She hadn’t read the cardboard sign above the bin: All Doll Parts, Mix & Match, 5 for $1.
'Thank you, thank you,' I said.
Then -- carefully holding Classique in a hand -- I rummaged through the box of arms and torsos and legs and heads. I found Magic Curl next. Then Fashion Jeans. Then Cut ’N Style. But none of them were as good or as beautiful as Classique. She was the best. And she knew it.
'Dear, I picked you,” she told me later. 'And you picked the others.”
If her voice had a flavor it would’ve been honey, sweet and ingratiating.
But after falling into the hole, it became harder to hear her. Her voice was fainter, a distant transmission almost impossible to make out, and sometimes she had to scream.
'CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?! CAN YOU--?!”
While I slept on my father’s mattress, she appeared; her red hair billowed as she sailed past cupboards and bookcases, her tight lips somewhere between a grimace and a smile.
'This is it, dear. I’m done for. You’ve abandoned me, I suppose.”
No, you’ll be okay. I need you.
'Too late. Too late. But at least you have the others for company.”
The others; they were on the floor when I awoke the next morning, waiting anxiously like beauty queens at the conclusion of a pageant. Three heads wondering which among them would replace Classique and receive the crown of Jeliza-Rose’s friendship.
'She’s not dead yet,” I told them. 'You’re just sharks! You’re happy she’s falling through the earth!”
Then I forbade them to speak for a million years.
'You’re just heads! You don’t have hearts! You’re traitors!'
I attacked on hands and knees, tucking my index finger behind my thumb -- and then I flicked the traitors around the room.
'Take that-!”
Flick.
Magic Curl spun across the floor like a top.
'And you-!”
Flick.
Fashion Jeans shot up into the air.
'And you too-!'
But I couldn’t flick Cut ’N Style.
My finger hesitated in front of her damaged face and blackened eyeballs. If anyone had a right to hate Classique it was Cut ’N Style -- so I tipped her over, gently, and whispered in her ear, 'You’re better than those other two. I’m sorry Classique was so mean to you.'
Then I considered bringing her with me to the rabbit- hole, where I could put her on Grandmother’s boa and lower her inside. And because Cut ’N Style was blind, maybe she’d be good at sensing Classique there in the darkness. Maybe she could somehow rescue Classique and they’d be best friends for life.
I want to save her, Cut ’N Style was thinking. Let me come.
'No, you better stay,” I concluded, reluctantly. 'You might fall in -- then I’d be trapped with Fashion Jeans and Magic Curl. They’re just as bad as ants. They’re worse than squirrels.”
And I was glad Cut ’N Style didn’t accempany me after all. She wouldn’t have been much help. The boa was pointless as well, too light and fluffy for a lifeline; I couldn’t tell if it was reaching anything in the hole or not.
'Dumb big feathers!'
I ended up slinging the boa around my neck -- while Classique screamed from the void -- and went searching for semething else, something long and sturdy.
CAN YOU HEAR ME?!
Yes. Loud and clear.
IT’S COLD! I’VE HIT BOTTOM, I’M PRETTY SURE! OR I’M ON A LEDGE PERHAPS!
Don’t worry. I’m here. I’m getting a stick.
IT’S SO VERY COLD AND I’M SO TIRED-!
'I’m corning,' I said. 'Don’t go to sleep. Stay awake.”
Mesquite branches were everywhere, on the greund, beside the footpath, all gangly and brittle; none was long enough though. I had to break a dead branch from a tree, had to tug on one end of it until the slender limb splintered loose in my fist. Then I dragged it on the footpath.
Branch longer than my leg, I thought. Lenger than P-P- Patrick’s creepy boy-thingy.
And I felt like whistling as the branch scratched against the dirt. I pursed my lips, blowing. But only breath and some saliva burbled from me. It was hopeless.
So I invented a happy song instead.
I sang, 'Dragging the branch, dragging the branch -- better watch out for Mr. Dragon Branch -- he’ll bite your head, he’ll bite your head -- dragging the branch -- Mr. Dragon Branch - dragging the branch-”
It was such a great song that I leaned over the hole, smiling, and began singing for Classique, the words echoing in the blackness. I pretended that all the nearby mesquites were an audience of old men and old women. They were applauding; their craggy twig-fingers wore diamond rings and gold bands.
I finished with, 'Thank you, everyone, everyone everywhere,' and stroked the boa like it was a cat sitting on my shoulders.
And when the applause finally died in my mind, I listened for Classique’s faint message. She was supposed to say, 'Fantastic! You’re wonderful! Mr. Dragon Branch is the bestest song ever!”
But she didn’t say anything.
'Classique,” I said, 'are you still there?”
No message arrived.
I waited.
'Classique-?'
Nothing.
I stuck the branch into the hole. Down down down. Three feet, at least. My hand and wrist slid past the rim. And suddenly the branch stabbed the bottorn -- crunching against soil, perhaps poking clods and pebbles -- and broke apart. Then it was as if the earth caved in, the hole became deeper.
'Uh-oh,” I said, sounding like Dickens.
I couldn’t poke the bottom anymore, just space. So I opened my hand, letting what remained of the branch drop.
'He’s coming!' I warned Classique.
l/Ir. Dragon Branch was falling toward her now. He’ll bite her head, he’ll bite her head.
Then I sat with my legs crossed and contemplated the hole. Classique hadn’t tumbled as far as I thought. If I had grown-up arms, I could reach in there and probably touch her with my fingertips. And I wouldn’t be afraid of the darkness inside -- the hole wouldn’t look so huge.
'Uh-oh,' I said again.
I imagined Dickens hugging himself with those skinny arms, his hands almost meeting at his spine. He could rescue her in a heartbeat. His arms were like broom handles. He didn’t need a rake, he could comb the yard with his fingers. He wouldn’t even have to bend much.
'Classique, I’ll be back.”
I had an idea.
'Don’t go anywhere.”
Dickens didn’t need the rake. But I did. And the rake wouldn’t crumble; its claws could go into the hole -- snagging Classique and bits of the branch and clods and pebbles -- and come out again in one piece.
The Rake of Life, I thought -- wandering along the footpath, sneakers stepping over stones. Making my way to the edge of Dell’s front yard, I glanced around cautiously. Dell might be hiding nearby, lurking behind a grizzled trunk; she’d suck my blood if I wasn’t careful.
'You’ll stay far,' I said.
I turned and spit.
'You’ll mess elsewhere.'
