I wasn’t sure what to make of Hen as we stepped onto the road. What do you say to someone who just rescued you?
“Hen, um,” I started, but was interrupted by Corbyn catching up with us.
“Mr. Valentine told me to help you since you’re struggling so much.”
My cheeks burned. “Oh, uh great,” I said.
“Corbyn, don’t butt in when someone’s giving me a compliment. Go on, Underboy.”
“Oh, um, thanks for, you know. . . .”
“For rescuing your butt and looking awesome doing it? Anytime, dude,” she said cheerily. “I gotta say, those were some crazy moves.”
“Wait, how long were you watching me back there?” I asked.
“Watching you?” Corbyn asked, his voice cracking.
“I meant Hen,” I clarified.
“I got there right when you jumped into that tornado thing. That was sick, dude.”
“I didn’t really jump–”
Hen cut me off. “I saw jumping and that’s what I’m going to tell people.”
“I’m guessing you do sports then?” I said. I shivered and wiped sweat from my forehead, my body still trying to figure out whether it was hot or cold.
“I’ll be the only freshman on the varsity Hexball team this fall,” Hen said.
“What’s Hexball?”
“Only the best sport ever. You try to get score balls through the other team’s hoops without getting hexed out.”
“Hexed?”
“Oh yeah. Everybody makes these wicked hex bombs that they throw at the other team. There are a bunch: stun bombs, tickle tortures, freeze stops, tipper trippers . . . my favorites are the stink grenades. They smell so bad that they can slow down the entire team!”
“Sounds wild,” I said, thinking that watching it sounded better than playing. “Hey, can you help me get back to Bess’s place?”
“What do I win if I say yes?”
“A fist bump?”
“How about a partnership?”
“Huh?”
“I want to help you find the stupid necklace.”
I blushed. “Maybe you should help Misty instead. She’s probably going to win.”
“Listen, dude, I’ve got three airtight reasons you should let me help you. One: I’m bored out of my mind this summer. Two: Arnold Bloomberry is my great great great uncle or something and I’d love to prove he wasn’t the jerkwad people say he was. Three: I love it when Misty loses.”
“So you’ll help me . . . if I let you help me?” I clarified, trying to figure out the catch.
“Yes. Do you have trust issues or something? It’s basically a win-win-win.”
I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“I will help also,” Corbyn piped in. “Mr. Valentine said I had to.”
“Great!” Hen said, punching my shoulder. “The necklace squad is a go. What have we got so far?”
“Like I said before, I think that mantle was imbued by Arnold.”
“Sweet. So what do we do next?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, scratching my head. “I guess it’s not much to go on.”
There was a brief awkward silence, which Corbyn broke.
“When I feel like a failure, I like to eat ice cream,” he said. It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t joking.
“Oooh, you’ve probably never had an animalt,” Hen said. “You’ve got to try it. Cassandra’s Candy and Cream is close.”
“We could get some at my place,” Corbyn squeaked.
“And get snot-sized ice cream scoops? No way!”
“But–”
“Wait—you’re not scared of her, are you?” Hen asked.
“N-no.” He swallowed. “Not scared at all.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said.
“Don’t worry, Underboy, I’ve got you covered,” Hen said, sticking her hand in her pocket.
Five minutes later, I found myself in front of a faded pink door flanked by two large windows. A bell rang as Hen pushed the door open and my nose was bombarded with fruity scents mixed with the unmistakable aroma of fresh baked goods.
Hen paused in front of a barrel full of what looked like brightly-colored gumballs. She picked up a scoop and drove it into the candies, dumping the contents into a paper sack. She pulled a yellow one out and handed it to me. “Give it a try. It’s delicious.”
I paused, eyeing it suspiciously. “It’s not going to turn me into a pig, is it?”
“Nope!” she said.
I popped it into my mouth. It tasted lemony.
“Do I suck it?”
“Nope! Chew and swallow.”
The consistency was like bubble gum. I swallowed.
Hen and Corbyn both stared at me expectantly before erupting into laughter.
“What?” I asked, confused.
Hen pointed to my hair, busting up. I pulled out my phone and turned the camera to selfie mode and gasped. My jet black hair had turned golden blond. Even my thick eyebrows had changed color, contrasting starkly with my darker skin.
I ran my hand through my hair in disbelief. “Whoooah,” I said. “That’s awesome! Wait, this isn’t permanent, right?”
Hen plucked a purple one from the bag and tossed it into her mouth. “Nope!” she said as her hair changed color too.
Good. I liked my hair.
We followed Hen to an unattended ice cream counter with an old cash register. A pair of saloon doors led to a back room.
Corbyn darted to the counter and stepped on a bell before hurriedly returning. We said waited for a few minutes but nobody appeared.
Hen cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “CASSY!”
“She likes to be called Cassandra,” Corbyn said, a slight tremor to his voice.
“Oh really?” Hen asked sweetly. Then she shouted even louder, “CASSY! CAAAAASSSY!”
Thumping footsteps interrupted Hen’s bellowing. Corbyn fluttered behind my shoulder where he hung onto the back of my shirt.
The person who emerged from the back room reminded me of the Rock, if he were white—and a woman.
She wore a plain black dress with a white apron. Her two elephantine calves descended into a pair of sharp-looking high heels. Her arms looked as thick as her legs, making the ice cream scoop in her hand look more like an infant spoon. If I were an NFL recruiter, I’d hire her as a lineman in a heartbeat.
“I thought I heard the sweet sound of children,” the woman said. I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not. Her voice was unnervingly high-pitched and sweet, like Snow White if she was the villain in a horror movie. “What can I get you dears?”
I gotta admit—her smile was terrifying. I didn’t blame Corbyn for shivering on my back.
“Sup, Cassie? We want this bag of hairballs and two animalts! Three layers apiece,” Hen said with a grin. She pointed at a flavor board. “I’ll take maple melt, cinnamon swirl, and pecan perfection. What d’you want, Underboy?”
“Underboy?” Cassandra repeated as she adjusted knobs on a metal tank behind her. “Are you the underlander I’ve heard so much about?”
“That’s me,” I said. Wow. Gossip spread fast up here.
Cassandra moved a sundae glass underneath a spigot, raised a lever and something creamy and brown oozed out. After the glass was a third full, she lowered the lever and twisted the knobs once more.
“I didn’t know underlanders had such a unique sense of style,” Cassandra said.
My cheeks burned as I looked down at my clothes, which were splattered with mud and snow. My shirt was in tatters from my little spin in the tornado and my hair was crazy. Cassandra slid Hen’s animalt across the counter, then looked at me expectantly.
“It all looks delicious,” I hurriedly said, eyeing the flavor board. “Could I get strawberry strike, berry brigade, and chocolate chaos?”
Cassandra nodded and began working the knobs again.
“Watch this!” Hen said. She picked up a metal spoon and tapped the glass. My eyes widened as the top layer of ice cream started twisting upwards. The top expanded to form into what was unmistakenly an ostrich. The ice cream bird shook off its feathers, then looked up at Hen, who took a spoonful of its wing and ate it.
“Whoa,” I said, gaping at it. The wing immediately reformed as Cassandra pushed my animalt to me.
“That’ll be 12 links, sweeties,” she said, punching buttons on the cash register.
Realizing that Corbyn hadn’t ordered anything, I turned my head over my shoulder and asked, “Are you getting anything?”
Corbyn shook his head earnestly as Hen fished in her pocket. She pulled what looked like a chain of paperclips out and dropped it on the counter. Cassandra scooped the links into her hand and retreated into the back. “Enjoy, my sweets!”
We walked over to one of the stools and took a seat, Corbyn dropped off my shoulder and darted around me as Hen plunged a straw into her glass.
“Good to see you too, itty bitty one,” Cassandra called from the back. I thought she was talking about me until Corbyn squeaked.
“Gooawntapit!” Hen said, her month full.
“Huh?”
“Tap it!” Hen said, handing me a spoon.
I took it and gave the glass a good tap. The chocolate ice cream on top immediately shifted and swirled together, elongating until it formed into . . . “A llama!” I said, excitedly. It tipped its head up to me as I grinned down. I felt guilty taking a glob out of its shoulder until extra ice cream floated up to take its place. It tasted extraordinary—the softest ice cream I’d ever tasted.
“I’ve never seen that one before,” Hen said, eyeing the llama as she sucked through her straw.
“Does it mean anything?” I asked.
Hen shrugged. “No idea.”
“Want some?” I asked Corbyn.
Corbyn peered over toward the saloon doors then nodded.
I grabbed an extra spoon and dipped it into the animalt, then set it next to the fairy. Even the small spoonful of ice cream was about the size of his head.
“Thanks!” Corbyn said, producing a small spoon from one of his many coat pockets.
I pulled out my phone and opened the pictures I’d taken of the compass. I flicked through them, not sure what I expected to find.
“I’ve never seen Underlander magic before,” Hen murmured in awe. “Is that a television box?”
“Um, I guess it’s something like that. This is my phone, but you can take pictures and watch videos on it and stuff.”
“Videos?”
“Umm, moving pictures that sometimes tell stories.”
“Oh, like hats!”
Hats? “Um, I don’t think so. What do you think this is?” I asked zooming in on the bottom of the compass where there was something etched into the metal.
“It looks like a bee or a mosquito,” Hen said, taking the phone.
“There are flies and mosquitos up here?” I asked.
“Flies and mosquitos live everywhere, dude,” Hen said.
“It’s a-a fly,” Corbyn stammered. “Believe me, we fairies know our bugs.”
“A fly seems like a weird thing to engrave on a compass,” I said. “Unless you guys like flies more than we do in the Underland.”
“Flies are the worst!” Corbyn said. “My sister kept one as a pet for a few months. It was. . . .” he shuddered. “Awful.”
Hen shrugged. “They’re not that bad.”
“Pretty soon you have larvae everywhere,” Corbyn continued.
“At least your sister actually likes pets,” Hen said. She started pinching her fingers on the screen, zooming in and out, panning the picture up and down. “This phome is pretty cool. Can you get me one?”
I didn’t bother correcting her. “They’re pretty expensive.”
“I wonder if a copy spell could make one,” Hen mused. She looked over at me. “Is there something wrong with your ice cream?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, taking a bite. It was exceptionally sweet. “So is it a decoration or does it mean something?”
“Hey, there’s some writing up here,” Hen said, pointing above the fly.
“That’s writing?” I asked, leaning in closer. Indeed, there were some odd runes up there.
“Looks like fairy script,” Hen said.
“No, fairy script is much more orderly,” Corbyn said. “This is dwarvish.”
“So . . . dwarves exist too?” I asked, taking another bite.
“Yup,” Hen said. “What does it say, Corbs?”
“I um, don’t know how to read it,” Corbyn said, hanging his head.
Hen raised her eyebrows looking surprised.
“So? I can’t read it either,” I said, somewhat confused.
“Fairies are s-supposed to know how to read all of the magical scripts,” Corbyn said, his cheeks and ears beet red. “It’s the forty-seventh Order of Orderliness, ‘A fairy who can’t read everything isn’t a fairy at all; for words bring order and without order you may as well be tall.’”
Seemed like a pretty dumb rule to me. Still, seeing his crestfallen face made me feel a little sad too. “I’m sure we can find someone who can read it,” I said.
“My sister Deleea can,” Corbyn said, brightening.
“The sister with a pet fly?” I asked, taking another bite.
“No that was Stunda.”
“She’s one of the triplets, right?”
“No, that’s Orrin, Perrin, and Quarrin.”
“Can we see her?” I asked.
Corbyn rifled through his coat, finally pulling out a small notebook. “She doesn’t get back until tomorrow. But she has 17 minutes of free time tomorrow morning at 9:18.”
“And she wouldn’t mind translating this?”
“Not at all not at all! At least, I don’t think so.”
We agreed to meet the next morning and we started walking back towards Bess’s. Corbyn mumbled something about needing to meet someone, leaving me alone with Hen. Once we got to Bess’s, I said goodbye and was about to head down the alley when Hen called after me.
“Hey, Underboy, if we’re going to be partners, you’ll want this,” Hen said. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper. It had her name at the top of it.
“Thanks,” I said, flattening the paper. Hen’s name was scrawled across the top. I bit my lip. “I don’t–”
“Have yours on you?” Hen finished for me. “No worries. You can put it in your binder once you do. Just let me know if you figure anything out. See ya!”
And with that, she was off, leaving me holding a piece of paper and feeling confused.
I knocked on Bess’s door just to check in, but no one answered. I checked the time and saw Mamá would expect me home soon. I hurried past Mr. Chronshaw (who apparently assumed I was running late again, because he called out, “Remember what the fairies say: ‘If you want success to be habitual, make being punctual your ritual!’”), making a beeline to the chest.
Crossing the barrier felt riskier the second time as I didn’t know if anyone was in my room. I hovered across the barrier for a good minute, listening before I risked opening the chest. Luckily, no one was in my room. Smiling at my unusual good fortune, I clambered out and dropped into my desk chair, completely drained.
After a minute, I put my hand in my pocket to grab my phone and felt the piece of paper that Hen had given me. I could’ve sworn it was blank other than her name, but she had scrawled something else there:
Yo dude, did we say 9 or 10?
Hadn’t we made the plans right before she’d handed me the scrap of paper? Why had she written that down instead of just asking me?
An idea occurred to me. I pulled out a pen and wrote:
We said 10.
Within seconds, I saw more letters forming on the page.
Great. See ya then Underboy!
I smiled broadly. It was like magic texting! I wrote back:
Awesome!
That seemed to be the end of the conversation. I pulled my phone out and flipped through the pictures, staring at the manifesto once more. I felt like I was missing something but couldn’t put my finger on it.
And then the door opened and Mamá started talking. “James, can you get a ride with– ¡Ay! ¿Qué pasó a tu cabello?!”
Crap. I totally forgot about my hair. My “temporarily” blondness must not have worn out.
“Hola Mamá,” I said. “You’re home early from work?”
“Santiago Benjamin Huamán Perez, what happened to your hair?” Mamá asked.
“Oh this? It’s just um, temporary dye. It washes right out. It’ll be back to normal by tonight,” I said.
At least, I hoped it would.
“Temporary dye?” she asked, walking up to me and running her fingers through my hair. I expected a tone of suspicion, but she sounded almost impressed. “It seems so strong.”
“Crazy, isn’t it?” I said.
“And what happened to you today, hijito. Your shirt is ruined and you’re all scratched.”
“I was uh, trimming a tree hedge bush thing,” I lied.
“A tree hedge bush thing?” Mamá repeated.
“Yeah, it was sort of all of them and none of them at the same time. It was crazy.”
Mamá looked at me shrewdly. “And this all happened this morning?”
“Yeah, this morning was–”
“Crazy?” Mamá suggested.
“Yeah, crazy,” I said, looking down.
Lucky for me, James showed up at the door wearing a pair of Michael’s oversized boots, a red button-up shirt with the top half of the buttons undone, and a belt around his waist. It looked like he’d stuffed plastic bags into the sleeves to make his biceps look three times bigger. And to top it off, he wore a black hand towel on top of his head.
“What happened to you?” James asked casually. “Did you walk through a tornado or something?”
I laughed a bit too hard.
“A tornado? Ah James, you’re too funny,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look as forced as it felt. “Besides, you’re one to talk.”
“It’s what I call a WIP, a work in progress,” he said dryly.
“So let me get this straight,” Mamá said. “You made your black hair blond, and you made your blond hair black?”
James and I looked at each other, shrugged, then nodded.
Mamá eyed the two of us beadily, rolled her eyes, then, thankfully, left.
“So seriously, are you hoping to get a job as a panhandler or what?” James said.
“Oh please,” I said, kicking off my shoes. There was quiet for a few seconds as I yanked my socks off, eager to hop in the shower.
“You know, you usually tell me when something’s up,” James said.
I don’t know what came over me, but I suddenly really wanted to tell James everything. Even with Bess, Hen, and Corbyn on my side, I didn’t trust any of them very much yet. Not like I trusted James. It would feel really really good to get it off my chest.
“James–” I started, then I looked at the towel on his head and I thought, Nah. I stood and walked to the door. “Imma shower.”