Falling In Read online

  By the time Isabelle reached third grade, she had given up on friendship. She’d grown tired of sending birthday party invitations to children who never RSVP’d, much less appeared at her door on the given date with brightly wrapped packages in their hands. She’d given up making persimmon cookies to bring to school, where the other children called them Cootie Cookies and refused to eat them. She’d given up handing out Valentines stenciled with pictures of beating, winged hearts. She’d even given up smiling at girls who seemed shy and in need of a friend themselves.

  What she never gave up: Telling herself jokes and laughing under her breath. Memorizing the letters she found in her alphabet soup and rearranging them into stories.

  And she never gave up hope. She always kept a tiny sliver of it in her right pocket. Just in case it might come in handy someday.

  3

  Up until the moment of the squeal and the squeak, it had been a dull year for Isabelle.

  Now, when it came to Isabelle and school, dull was not always bad. Dull meant you were left to yourself, generally ignored, not fully acknowledged by your classmates to exist. And there were benefits to this. When other children started paying attention to Isabelle, they often took her the wrong way.

  Just the week before, Truma DeStefano had been standing behind Isabelle in the cafeteria line when she noticed a strange light snaking around Isabelle’s legs. “Isabelle is wrapped up in supernatural spirits,” she whispered to her best friend, Casey Weathervane, pointing to the shimmering light. “She’s a ghost magnet!”

  Casey, being on the high-strung side, let out a shriek that caused one of the cafeteria ladies to drop a ten-gallon pot of chili in the middle of the kitchen, which in turn provoked a swarm of swear words that the children usually only heard at home when their fathers were watching their favorite football teams blow a big game. A gaggle of lunchroom monitors came running, and Casey and Truma pointed at Isabelle’s legs, where the light still hovered ominously. Isabelle stood very still, like a small animal cornered by a pack of snarling dogs.

  Mrs. Wigglestaff, the most seasoned of the lunchroom monitors, sighed. “It’s the light bouncing,” she told the girl. She motioned to the overhead lights, then tilted her head toward the dishwasher’s steel door. “Bounce, bounce, bounce,” she said, her finger tracking the path of the light from ceiling to dishwasher to the spot where Isabelle just happened to be standing.

  Truma and Casey giggled, but uttered not one word of apology to Isabelle, not one careless “Whoops!” It was Isabelle Bean, after all. One did not actually direct comments toward Isabelle Bean unless one absolutely had to.

  No, on the whole, Isabelle preferred her school days event free. Dull was good. Dull meant her thoughts could roam here and there, uninterrupted. But even Isabelle had to admit that sometimes dull was, well, kind of dull. A momentary interjection of a squeak and a squeal wasn’t a bad thing, she decided as she poked her head into the nurse’s office to see what Charley Bender was going on about.

  Charley was standing on a chair in the corner. “I don’t usually yell when I see mice,” she said sheepishly when she saw Isabelle in the doorway. “I’m really not afraid of mice.”

  “But are mice afraid of you?” Isabelle walked into the room and leaned against the sink, prepared to be disappointed by Charley’s reply. Girls like Charley Bender never had good answers to riddles, especially riddles that had no answers.

  “I don’t think this one was,” Charley said. “He looked me straight in the eye, like he wanted to say something to me, ask me a question. It sort of spooked me, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Of course I want to know the truth,” Isabelle replied. “What else would I want to know? A trunk full of lies?”

  Well, actually, now that you mention it, Isabelle didn’t mind lies, as long as they were interesting lies that didn’t get anyone hurt. But she suspected Charley Bender was a truth teller from way back. Charley Bender looked like a rose petal fresh from its morning bath. Rose petals were notoriously poor liars.

  Hopping gingerly down from the chair and limping past Isabelle, Charley made her way to the closet on the far side of the room. “He looked at me, I yelled, and he disappeared into here. There must be a mouse hole in there or something. My dad says this is the time of year when mice start building nests inside, so they have a safe place to have their babies. There’s one that lives in our attic all spring.”

  Isabelle came and stood next to her. “Maybe he needed a Band-Aid,” she said. “Maybe he was out playing mouse soccer and fell into an ant hole.”

  Charley Bender rolled her eyes at Isabelle. Girls like Charley Bender were always rolling their eyes at Isabelle. It was because they never knew whether or not she was kidding. But why would she kid about mice? Why couldn’t a mouse play soccer? Or paint a picture? Or start up a small business selling cheese crackers and Cat-B-Gone spray? She supposed their tails might get in the way on the soccer field, and that as a species they might not have a head for business, but that didn’t push these ideas out of the realm of possibility.

  Isabelle put her hand on the doorknob. “Maybe there’s a whole mouse country right inside this closet, did you ever think of that? Mice families, mice swimming pools, mice courthouses where the mice go to settle their disputes.”

  When Charley only nodded, Isabelle continued, enjoying this riff on the life of mus domesticus, the beloved house mouse. “Yes, I believe I’d like to visit the country of Mice. I’ll try to be back by lunch-time, but if I’m not, save one perfect french fry for me, would you?” And with that, she twisted the doorknob—

  4

  I’d like to stop here for a moment, if I could. I want you to think about how many times you’ve opened a door. What happened? You twisted the knob, pushed or pulled, walked inside or outside, or from one room to another.

  You’ve imagined the alternatives, though, haven’t you? Or at least dreamed them? Of course you have. Everybody’s had the dream where you find a door inside your house you’d never noticed before. You open it and—whoa!—a room you never knew existed. Usually it’s filled with wondrous things, pinball machines and cakes, magnificent dollhouses, skateboard runs, a pony. There is the occasional vampire, of course, or a man in a brown suit who lacks only a head. Those are the dreams where, when you turn around, you can’t find the door anymore. I hate those dreams.

  If you have a little time to waste, go put your hand on the knob of the door to your room. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. What’s that noise you hear? Could it be your books reading themselves to one another? Is that your goldfish whistling Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? That thump, thud, crash!—your pillows having a pillow fight? Do you smell the earthy, froggy smell of trolls? What exactly goes on in your room when you’re not around?

  But I digress. Back to the story.

  5

  Isabelle could feel Charley Bender watching her as she pulled open the supply closet door. She could sense Charley taking a step backward, in case the residents of Mice swarmed out.

  (Only later would it occur to her what a narrow escape she’d made. If Charley had stayed right where she was, if she hadn’t taken that fateful backward step, she would have been able to reach Isabelle in time. Instead Charley lunged forward, arms out, desperately trying to grab a sleeve or the toe of a red boot, but she was too late.)

  —and Isabelle Bean opened the door—

  —and Isabelle Bean fell in.

  6

  She’d been wrong about the mice.

  There’d been the tunnel—or was it a shaft? A secret passageway? Just a great big hole?—the long fall down followed by the soft tumble onto what turned out to be a pile of coats, children-sized, not mouse-sized, tree bark brown, morning gray, and mossy green, big buttons for little fingers.

  Isabelle closed her eyes. She smelled mothballs tinged with licorice. She smelled dust motes and gingersnaps. She could hear the thudding of feet, voices yelling out directions, the scratching of chalk ag
ainst a slate board.

  She could hear the buzz.

  In Mrs. Sharpe’s classroom the buzz had been a distant thing, felt more than heard. Here, wherever here was, the buzz flattened out into a low-pitched hum, the sound of tiny motorcycles, maybe, or an off-kilter ceiling fan endlessly running, issuing a quiet whine. Isabelle stood, determined to find its source.

  A hallway stretched before her, the floor laid out in broad wooden planks, knotholes the size of fists. If this was the basement of Hangdale Middle School, it had a strange way of showing it. What sort of school basement had windows, for instance, the glass set in waves as though still vaguely liquid, the sun falling through and staining the hardwood floor with wide bars of yellow light?

  Isabelle’s boots tap-tapped against the floor as she made her way down the hallway, a much more satisfying sound than the thud they made when she walked across the linoleum upstairs. Upstairs? Glancing at the ceiling, she saw thick beams and rough gray plaster. Definitely not Board of Education–approved building materials.

  Which caused Isabelle to wonder: Was there still an upstairs up there? Was Charley Bender still standing at the open mouth of the closet, her hands waving, fingers wriggling, wondering where on earth Isabelle had tumbled to? Or was Charley Bender no longer there? Maybe what was up there had disappeared and there was no there there at all.

  Next question: Was there really a here, or had Isabelle conked her head and was now frolicking in the land of her dreams? Was this Fairyland? The Underworld? Or just a concussion? No, Isabelle decided quickly, feeling her head for bumps and not finding any. Wherever she was, it was real. But where was she?

  Eager to find out, she quickened her pace. There—an open door. Isabelle’s cheeks and the tips of her fingers tingled. What if there were something fantastical inside, a dragon, say, or elves? If there were elves inside (and this is what Isabelle wished for, as she’d spent practically half her life immersed in fairy tales and fantasy books, all of them heavily populated by wonderful creatures), she hoped at least a few of them were the truly magical sort that made up long poems and lived in the high branches of trees. She couldn’t stand those mealy-mouthed, cheerful elves that were always showing up in Christmas specials. Those weren’t really elves, Isabelle thought. They were more like short cheerleaders in funny caps.

  Her head was so filled with the variety of elves that might possibly populate the room she was about to enter that it took her a moment to see the creature who had stepped out into the hallway and now stood before her. Isabelle was taken aback, for this particular creature wasn’t an elf, or an ogre, or anything fantastical whatsoever, just an ordinary girl, wearing what Isabelle supposed could be called a frock. It was made of some nubbly gray material, a plain white apron tied over it.

  Isabelle stepped toward the girl, her hand raised in a half wave. “Hi, I’m—”

  But before she could finish her greeting, the girl began to scream.

  “It’s her! It’s her!” the girl caterwauled in a surprisingly loud voice for such a small child. She scurried back into the room she’d just come out of. “Run away, everyone! It’s the witch, and she’s come to eat us!”

  7

  You want me to tell you where Isabelle is, don’t you? You want me to spell it out for you, draw you a map, paint a picture.

  Well, I’m not going to do it. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself. The girl? Maybe she’s your long-lost sister, did you ever think of that? Remember all those nights you heard your mother whispering into the phone? Who did you think she was talking to? Grammy? Since when has your mother ever spoken to her mother in a whisper?

  Okay, I’ll tell you one thing: The girl’s name is Fiona. She’s five. She has very little to do with this story.

  And, oh yes. She’s not from here.

  8

  “What do you mean, she’s the witch? This girl don’t look nothing like a witch. Besides, the witch is old and haggard, and this girl’s no older than I am.”

  A rough-hewn boy of thirteen or so stood in front of Isabelle, examining her. “I’ll admit, I’ve not seen a village girl dressed as such, but you can’t predict with a runaway, can you? They show up dressed every which way. I seen one in a priest’s clothes once, and he weren’t nothing but a lad, ten years at the very most.”

  “But Samuel, look at her shoes,” the little girl, the screamer, who now spoke quite calmly, insisted. “Red boots are witch’s shoes, I’ve heard Mam say it a hundred times.”

  A few of the other children in the circle around Isabelle murmured in agreement. Isabelle peered down at her feet. Witch’s shoes? Well, yes, she had to admit, she could see that.

  The boy named Samuel ran a hand through his flame red hair. “The shoes are troublesome. But let’s be sensible now.” He grabbed Isabelle roughly by the shoulder and turned her in a slow circle, as though he were exhibiting her. “Does she really look a witch to you? Too young, and no bloat. A child eater always has a bit of bloat around the gut, they say, for the children’s souls do not digest in the way of other food.”

  Another boy stepped forward, this one taller, thin in the face, with a nose as sharp and pointed as a rat’s. “A minion then, if not the witch, which still makes her a danger.”

  Isabelle stood silently. Should she defend herself? Against what? The children obviously didn’t know what to make of her, and Isabelle didn’t know how to explain. She could give them the long version of her life story, beginning with her birth in the backseat of the family’s dented and battered Toyota Corolla, an event so traumatizing that her mother swore at the door of the emergency room that this baby would be her last. She could treat them to fun family lore. Did you know, she might ask the children, that both of my parents are orphans? That I have no grandparents, no cousins, no aunts, not one single uncle? That I am the only child of the loneliest family in the universe?

  But maybe the short version of her life story would be more appropriate: Five minutes ago I fell through a closet in the nurse’s office, and here I am!

  Isabelle suspected that telling the children about falling through the closet wouldn’t help her case. Looking around the room, with its heavy wooden tables, the black cast-iron stove hunched in the corner, the wind rasping through its small window (could that be where the buzzing hum came from?), she doubted anything about her world would make sense to these kids. There were a dozen or so of them, the youngest maybe five, the oldest one the redheaded boy named Samuel. They were clearly not of her century. Isabelle didn’t keep up with fashion, cared not one whit for designer labels, but she could tell at ten paces a shirt made out of homespun cloth from one bought at a discount store. Anyone could.

  And the children’s faces—Isabelle found them softer than the faces of Hangdale Middle School, more open, more like flowers in the first light of day. Clearly—to Isabelle, at least—these were not faces that had spent hundreds of hours in front of television screens absorbing stories of murder and mayhem, nor were they faces that knew one gaming system from another, an Xbox from a Ybox from a Zbox.

  She thought if she could get Samuel away from the other children and explain to him what had happened to her, he might understand. He looked like a pretty smart guy. There were only two problems with this plan: One, Isabelle figured it would be nearly impossible to speak to Samuel in private, and two, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to explain herself. It would be nice to be a mystery for a little while longer, as long as it didn’t get her beat up.

  Samuel’s voice broke into her thoughts. “A minion? What would a minion be doing here?” He stepped away from Isabelle, as if to get a better angle on her. “The witch is done with us for now and won’t be back this way any time soon. We’re out of season. Surely she’d send no minions here.”

  The rat-faced boy shrugged. “Better not to take a chance. Da says the crops were bad in Corrin this year; maybe the littlest ones there have grown thin. She likes ’em fat, I hear. They go down better with a little meat on ’em.”


  A small girl, five at most, began to cry. Isabelle’s eyes widened. Was this kid afraid of her? She turned away from Samuel and toward the others.

  “Good people,” she said, holding out her hands as if to prove she carried no weapons. “Listen to me. I am not a witch.”

  She stopped. Her voice sounded strange, like she was doing a bad imitation of herself or acting in a play written by tin-eared third graders. And since when had she ever used the phrase “good people”? If a rewind button had been available to her, she would have held it down for twenty seconds and started over.

  Instead she continued, “I can’t prove to you I’m not a witch. I also can’t prove to you I’m not a genie or a werewolf or the starting pitcher for the Boston Red Sox.”

  “Eh?” Samuel looked at her quizzically.

  Deep breath. Start again.

  “I’m a girl. I’m not sure where I am. But I am sure who I am, and who I am not is a witch.”

  Now all the kids looked at her like she was crazy. Of course, Isabelle was used to this, so she didn’t take it personally. She noticed Samuel and Rat Face exchanging glances, sending each other secret messages across the room, making a plan. Suddenly Samuel’s hand was clamped around her wrist.

  “I think you best be off, then,” he said, pulling her toward the doorway. “Though I don’t believe you to be a witch, we’ll not take any chances. If you’re a runaway, well, there’s no more room in the village for runaways. Now that the witch is outside of Corrin, we’re packed to the brim with all the children trying to escape. I suggest you make for the woods; there’ll be camps out there, closer to Drumanoo and such places.”