If I Fall (4 page)

“Bread, my dear boy … to bring home to your family, perhaps?” a woman says to Dela, a loaf of bread outstretched in her grimy hands. My sister shakes her head, but sneaks me a grin, for our charade is working.

“Care for some flowers, lad? A good looking man such as yourself must have a lady, eh?” a man with a bushy mustache says to me.
Lovely. I’m a handsome boy, but an awkward girl. Funny how things work out.
I straighten my tie and shake my head.

“No, thank you,” I say, my voice too high. It has given me away for sure. Dela shoots me a look. “I mean … No, thank you, sir,” I try again, taking on a deep and gravelly tone. The man nods, turning away.

A tiny smirk pricks at my lips in triumph before I hear him whisper to his wife, “No wonder he hasn’t got a lady. Poor lad hasn’t even hit puberty yet.” His wife clucks her tongue in sympathy. A blush warms my cheeks and raises red splotches along the back of my neck. Hurriedly, I catch up to Dela.

The horn lets out its mournful call once again and we make haste, nearly being trampled by a carriage on our way to the pier. The bitter smell of the sea makes my nose wrinkle, and I lust for the sweet smell of the lilac in my garden. They always bloomed so beautifully this time of year. I picture their stems burned to crisps, and a chill passes through me. I shall miss that garden.

“Elvira, what shall we do?” Dela pulls at my sleeve and I stare down at her girly-boy face peeking out from beneath her homburg. Its wide brim conceals her crystal blue eyes.

Looking before me, I gasp at the sheer size of the RMS
Celtic
resting on the water. It is a monstrosity. Passengers stand on the three decks, waving to their families and friends below. Over six temporary walkways lead up to the ship from the dock. People bustle around us, moving up the walks onto the ship as workers take their bags. A woman walks by me wearing lavish pearls and a long purple dress with a pigeon breast. The latest style. I stare dolefully at my oversized sacker coat and matching waistcoat. As much as I hate dresses, I must admit they are much more flattering. I pull at the stiff collar resting just beneath my jaw.

Distracted by the sight of a car being lifted by a crane, I dismiss my itching neck. The vehicle’s black coat shines in the sunlight. A steering wheel sticks out up to the seat, exposed to the open air.

“El, how are we to get on the ship?”

“Do you ever think we’d be able to own a car?” I say wistfully.

Dela rolls her eyes. “No. Such luxuries belong to the rich and the rich alone. Beside, I prefer horses.” She places her hands on her hips in a girly manner. “Do you have a plan or not?”

“Do remember you’re a boy,” I say. “And yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a plan.” I reach for her hand, pulling her towards the backend of the ship. Many workers go up and down the ramp, holding large and small crates alike.

“You must be joking,” Dela says, wrenching her hand out of my own. “You’re not serious!”

Unfortunately, I am all too serious. The plan stinks almost as much as the pile of horse manure we passed in the street, but terrible or not—

“Well, unless you have a better plan to sneak onto the ship …” She does not answer. “No? Then I suppose we are stuck with mine. Now, come along. Quickly, while no one is looking.”

I glance around, watching as the last man walks up the plank. I open the nearest crate, ducking a heavy bronze Tiffany lamp into the ocean. The delicately painted flowers upon its base almost seem to wither as it hits the water. Scanning the area for the workers, I decide the coast is clear and help my sister inside. She glowers up at me, and I shut the lid before that glare destroys my impulsive determination.

“Don’t make a noise until I give you the signal,” I whisper.

“What’s the signal?”

“I’ll … whistle.” Moving unto the next box, I heave a large vase over the side of the pier and close myself inside. Please let the workmen pick us up. A second later, the crate jostles and I bite my lip to restrain my yelp when my head bangs against the side.

“Och, this box is heavier than I remember,” he says.

Excuse me?

“Too heavy for you, eh?” another worker laughs.

“Too heavy!” he scoffs, hitching the box higher to prove himself. I bite down harder to keep from squealing and the copper taste of blood mixes in my mouth. Men and their ridiculous obsession with proving their superiority. I resist the urge to spit.

The man could not have been less gentle. My box is set down gruffly and I listen to his retreating steps. I wait for what seems to be forever. Crate after crate is carried in and set down beside mine.

“I think that’s the last of ‘em,” I hear someone say, and my heart leaps for joy. My legs are cramped and my butt cheeks have already taken turns falling asleep. I think of the scolding I would receive from Mother if ever I voiced this thought and instantly shut her memory out of my mind.

The sound of metal on metal echoes around the room and through the thin wood of the crate. Was that the cargo room door closing? Are the men all gone? A final cry sounds from the horn, a farewell to those still standing on the docks. The ship lurches before picking up a gentle lolling. We are moving at last! My heart constricts in triumph. Finally, at sea! I have succeeded and we shall reach America and meet with my parents and all shall be right.

I was naïve to think it.

I whistle.

5
HIDING

“I’m going to be sick.”

I turn my head to gaze at Dela. A sheen of sweat glistens on her abnormally pale face. I search the space around me and spot a small bucket. Reaching out my foot, I nudge it with my toe, sending it rolling towards her side of the room. It slides to a stop by her calf and she groans.

“There is no way I am going to vomit into that thing,” she says stubbornly.

I shrug. “It’s either that or your shirt. Your choice.”

She shoots a half-hearted glare in my direction before pulling the bucket unto her lap. A second later the sounds of her gagging echo around the small space. I find myself growing sick at the sound of her retching, and I grimace.

“Are you quite done?” I ask, irritation creeping into my voice.

She scowls, wiping her sleeve across her mouth. “Terribly sorry. Next time I’ll tell my stomach to consider my dear sister before deciding to heave its contents up my throat!”

“Keep your voice down,” I scold, ignoring her comment.

A bang. Like the shot of a gun. A sound I have become all too familiar with. The echo rings in my ears and I look to Dela, who shakes her head, refusing to acknowledge the bang as anything more than a noise. A splash later follows, but we disregard it. With new vigor, Dela continues her complaining.

I lean against a crate, my arms folded across my chest and my ankles crossed. Closing my eyes, I shut out Dela’s insistent moans and concentrate on the sloshing of the sea against the ship.

“I loathe boats. There is a reason people were not given fins. We’re simply not meant for the water,” my sister mutters to herself before bending over the bucket a second time. “Horrid taste.”

“Horrid smell,” I say, putting a hand to my nose.

We exchange a quick glance; our weak laughter bounces off the mounds of crates and back into our ears. It sounds foreign, strained and forced. We let it die, allowing our short burst of mirth to pass in a few weak giggles before it floats away into silence.

“How much longer will we be on this dreadful ship?” A trace of worry hides behind the whining. I look at her thoughtfully, trying to figure out how she is taking all of this, when she drops her head into the bucket a third time.

I shrug. “I overheard the workers saying it would be about a week.”

Dela stands shakily and begins to pace. She wobbles a few times, her legs not yet accustomed to the movement of the sea. “Kill me now,” she mumbles.

An awkward silence permeates the space between us, her comment filling our minds with images of the previous night, of our parents, of home. I stifle the memories and go back to concentrating on the water’s steady sloshing.

“Elvira,” she whispers. “I’m hungry.”

Food! The simplest of things, and I forgot!

“Tomorrow, Dela. I shall get us food tomorrow. Sleep for now,” I say, much calmer than I feel.

She sighs before rolling over on her side and curling into a ball. When her heavy breathing at last permeates the room, I allow my pent up emotions to finally spill over in an onslaught of silent sobs. I cry for my parents, for my garden, for my sister … for myself. I cry because I am hungry and do not know how I will feed us come tomorrow. I cry because there is nothing more for me to do.

A laugh filters through my sobs. At first, I think I have finally reached hysterics, but a sharper, deeper laugh mixes with the other and I am sure it is not me. I stiffen, every hair on my body standing at attention. Two or more men are laughing outside the cargo room, only a few feet away from where I lie. My gaze fixates on the door.

“Did you hear about the vermin that tried to sneak onto the ship?”

A weight settles on my heart. Certainly they do not mean us! How could they possibly know? I place a hand against the nearest crate, steadying myself as dizzying fear swells up through my chest. Light filters through the bottom of the door, the men’s black shadows dancing across its length.

“Surely, you don’t mean …”

“Aye. That’s exactly what I mean. One of them tried to pass as one of us, tried to sneak into third class.”

The idea of attempting such a feat and being caught … it is simply too much. Even worse? The idea that with the simple opening of a door, we could be next.

“Chap didn’t realize the attendants check every passenger’s arms before boarding?”

“Suppose not, considering he’s floating facedown in the ocean by now.” The man chuckles.

The other gasps and the first man continues his story merrily, happy for the attention.

“Aye, the attendant gave him a good beating before he shot him right in front of the crowd. I swear his blood ran black as death and oh, how the crowd gaped and cheered! The attendants threw the body overboard for the sharks.” He laughs, and then adds, “Though not even the sharks would bother with the vile lad!”

The men join in rambunctious guffawing. The bang from earlier surfaces in my mind; I shiver. An image of Dela and I floating facedown in the water, sharks circling us in fluid movements, runs through my thoughts. I cringe at the notion and force it out of my head. And they call us disgusting, evil, violent …

Fear gives way to anger. It surges through my veins. I have to force myself to stay seated to keep from ripping open the door and … and … I don’t know what. After all, I am powerless. I pull my sleeve up and am mesmerized by the Mark. It burns a bright violet, seeming to glow in the dark of the room. I trace a finger around the endless circle and the intricate cross in the middle.

“Why me?” I whisper. Why must I be the one cursed with the Mark that does not work? Why must I have the Mark no one else has seen before? There is talk of it. Oh, yes, people have heard of it. An old folktale that says the one with the Circle-and-Cross has great power, but folktales are fiction—fairytales. Not real.

And the idea that I may be one of the Lost—those Marked without powers—continues to seem more and more likely. But to be one is to be a disgrace to your family. My parents insist that I am simply a late bloomer, but most Marked show some sign of their powers by the age of six. I should have known my powers over ten years ago! Should have, but didn’t. The word
Lost
has haunted me these past few years almost as much as
Radicals.

“We best be going back. The men are gathering for cigars soon,” one man says.

“Ah, yes, indeed.”

Their retreating footsteps grow faint and I breathe a sigh of relief. We are safe. For now. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and allow the gentle lolling of the boat to erase my thoughts and eventually, rock me to sleep.

6
STEALING

I lie on my back, staring at the wooden planks that form a low ceiling. Holes and whorls dot the lumber, and I connect them, turning mishap marks into war heroes and puppies, horses and flowers. I think back to lying in my garden beneath the midnight blue sky. The smell of roses and lavender would lull me into a sweet stupor as I traced the constellations with my mind. Sometimes Father joined me.