The Mostly True Story of Jack (12 page)

“You call your cats off,” Mr. Perkins yelled. “Call them off!”

But Wendy and Jack had already burst through the door and were tearing down the empty hall. As they turned
into the back corridor and headed for the door, they heard a thud, then a silence, then the scream of the attack.

Wendy hit the back door at full speed, knocking it open with a crash. Jack, a few strides behind, watched her take the steps three at a time and sprint across the square. She threw her arms up and hooted at the sky. Then she turned and smiled at Jack.

“Catch!” she called, and threw Clive’s book in a clean arc. Jack ran for it.

There’s a lot that can happen
, Jack thought later,
between a throw and a catch
. For days after their break-in at the Exchange, he replayed the scene in his mind, trying to pinpoint the moment when the world changed. He never could.

What he did remember was this: Wendy, running in the dark, the moon and streetlamps lighting the wisps of coppery hair that had escaped the braid; Wendy, halting on her heels, pirouetting with a flourish of scratched knees and sunburned arms; Wendy calling his name and letting the book fly away.

He caught it, and the ground shuddered under his feet (
a fault line
, he told himself).

He caught it, and the air shivered with a quick breath of cold that sliced through the thick, humid air.

He caught it, and Wendy’s face froze, then fell.

“What?” Jack asked. “What is it?” But the ground
under his feet still rippled and waved, and Wendy looked at him as though looking at a ghost.

“How did you do that?” she whispered. She stepped backward, nearly tripping on the sidewalk.

“Do what? Come on, Wendy, let’s get out of here.”

“I’ll see you—” she began, taking two more steps backward. “I gotta get home.” She turned and ran, disappearing into the dark.

“Wendy!” Jack called. “Wendy, come back!” But she didn’t come. And Jack stepped on his skateboard and sped home, listening to the rhythmic whisper of the wheels against the long, dark road.

T
HE CATS DIDN’T STAY LONG—ONLY LONG ENOUGH TO
drive a fearful Mr. Perkins under his desk and give him a nasty scratch below his eye. In a blur of silver fur they were gone.

Mr. Perkins sighed, shuddered, and crawled out from under the desk.

“Oh God,” he moaned. “What will Mr. Avery say?” He mopped the sweat off his face with his hand, then reached into his pocket to grab his handkerchief. But instead of the blue hankie, heavily embroidered with
moons and stars by his dear, late mother, he pulled out a small bundle of handwritten sheets of paper. Five pages, copied by hand, from the good Reverend’s diary. “What will he say, indeed?”

Mr. Perkins smiled.

Jack never told his aunt and uncle about the theft, and while the touch and weight of the book in his hands gave him some relief, there was, still, in the pit of his stomach, a kernel of dread. And he could feel it growing.

To ease his mind, he started heading out on his skateboard every day. What was once an awkward jumble of arms and legs barely balanced on four wheels was now an exercise in speed and fluidity. He moved easily from one end of the town to the other, going so fast and smooth, he felt he might be flying. Jack carried the book with him everywhere—sometimes in his backpack but more often tucked into his pants, with the belt cinched tightly. He read it faithfully now, often taking notes, and always sketching as he read.

This part was written by Clive himself, in his spidery, slanted script, on page 309:

In his own notebook, Jack wrote:

1. Clive thinks that people disappear. So does this Reverend guy. And that… something takes their souls. (Probably not true. Maybe people leave out of sheer boredom.)
   
2. People keep attack cats. Are there attack cats in San Francisco?
   
3. Mr. Avery’s in charge of… everything. And no one likes him. How does he get all that power? What does he have that no one else does? (Clive and Mr. Reverend Guy would say magic. But they’re nuts. What is it really?)
   
4. When someone is split into a good half and a bad half, does that mean the person’s brain is cut in half too?
   
5. This town makes me itch.
   

That last one was becoming more troublesome by the day. It started as a mild irritation at the back of his neck and forearms. Now Jack itched all over. It was as though his skin had suddenly transformed into an infernally hot and scratchy wool sweater—a gift from a relative, perhaps, that he was obligated to wear. In any case, it seemed as though his skin was not his skin anymore, that his body was trying to be something… else. And he didn’t know what. And it irked him.

It didn’t help Jack’s growing sense of discomfort that, for days after the break-in, he saw Mr. Perkins hurrying past him on a bicycle. Each time, Jack instinctively darted away, his skateboard easily outpacing the bike, but still he had the distinct impression that Mr. Perkins was laughing at him. That Mr. Perkins knew something that Jack did not.

But
Jack
, and not Mr. Perkins, had the book. That had to count for something—Jack was sure of it. Mostly sure anyway.

What do you know?
Jack wanted to shout. He had already checked every page, and it didn’t look as though anything had been ripped out. Still, Mr. Perkins had read
something
to make him this happy. And Jack was going to figure out what it was.

Mr. Perkins, Jack noticed, left the Exchange at ten o’clock every morning and rode his bicycle past the park toward a large, beautiful mansion right next door to the college campus. On the fifth day of watching the man go by, Jack decided to follow him. There was a tangled hedge that separated the park from the row of houses on its eastern side, and Jack crawled in, crouched down, and waited. The branches pressed around him gently, and though they looked like they might scratch and cut his skin, Jack was surprised at how soft they were. The leaves breathed as he breathed. He watched the road. Mr. Perkins paused his bicycle when he reached the park, planted one foot on the ground, and scanned the grounds. Jack held his breath. The branches of the hedge seemed to curl around him just a little bit tighter, shielding him from view.

“Hello!” Mr. Perkins called.

Why is he looking for me?
Jack wondered.

“Only cowards and sneaks hide,” Mr. Perkins yelled in a higher, squeakier voice. Tough words, Jack thought,
from the guy who had worn camouflage clothing while following him.

Mr. Perkins reached into his pocket, pulled out a small brown strap, and stroked his face with it before kicking at the pavement and pedaling down the street. Jack eased his body out of the hedge (Was it his imagination, or did the branches seem to hang on to his arms and legs? Did the leaves curl themselves on the curve of his skin?), dropped his skateboard on the ground, and followed him.

The skateboard noiselessly skimmed the road without so much as a push from Jack, eclipsing the distance between him and the peddling Mr. Perkins. Jack tried dragging his foot on the ground, but he continued to pick up speed. The mansion at the end of the road—Mr. Avery’s house, according to the map his uncle had given him—loomed closer and closer.

“Slow down,” he pleaded. “Slow down.” But the skateboard did not slow down, and if Jack didn’t do something soon, he’d hit the bicycle’s back wheel. Thinking fast, he stepped hard on the back deck, tipping the board up and sending sparks flying behind. He leaped off lightly, caught the board in mid-spin under his arm, and hid behind a parked car. Mr. Perkins paused and turned, but too late. Jack was already hidden. Mr. Perkins stood in front of the mansion at the end of the road and waited.

A very old, very rusty station wagon pulled to a halt, and a tall, well-dressed man stepped out, his lips curling
in distaste. He brushed his hands along his suit, as though trying to wipe away dirt and germs.

“
Perkins!
” he roared.

“I’m right here, sir,” Mr. Perkins said, letting the bicycle topple to the ground and holding out the manila envelope. “Welcome home, welcome home! We have been lost without you, sir, utterly lost. I’m sure you simply
forgot
to leave your itinerary with us, but I will say I had quite the time trying to rearrange your meetings when I didn’t know—”

“ENOUGH!” Mr. Avery roared. “I have no interest in your petulance, Perkins.”

“Of course, of course, sir. It’s just that we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough, and I have been anxious to share my findings with you. I have something that I
believe
you will find—”

“Quit prattling. Just give me the information and be done with it.”

“Of course, sir, it’s just that we have, I believe, access to a veritable treasure trove of—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Perkins, go inside. No. Scratch that. Get my bags, then go inside. Make yourself useful. And should I ever require the use of your automobile again, I would appreciate it if you’d invest in a new one. Your car stinks.” He waved his hand in front of his nose to demonstrate the point and went inside.

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Perkins continued, even though the other man was gone. “I’d just like to direct
your attention to these pages that I’ve copied—sir? Sir? From the book?” Mr. Perkins sighed, slumped his shoulders, and pulled the bundle of papers from his coat pocket. “Right here, sir,” he said to the open doorway. “From the Reverend Weihr’s diary.”

“What did you say?” Mr. Avery’s voice came from the inside of the house.

“The diary, sir. I managed to—”

“
Get in this house right now, you blithering idiot, before someone sees you!
” Mr. Avery roared. Two hands emerged from the doorway, grabbed Mr. Perkins by the shoulders, and hauled him inside.

Jack stood.

Copied pages
?
That can’t be good.
He shivered, turned, and was about to skate away when he heard the sound of someone crying. The voice hiccuped and sniffled and sobbed.

“Hello?” Jack said.

The crying continued, and the person crying didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, whoever it was, was saying something in between the sobs. “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop,” the voice said. Jack picked up his skateboard and crept around the side of the house.

A boy was seated on a basketball, his head on his knees, his hands pressed against his ears.

“Clayton?” Jack said, realizing from the beefy back and muscled arms who the boy was. “Clayton, are you all right?”
What are you doing, Jack?
he admonished himself.
To be honest, he wasn’t sure. Still, it didn’t seem right to just walk away.

Clayton sat up with a start. His face was blotchy and wet, and his ears were bright red. “What do you want?” he said.

Jack stepped backward. “Nothing. I just heard you were… I mean, I noticed that you were…”

“No, I wasn’t.” Clayton wiped his eyes and nose with the backs of his hands.

“No, you weren’t what?” Jack asked.

“Crying,” Clayton said with a sniff.

“Oh,” Jack said. “Okay.”

“And anyway, what are you doing here? This is
my
yard.” He said the word
my
with a certain relish that made Jack’s skin crawl. What was it that Clive’s book had said? That the word
mine
had a special significance… or something. Jack couldn’t remember.

“I’m not—I mean, I was just—”

“You were spying, weren’t you?” Clayton took two short, aggressive steps forward.

“No, I just—”

“You
were
. My mom
said
you would. I
knew
you would!”

“No, you see, I only wanted—” Jack started, but seeing the look on Clayton’s face, decided that it would be better to turn and run away. Once he hit the street, he jumped onto the skateboard.

“Oh, you are so
dead
,” Clayton said, but Jack was
already flying. After two blocks, he turned back to see if the other boy was following him. Clayton Avery stood in the middle of the road, perfectly still, framed on either side by the massive house behind him. For a moment, Jack had the distinct impression that the house was bearing down on the boy, or that the ground beneath him was bubbling up, that Clayton stood in the middle of two things that wanted nothing better than to swallow him whole.