The leaves had begun to turn, transforming the mountains from green to gold. In Vermont, the first sign of color change begins mid-September and runs through October, varying by elevation. It progresses from north to south, from higher to lower, until, with three-quarters of the land forest, it is as though the whole state has caught fire, exploding in red, orange, and yellow flames.
Kallie measured one-third cup of white paint and poured it into a plastic cup. She added just the right amount of black—not a drop more, not a drop less—and stirred.
She began painting the Styrofoam stalagmites and stalactites of her cave. With each layer, she added more black to the mixture until the whole interior was undulating shades of gray.
Before Kallie had received the puzzle box, her world had been in perfect order. In perfect balance. Everything had fit neatly into its own special space. Everything had been right or wrong. Black or white.
Kallie stared at the paint already crusting on her paintbrush. Nothing in her perfect world fit into its tidy compartment anymore. Her mother’s drowning. Anna. The box. Everything had overflowed and spilled out and mixed sloppily in her mind. Grandpa Jess was right. Kallie’s life was now murky shades of gray.
Anna placed Mr. Tumnus and the other objects inside the shoebox and set it proudly on a table at the back of the class. The project was finished.
Much to Kallie’s dismay, the other tables had been removed and the pillows had been dispersed about the room once again. Kallie grudgingly sat between Pole and Anna as Ms. Beausoleil picked up a stubby piece of chalk and etched one word on the blackboard.
Hero.
“It’s now your turn to write a story,” said Ms. Beausoleil. She wore a black lace catsuit under a full-length shawl belted in the center and trimmed in bluish-green peacock feathers. “A hero’s journey.”
Kallie cringed. “I can’t write … I’m not a writer.” She had meant to say it quietly, to Pole and Anna, but the words had come out a bit too loud.
“Nonsense, Kallie.” Ms. Beausoleil pounded her fist on a stack of old leather-bound books piled high on the ground beside her. The goose-fat-colored pages coughed dust with each assault. “Anyone can write, my dear. The trick is to write well.”
A feather entered her mouth. She blew it back out and began drawing a diagram on the board. It was a large circle divided into three parts, resembling a mathematical pie graph. It put Kallie slightly at ease.
The teacher labeled the three sections Act 1, 2, and 3. Then she divided each section into three more and gave those titles as well, things like Call to Action, Mentor, Temptation, and Dark Moment.
Kallie sighed. To her, the words may as well have been gibberish, but when Ms. Beausoleil began to show how the novel they had just read fit into the formula, she began to understand.
Formula, thought Kallie. Now there was a word she was comfortable with. But a narrative? She’d dodged that bullet over the years, figuring out ways around such assignments. She eyed the teacher, who grinned broadly at the class in her peacock outfit, and something told Kallie the woman would not be as easily dissuaded.
“You must begin with an interesting character,” said Ms. Beausoleil, “and you must know their deepest, darkest desires. What does your character want? What do they really desire?”
“To be left alone,” muttered Kallie.
“A fine desire. You can work with that,” said Ms. Beausoleil. “But you must have a solid plot. One that doesn’t meander. Or fizzle. Or crumble like brittle cheese.” She scrunched her hands in the air and then dusted them off.
Anna got out a piece of paper and a pen and began jotting down notes.
“You must put your heart into your story—your blood, sweat, and tears. Every character has bits and pieces of the writer in them to make them flesh and bone so they can walk off the page and live in the minds and hearts of readers.”
“Sounds painful,” said Pole.
“Oh, it is,” said Ms. Beausoleil, nodding fiercely. “Writing is very painful business, indeed. Not for the weak or fainthearted.”
“I’m writing about Champ,” said Anna proudly. She glanced at Kallie, then at Pole, and smiled.
“Lovely, dear,” said the teacher. “There are so many tired old tales. We could use a fresh one.”
“Champ is nothing more than a figment of people’s imagination,” said Kallie.
“He’s not,” insisted Anna. “He’s real.”
“He’s a tourist trap,” argued Kallie. “How could something that large elude capture for so long? Utter nonsense.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Ms. Beausoleil. “I adore a good debate.”
Anna narrowed her eyes, determined. “What about frozen frogs?”
“Frozen frogs?” said Kallie. “What do frozen frogs have to do with anything?” Anna had a way of twisting a conversation so that the listener had to practically be an acrobat to keep up.
“I have a theory.”
“I love theories,” said Pole.
The whole class, including Kallie, listened intently as Anna explained.
“If the lake was formed from melting glaciers that carved it out as they moved along this area,” said Anna. “Then what if a prehistoric creature that had been frozen during the ice age ended up here—and then like a frozen frog it possessed the ability to rejuvenate itself once the temperature allowed. It thawed and has lived here ever since.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned victoriously.
Kallie rolled her eyes.
“A solid hypothesis,” said Pole. “Champ does resemble a plesiosaur.”
“Well said, Anna. But just be sure your story is thick and juicy,” said Ms. Beausoleil, “with plenty of fat for the readers to chew on. A story without meat is nothing but bone.”
A spidery shiver crawled up Kallie’s spine.
The final bell sounded, ending a most painful day. Kallie gathered her things and stood waiting for Grandpa Jess at their usual spot. Anna and Pole stood at the entrance passing out Support Periodic Table Day flyers.
Kallie observed them, checking her watch as each minute passed. She waited and waited, but Grandpa didn’t arrive.