Cloaked (8 page)

Chapter 16

The Fox said, “Do not shoot me, for I will give you good counsel.”

—“The Golden Bird”

Mom and I spend most of our vacations camping in Key Largo because that’s as far as we can afford to go. We always drive south on U.S. 1 with its endless fast-food joints, strip malls, and gas stations. After an hour, we reach the road with blue water on both sides.

This time, though, before anyone can talk me out of it, I throw the cloak over my shoulders. “I wish I was at the Underwater Hotel.”

And then, I’m there.

Or I’m someplace.

Someplace dark.

I was expecting a lobby. Or a restaurant. Even a room. Instead, it’s pitch-dark, darker than the Everglades at night. At least there, there are stars. I pull at the cloak to make sure it’s not over my head, then look up. No stars. The place is eerie, silent. My head feels full of pounding pressure, like being on the Mission Space ride at Disney World. Hands before me, I stumble forward. A wall, as smooth as glass. A window. I run my hand along it, feeling cold smoothness. I reach a wall. An inch farther, I feel a light switch.

I flip it on.

Sharp teeth gleam in the sudden light. A shark. A shark! I jump backward, then fall to the floor before realizing I’m not wet. The shark is. I turn, realizing it must be in some sort of tank. The shark proves this by swimming on, not noticing what he can’t smell. Am I in an aquarium? I peer through the window. No light above, no end.

I glance around the room. It’s furnished like a regular living room. In another window, the same shark swims by.

Underwater Hotel.
Could I actually be underwater?

The pressure in my ears tells me I am. I stumble to the sofa, try to get my bearings. The silence is like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

Then, from another room is a sound. “Ha ha! We made it. How cool is this?”

Someone’s here!

A woman giggles. I hear wet footsteps approaching, the unmistakable sound of flippers meeting floor. “Someone left the light on in this room.”

I clutch the cloak around me. “I wish I was aboveground.”

“What was that?” I hear a voice say.

A Hummer is barreling toward me. It skids to a stop; the driver, leaning on its horn, is screaming something unintelligible. I jump out of his way, only to land in the path of a Smart car. At least they’re getting smaller.

“Crazy!” The driver honks as he swerves around me.

“I wish I was at Sally’s,” I say, running.

Then, I’m on a barstool in a smoke-filled room that’s dark even at eight in the morning. Elvis blares from a jukebox, half drowned out by drunken laughter and the cackling of a bedraggled-looking yellow bird. Two drunks stop talking when they see me.

“Hey, how’d you get here?” a guy with a neck beard says.

“He’s a little young for this place,” says his friend, who’s missing his right hand. The rest of him looks like he must have lost it in a bar fight.

“Pretty too.” The first guy fingers my cloak. “What’s up with the dress?”

I pull the fabric back, close my eyes, and make what I hope is my last wish. “I wish I was outside, behind this building, not in the street, not underwater, hidden so I can’t be seen.”

An instant later, I’m in a garbage Dumpster. The cloak has a sick sense of humor, but no one will see me. I’m covered in French fries, and when I stand, a half-empty beer bottle falls, spilling its contents over me. I peer out.

I blink in the sunlight. No one there.

No one except a red fox who’s eating what looks like a plate of fish and chips. Disturbed by my movement, he peers up at me, two white-green eyes over a shiny black nose. Still holding a slab of fish between two black paws, he curls his lip and growls.

“Excuse me,” I say.

Nothing.

“Mr. Fox, I need to talk to you.”

The fox lifts the fish into his white-rimmed mouth and runs.

“Hey, wait! No! Mr. Fox!” I see his fluffy tail disappearing between some bushes, so I try to climb out of the Dumpster. But the sides are slippery with grease and beer and whatever else people throw in bar Dumpsters. What was the fox’s name?

“Todd!”

Nothing. The fox left his plate of fish. It looks warm and golden brown with tartar sauce on one side, ketchup on the other. Someone left it for the fox. He’ll be back. I settle into the Dumpster. It couldn’t smell any nastier than I do. While I wait, I decide to review what I’ve learned today.

When traveling by magic cloak, specificity is key. You tell it where you want to go and:

Not underwater

Not anyplace crowded

No place dangerous

Not the middle of the street

Not a biker bar with dudes who want to kill you or date you

I start to close my eyes. It’s been a rough day.

A voice jolts me awake. “Excuse me?”

“Huh?” I shift, causing three beer bottles to fall on me. Don’t these people recycle?

“Did you call for Todd?”

The fox. I stare. I’ve never been so close to a wild animal, a
talking
wild animal. Could he have rabies? No. No foam at the mouth. He’s cute, actually, with white fluff on his chest. “Are you him?” I adjust the earbuds, which are still in my ears.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m Johnny. Cornelius sent me.” At his puzzled expression, I add, “The rat.”

And though it doesn’t seem possible, the fox grins slowly, showing sharp white teeth.

“Then I’m Todd.”

Chapter 17

I stay put to tell my story. It’s safer, particularly considering I’m sitting here, having a conversation with a woodland creature. I may never get used to that.

I show the fox the photo of the frog and tell him he was last seen on his way to the Underwater Hotel. “Have you seen him?”

The fox nods.

“You have?”

“And I know where he went too.”

I wait, expecting him to continue. But he only stares at me, his small intelligent eyes searching my face. When the silence has stretched to a minute, I say, “So are you going to tell me?”

The fox starts like he’s heard a thunderclap. But finally, he says, “I was just trying to decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether to tell you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“The life of a used-to-be is hard. We were born human, but as animals, our existence is perilous. Anytime, we may be shot at by poachers, hit by cars, attacked by dogs, or hunted for sport. We have to decide who to trust.”

“Everyone trusts me.”

“Who’s everyone?”

I think. Meg trusts me, but that’s not a good example, because I lied to her. Mom trusts me, but she’s my mother.

Finally, I say, “Well, there’s the princess.”

“Princess?” The fox frowns as much as a fox can frown. “This is America, kid. I may be a fox, but I’m not stupid. I know there are no princesses here.”

“She’s not from America. She’s from Aloria, and she’s . . .” I stop, picturing Victoriana’s incredible hotness. She’s the answer to all my problems, I want to say, but instead, I say, “She’s in trouble. She needs someone to help her, and out of all the people she could have asked, she chose me. She thought I was . . .” Okay, this is embarrassing to say. “. . . a good boy.”

“And why would she think that?”

“Because I work really hard to help support my mom and me. We have a shoe repair shop.”

“Shoe repair?” The fox twitches his tail.

“Yeah, I know it sounds lame, but that’s what my family does, what I probably
will
do the rest of my life. See, my father walked out on us when I was a kid.”

“That’s tough.” The fox’s whiskers move up and down. “I’ve met many fatherless foxes. Usually, both parents care for the kits, but sometimes, the father is killed, and it’s hard for the kits to learn to hunt.”

I nod sympathetically. “Yeah, it’s been hard for me too. Not the hunting part, but other stuff. But the princess says if I can help her find the frog, she’ll marry me.”

The fox looks up at me. “Do you want to marry the princess, Johnny?”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t? I want money, money to go to school and start my own business and take care of Mom. If I have to marry the princess, I’ll marry the princess. Besides . . .”

“Besides, what?”

“She’s beautiful.”

The fox nods. “Yes, beauty always helps. I had a beautiful wife myself.” He’s silent a moment. I let him think. Finally, he says, “All right. I’ll give you a chance.”

“You’ll help me?”

“I said I’d give you a chance. But before I can help you, you must pass a test.”

“What kind of test?”

“You have to prove you’re worthy. The first thing you have to do is go to the inn behind this Dumpster and spend the night.”

I remember the bar with the scary-looking dudes who wanted to make me their woman. I don’t know if I’d be welcomed back, especially covered in garbage. But I don’t have a choice. “Sure.”

“But don’t think you can fool me. There are two hotels near here. One is a nice bed-and-breakfast, clean and comfortable. The other is the motel you’ve seen. You must spend the whole night in the less-welcoming motel to succeed.”

“Got it.”

“Then come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you the information you need.”

“Okay.” I wait for him to tell me something else. He just sits there. Finally, he says, “Go.”

“Oh.” I gather my cloak and leave.

I walk around the side of the building until I see the door. It’s ten and the sun is high in the sky, making the motel look even shabbier than it did earlier. There are motorcycles outside and a few junker cars, one of which has someone asleep in the passenger seat. Sleep. I wouldn’t mind some of that myself. Maybe I could check in early. My eyes are already blurry with the thought of it after my long night.

In the distance, I see the other inn. It’s a bed-and-breakfast, like Todd said, the type of big, tin-roofed, Key West–style house Mom always wanted to stay in. Emily’s Butterfly House, it’s called, and butterflies flutter around red and purple flowers.

But the fox said I had to stay at the rough hotel. I’ll obey. I’m turning away when I see something else moving in the flowers.

It’s a frog.

It’s just a frog. Any old frog, not my frog.

But why not my frog? I take a step toward it, then another. The frog stays still. I keep my eye on it, afraid that if I stop looking, it will disappear.

“Philippe!” I call.

He doesn’t look. I take another step, bending forward, and as I come closer, I see it.

A red stripe on the frog’s head.

I’m in. I won. I don’t need the fox or the inn or anything. I’m not going to get shot at. I just have to catch the frog, something any little boy can do. For once in my life, something is easy!

The best way to catch an animal is to use a towel or blanket. Without taking my eyes off the frog, I reach into my backpack and draw out the cloak.

The frog doesn’t twitch.

I take a step forward, then another, never allowing my eyes to leave him. I can see the wart, the red spot. This is my frog. I want to run toward it, but I control myself. The frog isn’t moving. He trusts me. I can’t scare him away.

Finally, I’m almost close enough to throw the fabric.

One last step.

The frog hops onto the front stairs of the inn.

No. No! Don’t hop away. Still, I remain calm. It’s just one step. There are three. I try not to think about the crawl space under the house. If he goes through the stairs, I’ll have to grub underneath for him.

I move forward. Calm. Calm.

The frog hops onto the second stair.

No!

Calm. Calm.

I take another, larger step. It brings back memories of playing Mother May I on the beach with Meg, sneaking forward, hoping not to be noticed. I hold the cloak out farther, ready to throw.

The frog hops onto the porch.

The inn’s door opens, and the frog hops inside.

“No!” I can’t stop the shout. The old lady who opened the door stares at me, perplexed. I try to smile, and she lets the door close behind her.

It’s okay. The frog’s inside now. Trapped. I can get him.

Calm.

Maybe they’ll even chase him out.

I try to imagine the prince, getting hit with a broom. Better get moving.

I stuff the cloak in my backpack, then start up the stairs.

Inside, it’s all blue flowers and white wicker, but there’s no frog anywhere, only a group of tourists, balancing plates in their laps, eating muffins. They stare at me, and I imagine how I must look, seventeen, backpack on back, dirty, and stinking of garbage. I look homeless.

It’s okay. I’m not staying. I’ll just take my frog and leave.

“May I help you?”

A middle-aged woman with a leather tan, Birkenstock sandals, and a pot of coffee approaches me. She’s trying to look friendly, like nothing’s wrong.

“No,” I say. “I mean, sorry. I mean, I’m trying to catch a frog.”

“Frog?” She wrinkles her nose.

“The one that hopped in here when that last guest left.” I look around. I don’t see it, nor do I see the grossed-out faces of guests whose breakfast has been invaded by a frog. No. They look calm. I bend over and start looking under the tables (all of which have tablecloths) and chairs (all of which have people on them).

“Young man, there was no—”

“There was.” I pull the cloak from my backpack. Something—garbage, food, falls off of it, and I get a whiff of the smell, like beer and B.O. The breakfast eaters wrinkle their noses while still trying to pretend they don’t see me. They’re very accepting here in the Keys.

Still, the coffeepot lady swats at my cloak. “Please put that away.”

“I’m sorry. It’ll just be a minute.” I can’t get thrown out of here, not without my frog. I get on hands and knees and start crawling around, through the Clarks and Easy Spirits, brands you’d never see at the Coral Reef. There’s a big, wicker sofa with three people on it. Bet he’s under there. My knees ache, but I crawl toward it.

“Young man! Young man, please!”

The guests squirm and look at the coffee lady. They move their legs aside.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but do you
want
a frog loose in your place?”

“Frog?” A shriek from one of the sofa ladies.

“There’s no frog,” the coffee lady says. I crawl through a forest of legs, looking from side to side, Topsider to Mephisto.

I reach the sofa. “Excuse me. Would you mind if I look under that cushion?”

A lady in Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville sandals jumps up.

There’s no frog under the sofa or tables. There’s no frog under the buffet or television. There is no frog anywhere.

“Maybe it went back out,” says the coffee lady. “Why don’t you go look?”

I realize I should. With one final glance around, I start toward the door.

But when I try to leave, the door won’t open. I tug at it, then harder. I pull the knob back and forth. Nothing.

“It’s stuck,” I tell the coffee lady.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She puts down her pot, laughing through gritted teeth. “Of course it’s not.” She opens it easily and gestures me out.

“Thanks.” I brush past her and step onto the porch.

When I do, my stomach is seized with a knifing pain. I double over, then stagger back into the room, clutching my gut.

“Are you okay?” I see the coffee lady’s Birkenstocks, her clenched toes.

“Fine.” The pain has subsided. I pull myself up and try to step outside again.

Again, the pain pierces through me. But now, it’s in my head as well. I stumble back. “I’m going. I’m fine.” I take another step forward. My field of vision narrows so it seems like I’m looking through a toy telescope. My stomach and guts roll inside each other. My head has a heartbeat. I have to go. Have. To. I can barely feel my leg. But still, I take a step.

That’s when my legs buckle under me.