Chapter Three: Pranks and Classes

Chapter 3: Pranks and Classes

By Maddy Kleinman

     I looked up as Ginny entered the room, followed quickly by Owen. Owen had chosen his name after the Story Thieves series, and Ginny was named after the Harry Potter series. The two always seemed to be in one quarrel or another - when they weren’t finding trouble to get into together.
     “BETHANY!!” Ginny shouted as she marched in.
     “Yesss…?” I asked, more than a little annoyed that they had interrupted my thoughts concerning The Writers’ Society.
     “Owen won’t help me with the prank we want to pull on-” she caught herself. “Nevermind.”
     “Please, go on,” I said, trying to sound bored. “I’m dying to know.”
     Ginny, even at her nine years of age, was accustomed to hearing - and dishing out - sarcasm. “I’m going to tell you anyway,” she said snarkily. “We’re pulling a prank on Ms. Poppins next door. But Owen won’t help.”
     I rolled my eyes. “I think Owen is learning from his past mistakes.”
     Ginny and Ms. Poppins have been rivals since Ginny was born. Ginny has made it her personal goal to prank Ms. Poppins ever since she could walk, and Ms. Poppins has made it her personal goal to teach my enthusiastic sister some manners.
     “What do you mean?” she raised her eyebrows.
     “Every single time you guys prank her she finds out or avoids it. Don’t you remember the last time you were caught?”
     Ginny tapped her chin, made a disgusted face, and hurriedly said, “We won’t fail this time. But I need Owen’s help.”
     “Ginny, listen-”
     “Unless… you want to help?”
     “OWEN!” I shouted.
     His head peeked around the door frame almost instantly, allowing me to assume that he had been listening to the conversation. “Yes?”
     “Please, Owen. Either help Ginny or tell her you don’t want to.”
     He folded his arms. “I’m not helping.”
     “You heard him, Ginny.”
     Her cheeks flared as red as her hair. “Fine.” She flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
     Owen gave me a questioning look.
     “Don’t look at me,” I said, “She’s your twin.”

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     It was an hour later when Mom and Dad finally got home. I was on my bed Reading a book.
     Mom flung open the door, her face red. “Bethany. We. Need. To. Talk.”
     I looked up, and, noticing her tone and flushed features, decided that I should pay attention. “Yeah?”
     “What have I told you about Ginny and Owen?”
     “That I need to watch then while you are working,” I said, knowing exactly where this conversation was going.
     “And…”
     “And that I should keep them from playing pranks on the neighbors.”
     “And…”
     “And that if I know that they are going to play a prank on someone, I need to notify you immediately.”
     “Then, might I ask, why didn’t you?” She was clenching her teeth, trying not to yell.
     “I… forgot?”
     If anyone has ever had a conversation with their parents, you will know that “I forgot” is an absolutely unacceptable answer and will only lengthen the conversation.
     “You forgot. You FORGOT? Bethany? What do you mean you forgot?”
     “I, well, I was Reading and I forgot?” It came out more like a question.
     “So you’re telling me that you knew Ginny, Owen, and Watson hid all of Ms. Poppin’s silverware. ALL OF IT BETHANY. ALL. OF. IT.”
     “No… all I knew was that Ginny was planning something. But that was it. I didn’t know she’d get the neighbor kids involved.” I whispered, terrified of the previous outburst and knowing the one that was coming next would be ten times worse.
     She ran her fingers through her hair, preparing for the next eruption. But all of the steam that seemed to have been building up moments ago was gone. She sat down on the bed next to me.
     “I don’t know why you kids do things sometimes.”
     Out of all the emotions, exasperation was one of the ones that I was not expecting.
     “I don’t think we know half the time either.”
     She looked at me and smiled. “And this is why you are Throne Warden, not Ginny.”
     I smiled at the term of endearment. “Throne Warden” was a term from the book where Mom’s name - Nia - came from. It referred to the eldest child being the protector of their younger siblings who would someday rule, at least in that story’s world, and she frequently used it as a nickname of sorts for me.
     “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t,” I admitted, “Especially when I have to bow to every whim of Ginny and Owen.”
     “They are young…”
     “They’re nine, Mom. Nine. They should know how to take care of themselves by now. They’ll be taking classes next year. And they should know not to prank people.”
     She sighed. “I’ll try to get them under control. I’m sorry for putting so much responsibility on you.”
     “Thanks for the apology.”
     Mom got up and walked out of the room, and I went back to my Reading. I was reading a book that reminded me of Luna’s story, and soon I was too distracted by the thoughts of the unpublished books and rooms full of characters to finish.
     I decided then and there that I would return to The Writer’s Society room once again the next day - after classes.

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     I threw my book into my Bookbag, hoping that I might be able to Read it later. Paper, pencils, and my Jewel also went into the Bookbag with a certain recklessness. I had slept in and was going to be late to my classes.
     Every child, when they reach the age of ten, is mandated by the King to start taking classes to learn their family’s trade. My family so happened to be Librarians’ Assistants, and so when I turned ten I started taking classes. I was to graduate from the program in a little less than a year, when I turned fifteen.
     There are three different classes that a Librarian’s Assistant has to take. A class on the different book categories, - of which there were thousands - a class on authors, and a class on the History of the books. If a Librarian couldn’t find a book, they reported it to the Investigators, who then made a gigantic mess while thoroughly searching for the lost book, and then we - as Librarians’ Assistants - would clean up after them.
     Cleaning up such chaos was part of our grade, and I was glad that I had remembered to organize one of the shelves the day before. I walked out of our apartment-like home, and into the busy hallways of the complex.
     All Readers lived together in a singular complex on the north side of the Hall. It overlooked the vast amounts of bookshelves. The bottom floor was where Readers were trained, and where I was headed today.
     My first class, Author Tendencies, was taught by Ms. Poppins herself. I knew that Owen and Ginny's prank yesterday would not help Ms. Poppin’s attitude towards me, and the fact that I was now going to be late would make it ten times worse.
     I slipped into my assigned seat not ten seconds after the final bell, but late was late and Ms. Poppins was not one to bend the rules.
     "Late, again, Bethany," she said, shaking her head, "That's the second time this month. The Schoolmaster will hear about this."
     The Schoolmaster was the head of the school, some stories would call him a Principal. He was not ruthless in his punishments… just strict. My guess was as good as anyone's, but rumors claimed that Ms. Poppins was his favorite teacher… for obvious reasons.
     I had never been subject to any of these punishments, but tales were enough to make me shiver in my seat.
     "Yes, Ms. Poppins," I muttered.
     She nodded, condemning me to a day of anxiety. "Today we'll be learning about science fiction authors and their tendencies."
     A collective sigh escaped the lips and the class. Most of us relaxed, knowing today would be easier than others. Most of us read science fiction and knew enough about it to slack in class during the sci-fi unit.
     "Or we could do historical fiction," Ms. Poppins suggested.
     Everyone sat up a bit straighter, knowing that this was our one chance to get an easy week of homework, and not one of us wanted to blow it.
     Author Tendencies and Backstory of Characters and Their History class flew by. Lunch passed with little to no excitement, and then it was off to Book Categories. All three classes were an hour and a half long, with lunch being half an hour.
     Mr. Tumnus, my Book Categories teacher, was one of the teachers who didn't really care how we got our work done as long as we got it done. He was friendly, much like his namesake, and I always left the class with a smile and a story to tell at the dinner table.
     Today was no different.
     It started with an innocent question.
     "If both American and British authors write in English, why are they different categories?" asked Leslie. Her name came from The Bridge to Terabithia and she was the type of kid who was always asking questions. Yet she was always using words that made her seem like she knew what she was talking about.
     Mr. Tumnus scratched his goatee. "I have never thought about that before," he said, "I'll do some research and get back to you. Now, as I was saying-"
     He got no further.
     "Dontcha know that the Americans kicked the British's rumps? Haven't you paid attention in Backstory and History? They had a whole war! The least the Americans could do for the British was let them have their own category!” Leo said excitedly, bouncing up and down and up again in his seat. “Besides, the Americans wanted to be separate from the British! That’s why they had the war in the first place!”
     Leo got his name from Heroes of Olympus series. He was very much like his character in the fact that he couldn’t sit still unless he was fidgeting with something. He was also a jokester, which was a plus because it usually added an element of hilarity to the conversations in Mr. Tumnus’ class.
     Mr. Tumnus tried to hide his smile. “That’s a very viable theory, Leo. Stop your bouncing, please, I need to finish this lecture.”
     Leo came down with a hard THUMP and proceeded to tap his pencil on his desktop. Snickers came from multiple desks around him.
     “Now, as I was saying, History is an important category. Even if it is boring.” He swept his gaze across the class. “A philosopher once said, ‘Those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it.’ I’d like all of you to go home and Read one book in the history category, it cannot be historical fiction. Look for the specific features that make this book part of the History category and take notes. We will be having a discussion later this week.”
     The bell rang and everyone rushed out of the class, eager to get home now that the day was done. The halls were full to a claustrophobic breaking point. I went to my cabinet in the hall, one of the many rows for the Librarians’ Assistants, and pulled out my Bookbag. I melted into the flood of students, hoping against hope that Ms. Poppins wouldn’t see me.
     Or The Schoolmaster.
     I also hoped that Mom wouldn’t have found out that I was late to classes. I didn’t need her yelling at me two days in a row.

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     I got home, avoiding the twins, who were planning another prank. If they knew what was good for them, they wouldn’t try to play it on me. I grabbed a snack - even though us Readers don’t have to eat, it’s still fun to. Besides, I’d have missed out on trail mix if I didn’t eat.
     And that would be an absolute tragedy.
     I left Ginny and Owen to their plotting and headed to The Writers’ Society. I brought my homework, though knowing what awaited me, I probably wouldn’t get anything done. But it was a noble thought.
     Many stairs and ink-stained shoes later, I found myself in the hallway. I pushed open the door to The Writers’ Society. It looked the same as it had yesterday, with one minor difference.
     The characters were gone.
     My stomach sank. I knew it was too good to be true.
     Things lay awkwardly around the room, like hair ribbons, probably belonging to the little girl… What was her name? Penelope? Phoenix? Pho- Phoebe!
     A dagger lay on the table, and a whetstone next to it, like its owner had been in the process of sharpening it. Books were scattered around the room, and a couple looked suspiciously like journals.
     Too good to be true, I thought again, and this time disappointment welled up in me, threatening to drown my dreams of friendship with characters that were now gone.
     All of the sudden, Phoebe appeared right in the middle of the room.
     “You’re- You’re here?!” I asked, thoroughly confused.
     She threw off a black cape, looking at it in disgust. “I thought we established the fact that this is where I’d be today?” she said. There was nothing condescending about her tone, she just seemed to have something on her mind.
     Gloves came off next. She pulled her sleeve over something on her wrist.
     “Yes, I guess we did, but… where is everyone else?”
     “They are all being written currently. Our authors got together and decided to write at the same time.”
     “But what about you?”
     She pulled off her boots, battered and broken as they were, and replaced them with slippers from under one of the beds.
     “She’s writing a scene that I’m not in, I guess.”
     “Oh, okay. Does… that happen often?”
     “More than I would like,” Phoebe grumbled.
     “I’m sorry if this isn’t a good time, I can leave if you want me to.”
     She sighed. “No, don’t. I need someone to talk to if you don’t mind. It gets pretty boring up here all alone.”
     “Yeah.”
     She pulled a blanket off one of the beds and sat down near the fireplace. “I hate being the villain,” she mumbled into the blankets.
     I sat down next to her. “The villain? You seem pretty nice to me.”
     “Doesn’t keep my author from making me the villain. Stupid curse.”
     All of this was said to the blankets with a controlled fury that was scarier than any yelling or screaming. I didn’t know how to reply. I pulled my Bookbag off and set it down next to me. My Jewel slipped out and I made a move to put it back in my Bookbag.
     “What’s that?” Curiosity replaced the anger.
     “My Jewel.” I picked it up and handed it to her.
     “This is the thing that you put in Luna’s door, isn’t it?”
     The firelight reflected through the Jewel, throwing beams of flickering light onto the floorboards. “Yeah, it is.”
     “What else can it do?” She twisted it around in her fingers, changing the patterns on the floor.
     “Here, let me show you.”
     She handed it back to me with a wistful look.
     I pulled out a History book that I had grabbed on the way. I slipped it into the groove inside the cover and the book flickered to life. An animated voice began to read the book, while the characters played out what the narrator said.
     Phoebe looked confused. “Books in my story are not this boring.”
     I laughed. “This one is a History book that I have to read for my classes. I’ve got a better one in here.”
     I rummaged around in my Bookbag, finding things that I had lost. My favorite pen, a homework assignment. At the bottom of the bag I found the book I had been looking for. A recent read, Little Women. Louisa May Alcott was becoming a favorite of mine very quickly.
     I removed the Jewel from the History book and placed it in the cover of Little Women. Phoebe watched with fascination as the first chapter began to play out.
     “You- You do this all the time?” she asked. “You’re so lucky.”
     “Most of the time, I mean, I’m not that lucky-”
     “Bethany,” she interrupted. “You are very lucky. Be glad you aren’t a character.”
     I looked over at Phoebe. She didn’t look more than twelve, maybe thirteen. She looked like she’d been fighting a hard battle over the past couple of chapters.
     “Come here.” Phoebe stood up and walked over to the door labeled The Shadow Master’s Heir. “Put your Jewel in.”
     I hesitated. “But I thought-”
     “I’m giving you permission.”
     I nodded and pulled my Jewel out of Little Women.
     “Before you do…” Phoebe said, stopping me. “Can you fast-forward? Like skip past certain parts?”
     “Yeah, by turning the pages."
     “I’ll find the part I want to show you.”
     I put the jewel in and Phoebe swiped her hand, like she was turning a page. In a normal book, I would have just turned the page, but there weren’t any physical pages for me to turn. I was glad Phoebe decided to take over.
     “Here,” she whispered.
     A scene unfolded before me, a man and a girl, both in a boxing ring. A quick look showed a roaring crowd. The man and the girl circled each other for a few seconds. The man lunged forward and pulled the girl’s hair. She was knocked over, and he was on her seconds later. She made a futile attempt to draw a dagger.
     She hesitated, and for a moment I couldn’t tell what was going to happen. The man stumbled back, obviously scared by something I couldn’t see. The girl stood up as the man collapsed, a… Shadow?... hovering over him. Another man, this one nicely dressed, walked into the ring and held up the girl’s hand, proclaiming her winner.
     The scene stopped. Phoebe pulled out the jewel, looking ashamed of herself.
     “The girl, that was me,” she whispered. “And the worst part? Part of me enjoyed it.”

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     “Edmund, Edmund, Edmund.” Cress sighed. “Why haven’t you given me another report?”
     “It’s not safe, Cress. We’ve been having a visitor.”
     “A VISITOR?!” Cress screeched.
     Edmund nodded.
     “WHO? WHY ARE THEY HERE? DO THEY KNOW?”
     “A young Reader, she seems to be browsing shelves near the door to our lodging. She has not found about our existence yet.”
     “AND WHY HASN’T AIDEN DONE ANYTHING? DID HE NOT MAKE RULES FORBIDDING READERS TO VENTURE UP HERE?”
     Cress’s voice rose in pitch with every word until she was screaming.
     “Cress, my dear sister, please. You must calm down. Aiden has done everything he can. He cannot control every Reader.”
     “But he should.” Cress retorted. It was a miracle that she did not destroy her voice going from a screech to dangerously low levels in a matter of seconds.
     “He cannot. He is not a tyrant. If he was, the Readers would have rebelled long ago.”
     “We must teach this young Reader a lesson. Keep her from coming back. Our very existence is secret, Edmund. We must keep it that way.”
     “What do you have in mind, Cress?”
     “Send out the droid, like you did two days ago.”
     “It needs to be oiled, the noise is horrible.”
     “That’s what we need, Edmund. Something to scare her.
     “And if she keeps coming back?”
     “She may have an accident. A horrible accident.”