Splintered (Splintered, #1)(17)
Most of my makeup has been cried and rained off, leaving smudge tracks on my face. Now all I see is Alison. But if I look deeper, it’s me wearing a straitjacket and an eel turban, grimacing like the Cheshire Cat as I sip pot roast from a teacup.
How long do I have before the curse kicks in for real?
I lean against the sink, untie Jeb’s bandana, and breathe him in. Before this afternoon, all I wanted was to go to London to hang with him and earn college credits. Amazing, the difference a few hours can make.
If I don’t find a way to England to look for the rabbit hole, Alison’s brain gets fried and I end up where she is in a few years. There’s no way I can get enough money for airfare before Monday. Not to mention a passport.
Gritting my teeth, I peel away my torn leggings and bandage. The split in my knee is almost healed, and there’s not even a scab. I’m too exhausted and frazzled to guess why. I turn on the cold water and scrub at the physical reminders of what happened, drying my skin and underclothes with the hand dryer.
Once I line my eyes with strokes of dark green and wriggle into some purple, green, and red plaid tights, I top it off with a miniskirt over fluffy red petticoats. A green cap-sleeve tee layered under a red bustier—along with a pair of purple fingerless gloves—and I’m ready to face the customers.
I cast a final glance at the mirror. Something moves behind my image, shimmery and black like the feathered wings in the prop pile. Alison’s warped warning skitters through me. “He’ll come for you. He’ll step through your dreams. Or the looking glass … stay away from the glass.” Yelping, I whip around.
Nothing’s there but my shadow. The room seems to shrink, small and off balance, as if I’m stuck inside a box tumbling down a hill. My stomach bounces.
I burst into the dimly lit storeroom and almost trip over the laces of my shin-high boots in a panicked race to get back to Jen.
She rushes to meet me. “Jeez.” She leads me to the bar stool behind the checkout counter. “You look like your head’s going to pop. Have you had anything to eat?”
“Ice cream soup,” I mumble, relieved the customers already left and didn’t see my entrance. I’m shaking all over.
Jen feels my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Maybe your blood sugar’s screwy. I’m getting you something from the bistro.”
“Don’t leave.” I grab her arm.
“Why not? I’ll be right back.”
Realizing how crazy I sound, I change tactics. “The window display. We have to …” The explanation stalls on my tongue as I notice she’s already finished it. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Jen eases my fingers off her sleeve. “I relit the candles, too. Why’d you blow them out? You need all the relaxing vibes you can get. I’m going to bring you a croissant and a drink—something decaffeinated. Never seen you this wired.” She’s across the room before I can respond.
The door swings shut behind her, leaving me alone with her window display. A blue wig and a clingy black angel costume hug Window Waif’s form. The giant wings are strapped into place around the mannequin’s shoulders with a matching leather harness. Black sequins glitter on the feathers, and smoke pours out of the miniature fog machine, snaking around the macabre scene.
Somehow, those wings and the smoke belong together.
I think of my moth friend. Why was Alison chasing it with the shears? Just because it lured me outside in a storm? It had to be something deeper, some kind of ongoing animosity, but I can’t quite grasp it.
Reluctantly, I turn to face the poster. His dark eyes look straight at me, piercing. “You know, don’t you?” I whisper. “You have the answers.”
Silence …
I snort—a hollow, lonely sound. I’m officially losing it. Whispering bugs and flowers are bad enough. Expecting a poster to answer? That makes me asylum-worthy.
Trembling, I move to the computer on the other side of the register and find the site from earlier. I scroll past everything I’ve already seen, trying to find a connection to Alison’s ravings.
There’s another group of pictures: a white rabbit, bony enough to be a skeleton; flowers sporting arms, legs, and mouths dripping with blood; a walrus with something protruding from his lower half like tree roots. It’s the Wonderland crew after a heavy dose of radiation poisoning. It’s also a connection: In some way, the moth and these nether-realm beings are tied to the Lewis Carroll tale. No wonder Grandma Alicia kept painting the story’s characters on her walls.
Ever since Alice, my family has been nuts. Could be she really did go down a rabbit hole and came back to tell the tale, but she was never the same after the experience. I mean, who would be?
The hairs on my body lift as if a current runs through me.
After the last of the graphics, there’s an antique ivy and floral border on either side of the black background, and a poem centered in a white fancy font.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
I’ve seen the riddle in the original book. Notepad in hand, I scribble Wonderland at the top and copy the poem, word for word.
I open a new search window to look for interpretations. One site has four different possible meanings. What if they’re all wrong? I skim over two until the third one catches my eye.