Mr. Metos smiled. It was a strange sort of smile, one that only his mouth participated in. His eyes still looked stern. “And then what happened?”
“Well”—Charlotte gulped—“her mom was a goddess. The goddess of the harvest.”
“Demeter. Yes. Keep going, Charlotte.”
“And, um, she was so sad about her daughter that she wouldn’t let any grain grow, so the people starved. And so Zeus told Hades he’d have to let Persephone go. But Hades tricked Persephone into eating some pomegranate seeds, so she had to stay.”
“That’s right. Once you’ve eaten the food of the dead, you are bound to the underworld. But Zeus didn’t want the people to starve. So he worked out a compromise. For six months Persephone would stay on Earth with her mother, and since her mother was happy, the earth would bloom. And for six months Persephone has to live in the underworld, and during that time nothing grows on Earth. That is why we have seasons.” He rubbed his hands together, then nodded toward Charlotte. “Very good,” he said. Then he turned away. “Now, there are several stories of mortals going into the underworld and coming out again. It’s a bit of a rite of passage in epic tales. Can anyone name one? Eric?”
Charlotte exhaled deeply. She hadn’t spoken so much in this class all year, and she hoped she would not have to again. All of the kids were looking at her like she was some kind of redheaded supergeek. It wasn’t like that at all; she was just a redhead who’d had a book when she was a kid. Jeez.
That night Charlotte had the strangest dream. She was running through a field by herself, on the most beautiful day the world had ever made. And then suddenly she heard a loud cracking sound. It went on and on. And then the earth began to open. A man appeared in front of Charlotte—or something very like a man—a very tall, thin man in a tuxedo, with yellow eyes and white skin. And he lunged toward Charlotte and she started to run, but everywhere she went, the earth opened up in front of her. And then there was nowhere left to run. The man-like man grabbed her and jumped into the great, dank chasm. And then she was falling, and she heard a rumbling, and the earth closed up, and all was dark.
When she woke up, she said, “That was the strangest dream.”
“Meow,” said the kitten.
For the next week the Mielswetzskis busied themselves with preparing for Zachary’s arrival. Mrs. Mielswetzski spent several days degirling the guest room—taking down the fluffy curtains, stripping the bed of the flowered sheets and comforter, and replacing it all with a nice masculine taupe. “We want your cousin to feel at home,” she said firmly. Charlotte thought that with the huge grown-up bed and the big private bathroom, Zachary would probably do just fine.
Charlotte’s mother seemed to be getting more and more nervous as the day approached, and she spent her time constantly questioning Charlotte about her behavioral plans.
“You’ll be nice to your cousin?” asked Mrs. Mielswetzski.
“Of course, Mom,” said Charlotte.
“You’ll show him around school?”
“Of course, Mom,” said Charlotte.
“You’ll introduce him to your friends?”
“Of course, Mom,” said Charlotte.
“You’ll help him catch up in his classes?”
“Of course, Mom,” said Charlotte.
“I mean, you’ll be really nice, Charlotte. You’ll really try hard?”
“Mom!” said Charlotte.
“Because sometimes you can be a little, well, prickly.”
“Mom!” said Charlotte.
“Well, honey…”
Despite the fact that her own mother thought she was prickly, Charlotte felt that life was distinctly looking up, and perhaps she would not run away and catch a boat to Paris quite yet. Bartholomew had taken to sleeping on her bed, and that’s all she really needed out of life. The kitten had charmed her mother and father, too—she spent her evenings sleeping in the lap of one or the other, when she wasn’t doing a mad dash around the perimeter of the house. She had the strangest habit of running to the dining room, leaping on the table, skidding all the way across on the slick surface, and flying off, front arms spread out like a kitten superhero. She walked over tables, dressers, credenzas, bookshelves, weaving in and out of Mielswetzski vases, photos, and other decorative accessories, sometimes avoiding them, sometimes leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. At about four in the morning she would start pouncing on Charlotte’s feet, meowing loudly and gnawing on her toes. Charlotte would get out of bed, pick the kitten up, put her in the hallway, and regretfully shut the door behind her.
The Mielswetzskis were of a mind to think all this sleeplessness and destruction was cute, as is constitutionally required of a kitten owner, and every night when the family sat down to dinner, Charlotte’s mother would say, “Well, no one called about Bartholomew today.”
And her father would say, “I didn’t hear anything either.”
“But it’s early yet,” her mother would add quickly.
“That’s true. We mustn’t get too attached,” her father would agree.
And Charlotte would smile, listening to the sound of Mew’s feet prancing through the living room.
At night she would get in bed next to her kitten and whisper, “Now, Mew, are you going to be nice to my cousin?”
“Meow,” said Mew.
“Are you going to introduce him to your kitten friends?”
“Meow,” said Mew.
“You’ll help him catch up in his kitten classes?”
“Meow,” said Mew.
“Are you sure? You can be a bit fuzzy sometimes.”
“Meow,” said Mew.
“Well, okay then. Good kitty,” said Charlotte. And she would fall asleep happily with Mew next to her, unaware that in a few minutes she would be dreaming of falling through the earth again.
CHAPTER 3
Zee
ZACHARY MILLER ARRIVED ON SATURDAY NIGHT, along with Charlotte’s uncle, who had flown all the way over from London to drop off his son. Charlotte told her mother that she thought this was a bit excessive and thirteen-year-olds were perfectly capable of making the journey by themselves, and international travel had gotten rather sophisticated since the invention of the airplane, and the language difference between England and America was not so great that Zachary wouldn’t be able to cope in the airport, but Charlotte’s mother told her that if she were sending her child to Europe to live, she’d want to come drop her off too, missy.
The Mielswetzski household was in a flutter all day. Bartholomew was running up and down various walls. Mrs. Mielswetzski changed the curtains in the guest room (“Zachary’s room”) again to a nice masculine gray flannel, for fear the boy would find all the taupe overwhelming. Mr. Mielswetzski spent the day making his special chicken cacciatore. Mrs. Mielswetzski bought a cake, and Mr. Mielswetzski decorated it with WELCOME HOME, ZACHARY, which, if you asked Charlotte, was overdoing it—but once again, nobody had asked her. They took great pains to decorate the dining room—Mrs. Mielswetzski put up balloons, and Mr. Mielswetzski put up streamers. Bartholomew began to do furious laps around the entire room, buzzing over the table and under the chairs, trailing streamers and balloons behind her until an hour before the Millers’ plane was to arrive, when Charlotte found her passed out on the floor, wrapped in paper streamers and Scotch tape.
“Well, I guess she didn’t like the decorations,” said Mr. Mielswetzski.
“Or maybe she liked them too much,” said Mrs. Mielswetzski.
So Charlotte and her father spent the next hour removing streamers, tape, and kitten from the dining room, while Mrs. Mielswetzski drove to the airport.
Two hours later the cake was decorated, the dining room cleaned, the tablecloth laid, the table set, the chicken cacciatored, and the Mielswetzski family car was pulling into the garage. Charlotte was in her room putting on her green sweater, which looked excellent with her hair. Charlotte had a strange urge to impress her unknown cousin from London, even if she didn’t know wha
t to think about his arrival; no matter what, it never hurt to look your best, and maybe if Zachary liked her, he would take her back with him to London. She heard the garage door open and pursed her lips, wondering how her life was about to change.
“They’re HERE!” shouted Mr. Mielswetzski.
“I SEE,” shouted Charlotte.
“Well, come on DOWN!” shouted Mr. Mielswetzski.
On her way down the stairs Charlotte stopped at the landing to see if she could catch a glimpse of her cousin, but it was too dark outside—all she could make out were dim forms. She took a deep breath and headed to the kitchen.
“Are you excited?” asked Mr. Mielswetzski.
She shrugged.
“That sweater looks beautiful on you. I’m sure your cousin will like it.”
Gross, thought Charlotte, wishing she had worn something else.
But before she could protest, the door opened. “Here we are!” sang her mother.
There was a flurry of motion then—Charlotte was given a large hug by someone who was probably Uncle John, while her parents bobbed around beside them. Charlotte felt herself being steered in the direction of the living room, and before she knew what had hit her, she was standing in the living room alone with her cousin, who was holding a glass of soda (with ice and a lemon wedge), while the door closed gently behind them.
Charlotte stared at Zachary, who was looking blankly at the icy, lemony, soda-y glass in his hand. He was tall, a whole head above Charlotte, and very thin, like a boy who could run very fast when called on. But he didn’t look like he had done much running lately; his brown skin seemed very sallow, his eyes were sunken in, and his face was gaunt. He looked tired—as anyone might after an all-day flight, Charlotte reminded herself.
“Was your flight okay?” she asked. It seemed like the thing people said.
“Um, yeah,” he said. “Bit long.”
“I bet,” Charlotte said. “I’ve never been on a flight so long. How long?”
“Uh…seven hours,” he said.
Words sounded so much cooler out of Zachary’s mouth. Charlotte wished she talked like that. Maybe when she went to England someday, she would pick up a nice accent, then even when she said stupid things, no one would notice because her voice was so cool. It’s one thing to get together with all your friends and dye your hair blond, it’s another thing to have a British accent.
“So,” Charlotte said, “do people call you Zach or, uh—”
“Zee,” he said. “I like Zee.”
“Cool,” said Charlotte. Well, Zee was certainly much cooler than she was. He would be a good person to have on her side, assuming he didn’t completely disown her for being a baboon, which he probably would.
“Yeah,” he said.
“So, um…”
“So.”
“Well.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “You’re going to start school on Monday?”
Zachary—Zee—yawned, a full-face yawn that seemed to stretch to his hairline. His brown eyes watered. “Sorry,” he said formally, “I’m really knackered.”
“What?”
“I’m knackered,” he repeated loudly.
“Oh,” said Charlotte.
“So, yes,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I’m going to your school. We’ll be in the same year?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You can give me a tour,” said Zee.
Charlotte relaxed a little. Maybe he didn’t think she was a super-loser-freak—even if she had been acting like one, he was too tired to notice. “’Course I will,” she said. “No problem.”
“Brilliant,” he said softly, which Charlotte thought was a bit of an overstatement. “So, um, how is it? School?”
“Okay,” Charlotte shrugged. “It’s school.”
“And…your, uh, classmates…what, uh…” He shifted a little. “What are they like?” He was looking at her strangely.
“Oh, you know…” Charlotte shrugged.
“Anything…odd?” he asked.
“Odd?” Charlotte stared at him.
“Oh, you know….” He bit his lip. “Is everyone…feeling…okay?”
“Feeling okay?” Charlotte blinked. “You mean…are the kids sick?”
“Yeah. You know”—he laughed a little—“does your school have a plague? Bubonic or, um…” He trailed off. He seemed to be trying to make a joke, but Charlotte could not for the life of her figure out what the joke was. It must be a British thing, she thought.
“Well, there’s a plague of blondness,” Charlotte said.
He blinked at her and opened his mouth, but just then a loud crash came from the dining room. Charlotte and Zee exchanged looks. Mr. and Mrs. Mielswetzski emerged from the kitchen. They all went into the dining room, to find the entire tablecloth scooted over to one side of the table, broken plates on the floor, and a very scared-looking Mew frozen under the table.
“Oh my goodness,” said Mr. Mielswetzski.
“Oh my goodness,” said Mrs. Mielswetzski and Uncle John.
“Poor kitty,” said Charlotte.
The five of them stood staring at the mess for several moments. Mrs. Mielswetzski let out a heavy sigh, and Mr. Mielswetzski clapped his hands together.
“Well,” he said. “Shall we eat in the kitchen, then?”
“May I help you, Uncle Mike?” said Zee with utmost politeness. Charlotte gaped at him. Oh, great. That’s all she needed—a cousin with a good attitude. She could see he was going to make her look very, very bad.
At dinner the family made polite conversation across the small kitchen table, as polite as could be when you were constantly elbowing the person on your right. Charlotte was elbowing Uncle John and being elbowed by her mother. Charlotte excused herself the first couple of times, but soon she gave up. There were better ways for a growing girl to expend her energy.
Zee, though, issued a formal apology each time he elbowed Mr. Mielswetzski. The first few times Charlotte’s father assured his nephew that it was no trouble, no trouble at all, it can hardly be helped, don’t worry yourself over it, young man, I’m elbowing my wife right this minute. But as the elbowing and apologies accrued, and it became more and more apparent that all his jovial assurances were for naught, the vitality was slowly sapped from Mr. Mielswetzski, and by the end of dinner he was practically helpless.
It wasn’t just the elbowing. Over the course of the dinner Charlotte watched, amazed, while her cousin comported himself as if he were eating with the Queen. Everything was “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me.” His napkin rested cleanly in his lap, his posture was impeccable, and his knife stayed perched, blade in, on the rim of his plate. “My, so polite,” her mother kept saying.
“Thank you, Aunt Tara,” said Zee.
“Don’t worry,” whispered Uncle John to Charlotte. “Half the British kids act like this. It’s in the water. Makes us all look like a bunch of drooling apes.”
Charlotte glared at him. He didn’t notice.
She studied her cousin through the dinner, through the chicken cacciatore and the cake and the clearing of the table (with which he insisted on helping). She studied him when the whole family adjourned to the dining room to clean up Mew’s mess—despite Mrs. Mielswetzski’s best efforts to send the weary travelers to bed. She kept replaying the conversation in the living room in her mind. Maybe he’s really paranoid about getting sick, she thought. Maybe he’s an athlete, or he had a friend who died of the black plague and for the rest of his life he’s been afraid he’ll get it too. It’s not a rational fear—but then, fear is not rational, is it? Or maybe he was just cra—mentally ill. (Her mother did not like it when she referred to people as crazy.) She’d read about people like that; they think germs are everywhere and are always washing their hands and stuff. Or maybe he thought that American schools were really, really dirty. Charlotte wanted to ask him, but if he really was nuts, it probably wouldn’t be polite to mention it. Once upon a time there was a weird boy named Zee who suffere
d from a strange fear….
Or so Charlotte was thinking as they picked up the last shards of plate and pieces of silverware from the dining-room floor. Mr. Mielswetzski swept, Mrs. Mielswetzski went to shake out the tablecloth, Charlotte put the silverware in the dishwasher, and Zee accidentally stepped on Mr. Mielswetzski’s foot.
“Oh! Uncle Mike!” exclaimed Zee loudly. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“No,” sighed Mr. Mielswetzski, “it’s fine.”
When Charlotte went to bed, Mew did not join her. Charlotte left her door open and waited. Mew did not come. Finally she got up and went to find her cat.
It did not take her long. When she passed by the guest room—no, Zachary’s room—she saw a hint of fuzziness behind the half-open door. She stopped and peered in (which was almost certainly not polite) and there, snuggled up next to her cousin’s head, was Bartholomew.
I didn’t say be that nice to him, she thought.
Charlotte made her way down the stairs to the kitchen for a glass of water and perhaps—just perhaps—a kitty treat to be placed conveniently in the doorway to her room, but she stopped just outside the kitchen door. Uncle John and her mother were talking in voices that suggested they did not want to be disturbed.
So Charlotte crouched behind the doorway to listen.
“I really appreciate your taking him like this,” said Uncle John.
“I keep telling you, it’s our pleasure,” said her mother. “I think it will be good for Charlotte, too.”
Charlotte bristled. And why, exactly, is that? She would have liked to stomp in and ask, but that probably wouldn’t have been a good idea, so instead she just waited.
Alas, Uncle John wasn’t nearly as interested in Charlotte as Charlotte was. “Well, Suz and I are really grateful.”
“Anyway, it’s all for a good reason, right?” her mother said. “It’s so exciting that you got transferred back here. You’ve been gone so long!”
“Right,” said Uncle John quickly. “A stroke of luck.”
Charlotte thought this was the most boring conversation she had ever eavesdropped on. If adults are going to talk in quiet voices, they have a duty at least to say something interesting.