The Otherworldlies (6 page)

“No, you certainly shouldn’t have!” The Commander’s face was hard like granite. Fern realized she would receive no sympathy from her mother. “If you ever do something like this again, there will be severe consequences. I wouldn’t try testing me.”

Mrs. McAllister sensed that her daughter was on the verge of losing her composure once more. She placed her hands on Fern’s shoulders. “Well, we’re going to fix this, you hear me?”

“I promise I won’t leave like that again,” Fern said, knowing full well that if things kept going the way they were going, she was offering up a promise she couldn’t keep.

“We’ll talk more about this tomorrow. You’re still very grounded, by the way,” Mrs. McAllister said sternly, getting up from Fern’s bed. She turned back to Fern as she reached the doorway. “You can always talk to me, Fern.” As she left, she flicked off the lights.

Although Mary Lou McAllister was somewhat relieved, she still felt slightly uneasy. She’d known from the beginning that Fern was very different, perhaps even painfully so. Deep in the recesses of her mind, Mrs. McAllister knew it was unlikely that Fern had snuck out of St. Gregory’s undetected and taken the bus to the beach. But like many people in her position, the Commander, when confronted with two realities, chose to believe the one that wouldn’t keep her up at night. For this reason, Mrs. McAllister went to bed thinking she had a child whose odd conduct could still be explained within the normal parameters of adolescent behavior.

The moon came through the front upstairs window, bathing Fern’s room in icy light. Though Mrs. McAllister hardly showed it, Fern knew she had made her mother feel better, which in turn had made Fern feel better. Even so, the heart of the matter gnawed at her: Mary Lou McAllister would rather have a daughter who had lied to everyone, including her own mother, and ditched school to take a bus to the beach, than a daughter who defied logical explanation. What if Fern couldn’t control this teleporting thing, whatever it was? What if she disappeared again?

Fern hated herself right then. She hated the fact that she had no power over the things that made her stick out the most. She hated that she was getting worse. But she would try harder, she resolved as she lay in her bed. If it destroyed her, she would try to be more like Eddie, more like Sam. She thought of Sam and his excitement over her ability to “teleport.” It was an easy thing to enjoy from a distance. When you were the one it was happening to, though, it was terrifying.

A slight rustle interrupted Fern’s thoughts. She looked around her dark room. A white object fluttered in through the open window, landing at the foot of her bed. Her heart leaped as she wrestled with her comforter to get a closer look. It was a paper airplane, expertly folded. She opened it and held it up to the moonlight. A message was written on the inside of the white paper.

I know who you are. I want to help. Please meet me at Anderson’s Grove at midnight tomorrow.

Fern was trembling as she crept close to her window. The jacaranda tree outside was motionless, as was the street below. San Juan Capistrano was, as usual, tranquil at this hour of the night. Fern’s mind was anything but. The youngest McAllister closed her window and crawled into bed, almost paralyzed with fear. Her eyes wide open, she was almost afraid to blink. After two hours of restlessness, her stomach churning all the while, sleep finally overcame Fern.

Chapter 4
the strangers in the living room

M
r. Wallace Summers had been living across the street from the McAllisters for a little over two months before he found a way to penetrate their living room. The next night he stood on the porch, anxious after knocking on the McAllister front door. Eddie answered, wearing pajama pants and a St. Gregory’s football T-shirt. His hair was disheveled.

“Hey, Mr. Summers! What’s up?” The McAllisters had just finished dinner and the twins were in the kitchen washing the dishes.

“Hi there, Eddie. I don’t mean to impose, but my cable just went out.”

“Oh man, are you watching the game?” Eddie, who was not permitted to watch television of any kind during dinner, had just turned on the night’s Los Angeles Lakers game. Sometimes Kinsey Wood would come over and watch whatever game was on with him, but tonight Eddie was flying solo. He and Mr. Summers had become friendly of late. They had recently struck up a conversation about Doug Flutie’s historic extra-point dropkick against the Dolphins while Mr. Summers was on a walk and Eddie was mowing the McAllister front lawn. Since then, they had had similar discussions when they saw each other around the neighborhood. The eldest McAllister child was lonesome for anybody who was the least bit knowledgeable about sports.

“I know it’s late and I’m probably intruding, but if I could watch the second half of the Lakers game here, I would really appreciate it,” Mr. Summers said, speaking loudly, hoping the occupants of the kitchen could hear him. Fern detected something eerie in Mr. Summer’s voice—something that made her feel as if there were a trail of fire ants climbing down her backbone.

“I’d love some company.” Eddie invited him into the living room. He had a habit of saying yes to people even when he lacked the jurisdiction to do so.

Sam’s face twisted into a glower. He didn’t like Mr. Summers one bit. Any son would feel the same way after catching a man leering at his mother through her kitchen window, and Sam had spotted Mr. Summers doing this several times in the past few weeks with his gaze fixed on Mrs. McAllister, in her daisy-print apron, leaning over the sink and humming to herself while she rinsed dishes.

Now this stranger stood in their living room. It wasn’t long before the rest of the family, still cleaning up the remains of dinner, had gathered in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Mrs. McAllister stepped forward.

“Eddie, are you going to introduce us to your guest?” Mrs. McAllister smiled widely. Fern could spot it immediately. Her mother was using her “manners” again—something she was always hounding Fern to acquire in the immediate future.

“How rude of me not to come in and introduce myself,” Mr. Summers said, striding toward the trio of McAllisters gathered in the doorway. He was tall and thin, almost like a cardboard cutout of a real man. His dimples made him look much younger than he probably was. Still, he was handsome for someone older. Fern took into account his salt and pepper hair and pegged him as forty-eight—a few years older than her mother. Mary Lou was first in the greeting line. As Mr. Summers took Mrs. McAllister’s hand, he bent his head and pressed his lips firmly against the back of it.

“Mrs. McAllister, I presume,” Mr. Summers said. Fern thought he sounded like he was imitating Professor Plum from
Clue
. He continued, “I’m so sorry I’ve invited myself into your beautiful home. I’m afraid that much like your son, I’m a hopeless Lakers fan. And my cable has gone out. Wallace Summers, by the way,”

“Well, Wallace, you’re welcome anytime,” Mrs. McAllister said, staring at Mr. Summers’s soft brown eyes. “I’m Eddie’s mother, Mary Lou. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Fern was horrified. Her mother was blushing. It was the same color Sam had turned last week when she told him that she had overheard Sally White talking about “cute Sam McAllister.”

Mr. Summers smiled back. The two stared at each other. Grown men, up to this point, had never played a significant roll in the McAllister household—Mrs. McAllister wanted it that way. But now that her children were older, it looked as if Mrs. McAllister was on the verge of breaking her own rules.

Fern looked at her twin brother. Sam’s face moved like a revolving sprinkler head between his mother and the stranger in the living room. His eye caught Fern’s. Sam put his index finger down his throat and made an audible gagging sound.

“Are you okay, son?” Mr. Summers had caught the end of Sam’s display of disgust and failed to acknowledge that Sam was mocking him.

“I’m fine,” Sam said. “But I’m not your son.” His voice was full of contempt.

“Sam,” Mrs. McAllister said, “where are your manners? It’s a figure of speech. There’s no need to take things so literally.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem, Mary Lou. I appreciate someone who says what they think.” Mr. Summers extended his hand toward Sam like it was an olive branch. “Sam, I’m Mr. Summers.” Sam took the man’s hand and shook it limply, refusing to look the neighbor in the eye. “Good to meet you,” he said before moving on down the line.

“You must be Fern!” Mr. Summers bent over so he was closer to her eye level.

“You know my name?” she asked warily.

“Eddie mentioned it. Now what’s this I hear about your record on predicting the weather? Is that true?”

Fern looked quizzical. She found it very unlikely that Eddie had told this man about her predictions on the weather.

“I’m pretty good at it,” Fern said.

“Pretty good? I’d say correct forecasts over two years is better than
pretty good
.”

“Yeah,” Fern said, slightly embarrassed.

“You climb trees, too?”

“Yes,” Fern said.

“Mrs. Atwood down the street works at St. Gregory’s—she says all anyone’s been talking about is your disappearance at school. Do we have a Houdini Jr. in our midst?”

“No,” Fern said as her face turned hot.

“I remember playing hooky once or twice when I was your age.” Mr. Summers smiled and his dimples made him seem perfectly innocuous. He looked up at Mrs. McAllister and winked. “Of course, I’m not encouraging such behavior.”

Fern was now terribly self-conscious. Was she really that much of a topic of conversation? Sam stepped in between Mr. Summers and Fern, rather awkwardly.

“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions, Mr. Summers?” Sam asked with scorn. “Or is it only Fern that you’re interested in?”

Mr. Summers took a step back. Fern thought she recognized a glint of anger in Mr. Summers’s otherwise charming face.

Eddie, still on the couch, jumped up, yelped, and pumped his fist. “Holy . . . awesome!” Kobe Bryant had sunk a long three pointer just as the halftime buzzer sounded.

Mrs. McAllister caught Sam’s eye and raised an eyebrow at him. She would deal with him later. The four of them were still crowded in the doorway.

“Please sit back down, Wallace,” she said. “Sam, why don’t you ask Mr. Summers if he would like something to drink?”

Sam didn’t move an inch. He looked at Mr. Summers as if the two were about to duel.

“Sam? Did you hear me?” Mrs. McAllister said, losing patience by the second.

“Sorry. I thought you told me not to take things so literally.”

Mrs. McAllister zeroed in on Sam and was about to send him to his room for the night when Wallace Summers stepped in.

“No, no, Mary Lou, don’t trouble yourself,” Mr. Summers said, sitting down. “I’ll just watch with Eddie here and let myself out when the game’s over.”

Upstairs, minutes later, Sam was unable to shake his anger at Mr. Summers’s intrusion. Fern, still grounded, had been sent up to her room after her brief encounter with Mr. Summers, and Sam snuck into her room, hoping to discuss the strange arrival. The two were now whispering back and forth.

“You really made Mom mad, Sam. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grounds you or something. She hates it when you get mouthy.”

“I didn’t like all the questions he was asking you. What if he knows you can teleport?” Sam said, sliding their newly discovered word seamlessly into the conversation.

“I thought you said I shouldn’t be worried about people finding out about me teleporting.”

“You shouldn’t worry,” Sam said, folding his arms and sitting in Fern’s rocking chair. “I just don’t like him is all.”

“You’re mad because he has a crush on Mom,” Fern said.

“I don’t care if he wants to marry Mom. He seems nosy.”

“Yeah, a little,” Fern said, thinking of the chilly feeling she’d had when Mr. Summers arrived.

Suddenly, Fern doubled over in pain, clutching her sides. It was her stomach.

“Stomachache, again?” Sam said, unable to hide his alarm. She was having more and more of these lately—
usually right before something significant happened. Though Mrs. McAllister was convinced Fern had a case of irritable bowel syndrome, nothing helped.

Fern, near the point of doing anything to stop the pain, couldn’t move her thoughts from the note she’d received last night. Earlier she’d resolved to keep its contents to herself. But she thought sharing it with Sam might ease the tension in her stomach.

“Look . . . ,” Fern said, concentrating, trying to will the pain away. “Look . . . in my top desk drawer.” Although slightly disappointed in herself, Fern could feel the pressure in her stomach relent.

Fern’s desk, a rolltop she’d inherited from her mother, was cluttered with books and papers. Sam jumped up and retrieved a folded white piece of paper. He unfolded it gingerly, sat back down in the cushioned rocker, and began to read the note aloud.

“‘I know who you are. I want to help. Please meet me at . . .’” Sam’s voice trailed off. “Fern?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who wrote this?” Sam’s eyes were as big as two pickle jar lids.

“I don’t know.” Fern’s words came out slowly.

“When did you get it?”

“It came in through the window last night, after Mom left.”

“I’m coming with you,” Sam said, studying the note. He was determined—Fern could see that.

“Who says I’m going at all?” she asked. Though she was miffed at her inability to keep her own secrets, the shared burden was much easier to bear. If she did go, Sam would be with her every step of the way.

“Maybe it’s Mr. Summers!” Fern said.

“We’d better find out who it is, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You have to go. This person says they can help you.”

Sam’s last sentence hung awkwardly between them in the dim light of Fern’s bedroom. Sam, always the protector, was normally very careful to say nothing that indicated his confusion about Fern.

“You think I need help?” Fern could feel the lump in the back of her throat swelling. Her brother’s view of her was no different from the rest of San Juan’s. She was a misfit, through and through.

“You’re different from the rest of us, Fern,” Sam said, pleading.

“I know.” Before she disappeared, none of this had mattered. Now, Fern thought, her difference was the only thing that mattered.

“We need to find out all the information we can. Who knows? Maybe I can learn to disappear, too.”

“What if it’s a hoax? What if it’s a kidnapper—or someone out to get me?”

“If someone wanted to hurt you, instead of chucking a paper airplane through your bedroom window, they’d have come in themselves.”

“You really think we should go?”

“Think about it, Fern. If we don’t find out who this is, we’ll worry about everything and everybody. Even Mr. Summers. We need to get to the bottom of this, whatever happens.”

“Okay,” Fern said.

“I’d better scram before Mom gets wise. I’ll be back at eleven forty-five.” Sam hopped off his sister’s chair, still gripping the note. “I’m going to keep this for now, if you don’t mind.”

“What, are you going to dust it for prints or something?” Fern said, wondering what Sam could possibly do with the note.

“I don’t want you losing it, that’s all. It’s our only clue to who you are.”

Sam’s last sentence stung Fern a little. Being a McAllister wasn’t enough anymore.

Fern couldn’t sleep—not that she expected to. Against her better judgment, she decided to pass the time by reading
Lord of the Flies
. (She was still a little nervous that somehow she might be transported back to Pirate’s Cove, only this time at night.) Things were not looking good for Piggy, Ralph, and the boys. Jack, who had his eye on Ralph’s position as chief, did not seem trustworthy.

A rustling caused Fern to look up from the book.

Pulling off the covers, she began to get out of bed, but she stepped on something that wasn’t the floor. She stumbled and cried out. She was soon able to see what she had tripped over. Sam had managed to sneak into her room and had crouched beside her bed. He held his head in his hands and grimaced as he stood up.

“What are you doing? I’m not a human step stool!” Sam spoke in a fierce whisper, wondering if his mother had been awakened by Fern’s yelping.

“You scared me half to death, Sam!” Fern whispered back. She took one look at her brother in the faint glow of her reading light and cupped her hand over her mouth to suppress her laughter. “What
are
you wearing?” Sam stood before her in camouflage pants, a black turtleneck, and a black leather hat with earflaps. He looked like Elmer Fudd on his way to a funeral.

“I’m going to hide while you meet with the note writer. I’ll only come out if I need to, you know, go under cover.”

Fern shook her head in disbelief, forgetting all about the potential danger that awaited her in the grove. Moments like these, when Sam tried his best to take on the role of the strong male protector of the household, cracked Fern up.

“Are you going to wave your earflaps at them if they make trouble?”

“Never mind,” Sam said, annoyed at his sister for belittling his efforts.

The two siblings were silent for a few minutes, letting the situation sink in. Neither had any idea who or what was waiting for them in the grove. Sam hoped it was answers. Fern hoped she wasn’t putting her brother in danger—she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if something happened to him.

“The Commander came in and talked to me about my ‘inappropriate’ behavior with Mr. Summers,” Sam said. “She came down pretty hard on me.”