Into the Wild Page 5

  Why didn’t they want to help her? This was her mother, their friend! What was wrong with them? “Then go inside!”

  All three of them seemed shocked. “Oh, I couldn’t,” the fairy godmother said. “Are you crazy?” Goldie shrieked. “We have to keep people out!” “Oh, sweetie,” Cindy said, “you don’t understand. If we went in there, we’d be back in the stories.”

  “You can’t resist it,” the fairy godmother said. “If you find a bear’s house, you must eat their porridge. If you go to a ball, you must lose a slipper. It would be worse for us: we have roles. The Wild knows which set of events would suit us best, and it would ensure we found them. It would catch us quickly.”

  “But you escaped before!” Julie cried. “You stopped it before!”

  “We didn’t,” Goldie said, harsh. “Why do you think the Wild was in your house? Your mother was the only one who knew how to stop it—that’s why she was responsible for guarding it. She wasn’t supposed to let this happen. She swore this would never happen.” Goldie buried her face in her hands. “I can’t go back there! I can’t! You don’t know what it’s like in there—I have no home, no friends, no family. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m cold. When Snow’s lost in the woods, the dwarves welcome her in. They love her. Me, I’m chased by bears! And there’s no reprieve, always chased, always hated . . .”

  Cindy put her arm around her, and Goldie knocked it away.

  Mom was the only one who knew how to stop it? Julie’s stomach flopped and, despite her sweater and the bike ride, she felt cold. Mom? Julie looked to Cindy. Was this true? No one else knew how to stop it? But . . . why? Why would her mother be the only one who knew?

  Cindy wrung her hands. “Your parents were alone, and your mother never liked to talk about it.” Julie stared at her. What was she saying? Her parents were alone when the Wild was defeated . . . her parents were part of its defeat? “We didn’t press her,” Cindy said. “She never got over losing your father, you know. She still misses him.”

  “But . . .” Julie said. She didn’t understand. She didn’t want to understand. Her father was there when the Wild was defeated . . .

  “Your father died in there,” Goldie said. “He died getting us out.”

  Holding out her hand, the fairy godmother forced a smile. “Come on, pumpkin. Take my hand.” Pumpkin. Mom always called her “pumpkin.”

  Julie turned and ran into the crowd.

  Chapter Seven

  Linda the Librarian

  Julie ducked into the library and collapsed against the book return box. Leaning around the box, she peeked out through the glass door. She didn’t see anyone on the sidewalk. Several policemen hurried by on the street. A squad car drove off in the opposite direction. She’d lost them. She was alone.

  She suddenly realized how true that was. I am alone, she thought. Mom’s in the Wild, and I’m alone. Julie felt sick. Putting her head between her knees, she tried to take deep breaths. Cindy and Goldie wouldn’t—or couldn’t—help. And Mom and Grandma were in the Wild. In the Wild!

  Your father died in there. He died getting us out. But how? Why such secrets? Why such terrible secrets? What had happened?

  Shouldn’t someone know? Shouldn’t there be a story? Wasn’t that the way Mom had said it worked? Anything that happened in the Wild became a story in the real world, she’d said. So shouldn’t there be some book with the tale of their escape?

  And wasn’t she in a library?

  Julie jumped to her feet and ran to the children’s room. The librarian, Linda, smiled and waved at her as she came in. “Julie! How nice to see you,” she said.

  Julie knew the exact shelf, the one beside the cage with the pet mice. She used to spend hours here, poring through every version of Rapunzel for hints of her father. In their cage, the three mice pressed their noses to the glass as Julie ran her fingers over the book spines. Bluebeard, Six Swans, Cinderella, Frog Prince, Snow White . . . It wouldn’t be in a traditional tale or she would have seen it before. It had to be part of an obscure tale, bundled in a collection. And it would be unique. Unlike other events in the Wild, the defeat of the Wild could only have happened once. There wouldn’t be hundreds of variations.

  Julie pulled out anthologies of Perrault, Hans Christian Andersen, Jack Zipes, and Asbjornsen and Moe. She dropped down to the floor and opened them one by one. How to win a kingdom, how to defeat a dragon, how to annoy a fairy, how to please elves, how to do impossible tasks, how to rescue a princess . . .

  Julie sprang up and pulled out the Andrew Lang fairy-tale books one by one. She flipped to the end of each tale. “Marriage, marriage, death, marriage . . .” She tossed the books on the floor as she finished with them.

  Smile wavering, Linda picked up the books as they hit the floor. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Aren’t there any more?” Julie asked. She took The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales off the shelf. Rapunzel appeared in only one story, the traditional tower story. It ended with Rapunzel wandering the desert until she found her prince, then crying to cure his blindness. Julie flipped pages. Nothing after “happily ever after.” Nothing about how she had escaped the Wild, reconciled with Gothel, and delayed Julie’s birth until she deemed it safe. Not even a hint. Julie snapped the book closed. “I need a story about the fairy-tale characters escaping the fairy tale,” Julie said.

  “Oh,” Linda said. “It’s out.”

  “Out?” Julie said, astounded. It actually existed, and the library owned a copy? How had she never seen it here before? How had she never read it? A book with all the answers she’d ever wanted! Just thinking about it made her head spin.

  “And so are the interlibrary loan copies and the copies in the Worcester Library,” Linda said. She headed for the circulation desk. “You won’t find it in Boston either.” Julie didn’t think to question how Linda knew about the other libraries’ copies.

  Oh, Mom, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell anyone?

  Outside, the police sirens screamed. “An emergency evacuation is in effect,” the megaphone blared. “Some might say,” Linda said softly, under the sound of the sirens, “this may not be such a horrible thing. With all the new people inside, there are bound to be new tales born out of the old stories. And the world needs new fairy tales. Or so some might say.”

  Julie didn’t hear her. She stared at the cover of Grimm’s: a painting of a princess, a knight, a tower, and a frog. Did it matter that no one else knew? So long as Mom knew how to stop it, that was enough, wasn’t it?

  If it was enough, why hadn’t she already escaped? Something must have prevented her: wolves, ogres, witches. She imagined her mother tied to a stake, a dragon circling above. Mom wouldn’t put up with it: she’d send the dragon to its room and cancel all its chocolate privileges. Julie half laughed, half hiccuped. No, no, she would not get hysterical.

  But that had to be the reason why Mom wasn’t here right now: something had caught her before she could act, and she was a prisoner somewhere. Julie traced the image of the tower on the cover of the book. Rescues happened all the time in the Wild. She’d seen a dozen tales just now. All Mom needed was to be rescued, and then she could do the rest.

  Julie just had to call a hero, and it would all be fixed. Yes, that was it! “Can I use the library phone?” she asked.

  Linda’s forehead puckered in a frown. “The library phone is not for personal use . . .”

  “Don’t you hear the sirens? This is an emergency! I need to call heroes!”

  Linda began to smile. “Ah, yes. The new generation of tales do need heroes. Please, be my guest . . .”

  Julie hurried past her. She picked up the phone at the circulation desk. She tried to remember the heroes’ real-world names: Jack the Giant Killer was Jack Bean; Prince Charming was Philip Charmin . . . None of the heroes lived in Northboro. Not enough adventure here, her mother had said. Some were in New York, some in L.A., and at least one was hunting yeti in the Himalayas. But they’d com
e back once they knew. Of course they would.

  She dialed.

  “What city?” the computer voice said. “New York,” Julie said. She wiped her free hand on her jeans. She was sweating. “What name?”

  “Jack Bean. B-e-a-n.”

  She’d start with hello, how are you. She’d say she had a problem. No, she’d flatter him first: she’d say she’d heard how brave a hero he was, and then she’d tell him about the Wild and Mom. She dialed his number, and the phone rang.

  She heard a click, and her heart leapt. “Jack and the Giantess aren’t in right now,” a woman’s voice boomed. A younger male voice continued: “But if you’d like to leave a message, please wait for the ‘moo.’” On cue, a cow mooed.

  He wasn’t home? How could he not be home? She left a message, and then she tried Prince Charming: Philip Charmin in L.A. Another answering machine.

  So far, she was batting zero, and it was getting harder and harder to stay calm. Who else could she call? She did-n’t know Aladdin’s last name. He was a test pilot in the air force. Pinocchio wasn’t much of a hero—he’d been a child actor for the past fifty years. The mattress princess’s husband was in Europe somewhere. The Frog Prince was a nature specialist in the Okefenokee Swamp. Julie had never met Snow’s ex-husband, and Rose (a.k.a. Sleeping Beauty) never even talked about hers. As for the others—the simpleton heroes, the lucky third sons, the invisible princes—Julie didn’t know if they were in the United States or Europe, or even if they’d ever escaped from the Wild in the first place. She certainly didn’t know their names, real or fairy tale. Her head felt as if it were buzzing. Julie’s plan was falling apart before it had even begun. She made herself put the receiver down on the cradle. Abruptly, the buzzing stopped.

  There had to be some way she could find out their real-world names. Cindy and Goldie would know, of course, but she couldn’t go back to them. Who else . . .

  Boots! Yes! Boots would know!

  She ran around the circulation desk. “Thank you!” she called to Linda.

  “You’re welcome,” Linda said. She still had an odd smile on her face. Julie didn’t have time to think about what it meant. And she didn’t see Linda walk back to the mouse cage and set the Three Blind Mice free. “You’re very welcome.”

  Chapter Eight

  Alone

  Julie coasted into her driveway as the garage door lurched, closing. Mom was home! Cindy was wrong! Looking for Mom’s car, she stood up on the pedals.

  A fat orange cat scooted out tail-first under the closing garage door. She swallowed back disappointment. It wasn’t Mom; it was Boots.

  Did Boots know about Mom? Oh, how was she going to tell him? He was not going to take this well. “Boots?” Julie said.

  Boots jumped and turned. “You’re home!”

  “Listen, Boots . . .” She looked down at the pavement and blinked fast. Why did she feel like crying again? Why was it so hard to say? “Boots, Mom’s in the Wild.”

  He didn’t say anything—he’s in shock, she thought. Julie raised her head. “Boots, I need to call . . .” she began. She stopped. He was wearing his cloak and boots. He had a sack over his shoulder. Boots never wore clothes outside the house. “Are you running away?” she asked.

  He ducked his head. “Not exactly.”

  She had a horrible thought. “Are you running toward?”

  “You don’t understand my kind of loneliness,” he said. “I am the only talking cat in the real world. I’ll never find love outside the Wild.”

  Julie felt as if the pavement had been ripped from under her feet. Speechless, she stared at him. First her mom and Grandma, and now Boots. She was losing her family. She shook her head—maybe she’d misunderstood. “You don’t mean . . .”

  “Plus there’s the constant fear of being tossed into some evil government laboratory where I’ll be dissected into a zillion pieces.” He said it casually, but he shuddered all the way down to the tip of his tail. “If I can avoid any poor miller’s sons, I might be able to stay free of my story, find my dream girl-cat, and start a new life. The Wild will be a jumble while it’s growing. I should be able to pick and choose my own tale or even avoid the tales altogether. It won’t be the same as last time.”

  She didn’t understand. “You aren’t happy here?” A dozen memories jumped into her mind: hide-and-seek (he always hid in the cat food cabinet) and cards (he always demanded they play Go Fish). Sure, they weren’t always buddy-buddy. But brothers and sisters were supposed to fight and tease. She’d never meant anything by it. And she’d never thought it was serious enough to make him want to leave. “Is it me?”

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It isn’t you,” he said. “I just don’t belong here.”

  “Of course you belong. You’re my brother!”

  He flinched but said, “I’m a cat. A five-hundred-plus-year-old talking cat who eats Fancy Feast and pretends to chase squirrels so strangers will think I’m a pet.”

  But . . . but she’d grown up with him. Maybe she wasn’t from the Wild. Maybe she didn’t know what it had been like outside the Wild for all those years, but he’d been her brother for every year she had been alive. That wasn’t something you could toss away like it didn’t mean anything. “We’re family. We have to stick together.” You couldn’t just stop being family. She gulped and blinked, trying not to cry. “Mom needs us.”

  “Your mother had some money in her jewelry box. You can use it for a bus from the center of Shrewsbury. If you start now, you should be able to outdistance the Wild. For a little while, at least.”

  How could he do this? Bad enough that the Wild had escaped and Mom and Grandma were lost—how could Boots deliberately abandon her? How could he reject her? They were family, whether he liked it or not. “What about family loyalty? Are you just going to abandon your own sister?” Despite her best efforts, her voice cracked. “Did you plan this? Did you make the wish in the well?”

  “Of course not—Zel would skin me alive,” he said. “But I’m not going to cry over spilt milk either. I have a second chance—the love of my life could be in there.”

  That was the most selfish, the most . . .

  Dropping to four paws, he ran down the driveway. “I’m sorry, Julie!”

  “You are the worst brother ever!” she called after him. “You’re not a cat; you’re a rat!” She chased him to the end of the driveway. “Come back! Boots!”

  Brim of his hat bobbing, he only ran faster, disappearing over the hill without looking back. She hugged herself against the October air. Alone, she trudged inside.

  The house felt very empty. The hum of the refrigerator was extra loud, like an overgrown mosquito. She heard the living room clock tick. Julie didn’t like the thoughts she was thinking. She didn’t like the feeling in her stomach, as if she were hanging upside down. She didn’t like the horrible whisper in her head: What if they’re right? What if all she could do was run?

  Julie climbed the stairs slowly. Going into her mother’s bedroom, she lifted the lid of her mother’s jewelry box. Potpourri smells wafted out of it, and Julie swallowed a lump in her throat. Her mother loved “smell-good stuff,” as she called it—anything but rose or pine or forest-scented. Her jewelry box smelled a little like jam.

  The money that Boots had mentioned was on top, a stack of folded twenties. She could take a bus from the center of Shrewsbury to New York and from there, anywhere.

  Julie picked up the bills. Underneath them were her mother’s necklaces. Julie set the money aside and looked through them: the jade circle that the Nightingale had given her, the cat pendant shaped like Boots, the silver choker the dwarves had made. She held the choker in her hands, remembering how many times she’d seen it around her mother’s neck. She pictured her mom looking like a movie star in her black floor-length dress and this necklace. She had worn that outfit to Julie’s fifth-grade play, saying it was Julie’s premiere, so she should dress the part. Julie blinked fast.

  Reaching back into the
box, her fingers brushed her mom’s key. All the times that her mother had reminded her to lock her bedroom door hadn’t mattered at all. Even if she’d piled on locks, the Wild still would have been whisked to freedom. It had escaped through a wish, not through doors.

  Cindy had said it wasn’t Julie’s wish. It couldn’t have been. Grandma had called Ursa at the motel before Julie had said that horrible thing. Something had happened at the motel before Julie ever spoke. But even though her wish hadn’t caused this, she still felt responsible. The Wild had been under her bed, after all.

  Julie tried to remember if she had seen the Wild last night when she went to bed, and she couldn’t remember actually looking. She had assumed it was there. She should have checked. If she’d checked, if she’d known sooner . . . But no, she’d been too busy feeling sorry for herself.

  It hit her like a blow: what if her wish—her horrible wish that Zel weren’t her mother—were the last thing she ever said to her?

  Thinking about it made her insides twist. It didn’t matter that her wish hadn’t caused the Wild to escape, she realized. What mattered was that she’d said it at all. Mom was now trapped in the Wild thinking that Julie hated her, and Julie might never have the chance to explain. She kept replaying the night in her head. What if she never saw her mother again, never heard her say “uppy snuppy” again, never laughed at her horrible quiche again? What if that was the last moment she got?

  She couldn’t let that happen. If no one would go in to rescue Mom, she’d go herself. The thought made her catch her breath. Could she . . . No, no, it was crazy. She wasn’t a hero. The idea of voluntarily entering the woods with all its dragons, witches, and ogres . . . Julie shuddered. It was a job for a hero. Like my father, she thought. He died in there. Her hands clenched. The Wild killed her father, and now it had her mother.

  The Wild has declared war on your family, she thought. Now, what are you going to do about it?