The Journal of Curious Letters (The 13th Reality #1) (11 page)

~

“Tick, don’t you ever take that scarf off?” Ms. Sears asked, stopping Tick before he could make it to the library computers. He’d spent some time studying his
Journal of Curious Letters,
as well as finishing up the last bit of homework for the weekend, and wanted to check his e-mail account, though he’d yet to receive anything since leaving the hint phrases on the Pen Pal site.

“I guess my neck gets cold pretty easily,” he said, shrugging while he faked a shiver. Of course Ms. Sears knew about his birthmark, but he wanted to avoid a lecture on not being ashamed of who you are. “Any cool books come in lately?”

Her brow furrowed as she thought, making her entire weave of hair shift like a jittery land mass triggered by an earthquake. “There’s a new one by Savage, but I think he’s too scary for you,” she said, trying to hold back a smile.

Tick rolled his eyes. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Okay, but if you have nightmares, tell your mom that I warned you.” She smiled. “I’ll hold it up at the counter for you.”

“Thanks, Ms. Sears.” He inched toward the computers, and she got the message.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Have fun.”

He nodded, then sat down at a computer as soon as she walked away. His mind still spun, the clues of M.G. bouncing around his brain like renegade alphabet soup. He knew several things for sure, and he also knew what he still needed to figure out. For some reason, on May sixth he needed to close his eyes, say some magic words that he didn’t know, and hit the ground ten times with an object still left to be determined. Piece of cake.

After logging into his e-mail Web site, he hesitated a second before hitting the INBOX button. He’d checked his e-mail almost every day for weeks, and he was always disappointed to find nothing there.
But what are the odds?
he thought. Who knew if anyone else out there had received anything, much less went searching the Internet for others. But Tick felt like he’d explode if he didn’t find someone with whom to swap ideas and thoughts.

He clicked the mouse.

The INBOX page only took a couple of seconds to load and a subject line written all in capital letters caught his eye the instant it appeared. His breath caught in his throat. He stood up in excitement, his chair tipping backward to the ground with a ringing metallic clang. He noticed a few scowls from the other library patrons as he righted the chair and sat down, the skin of his face on fire. Once settled, he looked at the screen again, hoping his eyes hadn’t been lying to his brain.

But there it was, in black capital letters, bold against the white background:

From: SOFIA PACINI

Subject: MESSAGES FROM M.G.

~

As he opened the e-mail, Tick’s heart pounded so much he felt like he was trying to breathe underwater. He could hardly believe it; to receive an e-mail from another person experiencing the same mysteries as he was would validate everything once and for all—even more than meeting Mothball or being attacked by the Gnat Rat.

Forcing his eyes to slow down and take in each word, Tick read the e-mail.

Dear Atticus Higginbottom,

I’ll write to you in English, since I know you must be a typical American who can only speak Americanese, and my English is, well, brilliant. My name is Sofia Pacini and I live in the pretty Alps in the country of Italy. Do you know where Italy is? Probably not. You’re too busy studying the Big Mac and the Spider-Man and not world geography. Maybe you can learn from Sofia and be smart. I’m just teasing you, so please don’t cry. :)

I saw your post on the Pen Pal Web site and almost swallowed my shoe. No, I didn’t have a shoe in my mouth, it just sounds like something a funny Americanese boy would say.

Tick paused, trying to hold in a laugh since he’d already embarrassed himself enough in front of the library crowd. But this Italian girl . . . w
as she for real?
He continued reading.

I got a letter from a person named M.G. in November. You too? At first I laughed and thought it was my friend Tony, but the letter came from Alaska, so I don’t know. Then more came, and I met a really tall lady called Mothball. Did you meet her? She’s like a walking tree with clothes, but I like her.

So what do you think? Is this for real? What will happen on the day? Did you figure everything out? Find anyone else? Write me back.

Your new friend,

Sofia

P.S. You have a weird name, btw.

Tick hated when the e-mail ended, wishing she’d written him pages and pages of what she thought and felt and if she’d figured out the magic words or anything else. He clicked the REPLY TO SENDER button.

Dear Sofia,

He paused, wondering what in the world he should write to her. The chilling thought hit him that maybe he shouldn’t trust her. Maybe she was on the side of whoever or whatever had sent the Tingle Wraith and Gnat Rat. Maybe she was a spy, ready to feed him information leading him away from the solution, not toward it.

That’s just a chance I’ll have to take,
he thought. Shrugging the worry away, he began typing his message.

I know I have a weird name. Everyone calls me Tick, so you can, too.

Sounds like we’re in the same boat. I’ve received three clues now, one of them on a tape. How about you? I met Mothball, too. She gave me the second clue. Maybe we can help each other?

He almost started telling her the things he’d figured out and which ones had him stumped, but decided to wait to see if she would write him back. One more e-mail from her ought to help him know for sure if she was okay. After thinking for a minute, he finished his letter.

I wonder how many others like us are out there. I hope someone else writes me. Let me know if anyone writes to you, OK?

Have you seen anything like a ghost made out of smoke that turns into a grandpa face? What about a Gnat Rat? That thing put me in the hospital, but I’m OK now. How old are you? I’m thirteen, and I live in Washington, though you already know that because I guess you saw my Pen Pal account.

You’re from Italy? That’s way awesome. I wish we could meet and talk face to face about this stuff. I’m keeping all my notes in a book called Tick Higginbottom’s Journal of Curious Letters. Pretty cool, huh?

Talk to you later,

Tick

He clicked SEND, knowing Sofia probably wouldn’t read the e-mail until tomorrow because it was already past bedtime in Italy. His initial excitement tempered by the thought that he wouldn’t hear back from Sofia for at least a day, he logged off the computer and grabbed his backpack.

On his way out, Ms. Sears reminded him of the book she had held for him and he checked it out just to be nice. With everything going on in his life, reading a new book suddenly seemed dull in comparison. Tick shook his head; he never would’ve thought he’d say
that.

The book tucked safely in his backpack next to his journal, Tick exited the library and headed home.

Halfway there, he figured out the answer to the third clue.

~

It came to him when he tripped over a big stick in the middle of the sidewalk. As he rubbed his knee while sitting on the cold ground, he looked at the soles of his shoes, which were caked with chunky black sludge. He wondered where they’d gotten so dirty and had just had the thought that it must’ve been from the mud caused by the melting snow when both of the important phrases from the third clue seemed to solve themselves simultaneously, several words flashing across his mind’s eye in a rush of understanding.

Opposite of wrong but not correct.

Opposite of wrong but not the
word
correct. The word
right
!

Soul is stronger than mine.

Sole
is
stronger than mine.

Sole of his shoe.

Sole of his
right
shoe.

Not bothering to get up from the sidewalk, Tick whipped out his journal and turned to the page where he’d written the words from the audio tape. He’d misunderstood when M.G. said he hoped Tick’s soul was stronger than his. The real word was
sole,
not soul, meaning M.G. hoped the sole of his shoe was strong enough to protect his foot, his
right
foot, as he hit the ground with it ten times.

Tick scribbled his thoughts down then stood up, his blood surging through his veins. Though he still felt so clueless it was ridiculous, he’d taken another small step. On May sixth, Tick needed to say magic words that he didn’t know then stomp the ground with his right foot ten times.

As he ran the rest of the way home, he couldn’t help but marvel at how completely stupid that sounded.

~

Three days passed with no reply from Sofia, and though he’d never met her, Tick felt worried sick that something terrible had happened to her. Or that maybe she’d given up and burned the letter from M.G., surrendering once and for all. Tick could barely think of anything else, losing his focus in school; he actually got a B on a test, shocking his English teacher beyond words. Every morning and night he checked his e-mail at home, and he swung by the library every chance he got.

When an entire week had passed in silence, his heart felt completely ill and he didn’t know what else to do but give up on her.

The Thursday before Christmas vacation started, he walked home from school, his head down, staring at his feet through the falling snow. They’d had a couple of weeks’ break from the white stuff, but it had come back with a fury the night before and hadn’t let up. Tick didn’t complain, of course, he loved the heavy snow. But he couldn’t cheer up, feeling sad about Sofia and the lack of any more clues from his mysterious stranger.

He was just passing the patch of woods where he’d met Mothball when something caught his eye on the other side of the road. A wooden sign had been hastily nailed to a sharpened stick and hammered into the ground. Some words were painted on it in messy blue paint, the letters dripping like blood. He couldn’t tell what most of the sign said from his position, but two of the words stood out like a pair of leprechauns in a hamster cage.

Atticus Higginbottom

~

Tick ran over to the sign, squinting his eyes through the swirling snow to read the smaller words underneath his name. His brow crinkled in confusion. He read the sign over again, almost expecting the words to change the second time. Just when he thought he was used to how bizarre his life had become, he received a message that seemed to make no sense.

Atticus Higginbottom

Meet me when night is a backwards dim

Don’t look for a her ’cause I am a him

The steps of your porch will do just fine

But don’t bring snakes, spiders, or swine

For you I have important news

In return I ask for children’s shoes

One more thing, or see me spittin’

Be sure to bring two nice soft mittens

If Tick had woken up that morning and guessed one thousand things a special sign made just for him might have said, a request for children’s shoes and mittens would not have made the list. Not knowing what else to do, and not real keen on anyone else seeing the sign, he yanked it up out of the ground and carried it home with him, trying to sort out
the message. There didn’t really seem to be too many clues in the poem, just a request to meet on the steps of his porch.

Meet me when night is a backwards dim

Tick figured that one out almost instantly. “Dim” spelled backward was “mid,” which meant the stranger wanted him to be waiting on his porch at midnight—presumably tonight. The now familiar shiver of excitement tickled Tick’s spine as he looked at his watch and saw he still had almost seven hours to wait.

Bummer,
he thought. It was going to be a long evening.

~