The Hourglass Door Read online

  Jason. I’d only been three years old when my parents had moved next door to the Kimballs. And as the story went, Cindy Kimball had knocked on our door that same afternoon to say hello. When Cindy learned that I would be turning four on January eighth, and when Mom learned that Cindy’s son Jason would be turning four on the exact same day, well, they took it as a sign. They’d been friends ever since. And it only stood to reason that Jason and I would be friends, too. We had celebrated every birthday together since then. For years, Cindy and Mom had spun themselves a fantasy in which Jason would marry “the girl next door”—me—and our families would be friends forever.

  With a story like that, I supposed it was inevitable that Jason and I would end up dating. Which we had been doing for the last four months.

  “I’m sure Jason wouldn’t mind if we did something else,” I said quietly, the words tasting like ashes in my mouth. The truth was, I knew Jason would mind. I knew he loved our bowling birthday parties. And I knew he’d been looking forward to this specific party since before Christmas.

  “It’s fine,” I said at last. “Really. Bowling will be fun.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged a glance.

  “Honest.” Even I could hear the false note in my voice.

  Hannah rolled her eyes, loudly turning a page in her book.

  “Sweetie,” Mom started, folding her hands on the table. Dad shook his head. She frowned at him. Dad shook his head again. It was kind of cute that they still thought I couldn’t read them both like a book: Mom wanted to argue her point; Dad wasn’t going to let her.

  “Well, let’s see,” Mom finally said, a little lamely. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

  “And maybe this’ll be the year you’ll score more than a hundred points,” Hannah said with an innocent grin, her eyes never leaving her book.

  “Maybe,” I said, tempted to stick my tongue out at Hannah. And maybe someday I’ll get to make my own choices about my own life, too.

  But I wasn’t holding my breath.

  ~

  The house was quiet. Mom and Dad had finished watching the evening news and I could hear the water running in the pipes. That’ll be Mom brushing her teeth. A minute later I heard Dad’s voice as a deep rumble through the wall followed by Mom’s softer reply. As I lay in my bed, I was oddly comforted listening to my parents’ bedtime routine. It was nice to know they felt so safe and comfortable together. That they were still happily married after so many years.

  I thought about Jason. He would be like my parents. Jason liked a neat, predictable routine to his life. He wasn’t much for spontaneity or acting on wild and crazy impulses. But his stability was one of the things I liked about him. I always knew exactly where I stood with Jason. He was unfailingly honest, even if that meant he wore his emotions on his sleeve.

  On the other hand, if I was being completely honest with myself, I would have liked a little spontaneity. A surprise party, perhaps. Or even something other than a dinner-and-a-movie date on Friday night. Something to shake my life up a little. Something special.

  Something no one was expecting. Something just for me.

  I thought about the application for Emery College tucked away in my desk. I felt a little guilty for lying to Valerie about it. I hadn’t taken it out of pity for Mr. Bastian; I had asked him specifically for information about the school. I had found Emery online while doing some research for a liberal arts college with a small student body and a high percentage of scholarship opportunities.

  I switched on the lamp on my nightstand, blinking in the sudden flood of light. Slipping out from under my warm covers, I padded across to my desk. I hesitated, my fingers barely touching the drawer. I bit my lip. This was silly. Being a dutiful senior, I’d already filled out what seemed like hundreds of college applications. Why was this one so hard to finish?

  Because I want this one, I finally admitted to myself. Emery looked to be everything I thought college should be. Located in a small college town, the school specialized in the liberal arts—specifically creative writing, theater, and every imaginable art medium possible. It had a thriving study-abroad program. Almost all the students lived on campus. A glance at the college schedule showed some kind of music, theater, or art show happening every week. It took my breath away. It was perfect.

  It was also out of my budget.

  My family wasn’t poor by any means, but I’d always known I would have to apply for every scholarship opportunity that came my way—especially if I wanted to go to a small, expensive liberal arts college like Emery.

  Everyone expected me to go to school at State or USC or somewhere else close to home. Maybe it was time to do something no one expected—not even me.

  Quickly, before I could change my mind or talk myself out of it, I yanked open the drawer, grabbed the crumpled application, and flipped on my computer. I smoothed the paper with my hand, my heart beating wildly. I tucked my green-painted toes under my nightshirt to keep them warm as my Internet browser flashed to life. I took a deep breath and typed in the address for Emery College. Was I crazy for even trying this?

  I clicked on the “Apply Now” link on Emery’s home page and waited while the form loaded. Most college applications wanted to know your grades, your extracurricular activities, your service work, and your awards, but Emery wasn’t like most colleges. Its application was like nothing I’d seen before.

  Name given to you by your parent(s) and/or guardian(s)?

  That was easy. I carefully typed in “Abigail Beatrice Edmunds.”

  Why was this name chosen for you?

  That, too, was easy. Abigail was my mother’s grandmother’s name. Beatrice was my father’s grandmother’s name. Family was important to my parents. Even Hannah’s name was in honor of a great-aunt.

  Name you have chosen for yourself?

  Easy—Abby.

  Why did you choose that name?

  Because even as a first-grader, I knew going to school with a name like Abigail Beatrice was social suicide. Abby was easy to spell and easy to remember, but most of all, it was easier to be Abby.

  Abigail was a girl with braids and braces. A girl who wore hand-me-downs. A girl who would never have friends, much less a good-looking boyfriend. Abigail wasn’t going to be asked to Homecoming or try out for cheerleading or write for the school paper.

  But Abby? Abby could be cute and bubbly. Popular. As Abby, I could do all those things and more. In fact, I had.

  I grinned. As college applications went, this one was the easiest by far.

  Age of your body? Age of your soul?

  I shook my head, still smiling. “Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmured. I clicked the box for 17 as the age of my body. It was almost true, I reasoned; my birthday was Friday. “Age of my soul?” I tapped the mouse button with the tip of my fingernail, thinking.

  What did the question even mean? What was the right answer? Was there one? I believed in souls—but how was I to know how old mine was? I’d always felt older than my real age, but did that mean anything? I left the question blank for the moment and skimmed over the questions in the next section: Goals.

  Where do you see yourself in five years?

  What is your greatest dream?

  What would you do with a million dollars?

  What do you want to be when you grow up?

  How would you achieve world peace?

  Maybe some of these questions weren’t going to be so easy after all.

  My eye fell on the third question on the list. Bingo. I knew exactly what I’d do with a million dollars.

  My friend Natalie was a game-show fanatic, and she, Valerie, and I had spent many a summer afternoon watching reruns of Greed, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and Deal or No Deal, debating what we would do with the winnings if we had been on the show. We always laughed at the contestants who claimed to want to spend their money on boring things like paying bills, buying a house, or donating the money to charity. Natalie’s theory was that the way to win on a game
show was to have the most outlandish, amazing, impractical dream possible. She believed the universe wanted to reward people for dreaming big. So the bigger the dream, the more likely it would come true. Her theory may not have been entirely sound, but she believed it to her core.

  So what would I do with a million dollars? I’d charter a private jet and fly to Italy, where I would live for an entire month in the most expensive, luxurious penthouse suites I could find. I would hire some gorgeous, dark-haired, Italian male model to give me a private, personalized tour of the country’s museums, restaurants, and shopping districts. Then, at the end of my million-dollar month, we would sail along the Mediterranean Sea, eating caviar and crackers, drinking something sweet and fruity, and feeding each other grapes and figs. At sunset, he would recite to me the most romantic Italian love poetry ever written.

  Natalie thought it was an astoundingly fabulous use of a million dollars and swore that out of all of our dreams, mine was sure to come true.

  But should I write that dream down on my college application? It was one thing to talk about it with your friends on a lazy August afternoon. It was something else to use it as evidence for why a college should accept you into its hallowed halls of academia.

  I bit my lip. My glance fell on the masthead along the top of the Web site application: Emery College. Established 1966. Live without Limits.

  If you say so, I thought. I took a deep breath and typed in my Natalie-approved, million-dollar, Italian dream. Every last detail.

  It was almost two in the morning when I finished the last question of the application, “What three words describe how you feel at this exact moment?”

  Exhausted, I typed. Nervous. Crazy.

  I clicked the “Send Application” button and leaned back in my chair. As the computer processed my information, sending my hopes and my dreams, my very soul, out into cyberspace, into the universe, I thought of a fourth word to describe how I felt.

  Exhilarated.

  Chapter

  2

  Okay, people, let’s not waste any time,” I said into my headset. I cringed a little as I heard my voice amplified and broadcast through the auditorium. It didn’t even sound like me.

  The auditorium was crowded, noisy, and hectic. At the beginning of the semester, Dave had held rehearsals for Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing in small sections in the drama room. I had wanted to be involved somehow with the play since it was one of my favorites. As much as I loved the sweet, romantic love story between Hero and Claudio, I loved the comic interplay and quick wits of Benedick and Beatrice even more. Though I didn’t get a speaking part in the play, I asked Dave if I could be the assistant director for the show. He had handed me the script with a grin and that had been that.

  Today we were scheduled to run through all of Act One on the big stage—full costume, full props, full lighting—and everyone was excited for the chance to see the play start to come together. Everyone, that is, except maybe me. Today I was in charge of the play for the first time.

  I swallowed hard and clutched my clipboard in my shaking hands. “Um . . . hello? I’d like to get started, please,” I said. No one paid any attention to me. So much for painting my toenails lucky green. I scrubbed the back of my hand against my forehead. “Everyone, please, I need you to gather—” I tried again.

  The heavy backstage double doors rocked open and then slammed shut as the stage crew walked onto the stage, talking loudly and laughing. Jason caught my eye and smiled.

  My heart lifted at the sight of him. He slapped his friend Robert on the shoulder and then ambled over to where I was standing at the edge of the stage.

  He brushed back my hair. “Hey, Abby. How’re you doing?” Jason’s voice always reminded me of butterscotch: smooth, golden, and sweet. Maybe it was because he was that same smooth golden color all over, from his wheat-blond curls falling over his hazel-gold eyes to the light tan on his skin that he managed to sustain even in the middle of January. When I had been younger I had read the myth of Jason and the Golden Fleece. I remember thinking how cool it would be if the Jason I knew turned out to be the same Jason as the hero of the story. I spent that whole summer calling him Fleece-Boy, and dreaming of a golden hero who would embark on a perilous quest to earn my love.

  He certainly felt like my hero the moment he put his strong arms around me and hugged me on stage. I hadn’t realized how frazzled I’d felt until this moment when I found someplace safe. No matter what happened, I knew I could always count on Jason to be there for me. I breathed in his familiar scent of sweat and sawdust, my rabbiting heartbeat speeding up for a reason other than nerves.

  I stripped off my headset and pressed my face against his chest. “I’m better now that you’re here,” I said.

  “Sorry we’re late, Dave!” Robert called out as he knotted a red bandanna around his head and spun his hammer in his hands like a gunslinger.

  “Dave’s not here,” Sarah said. She ran her fingers lightly over the piano, trailing up and down the scales. “No one’s in charge, so I guess we’re just supposed to do whatever until he comes.”

  What? No. I was supposed to be in charge. Dave had left me in charge. Why wasn’t I in charge? This was not how I had envisioned rehearsal going. Frustration prickled under my skin. I had expected to be nervous, but why was I so scared? I hadn’t been scared last year when I’d interviewed the principal for the school paper or when I’d tried out for the cheerleading squad. What was wrong with me?

  “Dave said Abby was in charge,” Jason said calmly, turning me in his arms so I was facing the crowd. Somehow his voice managed to carry through the room in a way my headset hadn’t, and the noise died down as everyone turned to look at me. Sarah’s fingers drew a minor chord from the piano. A couple of people laughed at the timing.

  I felt myself teetering on the edge of the stage, held up only by Jason’s strong hands. I held my clipboard like it was a shield in front of me. Was it Jason? Had I been braver before we started dating? It was a chilling idea, though it had the shiver of truth to it. I shelved the thought, unwilling to pursue the consequences at the moment.

  I heard Jason’s voice from behind me. It sounded a million miles away. “Abby, would you like us to work on the porch? I promise we’ll stay out of your way until you need it for the end of Scene One.”

  I blinked myself back to the present. “That would be great, Jason. Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he said. He leaned close to whisper in my ear, “Don’t forget to count.” His breath was warm against my skin. He hesitated for an instant, then his lips brushed a quick kiss across my cheek.

  Jason’s counting trick. The summer Jason and I were nine, our families had gone camping up in the mountains for the first time. We had followed a stream upriver, collecting rocks and pinecones. Night had fallen without us noticing, and the wind moaned through the high trees, rustling the leaves like bones. Disoriented in the dark, I stood frozen on the bank of the river. Part of me knew that if I just followed the river it would lead me home, but the rest of me was petrified, suffocating in the darkness. Jason had slipped his hand into mine and told me he knew a way to be brave. “Feel the fear ’til the count of ten, then count once more to be brave again,” he had recited in a small, singsong voice. Together we had counted from one to ten and back again and together we had walked along the river back to camp.

  I closed my eyes and counted as fast as I could under my breath, “onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten.” As I exhaled, I counted backwards from ten. When I hit “one” it was like a switch suddenly flipped inside of me. My lingering fear evaporated. I could do this. I would do this.

  Live without limits, I thought suddenly. If I was brave enough to apply for the school of my dreams, I was brave enough for this.

  I straightened my headset and squared my shoulders.

  “Dave will be here later. For now, let’s set up for Act One, Scene One,” I barked, surprising myself at how professional I sounded, how easily
I slipped back into my familiar cloak of confidence. I consulted my clipboard, my hands steady and calm. “Rachel, turn up the stage lights, please. Sarah, are you ready with the intro? Good. I need Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice center stage.” I pointed to the marks taped on the floor. “Allyson, where’s the letter? We can’t start the scene without it.”

  “Coming,” Allyson called, dashing up the stairs, holding out a small white envelope. “Here it is.”

  “Perfect. Hand it off to Scott, please. Oh, and Allyson, if the rest of the props for Act One are set and ready, would you check with Jason to see if he needs any help with the porch before Scene Two?”

  Allyson nodded, crossed to stage left where Scott the Messenger waited in the wings for his big entrance, and handed him the envelope.

  I took a step back as the actors scurried to their places on stage and the crew assumed their roles behind the curtains. My heart beat faster with surprise and anticipation. It had worked. People were doing what I said. Maybe I couldn’t sing or dance, but maybe I had finally found my hidden talent—bossing actors around. I giggled, but when I heard it echo through my headset, I quickly covered it up with a cough.

  “A glass of water for you, oh great-and-powerful director.” Valerie held out a cup to me, curtseying as low as her costume would allow.

  I pushed the headset mike away from my mouth and drank the water in two large gulps. “Thanks, Val. I needed this. You’re the best.”

  “I cry your pardon, sweet gentlewoman. I know not of this ‘Val’ of whom you speak. ’Tis only simple Ursula, here to attend to your needs and to the needs of my mistress, Hero.”

  I laughed. “You’re impossible.”

  Valerie shrugged, dropping her persona as quickly as she had assumed it. “Tell me something I don’t know, darling.” She gave me a quick hug. “Sorry I was late. This corset is beastly. I swear I’ll hang Amanda up by her heels with her own sewing thread if she can’t figure out a way to let me breathe in this thing.”