Lost in the Moment and Found (Wayward Children #8)(15)

“I’m not yours,” protested Antsy, grabbing her backpack and getting indignantly to her feet. The urge to stomp and shout was strong, but that was how little kids handled their problems, and she wasn’t a little kid at all, so she just glared. “I’m not anyone’s. I didn’t mean to bother anyone, and I’m sorry I knocked your things down, but I’m not here to answer any advertisem … adverti … anything! I’m here because the light was on and I wanted to use the phone!”

“Earth,” said the woman to the bird, as if this explained everything. The bird made a croaking noise, and Antsy’s anger got even bigger, burning in her chest like a candle. Candles start with small flames, but they can become house fires quickly enough if not watched carefully. “America, too, by the sound of her. They still think they’re the only place there is.”

“You don’t get to own me because I bumped a shelf,” said Antsy.

“We don’t own you, child—and what’s your name, anyway? I can’t keep calling you ‘child’ forever. For one thing, it won’t always be true, and for another thing, it’s not very kind. People should be themselves, not just part of a classification. For example, my name is Vineta, and this pompous old fellow is my colleague, Hudson.”

The bird puffed out the feathers on his chest before bobbing his head at Antsy and saying, brightly, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“My name is Antsy,” said Antsy.

“Short for something, or were you a very squirmy baby?”

“Antoinette.”

“That’s a better size name for a girl as tall as you are,” said the woman.

Antsy, who had never considered herself particularly tall, blinked at her. “I would like to leave now,” she said.

“If you can find the door you came in through, of course, you can leave any time you like,” said the woman. “But whatever door you find, be sure you look at it carefully, and don’t just go charging through. You may not like what you find waiting on the other side.” There was a hungry glint in her eyes as she spoke.

Antsy nodded, doing her best to make the gesture respectful. Then she inched around the woman, keeping her back to the shelves so she never took her eyes off the woman even once, and bolted back along the way she had come. The long aisle formed by the close-set shelves was exactly as it had been when she walked along it the first time; she hadn’t even knocked anything over. And there, at the end of the aisle, was the door. Antsy ran toward it as fast as she could.

But there was no wall. Antsy slowed as she realized what was missing, a slow frown growing on her face. There was no wall and there was no window, there was just a door and the frame that held it, standing in the aisle with nothing to support it.

She slowed further, until she was walking slowly, and frowned at the door as she approached. It was painted white, with two keyholes below the knob, one huge and old-fashioned, like something out of a storybook, the other just like the one on their door at home, simple, sleek, and modern. There was nothing written on the door itself.

She peeked around it. The aisle extended on the other side of the door, simple and unbroken. She returned to looking at the door itself, still frowning.

The door remained a door, unbothered by her contemplations, identical on both sides. Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Antsy grasped the doorknob, turned, and pulled. There was a moment of resistance, the door seeming to sense her reluctance. She pulled harder, whispering, “I’m sure,” under her breath. With a creak of its hinges that sounded almost like a sigh, the door came unstuck and swung wide, a crackle like ozone hanging in the air. Antsy felt better almost instantly, her eyes no longer aching from all the crying she’d been doing, and she was suddenly too preoccupied with staring to cry.

On the other side of the door, where the shop should have been, a jungle stretched all the way to the horizon, fat, round-trunked trees dripping with vines and flowers, their twisting branches reaching for the sky like the spread fingers of enormous hands. Something moved in the deep foliage, and brightly colored birds perched on the vines, clacking their beaks and calling to each other at the sight of her.

It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Antsy stepped through the door. Only one foot; she was at least clever enough to leave her other foot solidly on the wooden floor of the thrift store. One of the vast, bright-petaled flowers was close enough for her to lean over and pluck it before retreating back through the door and closing it behind her. The flower didn’t disintegrate when pulled into the thrift store. It remained in her hand, bright and blooming, petals almost the same color as a good, ripe watermelon.

She stared at it, trying to understand how this could be happening. Something clattered behind her. She turned, and there was Hudson, perching atop another shelf, watching her.

“Not what you expected?” he asked. “Or not what you wanted?”

“I didn’t— I wasn’t— I couldn’t— This isn’t real! Doors lead into rooms, not jungles!” She brandished the flower at him like he would somehow understand how wrong this all was simply because a flower that looked like watermelon but smelled like cherries was in his face.

Hudson looked at the flower critically. “Smells good,” he said. “Could have made nice tea. I wish you’d kept that Door open longer, Vineta might have been able to harvest something we could sell. Oh, well. Suppose it can’t be helped now.” He took the flower’s stem daintily in his beak and jumped into the air, wings beating hard as he turned and flew back toward the old woman.