Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
“Breakneck Hill. I think I’m the one who’s going to break her neck.”
“No, you’re not. It was named a hundred years ago for some little boy who rode his bike down it.” Christina stood Ken by the barbecue. If I don’t think about what Dolly’s saying, it won’t be true, thought Christina.
Dolly folded her Barbie so that Barbie reclined in the bubble bath, her white toes poking up out of the tub. “Mrs. Shevvington told me that sometimes things repeat themselves when it’s exactly a hundred years.”
A tiny gold-and-red foil fire glinted in Ken’s barbecue.
Christina thought of falls and fires.
Was it just one step from burning a person’s clothes to burning that person?
“Dolly, don’t worry. You won’t fall. I promise. I’ll be there for you.”
Dolly beamed. “And will you do another little favor for me, too, Chrissie?” A voice half whine, half love. “Would you get books for me out of your school library? I have a list. I can’t get them from the elementary school library.”
“Why not? Are they sex manuals?”
“Of course not. They’re just stories. I can’t get through the week without some good books to read.”
“You mean you’ve read every single good book in the elementary school library?”
An odd, sly look came over Dolly’s face. “Yes,” she said. “That’s it.”
So the following day, Christina checked out five books from Dolly’s list and brought them home. It was near supper. Everybody was there. Mr. and Mrs. Shevvington, Michael, and Benj. You could not count Anya anymore. She seemed to occupy no space. Hardly more than air.
“Here are your books, Dolly,” Christina said. “Hope these are good enough. The librarian had to substitute one.”
Everybody stared at Christina.
“Christina,” said Mr. Shevvington, “I don’t know how much farther this can go. You know perfectly well we are trying to wean Dolly from her obsession with fictional characters. You know we are struggling to get her to dance and have friends over to play, instead of curling up with escape stories. And here you are, undermining our decisions, boldly and blatantly marching in here with the forbidden objects.”
Christina said, “Since when do high school principals and English teachers forbid a kid to read books?”
Michael whirled on Christina. “Since they have gotten concerned for her
health,
Christina. You think we want Dolly to be some nut case like you or Anya?”
But I’m the good guy! Christina thought.
“She was always spoiled,” Michael said. “The Shevvingtons are good for her. If you’d ever follow their rules, they’d be good for you, too.”
What did Michael see, upstairs at night? Did he see happy, funny Dolly? Did he not notice that Dolly was afraid of more and more things every day? Did he not think that when his little sister was even afraid of frost on the windows there was something radically wrong? “She’s your sister!” cried Christina. “Put her first.”
Michael said very quietly, “Do you ever put me first? How many of my games have you come to since the season started, Chrissie? You and I used to be really good friends. Do you even know whether I’m a starter or whether I warm the bench? Do you know how many points I’m averaging each game? Do you know who we’re playing next Friday? Have you ever brought my own sister to see me play?”
Christina flinched. While I was busy trying to be a savior, she thought, Michael stepped out of my mind like a stranger out of a bus.
“On the cupola of Schooner Inne,” said Mr. Shevvington, the Perfect Principal, “is a weathervane. A copper fish. Frozen in place. No matter how the wind blows, he points the same way.” Mr. Shevvington looked sadly at Christina. “No matter how the wind blows, Christina, you point only at Mrs. Shevvington and me. It’s time to melt, Christina.”
Michael and Benjamin and Dolly Jaye nodded.
Anya floated, unhearing.
Dolly slipped into a chair. She was small enough that her feet did not touch the floor, and she swung them a little, like a toddler.
There was ice in Christina’s heart, put there by the betrayals of her parents and friends. If she melted that ice, people would be her friends again. But if she ceased to fight the Shevvingtons, nobody would fight them. They would win forever and ever, whether they wanted to humiliate Katy in English or push Dolly off the balcony.
“We’re trying to help Dolly grow up,” explained Benj.
Christina abandoned melting. “Why does growing up in this household always mean you can’t do the things you like to do?” said Christina. “Dolly likes to read, so why can’t she read?”
“I suppose the corollary to that,” said Mrs. Shevvington, “is you like to burn your clothing, so why can’t you burn your clothing?”
Christina hurled all five of the library books straight at Mrs. Shevvington. None of them missed.
A
ND SO CHRISTINA LOST
her Saturday privileges again. While the others went out, she was forced to stay inside. It snowed all day: a light, friendly snow, the kind you turned your face up into and held out your tongue to collect a flake from the sky.
Mr. Shevvington went to the school, where he said he would be all day. He took his briefcase, waving it at Christina as he got into his car.
Mrs. Shevvington went to get groceries. Dolly went with her. Dolly said she loved doing errands.
How strange, thought Christina. Why doesn’t Dolly go out with her friends in the sixth grade?
Dolly has no friends.
She had not asked a single sixth-grade girl over to the Inne. Nor telephoned one. Nor talked about one. She was alone every day when she met Christina after school.
Am I Dolly’s only friend? thought Christina.
It was frightening. Christina’s dream of coming to the mainland had been to have rafts of friends — crowds — rooms full. At times she did. At this time she did not. But Dolly had never even used the word “friend.”
Christina sat alone in the house. Even Anya was gone, working at the laundromat.
Outside the tide fumbled in Candle Cove, whispering
Fffffffff, Ffffffff, Ffffffff.
It sounded like a giant blowing out candles on a birthday cake. In a moment the whispering would turn slushy, as the rising water crawled forward, gathered momentum, and then began slamming against the rocks like trapped thunder.
No sun glinted through the mansion’s windows. The color of the air was gray. The white banisters of the stairwell curled above her, like twirling cake candles. Christina climbed the stairs. She did not want to be near the cellar door.
Ffffffffffff,
said the cove.
At the second floor she paused.
The door to the last guest room — number eight — was open.
It seemed to Christina that she heard someone laughing.
Fffffffff,
said the cove.
Christina slid into room number eight, back against the wall, in case the giggle or the tide began to rise up in the house as well.
She had never noticed before that Room 8 had a definite personality. The pencil-thin posters of the high antique bed lent a fragile air to a room decorated in lace. The colors of the room were pale, the color of ghosts. And the surprise of the room was a thick black rug with silver and gray streaks, like a storm cloud on the floor.
The colors of Anya.
Ten file folders, thought Christina Romney. Mr. Shevvington counted out ten file folders and tucked them into his briefcase.
The last two aren’t yet closed — me and Dolly. Because we aren’t destroyed yet. That means eight folders of girls they
have
destroyed.
Eight guest rooms.
Val, Robbie’s older sister, must be the folder beneath Anya. Folder Seven. Room Seven. Slowly, as one opening a casket at a funeral home, Christina entered the room with 7 on the door.
She had been in these rooms several times. They were all different, but never before had she noticed
how
different.
Here the carpet was blue as the sea in summer, and the walls a rich violet, like sunset. The curtains were deeper blue, like night at sea. The room was small, but the dark colors did not close it in: they opened it, like a flower in a crystal vase.
It was a rich, sensuous room.
Val, sister of Robbie, on your narrow cot in your hospital room. Is this you? Are you a girl of violet and blue?
The room was as clean as a sanctuary. Waiting for its guest. But Val would never visit this room. She was trapped in another.
Christina backed out of Val’s room and crossed to Number 6. She peeked in from the hall, as if Number 6 would resent being trespassed upon.
Number 6 liked yellow. Number 6 was sunshine and gold, glinting like sunrise on glass. Number 6 would love dancing and music and laughter.
Christina did not want to see Number 1, or the personalities of Numbers 2, or 3, or 4, or 5.
But she thought about Number 6 all day.
Where are you, Number 6? From what high school did they take you? Into what laundromat or what institution did they put you?
Several days later, over supper, Michael talked relentlessly about basketball. The team was sixteen and nine, and if they won tonight’s game, they would go into the regional play-offs. He said almost shyly to Christina, “It was nice to see you at practice this afternoon.”
“You were terrific,” she said to him. “Especially at suicide.”
Michael grinned. “I love suicide.”
“You
what
?” said Dolly.
“Suicide,” explained Christina, “is when the coach makes the boys run full speed into the wall, slam into it, pivot around, race back across the gym, slam into that wall, pivot, race back across the gym, slam into — ”
“I get the point,” said Dolly. “And this is what my brother is good at? Why don’t they give it a peaceful name, like, say, Double Wall Approach?”
“Because it’s not peaceful,” said Benjamin. “It’s supposed to turn the team into warriors. Make them want to stomp the other team.” Benjamin was teasing his younger brother.
“What is it you guys yell when you huddle on the edge of the court just before the game begins?” Dolly wanted to know.
Michael grinned again. “Sometimes we yell ‘
Defense!
’ and sometimes we yell ‘
Team work!
’ but last week we yelled ‘
Crunch ’em!,
’ and we scored so high that we’re always gonna yell ‘
Crunch ’em!
’ from now on.”
Dolly said, “I hope skiing is more civilized.”
The Shevvingtons smiled.
Michael said, “I phoned Mom and Dad and got permission. But there’s one little problem. I don’t want to go. We’re having an extra practice that weekend and I’d rather do that. So if you don’t mind, Mrs. Shevvington, and thanks a lot for offering. I’ll spend the weekend with George instead.”
No! thought Christina. I need you. You haven’t noticed anything wrong with Dolly or the Shevvingtons yet, but I need your body and your muscles and your presence over the ski weekend!
“Fine idea,” said Mr. Shevvington. “George’s family are fine people. I approve heartily of your dedication to the team spirit, Michael.”
Michael did not notice the falseness in this silly sentence; it was the kind of remark he expected from a principal. “Gotta run. You coming to the game, Chrissie?”
“Yes,” said Christina. “Dolly and I both are.”
“Oh, no,” said Dolly. “I have homework.” Her brother stood very still. Christina had been stabbed like that many times this year. She had not known Michael was getting stabbed. “I bought tickets, Dolly,” said Christina. “You can do your homework at halftime. We need to see Michael play.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Michael. He was into his coat and out the door in moments.
Anya said, “I’ll go to the game with you, Chrissie. May I use Dolly’s ticket?”
They were so startled that Anya was still a living, speaking presence that nobody spoke. “That’s great, Anya,” Christina managed. “I’d love that. Finish your supper. We have to leave pretty soon.”
They had plenty of time actually, but to get Anya ready to appear in public might take half an evening.
Dolly asked Mrs. Shevvington if they could do her homework together. “It’s more fun that way,” she said, smiling up at Mrs. Shevvington.
Benjamin said, “Listen. If Michael’s not going skiing, I don’t want to. At the gas station they’ll pay me overtime. How about I stay at George’s, too? They have lots of room.”
Benj’s expression did not change like his brother’s or sister’s. There was no excitement, pleading, or enthusiasm. It was stolid. A fisherman’s face. He waited patiently for the Shevvingtons’ decision.
It came as no surprise to Christina that Mr. Shevvington felt this was a Fine Idea. Dedication to a Personal Goal. It was What Growing Up Was All About. Benj grunted and left the table.
So it would be Dolly, Anya, and Christina going skiing. Anya can’t even comb her hair, and Dolly wants to be crunched.
She would probably begin giggling with hysteria when they reached the ski resort, get locked up like Val or Number 6, leaving the Shevvingtons free to manipulate Dolly’s fear of heights on the Killer Slopes.
There was, Christina remembered, a ski trail called Suicide.
Perhaps they would start Dolly out on that one.
Anya came running down the stairs. “Are we going?” she said anxiously to Christina. Christina could remember when Anya wore a dark navy blue coat set off by a crimson scarf and soft, supple gloves with a purse that matched. Now Anya had gotten into an old ski jacket whose down was leaking out the seams. She’d rammed a ragged ski cap over her hair without checking in the mirror. One ear showed, the other didn’t.
Christina wanted to shake her by the shoulders.
Why can’t you pull yourself together? Why do you have to keep rowing with one oar?
But she loved Anya. “Here,” she said quietly. “Let me button your coat for you.” Anya had started with the first button, but the second hole. Christina fixed her and walked her to the front door.
Anya took her hand when they reached the sidewalk. “Slippery,” she confided.
You don’t know how slippery, thought Christina.
The two girls hiked.
If Blake were here, he’d drive us in his beautiful red sports car, thought Christina. She wondered if Anya had finished that letter to Blake and put a stamp on it and dropped it off at the post office. It seemed far more than Anya was capable of. Anyway, she hadn’t asked Blake for help. Only told him they were having tea and toast.