Chapter 13

Fern After Dark

Fern walked from her house to Jenna's on Wednesday afternoon, her boots on, loaded schoolbag strapped to her back. She had added a couple of books to it before leaving, an approximated five or six extra pounds. This would be her last training session, the closest thing she had to a dress rehearsal, and she had to make the most of it. The thin plum-colored scarf as well as the denim jacket she wore were the same ones she planned to don before escaping the Autumn Ball. She had not buttoned her jacket; every spare second would count Saturday, and not wasting time on buttoning and unbuttoning could make a huge difference in how her tight schedule played out. Besides, there was no need to button. The air was cold but not unbearably so, and the weather pattern was expected to hold until early Sunday morning, when things would take a turn. Another smattering of snow was expected for the area, though unlikely to amount to much. Fern silently thanked the perfect conditions and the mercy they showed in not throwing a wrench into her plans. She had to pay attention to every single detail this time, to be prepared for everything.

Stealth and luck and preparedness were huge factors that guaranteed her plan smoothness, but the speed in which she would travel was crucial. That was why she had weighed herself down when she ran, to make sure she was strong enough to travel at a quick pace while inconvenienced, and she had become stronger with every practice. By her estimation, she could travel the distance up Raccoon Hill under current circumstances in little over fifteen minutes. Once the burden was shed and the only weight she carried was her own, she would fly. She would make it back in a timely manner, long before her father came to pick her up.

I'll owe George a dance when I get back, for being a good sport, she reminded herself. George would certainly be a good sport. He always was.

When she made it to Jenna's, Fern was surprised to see that she was not the only one sporting an odd form of dress. Jenna was wearing running gear suitable for cold weather, but what stood out was the harness, made of black and spongy material, that crisscrossed her torso. A small plastic rectangle, neon-green in color, was clipped to the collarette of her red tunic. Jenna giggled when Fern opened her mouth to inquire about her getup. She must have looked as curious as she was.

"It's a weighted vest," Jenna said, tucking her thumbs under the shoulder straps and looking proud. Then she began rambling, as she often did when excited about fitness. "I thought I'd take a page from your book since it seems to be working out for you. I've wanted to get into triathlons for a while now. When you smoked me in the sprints last week, though, I realized I need to up my game, like, yesterday. It's not as, uh, hardcore as your method, but I think it's going to help me train—oh, and so will this little guy..."

She gave the green rectangle a couple of taps with her index finger.

"What is that?" said Fern.

"It's a GymMaster, an interval timer. I got it Saturday afternoon when I got the vest. I just program my interval durations into it, and it beeps whenever it's time to switch from one to the other. So handy—I don't have to check a stopwatch or keep time in my head. I can just be in the moment."

"Be in the moment…" Fern murmured to herself.

"Yeah. I don't know how I lived without it."

"You program intervals into it? What's the duration limit of one interval?"

"I don't know for sure. I've only used it for HIIT training so far. Tabata. Have you ever tried Tabata? It's so cool."

"But if you needed an interval longer than, say, fifteen minutes, you can program it?"

"Oh, for sure. I know it'll go longer than that."

"Interesting…" Fern mused. "Well, I have to know more about this thing. Let's put it to the test!"

Jenna unclasped the GymMaster and plugged in their interval times, several for alternating between jogging and sprinting.

"Let's start the warmup," said Jenna. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Okay. Three, two—"

They both froze when Fern's phone rang in her jacket pocket. Fern groaned softly when she saw the screen.

"Hi, Mom," she answered pleasantly.

"Fernie, where are you?"

"I'm on a run with Jenna."

Her mother should know this. Fern had reminded her this morning. Was she checking up on her again? Fern pointed to Jenna, hoping she would get the hint and back her up.

"Hi, Mrs. Walters!" Jenna sang out cheerily.

"Right, right. Well, I need you to wrap it up. I got a call from Flora just now. Your dress is ready, and we need to get over there for a final fitting. I must steam the wrinkles out before I leave for the expo, and I can't do that unless I know everything is perfect. Okay, honey? So tell me where you are, and I'll come pick you up."

Fern told Jenna to take off without her, utterly depressed upon hanging up with her mother. Wrap it up? They had not even begun. So much for having one last practice.

Fern ignored the magenta menace, now hanging on her bedroom door. Her mother had steamed the garment after dinner, and she had instructed Fern to hang it in here, making sure it would dry, making sure it would not crease again before Saturday. She pointedly added that, since she would be leaving for the Franklin Realtor Expo Friday afternoon, she would not be there to touch it up. Though pristine now, the dress would gain plenty of creases after piling up in her dressing room floor, but Fern would explain them away as a product of all the dancing she had done, just as she had explained her leggings and denim in lieu of proper running attire this afternoon.

"I wanted to make it home before it got too dark," she said when her mother had asked, "so I didn't take time to change."

It was nearly midnight, and Fern sat at her desk, quietly adding to her Danger Girl manuscript from her notebook, which was propped open against her desk lamp. She was still on the warehouse scene, but she did not like what she had written on paper. After noticing the boot print then hearing approaching footsteps, Kelly was supposed to call out and ask if someone was there. Fern wondered what she was thinking when she had written that. No way would Kelly do something that careless. Not wanting to get caught, her better option would be to turn off her flashlight and hide, obviously. But where? As she considered Kelly's possibilities, Fern took a break to browse the web, ending up on Facebook. This was hardly what she would call being in the moment.

Eh, I'm tired. Once I figure this one detail out, I'm going to bed.

Fern scrolled. Muffy wanted everyone at MCM to remember that the Autumn Ball was in three days and they should definitely find a date soon. Prunella had been busy, posting once about how rewarding it was to teach yoga with a closing "Namaste", and again when she wished Marina good luck in her upcoming meet. Francine had uploaded some photos with the blurb: "BTS look at The Music Man! More to come soon! Check out The Frensky Star!" There were three photos of Arthur reading his sheet music and playing the piano. It would seem Francine had realized her collection needed more variety, for she had rounded things up by throwing in one featuring a visibly-frustrated and wide-eyed Binky on stage, pointing at one of the player's marks and…one of Buster and Ladonna, making faces of exaggerated amazement at George, who held up one of the Wells Fargo Wagon's wheels.

Fern quickly averted her eyes and checked her messages. She had new ones in her group chat with Allison Davies and Omar Kashif, members of the Elwood City Wordsmiths, a writers' group to which Fern had briefly belonged. And it looked as if they were both online.

So, what's your new story about, Fern? Allison had written.

Omar had added, Yeah, you said you were cooking up something bloody this time around.

Grateful for the distraction, Fern was quick to answer.

I don't want to give away too much, she wrote, but the protagonist is an urban explorer named Kelly who investigates the murder of her boyfriend and exploration partner. He disappears without a trace, only for his body to turn up in the last abandoned place they explored together.

Nearly a minute passed before Allison responded first.

Any romance?

A little.

Hot and heavy?

Omar joined the chat with, I don't think you can ask a 14-y-o that, Allie. When can we get our hands on it?

It's coming along rather slowly, Fern wrote. I've got this dumb play at school. My mom is making me do it. But I should get going on it again pretty soon. What have you guys been up to?

Occasionally, Allison and Omar kept Fern up to date on the Wordsmiths gang, the members she liked, at least. Last week they had recounted the birthday party they had thrown for Smitty and how they had surprised him with Black Forest cupcakes, his favorite, at the end of the meeting. Tonight they explained that, although the group had managed to form a sort of bond and enjoyed each other's company, they had to find ways to cope with the Wordsmiths' founder, who could be hard to take.

The group gets together once a week after it's over, Omar wrote.

Half of us, wrote Allison. Tamara, Omar, and me.

We'll hang at Stardoe's, usually, and talk. It always leads to us letting off steam about Lucas.

We basically shit-talk him after every meeting. Not going to lie. It's so cathartic, though. Makes the meetings much better. Funnier in hindsight. We've started calling our trio "Wordsmiths After Dark".

Oh, no, Fern wrote. Is Lucas back to his old ways?

Yes and no, Allison wrote. He's nice enough to us, but you should hear the way he talks about himself.

Omar: More show, less tell, my man.

Allison: Seriously. There's no storytelling in his excerpts, just summarizing at length. White room syndrome, no depth, and no real characterization.

Omar: The characters might be the worst of all. Lucas writes everything in the exact same voice. All the characters sound like the narrator, not helped by the fact that they repeat the same things the narrator just explained, verbatim. So redundant. They have zero personality.

Allison: That's not entirely true. The nasty people beat you over the head with their nastiness. Everyone else may as well be made of wood.

Omar: Wouldn't be so bad if he weren't so pretentious and serious about it.

Allison: He actually refers to his stories as "fictional landscapes". Can you even? He really thinks he's creating pieces of high art.

Omar: And let's not forget length.

Allison: How can I? He won't stop talking about how long his works are, like some guy bragging about his member. It's like, dude, stop telling me how big it is and prove you know what you're doing!

Fern was not sure she understood that last part, but she was eating this up. She wished she were old enough to hang out with Allison and Omar outside the internet. Friends who understood the writing life were hard to come by. Plus, they had tons of fun dirt on pretentious jerkwads. She knew it was petty, but it was entertaining to hear about the madness of the Wordsmiths meetings without having to suffer Lucas in real time.

Omar: He's becoming an absolute blowhard, now that you're gone and his chat with Smitty has worn off. It's kind of like when the popular kid is out sick for a week and the second most popular kid steps up and thinks he's the man.

Allison: I was thinking he was more like the self-important retail manager all the employees secretly hate, but that works. Are you sure you don't want to come back, Fern?

Omar: Yeah, I'm sure we've really sold her on it. It might shut him up, though. You never know.

Fern knew they were joking about her return, but she felt compelled to reiterate that the chances of that happening were slim to none. Before she began typing, however, she sat back and thought about it for a moment, what might happen if she rejoined the Wordsmiths. The last time she was in a meeting she had been unsure of herself, and she had allowed Lucas to rip The Secret Keeper, her newly-completed manuscript, to shreds. That was before she had heard from Ernesto Del Rey, a respected literary agent. She wondered what it would be like to attend one of the Wordsmiths' meetings now with new information, new self-esteem, and reinvigorated confidence in her writing. Could it be fun, just to try it? Could she sit in long enough to submit a portion of Danger Girl, by far her most gruesome tale, for peer critiques? Just let Lucas try to dismantle this one. She would not scurry away like a frightened rodent this time. She was certain he would have harsh sentiments for her new book, but she would not let him skewer her and have the last word. Fern would retort, and Lucas would not know what had hit him when she did.

"Oh, you think Danger Girl is a mess, do you? Another one of my travesties? It's too bad Ernesto Del Rey disagrees with you. Who's that, you ask? Nobody, really. He's just the agent who discovered Stephanie Bachman, that's all. I got a letter from him, actually, telling me that he likes my work and that he knows I'll only get better. So, if I were you, Mr. Bearer-of-Bad-News, I'd take your lousy, ignorant criticisms and shove them—"

Allison: Still there, Fern?

Omar: Yeah, where did you go?

Sorry, you guys! I ran downstairs to get something to drink. I was going to tell you not just "no" but "hell, no". After careful consideration, however, it sounds like you all are having way too much fun without me. After the play is over, I might be in.

This was the most fun Fern had experienced since sneaking into the hospital morgue. Danger Girl would have to wait tonight, but that was no matter. It was still in her trusty green notebook, waiting for her. She would get back to it. After all, she would need something to present to her peers come December. The thought of sticking it to Lucas, the way she had stuck it to Francine yesterday, was the highlight of an otherwise disappointing day. She wrote on:

Tell me more about your fearless leader.

To be continued…