Chapter 2 Thinking Outside the Donut Box
NOT YET,” MY DAD ANSWERS as he opens the driver’s side door. “I just thought you and your brother might like a first-day-of-school treat.”
“A treat?” I glance at my phone. “But we’re supposed to be there by ten thirty. It’s ten thirteen now. I don’t think we have time—”
“We’ve got time,” my mother says as she climbs out. “Besides, this place has the best goodies on the entire East Coast.”
“This place?” Doubt fills me as I try to peer through the thick fog. I can’t see anything but gray—and a small fire burning in a lantern about thirty feet away.
Which isn’t weird at all.
I mean, who needs a flashlight when you can just walk around with a live flame all the time? Sure, you risk setting the entire forest on fire, but maybe I’m the only one who sees that as a problem…
“Relax, Penelope.” Paris drops his Portal on the seat between us and all but leaps out of the car. “I’m starving.”
“Now there’s a shock,” I mutter, pushing my car door open and climbing out…right into a giant mud puddle.
It splashes all over my brand-new white checkerboard Vans.
Panic races through me. I spent hours deciding on the perfect outfit for today—the perfect light blue blouse, the perfectly pressed white shorts, even the perfect blue socks with little owls on them.
I picked every single thing I’m wearing so that everyone who meets me will know immediately what residence hall I belong in.
And now all that preparation is ruined by some random roadside stop for a snack I don’t even want. How am I ever supposed to face Athena, let alone my new classmates, with shoes that look like this?
It’s beyond embarrassing.
“Come on, Penelope! Hurry up!” My mother’s voice floats back through the fog.
I grab a couple of paper towels from my mother’s stash in the car—Athena girls grow up to be Athena women, perfectly prepared for every situation—and scrape as much mud off my shoes as I can manage. It’s thick and disgusting and super hard to get off, and I’m so mad I could cry.
But I’m not about to do that. The only thing worse than showing up for my first day with mud-spattered shoes is showing up with a blotchy, tearstained face. One of the many curses of being a redhead: I’m a splotchy, puffy-eyed crier—and that is so not going to happen today.
Once I’ve rubbed off all the mud I can, I shove the dirty paper towels in one of the small trash bags my mom has in her car—more of her perfect preparation—then head in the same direction my family went.
The fog is so thick now that I can’t see them, but I can hear them talking to someone with a very deep voice. As I get closer, the fog finally seems to lift a little bit, and I get my first clear view of my family standing next to a small, wooden farm stand.
It’s painted white, with a slanting blue aluminum roof that has a fancy, embellished sign tacked to it that reads PT’s Donuts.
Donuts? Please tell me we’re not risking being late for a bunch of roadside donuts when my mother has been gluten-free for years?
Someone, please, make it make sense.
The flame I saw earlier is coming from a lantern resting precariously on the farm stand’s worn counter, right next to a sign that reads:
Cinnamon Donut Holes: 50 cents each/12 for $5
Cinnamon Donuts: $1 each/12 for $10
Apple Cider, hot or cold: $2 a cup
Okay—not gonna lie. A cup of hot apple cider does sound nice, especially since the wind has kicked up…as long as we can get it fast.
I shiver a little as I turn my gaze to what’s next to the sign…or should I say who? He’s super tall—and dressed in a pair of denim overalls covered in red paint splatters and a pair of black Crocs with red and yellow flames on them.
His long brown hair—currently piled into a messy bun at the crown of his head—is peppered with gray, and so is his well-trimmed goatee.
But what really grabs my attention is the thick gold chain he’s wearing around his neck.
It’s got a charm dangling from it that reads COEXIST, and somehow both the charm and the chain it’s attached to manage to look both brand new and also like they’ve been around forever.
“Apple cider?” the man asks, his bright blue eyes cutting through the gloom as they shift to me.
My brother, who has a small pink bakery box in one hand, holds out an empty cup with the other. “I’ll take some more.”
As Paris leans forward, the box gets entirely too close to the lantern flame for my peace of mind.
I eye him warily, but no one else seems concerned, so I don’t say anything.
The last thing I want to do is cost us more minutes that we can’t afford.
When I turn back to the man, it’s to find him looking straight at me, even as he pours my brother another full glass of the cold cider.
“How about you, Penelope? Do you want some cider?”
“How do you know my name?” I ask, taking the mug he holds out. Unlike Paris’s, it’s steaming hot and smells like cinnamon, just the way I wanted it.
“Your parents mentioned you were lagging a little behind.” He glances down at my Vans. “Nice shoes.”
My cheeks flame with embarrassment. “They weren’t always so dirty,” I mumble.
“And they won’t be again.”
I have no idea what he means by that, considering the mud has soaked into the fabric on all sides, staining the bottom half of my shoes an ugly poop-colored brown.
Before I can ask what he’s getting at, the man nods to my cup of cider. “Drink up.”
“I was waiting for it to cool down,” I tell him. But to be polite, I take a small sip—and realize, somehow, it’s the perfect temperature despite the steam that continues to rise from it.
Weird.
Still, time is creeping by—it’s 10:22 now, which leaves us exactly eight minutes to get to the school before we are officially late for our first day. “Don’t you think we should go?” I ask my parents. “It’s almost time—”
“Have a donut hole,” my dad suggests with a grin, gesturing to the box Paris is holding.
I don’t really want a donut hole—my stomach is waaaay too jumpy for food—but if it will get us out of here faster, I’ll eat as many as they need me to and pray I don’t throw up.
Except, when I reach in the box, it’s to find that there’s only one small, puckered donut hole left.
It’s dented on one side and only half coated in cinnamon sugar.
It’s not exactly the most appetizing-looking snack on the planet, but my parents—and the strange blue-eyed man—are watching me intently, so I pop it in my mouth and chomp down. As soon as I do, a strange taste coats my tongue, like really, really overripe fruit mixed with pepper.
It might be—and by might be, I mean it is—the grossest thing I’ve ever eaten. So gross that I think seriously about spitting it out as I try not to gag.
But Athena girls don’t spit, so I gamely keep chewing until I somehow manage to swallow the disgusting mess.
“Did you like it?” my dad asks as he reaches into the now empty box.
I’m spared from having to answer—I’m a terrible liar, by the way—once he realizes there are no more donut holes left.
“I think there’s been a mistake, PT,” he tells the farm stand owner. “I ordered half a dozen.”
“And I gave you half a dozen.” PT eyes my brother, whose mouth is covered in cinnamon sugar. “Perhaps you should ask Paris what happened to them.”
“I was hungry,” Paris says as my dad shoots him an annoyed look.
“It’s okay, Hector,” my mom soothes as she rubs a hand down my dad’s tweed-covered arm. “He didn’t know.”
“Know what?” I ask, looking back and forth between my parents as I try to figure out what’s going on. I mean, who would voluntarily want to eat one of those disgusting things anyway?
“You’re right, my love.” My father gives her—and Paris—an indulgent smile before turning back to PT. “Can we have two more donut holes, please?”
“Afraid I’m all tapped out.” PT gives an apologetic shrug. “Your family has cut it pretty close—you’re the last ones to come through.”
Last ones to come through?
A happy buzz starts deep inside me as I turn his words over in my mind. Maybe this strange man isn’t just a donut salesman. Maybe he’s connected to Anaximander’s. Maybe eating that awful donut hole was some kind of test and—
“You don’t have any more?” My mother’s voice sounds strange as she asks the question. “At all?”
PT shakes his head regretfully.
“So what do we do?” My dad looks bewildered. “How do we get them to—”
“I’m afraid you don’t,” PT answers gravely. “They’re going to have to go on their own.”
“That’s impossible!” For the first time, my mom actually seems worried. “This is their first year. We have to go. We have to—”
“No one goes over the bridge without a donut hole,” PT says firmly. “Rules are rules.”
Are they seriously saying those terrible donut holes are some kind of ticket to get to the school? I guess I’m lucky Paris left me one after all, even if it was completely disgusting.
“Bridge?” Paris asks, wiping a hand over his mouth in an effort to dislodge some of the cinnamon and sugar. “There aren’t any bridges out here.”
“You sure about that?” PT’s sleek brown brows rise almost to his hairline.
“Pretty sure,” my brother answers. “We were just driving on that road.”
But excitement is already pulsing through my body as I turn around to face the car.
Sure enough, the fog has lifted completely and for the first time I can see the road—and the beautiful covered bridge that is only a few feet in front of our car.
Looks like we just might make it on time after all.