Small Persons With Wings by Ellen Booraem

Author:Ellen Booraem
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-12-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The Frog

MOM NUDGED ME. “Why is the plumbing inspector inspecting the liquor bottles?”

This was a good question. I didn’t know where the plumbing was, but my guess would have been in the ceiling or walls. Definitely not in a bottle of whiskey.

At first I was afraid Gigi Kramer was eyeing the bottles because she knew about Grand-père’s note. But then I realized she was patting her hair and admiring herself in the mirror behind the bottles. She really enjoyed being Gigi Kramer, plumbing inspector.

She noticed Mom and me staring at her and rolled her dead-looking eyes at us. I thought about that drop of water turning into ice on her skin. The tiny yet shouting voice. Durindana saying she was really a Small Person with Wings inside a doll.

Enough fooling around. I wanted answers.

“Mom,” I whispered, “I’m going upstairs for a minute. Don’t look Gigi Kramer in the eye.”

Time to give the moonstone a real test. And while I was at it, see if my china guy really was china.

Thanks to Mom’s shopping trip, the freezer was crammed full of food and the sack of coffee was buried. I was so intent on finding it and digging for the ring, I never heard the slow footsteps on the stairs.

I put the ring on. I turned around. I dang near fainted.

The moonstone was working. To my eyes, the kitchen was back to normal—no more pink silk tent, no more gold filigree or damask. Standing in the doorway, however, was . . . well, it was dressed like Gigi Kramer the plumbing inspector. But it was no longer a she. It was an it.

To be precise, it was a department store mannequin with a cheap yellow nylon wig. She—it, I mean—had seen better days. Its fiberglass skin was pitted and peeling, with a spiderweb of cracks where the head attached to the neck.

The face was frozen in a Mona Lisa smile, the shark-like eyes painted on. Each eye had a hole in the middle, so somebody could peek out.

“Tiens, you wear the Gemma,” the mannequin’s left eye shouted. “By the expression of your face, I believe you see me as I am.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I mean, what could you say? “Love the neck cracks”?

“Do not be concerned, Turpina,” the mannequin said. “I cannot hurt you while you wear the Gemma. Illusions are my weapon. At this moment you have none.”

I went frigid, goose bumps rising. There was a lie out there somewhere. But what was it? I had no idea. Gee, thanks for the help, Gemmaluna.

The mannequin teetered to the kitchen table, used both hands to pull out a chair because its fingers wouldn’t bend. It sat down, creaking, and pulled one leg up, bent stiffly so it could cross over the other. It waggled its foot in a flirty way, painted eyes staring.

I needed to hear my own voice. “Who are you?”

“I have told you. I am Gigi Kramer, plumbing inspector.” Somebody tittered behind the frozen Mona Lisa face.

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