Sometimes, even when you know what to do, you don’t want to do it. Sometimes, you have something someone else needs more than you. But it still kills you to give it up. This is one of those times.
“You miss Claire?” I say.
“Uh-huh,” Dylan says.
“And you have unfinished robotics business to share with her?”
“Uh-huh.”
I take a deep, shaky breath. This is it. Once I say it, there’s no going back.
The box glitters and shines, the brightest it’s ever been. Like it was polished up for this very moment. This moment of connection for me, the box and Dylan.
“I’ll give you my five minutes of Real Time,” I say quietly.
No response.
“If you go in the silver box. Willingly. With the intention of moving on after.”
Still no response.
“You know what Real Time is, right?”
Still no response.
There’s a gentle breeze that moves above me. I look up to see Dylan’s shape. His face is vague but visible. He’s sad and emotional with glistening eyes. “Every ghost knows what Real Time is,” he says softly, like dew on grass. “It’s like the Holy Grail for us.”
“The Holy Grail? My dad watches that movie. Monty Python. Or Ponty Mython. Or—”
“Why’re you doing this for me, Sherry?”
I sigh. “You need it more than I do. To help you move on.”
There’s a whisper of a thank-you as a tornado of air whizzes around me. The air is thick with the smell of honey + dirty socks. Then, tail first, the tornado spirals toward the silver box. With a click, the lid flips wide open. A white light shines from within. The tornado leaps into the light. The light and the tornado spin down into the box. The lid snaps shut.
The silver box settles, completely still on my one good palm. Protecting its precious cargo.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Flap.
Smells of coffee and cinnamon rolls announce the arrival of my mom and Mrs. Howard. Grandpa lands on the grass beside me.
Mrs. Howard tweezers the box gently from my grasp.
I force myself to let go. The box is all proud and polished like silverware ready for Christmas dinner.
“Thank you, Sherry,” Mrs. Howard says. “Congratulations, you did it.”
“Pumpkin, you are amazing,” Mom says.
“Good job,” Grandpa croaks.
“How difficult did you find it?” Mrs. Howard asks.
I shake my head, my throat closing up. Finally, I cough out, “It cost me.”
“It always does, honey,” Mrs. Howard says sadly. “It always does.”
Tears pool in my eyes. “He was mean to The Ruler and my fish. But now I know him and I get him. He had to let go of all that anger and give Claire a decent shot at robotics without his shadow hanging over her. Still …” Tears roll down my face, and my throat’s totally closed so that I can’t choke out any more words.
Mrs. Howard rubs my back. “You did a wonderful thing for him, honey. You freed him. He was lucky to have you. And I think you got something valuable from the experience too.” She rises in the air. “I need to get Dylan to Dairy Queen.” Looking over her plump shoulder, she says, “Don’t worry about returning the Greenes’ belongings. I’ll send someone from the Academy to take care of that.”
Maybe she can send someone over on Saturdays to clean my room too.
As Mrs. Howard flies off, the silver box twinkles in the night sky like Tinkerbell winging her way to Never-Never Land.
Mom’s right by me. “Tell me about Sam. Why was he holding up the coffee beans? How did he get involved?”
I explain how he was eavesdropping when Mom, Junie and me were in the office, discussing the mystery. And how he snuck out tonight to help in the cemetery, then rode fast to get the left-behind coffee beans.
“I’m so proud.” Mom sniffs. “My kids are watching out for each other.”
Then, Mom and Grandpa go on to say all the right ego-building things about how I’m this talented person who succeeded at this incredibly difficult task. I’m pretty sure Grandpa croaks, “Good work, Sherry,” not “You’re a jerk, Sherry.” Which wouldn’t make sense at all. Anyway, I just keeping nodding and saying thank you while I swell up to the bursting point with pride.
Because I’m sitting so still, soaking up the compliments, I forget about my wrist and go to stand. I scream.
“Sherry, what happened?” Mom says in the voice I associate with Band-Aids and Popsicles and cuddles on the couch.
“I tripped getting on my bike. My wrist really, really hurts. I’m sure it’s broken and I’ll have to go to the hospital.” I swallow. “I better call Junie and find out where she and Sam are.”
Then I’ll call The Ruler.
And face the music.