five
i wrapped tammy in the biggest bath towel i could find, brought her downstairs and sat her on the sofa, safely away from any bodies of water, active gas lines or open flames. Then I went to her room and got her favorite Disney Princesses comforter—“and m-m-my sp-sp-spelling book!” she yelled after me through chattering teeth—and wrapped her up again, even though she was already squirming and trying to get loose.
The more I asked her if she was all right the more she looked at me like I was insane.
“Do I look drownded to you?” she snapped, flipping her spelling book open to the right page. She pushed it into my hands. “You write it for me, my fingers are all wrinkly from the water.”
“It’s ‘drowned,’ not ‘drownded’—okay, shoot.”
“P-H-I.” She stopped and thought. “N.”
I was getting a twitchy feeling down my spine. “What word is this?”
“Just write it. N,” she repeated.
“The same N? Or another N?”
“How many did I say?”
I glanced at the book. “Two.”
“Two is enough. The rest is easy. B-A-R.”
“No offense, Tam, but I don’t think that’s a real word . . .” Then I saw what I’d written:
Finnbar? My faery half brother? The magical brat whose well-intended efforts to help me out usually caused more problems than they solved? And who really sucked at spelling?
“Tammy,” I said, grabbing her a little too hard. “What does this word mean?”
“Ow ow ow,” she squealed. “It’s not a word, it’s a name, let go let go let go.”
The phone rang. I ignored it, but Tammy lunged at the handset on the end table.
“A name? Whose name?”
“The boy who was blowing bubbles in the bathtub while I was drownding—look, it’s him on the phone!” she squealed, reading the caller ID. “P-H-I-N-”
How could Finnbar be calling my house, I thought in a panic, as if he were some neighborhood kid looking for a play date and not an immortal faery prince? I grabbed the phone away from Tammy and looked for myself.
“Phek! I mean, Mr. Phineas—hello!”
“Took you long enough to answer, Morgan.” Mr. Phineas chuckled. “I was about to give up on you.”
“Sorry, I was just—in the middle of something.” Now Tammy was mouthing I’m hungry and rubbing her stomach.
“In the middle of something, eh?” Mr. Phineas sounded positively jolly. “I’m not surprised. After all, a person is generally located somewhere between the past and the future, which could fairly be described as the middle, don’t you agree? Of course, there are exceptions.”
Only half-listening, I followed Tammy as she shuffled into the kitchen, still mummy-wrapped in her towel. The way this day was going she’d probably shut herself in the refrigerator next. Mr. Phineas kept babbling.
“I have some wonderful news for you, Morgan! My contacts have informed me that the University of Oxford is hosting an orientation session for their ‘special admissions’ candidates. And you fall right in the middle”—he chuckled again—“of that category.”
“Sounds great,” I said wearily. “When is it?”
“This Friday, ten A.M. Punctuality absolutely required.”
“Hang on a sec.” I scribbled it down on the message pad on the kitchen counter. “And, where is it?”
“On campus, of course.”
“On campus, cool, okay—” Now Tammy was staring at me with big round manga-girl eyes, making begging gestures and pointing to her mouth in a truly obnoxious way. I turned my back to her and covered my free ear with my hand.
“Sorry, Mr. Phineas, I was distracted. Which campus did you say?”
“The University of Oxford, located in the city of Ox ford, approximately sixty miles northwest of London, En gland.” He sounded very matter of fact, like he was giving me directions to the local pizza place.
“You mean—I have to be in England in three days?” I had to lean against the counter for support. “But there’s no way—”
“Perhaps I’m not being clear.” Mr. Phineas’s attitude went from chuckles to chilly in a heartbeat. “This is a special orientation session. For special applicants. It is by invitation only, and a campus tour is a mandatory component. Your plane ticket is already purchased and paid for, courtesy of the Oxford admissions office. You have a valid passport, I presume?”
Though I knew he couldn’t see me, all at once it felt weird that I was talking to him in my polka-dot bikini top and bare feet. “Sure. I mean, I went to Europe last summer, so I guess the passport is still good.” I shoved a banana into Tammy’s mouth to make her get out of my face. “But, Mr. Phineas? Seriously—the plane ticket is free? Is this really on the up and up?”
“The ‘up and up.’ What a curious expression,” he said, not bothering to answer my question. “Travel instructions will arrive via e-mail this evening at eight o’clock sharp. Please follow all instructions to the letter! Understood?”
“I understand, but I kind of have to talk it over with my parents first—”
“Morganne,” he said, so sternly I didn’t bother to correct him, “where you go to college and what you do with your life—it’s not about your parents, or anybody else, for that matter. It’s about you. Now don’t forget to check your e-mail, please! Eight o’clock. Do exactly as it says; that’s very important. Goodbye.”
I hung up, as dizzy as if I’d just spent an hour riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.
“Yuk!” Tammy spit out the banana into my hand. “You could have peeled it first!”
“oxford is paying for you to fly over for a campus tour? They must think you’re incredibly special!”
Morgan, how we’ve underestimated you! Clearly your academic potential is limitless! Why didn’t we see it before?
At least, this was the kind of ego-boosting crap I was imagining my parents would say, when they both got home from work and I tried to explain what Mr. Phineas had told me over the phone.
“He says I have to go to Oxford. I mean, go. In person. Like, this week. The Specials Admissions something-or-other wants me to be there Friday morning. I’m supposed to get all the details later—”
They stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Then, piercing through the air like a hundred smoke alarms going off at once:
“Morgan is the worst babysitter ever!”
Tammy had been happily watching SpongeBob in her room until she realized Mom and Dad were home. Now she ran downstairs screaming. “She gave me potato chips for breakfast and she almost let me get drownded in the bathtub and she doesn’t even know how to peel a banana!”
I knew Tammy was really only upset about the banana, but after they heard “drownded in the bathtub,” I pretty much lost my parents’ attention. Mom started screeching at Dad to hold Tammy upside down by her ankles in case there was any water left in her lungs, and Tammy started crying because she hated being upside down, and Dad started yelling because Mom and Tammy were both hysterical.
From the noise Tammy made it was obvious her lungs were fine. She’d still be happily underwater playing mermaid games with her bubble-blowing faery friend if I hadn’t yanked her out of the tub, but I didn’t think there was much point in trying to convince my parents of that.
I’ll tell them about the trip to England later, I thought dejectedly, as I slunk back to my room to wait until eight o’clock rolled around.
at seven fifty-nine i was sitting in my room in front of my computer, staring at the screen and feeling like a fool.
Don’t get your hopes up, I told myself. The more I thought about it, the more unlikely the whole offer seemed. Mr. Freaky Short Pants was probably just yanking my chain. Nevertheless, I’d already piled a dozen potential campus tour outfits in a big messy heap on my bed. I’d also swiped some travel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner that my mom had nabbed from various hotels during family vacations.
I’d found my passport stashed in the bottom of my underwear drawer, where so many valuable but rarely needed items eventually find a home. Most important, I’d fantasized at least twenty different ways of trying to convince Colin to meet me in London.
Now I was just sitting there at my desk, watching the screen and the clock.
Sure enough, at eight o’clock exactly, right when my mind started to wander, the new mail alarm on my computer went off. The alarm was a snippet of a heavy metal riff from Kiss, which was kind of an in-joke between me and Gene Simmons, you might say.
I reached for the mouse, but my hand froze when I saw who the e-mail was from.
Mor,
What I’ve got to tell you is complete lunacy so I’ll just spit it out.
Am in Wales on holiday with Grandpap (long story)—but something unbelievable happened and I’d give anything if you could cross the Atlantic, quick. Is there a chance? Wales is just few hours’ bus ride from London, details below. Tell your da, I’ll pay for your travel myself, no worries.
Hate to say emergency but that’s what it is in my humble opinion. Unless I’ve gone mad, of course! A tragic but real possibility.
Sorry to dump this on you, darlin’, there’s no one else I can turn to—anyway, you’ve been summoned by name (& not only by me) so if you possibly can, you’d best come quick.
Colin
My heart was pounding like a basketball being dribbled in double-time. Colin had attached a page with some cheap flights and the bus schedule from London to the place in Wales where he and his grandfather were staying. It was called “Castell Cyfareddol.” I was not even going to guess how to pronounce that.
. . . Travel instructions will arrive via e-mail at eight o’clock sharp. Please follow all instructions to the letter . . .
Was this some kind of insane coincidence? Or was Colin’s distress signal the e-mail Mr. Phineas was telling me to wait for?
And if so, what did Mr. Phineas have to do with whatever was going on with Colin?
And what the phek, sorry, fek, was Finnbar doing in my parent’s bathtub? The weirdness was reaching critical mass. Something must be up.
My mom knocked on the door before opening it a crack.
“Can I come in?”
“Uh.” I glanced back at the computer to make sure I hadn’t left Colin’s e-mail open on the screen. “Sure.”
“Mr. Phineas just rang the bell, didn’t you hear it?”
I looked at her stupidly. “What bell?”
“The doorbell, silly. He dropped this off.” She handed me another envelope with the official Oxford emblem on it, sealed and addressed to me.
I stared at it, speechless. It was like when cartoon characters get so flustered that smoke starts spewing out their ears and their eyes bug out on springs. My mom just smiled.
“Your plane tickets are in there. He said you’d be getting your itinerary in an e-mail. Did you?”
“Um, yeah.” I stared at the envelope, not wanting to open it in front of my mother in case Tinker Bell flew out of it, trailing a stream of magic sparkle-dust.
“He explained about the tour to your father and me. You leave tomorrow.”
“Wow.” It was the kind of all-purpose word that seemed to cover the complexity of the situation nicely, so I said it again. “Wow.”
“Wow indeed.” Mom sat down on the edge of my bed. I knew that move. It meant she “wanted to talk.” This was definitely not a good time.
“How’s Tammy?” I asked, as a diversion. “Did you drain all the Mr. Bubble out of her lungs?”
“She’s fine.” Mom sounded weirdly calm, considering the big drama that had just transpired. “She was probably playing with Barbies until Dad and I walked in, right?”
“Watching SpongeBob, but yeah.”
“We overreacted,” she said simply. “But you didn’t. After your father put her down Tammy told us the whole story: that you were right outside the bathroom door the whole time she was taking a bath? And you came in and pulled her out of the tub the minute you heard something suspicious?”
“Yeah, the bathroom is probably a mess, sorry about that—”
My mom threw her arms around me and squeezed so hard I lost my breath. “Morgan! Do you realize that you saved your sister’s life?”
“Mom—ouch—I think you still might be overreacting.” I wriggled free, gently, because I could tell she was on the brink of getting weepy, and I didn’t have time to deal with that. “Maybe you’re having one of those hormonal surges that afflict women your age and cause temporary fits of insanity.”
“Most serious childhood accidents occur in the home,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But not this time, thanks to you. And now this!” She tapped the envelope with her finger. “Oxford University is pursuing you! Morgan, I don’t know what to say. I feel like there must be a whole side of you that we’ve missed, somehow.”
Oh my God, you have no idea, I thought. “Does that mean I can go to England, then?”
“Sweetheart, you have to go! I know it’s short notice, but it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve traveled to Europe alone.” She looked at the pile of clothes on my bed like she wished she were the one with the plane ticket. “Do you need any help packing?”
“I’m fine.” I really wanted her to leave so I could print out Colin’s travel directions. “I can manage. Thanks.”
She started to leave, but stopped in the doorway.
“This is going to be a real adventure for you, Morgan.” She put her hand over her heart, drama-queen style. “I just have a feeling. This trip is going to be a truly unforgettable experience.”