Chapter 1
AT THE AIRPORT, Mother sits perched on my monogrammed trunk and lets the moving sidewalk wind us past the departure gates. She has my left hand trapped in both of hers and is squeezing so hard my fingertips have turned purple. The plane to Poplovastan leaves from Gate 13 at 2:00 -- which means there is one hour left for me to cross my toes and wish for a miracle.
I'm not hopeful.
I could cross my toes so hard they'd go numb. I could cross my legs, and arms, and eyes. But chances are good that in one hour and fifteen minutes I will be 40,000 feet above the earth, regardless. I'll be heading towards Lily Brook Academy, the piggy-faced couple on the brochure I ripped into confetti and flushed down the toilet, and the "next step on the path to the rest of my life." My breakfast is threatening to splatter on my brand-new shoes.
We pass Gates 7, 8, and 9. Two girls in matching sun-dresses shriek and race across the rows of chairs, while a man with dark, wavy hair lunges for them. He grabs the smallest and sputters a raspberry against the side of her face. It feels like the lump that's been lodged in my throat for the past week and a half has dropped to my stomach and split into a dozen fluttering pieces. With my free hand, I wipe the wet blur of tears from my eyes. Soon Mother will be in the car, heading home without me.
Even though it's the middle of an August heat wave, Mother is wearing her ratty coat. She lets go of my hand to wrap it even more tightly around her, then dabs the beads of sweat off her forehead with her silk scarf.
We pass Gates 10, 11, and 12. A man and his son -- a boy my age -- are sitting cross-legged on the carpet near the ticket counter, each holding a fan of playing cards. As I watch them, the flutters tickling my rib cage spiral down the length of my body. My legs are like jelly, my kneecaps are tingling, and I can barely feel my feet. I try to focus on the patch of floor in front of me, but my eyes jump from one thing to the next: the wrinkles in the dress pants Mother bought me for the trip, the gumball in my mouth, which has dried out completely (along with my tongue), the other kids nearby -- who all seem much too happy to be headed where I am. Mother rubs her cheek against the ragged fur collar of her coat. She is humming to herself.
We pass ... Gate 14.
No Gate 13? Mother frowns, pulls out the Lily Brook Academy acceptance letter and studies it. She glances at the gate we've just passed, then turns and peers ahead.
No Gate 13!
I am ready to leap off the sidewalk and run back the way we came, down the hall, out the spinning glass doors, and into the parking lot. I am ready to wake Father's chauffeur and tell him to step on it, all the way back to Currency.
But Mother keeps her grip on my hand and shakes her head.
"Still farther, Danny." She puts the paper back into her pocket and wipes her nose with her sleeve.
And it is farther. Much farther. We ride the sidewalk until Gate 82, where the strip of rubber that's been carrying us all this way is sucked into a bump on the floor, and we are spit onto cement. Beside us a row of windows frame the tarmac, and one cargo plane after the next glints from below. I yank my trunk behind me and follow the green chalk arrows on the floor. The windows we pass become smaller and smaller, and the walls around us get tighter and tighter, until we are walking through a dim tube. Flickering light bulbs dangle from the ceiling, and the air conditioning is cranked so high that bursts of clouds leave my mouth when I breathe. At the end of the hall is a steel door with the word "RESTRICTED" stenciled on it in thick red letters. And on that door, just below the handle, there is a small paper sign: "Gate 13," it announces in a barely legible scrawl, "This Way, Lily Brook Residents."
Mother drops my hand and pulls the belt of her coat still tighter. She sniffs loudly and wipes her eyes on one of the matted fur cuffs. Her cheeks are streaked with eye makeup, and her face is puffy and red. She takes a gulp of air, then gives me a twitch of a smile that quickly shrivels to nothing. She nods her head, and I grab the handle, close my eyes, and pull.
In the two months that followed my grade six graduation from junior preparatory school, three things happened.
1. I failed the Midas Millions Academy entrance examination.
2. I failed a second time.
3. I failed the exam on my "third and final try."
Maybe it's not fair to blame everything on that one test. There are plenty of other things I've failed at in my life -- lists and lists of them. But the entrance exam was, as my father put it, "the straw that choked the camel." It is the reason I am here, and not at home enjoying the last days of summer vacation with Archduke Pooch.
I suppose for things to make sense I should start even before grade six. I should start with my family and with my hometown. I should start by saying that when you grow up in a family of the rich and powerful, the brainy and beautiful, the practically perfect, being average is like being mud.
And I am average. I am average height and average weight with average-looking brown eyes and hair that is exceptional only because of the cowlick that won't lie flat unless my mother presses it down with spit. I am an average student who is sort of good at everything and great at nothing. Last year I got eighth place in the school spelling bee and tenth place in the science fair. I made the band, but the only instrument left was the triangle and I never got to hit it more than three times in any song. I survived the tryouts for four sports teams -- but only as an alternate. And although my mother watched every football, baseball, basketball, and archery tournament at my school, she never saw me do anything but heat the bench with my rear end and lend out my equipment when the other players broke theirs. On my report cards my teachers always write: "Danny is a fine student" or "Danny is a fine young man."
My father says "fine" means forgettable.
Everything about me, Danny Chandelier, is average, but there is nothing average about the rest of the Chandelier family and there is nothing average about Currency, the place we're from.
Currency is what people call a gated community. Not because there are actual gates -- there used to be, but my father had them ripped down and replaced by an electronic force field that he controls by remote from his office. He removed the real gates because it was the only way he could get my mother to marry him. She told him that her idea of happily ever after wasn't to marry the prince and move to a prison, and she wouldn't go near Currency until every last piece of stone and metal from the walls had been carted away. But, still, it's up to Father who can come in. And who has to leave.
Even though Currency has its own hill, lake, and forest and is double the area of Midasville -- where my sisters and I go to school -- it isn't a real town. That's because the actual population is just six and a half. I say half because my dog, Archduke Pooch II, is as smart as any person I know, but can't really be considered one. The other people who live in Currency are my mother and father, my three sisters, and me.
At least I used to.
