Odds Are Good (25 page)

Violet blinked. Bindlepod stared at her. “Do you care if they think we stink?” he asked gently.

“I don't care if you don't care,” said the princess.

And they both laughed.

 

Princess Violet and Prince Bindlepod never did step into Fire Lake.

What they did do was build a home for themselves in a giant oak tree halfway between the gates of her father's kingdom and the entrance to Nilbog. Part of the home was in the branches, and part beneath the roots. It smelled of sky and leaves, of stone and soil, and they loved it nearly as much as they loved each other.

Though they never went back to either kingdom, their home was always open to anyone who cared to visit, and who would take them as they were.

As the years passed Violet and Bindlepod had seven children, who brought a great deal of jolliness to the home in the tree. They were an odd group: goggle-eyed, pale-skinned, and full of mischief. They adored the frog, who taught them to swim, and always called him uncle.

The frog adored the children, too, and often said to visitors, “They're really sweet.” Then he would chuckle deep in his throat and add, “For a bunch of little stinkers.”

I was bleeding the first time I saw the Japanese mirror. I had been cleaning the side counter in Mr. Colella's Curio Shoppe, and an unexpected piece of metal had sliced open my fingertip.

Crying out in rage, I threw my rag to the counter, stuck my bleeding finger into my mouth, and stamped my foot. I probably would have stamped again, except I noticed Mr. Colella giving me a warning stare.

I took a deep breath and tried to get my temper under control. I knew I might lose my job if I didn't watch myself, and I didn't want that to happen. Not only did I really need the money, I actually liked working with the strange junk the old man kept in his antique shop.

I took my finger from my mouth to look at the cut. It went straight across my fingertip. And it hurt like crazy. All those nerves so close to the surface, I guess.

Scanning the countertop, I found what had snagged me—the top of a screw Mr. Colella had used to make a repair and hadn't wound deeply enough into the wood.

I was still hunting for a Band-Aid when Mr. Colella shouted, “Jonathan, come here. I need your help.”

Pressing thumb against fingertip to stem the bleeding, I went to the back room.

Mr. Colella was standing in front of a large wooden crate. “Open this,” he said, handing me a crowbar.
“Gently.”

The mirror inside the crate—a Japanese mirror, according to Mr. Colella—was nearly eight feet tall. The glass was surrounded by a wooden frame carved with interlocking designs and finished in black lacquer. I couldn't help but imagine strange messages hidden among those whorling symbols. Though the silvering behind the glass had worn thin in two or three places, for the most part the reflection it gave was clean and pure.

“Not bad, eh?” said Mr. Colella, once I had all the packing pulled away. He pulled at the ends of his gray mustache, always a sign that he was pleased with an item.

“What do you think you'll get for it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It's in good condition; it's a little unusual. Given its age, it could go for maybe three thousand. Maybe a little more, if I find the right buyer.”

My heart sank. For a moment I had considered trying to buy the mirror myself.

Either Mr. Colella didn't see my disappointment or he chose to ignore it. “Here,” he said, handing me one of his seemingly endless supply of rags. “Polish.”

“Probably wouldn't have fit in my room anyway,” I muttered as I went to fetch a stepladder so I could reach the top.

 

Half an hour later I stood back to admire my work but got caught up examining my reflection instead. You could have talked to me all you wanted about inner beauty; I preferred having it outside, where it counted. Not so handsome it scared people off, but definitely good-looking. A little too much like my father, though. Sometimes it startled me when I glanced in a mirror and found myself staring at someone who looked just like the guy in the old army photo on our mantelpiece.

Suddenly I noticed a small streak of blood on the mirror. Glancing down at my finger, I saw that the cut had reopened while I was working. I rubbed the rag over the blood, but the mirror wouldn't come clean. I spit on a different finger and tried to rub the blood away. No luck.

I was starting to get angry when the tinkle of the bell above the door announced a customer.

When I came back an hour later, the stain was gone.

Guess Mr. Colella took care of it
, I thought, hoping he wouldn't be angry with me for doing an incomplete job. It wouldn't be fair, of course. But like my late father, Mr. Colella tended to yell at me for things that weren't my fault.

I could hardly complain, given my own temper. The thought caused me to scowl at my reflection. Big brown eyes and a try-to-catch-me smile might make it easy to get girls; my sudden bursts of anger sure made it hard to keep them. I rolled my eyes as I remembered yesterday's argument with Gina, which had ended with her slapping me and shouting, “I don't care how cute you are, Jonathan Rawson, I won't be treated this way!”

I put my fingers to my cheek, remembering the slap. Last night I had figured it was time to move on. But Gina was special. Maybe
I
should apologize for a change.

Looking in the mirror to practice my rueful expression, I noticed the beginnings of a pimple beside my nose. I prodded the spot with my fingertips but couldn't feel any bump. Maybe if I was careful it would go away without blossoming into a full-fledged zit.

That seemed to be the case, for when I checked myself in the bathroom mirror at home that night, my skin was smooth and clear.

Whoa!
I thought.
Could this be the beginning of the end for zitosis? What a relief that would be!

 

I called Gina to apologize. She was cautious but finally agreed to go out with me on Saturday. I don't know who was more surprised by my apology: Gina, or me.

Humming contentedly, I returned to my desk, where I was building a miniature room for my little sister, Mindy. It was mostly for her birthday. But it was also a way of apologizing to her for all the times I had yelled at her over the last year.

The project had turned out to be a bigger time-sink than I expected. But Mindy had been wanting one of these rooms for years. Our father had promised to make her one several times, but (as usual) he hadn't come through. And now he was gone.

Despite how tricky it was, I found I actually enjoyed the work. And I was really proud of it. I loved seeing each piece come to its final polished perfection. That was one good thing about my job at Mr. Colella's: I had learned a lot about working with wood.

I spent an hour carefully sanding and staining the chair I had finished assembling the night before. When I finally grew so tired I was afraid I would botch the work, I threw Beau, our golden retriever, off the bed and climbed between the sheets.

 

The next morning my mother overcooked the eggs.

“Sorry, Jon,” she said, as she placed the rubbery henfruit in front of me, “I'm not functioning on all cylinders yet. I don't think they're making the coffee as strong as they used to.”

“No problem,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “I can manage a tough yolk every now and then.”

“Is this my kid?” she asked, widening her eyes and putting a hand on my forehead. “The one who used to have a tantrum if his eggs weren't runny enough to use up all his toast?”

“For Pete's sake, Ma,” I said, ducking away from her hand.

 

School went well, and I had a good time with Gina during art. So I was in a good mood when I got to Mr. Colella's shop.

Mr. Colella, unfortunately, was not. He was standing in front of the Japanese mirror—which was now in the display area—rubbing a rag almost violently over the glass.

A touch of coldness seized my chest when I saw the red streak that marred the surface of the mirror.

“I would have sworn I wiped this off yesterday,” said Mr. Colella. He turned and handed me the rag. “Here. You take care of it. And do it right this time!”

He stomped off, banging his leg on an old oak dresser.

I studied the mirror. The red streak was longer than I remembered.

As I reached forward to rub it with the rag, the stain disappeared.

I flinched back as if I had been burned. I stared at the mirror, then focused on my own reflection. The spot I had noticed the day before had erupted into an ugly pimple after all.

I put my finger to my face.

The skin was smooth.

I dropped the rag and grabbed both edges of the mirror, as if I could anchor it into reality. I don't know how long I stood there.

Mr. Colella's voice wrenched me from my trance. “Come on, glamour boy. That mirror's not the only thing in the shop. Get to work!”

I turned away from the mirror. I. thought about quickly turning back, to see if it still showed the pimple, and realized I was afraid to do so. I hurried over to Mr. Colella, grateful for an excuse not to have to face myself again.

I avoided the mirror throughout the afternoon.

But if I could avoid it physically, I couldn't keep it out of my thoughts. I tried and discarded a dozen different explanations for the altered reflection: a flaw in the glass, a trick of light, a momentary daydream. Finally I told myself it had simply been an unlikely combination of all of those things, and that I was getting myself wound up over nothing.

 

My mother met me at the door with a worried look on her face. “Jon, I'm sorry . . .”

I knew that tone. Something had happened that was going to make me angry, and she was trying to avert the explosion.

“What is it?” I asked tensely.

“Beau . . .” She waved her hands helplessly. “Well, you should have put it away when you were done last night!”

A sick feeling grabbed me. Pushing past my mother, I ran to my room. I saw the mess with my eyes, but I felt it with my stomach, as solidly as if someone had landed a punch right below my ribs. The miniature room—the five pieces of oak furniture I'd so lovingly crafted, the walls I'd so carefully measured and papered—lay in the center of the rug, reduced to nothing more than a pile of wet splinters and dog slobber.

Beau slunk in, drooping his tail and looking guilty.

“You stupid dog!” I shrieked, raising my hand.

“Jonathan!” cried my mother, as Beau whimpered and cowered away.

To my surprise, the storm of anger passed as quickly as it had come. I lowered my hand. Filled with sorrow, I knelt to gather the sodden remains of three months of work. They felt slimy in my hands.

“I'd like to be alone for a little while,” I said softly.

Looking at me in astonishment, my mother grabbed Beau by the collar. “I'll call you when supper is ready.” But instead of leaving the room, she pushed Beau out, closed the door, and put her arms around me. “It's just that you look so much like your father when you get mad,” she whispered.

I laid my head on her shoulder. We both cried.

 

Monday afternoon Mr. Colella asked if I could stay late to close the shop while he went to an auction. I said I would have to check with my mother. I called, half hoping she would say no. But she okayed the extra hours, and even said she would pick me up after work.

After Mr. Colella left, I found myself glancing uneasily toward the mirror. I shook my head and busied myself with other chores. It was a quiet night; I didn't have a single customer until nearly eight, when Mrs. Hubbard hobbled in. She was one of Mr. Colella's best customers, and it was a relief to see her—though at that point I would have been glad to see
anyone.

“Hi, Mrs. Hubbard,” I said cheerfully. “Can I help you?”

“Just looking tonight, Jonathan,” she replied. But a few minutes later she called me over to the mirror.

Reluctantly I crossed to join her.

“This is an interesting piece,” she said. “What can you tell me about it?”

“It was made in Japan, about three hundred years ago,” I said, trying to remember everything Mr. Colella had told me. “We don't know the name of the craftsman, but from the style it appears to have been made in . . .”

I caught my breath. Couldn't she see it?

“Made in Kyoto?” Mrs. Hubbard prompted, obviously thinking I had forgotten the name of the city.

I hadn't forgotten anything. I was simply too frightened to speak. An inch-wide streak of red had slashed its way across the center of the mirror. That would have been bad enough. But it was the image in the glass that truly terrified me. Two people looked out at me, one a kindly looking elderly woman, the other a strangely altered version of myself. A scattering of open sores stretched from my nose across my right cheek to my hairy, pointed ear.

I glanced at Mrs. Hubbard. She was staring at me expectantly.

I looked back at the mirror.

My reflection smiled at me.

Mrs. Hubbard shook my arm. “Jonathan, are you all right?”

“Don't you see?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“See what?” she asked, taking a step away from me.

“Nothing. I'm sorry!”

I put my hands over my eyes and pressed them into my face.

She took another step back. “I'll come to see Mr. Colella about the mirror tomorrow.” She paused, then looked at me with concern. “Listen to an old woman, Jonathan. I've had my time with mirrors. Don't let them get to you. They're useful, but the truth is, they always lie. Everything is backwards in a mirror. And whatever you see is never more than just a part of you.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

She looked at me more closely, then furrowed her brow and said again, “I'll talk to Mr. Colella about the mirror tomorrow.”