Stephanie Wrobel

resisted the urge to relax. The platter was steady. All I had to do was keep it exactly where it was for fifteen more minutes. I could do anything for that long, couldn’t I?

The task ahead of me was easy compared to Houdini’s work. For the Upside Down Trick, he locked his feet in stocks, then had himself lowered upside down into a tank filled with water. He stayed in there for two minutes until he escaped. He performed the trick hundreds of times.

the Underwater Box Escape, he was handcuffed and put in leg-irons before climbing into a wooden crate. The crate was weighed down with two hundred pounds of lead, nailed and chained shut, then hoisted off the side of a barge into New York’s East River, like Alan said. It sank immediately. Fifty-seven seconds later, Houdini resurfaced, free of the restraints. When the crate was brought

ashore, it was intact, shackles still inside.

These were the lengths I’d have to go to in order to make it as a
performer. Sir was right: I had to be head and shoulders above everyone else. I pretended that I barely felt the rope chafing my wrists, the platter weighing down my skull.

, I considered shifting ten steps to my left so that I’d be in the living room and positioned over the couch to give the platter somewhere soft to land, just in case. Sir warned against just-in-case thinking all the time. Only losers thought that way, and in doing so, they predetermined their failure. But he’d never said I had to complete the sixty minutes standing in this exact spot.

tried to recall the highest-value task I’d ever completed. I had once earned four points for sitting in the snow without a coat for an hour. Four for the time I’d held my breath for two minutes. Five for kneeling on broken glass. I waited for what he would conjure this time, wished fleetingly that my sister had come downstairs with me. Not that she’d ever stood up to Sir. Why would she start now?

His eyes searched the room, stopping on my dead grandmother’s serving platter. It was my mother’s most treasured possession, her only belonging of any value, made of fine bone china with English roses painted on it. We never actually used the platter; Mother didn’t want to risk any scratches. Though it clashed with the shag rug and tattered furniture, she had hung it on the wall as a decoration after my grandmother passed.

When we reach the back of the big house, I survey the grounds. Everything is buried under snow. Pewter clouds have infested the morning’s blue sky, and without the sun the cold is brutal. A dense fog creeps our way again, like it’s patiently followed us all the way from Rockland. The wind wails, rattling my teeth. Though footprints are scattered across the grounds, there’s still no sight of human beings besides us. I feel their eyes, though, sense their presence.

The island is big, the size of at least four or five football fields from what I can see. A pole with cream-colored arrows stands before us. One slants left to the cafeteria, a long, dark green building that extends from the big house. Other arrows face right, one to a classroom in a single-wide trailer. Another is labeled GUESTHOUSES, pointing to rings of cabins. I turn a slow circle. In every direction looms the eight-foot wall. The trees beyond the wall dwarf it in size. Together they cut off any ocean view. You can’t even hear the waves from here; the wind overpowers every other sound. I bite my thumbnail.

Sanderson rushes away from Gordon’s scrutiny, leading Cheryl and
Chloe toward the cafeteria as instructed. He holds the door open for the women. The three disappear inside.

Once they’re gone, Gordon, as eerily quiet as the grounds, fixes his attention on me. Where are all the guests? I debate taking off, sprinting from building to building until I find my sister. Gordon may

Sanderson rushes away from Gordon’s scrutiny, leading Cheryl and
Chloe toward the cafeteria as instructed. He holds the door open for the women. The three disappear inside.

Once they’re gone, Gordon, as eerily quiet as the grounds, fixes his attention on me. Where are all the guests? I debate taking off, sprinting from building to building until I find my sister. Gordon may be fit, but he can’t possibly outrun me.

The doors to the cafeteria burst open. People pour out: twentysomethings, the sprightliest elderly I’ve ever seen, and every generation in between. My shoulders sag with relief. Lunch must have just finished. I scan every face for Kit. The residents of Wisewood wear jeans and puffy jackets, bundled up against the cold. Some of them carry stacks of books; others have cleaning equipment in hand. They appear relaxed but move with purpose. Two young women walk with their heads back and tongues out, giggling as they try to catch snowflakes. Everyone seems . . . normal.

Happier than normal, if I’m being honest. Few dark circles lurk under eyes. Their skin shines. They beam as they pass us. There are no flowing white robes, no blood dripping down faces. Maybe Wisewood isn’t to blame for Kit cutting me off. Her decision to join might not have been tough at all. Maybe she was sick of her know-it-all big sister criticizing her every decision.

Kit and I bickered about a lot of things (crayons, bikes, boys, the importance of saving for retirement), but most of all, we fought about Mom. Kit tiptoed around our mother. She let her lie in bed for days, whereas I tugged her out of it and nudged her into the shower. Kit was the favorite because she never pushed, because she made room for weakness like it was a member of our family. She was soft on Mom, so Mom was soft on her. They rubbed each other’s backs and finished each other’s sentences. They never missed a Puzzle Tuesday; they knew I hated puzzles. The two of them seemed like one mind split between two bodies. I tried to win my mother’s affection through achievement, breaking school reading program records and lifeguarding at the local pool. She’d pat me on the back, then return to her puzzle.