Frost (5 page)

The rest of the meeting was a snore. We accomplished nothing. Not one thing. The agenda, besides giving Dorit the boot, called for the discussion of a new meeting place. We discussed it all right, but decided — as usual —
nada.

After the Storks had filed out, all — except Grim — wishing one another “Happy New Year,” I remained in my chair next to Hulda.

She tapped my wrist. “So, you wish to know how new Storks come to be.”

“Yes.”

“But do you not remember your own arrival?”

“Of course I do, but it had seemed unusual.” Unusual was an understatement. That night while working at Afi’s store, my scalp had felt like it was going to crawl off my head. I’d looked across the street to see Hulda’s shop open for the first time in months. To hide my head pox, I’d borrowed my poor dead
amma
’s beret and hustled over for bargains on velvets and satins. When the beret accidentally fell off, Hulda took one look at my blistered scalp and spooked me into following her down to a dungeon full of old soul-delivering birds, literally, where I was pronounced a member — the youngest ever, at that. So what, I asked myself, were the chances of this being standard recruitment practice?

“You found us,” Hulda said. “This was a sign. Now, as we did then, we wait for a sign.”

Holy cow.
If I remember correctly, it had been a three-year wait to find me. It just seemed there had to be a better way. “I wonder”— I said, thinking out loud —“if it wouldn’t do our group good to be a little more proactive in certain things.”

Hulda gave me a wide-eyed look. In a grave tone, she said, “We have, for centuries, followed a strict protocol. We rely on signs and dreams and omens to guide us in the selection of new Storks, just as we rely on signs and dreams to identify souls and vessels. These ways are not for us to change.”

Wasn’t it Hulda who once said “The bamboo that bends in the wind is stronger than the oak that resists”? I could tell, though, that I was already skating on thin ice. And as someone who once fell through a not-so-frozen lake and nearly died, I preferred terra firma.

“And Fru Hulda, are you worried about the way Dorit left us? She threatened you.”

“It is not Dorit I fear. Though she has disappointed and endangered us all, she has a good heart. She is shocked and her pride is wounded, but she has learned her lesson. Our secrets are safe with her.”

It wasn’t a bank I’d be depositing in, but I hoped Hulda was right.

“It was, rather, Wade’s actions that night,” Hulda said, “that most frightened me. The portals — the
Álaga Blettur
— the power places, if the seals were weakened when recently opened, if a wedge . . .” Hulda waved hands in front of her face, as if parting a curtain. “Listen to me. Such an old worrywart. Go. Be young. Enjoy this night.”

I wasn’t in the mood to contemplate wedges unless they were of the heeled variety. I wished her a Happy New Year and hightailed my feathers out of there. It was close to nine-thirty. Plenty of party time remained.

I drove to the New Year’s party straight from the Stork meeting. Surprised by the number of cars, I parked on the street a few houses down from Matthew’s. I had thought it was supposed to be a small group. As I walked down the sidewalk, I spied a lone figure huddled against a beat-up truck.

“Jack? Are you waiting for me?”

“Yes.”

“It’s freezing out here.” Even I couldn’t quite grasp his absolute immunity to the cold.

“How was your meeting?”

I tucked my arms under his and clasped my hands behind his back. “You know I can’t talk about it.” As much as it was a small comfort to have at least one person outside council who knew about this crazy responsibility of mine, the secrecy surrounding our Stork duties was often overwhelming.

“Fine.” He rested his chin on my head. “How about telling me if you’re in the mood for a party.”

“I’m in the mood to be with you. Anywhere.”

“Good answer.” He took my hand and led me toward Matthew’s house.

The party was in the basement, more aptly described as the entertainment level. There was a pool table, Ping-Pong table, long granite-topped bar, and huge U-shaped sectional front-and-center to a theater-worthy plasma HDTV. And there were kids everywhere. Way more than I expected.

Jack stopped to chat with Matthew. I spotted Penny and Tina sitting at the bar with Cokes in front of them.

“Happy New Year, girls,” I said, giving them both hugs. I pulled up a stool on the other side of Penny. “Big crowd.”

They exchanged looks.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Penny motioned with a dip of her head toward the TV area, where a big group, guys mainly, were watching a football game. They were loud and already rowdy. I noticed Pedro among them.

“Most of them weren’t invited,” Penny said.

“Matthew’s a nervous wreck,” Tina cut in. “He promised his parents he’d keep it small and that there wouldn’t be any drinking. If they come home early, he’s dead.”

I looked again at the group. I noticed they were mostly football players from our school and that many of them were drinking beer.

“Can’t Pedro talk to them?” I asked. “About the beers, anyway.”

“Pedro’s the one who brought them all,” Penny said with a roll of her eyes. “Without even checking with Matthew. Plus, he’s had a Coors in his hand since he got here.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is Matthew going to ask them to leave?”

“No,” Tina said. “Not yet, anyway. Only if they get out of control. But it’s just ruining the entire night for him. He’s all stressed out.”

Jack joined us at the bar. I raised my eyes warningly as he presumably summed up the mood of my two friends. “Do you want me to talk to Pedro?” he asked Penny.

“Good luck getting his attention,” she said. “He’s ignored me all night.”

Overhearing Jack and Penny’s conversation, Matthew stepped behind the bar. “Forget it,” he said to Jack. “I just don’t want any trouble. As long as they stay cool and take their empties with them.”

More kids arrived, gathering at the bar. Matthew and a buddy of his handed out sodas from the fridge. Jack and I got talked into a game of pool. We lost, but didn’t let it stop us from challenging Tina and Matthew to a game.

Around eleven, the Ping-Pong table was folded up, some
Top 40
s cranked through the cable-music channels, and a small dance floor got going.

Jack and I took seats at the bar. Matthew asked if we wanted anything, and I asked for a Coke. I spun my stool to watch the dancers when I heard Matthew behind me say, “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

I turned back around.

“There was a bottle of vodka here earlier; it’s gone.” He held up an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “And this was full.”

The three of us looked at the dancers, as if expecting to see a bottle being passed around brazenly, or a big back-pocket bulge on one of the linebackers stomping to the music.

The song changed to a slow one, and couples, one of which was Pedro and Penny, paired off.

“I can’t believe this,” Matthew said.

Tina joined Matthew behind the bar, swinging her hips to the music and trying to tempt him into a dance. He wouldn’t budge; he wasn’t going to leave the rest of his parents’ liquor unattended. Tina, Jack, and I kept Matthew company in his vigil. He was concocting schemes to refill the bottle, at least temporarily: iced tea, watered-down coffee, and even flat root beer were thrown around as possibilities.

A few minutes before midnight, Jack slipped his hand into mine and pulled me away from the bar and out the sliding-glass door to a patio.

“Do you mind?” he asked, leading us to a garden bench. “I don’t want to share you at midnight.”

“When you put it that way,” I said, huddling into the warmth of his offered arm.

“Can’t think of a better way to welcome a new year.”

“Any resolutions?” I asked.

“Actually, there is one.”

I was certain this was a clever segue into a remark about us, something that would lead perfectly into a New Year’s kiss. “What is it?” I asked.

“To devote myself to Stanley’s climate-change studies.”

“You’re not serious?” Devote? It was an odd word choice.

“It’s interesting and important,” he said. “And of all people, I should know the science behind weather. Maybe it’s the key to understanding this
thing
I have.”

He said “thing” as if his abilities were a curse, not a gift.

“I guess that’s good,” I said, though probably without too much conviction. “To learn how to best control or use your abilities.”

“I don’t want to control my abilities,” Jack said. “I’m more interested in getting rid of them.”

“Get rid of them?”

“They’re dangerous. You know that better than anyone.”

I was speechless. The little boy’s death had me just as shaken as him. And the whole thing was more my fault than his. Still, I hadn’t seen denying or abandoning our gifts as the answer.

From the house burst out a raucous chorus: “Ten, nine, eight . . .”

“But Jack . . .”

“Five, four, three . . .”

“No buts,” he said.

“Happy New Year!”

Before I could argue further, Jack swept me into a kiss. A subject-changing, resolve-melting, backbone-buckling smooch.

We were interrupted by loud voices that sounded more angry than celebratory. We rushed into the house just in time to see one of the football players duck as a barstool whizzed past his head and slammed into the wall with a deafening thud and splintering of wood. Two guys charged each other, only to be pulled apart by Pedro and three others. Within minutes, the commotion had settled, and the two guys had been kicked out, but the damage had already been done.

Matthew held the broken leg of a stool in one hand as he rubbed a deep dent in the wall with the other. Penny stood glaring at Pedro with her hands on her hips.

“What?” Pedro asked. “I didn’t do anything. I was clear across the room.”

“The hell you didn’t,” Penny said, brushing past him.

Afi decided to open the store for a few hours the morning of New Year’s Day, and I was heading over to help out. He had received a new shipment of groceries delayed by the storm and figured the locals, many snowbound over the holidays, would appreciate a chance to stock up.

“Good morning and happy New Year.” A bespectacled woman looked up from one of the back aisles, where she was shelving cans of baked beans like she worked here or something.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

Afi came padding out of the back room. “Have you two met?”

The woman stood. “I was just about to introduce myself.” She held out her hand. “Ofelia Dagmundsdottir. And you must be Kat.”

I cocked my head to the side and shook her hand warily. “Dagmundsdottir” meant only one thing: Icelandic. No real surprise there. But what was she doing stacking cans? I gave her a quick once-over. Fifty-something, I’d guess. Light brown hair with gray leaching in at the roots pulled into a loose back knot. Blockish figure. Soft brown eyes.

“Ofelia responded to my help-wanted sign,” Afi said.

“What sign?” I asked.

“The one I was just about to put up when she walked in.”

“What an odd thing,” Ofelia said. “I came in, had a good feeling about the place, asked if he needed help, and next thing I knew I was hired.”

“To work when?” I asked, not enjoying being so out of the loop.

“When you can’t and I don’t want to,” Afi said.

“When will that be?” I asked.

“A lot,” Afi said, heading back to the storeroom.

“He says he’s been a little under the weather,” Ofelia said. “I’m new in town, so even if it’s just temporary — I’m grateful.”

I scrunched my mouth to the side. Starbucks was hiring; that was common knowledge. Jaelle, my good friend, had about another week waitressing at the Kountry Kettle, so that was another available position. Not to mention my dad’s factory was about to open; not that I could see her assembling wind turbines, but, still, hundreds had stood in line on a cold December day to interview with Dad’s foreman. We were practically a boomtown, so why would she want to work here? Besides, I knew what Afi paid.

“Where are you from?” I asked.