As crazy as this day is turning out to be, what I really need is to put it behind me. I need to forget all about it for a little while and just put in a little bit more time preparing for my exam next week. I take down my book and notebook from the shelf. Then I place my box of crystals on the table and lift the lid. There is an experiment I want to do to make sure that I can accurately read my flow meter and figure out how much energy is in a crystal based on measuring the flow for a certain amount of time.
We’ve only done this a couple of times at EI, actually, just so that we knew what a flow meter was and sort of how to use one. But we didn’t have enough meters for everyone, and most of our work was figuring out how to work the calculations on paper anyway. Not many students have flow meters, but I have a good one.
Once, when I was about five, a man came to visit my mother. I didn’t know it then, but he was a philosopher. I remember that he had a very kind voice and fuzzy beard. When he came in, my mother tried to shoo me away, but he told her to let me stay. And he handed something to me from his pocket and said that I could play with it.
So while they talked, I held the meter and began to play with it. It’s made out of brass and has four round nobbs. When it’s near a magical flow of energy, the knobs spin around, and you can measure the rate that the magic is flowing at. Eventually, I crawled out from behind the philosopher’s chair and held the meter near the lights, the clock, anything magical that I could find. It didn’t spin very fast, because there wasn’t anything that needed a lot of magic, but then I got the great idea of taking it out to the kitchen and setting it on the steam kettle. It wasn’t long before my mother caught me and dragged me back in, but I still remember how thrilling it was that I had figured out a way to make it spin faster.
My mother insisted that I give it back right then. The philosopher just looked at me and asked, “Will you take good care of this and learn how to use it?” I did not look at my mother, because if I didn’t look, then she couldn’t tell me no, not with him right there. So I promised that I would.
The problem is that when I open the box, my flow meter is gone.
I stare at the crystals, each in its velvet-lined space. One compartment is empty.
Mallee.
When I’m upset, I’ve learned that it pays to stomp down the stairs as loudly as possible. Wren tries to be patient and reasonable, but I don’t think so. If I start by making it loud and obvious, then it saves time. “Mallee!” I shriek. “Where is it?”
I doubt that she actually knows which thing she’s in trouble for, but it’s not hard to convince her that she’s guilty of something because she screams and runs. I have the advantage because my bare feet stick to the floorboards, but as soon as Mallee comes off of a rug, her thick socks slide, and on only the second turn, she goes flying into a bookcase with enough force to knock a decorative plate off of its stand so that it smashes on the floor. Mallee’s wail of fear turns into a wail of pain--an exaggerated wail, I might add. But since there is real blood (though only about two drops of it), she gets all kinds of attention and even an apology from me.
However, I still consider the approach successful because Mallee hands over my meter before going off to the kitchen to help mom dress for Church. Since she is already dressed, that only means that Mallee will get to borrow a necklace and look ridiculously dressed up when they go.
I head triumphantly back upstairs, finally ready to study.
To my surprise, I am not the only one. “Did you forget something?” I say to Wren just as a way of asking her what’s going on.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Wren says in a whisper. “I’ve been trying to get some time with you all day.”
“It’s been a busy day,” I admit.
“I’ll be late for Church, but I just can’t stand it anymore. Tomorrow will be just another day, and I need to tell someone.” The way she says it makes me feel like I would not be hearing this if there were any other choice. That’s probably not exactly what she means, but that’s what if sounds like.
I look at the book and box on my desk. I turn back to Wren. “Okay, what is it?”
“I’ve met someone.” Wren tries not to grin, but she can’t help it. Her face twists in that way that says she is jumping up and down inside.
“No you haven’t,” I tell her. “There’s no way. You’re not even out of EI. And trust me, if you had any kind of solicitation, Mom would--”“You can’t tell her,” Wren says. She’s even melodramatic enough to clutch at my arm as if she’s the heroine in a moving picture. I wonder if now it’s my job to tie her to a tree until the hero can get here to save her.
“You had a solicitation without Mom knowing? How did you manage that?”
“It’s not exactly official.”
“What?” If my parents knew that she had been talking to a boy without filing any paperwork, they would be furious.
“Promise you won’t tell on me?” Wren demands. I have to really think about it.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. I’m not sure exactly what I’m promising.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she insists, crossing her arms and looking stubborn. That worries me.
“What have you done?”
“You have to promise.”
“I’m not promising anything until you tell me.”
She shrugs and tries to look like she doesn’t care, but I can tell that she’s upset. As in, really mad.
“Okay fine. I promise.”
She loosens up a little. “Okay. Just remember that you promised.”
“Wren!” I’m about to kill her. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She still has her arms folded. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s feeling stubborn and pleased with herself, but also a little bit afraid. “I’m...We’re engaged.”
I stop my indulgently disapproving smile. “How old is he?”
“He’s in your year.”
“You can’t be. He can’t get engaged until he has proof of career.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she insists, and then she sags. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,”she tells me quietly. “But it was a stormy day. I had stayed late for dance class, but it was cancelled that day. I got locked out. So did he.” She shrugs. “I was half in love with him before it occurred to me how strange it was that we seemed to be running into each other so often. By then I didn’t want him to stop.”
“Well, if you’re sensible and keep it quiet then I guess you’ll be okay,” I say. I can’t stay mad at her for very long. “One more year, and then you’ll be old enough to do the paperwork.”“There’s only one problem.” Wren has decided to tell me everything, and now there is no stopping her. Sometimes I think it’s funny, but right now, I don’t. Of course, I don’t want her to keep quiet, not now that she started telling me. Only a part of me does. In fact, two parts of me want her to just shut up and never say anything again. The first one, what is more important to me, is the worry that she is only sixteen.
“Problem?”I ask.
“He’s not the oldest son. He needs a subsidy.”
“Oh,”I say. That is a problem. A farmer doesn’t always make enough to get proof of career, and without it, they can’t get married. A subsidy has to be paid back before“Doesn’t he want to get an apprenticeship? Then he could wait a year.”
“He knows how to farm. He offered to go into something else just for me--even though he’d hate doing anything else--but it’s no good. His grades aren’t good. He’s doubts that he’ll do well enough on the Exam to make up for it.”
I sit down and start fiddling with some loose buttons in my pocket. I wish that I had my sewing. It would calm me. But she’d be offended if I excuse myself now to go get it.
“He says he’ll think of something.” She tries to look hopeful. I can tell that she’s been crying about this before and will again.
“You haven’t even told me his name,” I remind her.
She shakes her head. “I’d better not. Of course I would tell you, but this way I’m keeping my word, and I’m the only one who could get in trouble.”
She hugs me, and she says thank you, and she goes off to be happy. I’m the one who has one more thing to worry about.
Continue on to Chapter 3
[300]
No comments:
Post a Comment