A couple of weeks later, after I had rushed from school to pick up the twins, Mrs. Petite asked if I’d mind if the boys kept her company through dinner. Mr. Petite had his annual duck decoy potluck meeting, and she didn’t want to eat alone.
If I’d mind?
Don’t get me wrong, I love my little brothers, but it can be a pain watching them every day, particularly now since I had to get them organized for meetings with Eleanor down at Dream Central. For a split second, I considered keeping Mrs. Petite company, too—her whole house smelled of maple syrup pie, one of her specialties—but I was way too excited about my awesome find the night before.
For once, Mim hadn’t gone directly to bed after supper, so we got a chance to chat. Right away, I asked if she knew anything about Pop’s skiing days, and if they had skied together at Sugar Mountain.
“Oh my!” she cried, then burst out laughing. “I couldn’t ski to save my life.”
“Do you know if my mother skied?”
Mim took my hand and smiled.
“Yes, she did—at least, back when they were in high school. Your father told me they used to meet down at the lodge at the end of his shift, and they’d have a big cup of hot chocolate by the stone fireplace before hitting the slopes together.”
“Really? Hot chocolate by the fireplace? That’s so romantic . . .”
I sighed.
“Wait! Do you mean Pop used to work at Sugar Mountain? What’d he do?”
“He was what they called a patroller. They would check on things, make sure no one was doing anything fishy or too flashy.”
“Did Pop keep any of his old stuff?”
“Heavens, no. His equipment would be very outdated by now. Why are you so interested in your father’s old skiing days?”
I hadn’t been prepared for that question, and wasn’t sure I wanted to tell Mim about my dreams, or about Madame M, and how I thought the Outer girls were all amazing. Normally, I told my stepmom pretty much everything, and she always answered any question I had . . . but this time I felt like I needed to keep things to myself for a while.
“Some kids at school joined the ski club, so I was just wondering.”
“Well, we do have a pile of his old Fresh Powder magazines in our bedroom closet, if you know anyone who’d like those.”
So, today, after leaving the boys with Mrs. Petite for the rest of the afternoon (and grabbing a licking icicle from her front porch), I was anxious to read the very first Fresh Powder in my father’s collection, which I had fished out of the closet and tucked in my backpack the night before.
I was hurrying down Bon Hiver Lane, thinking about everything I had to tell Eleanor, when up ahead I saw that mysterious boy leaning against the inside of the tall black fence. He wore the same baggy green jacket down to his knees and a black hat that forced his messy dark curls over his glasses. A pair of binoculars hung from his neck, just like last time.
“Hey!” I said. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person instead of talking through that box.”
He stood up straight and fumbled with the binoculars like he was trying to think of something to spy on.
“Why are you hurrying?” he asked.
“Because you’d never believe the lucky day I’m having! Do you ever have days like that, when you can feel it in your bones?”
The boy crinkled his nose and tilted his head.
“Are you referring to a specific skeletal fracture?”
“Huh?” I replied.
This kid was starting to sound like Eleanor.
“What I mean is that deep-down feeling you get when something special is about to happen, and you’re not sure where that special something is going to lead you, but everything keeps falling into place, so you’re ready to jump on board and take the ride!”
He just stood there, his hands now shoved in his pockets, like he didn’t know how to have a conversation. I noticed he was shivering a little. He probably wasn’t used to the cold.
“So, are you ever going to tell me your name?” I asked.
I smiled extra wide as if his answer were the most important thing in the world, but he didn’t smile back. He either had to be the shyest kid I’d ever met, or the rudest.
“In case you forgot, mine’s Ruby LaRue. And if you want, you can come down to the playground with me and my friend, Eleanor. My little brothers are usually with me, too, so that’s why we go to the playground, so they can play, but Eleanor and I mostly talk and make big plans and she sketches a lot, and today I brought a magazine.”
He paused, then finally replied, “I don’t have permission to leave the property.”
It was strange hearing him say that behind the tall pointy fence, with that enormous mansion in the background. Somehow it looked more like a prison.
“Why not? Can’t you just ask your parents if you want to go somewhere?”
He sneezed into the air, then pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. It took forever, like he was moving in slow motion. Then he turned around without answering and trudged through the snow, back toward his humongous home.
Even though I sorta felt sorry for him, I also felt a little annoyed with those strange silences of his, because, according to Mim, there are very few excuses in the world for being flat-out rude.
“Can’t you even tell me your name?” I called out. “You know, it’s not polite to not answer someone.”
Still nothing. Just a slow march back to jail.
“Well, whoever you are, you can meet us anytime. Down at the playground on Winterberry Common, in the village. Also known as Dream Central. Where I’m gonna find my destiny. And Eleanor’s gonna find hers too!”
But by the time I had said those last words he had opened a side door and disappeared . . . almost like his giant house had swallowed him up.