You Must Fall In Love

Chapter Eight

It was a good thing that Rob was apparently off searching for some runaway trolley or another, because despite the fact that Jen wanted to drag her over to announce the good news, he was nowhere to be found.

"Oh well," said Jen. "No harm done. 'Sides, he'll find out soon enough."

"Thank God," said Christine.

Jen blinked at her.

"What, don't you like him? I know he can be a bit deadpan sometimes, but Rob's not that bad once you get around the mask."

The idea that Rob had any redeeming qualities at all was extremely difficult for Christine to wrap her head around.

But he gave you his phone.

So? She'd give herself her phone.

"He thinks he's so smart," said Christine. "And he hasn't said anything even remotely polite. I don't think he has any manners at all."

"Ah," said Jen. "Yes, I can see where you're coming from. So he's quite like you then."

Christine jerked her head up, closed her mouth, and hunted for her best retort, but while she was still fumbling with her tongue, Jen's phone vibrated.

"Oh, our ride's here."

The car in question was a worn blue Hyundai SUV, far too messy to be an Uber, but Christine was too cold to think. The drop-off bay outside the terminal was even more frigid than inside, but strangely enough, Jen didn't seem to care. She was already in the front seat, talking to the driver.

"Uh-huh," came the voice from inside. "Thirteenth Street, right? Okay, no problem."

Christine slipped past a pram-pushing couple, pried her left hand out of her jacket, pulled the back door open and slid inside. The seat was fuzzy gray and decently clean, but the entire car stank of forest-flavored Glade — it was a good thing that her nose wasn't nearly as sensitive to air freshener as it was to magic.

"Hey there," said the driver. "First time in Stagport, I presume?"

There was something in his voice that she couldn't quite place. He was white, pudgy, and looked comfortably semi-retired. Most native Singaporeans would have fallen over themselves trying to erase their accents in the presence of such an Enlightened Foreigner, but Christine was fine! She had her international school instincts!

"Yeah," she said, before remembering to smile. "I'm here to check out the university."

Turns out international school instincts didn't do much if you never talked to anyone.

"Ah, old Treighton!" grinned the driver. "Of course, of course. It makes sense that you'd be here, Christine."

Christine glanced over at Jen, wondering if she'd told the driver her name. Jen craned her head right back, as if wondering something completely different. Christine screwed up her brow in the most quizzical way she knew.

"D-A-D," mouthed Jen. "MY DAD."

Oh. Oh!

"Mr. Travers!" yelped Christine. "I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you!"

Walter Travers gave a deep belly laugh, matched in his oscillations by the Rudolf bobble-head on the dash.

"Of course you didn't! What kind of father expects his daughter's friends to recognize him? That's, like, so uncool."

"Daaaaaad," giggled Jen. "Not in front of Christine."

"Whatever you say, honey-pie."

Christine sank into her seat and stared anxiously at the driver's headrest, trying very hard to recall everything she knew about Walter Travers. For far too long — most of her childhood years, in fact — she had remembered him as Jen's Dad, a large and genial presence who did nothing but wander the Travers condo during playdates with an endless supply of snacks on tap.

But he was a bit more important than that. Singapore's Ministry of Otherworldly Affairs, the same government department that employed her mother and her cousin Lawrence as exorcists and mages, had invited Walter Travers to serve as their first-ever Head of Magical Research, chief cataloger of spells, spirits, and historical artifacts. He was, in short, a highly capable and extremely intelligent man.

So what was he doing in Stagport? As a matter of fact, why had he left?

"Can I ask a question, Mr. Travers?"

"Shoot," was the response. "And by the way, it's Walter."

"...Walter," said Christine, feeling incredibly disrespectful despite herself. First names were a big no-no in Singapore, especially for someone old enough to be your father.

"Oh, alright. Uncle Walter, then. But don't be too formal."

Christine nodded to show her thanks.

"Uncle Walter, Jen mentioned something about a project you were working on together. Something about a Heart Princess?"

"Ah!" said Walter. "Perfect question. Do you want the long answer, or the short one?"

Christine glanced out the window, but saw nothing but highway. The snow on the dividers looked more like black slush than the perfect white powder of her childhood Christmas fantasies.

She'd lived smack-dab in the middle of the equator her entire life. The center of the world's centerline. Where had she gotten the idea that Christmas was snowy? From the advertising jingles and mall cut-outs? From the merchandise?

From what she'd wanted it to be?

"I'm not sure I'll be able to understand the long answer," she said, "but you should probably give me that one."

"Oho," said Walter. "You're in danger."

"Dad's a good storyteller," said Jen, "but he can waffle on a lot. Still up for it?"

"Yeah," said Christine. "I mean, what else do I have to do?"

She'd said it out of nothing but ennui, but Walter guffawed, clearly tickled pink.

"You don't mince words, do you? Just like your mother. Alright, Miss Lau..."

"Lam," said Christine.

"Right," coughed Walter. "Sorry."

Silence.

"Way to go, Dad," said Jen. "You killed the mood."

"I didn't mean to," said Walter. "I really am sorry, Christine."

"It's okay, Uncle Walter," said Christine. "I didn't mean to be rude, either. I mean, I did forget that you were Jen's Dad."

Before they could lapse into another awkward silence, Jen swooped in with her best bedside manner.

"Man, you're both so silly. I'll tell the story."

"Oh, no," said Christine, giving Jen's headrest two tight raps. "Not you. I'm not letting you get into this."

"Aw, what? But I'm so good at it."

"Jen," said Christine, "every time you tell a story that has anything to do with magic, I end up not getting it at all, because you try to explain everything to me. Even the stuff I already know. Do it later."

"Fine," pouted Jen. "Be that way. But I get dibs."

Before Christine could point out that she was going to be stuck as a freeloading bum in Jen's room for the foreseeable future and therefore had no choice but to give dibs, the car slid to a sudden halt.

"Oh, this is it, right?" said Uncle Walter. "Whitetail Student Lodge."