Journey to the Parallels

Praise for Journey to the Parallels

"In Journey to the Parallels, Marcie Roman pairs a fantasy world, in which people can step through porous boundaries into other dimensions, with a solidly grounded and deeply affecting portrait of a close, but unusual family. Amber, the twelve-year-old at the center of the novel, loves her quirky, single mother but wishes she were more normal. Within this framework, Roman beautifully illustrates universal psychological challenges of growing up and coming to terms with one’s family."

—Jan English Leary, author of Skating on the Vertical and Thicker Than Blood

"Journey to the Parallels is a must-read for tweens and readers of any age who have ever wondered what it might be like if we could step through the looking glass and find ourselves on the other side. A clever and thought-provoking read in the vein of Madeleine L’Engle and Margaret Atwood, this timely novel follows twelve-year-old Amber on her mission to save her family and return their lives to normal. But is normal really as good as she thought it was? From beginning to end, Marcie Roman’s fantasy tale keeps us guessing while pushing her characters and readers to challenge what we believe about freedom, family, and, most importantly, ourselves."

—Suzanne Barefoot, former Middle School English teacher, Editor, and Writer

What happens when we actually get what we wish for? Twelve-year-old Amber sometimes longs for a more traditional family life, but when she gains access to a parallel universe in which society dictates exactly how families should look and operate, Amber realizes what a slippery slope defining normal" can be. Author Marcie Roman creates a fascinating, repressive parallel world in which surveillance is commonplace and behavior is narrowly prescribed, even as she asks the question: is our own society really so different? Journey to the Parallels is hard to put down, its worldbuilding grounded by the perspective of a gutsy and relatable young heroine."

—Janice Deal, author of The Decline of Pigeons and The Sound of Rabbits (forthcoming)

Journey to the Parallels

Marcie Roman

Fitzroy Books

Copyright © 2022 Marcie Roman. All rights reserved.

Published by Fitzroy Books

An imprint of

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27587

All rights reserved

https://fitzroybooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646032181

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646032198

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021943789

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Interior layout by Lafayette & Greene

Cover images and design © by C.B. Royal

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To my children, for believing

Part One: Here

1

On a sunny Wednesday morning in March, sometime between 8:15 and 8:30 a.m., Amber and Beetle’s mother went missing. Wait, you might ask, how is that possible? Hadn’t she been driving the car right up until they stopped in front of The Hastings School and she wished them a marvelous day?

That was one of the clues.

Amber and Beetle’s mother never used the word marvelous. Before that morning she had also never driven the speed limit, turned off the radio because it was a distraction, or, at a red light, sighed at her reflection in the rearview mirror and asked Amber, Do you possibly have a comb in your bag?

Amber did indeed carry a comb to use after PE, but in all of Amber’s twelve years she had never seen her mother brush, comb, or otherwise attempt to tame the overgrown wilderness that her mother laughingly called the Nest. When Amber was little, she’d half-expected a mouse or perhaps a small lizard to emerge from her mother’s unruly curls. Amber couldn’t imagine her comb surviving that battle. She shook her head and watched out the window as the car crept into the school parking lot at a painfully normal speed.

Ta-ta,Amber’s mother called as Amber and Beetle raced from the car.

Ta-ta?

***

Inside the school, Beetle headed down the hall toward his classroom while Amber took the stairs to the middle-school floor. The soles of her tennis shoes seemed to pound out San-dra, San-dra, San-dra, like the refrain from a song.

Amber had been addressing her mother by her first name since last year, especially when her mother acted embarrassing, which was often. Amber’s mother had encouraged this response as a sign of Amber’s growing independence. "I can think of worse nicknames. At least you’re not calling me Sandy. Blech." They were, after all, a family of multiple names. Beetle’s nickname had come about when Sandra, destroying clichés as was her tendency, declared him to be as quiet as a beetle. (The proper term, of course, is quiet as a mouse.) His real name was Bernard, named after a great-grandfather. Or maybe an uncle. Like clichés, Sandra never kept her stories straight. As would be true for most nine-year-olds, Beetle preferred the nickname. He served it well since he also liked to scuttle into small spaces—under beds, in the back of closets, or, when there wasn’t a space to hide in, inside his clothing. The necks of his T-shirts hung loosely from all his ducking in and out of them.

Amber was also a nickname, but not in the same way. Her real name was Ember (not named after anyone as far as she knew). When Sandra gave the name to the nurse at the hospital, the nurse assumed she’d meant Amber, so that was what was listed on the birth certificate. Whenever her mother called her Ember, Amber pretended not to hear.

***

Amber made it into class just as the bell rang, and by midday her mother’s odd behavior had been drowned out by a surge of more pressing matters. She bombed her math exam (not a surprise, math was her least favorite subject), forgot her book for English, and still couldn’t figure out what was going on with her friends, Debbie and Clara.

Amber had been going to school with Debbie and Clara since first grade, but they’d pretty much ignored her until last spring. That’s when they joined the softball team, and Coach Dee asked Amber if she could give tips to the newbies.

Amber didn’t like to brag, but she was considered the best first baseman in the school, and that included the softball and baseball teams. Even Coach said so. Being left-handed helped (not so when it came to her handwriting). She was fast too, could outrun almost any ball when stealing a base, and had made the winning double play in last year’s pre-season tournament. You’re the coolest, Debbie and Clara had raved when Amber came off the field.

Amber assumed they hadn’t been friendly to her before because they’d never gotten a chance to know her—they were part of the rich crowd, while Amber and Beetle, who attended The Hastings School on full scholarships, were not. But she also knew that Debbie and Clara liked winning. Soon they were inviting her over after school to play catch and for sleepovers after the weekend games. And although they often teased Amber about her clothes and living on the other side of town (I’d be scared to sleep at night, Debbie said), their own softball skills had bloomed with the friendship.

But with this year’s season just a few weeks away, perhaps Debbie and Clara had decided their lessons were complete. On Friday, Clara had canceled plans for a sleepover—Sorry, something came up. And yesterday, when Amber approached them in the hall, she’d heard a loud whisper of Amber Alert and saw them exchange a look. She’d tagged along as they walked to class and tried not to worry when she saw Debbie pass Clara a note.

Today, arriving in the lunchroom, Amber discovered they hadn’t saved her a seat at the table. Amber was late to lunch because someone had swaddled her locker lock with neon-green duct tape. She didn’t think it was meant to be decorative.

Seated in Amber’s usual spot was Leanne Puttermer. (Leanne Puttermer!) Amber took the vacant chair at the end. No one spoke to her.

Don’t, she ordered herself as her eyes started to tear. It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to sit. She’d mostly been friends with the boys before last year, but there was no way she’d go and sit at one of their tables. Instead, she focused on her lunch box. Her mother had gotten it at a secondhand shop on Main Street. The lunch box was vintage 1980s, bright-yellow plastic with a picture of the Bionic Woman, just like one her mother said she’d had as a child. Debbie thought it was super cool, and then showed up a week later with a red one with Wonder Woman on it, purchased new online.

Amber’s mother had packed her a cheese sandwich, an apple, and carrot sticks. This had been Amber’s lunch every day for as long as she could remember. Beetle was given the same thing, except his sandwich had mustard instead of mayonnaise and sometimes their mother mixed the sandwiches up and Amber had to suffer through mustard and Beetle’s sandwich would come home uneaten. When Amber complained about the lack of variety, her mother shrugged. Feel free to take over. Amber had made a shopping list that included tortillas, hummus, crackers, almond butter (the school was peanut free), oranges (the baby kind), and grapes. She knew better than to list anything fun like cookies—her mother rarely allowed sugary foods—or luncheon meat—they were vegetarian—but her mother had yet to buy any of the items. She’d probably lost the list. Classic Sandra. So another cheese sandwich it was, although Amber could tell that today it would be hard to swallow.

Tucked under the sandwich bag, Amber spotted a folded slip of paper. Amber was sure she was the only seventh grader at school, if not in the entire country, who still got motherly lunch notes. Not the Don’t throw away your retainer type, or Good luck on the test, but random notes on scraps of loose-leaf paper, signed xo Mom . Sometimes her mother would jot a poem, riddle, or joke. Last week it was What did one eye say to the other eye? Something between us smells.

Today’s note read, The witch warns of strange weather. Hope your mother has an umbrella.

That didn’t seem to fall into any of the usual categories, and it gave Amber something to concentrate on instead of the giggling from the other end of the table. The witch was a never-seen but often-referenced visitor to Amber’s apartment. The culprit, according to Amber’s mother, whenever items went missing. And items were always going missing: school forms, keys, winter gloves, sunglasses, and, most recently, Amber’s favorite crop shirt with the sparkly heart that she’d gotten as a hand-me-down from Clara. Amber and Beetle would hear their mother yell, Looks like the witch got us again. Until a day or a week or a month later when the item would reappear, often in plain sight, and their mother would yell, It’s about time, Witch!

Amber had, for a long time, believed in the mischievous witch. Now that she was old enough to know better, the witch’s thievery seemed to be one of the many examples of Sandra dodging blame. But Amber had never known her mother to put the witch’s name in writing. Somehow it made the witch seem less made up and more like a real participant in their lives, like an out-of-state grandmother or a celebrity in the news. Also, there’d been nothing strange about the weather. It had been a perfect early spring morning. Sunny, edging toward sixty degrees. There would be no need for an umbrella. But the note was forgotten as Amber felt water soak her jeans. She jumped up and saw the tipped-over water bottle emptying its contents in her direction.

We’re sorry, the other girls chorused in a way that made it obvious that they absolutely, most certainly, were not.

***

After school, Amber and Beetle dawdled as they always did—sifting through their lockers, pretending they’d forgotten a needed book so they could double back. Their mother was always late and Amber hated to wait in the thinning carpool line, like a kid not picked for a team (a feeling Beetle was familiar with, although Amber only understood it in simile-form). Just as the teachers started gathering stragglers to bring to the much-dreaded (boring!) aftercare program, Sandra would careen into the lot, spouting apologies about yet another job interview or her efforts to register voters for some local election that Amber was sure nobody cared about.

But today, as they exited the school doors, Amber saw in the front of the line the familiar station wagon with its dented fender and streaks of dirt. (Sandra considered rainstorms to be the most efficient form of car wash, and March had been dry.)

Teachers walked through the waiting students calling, Amber, Bernard!

Sandra stood next to the car on the driver’s side, even though the rule was to never exit the car while in line. Amber almost didn’t recognize her because she’d tucked her hair into, of all things, a baseball cap. But their car couldn’t be as easily disguised. Amber imagined it was as embarrassed as she was to have all those fancy SUVs and luxury vehicles staring at its rusted rear end.

There they are! Sandra called.

Amber saw Debbie whisper into Leanne’s ear. Leanne looked