Free Texting the Underworld by Ellen Booraem Page B

himself the rest of his life?
    Darby O’Gill stayed on his mind as he walked the rest of the way home.
    When he entered his room, the world was upside down.
    Or Ashling was, anyway. She was standing on the ceiling, braid dangling straight down, tunic skirt tucked between her knees. She was tossing Trivial Pursuit cards into the wastebasket, missing every third time because she was barely aiming.
    â€œKill something,” she said as Conor closed the door. “I am going mad. I have read most of these little skins and even some of those things.” She pointed at his bookcase.
    â€œWhy didn’t you go out?”
    â€œYou didn’t want me at your school.” Her tone was sulky. “And I can’t walk about attracting attention, and I can only wish myself where I’ve been before or if I’ve seen a picture. I went there”—she pointed to his Grand Canyon poster—“but people were everywhere and they screamed when I made myself visible. I am ready to keen and go home. Someone has to die
now
.”
    â€œNobody’s dying. At least . . . listen, Ashling. What if I told you to take me instead of whoever it really is. Could you do that?”
    â€œNo.” Ashling drifted down from the ceiling, righting herself slowly until her feet touched the rug. Her braid was coming apart. “No, I cannot do that.”
    â€œWhy not? Darby O’Gill did it.”
    â€œWho is Darby O’Gill?”
    â€œHe’s this guy from your country, Ireland.”
    â€œI don’t know Ireland. My country was Uladh.” As the library book said, she pronounced it
Ull-oo
.
    â€œIt’s called Ulster now, and it’s part of Ireland. Anyways, this guy’s daughter was dying, and he had a wish from a leprechaun, so he wished he could take her place.”
    â€œDo you have a wish from a leprechaun?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThere you are, then.” She began to unbraid her hair. “Conor-boy, I cannot take the wrong person to the Lady. I don’t make the decision, and anyway that is not the bargain I made to get my life back. Besides . . .” She bit her lip and got out her comb.
    â€œBesides, it could be me, anyways, is that what you’re thinking?”
    She didn’t answer, only combed. Conor watched her, too stupefied to work on his Land of Shanaya map or start his homework. As the comb moved through Ashling’s hair, chaos became order. She redid her braid, the green ribbon woven just so.
    He could see why she did it. It was calming.
    Ashling gave her braid a final tug and tossed it over her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter who it is, of course. Makes no difference to me. No difference at all. None.”
    Conor went downstairs for supper, then came back up to describe it for Ashling. For someone who didn’t eat, Ashling was awfully interested in food, even when it was fish sticks. She went into her cupboard while he did homework—not all of it and none of it well. Finally he gave up, took out his map notebook, and started giving the Land of Shanaya its carnivorous spruce trees. He got so involved—trees with mouths turned out to be a hoot to draw—that he barely noticed when Ashling came out of the cupboard and stood by him, watching.
    â€œWhat is that you’re making?” she asked.
    His pencil skipped, and the tree he was working on got an extra-wide maw. It looked amazing.
    â€œThis is a little like the pictures on your wall,” Ashling said, “which you have never explained.”
    â€œThey’re maps. And I’m drawing one. With carnivorous—that’s meat-eating—spruce trees.”
    â€œMaps?” She shook her head, baffled.
    â€œA map shows you where you are.” He pulled her over to his map of the United States. “See there? That red dot is South Boston; that’s where we are right this minute. And see, if we went west—toward the