Frost (8 page)

“Can you believe she was on the second helicopter that flew over one of the uncontacted tribes of the rain forest?” Two days after the dinner party and Jack was
still
talking about Brigid. “She knows all about their customs.”

I leaned back on the bleachers and stretched my legs, briefly admiring my bubblegum-pink knee socks paired with the kelly-green Converse high-tops. Below, Mr. Addomy, the P.E. instructor, demonstrated how to wield a lacrosse stick.

“I thought her area of study was the polar regions,” I said.

Mr. Addomy asked for a volunteer to pitch him a few balls. I sat on my hands.

“That’s her concentration, sure, but she’s interested in any corner of the biosphere that is experiencing a sudden and potentially catastrophic mutation to its ecosystem. Deforestation of the tropics is disturbing everything from plant diversity to animal habitats to weather patterns.”

“Snjosson,” Mr. Addomy called over the rows of bleachers, “Why don’t you show us all that flick of the wrist I was just demonstrating?”

Busted. Normally I’d feel sorry for him. Even a bit guilty for being the other head in an unauthorized tête-à-tête. I was, however, so sick and tired of hearing about Brigid that I welcomed the interruption. Jack hangdogged his way down to Mr. Addomy, who tossed him a few easy balls. Frustrated and clearly embarrassed, Jack gave it several brow-scrunching attempts, but he never quite managed the “flick of the wrist” Mr. Addomy made look so easy. Jack, I could tell, wasn’t used to coming up short. With an iron clamp to his jaw, he handed the stick back.

After that, the gym was divided, boys on one side and girls on the other, for our first crack at lacrosse. And I’d thought it was some nice upper-crust lawn game, like croquet or badminton. More like hockey on steroids — for the criminally insane.

Upon exiting the locker room, I found Jack leaning against the wall and practicing the “flick” with an imaginary stick. Irritation chiseled his cheekbones.
Man,
the guy really didn’t like to fail. About as much as I didn’t like rough sports.

“You’re limping,” Jack said, pushing off the wall.

“Enjoyment of that game should be one of the criteria the FBI uses to profile serial killers.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Terry Andriks is deeply disturbed.”

Jack laughed and took my book bag from me. “Let me lighten your load.”

As ever, his mere presence did. By the time we reached the lunchtime school-newspaper meeting, I was considerably better.

I took a seat at my usual desk between Jack and Penny in the circle.

“Why don’t we take the first half of the lunch to work independently on our stories?” Jack said to the group before sitting down.

Work independently meant we’d yak about anything and everything. It happened at least once a week. Sure, we were putting out a school paper, but that didn’t necessarily mean we were all hard-boiled reporter types. On the contrary, plenty of us — myself included — viewed being liberated from the whole lunch scene as equal to, if not greater than, exercising our freedom of speech.

Penny and I discussed the upcoming production of
The Snow Queen.
On Friday, there would be rehearsals for the following week’s auditions. We were deep into our design-class project for costumes and sets. It was due by the end of January, and the winning teams would be announced the first week of February.

“I really think we should try out for the production,” Penny said. “At least for small parts. It’ll give us a better feel for what they’re looking for set-wise. Plus, it’ll be fun.”

A turn of events I hadn’t seen coming. “I’m not really an actor,” I said.

“You don’t have to go out for a speaking part. There’s a chorus.”

“I’m not much of a singer, either.”

“I think they judge more on dancing, anyway,” Penny said.

I wasn’t about to fess up, but I’d spent enough of my childhood at Madame Bleu’s Dance Academy to know the difference between a
grand plié
and a ball change.

“Just think about it,” Penny said.

The last time Penny had pulled that line on me, I’d ended up as the fashion editor of the school paper — not five minutes later.

I pointed a recently filed fingernail at her nose. “Don’t sign me up. I haven’t said yes yet.”

She raised her hands in a gesture of innocence. I knew better. I looked over to Jack, having expected him to offer some sort of comment on the prospect of me dancing, or worse, singing. His nose was buried in a book. I leaned over and read the cover:
Ice Sheet Data and the Melting of Greenland
by Brigid Fonnkona.
Big surprise.

I looked at my watch. “Bell’s gonna ring soon.”

Jack jumped to attention. “Sorry, guys. The time got away from me today.” He flipped open a notebook. “Did everyone get some work done?” He was met by a sea of blank stares. He continued to fiddle with the notebook on his desk. “Don’t forget stories are due on Monday.”

Everyone began gathering their things.

“Listen, Penny,” Jack said, resting an elbow on my desk. “Is there any chance you could write my column for this issue?”

“I’ll do it,” Pedro said, walking up.

I had been a little surprised when, at the start of the meeting, Pedro had sat across the room from Penny. Whatever had happened between them at Matthew’s party wasn’t over yet.

“He asked me,” Penny said quickly. “And I’d be happy to.”

Pedro scratched at his cheek. “Whatever. Just offering.” He turned and left.

“Why can’t you do it?” I asked Jack.

The bell rang.

“Kinda caught up with something for Brigid — and Stanley,” Jack added quickly. He stood and picked up his books.

I followed him out of the room wondering who I was more likely to get a song and dance out of these days: Penny or Jack.

Unbelievable. At 8:59, Afi’s back room had been a jumble of boxes and crates wedged on wobbly shelving units or piled high on the floor. At 9:01 it was transformed into our Stork crib, complete with heavy oval table, the somehow-mended bird chairs, and lit — by whom? — candled sconces. I would never, ever get used to some of the more fantastical aspects of this soul-delivery business. I pinched myself as a reality check. It hurt.

I sat in my Robin’s chair this time. Grim was the last to arrive. Her dragging feet were an obvious sign of her continued opposition to a prescheduled meeting.

“Fru Birta,” I began. “Is our book still missing?”

“Yes.”

“Then no need to call roll. It’s obvious, anyway, that we’re all here — besides Fru Hulda, of course.”

I saw Grim stiffen, bristling at this change to our meeting’s program. What’d she expect Fru Birta to do without the book, though? Whittle attendance into the table? Ink it onto her lined palm?

Two spaces down from me, I eyed Dorit’s old chair, turned away from the table as mine had been that fateful first night. Also catching my attention were its carvings. They were, again — as mine had once been — birds of all kinds, no longer Dorit’s puffers.

A commotion at the door lifted my eyes. There stood Ofelia with a curious look on her face and an armful of papers.

Shoot. A security breach.
What was she doing back? I’d sent her home an hour ago. I was about to quickly invent some sort of explanation for this crazy meeting and usher her out, when she pulled a soft brown derby from atop her stack of papers, placed it on her head, and walked briskly to stand behind Dorit’s old chair.

“Fru Ofelia Dagmundsdottir submitting transfer papers,” she said, placing a small pile of crumpled sheets onto the table.

What the —? Transfer papers?
It made no sense on several levels, the obvious one being that it sure didn’t look like her head was bugging her. And documents for a swarm of old gals who used hand signals, not ballots, to decide the fate of hovering souls? And transferring from where? She told me she was from North Dakota.

Ofelia looked to Hulda’s empty seat. “Your first chair. It’s vacant?”

Grim rose from her own chair and walked to where Ofelia stood. “Fru Hulda, our Owl, is not well.” She lifted Ofelia’s papers from the tabletop. “Katla, as second chair, would you like to check these, or should I?”

And what exactly would I be checking for? Spelling and punctuation errors? Watermarks against the light?

“If you’d be so kind, Fru Grimilla?” I said.

Grim rifled through the pages quickly. I watched Ofelia as she stood patiently behind Dorit’s place. She would be, besides me, the youngest member of this group. Even Grim, well into her sixties, was spry for this lot. I also remarked that her sister, Paulina, owner of the used bookstore, was not among our ranks, though she seemed slightly older than Ofelia. Interesting. As was so much about the Storks.

Grim straightened the papers against the table and handed them to me. “Everything appears to be in order. Until our book is returned, we cannot formally enter Fru Ofelia. Until that time, Katla, you may welcome her to our group.”

Luckily I remembered how Hulda had welcomed me. “
Velkominn, vinur.
Welcome friend.”

“Velkominn, vinur,”
the Storks chorused in reply.

Ofelia turned her chair, which now bore the chiseled images of turkeys, to face the table and seated herself. So Ofelia would be our Turkey. It at least explained that little wattle under her chin.

All eyes turned to me. I had, after all, called the meeting. “Fru Maria,” I said to one of the cortege members. “Would you be so kind as to update us on Fru Hulda’s condition?”

“I believe it would be best if I updated the group,” Grim interrupted.

When and how did Grim come by this “update”?

Grim sat up straight and placed her clasped hands on the table. “Fru Hulda is extremely sick, but in a safe place. She is unresponsive — in a coma of unknown origin. Praise be that she is being cared for, but the situation is very, very troubling. It can only be assumed that Hulda was attacked.”

The room erupted in gasps and squawks and cries of alarm.

“What can we do?” Birta asked.

“I fear for all of our safety,” Svana said.

I needed to calm everyone down and bring some sort of order to the meeting. “Sisters, let’s discuss this rationally.”

“Would it not be helpful,” Ofelia interrupted, “to begin by repeating Fru Hulda’s last words that fateful night?”

Hmmm. I didn’t remember saying that Hulda had spoken, nor was Ofelia present the night of the attack. Besides, to term them “last words” was definitely
not cool.

“Before she fell ill, Fru Hulda said, ‘Enemy in our midst.’ This only days after one of our former sisters had her Stork affiliation terminated and had warned us all that we’d ‘be sorry,’” Grim said.

Sure.
Now
Grim wants to be helpful.

“What about Dorit?” I asked, trying to remain in charge. “Does anyone know anything about her state of mind?” I asked.

The room was so quiet I could hear the flare of the candlewicks.

Finally, Fru Svana spoke up: “The family has moved without a word to anyone.”

That couldn’t be a good sign. Granted, there couldn’t be many happy memories for them here, but the timing was suspicious.

“Fru Svana, you were friendly with Dorit, weren’t you?”

Svana looked around nervously. “Before the events of . . . September.”

“But of everyone, she trusted you most,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Fru Svana, would you feel comfortable trying to locate them? It seems to me that we should know where she is.”

Svana squirmed in her seat. “I could try.”

“Thank you. And to all my sister Storks,” I said, looking around the room, “I want to ask for your help during this difficult period. I am new to the council and the second chair, and I never asked for any of this.” Grim cleared her throat with a loud honk. “But I’ll do my best to serve during Fru Hulda’s absence. Fru Grimilla, I trust if there is some change in Fru Hulda’s condition that you will call a meeting.”

“I will.”

“And if anyone feels in danger or threatened or encounters something unusual that they will call a meeting?”

A roomful of heads nodded and said, “We will.” Even Ofelia joined in.

“Have we reported our missing book to anyone at the World Council?” I turned to Grim as I asked this.

Grim’s chin jutted forward as she spoke. “Fru Birta could accomplish such a task.”

There was the smallest of nods from Grim directed to Birta.

“I would be honored,” Fru Birta said.

“And of course, business as usual, should a soul seek guidance,” I said.

More nods and affirmations.

“Then meeting adjourned.” Hulda’s customary
peace be
just wouldn’t spill from my lips. I was determined to do things my way. Besides, I didn’t think we were at peace — far from it, in fact.