Chapter 23

When they climbed aboard the bus the next morning, Alder was relieved to find an empty bench near the front and, as he slipped into the window seat to make room for Oak, he pretended not to notice Beck in the back, waving to get his attention.

As soon as they were seated, even before the bus pulled away from the curb, Alder was assaulted by a rapid-fire string of information that Oak had gleaned from her midnight reading of Feline Teleportation.

“Did you know,” she said, “that cats with four white socks can’t teleport?”

Of course he didn’t; he hadn’t read the book. But he just grinned and shook his head.

“Did you know that cats knead because they are pressing the fabric of the world, searching for pockets?”

He didn’t.

“And cats purr to charge their motors, to rev themselves up for teleportation; did you know that? The book says that if you want to help them charge, pet them a lot.”

Alder nodded and wiped the sleep dust from his eyes; actually, he hadn’t slept well, due to Fern’s kneading on his head and her incessant purring, nearly as loud as a truck’s engine, it had seemed.

“Do you ever hear a high, ringing sound?” Oak asked.

“Sometimes,” Alder answered.

“That sound is the residual effect of a cat teleporting in the vicinity,” Oak said wisely.

“Ah,” said Alder.

“You know that little flap, that funny thing on a cat’s ear?”

Alder did.

“It’s called a Henry’s pocket. Do you know why?”

Alder did not.

“It’s named for a cat named Henry, a cat that belonged to Henrietta Swan Leavitt. She named him after herself! Have you heard of her?”

Alder shook his head. He was trying to keep up, but it was difficult.

“Well,” said Oak, and Alder settled back against the bus’s vinyl bench, grateful that Oak was about to launch into something that would spare him the burden of having to respond, at least for a minute or two. “Henrietta Swan Leavitt was an American astronomer. She’s mostly known for her work on luminosity—that’s how bright something is—and how you can use it to measure how far away a star is. But she studied interstellar portals, too, with the help of her cat, Henry. And Henrietta lost her hearing, which makes it even stranger that the little pocket on a cat’s ear is named after her and her cat, don’t you think?”

Alder couldn’t resist. “What’s the pocket for?” he asked.

“The Henry’s pocket, Henrietta Swan Leavitt discovered, is used by cats to store residual energy to help them make the return trip home through particularly challenging portals. And get this—Henrietta’s cat, Henry, lived for twenty-one years, and he was able to teleport all that time! Most cats,” Oak concluded, a bit know-it-all-y, Alder thought, “can only teleport during their kittenhood. And some kittens reach the end of their teleporting season at a younger age than others.”

The bus was pulling into the school parking lot, and all around, kids were beginning to shoulder their backpacks. It might not be such a bad thing when the kittens couldn’t teleport anymore, Alder thought. He knew Oak was keen to travel back to Mort, but Alder preferred staying in the here and now. It was more . . . predictable. Safer. “So, we don’t really know how much longer Fern and Walnut will be able to teleport.”

“Exactly,” Oak hissed in unison with the bus’s hissing door. They had arrived. “Time is of the essence.”

Time, Alder said to himself, was of the essence. He nudged Oak to stand up. He wanted to get off the bus before Beck made his way down the aisle.

“See ya, tree kids,” called Faith.

Alder answered, in unison with Oak, “See ya.”

His brain was full of Tesla and Henrietta and Macak and Henry and Henry’s pockets and pockets of other worlds, and his house and Oak’s house and the house between, the house that wasn’t there. His brain was so full that he didn’t notice that his shoelace was untied until he tripped over it, just inside the school’s front doors.

“I’ll see you in class,” Alder told Oak, bending to tie his shoe.

When he stood, it was to find Marcus staring at him.

“Hey,” said Marcus.

“Oh,” said Alder, hotly blushing. “Sorry.” He didn’t know why he said “sorry.”

“Hey,” said Marcus again, “are you avoiding Beck?”

“What?” said Alder. “No,” he lied.

“Beck thinks you’re avoiding him,” Marcus said, scratching his nose. “He waved to you on the bus and it was like you didn’t even see him.”

Alder shrugged. “I guess I didn’t see him.”

“Okay,” said Marcus. “Well, he wants to talk to you.”

“What about?” Alder asked. His voice caught in the middle, squeaking a little.

Marcus shrugged. “He said something about knitting?”

“Uh-huh,” said Alder. “Well, I’ll go find him.” He headed off down the hall.

“He’s in the bathroom,” Marcus called after him, but Alder pretended not to hear, and he went toward Mr. Rivera’s class instead.

In the classroom, Alder dumped his backpack next to his desk and sank into it, miserable. If it were anyone other than Beck, Alder would be curious why he wanted to talk about knitting. But, if he was being totally honest with himself, Alder was intimidated by Beck. Everything seemed so easy for him: Making the teacher laugh. Running. Friend stuff.

The rest of the class began to trickle in, and then Mr. Rivera arrived, carrying his ceramic coffee mug and whistling something happy. The bell rang and the rest of the students flooded into their seats, Beck and Marcus among them. Alder felt Beck’s gaze on him, pulling him like a magnet, but he forced his eyes to stay on his own desk.

“Okay, friends,” Mr. Rivera said. “We’re going to start off our day with interdisciplinary work. Three fifteen-minute rounds, so everyone gets with their partners. I’ve made a schedule for today here. . . .” He tapped on his computer keyboard, and the schedule appeared over the projector.

“I’ll set a timer. Ready, friends? Find your first partner and make some noise.”

Alder saw from the list that he was supposed to meet with Marcus, then Oak, then Beck.

When he got to Marcus’s desk, he found Marcus had already pulled out their shared notebook. Toenails had been written across the cover, but Alder saw that Marcus had added the words Fingernails and above Toenails.

“I asked Mr. Rivera for permission,” Marcus explained. “I figured it would give us more to write about.”

“Good idea,” said Alder.

Marcus grinned and flipped the notebook open to the list of subjects:

Language Arts

History

Current Events

PE

Math

Art

Science

So far, they’d filled out current events (the longest toenail lady), science (onychomycosis, a fungal infection of the toenail), math (it turned out that the World Nail Competition judged the best nails based on a mathematical concept called the golden ratio), and PE (a list of all the physical activities that could lead to ingrown toenails).

That left art, language arts, and history.

“I took care of history,” said Marcus. “I researched the nail clipper.”

“You did?” Alder was impressed. It had never occurred to him to think about nail tools.

“Yeah,” said Marcus, pulling a sheet of notes from his backpack. “The first clipper was invented by two guys . . . Eugene Heim and Oelestin Matz, in 1881.”

Alder wasn’t sure that Marcus was pronouncing the names right, but he didn’t say this. Instead, he copied the information into the notebook and asked, “How did people cut their nails before that?”

“With a knife,” Marcus said. “If I had to cut my nails with a knife, I doubt I’d have any fingers left.”

Alder laughed. “Remember that time you tried to slice up a peach and ended up in the emergency room?”

Marcus held out his pointer finger. “I still have the scar.”

“I’ve done some research, too,” Alder said, reaching into his bag. “For language arts.”

“Oh yeah?” said Marcus. “What did you find?”

“Well, I’m glad you checked with Mr. Rivera, because I’m pretty sure it’s about fingernails, not toenails, even though it just says ‘nails.’ It’s an old poem I found,” Alder said.

“Let’s hear it,” said Marcus.

Alder cleared his throat, and then read:

Cut your nails on Monday, cut them for news;

Cut them on Tuesday, a new pair of shoes;

Cut them on Wednesday, cut them for health;

Cut them on Thursday, cut them for wealth;

Cut them on Friday, cut them for woe;

Cut them on Saturday, a journey you’ll go;

Cut them on Sunday, you’ll cut them for evil;

For all the next week you’ll be ruled by the devil.

For a moment, Marcus just stared at him openmouthed. And then he started to laugh—a big, friendly guffaw. Oh, Alder had missed that laugh so much that the sound of it, and the knowledge that he’d been the one to create it, made his eyes sting with unshed tears.

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Marcus said at last. “If you cut your nails on a Sunday, the devil is in charge for the whole next week?”

“I guess so,” said Alder, and his smile felt so wide that he thought his face might crack open. “Which day would you cut your nails?”

“Let me see that,” Marcus said, and Alder scooted his chair around to the other side of the desk so he and Marcus were shoulder to shoulder and they could read the poem together.

“Definitely not Sunday,” Marcus said, “or Monday or Tuesday. Who cares about news and shoes?”

Alder nodded in agreement. “And not Friday,” he said.

“What’s ‘woe’?” Marcus asked.

“Like, sadness, I think.” Alder didn’t know why he was pretending to be unsure about the meaning of “woe.” He knew exactly what it meant.

“Well, I’m already healthy,” said Marcus, “so not Wednesday either.”

“That leaves Thursday or Saturday,” Alder said. “Would you rather be rich or travel?”

“Definitely travel,” Marcus said. “See the world. How about you?”

Alder thought of the kittens, and the shimmer, and the house that wasn’t there. “Thursday,” he answered. “I sort of like it right here.”

Mr. Rivera’s alarm sounded loudly. “All right, kiddos,” he called. “Time to switch.”

Alder stood reluctantly. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll see you later.”

But Marcus had already turned his attention to his next partner, and after a moment, Alder drifted away.

Oak waited for him at her desk, their “Family” file in front of her. They had most of it filled out:

Language Arts: The Godfather (book) about crime families

History: Romanov family, killed July 16, 1918

Current Events: Family separations and border camps on the United States’ southern border

PE: Research about benefits of family exercise

Math: “Fact families,” math facts that use the same numbers

Art:

Science: DNA spit tests to learn about our families

“So, did you buy a spit test?” Oak asked, looking over the list.

“Uh-huh,” said Alder. “Over the weekend. I mailed it in. I didn’t understand half the questions on the form, so I just checked all the boxes.”

“Me too,” said Oak.

Alder craned his neck to see the list. “That just leaves art.”

“I’ll research an artist who specialized in family portraits,” Oak said. “Easy.”

Alder nodded. He looked over his shoulder at Beck, who was working with Cynthia on their project. “Say, Oak,” he said, “can I ask you a question?”

Oak put down her pencil. “Sure,” she said.

“It’s just—” said Alder. He rubbed his neck. “Beck wants to talk to me about knitting. And I’m . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m nervous?”

“What about?” Oak asked.

Alder shrugged. “What if he’s going to tease me about it?”

“If he was going to tease you about it, he probably already would have,” Oak said. “And anyway, who cares if he does tease you?”

“You know,” said Alder, “last year, Marcus and I . . . hung out a lot. And this year, he’s hanging out with Beck all the time.”

“Oh,” said Oak. “You feel like Beck stole your friend.”

When he heard Oak say it, Alder knew it was ridiculous. A friend wasn’t something you could steal, like a watch or something. But still. That was how it felt. He nodded.

“Well, we’re friends now. And I like that you know how to knit.”

“Thanks.” Alder felt better, a little.

“Hey,” said Oak, changing the subject, “back to what we were talking about on the bus. The kittens. And Mort. There has to be a reason, don’t you think, that all that happened? We need to go back and find out more.”

“I don’t know,” Alder said slowly. He knew how much Oak wanted to try to get back to the strange house. And he really didn’t want to disappoint her. Especially now that they were friends. “Do you think it’s even safe?” Alder asked.

“We were fine last time,” Oak said.

“Yeah, but maybe we just got lucky.”

“It’s like Edith Phipps said in the book’s introduction.” Oak’s voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing Alder to lean in to hear her. “Who among us truly finds what we desire? If we’re lucky enough to have the book and kittens who can . . . you know . . . then we’re practically obligated to try to go back to Mort’s house!”

“Anyway,” said Alder, reluctant to even explore the idea, “how would we get there?”

“Well,” said Oak eagerly, “I’ve been reading the book, and—”

Just then Mr. Rivera’s voice sounded again. “Okay, party people!” he called. “Rotate one more time.”

“We’ll talk later,” Oak said. “After school.”

Alder nodded. He gathered his stuff and stood. His stomach was a pit of dread.

But when he got to Beck’s desk, Beck smiled with an open face. He didn’t look like someone who wanted to tease Alder.

Slowly, Alder sat. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” said Beck. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. About knitting.”

Alder nodded. “I know. What’s up?” He couldn’t help but feel nervous, even though Beck leaned forward eagerly.

“It’s just—see, my grandma was knitting me a sweater.” Beck unzipped his backpack; inside, Alder could see a bright blue cable-knit sleeve. “But she died before she could finish it. And I was wondering—do you think you could finish it for me?”

Alder blinked. “Oh,” he said. And then, “I’m sorry your grandmother died.”

“Thanks,” said Beck. His voice was gruff. “I don’t even like wearing sweaters. They’re itchy and hot. But . . . I’d wear this one, if I could.”

Alder nodded. “Let me see it.”

Beck pulled out the sweater, in pieces. Most of it was finished—the front piece, the back piece, and one sleeve. All Alder would have to do would be knit one more sleeve and then assemble the pieces. It would be easy.

“Do you have any more of this blue yarn?” Alder asked.

Beck shook his head. “The rest of Grammy’s knitting stuff all got sold or taken to a thrift store.”

“That’s okay,” said Alder. “I’ll bet we’ve got something pretty similar at home.”

“Dude,” said Beck, “if you could finish it for me, I’d seriously owe you one.”

Alder carefully folded up the sweater pieces and tucked them into his backpack. Maybe Beck didn’t exactly “steal” Marcus. If Alder were Marcus, he’d probably prefer hanging out with Beck too. He was as nice as he was funny, and athletic, and popular. Alder zipped his backpack. “I know what it’s like to miss someone,” he said, and he was as careful with his words as he was with the sweater. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m glad to help.”