The Colors of Madeleine 01: Corner of White (28 page)

Two things woke him the next morning — a hammering sound and a shout from somewhere deep in his own head.

Go to the Watermelon Inn and put up those coat hooks!
shouted his head.

He scrambled out of bed, his heart shouting just as loud and fast as that voice in his head.

Write a letter to the Girl-in-the-World!
it cried next.
Why have you not done your Chemistry homework yet?
And then,
First thing you’ve gotta call the glass-repair guys over in Appletown and get that crack in the greenhouse fixed!

He was skidding around his room amidst these shouts, throwing on his clothes, dragging on his sneakers, running his fingers through his hair, and all the time there was an odd sense of familiarity. Another voice, somewhere quieter and farther back, was saying:
You know what this is.

Ah, yes. He did. There it was, outside. Air filled up with the shafts of a fourth-level Red, and they were coming in through his open window too. Flying around at waist level in long, straight bars, about the size of his arm. It looked like these ones were grade 6(d), but a fourth-level Red could shift grades at any moment.

No warning bells — he must have missed them while he slept.

He jogged down the hall and leapt down the stairs. In the kitchen he saw the cause of the hammering sound. It was his mother, dressed in trackpants, sprinting on the spot, weights in both hands.

“Why have I not been exercising?” she bellowed.

“It’s the fourth-level Red!” he yelled back, grabbing at a knife and wildly hacking at a loaf of bread.

“I know! But why have I not?”

“Well, why haven’t I gone to the Watermelon to hang the new coat hooks yet?” Elliot cried. “I promised Alanna I’d do that
weeks
ago!”

They grinned madly at each other. Sweat poured down Petra’s temples, dripping to the floor. Elliot threw bread in the toaster, sliced oranges, and squeezed juice, did his Chemistry homework, phoned the glass-repair place, and wrote a letter to the Girl-in-the-World. All within five minutes.

“You sure you want to send that?” cried his mother, half reading over his shoulder. She’d stopped exercising and was wrenching open all the kitchen drawers, clattering their contents onto the floor. (“Gotta polish the cutlery! Gotta sort out the stationery! What have I been
thinking
?!”)

“You bet I’ve got to send it! Right now! But
first
I have to cheer up the Butterfly Child!”

He skidded into the living room shouting, “Cheer up! What’s to be down about?” He did some humorous spins and dances, then paused
for a split second, watching her. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to him that the Butterfly Child might be squeezing her eyes tighter.

“Ah well, I tried.” Elliot shrugged, then ran from the house, slamming the front door behind him. That old whistling sound was playing in his mind again, but he whisked it away.

He ran right by the truck and by his bike.

Who needed them? He could take on the world! He could
fly
there if he wanted to! Why not? He held his arms high and the Reds swooped under and over them, and he flapped his arms, waiting to fly, while a quiet voice in his head said:
Uh, no.

Okay, not fly, but he could run!

His ankle throbbed a little and “That’ll teach you, ankle!” he shouted as he ran, “that’ll teach you to go breaking on me!” He ran faster.

Downtown, everyone was out.

Ladders leaned against buildings, and people shouted instructions at one another and themselves. Paint cans were opened, nails were hammered, wooden structures rose up out of lawns.

“We’ve always wanted a garage! Why not just
build
one?!”

“Look, children! You don’t need to live in our house anymore! Here’s a little house of your own!”

Clover Mackie, town seamstress, was sitting on a park bench surrounded by papers.

“Doing my taxes!” she called to Elliot, punching furiously at a calculator. “Haven’t done them in twenty years or more!”

The Reds swerved up and down the streets, swooping around corners.

Isabella Tamborlaine jogged past Elliot, swinging her ice skates.

“The lake won’t be frozen!” Elliot cried. “It’s summer, see?” pointing to the warm blue sky.

“I’m a Science teacher! Surely I can freeze it myself!” Isabella picked up her pace.

Elliot hurdled the school fence, passed a huddle of teachers — they were urgently grading exams at the same time as making plans for a
complete overhaul
of the school syllabus — and ran to deliver his letter to the sculpture. Everyone was caught up in activity and nobody paid him any heed.

A Red brushed his arm, and he turned and sprinted from the school and on through the town.

At the Watermelon Inn, the parking lot was crowded with people spray-painting their cars (“Who chose white anyway? I always wanted a black-and-orange-striped car! Just like a tiger!”) or taking out the engines (“Surely I can fine-tune this myself!”) or moving around the plant pots, adjusting the sprinklers.

In the front room, Alanna was standing amidst piles and piles of bedsheets. “Going to refold them all!” She grinned at Elliot. Guests and visitors were in a frenzy of agitation, the bars of Red weaving amongst them. Some people were shifting the couches into new positions; others were busily unpicking the seams of their coats. He saw the Twicklehams leaning together by the fireplace, talking up a storm. “As to a puff adder in a hint of olive oil!” Mr. Twickleham prattled, and “Call yourself a screwdriver and be hooray!” responded his wife.

Nearby, little Derrin Twickleham was playing a clapping game with Corrie-Lynn, their hands slapping together so fast the air seemed to vibrate around them.

Then, suddenly, there was a shift. The color of the Red darkened ever so slightly, and the atmosphere changed at once. Waves of anger swept across the room. Couches were shoved aside, brows crumpled, and mouths snarled in rage.

“It was the idea of a cockerel in a malt house!” shouted Mr. Twickleham.

“And
you’d
have thought of something twittering better?” she hollered back.

Corrie-Lynn and Derrin continued to clap hands together, but now it was more like pounding, and Corrie-Lynn was bellowing: “JUST TALK! JUST
STOP NOT TALKING
!”

A sound like someone ripping aluminum seemed to tear right out of Derrin’s mouth.

“IF YOU CAN MAKE THAT NOISE,” Corrie-Lynn screamed, “YOU CAN TALK!”

Elliot found himself crossing the room. His face was alive with heat, the blood knocking wildly at his temples. Those Twicklehams. He would kill them. He would pick them up by the hair on their heads. He would hurl them through the air, they would smash through the picture window.

Those Twicklehams.

He stepped over the rolling bodies of two elderly men, locked in a wrestling match.

Those Twicklehams.

In his father’s shop.

Stealing his father’s business. His customers. His place in Bonfire. His place in Elliot’s —

And then suddenly Elliot stopped.

The Reds had changed again. Their hue sharpened and darkened further. The rage fell from the room like a dropped towel.

Instead, there was profound, piercing silence. Eyes widened and found one another. The wrestling men untangled themselves and drew back, unblinking. The fourth-level Red was now at grade 9(d), and everything, every thought, every object, had intensified.

Elliot found himself turning, backing from the room. He moved with careful clarity toward the lobby.

Everything he saw had redrawn outlines —
fiercely
redrawn outlines.

Here was the lobby.

Here, he knew now with vicious certainty, he would affix new coat hooks for Alanna.

Objects asserted themselves. The guest book. A pen. An empty coffee mug.

Behind the desk, the leaflets and notices on the corkboard. Breakfast Serving Times. Tours of the Farms. Maps of Bonfire. A small handwritten note in the bottom corner.

He would nail the coat hooks beside the corkboard.

His gaze seemed to lift itself up with its own certainty, and to shift, a careful shift, then another careful shift, until it stopped. It was on the corkboard, again. His vision aimed directly at that handwritten note in the corner.

That was his uncle’s handwriting.

That was Uncle Jon’s tiny script:

Elliot stared. At the corner of his mind he was aware of a new change: the Red had switched back to grade 6(d), and people were once again restless with ambition, agitated with plans.

But Elliot stood still, let his heart pound without him, and the words and numbers continued sharpening, the focus turning and turning until it seemed to be a light so bright that it burned right through his eyes.