19

You're under my power … you’re under my power … you’re under my …

With the coffee cup hidden behind my back, I swung open the dingy door and charged up the dark staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

My will and intentions … my will and intentions … my will and …

Hollis was right behind me, huffing and panting and dragging her left foot to keep up. She was sicker than I thought, or seriously out of shape. I hoped it was the latter.

The address of the White Witch … the address of the White Witch … the address of the …

My mind was so focused on charming the clown into giving me the post office box number that I wasn’t thinking about anything else when I skittered around the corner at the top of the landing. Wouldn’t you know it — the clown was heading around the corner at the exact same time! To avoid bulldozing him, I came to an absolute and abrupt standstill, as did he. Hollis, unaware of my intentions — or the clown’s for that matter — continued in forward motion, plowing right into me. Now, I may have been shorter than Hollis, but what I lacked in height I gained in sturdiness. Hollis hit me like a brick wall, falling backward, arms flailing. She landed on her behind with a tumultuous thud.

“Are you okay?” asked the clown, racing to her side and helping her to her feet. In the confusion, I slipped the mug onto the coffee table that was only a few feet away and then rejoined the commotion.

“Are you hurt?” I panted. “Oh my gosh! You’re bleeding!” I pointed to a scrape on Hollis’s cheek — probably caused by her own long fingernails.

The clown helped Hollis to the sofa, where she sat catching her breath and steadying herself.

“There are some bandages in a first aid kit in the blue filing cabinet,” he said to me. “You get the bandage and I’ll get a cold compress for her forehead.”

I nodded, all the while thinking that her forehead may not be the exact part of her anatomy requiring a cold compress. All the same, I dashed to the back of the room, behind the desk, while the clown disappeared into the bathroom. I yanked open the blue filing cabinet and to my absolute astonishment, I discovered more than just the first aid kit.

Author Information was scrawled on one of the plastic tabs dividing file folders. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d done it. I’d actually done it. I’d managed to charm the clown into handing me the information I needed! Well, in a roundabout way, I guess.

I momentarily forgot about Hollis and her injury and began rifling through the files at lightning speed. Turner, Unger, Vanderklaauw (???), White. That was it! I pulled out the file and opened it. White, W. was printed across the top — the White Witch! It had to be her! I quickly memorized as much of the information I could, focusing on the post office box number: 8799 (I memorized this using hockey players — 87 was Sydney Crosby, 99 was Wayne Gretzky — a little trick Jordan taught me ages ago). The postal code was unbelievably easy: L8T 4S2 — it spelled late for stew!

“Did you find the bandages?” asked the clown, as he exited the bathroom holding a wad of sopping paper towels.

“Um, yeah,” I said, suddenly remembering Hollis. I tucked back the file and fumbled through the first aid kit at the bottom of the cabinet.

“I feel fine,” said Hollis. She tried to stand and then sunk back down.

“Do you feel dizzy?” asked the clown, handing her the cold compress.

“Not more than usual,” said Hollis.

“She hasn’t been feeling well lately,” I added. “But don’t worry, she’s going to be fine — just fine.” I winked at Hollis and grinned. I ripped open the bandage and slapped it onto Hollis’s cheek, patting it several times to make sure it was on right.

“Ow, quit it!” she said, smacking my hand away.

“Well, that’s that. All better,” I announced. “We’d best be going now…” I dragged Hollis to her feet, and with one arm around her shoulder, I pulled her toward the door.

“Hold on just a second,” said the clown.

I froze. What could he possibly want? Did he figure out I’d taken his coffee cup? Had he discovered I’d been rifling through his files? I was wincing, but he couldn’t tell because I had my back to him. I slowly turned to face him, plastering the stickiest-sweet grin on my face that I could possibly muster. I was trying to look cute and innocent, but I think the combination of fear, apprehension, and my crazy huge smile made me look more maniacal than anything. I reached into my pocket to try and use the talisman to charm him again, but unfortunately it was now nothing more than an unidentifiable mass of guck oozing around and sticking to the lining. My mother was going to kill me — but I had a whole half day before I had to worry about that.

“Have you forgotten something?” asked the clown.

What could I have possibly forgotten? I did a quick brain scan. “Um. Nope. Nothing. Thanks again.” I turned to leave, but his voice hooked me and reeled me in a second time.

“Are you forgetting what you returned for? Why exactly did you come back?” he asked.

Luckily, my mouth was as fast as a jet engine. It was a shame that my brain was more like a hot-air balloon. “Well,” I said sweetly, “we came here about the hospital, of course. You know, to ask you how we could get involved and help out there, too.”

Hollis looked at me with a deadpan face. I looked back at her and shrugged. Well, why not? It was as good as excuse as any.

“That’s great!” he said. “They can always use people. All you need to do is …”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” I interrupted. “I’m going to call tomorrow and find out. I’ll probably see you there sometime. But right now, I think I need to get my friend home. She’s had enough excitement for one day. She’s not used to it, you know — rather bland, boring life and all. Besides, Sydney Crosby and Wayne Gretzky are late for stew …”

Before he could utter any kind of response, and before Hollis could protest, I pulled her toward the hallway and down the steps. I raced along the sidewalk, certain she was only a few steps behind. When we were a safe distance from Mixed Pickle Press, I stopped to catch my breath and explain.