Free Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle by Ben English Page B

had scooped a miniature plain out of the smooth, lime-colored hills. The mountains themselves began to look more sculpted, more graceful, though occasionally the ridges were broken by craggy outcroppings of rock that looked like an exposed backbone of some great prehistoric beast.
    They crossed a bridge, then another, then a third, and then, as Max pointed, Mercedes saw the great white dam, far up one of the canyons, extending almost from peak to peak. “Water in the reservoir is almost high enough,” Max said. “Spring runoff was good this year. Another week or so and she should be warm enough to ski in. You ever waterski?”
    Mercedes shook her head.
    “That reminds me,” Max said. “Your grandmother and I take turns taking her sister’s grandkids to the city pool, but today we’re both strapped. They’ve got lessons at eleven, and then we usually let them swim the whole afternoon. Would you mind?”
    “Taking them to the pool? Easy.” Mercedes looked out at the widening valley. Whole neighborhoods now stretched from the highway to the foot of the mountains, and not a mini-mall in sight.
    “Are you sure? Not too tired from your flight?”
    “No problem, Grampa. How old are they?”
    “Alice is seven, and the twins are, oh, I don’t know—nine or ten. Oh, and you’ll want to meet Irene and Diane; they’re your age. Diane gets her license in the fall, and Irene–who usually drives–just had her’s suspended for the summer. Broke her heart.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Mercedes, in a town like this, a teenager without a license is like a blindfolded parachutist–frustrated, irritable, but with a vague idea that something exciting is just about to happen. You’ve got to have freedom in a place as little as Forge, but a little discipline, too. The kids here can go crazy from boredom if there’s nothing to do. Poor Irene. That girl’s got a mischievous streak—reminds me of you. Are you sure you want to be a chauffeur? You’re supposed to be relaxing up here. If your dad knew we’d put you to work right away, he’d give me hell.”
    “S’ alright, Grampa. I can’t just sit around. Wouldn’t want me turning into a blindfolded parachutist, now, right? Hey, what’s that?” She pointed at a rambling two-story building across the river, about halfway up the rolling hills. It had been painted a stark, jarring blue, unnerving against the dun hillside.
    Max laughed. “That there’s the high school. Another reason for the kids in Forge to go a little crazy sometimes.”
    They left the highway and crossed another bridge. As they wound through town, Mercedes was struck by the fact that she couldn’t see a single stoplight. One movie theater, a single screen. A modern-looking library, across from the ancient brick junior high school her father had attended for part of a year. It was so quiet.
    “Not much to look at,” her grandfather said lowly, smiling and waving at a passing motorist. “Not exactly Chinatown or Market Street, is it?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. It’s peaceful, kind of nice. Relaxing.”
    Her grandfather looked across at her. “Good. Relax, Mercedes.”
    They pulled into an elm-lined neighborhood. Max’s house was larger than Mercedes expected, and as the car purred to a stop in the short driveway, the side door opened with a bang and out came Britta, trailed by three girls. Mercedes’ grandmother was a blond giant in a flour-covered apron, and she trundled forth, kneading small bits of dough out from between her fingers.
    “Hey,” was all Mercedes could say by way of greeting before she was swept up in a hug. She wondered if her smile would one day be as beautiful as her grandmother’s, framed by jowls as pink as a baby’s.
    Max took care of the luggage while Mercedes was bustled inside, borne on a wave of her grandmother’s exuberant chatter. The house smelled of cinnamon rolls; absolutely redolent with the aroma of whatever spicy was simmering in a huge black pot on the