Curse of the Spider King (3 page)

“When the time is right,” she replied, “we will indeed sit and talk about this special book. You have a birthday coming up, don't you, Tommy?”

“Ah, next month . . . November twelfth, why?”

“That's what they told you, is it? Of course, they wouldn't know, would they. Hmm.”

“What
who
told me? Wouldn't know . . . huh?”

“Let's just say”—she paused and consulted a small notebook—“let's say we'll need to talk again in two weeks.”

“Okay,” said Tommy. “I'll read as much as I can by then.”

“So clear now,” Mrs. Galdarro muttered to herself. Tommy felt like she was staring at the side of his head. “This is a new haircut, isn't it, Tommy? Last year in sixth grade, you wore your hair long, over your ears.”

“Yes, ma'am. My mom got tired of it and made me cut it off.”

“Hmm, that was fortunate,” she said. “I might not have noticed otherwise.”

“What?”

“Nothing at all, Tommy.”

“Oh.”

Mrs. Galdarro stood up. “This meeting is hereby adjourned. Your parents should be here to pick you up soon.”

“Over? Already?”

“Yes, dear boy. I called them and suggested they come right back. Wouldn't want you stuck here with the bad weather coming in, you know.”

“But I kind of liked being here. It kind of . . . well . . . feels like being at my grandma's house.”

“I understand,” she replied kindly. “Why don't you take a few more cookies with you?”

“Okay!” Tommy selected three of the largest cookies and then looked down at his new book. “So this book is for me? I can keep it, right?”

“As long as you live,” she replied. “It's a gift. Now I think it is time—”

“Mrs. Galdarro?”

“Yes?”

“Do you still think I have talent?”

“I don't think, Tommy, I know.”

“Why me?” he asked finally.

“Read, dear boy,” she replied as she walked with him from the library into the hall. “The book holds all the answers . . . even to the questions you have yet to ask. Now go. Your parents will be along shortly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Galdarro. For the book, the cookies, and . . .”

“You are quite welcome, lad.” She put up her hood once more. Tommy started to walk away.

“Tommy,” Mrs. Galdarro called to him, “there is one more thing. When you come to the section called ‘Red Dusk,' page 277 I believe, wait until daylight to read it.” Muted thunder rumbled outside. The few lights that were on flickered.

Tommy didn't know what to make of that.
Red Dusk.
He gave a half wave and walked up the hall toward the main office. As he turned the corner toward the school's front doors, he could still hear Mr. Charlie whistling a tune from somewhere in the quiet school.

As soon as Tommy left the building, he realized the thunder had not been an empty threat. Great waving sheets of rain rode gusts of howling wind. Tommy wiped a few spattered raindrops out of his eyes and immediately knelt on the sidewalk beneath the awning. He didn't want anything to happen to the unusual book Mrs. Galdarro had given him. He unslung his backpack and swiftly put the gift inside. He stood and swung the backpack up over his shoulder and took a bite of one of his cookies. Then he looked out into the school's parking lot and stopped chewing.

The black sports car was still there, parked under the same streetlight by the curb, and leaning against the side of the car was a tall man. A curtain of rain fell between them, and the man wore a wide-brimmed hat, so Tommy could not see the man's features. The collar of his dark gray trench coat was turned up, his hands were buried in the coat's deep pockets, and he stood very still and seemed content to wait. Rainwater ran off the brim of his hat and down his shoulders.

Tommy didn't see his parents' car anywhere in the school's parking lot. He felt panic rising up inside like a bubble. Though the strange man made no movement toward him at all, Tommy felt such an overwhelming sense of impending doom that his knees started to buckle.

Suddenly, the man in the dark gray coat stood up straight as if he'd just been startled awake. He spun around before Tommy could see his face, clawed at the car door, got it open, and leaped in. The sports car roared to life, fishtailed once on the wet pavement, and sped out of the parking lot.

“Good riddance, Mobius,” came a musical voice from behind. Tommy wheeled around and found Mr. Charlie standing by the door right behind him. He held a mop in one hand. His smile was broad . . . almost triumphant.

“Do you know that guy?” Tommy asked the school custodian.

“I'ze just came to make sure you was safe,” said Mr. Charlie.

“But that man—”

“I didn' see no man.” Mr. Charlie turned to go back inside. “Looks like your folks is here,” he said over his shoulder as he and his mop disappeared back into the school.

3

Blue Girl

KAT SIMONSON had colored her hair the night before. It was the fourth time she had changed her hair shade since school began—and it was only the second month of the school year. Kat Simonson stood in front of her floor-to-ceiling mirror and played with a few of the long pink strands near her ear. She twisted them restlessly around her index finger. The truth was that no hair color went with
poly
.

“Whatever,” she half spoke, half sighed. She opened her drawer and searched among the boxes of dye anyway.

“Kat, let's go!” her mom shouted from downstairs.

“Right there, Mom,” she replied as she closed the drawer. Maybe next she'd try natural medium ash blond. She grabbed her backpack, slipped out of her room, and began the winding trek though the house.

Kat's home—a sprawling compound of windows and terracotta—rested on an exclusive bluff in North Hollywood overlooking Los Angeles, California. Her friends could scarcely contain their jealousy whenever they came over. They were fascinated with the voice-activated, house-wide stereo system, the plethora of HD flat-screen TVs in multiple family rooms, and her 1,500-square-foot game room. Kat's parties were not to be missed and they rarely were . . . by anyone.

But the gatherings were never her ideas, always her parents attempting to get their reclusive daughter to “connect” or “nurture relationships.” But Kat knew better. She saw the looks from her so-called friends. She knew they were the same ones who talked about her when her back was turned, called her Blue Girl and Smurf. They just liked her house. Her stuff.

After navigating the halls and the three flights of stairs, Kat set the alarm code on the keypad by the front door and went outside. She threw her bag in the backseat of their Escalade—the green one—and jumped in.

“You can sit up front, you know,” said Mrs. Simonson.

Kat slammed the door. Silence from the backseat at first. Then a hesitant, “Thanks, but I like to spread out.” Then silence from the front seat. The huge SUV crawled down the driveway.

“Kat, I was thinking—” Too late. Kat slipped in her earbuds, hit play, and bass-heavy rock blasted away at once.

Mrs. Simonson heard the static buzz of the music.
So loud,
she thought.
That can't be good for her ears.
But she wasn't going to tell Kat to turn it down. It would just be another negative thing to say . . . another few inches of distance between her and her daughter. She glanced in the rearview mirror.

Mrs. Simonson remembered the first time she saw her daughter, just a photo at the adoption agency. She'd fallen in love right there and then. And when she first got a chance to hold Kat, they seemed to bond in such an immediate, powerful way. She just never thought things would turn out as they had.

The poly had come out of nowhere when Kat was seven. Her skin turned blue.
Polycythemia vera
was the doctors' diagnosis. Her body carried too much blood, limiting its oxygen-carrying ability and giving her skin that otherworldly blue tone. Once the poly hit, Kat was never the same. Withdrawn. Sullen. Combative. Her mom winced and stared straight ahead. Kat seemed so unreachable now. Every reply was clipped. Every suggestion shot down. Every compliment ignored. Mrs. Simonson wished they could go back to the easy rapport they shared, especially on those blessed vacations to the beach house. She sighed. Melancholy washed over her like waves over a sandcastle.

Kat stared through the side window. She tried to keep her mind numbed by the blare of distorted metal guitars and thunderous drums. But just before the scene was swallowed by palm trees and gated communities, Kat glimpsed a flicker of sunlight on the Pacific Ocean. Her mind went to her parents' summer cottage in Newport Beach. Despite their incredible wealth, the Simonsons' “escape home,” as they liked to call it, was much smaller than most on the shore. But that was why Kat liked it so much. Simple. Picturesque. Little more than a two-room bungalow with kitchen and attached dining room—but a broad view of the ocean from every room.

On its quaint patio, Kat and her parents used to sit and have endless conversations about memories and dreams. From the house, it was only a few strides into the surf and the vast expanse of ocean—Kat's favorite thing in the entire world. She would spend all her time there wading, swimming, snorkeling, and surfing. It was the only place, in fact, that she really felt at home.

She wished she could go there now.
Any place but here
, she thought, glancing up at her mother. It wasn't that she didn't love her mom. She wished she could spend more time with her the way they used to before the poly. Kat's feelings stemmed from the fact that, no matter what Kat did, she always felt like she was a disappointment to her mom. Kat wanted her mom to approve, to applaud, to accept her, but Kat always felt like she had let her down . . . like she wasn't the daughter her mother wanted her to be—even though her mother often said she was proud of Kat.

Kat caught her mother glancing into the rearview mirror and then giving Kat a longing stare and a heavy sigh. She'd been doing that kind of thing a lot lately: sighing, staring, shaking her head. Kat knew why.
I'm a failure,
she thought.
I don't get the grades. I'm not in any clubs.
And I don't have any good friends.
Kat turned up the music.

Mrs. Simonson reached over the seat and tapped Kat on the knee. “You ready for your American history test?”

Kat frowned and took out one earbud. “What?”

“I said, are you ready for the American history test?”

“I guess,” Kat said, watching one mansion after another pass by. They'd be getting on the highway in a few more blocks.

“Did you need help studying? We're still early. We could pull over at Starbucks and just—”

“No, Mom. Thanks. I'm good.” Kat stuffed the earbud back in. Kat growled at herself internally. She knew she'd been rude.
How can
I tell her how I'm feeling? She won't understand.
Kat laughed with exasperation. Besides asking for things and quick yes-and-no stuff, did she even know how to talk to her mother at all anymore? Kat stole a glance at the rearview mirror and saw her mother's furrowed brow.
One big,
happy family.

They rode the rest of the way without talking, Kat engrossed in her music and Mrs. Simonson tuning to a satellite talk-radio station. When they finally arrived at Sierra Valley Middle, Kat turned off her music, slipped out of the SUV, and showed a weak smile to her mom.

“Don't forget, Dad will be picking you up from school today because—”

“Because you guys just fired the third housekeeper this month.”

Her mom sighed. “Honey, she made some serious mistakes.”

“I guess our family rubbed off on her.”

“Oh, Kat.” Her mom looked down and fidgeted with the steering wheel. She looked up. “I love you.”

“Thanks. Can I go now?” Kat watched her mother's shoulders sag as the tinted window went up.
Mom says I love you, and what do I do? I
kick her to the curb. Real nice, Kat.

Kat turned to walk away, then suddenly stumbled. Disorientation came on so fast she almost got sick. She doubled over. Her vision blurred. A loud ringing came to her ears and slowly faded. Voices came next. No, it was one voice. It came in and out like a radio station not quite in range. It sounded like her mother's voice, but just snippets.
Oh, Kat . . . why . . . so much . . . I can't . . . anymore.

Kat could almost feel her mother gripping the steering wheel harder and harder. She could almost feel the tightness in the muscles of her mother's neck and shoulders. She could almost feel the wetness of tears on her mother's face. Kat reached up to her own cheek. No tears at all.
What's happening to me?

It passed as quickly as it had come on. Feeling like she'd just awakened from a strange dream, Kat continued up the school's front steps. She refrained from looking back as she jostled between other students and squashed through the school's front door. She ignored the whispers:

“Blue girl.”

“Now she has pink hair.”

“What's wrong with her?”

When she'd climbed the stairs to the second flight, Kat looked out of the gum-wad-speckled window to the teeming lot in front of the school and then to the glittering city beyond.

4

Manifest Destiny

THE AMERICAN history test packet glared up at Kat from the desktop.
What a screw-up
, she thought.
I could have studied with Mom and
had Starbucks to boot.
She signed her name on the top and nervously flipped the pages, looking at the questions and assessing her complete lack of knowledge.
This is a disaster.

She tapped her pencil on the desk and looked nonchalantly around the room; everyone was already leaping into the first question. She looked back to her test, took a breath, and read the first question again: