A Clatter of Jars Page 3

  “And yet somehow lately they’ve been fading faster. Jo, last summer I got complaints the Talents dwindled after only ten months. In the spring I heard five. I’ve been brushing it off as rumor. But yesterday one of my most trustworthy clients comes to me, says the Talents I sold him didn’t even last two weeks.”

  “You picked that lock just fine, didn’t you?” Jo replied. A ruse to stiff her on the next order, that’s all this was. Can’t you find a way to forget what happened, she wrote, after all this time?

  “I’m trying to help you, Jo,” Caleb insisted. “Maybe it’s time to find a different source.”

  Jo pushed her chair from the desk and strode to the door, pulling it open wider. “Maybe it’s time you found a different source.”

  Caleb sighed. “See you next week, Jo,” he said.

  Jo waited until Caleb had followed his nephew through the empty lodge, passing beneath the moose head keeping guard above the double doors. Then she finished her letter.

  You know I would love to see you again, and finally meet little Cady.

  Your sister,

  Jo

  Jo folded the letter into thirds, then sealed it shut inside its envelope to give to Del for the afternoon mail run. Jo had sent her sister one letter every week for the past twenty years. Jenny had never once responded.

  Most people might have figured, after countless unanswered letters, that it was best to give up. And five years ago, Jo was ready to. But then Fate had led her to those glowing jars, with the words Darlington Peanut Butter embossed on the bottom—the name of the very location where Jenny had taken up residence. And when Fate led you somewhere, Jo believed you’d better follow.

  Jenny would forget, Jo told herself. One day, the right camper would arrive at Camp Atropos for Singular Talents, and Jenny would forget everything. In the meantime, Jo had work to do.

  Her thoughts elsewhere, Jo plucked an envelope off her desk, folding it in half and sticking it in her back pocket for Del’s mail run.

  It was not the correct envelope.

  Her thoughts elsewhere, Jo left the office.

  She forgot to shut the door.

  Renny

  IT WAS A LONG WALK FROM CABIN EIGHT TO THE CAMP store, and it was made much longer by Miles, who was going about as slow as a two-legged toad.

  “Grisiano Antonio Venerando,” Miles said, as flat voiced as ever. Renny did his best to tune him out. “Born 1916, died 1976.”

  As the camp store and its candy bars came into view, Renny halted in the path, suddenly realizing that he’d left his spending money back at their cabin.

  (“Talent: Recollector,” Miles went on, oblivious. “Able to transplant memories from one mind to another.”)

  Fifteen minutes back to Cabin Eight, and fifteen minutes to return to the store. That was a whole lot of Talent history to listen to.

  (“Fun fact. There have been only three Recollectors in known history. Grisiano Antonio Venerando, Gertrude Maebelle Futch, and—”)

  “Miles Fennelbridge!” came a voice from down the path. It was a woman with wild black curls, wearing a knit sweater over her Camp Atropos T-shirt. “Why, you’re the spitting image of your father! And Renwick, too. I’m a lucky lady to have two Fennelbridges at my camp.” There was an object in the woman’s back pocket, Renny noticed. Flat and square, exactly the shape of a thick wallet. “I’m your camp director, Jo. But I’m assuming”—Jo winked at Renny—“you already knew that.”

  Renny had already known that, but not for the reason Jo probably thought. He’d recognized her from the camp brochure. Renny’s parents had pored over that brochure endlessly, since they were considering Camp Atropos as an “investment opportunity.” The Fennelbridges were constantly considering “investment opportunities.” Renny could hardly take a bite of his breakfast cereal without his parents debating whether ChocoLoops was something they might want to throw money at.

  Renny tugged at the top of his right sock. He was more than a little certain that his parents’ habit of throwing money was the only reason Jo had agreed to let a Fair Fennelbridge into camp.

  “Are you boys off for a swim?” Jo asked.

  Beside him, Renny felt Miles go stiff. “No water!” he screeched, and he was already flicking his fingers—flick-flick-flick-flick-flick! “No water!”

  “Miles isn’t a big swimmer,” Renny explained. Lowering his voice, he asked his brother, “Do you want to hold my hand, Miles?” He didn’t wait for a response before clutching Miles’s hand in his own. The flicking began to die down right away.

  Most people—if they knew there were two Fennelbridge boys at all—tended to assume that Renny was oldest. Probably because most eleven-year-olds never asked their older brothers if they wanted to hold their hands. And most thirteen-year-olds probably never wanted to be asked. But the Fennelbridges, Renny’s parents often reminded them, weren’t most people.

  Jo’s mouth morphed into a frown. “Well,” she said, “if you feel that strongly about the lake, Miles, I suppose you don’t need to take a dip. But surely you’ll go in, Renwick?”

  Never one to miss an opportunity, Renny asked, “Can we go diving off that pier over there?”

  As Jo turned around to see where he’d pointed, Renny’s hands darted to her back pocket, snatching out the flat, square object. Jo didn’t notice a thing. Renny was quick as a viper when he wanted to be.

  “That’s as a good a place as any to hop in,” Jo replied. By the time she’d turned back, Renny already had his pilfered prize buried deep in his own pocket. Miles darted his eyes to the hidden loot, but Renny knew he wouldn’t tell.

  “Brother bond,” Miles whispered, and Renny nodded. Miles didn’t tell Renny’s secrets, and Renny didn’t tell Miles’s.

  “I’ll be looking for you out in the water, Renwick,” Jo said. “Be sure to go all the way under, toes to hair. That’s the best way to soothe the sp—” Suddenly Jo put a hand on Renny’s arm. “Where did you get that?”

  For a moment, Renny’s heart stopped beating. And then he saw where Jo was looking. Not at Renny’s pocket, but rather at his right leg.

  His sock had fallen down, just a little. Poking out from underneath was a bracelet, woven from blue and green embroidery thread.

  “Uh.” Renny bent down to tug at his sock. “Nowhere. It’s nothing. Miles made it for me.”

  (“Mason Darlington Burgess,” Miles recited. “Seventy-seven years old as of his last birthday. Talent: Eker. Able to absorb Talents from other people with a handshake.”)

  Jo’s face was dark, like a storm approaching. “Did you get that bracelet from my office, Renwick Fennelbridge?”

  “What?” Renny said, truly baffled. “No. I told you, Miles made it for me.”

  “I didn’t make the bracelet,” Miles said, breaking out of his recitation. “Renny bought it from a gumball machine. It cost two quarters.” Then Renny mouthed, “Brother bond,” and Miles clamped his mouth shut.

  Renny watched Jo, unblinking, and she watched him. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to twitch first.

  Finally, Jo said, “Why, Renwick, you know those things are a waste of money.” Her face had brightened so quickly that Renny almost thought he’d imagined the darkness. “Besides, someone with a Talent as grand as Scanning has no need for a second one.” She laughed. “Or did you already know I was going to say that, when you read my mind?”

  Renny laughed, too. “Good one.” He tugged at Miles’s hand. “We gotta get Miles a candy bar.”

  “A Caramel Crème bar!” Miles shouted.

  “Don’t forget what I said, Renwick Fennelbridge,” Jo called as they hurried away. “About the glorious dip in the lake. Toes to hair!”

  “No water!” Miles shouted in reply. “No water!”

  Most people who met Miles Patrick Francis Fennelbridge felt sorry for him. Everything seemed s
o difficult for him, all the time. Miles needed his chicken cut for him at meals, into even pieces. He needed his T-shirts folded, into precise squares. He was unbearably, inexplicably terrified of water. And heaven forbid you suggested he sleep on the top bunk in their cabin at camp. Top bunks, Miles had informed Renny loudly that morning, were NOT OKAY. So Renny got the top bunk, whether he wanted it or not, because helping Miles with difficult things stopped him from having one of his finger-flicking fits. But no matter how much Renny helped him, Miles was always going to be the Fennelbridge disappointment.

  The truth was, Miles didn’t seem to mind so much, being omitted from his parents’ interviews. Standing alone in the doorway while a journalist posed the rest of the family for a photo. Knowing that their parents were coming to the camp Talent show to cheer only for Renny, and not for him. Somehow, the same kid who flicked and flailed at the very mention of water didn’t seem bothered in the slightest that his parents wanted nothing to do with him.

  Renny would have been bothered. He would’ve been bothered a lot.

  Fortunately, neither brother needed to be bothered by much at all. Because Renny kept Miles’s secrets, and Miles kept Renny’s.

  When they arrived at the camp store, Renny pulled out the object he’d swiped from Jo. He’d assumed it was a wallet. But it wasn’t. It was an envelope.

  “Want some peanut butter?” asked the counselor behind the storefront, whose thick ringlets were dyed neon pink. The name on her T-shirt said Teagan. “Best in the world.” She showed them the large jar she’d been snacking from—Darlington Peanut Butter, the label read.

  In the time it took Renny to glance at the jar and back, Teagan’s pink ringlets had morphed into a sunshine-yellow bob.

  “I want a Caramel Crème bar,” Miles told her.

  Renny weighed the envelope in his hand. Squeezed it. It didn’t feel like any regular paper in there.

  “You sure you don’t want some peanut butter instead?” Teagan asked Miles, smearing some on a cracker. With every bite she took, her hair shifted again. Crunch. Short white spikes with purple tips. Munch. Long, straight, sleek, black. Smack. A polka-dot beehive. Teagan stuck her knife in the jar again, preparing a new cracker and handing it over.

  His hands well below the height of the counter, Renny ripped the envelope open and peeked inside.

  “Whoa,” he breathed.

  Cash. Loads and loads of cash.

  “Right?” Teagan said, as Miles chewed his cracker. “Isn’t that the best peanut butter you ever ate?”

  “Yes,” Miles replied, still chewing. “I want a Caramel Crème bar.”

  Teagan laughed. “One dollar,” she said.

  Miles turned to Renny, who plucked a single bill from the envelope and handed it to his brother. Then he plopped the envelope, with the rest of the cash still inside, on the counter. “I found this in the dirt,” he lied. “I think it might belong to the camp director.”

  Teagan took the envelope, and when she saw its contents, her hair flushed cardinal red. “That was very honest of you,” she told him.

  “I’m a very honest kid.”

  “I want a Caramel Crème bar,” Miles reminded them.

  “There’s a case in the back,” Teagan told him. Crunch. Her hair morphed again, chocolate-frosting brown. She lifted up the counter to let Miles inside. “You go grab one. I can’t leave my post.”

  Miles made a beeline for the candy bars.

  “You know they’re going to stop making those candy bars, right?” Teagan told Renny, as Miles searched. “I heard it on the news last week. Shutting down production sometime this year.” As Renny was contemplating the epic fit Miles would have if he heard that news, Teagan’s hair morphed into pointy peach peaks. “You’re that Fennelbridge kid, aren’t you?” she said. Munch. Springy dolphin gray curls. “The kid who reads minds.” Smack. Tangerine waves, down to her waist. Teagan pulled a pack of playing cards from the display on the wall, and ripped off the plastic, plucking out a card at random. “What card am I holding?”

  Renny tugged at the top of his right sock. “Miles?” he called.

  “He’s fine,” Teagan said, waving a hand toward the back of the shop. “Come on, read my mind.”

  If you made enough Fennelbridges, one of them was bound to be Fair. That’s what their father liked to say.

  “Just one card,” Teagan urged.

  “Found it!” Miles announced, heading to the counter with his candy bar. He stood just behind Teagan, at her elbow. “I need to pay now.”

  Teagan was still holding up that playing card. “Here, I’ll concentrate on it,” she told Renny. Smack. Her hair wove itself into a blue French braid. “Really focus. Does that help?”

  “Miles is going to freak out if you don’t let him pay,” Renny told her. And then, when he was certain Teagan was focused on her card, Renny mouthed two words to Miles.

  “Brother bond.”

  Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick! Miles began to flick his fingers like there was something sticky on the ends of them he was trying to shake off.

  The seven of clubs.

  “Seven of clubs,” Renny told Teagan, as the image wiggled its way into his mind. He reached across the counter to still Miles’s flicking fingers.

  “What are you talking about?” Teagan asked, scratching below one ear. Even her hair looked bewildered.

  “The card?” Renny reminded her. “You asked me to tell you what it was. And I said the seven of clubs.”

  Teagan looked at the card in her hands, and as soon as she did, her hair suddenly rose on her scalp, bright sparks of gold. “Wow. I’m going to tell everyone I got my mind read by the Renwick Fennelbridge!” She tossed the playing card in his direction, and Renny caught it.

  The seven of clubs.

  Behind the counter, Miles was still holding his dollar. “I’m done helping now, and I want to eat my Caramel Crème bar,” he said. When Teagan kept her gaze on Renny, Miles immediately shifted into a fit. “I can’t eat it till I pay!” And he was flicking his fingers again—flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!

  “That’s enough now,” Renny whispered, clutching his brother’s hand once more. He gave the dollar to Teagan, who rang up the sale on the register.

  As they made their way back to Cabin Eight, Renny glanced at Miles, who was munching away contentedly. “Thanks,” Renny told him, when there was no one to hear but the squirrels. “For helping me back there.”

  “Miles Patrick Francis Fennelbridge,” Miles said to the dirt. And Renny didn’t bother to stop him, because there was no one to hear but the squirrels. “Talent: Recollector. Able to transplant memories from one mind to another. Fun fact: Only two people know about Miles Fennelbridge’s Talent, and they have a brother bond.”

  Renny paused midstride to tug at the top of his right sock, which hid his blue and green Talent bracelet. His deepest, darkest secret.

  There was one disappointment in the Fennelbridge family, and it wasn’t Miles.

  • • •

  Miles Patrick Francis Fennelbridge, the unknown Recollector, had tugged many memories from many minds in his thirteen years, some purposefully, most not. The majority he flicked away without direction, allowing Fate to guide them. Not five minutes earlier, he’d tugged a memory completely without trying, from someone standing in the camp director’s office.

  As Fate would have it, that someone was a cabinmate of his.

  Chuck

  AS SHE STOOD JUST INSIDE THE DOOR OF CABIN EIGHT, clenching and unclenching her right hand, Chuck was painfully aware of her sister standing beside her, breathing the same air, waiting for her to make up her mind.

  There were two empty bunks in Cabin Eight, which meant four empty beds. Only Miles and Renny had chosen sleeping spots so far. Four empty beds, and two girls, standing in the corner, staring at the floor. It shouldn’t have been diffic
ult for Chuck and Ellie to decide where they wanted to sleep. But it was.

  “There’s a frog outside the cabin,” Ellie said, kicking at the floor with the toe of her pale-blue sneaker. “It’s not native to this area, which is weird.” She paused, as though waiting for Chuck to say something. Chuck did not. “You want to see it?” Ellie stretched out her hand, her left to Chuck’s right.

  Despite herself, Chuck took her sister’s hand. And she could feel it, as soon as they touched—the icy spark that passed between them, like ice cream on a hot day. With the chill that crawled up her arm, into her chest, came the Talent.

  Hdup-hdup! went the frog outside.

  It was a white-lipped tree frog, Chuck could tell that now. Male. Juvenile. Bright green on top and white at the throat, with bulby pads at the ends of his toes. Chuck knew all of that without even seeing the creature. Chuck knew, too, that the frog was squatting directly outside the door of their cabin, puffing his froggy throat as though waiting for something spectacular to happen.

  “We could start practicing our act for the Talent show after we unpack,” Ellie said. “I have some really good ideas. I was thinking first I’ll tell the frogs to hop to one side of the stage, and then you—”

  Chuck pulled her hand away from Ellie’s, only to offer it to her sister immediately afterward, palm up. “Stop pretending you can talk to frogs,” she said. There was no way Chuck would stand on the lodge stage in front of three hundred campers and their parents, and do anything having to do with frogs. She gripped Ellie’s hand tight, passing the Talent back. It always felt different going the other way—warm instead of cold. Ellie had told her once that when she got the Talent, it felt like hot cocoa, working its way into her heart.

  “You should pick a bed already,” Chuck said, letting her arm drop to her side.

  “You pick.”

  If Chuck picked a bed first, then the second she did—the very second—Ellie would plop her stuff down on that same bunk, and that would be it. They’d be stuck together for two long weeks. Sharing a bunk, just like they shared everything else—a face, a room, a Talent. So Chuck was waiting for Ellie to pick first, so she could choose a bed on the other bunk.