Furthermore(50)

Speaking of which: Oliver was a liar.

This, another truth that broke Alice’s heart. She’d trusted him, befriended him, and Oliver had lied. He’d manipulated her. He’d withheld information from Alice over and over and he’d kept secret the most critical details of her father’s imprisonment. He should’ve told Alice exactly what he needed from her; he should’ve secured her voluntary participation in all parts of his plan. He’d made a series of increasingly stupid, shortsighted decisions.

He was entirely at fault.

But between you and me, dear reader, I would dare to share my humble opinion that Oliver’s stupidity alone was flimsy reasoning for Alice abandoning her otherwise well-traveled, well-informed partner at such a critical juncture in the story. If Alice had any sense of self-preservation she would’ve waited for a safer moment (or a safer place) to have walked away; but Alice and Oliver had more in common than they realized: The two possessed passionate, rumpled spirits and they were both guilty of crimes committed of childish ignorance.

Alice had neither the maturity nor the self-awareness to wonder at Oliver’s ability to be such a consistently talented liar; she did not think his skills could be a symptom of some greater problem. So she couldn’t have known then that Oliver’s lies were motivated not by cruelty, but by fear. Fear of rejection, of abandonment, of interminable loneliness. There was very little she knew about his interior life, simply because she’d never asked.

Oliver, too, had made no effort to understand Alice. His young life had always been safe and boring and predictably comfortable; he’d never known the weight of grief or poverty. He did not understand that a broken heart long untended would eventually cease to beat. And Alice, whose heart had been badly broken for some years now, desperately needed a body upon which to unburden her pain. Tonight, she chose Oliver. In this moment, anger was a magic all its own: It gave Alice energy, adrenaline, and a distorted sense of self-righteousness that would, for a short time only, power her through a pair of unwise decisions.

Abandoning Oliver would be the first.





KEEP UP! THERE’S NO TIME TO WASTE!





Oliver Newbanks was equal parts terror and anguish. He’d dashed out of Tim’s home and was running around in a blind panic, checking under every lake and hill for a glimpse of his friend—but she was not to be found. If only Oliver had known where to go looking for Alice, he would have had no trouble finding her, as she was making no effort to disappear. In fact, she’d made quite a spectacle of herself when she thought no one was looking.

Alice was sitting on her bottom in the middle of the woods—her head dropped into one hand, her skirts bunched up to her knees—and was currently in the process of turning the entire forest an electrifying shade of blue. She’d changed the color of these woods several times now, but couldn’t decide which hue would do. And then, as she squinted up at the trees and allowed herself another brief, self-indulgent little cry, she thought, Oh, those leaves would look better in pink, wouldn’t they? and then turned the trunks pink, too. Playing with magic had always made her feel better.

Clever reader: I’m sure by now you’ve guessed it, haven’t you?

I know I’ve not kept it much of a secret—and maybe I should’ve done—but I’m glad you’ve guessed it, because I’d like to finally be able to say this honest thing: Despite her protests to the contrary, Alice’s gift was never to be a dancer. Her true magical ability was to be a living paintbrush.

Alice could change the colors of anything without lifting an eyelid. She could turn a person blue and a thing green and a place yellow and even though she should’ve been proud of her skill, she resented it. Hated it. Denied it so vehemently that she’d actually convinced herself it wasn’t a real talent. Because Alice—no-color Alice—could change the color of anything and everything but her own colorless self.

She was sure it was a magic that existed to mock her.

Still, the motions of making color always helped calm her heart, and when she’d finally had her fill, she dusted off her hands and dug through her pockets for the pamphlets she’d neglected to read earlier. She’d had enough of relying on Oliver to make all the decisions and to tell her where to go. She could figure it out on her own, she’d decided, especially now that she knew the basics of Furthermore. And besides, she had information right here, right in her hands; all she had to do was study it.

But Alice couldn’t focus.

Her hands were shaking and her thoughts were clouded and the truth was, she was scared. Alice had hoped to be brave—she’d hoped she was stronger than her fears—but Alice was injured on the inside; and though her anger kept her upright, it couldn’t keep her steady, and from moment to moment Alice would slip.

She was tired and she was worried and she was consumed by thoughts of Father, of what his life had been like these past years and how she’d ever reach him. He was in danger, she knew that now, but she also knew Furthermore would do its best to keep him from her. This would be no ordinary task, she was realizing, and suddenly the seriousness of it all was weighing down on her. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to save anyone anymore, not even herself.

Alice ran absent hands across her face and rubbed at her eyes. She picked up her pamphlets, put them down, and picked them up again. She wanted to rest, but there was no time for that. She wanted to bathe, but there was no time for that, either. She felt tattered and dirty and she desperately needed a washing but there was Father to think of. Father whom she loved. Father who left when she needed him most. Father who got lost and couldn’t find his way back to her. There was never a day she didn’t think of him. Never a day she didn’t need him.