The Thing At The Edge of Blundertown: A Young Adult Novel

I DREADED THE BOTTOMLESS PIT so much that I began forcing it upon myself just to get it over with. If I was stuck with this dream, I would at least have it on my own terms. I cut to the chase, fast forwarded to the climax (or the depth, really). Forget the trivial red ball, my brother’s dramatic warnings—just me helicoptering my arms at the edge and toppling into darkness. It no longer scared me because I controlled it. I’d forgotten all about the Glitter.

I recognized the absurdity. Still falling? How many weeks now, how many months? Wouldn’t I be hungry? So the family tossed me an apple, an orange, a slice of pizza—and I survived. Never mind physics. I was six. I wouldn’t study physics until high school, when I learned that Isaac Newton’s apple would never catch up with the weight of my body, no matter how much time passed; that under the sole influence of gravity, all objects free fall at the same rate of acceleration toward the center of the Earth.

The dream became predictable and plotless. It occurred to me that a hole in the Earth such as the one I was falling through would be full of tree roots. I began noticing thick, wooded growth protruding from the walls. In the midst of my rather boring descent, I grabbed hold of a sturdy root. For the first time in months, I came to a dizzying stop. Wow! Was it really as simple as this? Why didn’t I reach out sooner? I asked myself. I grabbed another root above me, then another. They formed a ladder of sorts. I began to climb up.

It was much slower traveling against gravity than with it. Again, I didn’t know the scientific formula, but logic told me that, if I’d been falling straight down at a whirling speed for months on end, it would take a lifetime to climb back to the top.

As with any transition, the new rarely replaces the old at a precise moment. A period of flux occurs in which both converge awkwardly and illogically, until the old recedes and the new takes a more prominent role. So it was with my Bottomless Pit. Night after night, I visited myself on a split screen: On the left, I was still falling weightlessly through the abyss, whooosh! On the right, I was climbing up the tree roots, one hand, one foot, one hand, one foot, and so on. Exhausted, but a real trouper, still climbing. The left screen eventually faded and disappeared, leaving only my strong, calloused fingers and toes clawing upward.

I would be climbing to this day if those dreams had continued. But fortunately, my subconscious lost interest. Reaching the top was a certainty. I had conquered the dream.

RAELYN HAD LONG AGO GIVEN UP on wondering why—why Daffy County would be doing such awful things—and Angie had never been particularly curious. But they both knew instinctively that there was no justifiable answer to that question. There was no why, there was only what to do about it.

Before they met to formulate a plan, bits and pieces visited Rae in her sleep. But the precise manner of execution would be a challenge. Enter Happy Hollow, the perfect place for secret planning. They sat on the bright yellow floor among oversized pillows.

“Gigi, where’s your green?” Angelica spun a three-sixty in her Irish plaid. “Today is St. Patty’s Day.” She offered her green scarf, but it remained untouched on Raelyn’s lap.

“Okay, so: I’ll have to get into the Compound again,” Angie decided while Rae took notes. “I’ll try to memorize the daily schedule—it’s posted in the office—and learn what all the buildings are.” She stared at a spot below the polka-dot ceiling as she spoke, as if trying to imagine the layout of the place. “I’ll draw a map for you.”

Raelyn wrote, Angie—Map. “Get info from your dad, too.”

“That’ll be easy.” Both knew how smoothly parents could be manipulated into sharing seemingly harmless information if one did it right.

“And I’ll practice being you!” Raelyn pantomimed fancy gloves running up her arms. They shared a laugh. She had often wondered what it would be like to be Angelica Quinn for a day—but not on a dangerous day like the one they were planning.

Angie grew serious. “That’s as far as I go, though. After that, I’m done.”

“I know, duh. You told me ten times.”

“Okay, five.” For the first time since their falling out, Angie made their signature heart shape with her hands. Rae returned the sign with some reservation, a haphazard display of fingers and thumbs. It all seemed rather childish to her now.

They agreed that a code name was essential. Rae listed the suggestions, and they narrowed it down to two, one from each of them: D-Day, for Dogs Day, but with a double entendre on account of World War II (Rae’s idea); and UN, for Under their Noses (Angie’s idea). Angelica assumed that, as always, her choice would win out. This time, though, Rae insisted. It was her mission, after all.

At the D-Day Second Planning Meeting, under New Things, Angie had a lot to report. She learned from her father that he was no longer stationed at the Blundertown Compound on Friday mornings because he’d been promoted to Regional Director (another pay raise, she added). Now he oversaw compounds in neighboring counties.

“You mean there are others?” Rae had never considered this.

“I guess so.” The guard now covering Friday mornings was brand new, didn’t know much, and had never met her. “So Friday morning is perfect.” Then she unveiled her portfolio and announced, “Ta-da, The Map!”

The girls hovered over the drawing on the cheerful floor. It was awesome, because Angie was an artist. Rae’s rendition would have been simple squares with triangle-hat roofs, the fence a row of Xs, the roads parallel lines. But on Angie’s map, every detail was three-dimensional with shading and texture and lovely calligraphy: “Groom Room”, “Front Gate”, “Back Fence”, “Woods”, “Food Area”, “Storage Shed”, “Barracks I”, “Barracks II”, and “Security Station (SS)”. Several buildings near the back were marked “New Construction??” because she didn’t know what they were. One was very tall and narrow, and the other a small structure next to it.

Angie flipped to a second map called “Your Room.” Again, the detail was exquisite, with labeling and colors. There were two cots, the front one crossed out with a big “X” (“Night Guard!”), the second with a redhead in bed, labeled “You”. As Rae was admiring the impressive drawings, Angie quickly rolled them up and forced them into her hands. “Take these, and never bring them back here.”

They had accomplished so much in only a week. But the biggest part of The Plan remained a mystery: What was Raelyn supposed to do once she got there? It wasn’t enough for her to see whatever she might see and then report it. First, no one would believe her. Second, and more importantly, she would be suspended from school if she told her teacher, grounded for life if she told her parents, and sent to juvie jail if she told the police. This was a suicide mission. Not to mention it would crush her folks with, not one, but both of their kids “away for a while.”

There had to be a way to document the goings-on in the Compound, whatever they were. But as Angie explained, Rae would be thoroughly searched on both the way in and out. It was impossible to sneak a recording device onto the grounds. So while they had their Code Name, lovely drawings, and a lot of useful information, and while Rae was getting good at being Officer Quinn’s daughter, they’d hit a wall.

That changed two days later, after school. The girls removed their boots in the Quinns’ garage. A trash can and two litter boxes were cluttering the floor near a stack of metal containers.

Rae asked, “What are those?”

“Food pails.” Angie hopped up the steps and opened the door. “Come on in.”

“Wait.” The stack contained a dozen or so identical tin buckets with handles, ready to topple over. Rae released the top one and turned it in her hands.

“What are you doing?” Angie gasped. “Those are my dad’s. For the. . .you know. They keep needing more.”

Angie didn’t answer.

Rae rummaged through her backpack, pulled out a ruler, and began measuring. Angie peeked into the house several times. “Eight inches across the top, nine high, and—” the bucket clanked as she flipped it upside down—“about six and a half at the bottom. Remember that.” She tucked the ruler back in her bag. “Any idea when your dad is taking these?”

“Could be any time. They’ve been here all week.”

“Let’s hope we have a few days. I don’t have Technology until Tuesday.” When she saw the clouded, freckled face she added, “I’ll explain later.” It was satisfying to outwit Angelica just a little.

On Tuesday, Raelyn was prepared. She entered her Technology class and sat among her classmates at her usual work bench.

“Alright, listen up,” Mr. Hanson said once the murmurs settled. “This is the last day to finish your boxes. For those who are done, we’ll have a sneak peek at the next project.” He paused for “oohs” and “ahhs,” but none came. “So let’s get our safety goggles and get to work.”

Rae located her initials on a metal box on the table along the back wall. Her box was finished, but it gave her a pretext to wander. The majority of the class had followed Mr. Hanson to the other side of the spacious room, where he was showing them a wooden birdhouse lit up by a tiny solar panel. She acted quickly—darted to the materials table and grabbed an uncut sheet of thin metal. She measured and snipped a piece of twine, knotted it onto a pencil and rotated from the center, forming a circle on the flat piece. The metal was pliable, but too thick to cut without special scissors. She had no choice. She combed through the Industrial Materials drawer and pulled out a sturdy pair. Glancing in the teacher’s direction, she proceeded to cut along the pencil markings, roughly seven and a half inches in diameter.

“Miss Devine, what are you doing over there?” She turned, hiding the metal piece behind her back. She was in an undesignated area and in clear violation of class rules. Plus, she’d forgotten to put on safety goggles, an automatic one-day suspension from class.

“I was just. . .looking for. . . .” All eyes were on her. Gil Richmond was suddenly a few feet away, off to the side. Her hair was surely a mess. Mr. Hanson was approaching. There was no way to hide the circle or explain it.

The teacher’s scruffy beard was now directly in front of her. Maybe he wouldn’t see it, but of course he did. “What is this?” He examined it. “Did you do this?” Again, she had no response. No lie, no excuse, no crazy story: Look, a spider! So this was what being caught with your hand in the cookie jar meant. This would cost her a failing grade. And worse.

“I made it.” She hadn’t opened her mouth. It was someone else’s voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hanson. I shouldn’t have done it.” It was Gil Richmond. She stared at him, thoroughly confused. But his focus was on the beard. Gil had the metal disk in his hand. She hadn’t even seen it happen.

“Well, Gil, I’m surprised and disappointed.” Note the first-name basis for the AP’s son. “And Miss Devine,” he nodded, “I apologize.” He scribbled something and handed it to Gil. “You’ll take this referral to the AP office.”

Why? Why had Gil covered for her? He never even looked at her. At the end-of-class buzz, she left baffled—and thoroughly relieved, which made her feel even guiltier. But what about the disk? She’d worked in a reckless frenzy, breaking all the rules in broad daylight under the teacher’s nose, that’s how critical it was. She had to get it back that day!

She stalled near the AP office, hoping Gil would appear, but he didn’t. What an irony: She had purposely avoided him for five months (who was counting), and now he was the one person she desperately needed to see—and he was nowhere to be found. For the rest of the day, she scoured the halls between classes. She saw literally everyone, but no Gil.

At the next D-Day meeting that afternoon, they got down to business. Under New Things, the list read: (a) Gil has, must get!!!; (b) study for D-Day Test; (c) date??

“It’s got to be this Friday,” Angie announced.

“Because Daddy’s taking those food pails in on Thursday. I heard him. There’s a new truckload arriving that afternoon.”

“Truckload of what?”

Angie looked down. “Of—”

“From other places, I don’t know. But that’s what he says.”

“But we can’t do it Friday. Gil has my thing, and I haven’t even seen him. Plus we have an English test.”

“But if we are, quote-unquote, ‘sick’ that day,” Angie’s fingers formed parentheses, “we can make it up.”

Rae wrote, Friday!! in her notebook and spun frantic ink circles around it. “But what if Gil won’t give it back?”

Angie shrugged. “He has to.” So easy for her to say.

They focused on the D-Day test. They wrote test questions on index cards with the answers on the back, one question per card: multiple choice, true/false, fill in the blank, change it up.

“Pip?” Mr. Quinn was knocking on the door. Both girls stiffened.

He opened the door. They were sprawled across patterned throw pillows with dozens of index cards scattered about. “What on Earth are you girls working on?” His smile was cheery and bold.

“We have a test,” Rae told him.

“Yeah. We’re studying for a test.” True.

“Friday. It’s a big test.” Also true, as Angie would never lie to her parents.

He invited Raelyn to stay for dinner. They had a long way to go. They studied all evening for the Big Test, Angie reading the questions aloud and Rae answering. By Friday, she needed to score a hundred percent. She had to memorize Angie’s maps, the morning schedule, and a whole lot more. She also would be tested on Quinn family trivia that might come up. But as Angie kept reminding her, after that she was on her own.

On Wednesday morning, Rae spotted Gil cruising the hall ahead of her with a couple other boys. She sped up.

Angelica picked up her pace. “Wait up—where are you going?”

“I’ve gotta run. See you later.” Rae took off, weaving among students until she was directly behind Gil. “Hey,” she called to him.

“Hey.” He kept walking, didn’t look at her.

“Do you have my. . .thing?” She was at his side.

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re a jerk.” The other two boys snickered. “I need it.”

She kept following him and refused to fall behind. Eventually, he stalled at the door to his next class until they were sufficiently alone. “Meet me at the park,” he mumbled, looking the other way.

“I dunno. . .three?”

“OK. And bring it, please.”

Rae was there a few minutes early. Her boots scuffed the hard, sandy patch under the swing. It was soon 3:04, and not a sign of him. He was toying with her: payback time. See what you get when you dis someone? It comes back to bite you. The minutes passed slowly, and when she looked again, it was 3:07. Her hair formed a wall on either side, enclosing her in failure. She knew she couldn’t let a single teardrop fall, because there would be no end to them. She would drown in a puddle of mud at her own feet. What a way to go.

For the first time, she realized she was all alone in this affair. Angie could only help so much. Mr. E was gone. Jack was useless where he was. Her mother was a Stone Wall of No, which meant her father was, too. They’d rejected Doc Goodman’s assistance when they had the chance. Penelope appeared in her mind, her marble eyes pleading directly into the pit of her soul. She heard her whimper. A heavy drop landed smack between her boots. Then another.

“Here you are.” It was Gil.

She wiped a sleeve across her face. “You’re late.”

“I was waiting over there, in that—round thing.” He pointed to the gazebo across the field.

“Do you have it?”

She hopped off the swing and presented him with an open palm. “Then give it to me, please.” He didn’t answer. She needed it right there and then. She had to finish it and get it back to the Quinns’ garage by the next day, or it would be too late. “I said give it to me.”

He reached inside his coat, but his hand remained there. “What is it, anyway?”

“It’s—it’s just what it looks like.”

“A metal circle?”

“What’s it for?”

“None of your business.”

“Why do you want it so bad?”

“It’s mine, that’s all. Now hand it over.”

“Tell me what it’s for, and I’ll give it to you.”

“. . .I can’t tell you.”

“Then I can’t give it to you.” His hand reappeared empty, his face smug.

It was a draw. She had no leverage. If she didn’t cave, it was check mate: game over, her king slain and Penelope, too. She tried to read him without looking directly into his eyes, the path to the secrets of the heart. Could she possibly trust him? He was the only one who had shown up twice for the Pet Lover’s Club, after all. And she had no choice. “Okay, then. I’ll. . .I’ll let you in on something if you promise not to tell anyone.”

“Okay is not good enough.”

“Full sentence, please.”

“That I will not tell a single soul. . . .”

“For as long as I live. . . .”

Gil rolled his eyes. “For as long as I live.”

“And if I do, then I, Rae, will tell the whole world. . . .”

He scratched his neck and glanced around lazily. “And if I do, then you, Rae, will tell the whole world. . . .”

“About a certain bus ride in Kindergarten. . . .”

He stared at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not.” She was absolutely bluffing. She couldn’t and would never be that cruel. He probably knew that. But she was playing her only card.

“Huh.” He looked down at his feet and shook his head. “You’re really something.”

“So are you.” But her shoulders sank, and she picked at her cuticles. “Just give it to me.”

“I suppose you forgot that I saved this stupid piece of crap for you. Huh?” He pulled the disk out from his chest. “That I covered for you and got lunch detention because of you.”

“. . .You got lunch detention? I thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong.” He flipped his hair off his brow. “Everybody does.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t even sure what he meant by that. She changed the subject. “So is Prince at the, you know.”

It had been a rhetorical question, a convenient space filler. Every registered dog was there. “Where is he?”

His eyes reminded her of almonds. “At my grandma’s house. She lives out of state.”

“You’re lucky.”

“It’s not luck,” he corrected, “it’s money. Two thousand dollars. We bought his way out.”

There he goes again, boasting about how rich they were. But her eyes grew large with shock. “How? When?”

“Just before they closed the borders. You know, when you could pay your way out of this insanity.”

She didn’t know. Her parents had never told her. She had never seen it in the newspaper. She was back to pivoting on the swing. He had never told her either, by the way, and something didn’t add up. “Wait a second. How did you know to leave? How did you know they were going to close the parks and everything else?”

He acted like it was obvious. “My mom’s an AP. My dad’s a banker.” Brag, brag, brag. “You follow the money.” Such a smart-alecky, grown-up thing to say. “You follow school policy. They saw it coming.”

Her own father was a politician, and yet there’d been no trace of foreshadowing in the Devine home. She pictured her dad, a large man and yet so small, nearly invisible sometimes. Her dismay left her speechless. She instantly shifted her suspicions back to Gil, whose story still didn’t add up. “Why did you come to those stupid club meetings, then, if Prince wasn’t even here?” she demanded.

“Some people care about more than just themselves, you know.”

A car drove past, the only sound other than the shifting of the sand beneath her feet. She imagined Prince, so handsome with his full beard and intelligent eyes. “You could’ve at least let us say good-bye.”

“I tried. You could’ve at least responded.”

“You mean. . .” The green envelope, the uphill writing. It had never been about a date.

“What did you think it meant?” The way he glared at her, she could have been a circus freak. “Prince was leaving the next day.”

“I know that, duh. What did you think I thought?”

He was on the swing next to hers, both scuffing clumsy patterns in the dirt. How could she have been so stupid? They were eleven, after all, and no one writes letters like that. It had never been about her. It was always Penelope. And why not? Rae truly was the biggest loser on the planet.

“Well, Penelope is. At the Compound, I mean.” She paused. “And that’s what the metal circle is for.”

“Here.” He handed over the disk. “Was that so hard?” He scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “Whatever you’re up to—” he handed it to her—“call me crazy, but I happen to care about her, too.”

She watched him sail down the gravel path in his springy-tipped sneakers. She read the scrap of paper, a minty gum wrapper. It was his cell phone number.

“GOT IT,” SHE REPORTED TRIUMPHANTLY to Angie that evening at their final D-Day meeting. Yet another Gil story that she kept under wraps: The list kept growing. The metal circle fit snugly three quarters down one of Officer Quinn’s buckets, creating a perfect hiding place at the real bottom. “And here’s the address for the Welfare Society that my brother told me about.” She showed Angie her notebook. “It’s an agency that’s in charge of a bunch of things, including animal safety. He learned about it in Civics, but they don’t teach that anymore.” Lucky for her, he was a packrat. He’d stashed years of notebooks under his bed and had a nearly photographic memory of their contents. During the last visit, he’d told her exactly where to look.

She passed the D-Day test with flying colors. Angie popped a shiny star on her forehead and ripped up the index cards into teeny pieces. All evidence destroyed. They began a list called Things That Could Go Wrong, with the idea that anticipating such matters would be helpful. But they very quickly realized that the list would be endless. The fact was that more things could go wrong than right, and the consequences of a failed mission, at least for Rae, would be disastrous.

“Let’s not do that.” Angie tossed the paper aside. “Let’s do the hair!” This would be the most fun of all. In the mirror, Angie cut swatches of her ginger hair from the underside. Rae grabbed the French beret from months before and the super glue. Together they attached the locks to the front inside rim of the hat, forming a row of bangs. “Try it on!”

Raelyn twirled her masses of coarse hair into a bun and forced the beret over it. Angie jiggled the bangs until they hung uniformly over the forehead. “Wait,” she said as if she were asking a question, her hand reaching for the scissors. She snipped meticulously here and there. “Wait.” She fitted the matching beret on her own head. “Come here, Gigi—I mean Angie!” The two girls stood side by side at the mirror. Two identical faces stared back at them.

Well, not quite. Rae did not make a good redhead. Her skin tone, her thick eyebrows and lashes—it was all wrong. But it had to be good enough. She saw her “twin’s” image fade, leaving her own flawed reflection. Angie’s role was coming to an end. Friday morning, it would all be on Raelyn.