Chapter 3 Snaking Around
I TAKE A STEP FORWARD before I even think about doing so. But how can I not now that I know I’m just a minute or two away from Anaximander’s?
It feels like I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life and now that we’re this close, I can’t wait another second to get moving.
But my parents are still arguing with PT, who’s beginning to look like he wants to rethink that “coexist” motto he’s got dangling around his neck. Or like he at least wants to clarify it to omit nervous parents who refuse to get with the program.
Of course those parents are my mom and dad. Spontaneous isn’t exactly their style.
Normally, it’s not my style either. But I can make an exception for something this important, this huge, this so incredibly cool.
“Surely you’ve got two more donut holes,” my dad implores. “Or even one. We could split it. Or a donut. We could split a donut and—”
“I’m sorry, but I truly am completely cleaned out.” PT’s bun quivers as he shakes his head. “Besides, even if I had any more donuts, they aren’t what you need.”
“I know, but—” For what might be the first time in my life, my always unflappable, never emotional mother looks dejected. “It’s their first year.”
“We’ll be fine.” Paris leans forward to pat my mom’s shoulder, and for what feels like the millionth time (but is really only the third), the bakery box gets too close to the lantern. And this time it’s so close that I practically smell it burning.
And no. Just no.
I grab the bakery box from him and toss it in the large black trash can next to the farm stand. Then, without asking, I lean forward and blow out the ridiculous lantern. Now that the fog has lifted completely, it’s not like he needs it anyway.
With that emergency waiting to happen taken care of, I turn to my parents with my most competent-looking smile. “Paris and I can walk across a bridge by ourselves. Right, Paris?”
“Absolutely,” he agrees.
But my parents aren’t listening to either of us. They’re just gaping at me, eyes wide and mouths open, looking for all the world like they’ve never seen me before.
I turn to my brother for help, but he looks as mystified as I feel.
“It is just a bridge, right? No big deal?” If I sound a lot less certain, it’s because I am. Their reaction is starting to freak me out.
“Just a bridge,” PT agrees, though he looks as shaken as my parents. His eyes search my face like he’s hoping to find something there, though I have absolutely no idea what that something could be.
“Did you just blow that fire out?” my mother asks in a strangled voice.
Oh, I get it. They’re embarrassed that I didn’t ask first. I give PT a conciliatory look. “I’m sorry, I should have made sure that was okay. It’s just that Paris kept getting too close to it. I was afraid he was going to set the bakery box—and himself—on fire.”
“It’s okay.” PT attempts a grin, but he still looks so shaken that it comes out more like a grimace.
In the meantime, my parents just keep gaping at me like I’ve suddenly grown more heads than Cerberus. But that’s the least of my problems right now considering we’re wasting precious time.
They need to get it together, because standing here as my watch tick-tick-ticks the minutes away is pretty much my idea of torture.
“But it is—” my father starts, his voice breaking on the last syllable.
“He says it’s fine for us to go on our own,” I interrupt, glancing back at PT. This time he manages an actual smile as I continue, “I really am sorry. But we’ve got to go.”
I say the last part to everyone, because I have no doubt my parents will stand here dithering for the next hour if we let them. And since I have absolutely no intention of missing even one second of my first year at Anaximander’s, I decide to take matters into my own hands.
I start walking toward the Subaru.
“Penelope? Where are you going?” My mom’s voice goes up a little more with each syllable that falls out of her mouth.
“To get my suitcase out of the trunk.” I go for matter-of-fact—any hesitation on my part will have my parents shuffling us back into the car and driving straight home.
That is not going to happen. Not today and definitely not on my watch. Today is the first day of the rest of my life—new school, new friends, Athena Hall, my labors—and I am not putting it off for one more second. “Paris and I need to get going.”
It’s a gamble, I know—the car is locked, and neither of my parents are the type to be steered anywhere they don’t want to go. Thankfully, though, it only takes them about a minute to come to the same conclusion PT and I already have.
That Paris and I are completely out of time.
My dad reluctantly pulls out his key fob, and by the time I reach the back of the car, the trunk is already opening. My relief is short-lived, though, because a glimpse inside reminds me of just how big my suitcase really is.
Why, oh why, did I think I needed to pack my entire wardrobe plus my thirteenth-birthday present—all eleven volumes of Ancient Myths for Any Occasion, the Abridged Version?
Because that’s what Athena girls do, I remind myself as I grab my overstuffed backpack and sling it over my shoulders. We’re founts of knowledge who are always prepared for anything.
But when I start to reach for my suitcase, Paris stops me.
“I’ll take yours,” he says, grabbing onto the handle of my giant blue suitcase and wrestling it to the ground. “You can take mine.”
And that’s why Paris is my favorite, even though he’s a pain in the butt at least sixty percent of the time. He’s always, always got my back.
Still, I start to argue with him—Athena girls carry their own bags.
But a quick glance at my watch tells me we’ve got less than five minutes to get to the school before the opening ceremony starts, and there’s no way I’m going to get there in time if I’m also lugging that suitcase.
And since Athena girls are practical above all else, I decide to go with it.
“You’re the best,” I tell him as I grab onto the handle of his much lighter, much more sensibly sized black suitcase and lug it out of the back seat. Thank the gods, Paris’s thirteenth-birthday present was his PlayStation Portal.
“I am,” he agrees with the superior smile that normally makes me want to “accidentally” step on his toes—at the very least. But he’s doing me a huge favor at the moment, so I figure he’s earned it.
Then it’s quick—very quick—hugs with the still bemused parental units before Paris and I sprint for the bridge.
Correction: Paris sprints for the bridge while I jog, dragging his suitcase behind me. And can I just say, it’s so not fair that he’s suddenly gotten so much stronger than me. I’m totally going to work on that this year. I don’t know what that means, but I’m more than ready to find out.
From a distance, I can hear my mother calling, “Make sure to eat!”
Like that’s ever been a problem with Paris…
But then another voice joins hers and it’s not my father’s. It’s PT’s. “Remember, Penelope, the answer is fire.”
I have no idea what that means and no time to ask him what he’s talking about, so I just give a half wave with my free hand and keep moving forward.
I know my mom wishes things could have gone differently here—and I kind of wish that too.
But there’s no use worrying about could-have-beens.
Not when the bridge—and my future—is right in front of me. And not when there’s no time to waste.
Excitement buzzes through me as I take my first step onto the bridge, and the world around me starts to change.
From afar, the walls of the bridge look like a simple wooden lattice.
But now that I’m closer, I realize every single crisscrossing piece of wood is actually carved into the shape of a different snake.
They’re arranged so that every X has one piece of wood with a snake head at the top while the other piece of wood has the snake head at the bottom.
It’s eerie and fascinating, and if I had more time, I’d totally stop to check them out. But the big hand on my watch just moved to twenty-eight. There is no more time.
Thankfully the bridge is short, no more than a hundred steps or so.
Except, somewhere after what has to be at least two hundred steps, I realize not only am I not at the end, but also that the actual exit of the bridge is no longer in sight. It’s vanished, and so has my brother.
“Paris?” I yell, worried.
“I’m up here, Penelope!” he shouts back. “Hurry up!”
“I’m trying!” I call, because I really am. But just because this suitcase is lighter than mine doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy.
My arms are shaking from its weight, my heart beating wildly out of control. I want to stop, to catch my breath, but the second I slow down, the hundreds and hundreds of wooden snakes come alive around me.
Their eyes glow, they start hissing, and—even worse—they begin thrashing in all directions. The ones hanging from the top part of the bridge start swaying and coiling, while the ones on the bottom slither toward me, their eyes burning a strange, acid green.
I freeze as what looks like a rattlesnake comes super close to sliding against my cheek. But the second I stop, a milk snake slithers straight over my dirty Vans.
I don’t normally have anything against snakes—in fact, I’ve always kind of liked them.
I’ve done several science fair projects about them, and I was even the first one to volunteer to touch the boa constrictor at our field trip to the zoo.
And since the milk snake isn’t venomous and doesn’t seem to want to bite me, anyway, I wait for it to pass.
But then more and more snakes come toward me—garter snakes, pythons, and what I’m pretty sure is a giant king cobra that has no business being on the loose in western Massachusetts.
One or two snakes is no big deal, but having twenty or thirty of them pile on me is something else entirely.
Especially when there are no zookeepers around to make sure they stay in line.
A coral snake comes really close to wrapping around my arm, and my heart rate kicks up another notch, because no. Just no. Venomous snakes are not okay.
Not to mention, the closer they get to me, the brighter their eyes glow.
These aren’t normal snakes. I don’t know what they are and I don’t know what they want, but as what I’m pretty sure is a black mamba starts working its way over to me, I decide enough is enough.
I kick out at the ones close to me, shaking them off my feet and ankles. But that just seems to make the entire pit of snakes angry. Suddenly, they go from trying to wrap around me to lunging at me, mouths open and fangs bared.
Instinct screams at me to drop Paris’s suitcase and make a mad dash for the end of what’s beginning to feel a lot more like a tunnel than a bridge.
But everything that matters to him is in this suitcase—a whole year’s worth of clothes and games and books and uniforms. There’s no way I can just leave it here on this nightmare bridge.
So I hold on to it, half carrying, half dragging it as I gallop awkwardly toward safety.
But for every snake I avoid, another one manages to wrap itself around my wrist, my arm, my neck.
I claw them off, one after another, until a red and black California mountain kingsnake finally manages to bite me.
Its fangs sink into my arm, and I scream as I shake it off. It hisses at me in return, but then the strangest thing happens. In the space between one breath and the next, they all go from vicious attack snakes back to a simple lattice on the bridge.
What the heck?!
I do stop now, dropping Paris’s suitcase as tears burn my eyes. Mountain snakes may not be venomous, but that doesn’t stop their bites from hurting a lot.
But when I look at my arm, there’s almost no blood at all. And the bite looks like it’s already healing.
I don’t know how that’s possible, and before I can figure it out, Paris yells, “Penelope! Look out!”
I glance around wildly, expecting a giant black mamba to start attacking out of thin air.
But there’s nothing…until all of a sudden, a bright red truck comes barreling straight toward me.
I freeze for one long second that feels like an eternity—like infinity—before I come to my senses and try to jump out of the way.
But that second costs me, and I’m mid-leap when the truck slams straight into me.