I suspected the headache wouldn't get better from sitting up. My head, the breeze, the wind chimes, the twittering of the bird, the swaying of the hammock, all conspired to make me reluctant to move, though I knew I'd have to, and that sooner would be better than later for Emily, if not for my head.
Knowing there's a way to get out of a hammock, but not knowing what that way is, I managed to sit up, bracing my elbows on the rope edges. While I sat there for a moment, wondering what my next move should be, a glittery butterfly landed on the back of my right hand with a faint, not unpleasant tickle.
Afraid to lose my balance by moving too much, I simply flipped my hand over. Obligingly, the butterfly shifted to my palm, and I closed my fingers, where I felt it turn, solid and cold, into a coin.
I really need to get moving, I thought. I really need to look for Emily.
The memory of how uninterested she had been in seeing me, much less in being rescued by me, added to my distrust of my ability to get out of the hammock without seriously injuring myself.
Until I noticed an extra limb.
Well, an extra hand, to be exact.
Not attached to me, which was good no matter how you look at it, but, still, holding on to the edge of the hammock. Gently tugging on the hammock, which explained the swaying motion. Given that I wasn't on a boat, I should have realized that needed explaining.
The hand was attached to an arm; the arm was attached to a handsome young man; the handsome young man was kneeling beside the hammock, about level with my head, smiling tenderly at me.
A smile just like those of the guys last night. Before they threw me out of the dance and tossed the gondolier to his death from the balcony window.
I yelped. And half fell out of the hammock trying to get away from him, except that he deftly caught me.
“Get away from me!” I cried, swatting at his hands.
He did, once my feet were firmly settled on the ground.
The moving I had done and the sound of my own voice got my head throbbing again. I shoved the butterfly coin into the pocket of my by-now-badly-bedraggled dress as I glanced around for something with which to defend myself. I had pretty much seen all there was to see from the hammock. I could beat the guy with a pillow or with the birdcage, or I could try strangling him with a pearl necklace from the treasure chest, maybe stab him with a brooch.
But except for the fact that he was smiling so kindly it made my skin crawl, the guy wasn't doing anything. He remained on his knees, as though ready to rock me in the hammock for as long as the game lasted.
“Stay,” I ordered him.
And fortunately, he stayed.
I backed away, outside.
The guy remained, waiting for someone—anyone, apparently—to come in to be rocked in the hammock.
The tent was in a clearing from which two sparkle-stoned paths led in two different directions. Neither one seemed any better than the other, so I pulled the coin out of my pocket and told myself, Butterfly side, I’ll go to the left; Rasmussem logo, I’ll go right. I flipped the coin and headed left.
Presumably, Emily was in the area. Or had been, when Adam and Ms. Bennett had made their calculations. I walked and walked and walked—which, trust me, was no fun with one bare foot. I was just wondering whether the Rasmussem people would pull me back to headquarters if I wandered too far from where Emily was, when I saw that I was coming to another clearing. The trees were thinning, and I could see a block of color—pinkish-purple—that indicated a building up ahead.
But a few more steps and I realized that what I was seeing was the back of the Victorian house.
I stopped. Sighed loudly. But of course there was nobody nearby to hear my exasperation.
Obviously, if Emily had been at the house or on the lake, I would have been set down in the gazebo, as I had been the other times. All the other times.
And then I remembered that Emily probably wouldn't be on the lake—not unless she was willing to paddle the gondola herself. Though, maybe, with her stash of butterfly coins and the sprites granting her wishes, she could just whip herself up a new gondolier.
I wasn't curious enough to go around to the other side to see; I turned and headed back down the path I'd just come along. Down the path, down the path, past (eventually) the pavilion, where I took the right-hand path.
It was only a few more minutes before I could hear music being played. Not like the chamber music at the dance the night before, but a single instrument, played calm and slow and sweet. Lute, I found myself thinking, though I wasn't sure, not really, what a lute sounded like. This was sort of like a cross between a guitar and a harp.
A few more steps, and I was at another clearing.
This one had a guy in it, sitting on a stool, playing a musical instrument. Seeing the actual instrument, I was no closer than before to knowing what it was. Something with strings and a long skinny neck—the instrument, not the guy.
The guy was dressed in tunic and tights, clothing that made me think we were several centuries earlier than the night before, with its seventeen-hundreds-type finery. He more closely resembled the hammock-rocking man, though I'd been too afraid of him to take much note of his clothing.
It was only after taking in and thinking all those things that I noticed Emily was there, too. She was sitting on the ground, beneath a tree at the opposite end of the clearing.
And lying there, with its head on her lap, was a unicorn.
Emily was wearing a white dress asparkle with silver threads, and she had a Renaissance-Faire-type flowers-and-ribbons wreath on her head. Her eyes were closed and she was stroking the unicorn's head, both of them wearing looks that said This is contentment. I could do this forever.
But then the unicorn looked up as my feet took me actually into the clearing. It made a noise, not exactly a horse's whinny, but what I guess must have been the unicorn equivalent: softer, gentler than a horse, maybe with the hint of a kitten's purr to it.
Emily opened her eyes and groaned. “Can't you stop following me?” she asked. “Isn't it enough that you ruined the house for me?”
I was somewhat relieved to hear that the gondolier's messy death had ruined her enjoyment of the house. Maybe her heart hadn't turned to stone after all.
She just acted that way toward me.
While we'd been talking, lute-guy continued strumming, but the unicorn gracefully got to its feet and came toward me. It put its head down, almost a bow. The way things were going, I half suspected its intent was to impale me, but all it did was nudge me. Again, sort of like a cat, demanding to be petted. I put my hand on its forelock, and immediately my headache—in fact, all my aches and pains—disappeared, healed by its touch.
Too bad, I thought, it evidently can’t heal what’s ailing Emily.
I said, “Ms. Bennett talked to Frank.”
“Frank,” Emily said, “is a pimple on the butt of humanity.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“You don't know anything about it.”
It seemed she was in the mood to argue about everything.
Be like that, I thought. What I said was “If you don't want to talk to me, do you want me to bring one of your friends? I'm sure any one of them would be willing to come here—”
“I don't have any friends,” Emily interrupted.
“Of course you do.”
“Don't make me get mean to you,” she warned.
“Get mean?” I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. Maybe—ever so slightly—I was veering toward hysteria. Emily stood. Emily raised her hands to the sky.
Emily turned into a dragon.
The dragon shot a blast of flame at me.
A moment before the flame hit, I thought, I bet that unicorn won't be able to heal this.
Chapter 11
Friends
I AM GETTING SICK and tired of this,” I announced, even before my eyes opened. On the other hand, death by dragon must have been something the Rasmussem people had anticipated might happ
en: very fortunately I had immediately gone into the fizziness that's the Rasmussem equivalent of dying rather than actually experiencing what it's like to be flame-roasted by a dragon.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
I spared her the specifics. Well, no. To be honest: I spared myself the specifics. You know you've put yourself in a bad situation when you can say: Thank goodness all that happened was I died.
“Emily doesn't have any friends,” I told her, told Ms. Bennett and Adam.
“Of course she does,” Mom said, just what I'd tried to tell Emily before ... before...
With those wonky pain filters not up to full speed, the thought of what I might have felt—a human campfire marshmallow—was not one on which my mind wanted to linger.
Adam said, “The people we've been reaching on her phone—they've all identified themselves as being friends from high school. Nobody from college.”
“Nobody?” Mom sounded as incredulous as I felt. Adam didn't bother repeating. He finished, “And most of them haven't heard from her since summer.”
“That's...” Mom started, but she didn't know how to finish her thought any better than I did.
I said, “What about what's-her-name? Her roommate?” I wasn't trying to be cute—I was honestly blanking out. We had met Emily's assigned roommate that first day. Our family/her family: we kept getting in one another's way unloading cars, trying to cram about twice as much into the dorm room as it was physically capable of holding. The girl had muddy-blond hair and an accent my dad had immediately recognized from his travels—What was it? Rhode Island? Connecticut?—despite the fact...“Ooo,” I said, “I remember: She was named after one of those western states. Dakota?”
My mother gave me a how-did-I-ever-come-to-spawn-you look. “Georgia,” she corrected me. She asked Ms. Bennett, “Are you sure that equipment of yours isn't damaging Grace's brain?”
“Nope,” Ms. Bennett said. “That would be the New York State educational system.”
I took that to mean that either Dakota or Georgia wasn't one of those western states.
In any case, I was realizing that on her visits home, Emily hadn't talked much about her roommate. Now that I thought about it, she hadn't talked much about anybody at all. She'd just say “the girls in the dorm” or “someone from my sociology class.”
Adam pressed a couple of buttons on his hand-held, then shook his head. “Your mother gave us a few names before we picked you up from school. Georgia Chappell was one of them. She hasn't returned our call.”
Ms. Bennett said, “Tell Sybella she should switch to the land line and give all the no-answers on Emily's contact list a second try, just in case.”
Just in case. I knew she meant that Frank Lupiano might not be the only supposed friend who was screening his calls to avoid Emily.
I asked, “What about Danielle Gardner?” Danielle was Emily's best friend—had been since middle school. As good as Emily was with computers, that's how good Danielle was with artsy things like textile design. They had planned to go to RIT together. And even though they would have been in different programs, they were going to apply to be roommates. But Danielle hadn't been accepted at RIT. She'd been put on the waiting list and told to reapply in January. I remembered Emily explaining to Mom and Dad that a lot of students would drop out after the first semester, and that Danielle was sure to get in and should take some of the basic requirements at MCC, the community college, so that the two of them could still graduate together in four years. I remembered Dad asking, “So is that what Danielle's going to do?” and Emily answering, “I guess.”
I guess. That was pretty vague for best friends. And hard as I thought about it, I didn't have an end for that story—happy or otherwise. It was only at this moment that I realized we hadn't seen much of Danielle over the summer. Now it was March, and I simply couldn't remember ever hearing Emily say whether Danielle had followed her advice about MCC for the fall semester or—more important—whether she'd been accepted at RIT in January.
Adam had been checking his hand-held. He nodded at Mom. “That was another of the names you gave us, but it wasn't on Emily's contact list.”
Mom repeated the name: “Danielle Gardner. Yes, if anybody will know what's going on...”
But Adam was shaking his head. “No Danielle. No Gardner.”
Mom said, “Well ... Emily wouldn't need to have the number on her list. She'd know it by heart.”
I may have mentioned Mom is not real good at technology. I told her, “It'd be on her speed dial.” A glance at Adam showed it wasn't.
Mom said, “Mrs. Gardner—Tanya—she has her own business, doing sewing alterations at home, so she should be at the house. I'll talk to her,” and she held her hand out for the phone.
One ring, two. I could tell when Danielle's mom picked up by the way my mother stood taller.
“Tanya, this is Marilyn Pizzelli, Emily's mother ... Yes, yes, it has been a while ... Well, no, actually not...” Mom made a Come on, wrap it up gesture with her hand, even though we were the only ones who could see it. Finally, forcefully, probably interrupting, she said, “Tanya.” She took a deep breath. “Something serious has come up with Emily, and we're hoping Danielle can help. Is she home from school yet?” Mom looked confused. “Oh,” she said, “I was under the impression she was staying at home and going to MCC ... No ... No, I didn't realize that...” She rolled her eyes. “I'm very pleased she got into Geneseo ... Yes, I know it's a good school ... Tanya, I really need to talk to Danielle—it's urgent. Could you please give me her phone number?”
Ms. Bennett was making gestures like semaphore flags with her hands. “Residence Advisor,” she mouthed.
I knew that was in case Danielle didn't pick up and needed to be tracked down on campus.
Geneseo? I thought. What was Danielle doing going to Geneseo, instead of RIT with Emily?
Mom wrote down both phone numbers and finally managed to end the conversation with the talkative Mrs. Gardner. I could see her hand shaking.
“You did fine,” Ms. Bennett said, but she took the phone to make the call to Danielle herself.
Sure, I thought, thinking of how she had spoken to Frank, scare the hell out of the poor girl.
But they hadn't had Danielle's number before, as opposed to her not answering—so Ms. Bennett didn't go all legal and ballistic when Danielle answered.
She also—I could tell—didn't get anywhere with her. When she hung up, after several “If-you-think-of-anything's,” she told us, “She says she doesn't know why her number isn't on Emily's list, and suggests maybe it got erased accidentally.” She made a How-likely-is-that? face before continuing, “But in any case, she says they talk two or three times a week. On the other hand, she also says Emily never said anything about a fight with Frank Lupiano. She hasn't noticed any unusual behavior with Emily, has no idea what could be troubling her.”
Adam pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “Sybella,” he said, “can you check Emily's phone for calls made and calls received? Look for this number...”
Ms. Bennett turned the clipboard so that he could read Danielle's phone number.
After a few moments, he said, “Did you check both voice and text? Okay. How far back does the record go? Thanks.” He snapped his phone shut and gave a triumphant grin. “No calls to or from that number,” he said. “And Emily's log goes back as far as November.”
“Did I,” Ms. Bennett asked, “or did I not make it clear to that little ... young lady ... that this was very important?” She held out her hand for Adam to return the phone.
“You made it clear,” Mom said. But she was obviously shaken that Emily's best friend was covering something. “Why would Danielle lie?” Mom asked me. Like I would have some special insight. “After all the times she ate over, and slept over, the times we brought her with us to Darien Lake and treated her like family?”
“I don't know,” I said. I might have suggested that maybe Danielle misunderstood and somehow thoug
ht she was doing Emily a favor by covering for her, but I had heard Ms. Bennett tell her, “I don't want to sound overly dramatic, but her very life is in danger.” I mean, if someone said that to me about my best friend, I would have spilled my guts.
And that didn't explain why they hadn't called each other in months.
This time, the phone rang once, then went straight to voice mail.
Next, Ms. Bennett called Danielle's dorm adviser, where she had to leave a message. I don't think I'd ever heard anyone say “important,” “urgent,” and “of gravest consequence” so often in one headache-inducing sentence.
“I'll call Tanya Gardner again,” Mom said when Ms. Bennett finally hung up, sounding angry now. “I'll tell her that her daughter is endangering—”
Ms. Bennett was shaking her head. “We've tried this on our own. I think it's time to call in the police.”
That was scary, since I could be sure Rasmussem's legal department, as embodied by Mr. Kroll, would have warned against the bad publicity of a police report.
“Campus security would be more likely than city police to be able to find her,” Adam pointed out, “knowing the layout of the college.”
“Campus cops are no more scary than mall cops,” Ms. Bennett countered. “I want someone to scare this girl to a point just short of cardiac arrest.”
“Maybe I should drive to Geneseo to try to talk to her,” Mom said. “Explain. It's only about forty-five minutes away. Surely if I just explained—”
“Send me back,” I interrupted.
That did quiet the room.
“There's no time for all this,” I said. “Send me back.” “Are you sure?” Ms. Bennett asked. By the readouts she and Adam had been monitoring, she had no doubt seen exactly what had happened to me—how I had left the game that last time.
“She has no friends,” I said—what I had said before, when I'd been simply repeating Emily's words. But this time, I meant: If not me, who ?
I asked, “Is this transforming-into-a-dragon thing part of the game?”
“Dragon?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” Ms. Bennett said. “But having the ability to turn into a dragon means she's paid lots of money to the sprites.”