Chapter Three: The Scary Ride
Carli Rockell and the Fire Seed
The doorbell’s cheerful chime cut through the tension like a knife through silk. Everyone froze in various states of panic and confusion — between disappearing restaurants and the possibility of doing barrel rolls on a bus with a full stomach.
Malvolia’s face looked like a photograph left in sunlight too long. “Nobody’s . . . nobody’s supposed to visit today. Nobody ever visits on Wednesdays. Wednesday is my . . . my day for important phone calls and social planning.”
Through the front window, Carli glimpsed a tall figure on the porch — the personage wore a flowing coat that moved independently of any earthly wind. The fabric caught light in ways that hurt to look at directly. It shifted between colors with no names and patterns no mortal eye had seen.
When he turned slightly, she caught a flash of golden-brown eyes that made her stomach flutter with recognition she couldn’t quite place.
Malvolia blocked the door with her body and whispered, “Don’t open the door,” though her voice carried like a shout echoing in a cathedral. “Everyone down! On the floor! Elbow crawl to the kitchen so he can’t see us!”
They all dropped to their bellies and wiggled across the carpet like a family of well-dressed seals on dry land. The figure on the porch peered through the front window. Carli could have sworn she saw him smile.
He walked away, leaving behind the faint scent of petrichor on pebbles after rain. Carli thought she heard something that might have been cosmic laughter mixed with infinite patience.
The rest of the day slid by like a wounded snail — slowly, painfully. But even as ordinary life tried to reassert itself in the face of impending gastric doom (even worse, in front of neighbors that needed impressing), the air in Bridgewick bent in ways that made ordinary objects cast shadows in impossible directions.
The mysterious hum beneath Carli’s floorboards had started a new tune —something that sounded like possibility mixed with countdown. Friend’s leaves danced though there was no wind, and through her blue eye, Carli saw patterns of light connect everything — the orphans to each other, Frida to the gardener, treehouse tree to the sky. Glowing script wrote itself into her handprints.
The topiary animals in the garden grew unusually restless throughout the day. The fox alternated between baring it’s narrow twiggy teeth and gently tickling bugs on its leafy tail when no one was looking. The bear-shaped bush let out warning growls at something beneath the soil. And when the evening sky approached with raspberry and amber colors, they were more vivid than usual — as if painted by someone who’d never been satisfied with ordinary sunsets. All this told Carli that whatever was coming was almost here.
Late that afternoon, the sound of Malvolia’s claps brought the otherworldly feeling of the day to a military halt. “Diggy Doo Doo! Devlin Arthur! Get changed!”
Mrs. Devoridge marshaled her family like a general preparing for inspection. She'd chosen their finest clothes — her waisted, pink silk dress that photographed well, Mr. Devoridge's burgundy jacket that complemented her dress, and Devlin Arthur's school blazer that made him look properly distinguished.
“Remember,” she instructed as they stood at the bus stop, “we represent the Devoridges.” Diggory and Devlin Arthur obeyed, “of Bridgewick.” She nodded. “Dignity, discretion and diversion in conversation at all times.”
At precisely 7 o’clock, reality rippled like disturbed water at the bus stop across the street from the Orphanage for Orphans at 7 Bridgewick Way. They looked around in wonder as the sound of a cosmic bicycle bell filled the air. Within moments, the magnificent Omringle HSB curved and serpentined towards them like a benevolent dragon with headlights for eyes. The headlights shone like fuzzy, glowing chopsticks through the fog. Somehow the bus’s sleek sections managed to look both futuristic and charmingly vintage. It’s doors opened without so much as a whisper.
“Now this,” Mrs. Devoridge lied with satisfaction, “is proper luxury transportation, except for,” she gave her head a dignified shake, “the bicycle bell part. And, and the slithering. And the front engine. An old VW van? Really.”
As they boarded, Mrs. Devoridge noticed several other Bridgewick families already seated. There were the Bumblesnorts from the Heritage Society, the Mudpuddles from bridge club, and even that dreadful Mrs. Crabgrass who’d had the audacity to question her qualifications for the Garden Committee.
“How lovely,” she trilled, then waved her gloved hand with the practiced grace of a beauty queen greeting parade goers. “A proper social gathering.”
The interior glowed with warm amber light. Seats adjusted themselves to each passenger, and the atmosphere felt expectant.
“Welcome aboard,” came a voice that sounded like harmony itself. “Please secure all personal belongings and dinner items.”
“Odd phrasing,” Mr. Devoridge muttered, with a twinkle in his eye, and wiggled into his seat with anticipation. For once, something in his life might actually live up to expectations.
The bus began to move — smoothly, silently, like riding inside a cloud.
Without warning, the Omringle HSB shot through the streets of Bridgewick like a yellow candy bus made of dreams. The Devoridge’s looked at each other as if to say, “See? Of course we got the good one.”
Suddenly, the world outside became a blur of lights, then colors, then nothing recognizable. Their looks changed to horror that made their hair stand on end. The bus performed barrel rolls that would have required funeral proceedings for the occupants in any normal vehicle. Mrs. Devoridge desperately tried to maintain her composure — and the contents in her stomach — in front of her social rivals.
But the most extraordinary thing was Frida’s Chicken Tikka Masala, roasted vegetables and the prize-winning Lemon Curd Tart they had eaten at home. Not long after the bus acrobatics began, their food insisted on coming up and out. To perform.
Chunks of Chicken Tikka launched into an elaborate Cha Cha dance routine, complete with theatrical arm gestures and twirling sauce skirts. The carrots and asparagus did a conga line past Mrs. Mudpuddle’s horrified face. The now-liquid lemon tart flowed into elegant calligraphy loops that spelled, OOPS, before flowing into mysterious vents above their heads.
“This is highly irregular!” Mrs. Devoridge shrieked, mortified as large bits from her hastily-gobbled meal performed for her social circle. “Our dinners were supposed to stay put!”
Mrs. Crabgrass, green-faced but somehow still judgmental, managed to gasp, “Really, Malvolia. Such a theatrical display,” as she pretended not to notice her fast food burger float past like a spaceship.
“Rather spectacular, actually,” Mr. Devoridge observed weakly as his face cycled through several shades of green. He gave a polite nod to the other husbands as his french fries did sword fights.
Devlin Arthur alternated between pure terror and wild delight, as his barely-chewed cottage cheese chunks slammed into each other like Lucha Libre wrestlers.
“Wow!” he cried. “And look at my school blazer!” It caught the bus’s interior lights in ways that made him sparkle like a star. The Snottingham twins bashfully pointed at him and giggle-snorted from across the aisle.
Everything smelled briefly of everyone’s escaped dinners — then orange creamsicles and possibility.
The other families didn’t fare much better. Mrs. Mudpuddle watched her prized pot roast doing interpretive dance with someone’s dinner rolls. Mr. Bumblesnort’s fish and chips got tied up in an angry boxing match that Mr. Crabgrass’s chicken wing stopped before it got out of hand.
At the front window, Carli watched the Omringle HSB slide to a stop. The entire group of Bridgewick’s social elite stumbled off the bus looking like they’d been processed through a cosmic blender.
“That,” Mrs. Devoridge gasped between dry heaves, while avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Cheesewinkle, “was not luxury transportation.”
But even as she complained, there was something different in her eyes. Whatever happened had been unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Impossible. Magical. Completely beyond her ability to control or explain. The thought both terrified and thrilled her.
Carli watched through a crack in the kitchen swinging door as the Devoridges slammed the door, slid down its highly-polished wood grain, gripped their stomachs and moaned. They looked like they’d been through a washing machine set to Hurricane.
Phantom flavors materialized in Mr. Devoridge’s mouth. This time it was his sword fighting french fries that drummed on his head before being sucked into the mysterious vents. He groaned, “The global school council is going to — burp — pay for this.”
Frida walked into the front entry carrying a tray. “Faulty test run? Looks like it’s the BRAT diet for you three.”
Malvolia gasped from her position on the black and white checkered floor. “Are you calling us brats?”
“Not at all. BRAT stands for bananas, rice, applesauce and burnt toast,” Frida explained. “It helps with nausea. Especially helpful while traveling.”
Devlin Arthur’s cheeks turned pink as he hobbled toward the bathroom. His fluorescent orange outfit trailed sparkles from the early evening’s festivities.
Malvolia watched the trail of sparkles with mild confusion and concern. “But we’re done traveling,” she protested weakly.
“What about tonight’s rodeo?” Frida asked.
Malvolia’s eyes went blank, then blinked to life to do what she did best: make dastardly plans. Her glance drifted toward the kitchen where evening news crackled with fresh impossibilities.
“Breaking news,” the announcer’s voice carried particular strain. “After a failed, and quite fragrant second test run, the Global School System announces the final phase. All orphans and children twelve and under,” he paused to read the next part. He cleared his throat, “As I was saying, all children twelve and under who feel disconnected from their supposed families . . . are invited to present themselves tomorrow evening at eight o’clock sharp.” He looked at his script again and muttered, “Strange, the 8 looks like it fell sideways . . . oh well,” he tapped his desk with both hands and chuckled. “Sideways 8 o’clock sharp. Orphans and disconnected children.”
The time flashed on the screen as a reminder, “Sideways 8 o’clock.”
The specificity made Carli’s heart skip. Through her blue eye, she watched light patterns pulse stronger than ever.
“I want to go again!” Devlin Arthur declared suddenly, as his voice cracked with terror and exhilaration.
“Absolutely not,” Malvolia said, then paused with calculating expression. “Although . . . if they’re specifically requesting orphans . . .”
She closed her eyes and smiled as though a magic fairy had just granted her greatest lifelong wish. Her unfinished sentence hung in the air like a threat.
A half hour later, the BRAT food helping to settle matters, the Devoridges were at the rodeo grounds. The Great Money Chase was about to begin. Malvolia pulled Devlin Arthur’s name out of a hat, mysteriously written in her handwriting and gave it to the announcer.
The announcer shouted in his megaphone, “And we have another lucky money chaser, Devlin Arthur Devoridge!”
Devlin Arthur sneered at Carli, “Bet you wish you got picked, Freakeyes!”
She instinctively covered her blue eye with the back of her hand and muttered, “Who wants to dance with cows, chicken tikka chunk breath?” He stuck his practiced armpit in her face and ran off to join the rest of chasers.
Two dozen calves bolted into the arena with cash tied to their tails, followed by shrieking children. Devlin Arthur spotted the calf with the biggest wad of money and charged after it like a fluorescent orange missile.
But then something peculiar happened. The moment Devlin Arthur’s grabbed the calf’s tail, his hand seemed glued to it. The calf took off like a rocket, dragging a bouncing boy behind it. The flood lights dimmed as a spotlight zeroed in on the calf running away from Devlin Arthur — unaware it couldn’t escape his grasp. Devlin Arthur’s neon outfit suddenly reflected the arena lights like lightning. The faster the calf ran and swerved, the higher and wilder the boy shiny boy bounced.
“Look at that Devoridge boy go!” the announcer called. “That’s tenacity! Tenacity, I say!”
Devlin Arthur bounced across the dirt like a glittery, human tumbleweed. “I can’t let go!” he screamed.
The calf came to a sudden stop. It looked at the circle the spotlight made on the dirt, stood triumphantly on its hind legs, and began to tap dance.
“What in the . . .” the announcer sputtered.
The other calves stepped into the spotlight and formed a circle around Devlin Arthur and his calf. They rose on their hind legs like ballerinas and — whoosh! — tutus appeared that hadn’t been there moments before.
Devlin Arthur’s white boots developed minds of their own. They began to tap dance in perfect rhythm with the calves. His arms began to conduct his bovine backup dancers who moved in synchronized circles around him.
“Stop it!” he commanded, looking around wildly. His voice came out in high operatic soprano. His face looked like white flour filled with weevils as he slowly sang:
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it I say!
Stop it means keep dancing all day!
Watch me twirl! Watch me spin!
Like a garden gnome with a goofy grin!
The crowd erupted in delighted laughter. “Encore! Encore!”
With each forced dance step, tiny flowers sprouted in Devlin Arthur’s footprints. Every marigold he’d stomped, every pansy he’d pulled, bloomed again in revenge.
For the finale, his rebellious outfit made him gather the flowers into a bouquet. He marched up to his calf, removed his hat and planted a big, sloppy kiss right on its glistening, snotty nose.
The calf licked Devlin Arthur’s cheek with it’s slimy tongue, SCHLOP, and bellowed to the dark sky with what sounded suspiciously like, “I love you.”
“A true gentleman!” the judge declared. “Winner of the Money Chase!”
Carli bolted out of the bleachers and raced home. Breathless, she climbed to the widow’s walk at the top of the mansion clutching a favorite small leather-bound book clutched in her hands. The book felt warm against her fingers; a memento from . . . someone. The memory stayed fuzzy, but it made her feel less alone.
She hugged her knees and watched the lights from returning fishing boats dance on Echo Harbor’s dark waters. Their lights formed constellations on the water she was only beginning to understand.
As her breath quieted, a fuzzy memory tugged at her — someone who used to read to her in the old treehouse, whose voice and laughter made even dust motes dance in afternoon sunlight. Every time she tried to focus on the memory, it slipped away like water through her fingers.
As all of Bridgewick slept, Friend’s voice drifted through Carli’s potting shed — far from the rest of the family that tossed and turned from nightmare visions of putrid airborne food chunks. “Almost time now, dear one. Almost time.”
Carli didn’t hear a thing. She was fast asleep watching a yellow school bus float by in a dream as it tinkled its cosmic bicycle bell, unaware that tomorrow would change everything forever.