Grand & Humble

  I’m sorry, she said quickly, her hands uncharacteristically clumsy. Manny, I’m really sorry! As fast as it had calmed, the surface of the lake had rippled over again. To tell the truth, Manny was glad that the clear view into her soul was gone.

  He shook his head. No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m not sure why I did. Where had that anger come from? It had popped up out of nowhere like—well, like a jack-in-the-box.

  He walked back to the cardboard box to look at the toy nestled in with the kitchen utensils. It was a wooden jack-in-the-box with a dulled brass crank. Each side of the box had been carved and painted with a different letter—a blue “M,” for example, and a red “H.”

  It was his. He used to play with it as a boy. He hadn’t seen it for years, had forgotten all about it. But it was coming back to him now. There was something unusual that popped up from inside—not a clown, something else.

  It wasn’t surprising that his dad had saved his old jack-in-the-box. From the look of it, it was pretty valuable. Besides, his dad saved everything—every snapshot, every kitchen utensil, even every wire coat hanger, apparently. Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? He hadn’t saved any of Manny’s other toys. No baby pictures, and no toys.

  He looked around the basement and saw he was right. And it wasn’t just toys. His dad hadn’t saved any evidence of Manny’s early years at all—no trike, no crib, no bassinet. Nothing from before their move thirteen years ago. It was as if Manny had never been a baby, as if he’d crawled almost fully formed from some kind of pod. What was that about? Manny knew the answer his dad would give: he’d thrown everything away when they’d moved thirteen years ago.

  Except for the jack-in-the-box. It was beautiful—a work of art. Hand-carved, no doubt.

  Elsa watched him watching it. What is it? she asked.

  I’m not sure, he signed. He reached for the toy.

  It was heavier than he expected. He needed to turn the crank. If he could get the thing to open, see the inside, then he’d know—not just what was inside the jack-in-the-box, but maybe also whatever it was that had happened to him as a child that was causing his nightmares.

  And yet he hesitated before turning the crank. Did he want to know the truth or not?

  There was a creak at the top of the stairs. “Manny? Are you down there?”

  His dad! He’d come home! How had Manny not heard him come in? He’d been distracted, first by Elsa, then by the jack-in-the-box.

  “Yeah,” he said, not loudly, not softly. “I’m here.” The door was open and the light was on, so it wasn’t like he could lie.

  Manny heard footsteps—loud ones, more urgent than they should have been. The stairs didn’t squeak now; they trembled. Manny stood up, still holding the jack-in-the-box. Without thinking, he slipped the toy behind his back.

  Halfway down the steps, his dad said, “What are you doing down here?” It was more than a question, but not quite an accusation. He stopped when he saw Elsa, but he didn’t greet her yet. No, he wanted an answer from Manny.

  Manny needed a lie, and he needed one quick.

  “Going through our stuff,” he said, mustering up all the innocence he could manage. “Why wouldn’t I? Didn’t you say that we’re taking it all to Goodwill?” Realizing how stiff he looked trying to hide the jack-in-the-box behind his back, Manny forced himself to relax.

  At the bottom of the stairs now, his dad looked at him, then glanced quickly around the basement. When he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, he finally looked at Elsa and smiled, saying, “Hi, Elsa.”

  Hello, Elsa signed.

  His dad looked back at Manny, thinking. Then he smiled again, as if he’d made up his mind about something.

  “What?” Manny said.

  His dad shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll make dinner.” And he turned for the steps.

  As his dad started climbing back up the steps, Manny looked down at the jack-in-the-box, which he’d pulled part of the way out from behind his back. He could hardly wait for his dad to leave so he could open it up.

  But at that exact second, a third of the way up the stairs, his dad suddenly turned back around. “Manny, did you happen to—?” He stopped, eyes locked on Manny—and on whatever it was he was holding down at his side. “What do you have there?”

  “What?” Manny said. Suddenly it was deer-in-the-headlights time. It would only make things worse to now try to hide the jack-in-the-box again; on the other hand, he still didn’t want to show his dad what he’d found. So he just stood there, frozen, looking tense and very, very guilty. “It’s nothing,” Manny said, trying—now unsuccessfully—to sound casual. “Just something I found in one of these boxes.”

  “What is it?” his dad said. He was trying hard to sound casual too, but he wasn’t any more convincing than Manny had been.

  And already he was starting down the creaking stairs.

  Manny had no choice but to show his dad the jack-in-the-box. “It’s a toy,” Manny said. “I found it in with the kitchen stuff.”

  His dad stopped in front of Manny, eyes on the jack-in-the-box like it was a ticking time bomb about to explode.

  “Can I see it?” his dad said.

  “Huh?” Manny said. “Oh, I guess.” He handed it over, forcing himself to do it nonchalantly.

  “Hey!” his dad said, holding the toy. “I just got a great idea!”

  Right then, Manny knew he would never hold that jack-in-the-box, or even see it, ever again.

  “What?” Manny said meekly.

  “I can donate this old jack-in-the-box to the silent auction! I mean, it’s in great shape. And it’s obviously a classic. It just needs a little restoring.”

  “But—” Manny knew there was nothing he could say. Even if he protested—if he told his dad he wanted to save the jack-in-the-box because it was the only childhood toy he had left—his dad would just say something about how important it was for the charity. No matter what Manny said, his dad was taking that jack-in-the-box. He couldn’t even tell him to hold on a minute, ask his dad to let him turn the crank just one last time. His dad wouldn’t let him. He would make some excuse. And Manny couldn’t go to the silent auction and turn the crank either, because it wouldn’t be there. That jack-in-the-box was being swept out of his life forever, and there was nothing whatsoever Manny could do about it.

  Manny’s dad was already halfway up the stairs with the toy. “Why don’t you ask Elsa if she wants to stay for dinner?” he called back. “I’m making lentil tacos.” And as quickly as he had appeared, he and the jack-in-the-box were gone.

  Manny looked over at Elsa. She stared at him. To her credit, she looked as if she’d understood the essence of what had just happened. This was a good thing, because Manny was absolutely certain that he did not.

  HARLAN

  Harlan desperately needed to breathe; he just couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He swung his head to one side and gasped for air. It helped, but only for a second. A second later, he needed to breathe again.

  It was swim practice that Thursday, and once again he was swimming side by side with Ricky. He had skipped the swim meet at Harriet Tubman High School the day before. He’d told the coach he was sick, but of course that wasn’t the real reason he hadn’t gone.

  H2O danger Tub!

  Sure, the message from the Ouija board was probably just random words, or something conjured up from his own subconscious. But he couldn’t chance it—especially not after that bizarre encounter with the psychic, Marilyn Swan.

  Even so, the premonitions had not stopped. He was still seeing—and experiencing—visions of his future death. In one, he’d been trapped on a sinking ship, water gushing in around him. In another, he’d seen himself lying on his back in a cold alley, being pummeled in the chest by an enormous thug. He had avoided whatever might have happened at Harriet Tubman High School—but new dangers had materialized to replace that one, like a whole range of mountains rising up on the horizon after the fi
rst peak had been passed.

  And now his swimming was crap. For one thing, his breathing completely sucked. His intake was way down, and his rhythm was just plain off.

  There was a reason, of course. That afternoon, during World History, Harlan had finally found a way to stave off the premonitions, or so it seemed; he had forced himself to focus on the here and now, concentrating on every aspect of the present, everything he was thinking and feeling. Marilyn Swan had said that “dark forces” stayed in this world by latching onto the soul of a person who did not notice them. Harlan didn’t believe that, not really. But maybe part of him did, because it somehow made sense that if he was totally conscious of every thought and feeling, there wouldn’t be anywhere for the dark forces to hide, nothing for them to hold on to. In any event, being totally self-aware had stopped the premonitions, at least for now.

  But it had come at a cost. He hadn’t had a premonition since World History, true, but by concentrating on everything, he couldn’t concentrate on any one thing, like his swimming. He had to tell himself to kick, to stroke, to turn and push off from the wall. But that meant there couldn’t be any merging of mind and body now, no spiritual connection with Ricky swimming next to him. On the contrary, he barely even felt a connection to his own body. It was like he was outside himself; his mind was still attached to his body, but it was as if it was being dragged behind, like an ocean mine on a metal chain. It was all he could do to keep from drowning.

  Drowning. That reminded him of another thing Marilyn Swan had said. That he’d had an “accident” in water. It couldn’t be true. Like everything else she’d said, it was just so much bullshit. So why did it feel so true? Why did he imagine he could feel the water closing in over him? Why did it feel like if he didn’t immediately turn his head and take another breath, he’d inhale a mouthful of water? Because he’d psyched himself out, that’s why.

  The set ended at last. Harlan and Ricky sat in the water at the end of their lane, fingers on their neck arteries, staring at the big overhead clock and measuring their pulses.

  “One sixty,” Ricky said at last. He looked at Harlan.

  “Same,” Harlan lied. His pulse had really been 200, but that wasn’t bad when you considered that these days his resting pulse was probably barely under 130.

  “All right, folks!” called the coach from the door of his pool office. “Let’s run some sprints! Everyone down to the starting blocks.”

  “I’m not doing it!” said Jerry Blain from two lanes over, wildly splashing and flailing his arms. “You can’t make me!” Except for Ricky, the whole pool laughed, and Harlan knew this was a reference to what he’d said at Jerry’s party on Saturday night, the way he’d reacted when Amber had asked him to put his hands back on the Ouija board. By now, the whole school knew what had happened.

  Everyone looked to Harlan, figuring he’d have some sort of comeback, still expecting the true alpha male to somehow put Jerry in his place. But Harlan didn’t know what to say. For one thing, he had such a firm grip on his emotions that he worried that giving in to his anger at Jerry would cause his whole tightly wound existence to unravel.

  “What’s the matter, Chesterton?” Jeremy Ferber said. “Ghost got your tongue?”

  “Watch it, Ferber,” Ricky said. “He can still kick your butt.” Ricky turned to Harlan. “Just ignore ’em.” He adjusted the goggles on his head. “Come on, let’s swim to the starting blocks.”

  Harlan stared down at the water; even now, it seemed to press in on him. “You know, it’s not really happening for me today. I think I’ll check out early.” Then he climbed out of the pool and headed for the relative safety of the locker room.

  “They’re idiots,” Ricky said.

  It was a couple of minutes later, in the locker room. Harlan was getting dressed. Ricky stood at the far end of the row of lockers, still in his suit and dripping from the pool.

  “Whatever,” Harlan said.

  “They’re just jealous that you’re so much better than they are,” Ricky said.

  Harlan wasn’t completely dry, but he stepped into his pants anyway. “It’s not just the guys on the team,” he said. “It’s the whole school. I made a fool out of myself, and no one’s going to let me forget it.”

  Ricky stepped closer, clutching his own biceps in an effort to ward off the chill of the locker room. “They’ll forget it just as soon as you do. That’s what they’re reacting to, you know. Something in you. The old Harlan never would’ve let people say stuff like that.”

  “Maybe not.” Harlan buttoned his shirt.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So what’s goin’ on?”

  Harlan didn’t say anything, just sat down on the bench to put on his socks and shoes.

  “Come on, Har. Talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” But Harlan had said it too fast. It sounded defensive, not at all convincing.

  Ricky crouched down to Harlan’s level and lowered his voice. “Come on, man, what’s wrong? You really think there’s anything you can’t tell me?”

  But Harlan was already done with his shoes. He stood up again. He crammed his wet suit, goggles, and towel into his pack and turned for the exit.

  “There’s nothing wrong,” he said, starting for the door. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

  Inside the school theater, the stage lights were on full, with the cast of Camelot in the middle of a rehearsal. But Harlan knew that meant no one onstage could see back to the last row of the theater, where he took a seat. He could hear floorboards squeaking behind him—someone was moving around up in the lighting booth—but if anyone asked why Harlan was there, he could just say he was waiting for Amber, who was up onstage with the cast.

  Why had Harlan come here? To think? He was tired of thinking. Maybe it was just to get away, to be somewhere where no one would bother him. Why hadn’t he been able to tell Ricky what was on his mind? He knew Ricky wouldn’t judge. But he just couldn’t bring himself to say out loud all the things he’d been thinking and feeling.

  “Sorry!” said a voice. “I did not know you were there.” Someone was in the aisle next to him in the theater, someone who’d come to take a seat in the back row just like he had. But the voice sounded strange, atonal.

  It was a girl from his class. He could see her clearly because light shone in from the lobby.

  “I know you,” he said. “Elsa.” They’d never talked, but you didn’t get to be student body president without knowing everyone in school. So the first month of every year, he went through the school phone directory and memorized the name of every kid, just like his mom had told him to. Elsa was deaf, but she read lips. But Harlan knew Sign, so he motioned to her with his hands. I didn’t know you could talk.

  She stared at him. I didn’t know you knew Sign! she responded.

  Even now, Harlan had to admit he liked surprising people. I work with deaf kids, he signed. At the YMCA. What Harlan didn’t say was that he’d learned ASL because his mom thought photos or footage of a politician signing always made great press. But he definitely had an aptitude for the language—so much so that lately, while talking to the kids at the Y, he’d even caught himself “thinking” in Sign.

  You waiting for someone? she asked him.

  He nodded up toward the stage. My girlfriend. Amber Hodges.

  Elsa smiled. I know who your girlfriend is.

  Of course she knows, Harlan thought. Everyone knows who I am, and everyone knows who my girlfriend is. Harlan wondered if even Elsa—The Deaf Girl—had heard what had happened at the party on Saturday night.

  You waiting for someone too? Harlan asked. He was kind of assuming she wasn’t part of the show, and he hoped she wasn’t offended. Just because she was deaf, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be in theater, right?

  But she nodded yes; she was here waiting for someone too. Harlan didn’t say anything for a second, and there was kind of an awkward silence—which was funny, because they’
d been silent ever since they’d started signing. The theater floor, he noticed, smelled of ammonia and dirt.

  He stood up and started to move over a seat. Come on. We’ll wait together. Harlan wasn’t sure why he’d done that. All of a sudden, he just didn’t feel like being alone.

  It’s okay, Elsa signed. I’ll sit over here. She took a seat on the opposite side of the aisle. Harlan remembered that Deaf people—with a capital “D,” since this referred to Deaf culture—generally liked greater personal space so they could Sign more comfortably.

  Harlan lowered himself back down and they sat across from each other, watching the actors for a moment. They were walking through a scene with the director, coordinating with whoever was controlling the lights, trying to get the look just right. But they were also joking with one another and laughing. Two guys were having a mock sword fight with plastic swords.

  To Harlan’s surprise, it looked like fun. He’d only been to a school play once before, to see Amber in Guys and Dolls, but he’d spent the whole time in this same back row, snickering with his friends.

  You ever do any acting? Elsa said. The light from the lobby made it so they could easily read each other’s signing.

  I think I’ve been acting every day of my life, he replied.

  Why had he told her that? He didn’t even know this girl. It was something about Sign. He could say things without having to actually say them.

  You should try out for a play, Elsa signed.

  He nodded, but he was thinking, Uh-huh, right. There was no way his mom would stand for him appearing in a play. He heard how she talked about actors, about how flighty they were, how so many were gay. And then, of course, there were his friends; he could just hear what Jerry Blain would say about Harlan in tights.

  You have a boyfriend? he signed. Is that who you’re waiting for? He wasn’t sure what made him ask the question. He was just curious.