by Emily Judd

 

         Sylvia was scratching her knee through the tear in her jeans while spilling juice on the table.  When she noticed, she mopped the juice up with the pajama bottom she had been taking down to the laundry.  It was sunny, but not entirely warm seeing as it was early January, towards the end of winter break. She got out a bowl for cereal, but she couldn’t find any spoons, so she put it away.  She was annoyed that her sister hadn’t done the dishes yet.

         The toaster dinged in a self-satisfied way and Sylvia burned her knuckles extracting the stale bagel which she then lathered in cream cheese and jam.  She wandered out to the playground that was set among the tall pink buildings of the apartment complex and swayed idly on the still-dewy swings.  As Sylvia tried to keep the jam from dripping onto her sister’s art-deco t-shirt, a raccoon loped heavily across the path.  It stopped and stared at her from behind its burglar mask.  Protectively, Sylvia drew her bagel closer and glowered.  The raccoon coldly turned away and continued into the bushes.  The protest of a door opening startled her into dripping jam on her sister’s t-shirt.

         “Sylvia,” her dad said, poking his head around the offending door, “Could you do us all a favor and take care of your sister’s chores for a bit?  She has a college app due on the twentieth.”

         She shrugged, tired from having been awakened much earlier by the cacophony of  a raccoon argument.  She had stayed awake for a while after the screams faded, just staring out her window at the foggy playground and listening to the typing in her sister’s room.

          She wasn’t particularly thrilled to do the dishes and take out the trash as well as set the table and take care of the iguana, Eeyore.  But, May was an artist and lately had a tendency to explode if she was asked to do anything or listen to anyone.  Sylvia’s mother said May had an artistic temperament.  Sylvia thought May ought to have started her college applications when winter break first started.  When she had mentioned this to May, May had yelled at her for being a freshman.  Sylvia finished her bagel, took a piece of lettuce to Eeyore and turned up the heat-lamp so he wouldn’t try to hibernate.

         It was beginning to dawn on Sylvia that winter break would soon be over and that she had not had any of the wacky, exciting adventures she and her friends had planned on.  She felt a certain sense of hopeless apathy, and was considering going back to bed when the phone rang.

         “Hello?”

         “Hey.... this is Sarah.  Is Sylvia there?”

         “This is Sylvia,” said Sylvia.

         “Oh! I didn’t recognize your voice on the phone! Yeah, so, I was wondering if you wanted to help me shop for a birthday present for my mom?  We could go to Shattuck, buy lunch, and maybe eat on campus?” Sarah’s querying voice was indistinct, as though she wasn’t holding the phone to her mouth.

         Sylvia rubbed her nose and pressed the phone tighter against her ear, “Yeah, sure. Sounds great.  Come to my house and we can walk together.”

         Sylvia flopped on the couch to wait and then leapt up in surprise as she sat on something unpleasantly hard.  Scowling, she saw the bent spoon jutting from between the cushions.  She picked it up and saw that the bowl of the spoon was streaked black with burn-marks and the handle seemed deformed, almost melted.  Perplexed, she set it on the table to ask her dad about it, then put it out of her mind by reading yesterday’s Sunday comics.

 

         Sylvia and Sarah walked up to Shattuck and ended up buying her mom a beaded purse in a Tibetan shop.  They bought some lunch at a Mexican restaurant and sat on the lawn by the edge of campus.  The sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, tinting the air with warm tones and sending their shadows veering at odd angles off the curb and into the street.

         “I get all depressed wasting winter break doing nothing,” Sylvia sighed, pulling grass and piling it on her chilled knees.

         “Yeah, we could, I dunno, go on an adventure?  An exciting expedition of effervescence,” Sarah with nervous casualness.

         “Wait...effervescence?  What?”

         “Yeah...well, you try an alliterative adventure.”

         Sylvia laughed and looked around, wondering if people were looking at them.  She suddenly felt like a real high schooler: lounging and laughing on the lawn.

         “Hey,” she started, raising her voice in confidence, “We totally should explore that tunnel over there.”

         “Yes.  Where?” asked Sarah, staring past the redwoods.

         “Down there, in the creek.  It goes into a tunnel.” Sylvia pointed.

         “Oh, the culvert?  Let’s go.  But be careful of black widows.  It’s good weather for them, and they love creepy places like that.”  Sarah got up as she said this, and Sylvia held out her arms for Sarah to help pull her up.

         They started down the jumble of cement and rock.  The creek was shallow but moving fairly quickly and froth formed around Sylvia’s shoes as she stepped in.

         Ivy grew around the entrance, clumping in the corners and dangling down in long, woody lines.  Sylvia hesitated at the entrance, feeling a cold damp fear soaking in through her shoes as Sarah plunged past her with loud, splashing footsteps.  Thinking back to Sarah’s mention of black widows and wishing this were more of the alliterative sort of adventure, Sylvia hung back at the entrance.

         “Hey, Sarah.  I think we should get a flashlight.  It could be dangerous.”

         Sarah looked back with an odd, fierce set to her eyes that made Sylvia feel distinctly out of place.  “Adventures have danger.”

         “But there’s no reason for us not to come back another time, and bring a flashlight.”  Seeing Sarah hesitate, Sylvia pressed on, “We ought to be heading home anyways, it’s getting on towards dinnertime.  And dying isn’t an adventure: it just sucks.  I’m pretty freaked out right now.”

         Sarah nodded her head, “Yeah, sorry, that makes sense.  I’m just...” she faded off and glanced back into the darkness of the tunnel.  There was a roar and some thumps as a car passed on the street overhead.  “I get so sick of all these plans that never amount to anything.  Like when people say, ‘Hey let’s save the world or do something awesome’ and the someone else says ‘Yeah!’ and then they sit there feeling good about themselves.”

         “We’ll come back with a flashlight earlier in the day,” promised Sylvia.  Wading out, they climbed back up the jumble of cement and rock and stood for a while, dripping on the soft dirt beneath the redwoods before they headed back to Sylvia’s house.

 

         Sylvia’s dad gave Sarah a ride home because it was getting dark.  When they had left, Sylvia went to her room and gathered her clean pajamas.  On the way to the shower she smelled an odd smokey, gluey scent that seemed to be oozing from under her sister’s door.  She wrinkled her nose and resentfully wondered why her sister had time for art projects, but not for chores.

         She’d just lathered her hair in shampoo when her mom shouted through the door for Sylvia to set the table.  She stuck her head under the spray and blew out through tightly pressed lips to keep suds out of her nose and mouth.  She watched as the water swirled around the drain, blocked by a large clump of hair.  Probably her sister’s since May was the only one with long hair in the family.  She got out of the shower and quickly dried off.

         “I made chicken soup,” her mom said.

         Sylvia got out the bowls, but there was only one spoon in the cupboard.  Figuring they were all dirty, Sylvia rummaged through the dirty dishes and found one more spoon.

         “Mom! I can only find two spoons!” she called out as she washed the dirty spoon.

         “Did you check the sink?”

         “Yeah.”

         Her mom came in looking puzzled and joined Sylvia in the search for the missing spoons.  They came up with nothing.

         “Well, we don’t want the soup to get cold.  We’ll just have to eat the solid bits with forks and drink the rest.”

         Sylvia finished setting the table with forks and went to get May.

         “Gather the trash while you’re at it,” her dad said, already slurping from his bowl.  “You can take it out after dinner.”

         Sylvia knocked on her sister’s door.

         “What?” snapped the voice from inside.

         “Soup.”

         There were various thumps and shuffling sounds as her sister began rearranging her room.  Her sister emerged looking as though she hadn’t slept in days.  Her eyes were sunk in shadow and her rainbow hair seemed matted into the long braid down her back.  She glanced at Sylvia expressionlessly and walked silently to dinner.

         Sylvia picked her way through her sister’s room and picked up her trash can.  She was turning to leave when she saw a spoon on the floor, curved in an elegant loop.  She picked it up and promptly dropped it again because it was covered in sticky goo.  Making a face, Sylvia took the trash and left.

 

         After dinner Sylvia washed the dishes as everyone dispersed.  Reluctant to go out into the cold, dark night, Sylvia lingered over the dishes.  When she gathered the bag, she found a spoon sticking out of her sister’s shoe.  She picked it up and as she opened the door, she noticed that the fog was coming in.  Nervously looking around, she saw the glint of eyes through the fog.   As she stood with panic rising in her throat, she became aware of more and more eyes peering threateningly at her from below knee-level, more crawling from the storm drains and bushes by the door.  She waved the spoon at them and stomped her feet.  The eyes drew back and Sylvia saw that the eyes belonged to large, ominous-looking raccoons.  They poured forward again, giving no indication of fear.  Sylvia’s courage broke and she fled, slamming the door behind her.

         “Don’t slam doors.” Her dad called out absently from his room.

         “Sorry.”

         Sylvia became aware that she was still holding a spoon and the bag of garbage in her hand.  She washed the spoon and put it away.  Her dad would probably be angry if she didn’t take out the garbage, and they were just raccoons.  Sylvia peeked out the door.  A raccoon bared its teeth just by her foot and she slammed the door again.

         “Sylvia...” started her dad.

         “Sorry!” Sylvia called out again.    She thought for a moment, then dragged the garbage to her room.  She would take it out tomorrow.  In the meantime, she hid it under the bed.

        

         The raccoons were still there the next night, and the night after that.  The next night, Sylvia peeked out the door and again was met by eager eyes.  She closed the door, then dragged the bag up to hide beneath her bed, but found that there was no more room.  Frustrated, she dragged all four bags of garbage to her sister’s door and knocked.

         “What!?” snapped an exasperated voice from within.

         “You take the garbage out!” Sylvia snapped back.

         May flung open the door and glowered at Sylvia, who stood defensively behind the garbage.  May raised her eyebrows incredulously and opened her mouth to say something, but then seemed to change her mind.  She sucked on a loose strand of ratty, rainbow hair and, nodding thoughtfully, mumbled, “I’ll take it out when I feed the raccoons.”

         Sylvia stared in shock as May took the bags and closed the door.  Feed the raccoons?

 

         When Sarah called late the next morning, Sylvia leapt at the opportunity to get out of the house.  She grabbed her dad’s large mag-light and jammed a cap on her head to keep off the cobwebs.  Sarah was in a good mood and Sylvia soon felt free of the oppressive presence that had been hanging around the house.

         “All our spoons are gone,” Sylvia said.

         “Seriously?  Maybe it’s raccoons; some got in and started messing up my mom’s jewelry the other night.  They could be getting in and stealing them.”

         “Maybe.  My sister says she’s been feeding them.  But we keep the spoons in the cupboard so I don’t think they could get them.”

         “Raccoons have hands though,” reasoned Sarah.

         “Yeah, true.  But I found some of them and they were burnt and the handles were all messed up.”

         “Did you find them in the incinerator or something?” asked Sarah.

         “We don’t have one.  I found one in my sister’s room all covered in gunk, I bet she’s gone crazy from doing all those college apps and is taking out her frustration on our spoons.”

         Sarah ignored Sylvia’s theory. “Wait, like the bowl part of the spoon was burned?”

         “Well, it had burn marks,” Sylvia replied.

         There was a long silence and when Sylvia turned to look at Sarah, she saw that Sarah was eyeing her oddly.

         “Yeah...” Sarah looked very serious.  “Um.  Sylvia, that sounds like your sister is cooking drugs.”

         “Wait, What?”

         “Well, I mean, I heard that sometimes people cook crack or meth or something in spoons,” Sarah said, not meeting Sylvia’s eyes.

         “Are you serious?” Sylvia asked, searching Sarah’s face.

         “I mean, I don’t know...”

         “What should I do?” Sylvia felt out of her depth.

         Sarah thought.  “Well, you don’t know anything yet.  Maybe poke around her room?  Or confront her?”

         Sylvia nodded.  The flashlight in her hand felt so heavy.  She was tempted to drop it, but kept walking.

         The sun was almost straight overhead when they reached the culvert.  Though it was warmer outside, very little light managed to find its way into the culvert and it looked colder and more menacing than ever.  Icy water seeped into their shoes as they plunged into the culvert. The stone wall facade quickly gave way to cement blocks and the sun that filtered in, reflecting off the water onto the walls, showed the snarled cobwebs and graffiti to better advantage.

         Just past a ‘0+16’ sprayed on the wall was a sharp corner which the sunlight failed to turn.  The ceiling become curved and wires hung from the middle, arching down into the water.  Large pipes loomed like cannons from the walls, some of them pouring large fonts of icy water which smelled faintly of musty old bathrooms.  The graffiti grew sparser and soon the only writing on the wall were cryptic sets of numbers.  Sarah and Sylvia were quiet, both bent over lower than necessary to avoid the cobwebs.

         There were loud splooshes as they stepped into the deeper potholes and Sylvia’s flashlight began to fade.  She hadn’t thought to bring batteries. She’d have to rely on Sarah’s flashlight.   After stepping on what was probably a dead mouse, she turned off her own useless flashlight and hung on to Sarah’s arm with her frozen fingers.  Sylvia shuddered every time Sarah’s hair brushed against her arm and tried to reassure herself that it was in fact Sarah’s hair, not a small army of spiders.

         Sarah’s flashlight beam danced erratically on the streaky walls as the sound of rushing water became louder and Sylvia began to wish she hadn’t drunk so much water earlier.  Sarah shone her light on the walls and they saw ‘Satan This Way’ scrawled just above water level.  Below water level was an arrow.  The writing seemed less ominous than their actual surroundings, almost humorous.

         Suddenly, Sarah stopped and Sylvia bumped into her from behind.  Caught in the beams of the flashlight hung a sculpture of bent and soldered spoons.  It hung from the ceiling and revolved slowly, reflecting warped shards of their surprised faces and glinting with the triplicates of unknown eyes.

         A figure detached itself from the shadows. Sarah shrieked and backed into Sylvia, knocking her into the dank stream.  “What are you doing here?” asked Sylvia’s sister.

         “What is that thing?” asked Sylvia, leaping up from the water and catching herself just before knocking her head on the cobweb-covered ceiling.

         “It’s HAG,” May said.  Sylvia stared at her blankly.  May sighed, “It stands for the Hidden Artists Game.  We all make a found-art piece and hide it somewhere in the city.”  Sylvia continued to stare blankly. “You’re a freshman, you wouldn’t understand.”

         “We thought you were on drugs!” Exclaimed Sylvia.

         “Why?” May looked at her scornfully.

         “Well, because you were all cranky...and there were all these sticky, burnt spoons,” explained Sylvia.

         “They’re sticky because I tried gluing them together, but that failed, so I tried soldering, and it took some work to get that right without burning them.  It’s interesting, certain shapes of handle were much easier-”

         “Ok, but why were you so cranky?” cut in Sylvia.

         “I was ‘cranky’ because I had college apps and in the middle of that Eric broke up with me and said my art was predictable and transparent.”

         “Oh, I’m sorry.  Wait, Eric?  I thought you were with Ben.  Still, I wish you hadn’t used all the spoons and not told anyone.  Also, stop feeding the raccoons, feed Eyore.”

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