The Prince of Neither Here Nor There (40 page)

Kim caught his eye. She stood across the gym and glared at him. She frowned and shook her head slightly. Brendan glared back, refusing to let her glower ruin this moment. He recalled Finbar’s Exile and the pain the old man had gone through. He cast his eye back to Marina. She flashed him a shy smile.

Brendan smiled back.
Exile would be worth it.

Everyone was going for a slice after school but Brendan begged off. He had something to do.

He knew that Chester was in the psychiatric wing at Sick Kids. Brendan managed to find the room, and without resorting to any Compulsion, he managed to talk his way in to see his former nemesis.

Brendan entered the private room to find Chester lying in a bed, propped up by pillows. The boy was secured to the bed by padded restraining straps on his wrists, his ankles, and across his chest. Chester was sedated, but he still thrashed weakly in his sleep, straining against the straps and mumbling over and over, “Gotta get lost! Gotta get lost!”

Brendan moved into the room to the bedside. He looked down on his handiwork, and even though he hadn’t been in control himself when he Compelled Chester, he felt ashamed of himself.

“Oh!” A woman’s voice caused Brendan to turn toward the door. A short woman in faded jeans and a sweatshirt and carrying a cup of coffee stood there. Her face was tired. She looked surprised to see anyone in the room. “Who are you?”

“I’m Brendan Clair,” Brendan said quickly. “I’m a friend of Chester’s. From school. I thought I’d come and see how he was doing.”

The woman smiled then. It was a weary smile. “That’s so nice,” she said. “I’m Chester’s mum.” She walked to the bed and stood beside Brendan to look down on her son. “They don’t know what’s wrong with him. His father died suddenly last year and he has taken it hard. He used to be a straight-A student, but he’s been failing this year. He’s been getting into trouble, and I don’t know what to do.”

She smiled up at Brendan, and he saw the dark circles under her eyes. “I’m so glad you came. It’s nice to know he has some friends … besides the ones that he gets into trouble with.”

Brendan didn’t trust himself to speak. He turned to Chester. The boy’s eyes darted back and forth under the purple lids. Sweat drenched the sheets. Brendan leaned over and brought his mouth close to the sleeping boy’s ear.

“Chester,” he said softly, firmly, pitching his voice so that Chester’s mother couldn’t hear. “This is Brendan. I know you can hear me.” Chester’s thrashing lessened slightly. “Listen to what I say. You don’t have to get lost any more. You can come home now.”

The effect was immediate. Chester relaxed completely. He smiled in his sleep. In a moment, he was breathing deeply and easily.

Brendan stood up and smiled. Chester’s mother gasped. “I don’t believe it.” She beamed at Brendan, her face full of relief. “What did you do?”

Brendan smiled and ducked his head shyly. “I told him you needed him to come back.”

Chester’s mum burst into tears. She dropped her coffee with a splash and crushed her face into Brendan’s chest. For a moment, Brendan was mortified but he quickly recovered. Very gently, awkwardly, he patted the woman on the back as she cried.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Brendan said softly. And he believed it.

Epi-Epilogue

When Harold got home from school, he went up to his room right away. He wanted to look at the sketchbook again.

He’d hidden it under the mattress in his room. His mother didn’t change the sheets until the weekend so he knew it would be safe there.

He flopped onto his bed and flipped the book open to the first page. He’d obviously drawn this sketch. He recognized his style, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember ever having drawn it.

The sketch depicted his friend Brendan, only Brendan was strangely transformed. He was surrounded by an aura of energy. His eyes shone with an inner light. Over Brendan’s shoulder, a tiny winged woman fluttered.

A bizarre picture. Why had he drawn it? When had he drawn it? He couldn’t remember. He flipped through the sketch pad. There were more pictures of winged people, weird dog things, a frightening woman with wild eyes radiating waves of power.

Harold had no idea what to make of it. Sitting on his bed in the gathering dusk, he decided he wouldn’t rest until he figured out the mystery.

“Harold! Dinner!”

“Coming, Ma!”

He stuffed the sketchbook back under the mattress and hurried down to dinner.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Jennifer Notman, my editor, and all the good people at Penguin Canada. I would also like to thank Lorne, Morgan, Beth, Zoe, Robbie, and Kim for reading the early drafts. Finally, thank you to all the librarians who have embraced my books. They are the secret heroes and heroines of reading.