Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
Freeze Tag
Caroline B. Cooney
A Biography of Caroline B. Cooney
“S
UPPOSE,” SAID LANNIE DREAMILY
, “that you really could freeze somebody.”
The setting sun seemed to shine right through Lannie, as if she were made of colored glass and hung in a window.
Lannie’s eyes, as pale as though they had been bleached in the wash, focused on Meghan.
Meghan gulped and looked away, queerly out of breath. If she kept looking into Lannie’s eyes, she would come out the other side.
Into what?
What was the other side of Lannie made of?
Meghan shivered, although the evening was still warm. She felt ancient. Not old herself, but as if something in the night had quivered free from an ancient world. Free from ancient rules.
Tonight something would happen.
Meghan stared at her bare arms. A thousand tiny hairs prickled in fear. Even her skin knew.
The sun was going down like a circle of construction paper falling off the bulletin board. No longer the yellow bulb of daytime, it was a sinking orange half circle. Meghan yearned to run toward the sun and catch it before it vanished.
Meghan tried to ignore Lannie. This was not easy. Lannie always stood as close as a sweater, trying to take your share of oxygen.
Lannie stood alone, but Meghan sat on the second step with her best friend, Tuesday, and admired the silhouette of West Trevor as he mowed the lawn.
Meghan adored the Trevor family. They were what families should be. First, the Trevors had had the wisdom to have three children, not just one like her own parents. The Trevors were always a crowd, and Meghan loved a crowd.
Second, the children had wonderful names. Mr. and Mrs. Trevor had not wanted their children to be named Elizabeth or Michael and thus get mixed up with dozens of classmates. Mixing up the Trevor offspring would never happen. There was, thought Meghan, probably no other family on earth with children named West, Tuesday, and Brown.
West Trevor. It sounded like a street, or perhaps a town in Ireland. But West Trevor was the boy on whom, in a few years, all the girls would have crushes. Meghan was slightly ahead of them. She had adored West all her life.
He was mowing around the beginner-bushes. (That’s what Mrs. Trevor called them, because they were so young and newly planted they hardly even formed knobs in the grass.) Meghan admired how West so carefully overlapped each pass, making sure no blade of grass would escape untrimmed.
“Suppose,” said Lannie dreamily, “that
I
could freeze somebody.”
Meghan could just see Lannie opening a refrigerator, stuffing a classmate in to freeze, and walking off. Just thinking about it chilled Meghan. Even as Lannie talked, Meghan’s joints seemed to harden like a pond surface turning to ice.
Meghan hated it when Lannie joined the neighborhood games.
The houses on Dark Fern Lane were new, but the families were old-fashioned. The lawns ran into each other, the kitchen doors were always open, and the children used each other’s refrigerators and bathrooms.
Since the houses were so small, and everybody had a little brother or sister who was cranky, or needed a diaper change, or wanted to be carried piggyback, the older children on Dark Fern Lane stayed outside whenever they could.
Even though the Trevors’ front steps were exactly like everybody else’s front steps, this was where the children gathered. Mrs. Trevor was generous with after-supper Popsicles, and the Trevors had a basketball hoop on the garage where everybody learned to dunk and dribble.
West’s little brother Brown hurtled out of the house, taking the four cement steps in a single bound. Brown leapt onto the back of the ride-upon mower, shouting horse commands at his big brother. He had a long leather bootlace in his hand that he swung like a lasso, telling West to jump the fence and head for the prairie.
West simply mowed on, ignoring the presence of a screaming five-year-old attached to his back.
Brown began yodeling instead. He had heard this sound on public television and now planned to be a yodeler when he grew up, instead of a policeman. Tuesday yodeled along in harmony. The Trevor family sounded like a deranged wolf pack.
For Meghan, this was yet another Trevor attraction: how close and affectionate they were. Friends, mowing partners, and fellow yodelers.
Meghan knew exactly what would happen next. Tuesday would realize that she was thirsty from all that yodeling. She would get up off the step and go into the house. Several minutes later, she would bring out a tray of pink lemonade and jelly-jar glasses. Her brothers would spot her, and come running. They’d all slurp pink lemonade and listen to the summery sound of ice cubes knocking against glass.
Tuesday would not carry the tray back. That was West’s job, along with carrying back all other dishes the Trevor family dirtied. And West would never complain. He accepted dishes as easily as Meghan accepted new shoes.
Whereas in Meghan’s family, everybody hated dishes. It was hard to say who hated them most — her father, her mother, or Meghan. Sometimes Meghan thought the only thing the Moores ever said to each other was, “No, it’s
your
turn to do dishes.”
West and Brown were framed like an old photograph: sunset and small tree, older brother and younger. They were beautiful.
“You want to spend the night, Meghan?” said Tuesday, measuring her sneaker against Meghan’s. Tuesday’s was larger. The Trevors were a very sturdy family.
Of course Meghan wanted to spend the night. Everybody always wanted to stay at the Trevors’. Mrs. Trevor would throw the sleeping bags down on the playroom floor and let everybody watch Disney videos all night long. She would put brownies in the oven and, just when you were ready to fall asleep, Mrs. Trevor would waltz in with hot rich chocolate treats scooped over with cold melting vanilla ice cream. Meghan sighed with pleasure.
Through the screen door, Tuesday shouted, “Meghan is staying over!” and her mother said, “That’s nice, dear.”
Meghan’s mother would have said, “Not tonight, dear, I have to get up in the morning.” Meghan could never understand what getting up in the morning had to do with going to bed at night.
Meghan smiled, in love with every member of the Trevor family.
“I’m spending the night, too, Tuesday,” said Lannie. She always kept you informed of her plans.
“No,” said Tuesday quickly. “Mother said I could have only one person over.”
Lannie knew this for the lie that it was. Her heavy eyelids lifted like cobra hoods. For a long time she said nothing. It was cold and frightening, the way she could stay silent. No other child knew how to stay silent. They were too young.
But Lannie had never seemed young; and as the rest grew up, Lannie never seemed old either.
The fireflies came out. They sparkled in the air.
We’re being mean, thought Meghan. We’re treating the second step as if it were a private clubhouse.
Meghan wanted to do the right thing, the kind thing, and have Lannie sleep over, too, but Lannie was too scary. Meghan never wanted to be alone in the dark with Lannie Anveill. Lannie never made any noise when she moved. When you thought you were alone, the hair on the back of your neck would move in a tiny hot wind, and it would be Lannie, who had sneaked up close enough to breathe on your spine.
Lannie could creep behind things that hadn’t even grown yet. Dark Fern Lane was a made-up name for a new little development. There was hardly even shade, let alone tall deep ferns gathering in damp thickets, behind which a child could hide. Yet Lannie crossed the street and passed through the yards as if behind screens of heavy undergrowth, unseen and unheard.
“I hate you, Meghan Moore,” said Lannie.
She meant it.
Meghan had to look away from those terrible eyes, bleached like bones in a desert.
Once Tuesday and Brown announced that they were going to give Lannie sunglasses for a birthday present. They chickened out. But Lannie didn’t have a birthday party after all, so it didn’t matter.
Dark Fern Lane was where grown-ups bought their “first house.” They said that when they entertained. “Of course, this is just our first house.” Meghan kept expecting her parents to build a second house in the backyard, but they didn’t mean that; they meant they lived on Dark Fern Lane until they could afford something better.
Lannie’s parents had a raised ranch house the same size and shape as the rest, but there the similarities ended. Her parents were rarely home. Mr. and Mrs. Anveill did not set up the barbecue in the driveway on summer evenings. They did not have a beer and watch television football on autumn weekends. They did not make snow angels with Lannie in January. And come spring, they did not plant zinnias and zucchini.
They weren’t saving up for a second house either.
They spent their money on cars.
Each of them drove a Jaguar. Mrs. Anveill’s was black while Mr. Anveill’s was crimson. They drove very very fast. Nobody else on Dark Fern Lane had a Jaguar. It was not a Jaguar kind of road. The rest of the families had used station wagons that drank gas the way their children drank Kool Aid.
Mrs. Anveill talked to her car, which she addressed as “Jaguar,” as if it really were a black panther. She talked much more often to Jaguar than to Lannie.
Lannie was a wispy little girl. Even her hair was wispy. She was skinny as a Popsicle stick and pale as a Kleenex. Meghan felt sorry for Mr. and Mrs. Anveill, having Lannie for a daughter, but she also felt sorry for Lannie, having Mr. and Mrs. Anveill for parents.
The sun fell like a wet plate out of a dishwasher’s hand. Meghan half expected to hear the crash, and see the pieces.
But instead, the light vanished.
It was dark, but parents didn’t call them in yet. Shadows filled the open spaces and the yards became spooky and deep, and faces you knew like your own were blurry and uncertain.
Lannie’s searchlight eyes pierced Meghan. “I hate you,” she repeated. The hate grew toward Meghan like purple shadows. It had a temperature. Hate was cold. It touched Meghan on her bare arms and prickled up and down the skin.
Why me? thought Meghan. Tuesday’s the one not letting her sleep over.
Again the warm glow of being wanted by a Trevor filled Meghan Moore, and then she understood Lannie’s pain. Lannie loved the Trevor family as much as Meghan did. Lannie yearned to be part of that enveloping warmth and silly love and punchy fun. Lannie would never hate Tuesday. She wanted Tuesday. Lannie would hate Meghan because Meghan was the one chosen.
Lannie left the steps, silently crossing the soft grass, walking toward the lawnmower on which West and Brown still rode.
Meghan and Tuesday leaned back against each other, little girls again, and rolled their eyes, and breathed, “Whew!” and “Close one!”
Lannie heard. She looked back, her little white skirt like a flag in the dusk. Meghan hunched down, as if Lannie might throw things. Tuesday’s warmth was at Meghan’s back, but Lannie’s hate was on her horizon.
“Hello, West,” said Lannie. This was unusual. Lannie never bothered with conventions of speech like hello or goodbye.
“Hello, Lannie,” said West politely.
“Are you mowing the lawn?” said Lannie.
“No,” muttered Meghan, sarcastic because she was afraid. “He’s painting the Statue of Liberty.”
It was impossible for Lannie to have heard all the way across the yard, but she had.
“You’ll be sorry, Meghan Moore,” said Lannie Anveill.
Meghan was only nine, but she was old enough to know that she had made a terrible mistake.
You’ll be sorry
,
Meghan Moore
.
I am sorry, she telegraphed to Lannie Anveill. I’m sorry, okay?