.”
They lay down in the snow, swinging their legs and arms outward to make robes and wings, then stepping carefully across the fresh snow to make the next angel. Christina yearned for some of the toughest seventh-grade boys, so she could have a snowball fight. Christina believed in serious fights.
“I’m too thin for this,” Dolly said. “I don’t get enough blood to my extremities. I’ll die of exposure and it’ll be your fault.”
“No,” Christina said. “Playing in the snow makes you stronger. It’s reading all those books that weakens you.”
They made an angel chain all the way to the snow fence. “Come on,” Christina said. “Let’s go to the parking lot after all. They won’t laugh at you. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll skate partners. Then you won’t fall.”
Dolly shook her head. Christina felt that Dolly was just not interested in her anymore. They were no longer friends, just two people with a history, who were now living in the same building. The Shevvingtons had eaten their way into Dolly’s heart like witches through a gingerbread house. Dolly gave them her art projects and dedicated her social studies papers to them.
If the Shevvingtons keep eating at her, Christina thought, Dolly will have no heart left. She will be empty.
The winter shadows were long and blue. The sky drowned the snow in darkness. Emptiness was everywhere: her lungs, the fields, the wide sky. Today it begins again, Christina Romney thought. I can feel it coming. The Shevvingtons are ready to attack.
“Look at the pond,” Dolly said, pointing. “It’s waist deep in snow. The fire department is just too mean and lazy to clear it.” Dolly pouted.
Christina took Dolly’s hand again, relieved. Now they’d have to skate on the parking lot. “You didn’t want to skate anyway.”
From the pond came a deep groan. Like a grizzly bear. A huge grinding roar like a chewing monster.
The girls stood still as statues in Stone Tag. Their bright jackets were targets in the white snow.
The groan came again. As deep as a cave.
Or a cellar.
“Something’s under the ice,” Dolly whispered. “It’s going to get us!”
The third groan was stronger, as if the ice were attacking.
The girls turned and ran. Across the fields, past the trees. Dolly’s braids flew in Christina’s face like soft branches. Her yellow scarf flew off, and Christina caught it like an escaped canary. Through the deep snow they staggered. Over the snow fence, up to their chain of angels.
The wind — or something else — had been at work.
None of the angels had heads.
Chapter 5
PUFFS OF COLOR AGAINST the white snow, they ran until they reached the school. But school was long over, and the door was locked.
It amused Christina in a grim way that she was seeking refuge in the building where the Shevvingtons reigned. All the parents admired Mr. Shevvington. When Mr. Shevvington spoke the parents would repeat what he said, as if quoting the President or the New York Times.
Dolly and Christina ran around the school, trying two more doors. Locked. “Let’s go home,” whimpered Dolly.
Home? Christina thought. She was snow-blind in the glare of the setting sun, and she kept seeing those horrible headless angels. There is no home for us, she thought. Home is on an island, far away. All we have are the Shevvingtons and the cellar, where a thing of rubber lives.
“Chrissie, I wanna go home,” Dolly said, almost in baby talk.
But Christina had stopped running.
In front of her was an enormous passenger van, sparkling like jewelry. Gretchen’s mother drove. Inside, laughing seventh-grade girls and boys were packed.
Christina forgot the pond, the angels, and the groans.
“They’re all in your class,” Dolly said. “Chrissie, are they going someplace? Why aren’t you going, too?”
Gretchen, who practically ran the seventh grade, looked down on Christina. Vicki, beautiful in a black-and-silver ski jacket, smirked from another window.
“I wasn’t invited,” Christina said.
Was there a more terrible sentence in the world? Her heart ached. Even her joints ached, as if being left out had given her back pain.
All her friends were in the van. They were going to Pizza Power, where they would play video games and eat pizza wedges till they dropped. They saw Christina and waved. You weren’t invited. Gretchen and Vicki smacked upright palms, like winners in a tournament. You weren’t invited.
The fight went out of Christina. When Dolly still refused to skate at the parking lot, she shrugged. They walked back to Schooner Inne, through the village so loved by tourists, and across the Singing Bridge. From here they could see beyond the harbor and out into the ocean. Their beloved Burning Fog Isle was beyond the horizon.
The wind was so icy it must have come straight from the Arctic. Christina could smell snow in the sky.
Dolly said dreamily, “I have the best library books for tonight. I can hardly wait to start reading.” Dolly had the right constitution for reading. When she was tired, she was very tired and would curl up in the old chair and sit for hours, flicking pages. “Sometimes I think it’s wrong to spend so much time choosing books,” Dolly confided, showing Christina the titles of her weekend choices. “It’s probably like a drug. I’ll get so addicted to the library shelves I’ll cling, sobbing, to the library door when they try to close for the night.”
Above them loomed the white bulk of Schooner Inne, its shutters dark and creaking. The front door opened, as if by remote control. Mr. or Mrs. Shevvington must have opened it, but nobody was visible. Only darkness, as if the house had no inhabitants who needed to see. Headless angels, perhaps.
Christina shivered.
But Dolly shouted joyfully, “Hi, Mrs. Shevvington! How are you? Did you have a nice day? Wait till I tell you about my day!” She ran ahead of Christina, swing
ing her precious books, throwing herself into an invisible embrace.
Wind knocked the doors shut again before Christina got there. She stood alone on the narrow top step, fumbling at the handle.
Tiny flecks of snow, hard as diamonds, whipped her cheeks.
They had a classic blizzard supper: pancakes, maple syrup, and sausages.
Dolly’s two brothers ate like starved animals, pouring maple syrup over melting heaps of butter on top of pancake mountains. Michael, who was a ninth-grader, was on Junior Varsity; he talked about basketball practice, games past, and games to come. Benj, who was a sophomore, worked afternoons at a garage. He talked about transmissions, brake fluid, and fan belts.
Christina thought it remarkable that they cared about these things.
There had been a time when she had been in love with Michael, when she had never been off-island and had no comparison. Now she found Michael self-centered: aware of nothing but teammates and games.
Besides, she had other boys to think of now … Jonah, also in seventh grade … and Blake.
Blake had been gone for so long. It was difficult to remember Blake the person, but she could imagine him as a photograph: glossy and perfect, his clothes as rich as summer people, his smile as deep as the sea. She had touched his shoulder once and he had touched hers. Daily Christina had had to remind herself, You’re just a little kid. He hardly notices you. He’s in love with Anya.
When Blake went away, Christina’s memory built him stronger and more brilliant. She thought of him as a demigod, or a Greek hero, who, if only he would return, could save them all.
No other boy measured up to Blake. Benj and Michael were just two more Schooner Inne boarders who were noisier, messier, and hungrier than she was.
Mr. Shevvington sat at one end of the table. His suit today was herringbone gray with an elegant wine-red vest.
Mrs. Shevvington sat at the opposite end of the table. She was opposite her husband in all ways. Thick, graceless, and ugly, her fingers were stubs, like burned-up candles. Whenever she passed a plate, Christina was surprised that those short, fat fingers could even grip the edge.
Poor Anya floated around the table, not coming to rest, not touching the food set out for her. Nobody noticed Anya anymore. She was just a fixture, like a coffee pot or a blender. The lovely dark hair that had once drifted like a cloud around her ivory princess’s face was lank and thin. The dark, mysterious eyes were dulled, as if nobody lived behind them anymore; the house of Anya lay empty.
Christina dusted her pancakes with confectioners’ sugar instead of maple syrup. She spooned it out of the box and into a tiny sifter, shaking the sifter so that the sugar fell like snow on her food. She didn’t like the edges of pancakes any more than she liked the crusts of sandwiches. She cut each bite into a triangle, leaving discarded pancake curves all over her plate.
“Christina,” said Mrs. Shevvington, “you are too old to play with your food. Simply eat, please.”
She had fought them over food issues before. They always won. Once when Christina had disobeyed right up to midnight, they had telephoned her parents on the island, and her parents had sided with the Shevvingtons. (“Christina!” said her mother furiously. “What is the matter with you? Going to war over creamed potatoes! Grow up.”)
Christina studied her pancake edges. Then she squashed them down with the back of her fork and crammed them all in her mouth at one time. It was like eating wet pillows.
Dolly said, “The sixth grade is getting French Exposure this week.”
“What’s that?” said her brothers. “Like getting exposed to the sun?”
“We get Spanish Exposure, too,” Dolly said. “To see which language we want to take next year in seventh grade, when we study a language for real. I am sure that the French teacher swears when he mutters under his breath. I am memorizing all his swears. Wouldn’t it be nice to swear in lots of languages?” Dolly’s laugh was like finger cymbals: tiny and tinkling.
Her brothers roared. Their laughter was like lions in a cave. Benj and Michael demanded to be taught the swears.
Outside, the snow came down thick as winter blankets.
Dolly, who had hardly touched her supper, said, “Ooooooh, that was good, Mrs. Shevvington.” She slipped out of her chair, slowly circled the big ugly table with its legs as thick as thighs, and rested her head on Mrs. Shevvington’s shoulder. Mrs. Shevvington did not yell at her for not finishing her milk and eating only the middles of the pancakes.
Dolly drew her two braids around her mouth, like a Christmas wreath. “You know what?” she said through her hair. “Christina made me go skating. We went to the pond, and — ”
“What!” cried Mr. Shevvington. He swung his distinguished face in Christina’s direction. The eyes were blue today and as cold as the tips of Dolly’s fingers. “Christina Romney! I am appalled. You took Dolly to that unsafe ice?”
His eyes today were bright blue, like a husky dog ready to bite. Mr. Shevvington’s stare slowed her brain. Christina’s tongue stumbled, trying to explain.
Dolly’s brothers remembered there were things in life besides basketball and cars. “Christina!” Benjamin yelled at her. “You’re the one who’s older! You’re supposed to take care of Dolly!” His big bony face, shadowed where he was starting a beard, was dark with anger.
“What’s the matter with you, you jerk?” Michael said.
Christina waited for Dolly to admit that it had been her idea.
But Dolly said nothing. She snuggled closer to Mrs. Shevvington and Mrs. Shevvington rocked her like a baby.
Mr. Shevvington’s eyes glittered at Christina like beach pebbles. “The pond, indeed! Do you want Dolly to fall through the ice and drown?” Mrs. Shevvington pointed her fat index finger at Christina. The nail was bitten down into the quick, but she had polished it anyway, red as blood.
“Dolly, tell them what happened,” Christina ordered.
Dolly said, “We made angels in the snow. The wind blew their heads away. Like executions. And then the ice on the pond screamed at us.”
“Expansion,” said her brother Benj. “When ice gets colder or warmer it expands and contracts. Makes terrible noises.”
Mrs. Shevvington smiled, exposing her horrid little teeth, yellow as birdseed. She played with Dolly’s thick braids. “Dolly, darling, what are you going to do tonight?”
They were finished with Christina. The Shevvingtons would pay no more attention to her that night.
Anya drifted, thin as paper, having said nothing, perhaps having thought nothing, certainly having eaten nothing.
I just became a tiny bit like Anya, Christina thought. Empty. Invisible. Why, Dolly can’t be bothered to stick up for me. Even to Michael and Benj, I am nobody. That’s how the Shevvingtons destroy. Look what they did to Val, Robbie’s sister! Robbie doesn’t even call her by name. Now it’s happening to me. Even to my own mother and father, I’m just a person who ought to obey the Shevvingtons.
“Read,” said Dolly with immense satisfaction. “I have two mysteries, two romances, and two science fiction.”
Mr. Shevvington said, “You are reading too much, Dolly, my dear. A well-rounded young lady uses her body as well as her mind. You must become an athlete.”
Dolly shuddered. “I’d rather read about sports. How about if I get out a really great book about ballet? Or horses?”
Her brothers lost interest. They attacked dessert.
“I may just have to suspend your library privileges,” Mr. Shevvington teased.
“I’m going to read in bed,” Dolly said, ignoring all suggestions of athletic activity. She hoisted her stack of books slowly, as if eating supper had exhausted her. “I’ve always thought I would make an excellent invalid,” she told the Shevvingtons. “I like bed. I like sheets and pillows. I’d lie there and read. All I need is enough strength to turn the pages.”
“Perhaps you could have an accident,” said Mrs. Shevvington softly.
Christina’s blood se
emed to stop flowing. Would the Shevvingtons really go that far?
“I would be very brave,” Dolly agreed.
Down the length of the kitchen table, the Shevvingtons smiled at each other.
Chapter 6
WHEN SCHOONER INNE LAY silent in the night, when the snow had stopped and the tide was out, Christina left her bedroom. She crept in the dark around the tilting balcony with its little forest of white railings. Down the bare, slippery stair she tiptoed, hand sliding on the old bent rail.
Hardly breathing, she paused on the second floor, where the pretty guest rooms and the Shevvingtons’ beautiful master bedroom surrounded the lower balcony. There was no sound.
The mansion and its inhabitants slept.
The next set of stairs was carpeted: rich, soft, toe-tickling carpet.
At the bottom, Christina knelt and put on her boots and jacket. She checked her house keys, zipped them carefully into her side pocket, and slid out of Schooner Inne.
The night sky was so clear Christina felt she could taste the stars. If she opened her lips and stuck out her tongue, the stars would fall like snowflakes and taste like bitter lemons.
It was two o’clock in the morning. The village was silent. No cars stirred. No lights were on in houses. Nothing moved but a small thirteen-year-old girl named Christina Romney.
She walked one block and turned a corner. Her shadow leapt ahead, like a black giant. The only sound was the light crunch of her own boots in the snow.
Behind her the snow crunched.
Christina’s heart crunched with it. She spun on the street, whirling to face the crunch. From the cellar? she thought numbly. No, no, it couldn’t have heard me.
Headlights wheeled around the corner. The faint roof light of a police car twinkled.
Christina backed into the doorway of the nearest shop.
A police car was not reassuring when you were planning to break into a building.
But the police had not seen her. The men in the car looked straight ahead, cruising by in boredom. When they had vanished, Christina crept on in the dark toward her school.