The Trap Read online

  “This place is big,” I said.

  “Naw,” said Helen.

  We found our room and entered.

  It was arranged pretty casually. I’d expected rows of somber gray desks, but instead there were tables and chairs in little groups all through the room. It was filling with kids, about half of whom I knew, talking with one another about what they’d been up to during the summer.

  As we headed toward a table at the back I had to fend off some jibes about my eye. Someone called me Quasimodo, which I didn’t get. Someone asked Helen if she’d beaten me up. “If it was me, they’d both be black,” she said.

  The final bell rang and the teacher, Mr. McTavish, closed the door. McTavish was a huge guy. He must have been six foot four, and wide, with square shoulders like a piano bench. He had a black beard that covered his whole neck, and he wore a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. I knew who he was, because he was the coach of the school’s baseball team and Alan had talked about him. It was funny to see him, though—he looked built for football, not baseball. Alan said McTavish was friends with Coach Wilson, the head coach at Johnson High School.

  “Welcome, seventh graders,” said McTavish. His voice was one of those big instruments engineered to silence classrooms instantly. He got out his roll sheet and started calling names. About halfway through he said, “Helen Nilsson,” and then, “Henry Nilsson.” (Not only is Helen twenty minutes older than me, but her name is ahead of mine alphabetically.)

  “We call him One-eye Nilsson, Mr. McTavish,” said someone, and the class laughed.

  I froze. First day. I had to make a decent showing here. “They don’t call me that,” I said loudly. “They call me . . . um . . .” I had to think of a better nickname, fast. But I am not fast. I sat there tongue-tied and the moment was lost.

  McTavish finished roll, then read the morning announcements. The last was, “The School Spirit Committee would like to remind you that the all-school Fall Formal will occur two weeks from today. Remember, boys, it’s never too early to ask your sweetheart.”

  McTavish said he’d give us a few more minutes to socialize, then went behind his desk. The room grew loud again as summer stories were resumed.

  “Henry, what were you going to tell us?” said Helen.

  I didn’t reply at first, sunk as I was in a sudden quicksand of fear about asking my sweetheart to the dance. She was sitting right across from me, long black hair shining in the fluorescent lights, and slim, bare forearms resting on the tabletop. I’d just been commanded to ask her. I was staring, and it seemed like maybe she was staring back . . .

  “Attention, Apollo spacecraft,” Helen said, and whacked me on the side of the head. “This is Mission Control.”

  Moment lost. I reached to the back of my chair, where I’d slung my rucksack, and pulled out Subtle Travel and the Subtle Self. “You guys aren’t going to believe this,” I said, as I laid it on the table. And I told it all, just as it had happened.

  “Henry, are you serious?” said Alan, when I’d finished.

  “And the porch light?” said Nicki. “You’re sure you saw it like that?”

  “Maybe you saw it was burned out earlier, Henry, but didn’t realize you had,” said Helen. Actually, this kind of made sense, which deflated me a little.

  Helen took the book, opened it, and flipped through the first few pages. “Henry, remember that dead dog you thought was in the basement?” she asked.

  “I remember,” I said, deflating even more. Once I thought I saw a dead dog in our basement, and got Mom to go down looking for it. But there was no dead dog. The dead dog was a dream.

  “Still, this is pretty strange,” said Nicki, taking the book from Helen and flipping to the opening, where she began to read.

  “And if it does have something to do with Carl,” said Alan, “I want to know more.”

  “Let’s all memorize these numbers you learned, Henry,” said Nicki.

  “Yeah,” said Helen, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Well,” I said, realistically, “we don’t really know.”

  Nicki still had the book, and furrowed her brow as she struggled through the strange writing. “Here’s a section titled “The Invulnerable Subtle Form.” Doesn’t invulnerable mean—”

  “Invincible?” said Helen, leaning over.

  Then, from the front of the room, McTavish’s voice called out: “Alan Dunn, could I see you up here for a moment?”

  Alan looked at us nervously. “It’s got to be about Carl,” he said.

  “I’ll go with you,” I offered.

  We approached together. “Have a seat, Alan,” said McTavish. He turned to me. “You’re Henry Nilsson, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Your eye looks terrible, son.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just embarrassing.”

  McTavish put his gigantic forearms on the desk, big as badgers. “Alan, we got a call from the high school that your brother is absent. They’ve tried unsuccessfully to reach your father. So I wanted to check with you.”

  “He didn’t come home last night,” said Alan. “I heard he missed practice. But I don’t know any more than that.”

  This was a situation unlike any I’d been in before. I knew something that might be important, but I couldn’t just say, ‘I saw Carl last night in a dream and his head was on fire.’ So I stood there and looked uncomfortable.

  “How long has he been gone?” asked McTavish.

  “Since yesterday afternoon,” said Alan.

  “That’s when I last saw him, too,” I said. I gestured to my eye.

  “Carl did that?” said McTavish. “Alan, have you talked to your father about this?”

  “Er, no, not yet,” said Alan.

  “Well, do so. And if you haven’t seen Carl by this evening, you must report it to the police.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Alan.

  “Alan, I know he’s been struggling,” said McTavish. “I want to help if I can.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Alan.

  I could tell none of this was making Alan feel any better.

  DURING LUNCH the four of us got together to pore over the book some more. We carefully studied the instructions in chapter one.

  “Henry, what’s this part about paralysis?” said Nicki.

  “It scared me at first,” I said. “You wake up, and it’s like you’re trapped in your own body. But you can still move your eyes—see here, where it says ‘Using your eyes . . .’”

  We went over it all. And we practiced the numbers. Since I already knew them, I tested my friends, like we were drilling for a math quiz. I’m sure we looked pretty strange huddled at our table in the cafeteria chanting, “1! 1! 2! 3! 5! 8!”

  Helen was the last to master it. I could tell it was hard for her, and I also think it bugged her to have me teaching her something.

  “Not 12—13,” I corrected, after she made the same mistake twice.

  “What does it matter?” said Helen, throwing up her hands.

  “Come on, Helen,” said Nicki. “Let’s start again. I still need to work on it too. 1, 1, 2, 3 . . .”

  Of course, we didn’t know for sure if my experience had been real, and sitting in the sweaty, noisy cafeteria with the afternoon sun blasting in through the windows, I felt doubtful. Maybe it was a coincidence that the porch light had been out. Maybe I’d noticed it earlier without realizing it, as Helen said.

  After school the four of us rode together for a few blocks on the way home. “Alan, I hope Carl’s back,” I said as we reached Alan’s turnoff.

  “I bet he’ll be there,” said Helen.

  “I’ll let you guys know,” said Alan, “tonight, when I see you . . . in our dreams!” He rode away laughing, but I could tell he was worried.

  Helen, Nicki, and I continued along. My shirt sagged on me as we wove our bikes from one side of the road to the other, hunting for the shade of some of the bigger trees. When we reached Ni
cki’s turnoff, Helen said, “See you tonight, hopefully.”

  “1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8,” said Nicki.

  I didn’t really look at her as she left us—I saw a glint of fender, a bend of elbow, and she was gone. Helen and I kept riding, not speaking, both of us thinking about the unavoidable fact that we were in trouble, and that Mom and Dad would be there when we got home, waiting to lecture us.

  “It wasn’t our fault,” said Helen.

  “Don’t say that,” I said. “It makes it seem like it was.”

  “Bet you wish you were on the Apollo mission right now,” said Helen with a rueful grin.

  I’d never thought of that before, but it was true: being an astronaut was potentially a great way to escape from your parents.

  We reached home and parked our bikes on the side. I saw the afternoon paper at the foot of the steps, picked it up, and worked out the creases for Dad.

  Helen, who normally storms in, sometimes even opening the screen door with her head, hung back and let me lead the way. The kitchen was empty. I placed the paper on the table, and heard Mom talking to Dad in the living room. “Thomas,” she said, “did you read that Joseph, from Rotary Club, passed away on Saturday? It’s so sad. I wonder how his wife is doing.”

  As was often the case, Mom was reading yesterday’s paper while Dad read today’s. Papers had a regular route through our house that started with Dad, passed through Mom, and ended with Helen or me reading the comics before we threw the whole thing out.

  We entered the living room, and there were Mom and Dad, sitting next to each other, reading. I cleared my throat, and both newspapers lowered. Dad’s crewcut appeared, and his tired blue eyes.

  Mom was also blond, like Dad, though her hair was long and tied back in a ponytail. She had a wide forehead, and blue eyes that also looked tired.

  It seemed as if Dad was going to get the lecture started. I turned to him, and he paused as he mentally arranged his opening statement. But he didn’t have a chance to deliver it, because something else happened—Mom saw my black eye.

  She dropped her paper, leaped to her feet, and ran to me saying, “Henry, my god!” She grabbed me and started inspecting my eye, taking my head in both hands and peering deep, maybe to see if I was still in there. “Who did this to you, Henry?” she asked.

  “Carl,” I said. There was no use denying it, since I’d already told Dad.

  “Carl Dunn,” Mom snarled. Every parent in town knew Carl from the injuries he’d given their kids, especially this past summer. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “I don’t want you to have anything more to do with that family, Henry,” she said.

  I gulped. Mom was so angry that she’d reached what Helen and I called “Pronouncement Level,” which almost never happened—a high degree of rage in which she’d make some sweeping proclamation. To be forbidden from seeing my best friend . . . my mind leaped, trying to figure a way out. But at Pronouncement Level there wasn’t room for discussion. The best strategy was to let things quiet down and come back to it later.

  “Your mother and I have already talked about this,” said Dad. “You aren’t going to like it, either of you, but it’s for the best. You are both grounded immediately, for fighting. We especially don’t want you seeing the Dunns.”

  “But, Dad,” I whined, “Alan isn’t—”

  “That’s our decision,” said Dad, interrupting me. Dad hated whining, and I knew he did, but I was really upset. Sometimes when you’re really upset, you whine even though it works against you.

  “While you’re grounded,” Dad continued, “you aren’t to see the Chens, either. You’re not to go over to their house. You’re not to socialize after school.”

  “What?” said Helen, and I think she really did imagine she’d misheard.

  “Dis-missed,” said Dad. He shook the paper, preparing to go back to it. But Helen and I could not let this go—it was too colossally unfair.

  “But why, Dad?” I said. “What did Nicki do?”

  “You’re too young to understand,” said Dad.

  “What are we too young to understand?” said Helen, her voice shaking.

  Dad didn’t reply. He raised the paper and his face disappeared behind it.

  I could almost understand about the Dunns. Obviously, it was a good idea for us to avoid Carl. Even I could get behind that. And people seemed to dislike Mr. Dunn, too—I’d heard parents talking about him, calling him a drunk and stuff. But the Chens? It made no sense.

  Our cause was lost for now, though. I urged Helen with my eyes to just nod and leave the room with me. But Helen is not that kind of person. When she saw I’d given up, she shouted, “It wasn’t even our fault! You two are out of your minds!”

  Then—and I’d never seen her do something quite like this before—she attacked. She lunged forward, grabbed the newspaper out of Dad’s hands, and tore it in half, throwing the remnants over her shoulder as she raced from the room and out of the house. She was pedaling her bike away by the time the kitchen screen door slapped shut behind her.

  THAT EVENING I MADE mulligan stew for Mom and Dad. I was mad at them, sure, but they still needed dinner. Once it was cooked, cooled, and in the fridge, Helen came home. I bet she’d ridden twenty miles to boil off her anger.

  She sat at the kitchen table. I put out bowls for us, and we ate silently. After, Helen washed the dishes and we went upstairs to brush our teeth.

  “Henry,” she said, “what are they thinking? Why?” She was sincerely grieved, and I felt just the same. “They didn’t even let us explain.”

  “I think they’re worried about other stuff,” I said. “Work, the strike, Dad getting laid off. They want to think about their own problems, not ours.”

  “It’s awful,” said Helen.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I said, “but there’s something they don’t know about, right?”

  “What’s that?” said Helen, as she kept brushing. Helen did not fool around about tooth brushing. She always seemed intent on sanding her teeth right down to the gums.

  “1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34,” I recited.

  Helen stared down into the sink.

  I should mention that I know my sister pretty well. I mean, I’m her twin. She’s got a temper, sure, but grabbing the paper from Dad—that was too much, even for her. There was something else going on.

  “What is it, Helen?” I said.

  She rinsed out her mouth and then said, quoting the morning announcement, “Boys, it’s never too early to invite your sweetheart to the Fall Formal.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice cracking because I thought she’d figured out my crush on Nicki. Maybe she even knew something. That Nicki wasn’t interested. Or was going with someone else. Or . . .

  “I just wonder if anyone will ask me,” she said with a sigh.

  “Eh?” I replied. Helen wanted to go to the dance? I flashed for a second to imagining her in a frilly dress.

  “It’s just . . . that . . .” she said. I’d never seen her at such a loss. She put her hands heavily on either side of the sink. “I want Alan to ask me,” she said.

  “Alan . . . Alan Dunn?” I said.

  “Yes, Alan Dunn,” said Helen, “who we are now forbidden to see.”

  I was stupefied. Helen and Alan. It had never crossed my mind. “How . . . long . . . ?” I said.

  “He hasn’t mentioned anything to you, has he?” she said.

  Now I was the one at a loss, wondering if this would be a good moment to mention my own crush. But as usual, the opportunity passed before I figured out what to do. Then Helen got angry and shouted, “Why do the guys always have to ask? Why can’t girls ask? It’s stupid!” This last was as if I were responsible for it.

  “Well, maybe I could—” I began.

  “No, don’t do anything,” said Helen, and she stomped out and down the hall to her room, slamming the door behind her.

  My mind was swimming. Helen and Alan! Their names kind of rhymed. I
smiled. It was gratifying to see my sister so wound up about a problem she couldn’t solve. For a change.

  Once in my room, I arranged things again according to the book’s instructions. I lay atop the sheets and balanced my arm upright with a pillow. It was hot again, and I was sweating.

  I focused my attention and began to count silently: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 . . .

  But my thoughts were reluctant to stay on task. They got distracted by images from the day, like the moment during roll call when I’d failed to invent a better nickname for myself than “One-eye Nilsson.” I felt the embarrassment all over again.

  The thoughts wouldn’t leave me. I got out of bed, went to my desk, found paper and pencil, and started writing. It took me awhile, but eventually I thought of Eightball, which was pretty good. Then the ideas came faster: TKO, Evil Eye, Perry Scope.

  I folded the paper and put it in my wallet, just in case the issue came up again.

  I returned to bed.

  1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 . . .

  Eventually, the numbers kept going up, like a kite lifting, and entered the paralysis. I opened my eyes and, just as I had the night before, found myself staring up at the ceiling, unable to move.

  But then things stopped being identical to the previous night. From nearby me, a man’s voice suddenly spoke.

  “Hello there, young man,” it said. If I hadn’t been paralyzed, I’d have jumped to my feet. As it was, I blinked furiously and rolled my eyes around in my skull.

  The voice had come from my left. It was low, a little raspy. It had a friendly tone to it, but I was not put at ease. After all, this person had come into my bedroom without permission, and I’d learned from a lifetime of TV shows and school assemblies that such people are not generally well-intentioned.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a vague form standing by my bed, a man of average build, wearing what looked like pajamas—the kind with the vertical blue stripes—and a white hat of some kind, which shone bright in my mostly black room.