The Blue Girl (17 page)

“I guess ...”

“And once it’s been brought to your attention, you can’t not hear it, right?”

I nod. “Until I get distracted  ...” Then I see where he’s going. “I have to figure out a way to distract them so that they don’t notice her anymore.”

John shakes his head again. “That’s not what I was saying.”

“No, but it would work, wouldn’t it?”

John stands up, plainly unhappy with this turn in our conversation.

“So who are you willing to sacrifice in her place?” he asks.

He walks through the door before I can answer.

I stand there as the color slowly returns to the room, my head whirling.

“Anybody,” I say finally, my voice soft. “Anybody rather than her.”

I know exactly what I’m saying, what it will mean to whoever gets taken by the darkness in Imogene’s place. They’ll just ... end. No afterlife, no moving on to wherever, whatever.

But better someone else than her.

It’s hard to consider Imogene as being anything but cool, I think as I sit on the stoop of my building and watch her come down the street so that we can walk to school. Sure, the kids at Redding pick on her, but that’s because she’s different, not because she’s a loser. I wonder what she was really like at her old school, because I don’t think she’s telling me the whole story. Sometimes I’m tempted to see if I can find out—like I could ask Jared—but that would be something Mom would do. What Mom’s already done. No. I’ll let Imogene tell me in her own time, or not at all.

After all, friends can have secrets from each other. I mean, we’re not supposed to be exactly the same person or anything. But I can’t help being curious, because she knows all this stuff that you don’t expect a kid to know—or at least, it’s stuff that I never learned about until I met her. Like curb crawling, or how to pick a lock—things like that.

“So how was your date?” she asks me with a grin.

All my curiosity about her past goes out the window. My head fills with memories of last night, dancing with Jared to Mr. Airplane Man.

And see, this is another way Imogene’s cool. She lets me rattle on about my night, how I feel about Jared, how I think he feels about me, how I hope he feels about me, where this relationship can go. Jared graduated last year and he’s going to a community college now, while I still have another year of school. So far he hasn’t said anything, but is he
really
going to want to keep going out with some high school kid when he could have his choice of all those cool college girls?

Imogene doesn’t say one thing about what happened to her until my joy and confusion have run their course and I finally get around to asking if she got together with Thomas last night.

She shakes her head. “No, I went to see Adrian instead. I confronted him with the idea that he’s putting these dreams in my head.”

“And?”

“And nothing. But he knows something. Trouble is, he pulled a disappearing act before I could get him to tell me what.”

It’s a sunny October morning, but when she says, “Adrian pulled a disappearing act,” I know she means it literally, and I can’t suppress a shiver. The spooky chill just gets worse when she tells me what happened in last night’s dream.

“That’s it,” I tell her. “We’re going to see Christy after school today.”

She shrugs.

“No, really,” I say. “This is getting too weird.”

“I wasn’t arguing.”

“Okay, that’s weird, too.”

“But cute.”

“Very cute,” I assure her.

And just like that, with a wink and a grin, she takes the chill out of my bones. The spookiness-factor monitor in my brain gets turned all the way back down to normal. Now I know I can face a day of classes and possible confrontations with Valerie and her crowd without the extra stress of feeling the world shift under my feet.

*    *    *

At four o’clock that afternoon, we’re sitting on a sofa outside a small office on the second floor of the Crowsea Public Library, waiting for Mr. Riddell to be finished with the client he’s got in there with him. I start to get all nervous again, though this time it’s because I don’t know what I’m going to say, or at least how I’m going to say it. Not because I think fairies are going to come popping out of the walls or anything.

I’ve already decided that I won’t pretend I’ve got anything written down for him to look at, though I didn’t tell that to the nice lady with the vaguely British accent who sent us up here from the main desk. No, we’re just going to have to find the right words to tell him this weird problem Imogene has and hope that he’s really as open-minded as he says he is.

The big surprise when the door opens is that the client who comes out is Jared’s jock friend Ben Sweetland.

“Moonlighting from the big wide world of sports?” Imogene asks after we all exchange hellos.

“Well, you know,” he says. “I like to keep my options open.”

“Well, writing’s certainly an option for you,” Mr. Riddell says. “You’re a terrific writer.”

Ben beams like he just scored a winning touchdown. Giving us a wave, he heads off through the library, and it’s our turn to be ushered into the office.

It’s cozy inside. One wall’s taken up with a built-in, floor-to-ceiling oak unit that has filing cabinets on the bottom and shelves above, stuffed with books, of course. The other walls have various posters from local theater productions and gallery openings, and one small oil painting of a red-haired wild girl standing in a field of tall grass and apple trees. His desk is oak, too, as are the two chairs—one for him, and one in front for guests. There’s also a small two-seater sofa, where Imogene and I sit while he takes the guest chair and turns it around so that he can lean his elbows on its back.

He remembers my name—which surprises me—and insists we call him by his first name when I introduce him to Imogene.

“So are the two of you working on a collaboration?” he asks.

Imogene and I look at each other.

“Not exactly,” I tell him when I realize that she’s leaving the explanations up to me.

My first thought is that she’s being pouty because I made her come here, except then it occurs to me that she’s feeling shy, which would be really strange, because I’ve
never
thought of Imogene as shy.

Christy smiles. “So am I supposed to guess why you’re here?”

Oh, god. Where do I start?
How
do I start without sounding like a complete idiot?

“Well,” I say, “it’s not so much about writing as it is about fairies.”

“Ah.”

He rests his chin on his hands and waits for me to go on. I give Imogene another glance before I plunge into our story.

Christy’s attentive, and I don’t get the sense he’s just humoring us, but I still feel like I’m having an oral exam, and I never do well on that kind of thing. You have to just kind of stumble through your presentation the way I’m doing now.

There’s a long moment of silence when I finally run out of words. I expect Christy to be nice about it, but I’m sure he’s going to see us out of the office. Something along the lines of, Ha ha, cute story, now run along, girls. But he doesn’t.

“Dreams are funny things,” he says instead. “From the way you’ve described it, it sounds like Imogene is having lucid dreams—that’s when you dream but you know you’re dreaming.”

We both nod.

“And hers also seem to be serial, which isn’t so common. I only know of one other person who has serial dreams on a regular basis, and that’s an artist friend of mine named Sophie. She basically lives a whole other life at night in her dreamworld while she’s asleep here in this one.”

“I don’t think I’m going off to any dreamworld,” Imogene says. “Everything’s pretty much the same as the world is when I’m awake, except that Pelly and these little creatures are in it.”

“And this last time,” Christy asks. “You say when you woke up, you were ten blocks from home, which was basically the distance you’d traveled in your dream?”

Imogene nods. “I guess I must have been sleepwalking ...”

“Or in a trance,” Christy says.

“I guess. Would that make me feel like I was dreaming?”

“Possibly.”

“And is that what’s happening to me in the school with the dead kid—with Adrian?”

“Except I’ve met Adrian, too,” I put in.

Christy shrugs, which doesn’t tell us anything.

“Can you at least tell me why I’m having these trances?” Imogene asks.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Christy asks instead of answering her question.

“I guess I do now,” Imogene says. “Do you?”

“I believe in spirits of all kinds.”

“Even fairies?”

He nods. “Oh, yes.”

“So this story Adrian’s telling me, it could be true?”

“Considering what else has been happening to you, I’d say yes.”

“Wow.” Imogene smiles at him. “So are you supposed to be telling us stuff like this?”

Christy smiles back. “Probably not. But that doesn’t change the fact that such things exist ”

“So what about Pelly?” I ask. “Her invisible friend from when she was a kid. Is he real, too?”

“Pelly could be any number of things,” Christy says. His gaze strays to the painting of the red-haired girl in the field, then comes back to Imogene. “He could be your shadow, the parts of you that you cast off as a child. Sometimes they come back to us as these invisible friends—invisible to others, mostly, but not always. He could be one of the Eader who live in the half-world between our world and that of the spirits. They’re beings that are created out of imagination, who exist only so long as someone believes in them. Or he could be a spirit—a fairy—who has come to you in that particular shape.”

“I don’t get why he keeps insisting that I shouldn’t dream about him,” Imogene says. “I mean, so what if I do or don’t believe in fairies? Why should that be so important?”

“That’s something only he can answer.”

“Great”

“I wish I could be of more help.”

“Actually,” Imogene says, “just the fact that you didn’t have me taken away in a straitjacket is kind of comforting. You know, that you’d actually listen to what we’re telling you.”

“Listening is easy; it’s what I do.”

Christy looks from me to Imogene, waiting to see if we have anything else we want to say.

“I have a suggestion for a little experiment,” he says when it’s obvious that neither of us has anything to add. “If you’re up for it.”

Imogene shrugs. “I guess.”

“Do you have trouble falling asleep?”

“That’s the one thing I’ve never had trouble with.”

“Even if there are other people around?”

Imogene shrugs. “It’s not a problem ”

“Then I think that tonight Maxine should stay up and watch you while you sleep.”

“What for?”

“To observe what happens when you’re dreaming.”

“You mean like if I get up and go walkabout?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a pretty good idea.” She turns to look at me. “How come we never thought of it?”

“You’re not a trained specialist like me,” Christy says. Imogene and I grin. He stands up and offers us each a handshake.

“Let me know how it turns out,” he tells us.

“I don’t know that I want to be in one of your books,” Imogene says.

“It can be an anonymous entry.”

“We’ll see. But thanks for listening to us.”

“My pleasure.” As we’re going out the door, he adds, “And Maxine, bring some of your writing next time.”

I wish I could come up with some easy response, but all I manage is to nod and blush.

“You write?” Imogene asks after the door closes behind us.

I shake my head. “But I think I’d like to. I’ve been keeping a journal.”

“Cool.”

“So what was all that business about how he shouldn’t be telling us what he did?” I ask as we start down the big staircase to the library’s main floor.

Imogene shrugs. “Think about it. He’s telling us that ghosts and fairies are real when what he’s probably supposed to do is contact our parents and recommend psychiatric evaluations. Or at least warn them that our grip on reality seems to slipping. Could be drugs. Could be we’re just crazy.”

“No,
that’s
crazy.”

Imogene sighs. “I wish it was, but there are a lot of people in this world who freak at the idea of looking outside of the box. Just take your mother, for example. Or even me.”

“You don’t even know where the box is.”

“Not true. I have to know where it is to avoid it. But you know what I mean. How eager was I to embrace this whole fairies theory?”

“Not very.”

“And I’m not sure I do embrace it completely.”

“But—”

She stops me before I can start in on my argument. “But now I’m willing to consider it.”

“Oh.”

We smile and wave to the lady behind the main desk as we walk by and then go outside.

“So what did you think of Christy?” I ask. “I think he’s so cool.”

Imogene smiles. “I’m telling Jared.”

“Oh, for god’s sake. He’s this old guy. It’s not the same thing at all.”

“Then I’m telling Christy.”

“You’re just pushing my buttons, aren’t you?”