Texting the Underworld (8 page)

“That was a screech owl,” Ms. Alexis said knowledgeably.

“This time of day?” Dr. Dencill had been a science teacher once, too, and everybody knew she and Ms. Alexis didn't get along. “They're nocturnal.”

“The
true
scientist,” Ms. Alexis said, “knows that there are always exceptions.”

Dr. Dencill's mouth went small. “Go back inside,” she said.

“Yes, come along, Conor.” Ms. Alexis held the door open for them all. “The moths are dead now. You and your cousin can sit by the window.”

“Awesome,” Ashling said.

By the time school ended, Ashling was an old hand at bells, intercoms, vinyl floor tiles, water fountains, pencil sharpeners, and shoelaces. Conor was worried about the bus, though. “It's big and sort of noisy,” he whispered to Ashling as they made their way out of the school. “It has a motor, which means it moves without horses.”

“Conor-boy, you forget that I sat outside two days ago. I saw many such vehicles.”

But apparently she hadn't seen anything quite so big or quite so shiny and rumbly as a city bus. She stopped dead (in her case, really) on the sidewalk, blocking pedestrian traffic.

“Dude,” James Johnson protested. Conor moved Ashling out of James's way, but couldn't do anything about her gaping mouth.

“Dude,” she whispered. “It growls like a dragon.”

“You had dragons?”

“No.” She was trembling.

Conor lowered his voice. “It can't hurt you. You're, you know, dead.”

“I don't
feel
dead.”

“It's totally safe. Totally.”

“Totally,” Ashling whispered. She allowed Conor to lead her down the sidewalk and almost onto the bus before she halted again. “No way.”

“Dude,” James Johnson said out the window. “What's the holdup?”

“I am emo,” Ashling whispered. “Dude.”

“She doesn't think it looks safe,” Conor said.

“Depends where you sit, Pixie-poop.” Andy Watson shouldered past Ashling.

“Mr. O'Neill,” said Mr. Quincy the bus driver. “We await your arrival.”

Ashling whimpered as Conor took her hand and led her up the steps into the bus. He guided her to a seat in the back, shoving his way through thick silence and curious glances. Javier, sitting across the aisle with Mohamed, frowned slightly, analyzing.

It was only when the bus bounced out onto Dorchester Street that Conor recognized the next big hurdle. “My sister sometimes meets me at the bus stop,” he whispered to Ashling. “I can't tell
her
you're our cousin. What'll I do?”

“Oh, see there!” Ashling pointed out the window. “A woman is attached to a tiny wolf by a string.”

“Thanks for your help.”

She gave him a Glennie-esque half smirk. But then her expression changed. “Oh no, that boy's swatting at something!”

“Hey!” Conor scrambled to his feet. “Leave it alone!”

“When did you go all Buddhist?” Javier muttered.

Several kids in the middle section of the bus were screaming and squirming as a maddened wasp dive-bombed people's heads. Jon Soucy, equally maddened, lunged after it, his skateboard magazine rolled up for the kill. Conor hauled himself forward seat by seat as the bus accelerated. Glancing back, he saw that, sure enough, Ashling's face was turning to Silly Putty.

He grabbed Jon's arm as it was sweeping down. It was a slow, silent struggle: Jon writhing to free his arm, Conor clinging to it with both hands. The wasp circled them once, then hurled itself against a window.

“Open the window!” Conor yelled to Marissa. “Let it out!”

The bus lurched to the curb. “What the heck's going on back there?” Mr. Quincy yelled.

Marissa slid her window open a crack. The wasp flew out. Jon got his arm free and started whacking Conor on the head with the skateboard magazine.

A meaty hand grabbed Jon by the collar, dragged him into the aisle. Another hand landed on Conor's shoulder, his knees almost buckling.

“Kids today,” some guy said. Then the bus went silent.

“Mr. Soucy,” Mr. Quincy said, “why are you beating Mr. O'Neill?”

Jon looked at Conor. Conor looked back. Everything was his fault, and they both knew it.

“There was a wasp,” he said. “Jon was trying to kill it.”

“Mr. O'Neill, I noticed you were wearing a helmet on my bus yesterday. Was that a comment on my driving?”

“No.” Conor tried to think of something his helmet could have been commenting on, then remembered he already had a lie going. “I had a slight concussion.”

“Mr. Soucy, is it a good idea to beat a person on the head when that person has had a slight concussion?”

“No.”

“And if a wasp appears in this bus, what do we do about it?”

Jon, unable to move his head, rolled his eyes trying to see Mr. Quincy's face. “Kill it before it stings somebody?”

Mr. Quincy tightened his hand on Jon's collar. “No. We open a window and sit quietly until it goes away.”

“An insect bite,” said a voice from the back of the bus, “is nothing compared to an ax in the head.”

“Very true.” Mr. Quincy released Jon. “Everybody back in his seat.”

As the bus trundled along, quiet and bug-free, Conor convinced himself that the wasp incident had delayed them enough so that Glennie would be safely home when he reached the bus stop. But as that stop drew near, there she was. Worse, she was standing with Tori Mullen, who'd ridden her bike home. Tori was telling Glennie something extremely interesting—it seemed to involve huge arm gestures and, at one point, pretending to run.

“Aw, cripes.” There had to be a way to explain Ashling to Glennie, but all that came into Conor's head was a flute tune along with the smell of woodsmoke.

When he stepped onto the sidewalk, Glennie was waiting. Javier brushed past and headed to his house. Conor knew he should catch up and try to fix what was wrong between them. But there was Glennie, breathing hard through her nose.

“What's this about a claustrophobic cousin from Ireland?” Glennie looked Ashling up and down. “And she keeps talking about axes?
Northern
Ireland, Tori said.” Her voice dropped. “Is she IRA?”

“What's—?” Ashling began.

“Hssshhht!” Conor's brain woke up. He plucked at his sister's sleeve. “Glennie,” he whispered. “Nobody's supposed to know.” Ashling narrowed her eyes at him. He winked at her, hoping winks meant the same thing sixteen hundred years ago.

“Listen, Glennie. Ashling—that's her name—she got smuggled in here. She landed at the docks.” He waved his hand vaguely eastward, since he didn't know where Irish ships came in. Fortunately, Glennie didn't know either. “Her parents”—he locked Ashling's gaze with his, sending her a psychic “shut up” message—“were IRA. That's Irish Republican Army.”

“I know what IRA means,” Glennie said. “Why ‘were'? Are they dead?”

“No . . . YES. Yes, they died. And even though there's no fighting over there anymore, there's still people mad at Ashling's family. So her relatives sent her over here, on the sly, see, to keep her out of harm's way.”

He assessed Glennie's reaction so far. She gazed at Ashling with shining eyes. Glennie loved a rebel.

“And they asked Dad to take her in and he said no. They couldn't find another place for her, so they asked me if I'd sneak her in. And she's sleeping in the game cupboard, and she came to school with me today because . . . because . . .” Why would anyone go to school if they didn't have to?

“Dude,” Ashling said. “Because of my thirst for learning.”

Conor held his breath. No one could believe all this.

But Glennie's eyes were soft. “And she's been locked in a container on a cargo ship for weeks and weeks, and her poor pale body . . .” Glennie blinked. Ashling was anything but poor and pale. “How come she's dressed like that?”

“It's what they're wearing in Ireland,” Conor said. “So, listen, when we're home you have to pretend she doesn't exist. And don't talk about her at school, either, because we don't want anything getting home to Mom and Dad.”

Glennie's mouth went pouty. “They know about her at
your
school.”

“Well, they sort of have to, don't they, her being there and all? Because . . . of her thirst for learning.” With a jolt, Conor realized that some of his teachers were on his father's mail route and would have a friendly chat with him at some point. And any one of his classmates could show up at his mother's clinic anytime. Plus, they'd talk at home. His parents had to hear something about Ashling eventually.

He wouldn't think about that now.

Glennie was doing enough thinking for both of them. “How will Ashling get upstairs? It's Friday. Mom doesn't have school until five.”

“You go ahead,” Conor said. “We'll figure it out.”

“But I'm good at—”

“Off you go, girlie,” Ashling said.

Glennie bristled at Ashling's tone, but then the romance of it all took hold and she did in fact go off.

“You go, too, Conor-boy,” Ashling said. “I'll see myself in.” She winked. “Totally.”

Conor hoped a wink didn't mean anything fatal sixteen hundred years ago.

Ashling was already sitting in the beanbag chair by the time Conor had shed his jacket, given his mother a brief and fictitious account of what happened in school that day, and made his way upstairs. Glennie was sitting on his bed, gazing adoringly at the Irish rebel cousin and trying to get her to eat Fruity Foolers.

“I'm not hungry,” Ashling said, but she watched carefully as Glennie popped an orange jelly bean into her mouth and scrunched up her face at the sourness. “Why do you eat it if it makes you do that?”

“She must have climbed up the fire escape,” Glennie said. “She moves wicked fast.”

“We have to do homework,” Conor said, standing at the door.

“Ashling doesn't,” Glennie said. “She's a guest. And anyways, it's Friday.”

“I'm getting it over with now.”

Glennie gaped at him—with good reason. Conor was a past master of the Sunday evening homework panic. Conor held the door open for her in a significant fashion. She flounced out, leaving him alone with the monster who'd almost murdered the seventh grade.

“Why is there a rebellion in Uladh?” Ashling asked as soon as the door closed. “Has Uladh been captured?”

“You almost killed my whole class.” This wasn't fair—he knew she hadn't meant to transform herself.
She shouldn't have been there in the first place,
he thought.

“You are being very emo. I told you I did not intend—”

“You almost KILLED them all.”

She smiled at him. “But you saved them. You are a hero.”

That was an interesting way to look at it.

Conor sank down on his bed, legs spaghettified. And in that moment he remembered the original Ashling-related problem: She probably was here for Grump.

Listen, kiddo,
Grump had said.
Banshees don't stick around long. The Death'll be soon.

Conor hid his face in his hands. He was not one bit closer to figuring out how to stop the Death from happening. And Ashling had been there, what, three days? It could be any minute now.

“Tell me, Conor-boy, what happened to my Uladh?”

He couldn't talk. His brain wasn't working.

She whacked his knee. “Uladh, Conor-boy.”

“Uh.” He pulled himself together. “It's . . . Letsee, it's the British, they invaded Ireland a few hundred years ago. The IRA, the rebels, used to bomb people pretty often. I think it's better now.”

“Bomb?”

“A bomb's a thing you explode.”

“Explode?”

He handed her his copy of
A Child's Guide to Science
. He'd never liked that book, but he was glad he had it now. Ashling retreated into the cupboard with it.

Conor got his cell phone out of his backpack and switched it on. The only person who ever texted him was Javier, who wasn't speaking to him. But following routine gave him comfort. He was the calmest he'd been all day, despite Ashling's totally unrelenting attitude toward killing people.

He didn't know what to think about her. One minute she was crying about her family, the next she was contemplating mass destruction.

Ashling's head popped out of her cupboard. “Giant lizards walked the earth for a hundred and fifty million years!” she announced, and drew her head back in. Conor waited to see if any further information would be forthcoming. When it wasn't, he sat down at his desk and tried to dejangle himself enough to answer worksheet questions about the Civil War.

He didn't realize he was humming the flute tune until the cupboard door jolted open. “Stop that,” Ashling said. “I do not wish to hear that old tune.”

“What old tune? I thought you didn't know what it was.”

“I have remembered it now. I wish to forget it.” The cupboard door slammed shut. Conor lunged to open it. Ashling was in a fetal position on his regulation Adventure Boys sleeping bag, a stack of Trivial Pursuit cards in her hand.

“That tune . . . It's what you danced to, isn't it? With that guy Declan.” No answer. “Listen, I was there. I mean, I was somebody else. Or me in another body. Whatever. I've been having these dreams, and I saw you dancing around a big bonfire. There were cows. Guys were fighting.
I
was fighting.”

“The warriors fought all the time.” Ashling's voice was dull. “They had to make good their boasts.” Apparently, she didn't find it odd that he'd seen all this.

“What the heck is happening to me? I'm going nuts!” Conor backed away to let Ashling crawl out of the cupboard. He sat down at his desk. She took the beanbag chair and stared at her feet.

“So?” he said. “What about those fires?”

“Beltine, you must have seen. I told you about it. We light fires to celebrate the sun's return, then drive the cattle between the fires to bless them. Then we dance. The warriors drink and boast and belch and fart and fight.” She wrinkled her nose.

“So . . . you danced,” he prompted her.

“Did I?”

“You said so. At lunch. You said you danced with Declan. And Aengus.”

“Oh. Yes. Declan.”

“And . . . and was your father there?”

“He would have been, yes.”

“He didn't like you dancing.”

She smiled faintly. “He always said I was stubborn as a she-goat.”

“Listen.” Conor slid off his desk chair so they were face-to-face on the floor. “In these dreams . . . one time I ran away from the fires and got lost in the woods. Somebody was screaming. Another time I stood in the shadows and watched you dance. You had a woman on one side and a guy on the other, and I hated him but I don't know why.”

That made her look up. “Who were you?”

“Oh, for
cripes'
sake.” He pounded his fist into the carpet. “If I knew that, would I be asking all these dumb questions?”

Glennie opened his door without knocking and stuck her head in. “Supper, dweeb.” Then she was gone and down the stairs.

Supper was corned beef hash again, but Conor barely noticed. His head was full of bonfires and cattle and fighting, belching warriors.

“You're awful quiet, Con,” his dad said. “Girl trouble?”

Glennie snorted. “Oh, right. The pixie dweeb has
girl
trouble.”

“Shut up,” Conor said. It sort of was girl trouble, but not the way his father meant.

“Eat your vegetables,” Dad said. “And don't say ‘shut up.'”

“What're you doing tonight, kiddos?” Grump asked. “Wanna come over and watch a movie?” He was staring at Conor, obviously trying to send a signal.

Guess he's ready to meet the banshee.
The thought made Conor's brain shut down again. “I'm doing homework.”

The kitchen went silent as everyone tried to digest this.

“That . . . that's great, Con,” Dad said at last. “Glad to see you're taking school seriously. Six months till exams!”

“Lay off about exams, Brian,” Grump said. “Give the kid a break.”

“I'm paying attention to my son when he needs it,” Dad said.

Silence again, but this time it was like a western movie, when the sheriff and the gunslinger face off in the street and everybody hustles out of sight. Conor and Glennie shoveled in the last of their hash.

“I paid attention to you,” Grump said. “But I also let you find your own way.”

“In between ghost-hunting trips to the old country,” Dad said bitterly.

“Oh, cripes, that again. That was years ago. Why can't you just relax about it, boy?”

Dad slammed his fork down on the table. “Relax? Oh, you mean instead of working like a dog and going to school now instead of when half my friends went, and all because my
attentive
pop spent my college fund on plane tickets to Ireland? Is that what you mean, Pop?”

“You coulda got that scholarship if you hit the books in high school.”

“I thought I had a college fund. Turned out I didn't.”

“How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? I'm sorry, okay?”

“
Sorry
doesn't turn back time.”

“Oh, for cripes' sake, that fund wouldn't have paid for half a year of college.” Grump gulped down the last of his hash. “And I found out a lot on that trip to Ireland. Anyways, all you're studying now is accounting. Don't need Boston College for that.”

“I was going to study economics.”

Grump snorted. “You never
heard
of economics till Jimmy came home from out west.”

“I would've heard of it if I'd been in college,” Dad said. “Anyways, quit trying to sell yourself to the kids as this big banshee scholar. I don't care what shape birthmark you got or where it is. You were on the run, Pop.”

“May we be excused?” Glennie asked.

Grump went all quiet, even stopped chewing. “On the run? What's that supposed to mean?”