Spirit’s Key (2 page)

I'm so relieved I almost let out a whooping wowzer right there and turn myself in for eavesdropping. A real vision! This is the kind of reading islanders have come to expect from Dad.

“I intend to die here just as I was born.” Mr. Selnick puts on his hat like it's some kind of statement to permanence.

Dad nods. “I understand. Our keys are an important reminder of who we are and where we live. But I'm required to tell you the truth as the key told it to me.”

That's the problem with the gift. People don't always get the future they want. One time when Dad gave someone bad news, he and I had to leave town. That's how we came to live on Bald Island. This little boy got hit by a car. Dad saw it while holding the mother's key. The boy's father decided Dad made it happen, or had the power to unmake it happen and didn't. Dad does his best to prevent disaster, but he can't control everything.

I was only six years old at the time, so most of what I remember is that when we moved we couldn't bring Mom with us.

Mr. Selnick curses loud and slams the door on his way out, which makes the pheasant fall off the bookshelf, which makes Dad catch me eavesdropping.

Oops. I wave hello-there fingers at Dad.

“Come on over here next to your old man.”

I join Dad at the card table.

He picks up his cup and takes a long sip like he's trying to clear his mind of the ominous vision he just had. “Mmmm. This coffee has spirit!”

I beam because Dad only uses my name as an adjective if he's pleased. “Is Mr. Selnick going to be all right?”

“I'll check on him after he's had time to calm down,” Dad says. “He didn't believe me when I told him about Poppi either, but he always comes around.”

Dad had predicted the birth of Mr. Selnick's daughter, Poppi, even though Mrs. Selnick swore she was long done having kids since her two other children were already grown.

“The future can be frightening. It's our responsibility to help Mr. Selnick face what lies ahead.”

“He forgot his key.” I pick up Mr. Selnick's house key. It's ornate and old-fashioned like a lot of things on this island. I hold it in my hand like Dad does. I rub its jagged edges with my thumb. I close my eyes tight.

Dad says the keys in our life can unlock our tomorrows. He uses people's keys to see their future selves.

Future.
I flip the key in my hand over and over. Concentrate. Breathe. Imagine.

Nothing.

“I wish I'd inherited the gift.” I've been holding keys every day since I turned twelve. Dad got his gift at twelve, and so did Grandmother. But I've been twelve years old for six solid months. Dad says when the gift happens, I'll feel different. I'll
know.
I'd give anything to
know
like Dad, but it seems our ancestors decided to leave me in the dark.

“Now, don't you worry,” Dad says. “Keep trying. It might happen yet.”

Dad is optimistic. He thinks one day I might get the gift, but he doesn't know for sure. Dad doesn't know everything. Each key decides what he should
know.
And our key won't show him anything about us—our keys have never worked for him.

Dad catches me looking at the pheasant on the floor. “You can't help others face their tomorrow if you can't face your today.”

I'm not exactly sure what Dad means, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I haven't gotten rid of Sky's things.

After a few minutes of us sitting there, Dad enjoying his coffee, me having a stare-down with the pheasant, Dad blows out the candles. “Shouldn't you get started on your homework?”

“Yeah, I have some catching up to do.” I haven't exactly told Dad this, but I think he knows I haven't done homework in fourteen days. That's how long Sky's been gone.

On my way out, I pick up the pheasant and then gather Sky's other toys, his bed, and his bone. I kiss the pheasant's plush beak and put it with everything else in the trash. I tie the bag and haul it outside to the can. Garbage pickup is tomorrow. Maybe if Sky's things are gone along with him, they can't hurt me anymore.

 

3

A D
ELIVERY FROM THE
P
AST

School starts a half day late on Thursdays. That's how important delivery day is on our island. It's not something you want to miss. Dad left a note saying he decided I needed my sleep, so he took the golf cart and went ahead without me. But I'd never skip delivery day. Not in a million. I'm so glad the garbage truck woke me.

I clip my walkie-talkie to my shorts and hop on my bike. I ride through the sea grass and fish smell. It's strong and wonderful.

“Dad!” I roll my bike onto the dock and park next to our golf cart. The cart's flatbed is loaded to the max with boxes, and Dad's already got Eder Mint's truck full, too. Eder is the only person on the island who owns a truck big enough to hold everything Dad orders. Dad doesn't approve of gas-guzzling, air-polluting trucks, but on delivery day he makes an exception. He says one trip in the big truck is better than a dozen with the golf cart.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Dad hugs me, then hands over a box with my name on it.

“For me?” I get excited. “What did you get me?” I shake the box.

“Isn't from me,” Dad says.

I smile at Eder. “Aw, Eder. You shouldn't have!”

Eder is only thirty-two, but he owns the general store, a great big house, and a ton of land. He gives fancy presents. For my birthday, I got a velvet beanbag chair softer than Sky's fur.

I jump up and down. “What is it?!”

Eder tips his hat, the one that makes him look like a ship's captain. “Wasn't me, Lavender Spirit. Must be your secret admirer.” He winks.

Eder calls me Lavender Spirit because I like purple so much and I'm always wearing it. Today I'm wearing my rubber-peeling purple flip-flops. They might be falling apart, but they're the best color in the rainbow.

Nector Hatterask, the only other twelve-year-old on the island, leans way over my box, being a curious snoop.

“It's got my name on it,” I say, pulling the box out from under his nose. I check the return address. It's from a pet store on the mainland. Strange.

“Just making sure,” Nector says. He stands on his tiptoes and scans the labels on the boxes like there's something in Eder's truck for him. He's not the only one. Other people are crowded around, too.

“More Mr. Clean?” Nector asks my dad. He's a lanky boy, and his hard elbows push me out of the way so he can get a better look.

“Watch it,” I complain.

“Sorry,” Nector replies, but he doesn't back up. Instead he crawls onto the truck bed. His smelly sneaker kicks into my face, almost knocking off my nose. He turns to my dad with a huge grin, totally oblivious. “Order any cereal, Mr. Holden?”

Before Dad can answer, Nector's mom marches over and yanks her son off the truck like she's sure me and Dad will bite. “Leave those dingbatters alone,” she says.

Even though we've lived on Bald Island for six years, which is half my life, some people still call us dingbatters.
Dingbatters
is the word islanders use for outsiders.

The Hatterask family has been living on this island so long, people say they sprang from the soil. We'll always be dingbatters to Mrs. Hatterask. Dad says things here are slow to change, and we shouldn't be offended. So I try not to let it bother me.

But sometimes it does. We might not have lived here as long as Nector's mom, but Dad saved her children from drowning. Dad warned them about that wave, but Nector's little siblings, Yasmine and Gomez, went on the pier anyway. Dad had to jump into the ocean during a hundred-mile-an-hour hurricane and pull them out. He'd have done anything to prevent another death on his watch. When I told him I was worried he wouldn't survive, he said hard work, preparation, and a little luck were always on his side.

Dad has predicted a lot of big events that have saved lives and even some that have created new ones. He pointed out the tree that would fall through the Fishbornes' house. And not even Dr. Wade knew about Mrs. Selnick's baby. Before Dad's visions got wishy-washy and business got wonky, the phone nearly rang off the hook with people asking for readings.

But the Hatterask family has never asked for a reading. Dad says they're afraid of the future, because it's often bad for them.

Dad doesn't like people asking about his deliveries anyway. Sometimes, though, there's a label on the packaging that gives away what's inside. Like the time Dad ordered a dozen cases of Mr. Clean, and the brand was stamped in big blue letters for anyone to see. That's why Nector is asking about floor cleaner.

All those bottles of Mr. Clean started a whole bunch of rumors about the fate of the island. Why would any one person need that many bottles of soap? A flood? A disease? A supergerm? People wanted answers, and all Dad would say was he didn't
know
of a specific disaster until, finally, people stopped harassing him. But they'll never stop being curious about his piles of boxes.

Eder shifts his eyes from the rising mound inside his truck bed. He's probably worried Dad is going to flatten his tires. I think there's no way Dad can fit anything else, but then he does.

“How are you faring without that baldie?” Eder asks me.

“I miss him so much, but I'm okay,” I say.

“Guess you're better off now anyway. That thing could've hurt you.”

“Sky would never hurt me,” I say, loud and firm, not like I'm supposed to talk to an adult, especially not Dad's best client. But when it comes to the baldies, I'll argue with anyone.

“I don't mean to upset you, Lavender Spirit. But if a baldie were in
my
house, I'd be afraid to close my eyes at night, is all. Those devilish beasts are a crime against nature.”

“How can a dog be a crime?” I ask. “That doesn't even make sense.”

Baldies are wild. They do what they have to do to survive. And even if he was a baldie, Sky wasn't devilish. He was a good dog. He was
my
good dog.

“Killing a young child is most certainly a crime,” Mrs. Hatterask chimes in, wagging her finger at me.

“That baldie didn't mean it,” I say. “He was just hungry.”

A few years ago, a wild baldie knocked over a small tourist girl to get her sandwich, and she hit her head on a rock and died. Ever since, tourists haven't exactly been lining up their boats to vacation here. But islanders thinking baldies are devilish is nothing new. That particular superstition goes way back—a lot further than that little girl and her sandwich.

Mr. Fishborne, the cranky old man who runs the oyster stand, shakes his head. “Your dad told Mr. Selnick to watch out, but we should all be wary.”

“Sure wish we knew more details about this terrible happening.” Eder stares at Dad like he's disappointed not to know the date or time, or how fast he should drive his getaway truck. “Shouldn't whatever it is have come to pass by now? We used to be able to count on you to be right.”

Mr. Fishborne slaps his leg. “It doesn't take
me
candles and incense to figure out baldies are trouble.”

People standing around chuckle and nod.

I wish Sky were here so I could show everyone one more time how gentle and amazing baldies could be. But it's hopeless. Everyone hates the baldies.

At least
I
can always count on Dad.

“I do everything I can to keep my daughter and everyone else out of harm's way. My readings have been a little off lately, but I try my best. I tell you everything I
know
, and I would risk my life to protect any one of you.”

People lower their eyes and get serious, because that's the kind of respect Dad deserves.

Dad hops in the golf cart and nods my way. “See you at home, sweetheart.”

Eder checks the bungee cords on the boxes and fires up his engine. He waves at me as he peels out, leaving a leaky, fluorescent yellow puddle in the sand where his truck used to be.

Dad's right. Big trucks are bad for the environment.

*   *   *

Even though Dad got the last word, I ride home reckless and fuming. Instead of taking the road, I dart through people's backyards, along the edge of the woods. My mystery box bounces in my bike basket like a crazed jumping bean. People didn't approve of me having a baldie for a pet. Now that he's dead, they still can't let it alone. Dad says I should always stand up for what I believe in, but he also says superstition is one of the reasons we moved here. Dad counts on people who can trust things that aren't based on science. I guess we moved to the right place.

I stare into the trees and think hard. Two baldies turning up dead? I'm surprised the island doesn't throw a party, but it makes me unsettled. I'm so busy trying to sort out what it means I don't notice the tree root that sends me over the handlebars. I hardly realize I'm off my seat until the ground whacks the air from my lungs. On my back, breathless and stunned, I stare at the sky.

No clouds. And not a bird in sight.

Bald Island may have been named after the eagles, but there are tons of other kinds of birds: whistling swans, bufflehead ducks, egrets, and white pelicans. There are over four hundred different species on our island. But I don't see a single one.

I sit up, shake off a creepy sensation, and pull the box that fell from my bicycle basket onto my lap. It's hard without a knife, but I finally manage to rip it open.

Inside is a bag of Sky's brand of kibble and a stuffed toy. I get that knocked-over-by-a-wave feeling, smacked into the sand face-first, the ocean rushing me back to shore. A shore without Sky.

He'll never again shake a stuffed toy or go to the dock with me to sit for kibble. I always liked to open his dog food right there and ask him to sit in front of everyone. People watched in awe. No one had ever seen a baldie trained to have manners. Not that it changed anyone's mind about baldies in general, but it made me proud.