And the box is empty, except for one item.
As soon as Mamma sees it, she bursts into tears.
Gwen’s charm bracelet is lying inside. My heart pounds so hard I can’t even hear myself think as I touch the gator charm and the owl and the locket and the key and the topaz birthstone, hanging from the silver chain. “Her charms!” I cry out.
“And this here’s her Cajun fleur-de-lis and traiteur box — and her blue bottle.” Mamma hugs me tight against her, and a burst of emotion fills up my eyes.
The bracelet is exactly the same as I remember when Gwen wore it around her wrist. “It’s been sitting in this jewelry box all these years?”
Silently, Mamma nods, then pulls the bracelet out of the box, straightening out all the little charms along her palm. “I always thought Gwen was wearing her bracelet the night she drowned. Always figured it was on the bottom of the bayou, buried in the mud and silt, or swallowed by a gator.”
“Her family must of forgotten to check Gwen’s secret chamber.”
“Probably figured the same thing I did. That the bracelet was lost in the bayou that night.”
I run my finger along the row of pretty charms. “Before she went out in the rain to play Truth or Dare, she took it off and put it in here for safekeeping. Remember her note calling you to come to the bridge that night?”
Mamma bites at her lips and shakes her head. “We’d planned to play Truth or Dare the next rainstorm that hit. Thought we’d be daring and tough. Prove we weren’t afraid.”
Taking a gulp of air, I lift my eyes and Mamma looks up at the very same time. “You think she wants us to do something with her charm bracelet?”
Mamma nods. “I do think so. Maybe this is another reason she was hanging on to this old world. She didn’t want the house to fall apart or get bulldozed down. Her most important possessions lost forever.”
“I think she wanted you to find them, Mamma. I think she wanted you to know she’s okay. And she was worried you’d leave Bayou Bridge before you found her book and bracelet.”
Mamma presses the bracelet against her lips. “Shelby Jayne, I think you’re right. And you set it all off. Like a chain reaction. Soon as you pulled out that very first blue bottle note.”
We hold hands even tighter as we walk back to the boat. A few minutes later, we’re kneeling in front of the stone angel monument and Mamma is running her hand along the inscription of Gwen’s name.
She closes her eyes, then leans her head back, like she’s feeling the sun as it flits back and forth behind the clouds. “Oh, Shelby Jayne, I don’t know what to do. Should I bury the charm bracelet down in the dirt beside her?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and notice that the hard lump that’s been there for a year is starting to go away. I think about everything that’s happened, about Gwen and Mamma and me and all the pieces of Gwen’s life — and that’s when a piece of the puzzle suddenly clicks right into place. And completes the picture.
“Not yet,” I tell her excitedly. “I think there’s another reason Gwen has been haunting the graveyard and the bayou — and me.”
Mamma raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t ask what I’m talking about.
“I still need to lay it all out in my mind first.”
She nods, patient, and her lips are smiling just a little bit despite the tears in her eyes.
A gusty wind rises over the water and twilight is coming on, earlier than usual as October rushes forward.
Mamma rises to her feet. She reaches out to take my hand and I have so much emotion inside me that it’s leaking out my eyes. “Let’s get on home before we get wet, bébé.”
A light rain spatters the sidewalks as I get to school Monday morning.
I brace myself as I spot Tara and Alyson coming out of the bathroom.
When I touch my bracelet with my fingers, all those charms give me strength and I figure those girls can’t affect me no more.
Holding my head high, I breeze past them like they’re invisible. Even their gossipy whispers don’t do nothin’ at all. Like a fly just buzzing around and then gone on the next breeze. I’ve got stories they’ll never know. And ghost secrets they’d kill for.
Stopping at my locker, I dial the combination, get out my math book, and slam the door.
Beside me, another locker three doors down slams shut at the exact same moment.
I look up and laugh as I realize that our movements are exactly the same at the same time. Like a coincidence.
It’s the girl, Larissa. I think back to when we bumped into each other the day I ran away from school.
I remember the ragged jeans, the skinny legs, the scars on the side of her face.
I take a breath and get ready to ask her the question I’ve wanted to ask ever since she warned me away from the cemetery bridge. “Did you get those scars from falling off that broken pier into the bayou?”
I have a feeling nobody has ever bothered to want to know the truth before.
She watches me with her quiet brown eyes and nods. She stands there, not moving, not running away, her eyes holding mine. “Fell. Pushed. Don’t rightly know exactly how I ended up in the water. All I know is I hit those jagged boards, them rusted nails.”
“Were there gators coming after the blood in the water?”
She nods, but doesn’t speak.
“How’d you get out?”
She lifts her shoulders. “They did drag me out over the pilings, pulled me back onto the pier. But I was stupid. Too chicken to leave. Too dumb to know they didn’t really care about me, although they pretended to at first.”
I think about that. How Mirage ran away, afraid. And how I did the very same thing, even though I was brave enough — or scared enough — to grab my charm bracelet first when Tara snatched it away from me. How Larissa let herself get bullied. And how Gwen was the tough girl. She stayed when she should have run. Stayed and it cost her her life.
I never see Larissa with anybody else. No group of friends, not even one single, special, best friend. She glances down, her hair sweeping the edge of the textbook she holds against her chest.
“Um, I’m Shelby. You know I moved here a couple of months ago.”
“I know. I was new last year. Used to live outside Jeanerette. My parents bought that old antique store. Bayou Bridge Antiques.”
I catch my breath, clutching my own textbook.
“I saw you come into the store with your mamma. Back when you first got here.”
“Really?” My heart starts to make a funny thumping in my chest.
“I was in the storeroom unpacking boxes.”
“That day I was there,” I began, “I saw the most wonderful doll collection.”
“Oh, I love those dolls! Although some people might think we’re too old for dolls.”
I shake my head, hardly able to speak, but remembering. Remembering Gwen’s house and the doll in her bookcase. “Oh, no,” I tell her in a rush. “I don’t think you can ever be too old for dolls!”
“My favorite is an old porcelain doll in a beautiful rose-colored lace dress,” Larissa says. “She has golden curls and a tiny chip on her chin. Sometimes I make up stories to explain how she got that little chip. It’s my mamma’s doll. She got it when her sister died, but my mamma was only nine when it happened.”
I stare at her and my legs go weak. As I lean against the locker, the peculiar buzzing in my ears returns, stronger than ever.
Larissa says, “Sorry, once I get started talking, I end up telling my whole life story. My mamma said I can get the porcelain doll out one of these days and hold her. If I’m very careful. Um, would you like to come back to the store sometime?”
I can scarcely speak. “I’d love to come. I know that doll. I mean, I used to.” I stop, not sure how to explain.
Tiny frown lines wrinkle Larissa’s forehead. But then she smiles and her smile is one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen. “How could you know it?”
I take a deep breath. “I
think we were meant to meet. I mean, it’s a long story.” I stop again, then ask, “Do you believe in best friends?”
Larissa nods, biting at her lips. “I think so. I hope so.”
“Do you believe in traiteurs?”
“Of course. My grandmother is a traiteur. But she’s been gone a while now.”
I laugh and feel myself blush, tears filling up my throat.
“I’ve got an idea,” Larissa says, her voice growing less timid. “Would you like to come over one day this week? We could take the porcelain doll out of the case and look at her together.”
“I’d love to.” And all I can think about is showing Larissa and her mother Gwen’s hidden scrapbook and her charm bracelet and all the memories that have been lost for so long. “Um, can I ask you a question?” This is the hardest part and I’m not sure if Larissa will hate me for mentioning it.
She studies me carefully, waiting for me.
“Would you ever want to come over and let me and my mamma give you one of her special healing creams? For those scars, I mean. It’s not fair those kids did that….” My voice trails off. “Well, you know.”
“My parents want to take me to a special doctor one day. When we got some money again, that is.”
My heart twists inside my chest as I think about the new scar my own mamma has now after jumping into the bayou to rescue me. “I think she might have just the right healing spell for you. To erase scars, I mean.”
A slow grin starts to spread across Larissa’s face. “How about let’s make up a magical cream that will erase those girls?”
I start giggling at that, and I’m pretty sure I’ve just found my new best friend in Bayou Bridge.
Later the rain clears up and the sun comes out bright and lemon yellow. After I get home from school, I go out to the back porch while Mamma starts dinner.
Miss Silla Wheezy follows me as I jump down the steps, rubbing against my legs while Mister Possum Boudreaux chases a lizard down by the elephant ears.
Sunshine sprinkles across my shoulders as I walk over to the blue bottle tree, golden light bouncing off all that blue glass, making it sparkle like it’s got magic.
My eye catches one of the blue bottles at just the right angle — and there’s a note inside! My thoughts go crazy and my gut flips upside down. Could it be another one of those lost notes from Gwen?
Stretching up on my toes, I slip the blue bottle off its branch, then shake it upside down to get the note out.
Quickly, I unfold the slip of paper and smile. The words are written in my mamma’s familiar handwriting.
We’re having an early supper, shar, so hurry and wash up. Taking a glazed yam cake over to the Moutons’ down the bayou. I hear their mamma is sitting up and talking on her own now. It’s cause for a celebration — and I want you to meet their daughter, Livie.
A warm and exciting feeling washes over me — because I came out here with a blue bottle note of my own.
I slip the note from Mamma into my pocket, then take out the note I wrote a few minutes ago in my bedroom.
Frowning at the massive, sparkly blue bottle tree, I wonder which bottle to use to be sure she finds it.
I take out a piece of string with nine knots I found in one of the cupboards, put it around the neck of one of the bottles, then tie the ends good and tight so it don’t slip off. Finally, I hang the bottle with the string on the very front branch, just like a Christmas tree ornament. No way Mamma’ll miss that. I’ll bring her out here after we finish eating and nonchalantly walk her past the right bottle.
I know why she never put up those strings of Christmas lights she bought at Bayou Bridge Antique Store. She’d left all those notes from Gwen inside of the blue bottles, afraid to take them out, afraid to leave them, afraid to even go close. If only she’d known that Gwen was hovering on the edge of time and waiting for her best friend to set her free.
Think I’ll get my daddy to help me string them lights up as a surprise for her.
The cat’s throaty purring is driving me bonkers. “Okay, okay, Miss Silla Wheezy, I’ll pick you up, you lazy old thing.”
Holding the cat in the crook of my arm, I unfold the note I wrote and double-check the message written in my neatest cursive.
Meet me at the Bayou Bridge Antique Store after school tomorrow. I have something wonderful to show you, and it’s the best surprise ever!
I fold the note back up and pop it through the neck of the blue bottle, then tap the glass so it sways through the air on its branch.
Mission accomplished. I can’t wait for tomorrow. Not sure I’ll sleep all night long.
Getting down on the cool grass, I lie under the shade of the blue bottle tree, the warmth of Miss Silla Wheezy curled on my neck. Drumming her raspy purr straight into my chest.
Mister Possum Boudreaux goes flying past me like he’s gone nuts. He darts through the elephant ears, rustles up the cattails. Then stands stock-still on the bank, staring out at the afternoon fog curling away across the water.
I sit up with a start as the shimmery image of a girl in a pirogue paddles across the water. Her golden hair is flying in an invisible breeze. My throat gets a huge lump and my eyes sting with tears. But in a good way. Gwen’s oar dips into the water and she disappears into the fog. I know she’s gone for good. But there are more messages to find in the blue bottles. Other stories I’ll hear someday.
When I look up into the blue sky of all those bottles shimmering in the crack of sunlight overhead, I think about how bottles and messages and healing charm bracelets worked some mighty miracles.
I think about Larissa and my daddy and my mamma, and I know there are still more amazing things to come.
Most especially, I think about how bottles and charms worked the miracle of erasing my own scars. The scars I’ve been carrying too long on the edges of my heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A bayou full of love and thanks goes to my husband, Rusty, my sons, my mother, my sisters, as well as Tracey Adams and Lisa Ann Sandell for your endless support, love, and belief in me as I made it through the crazy-fast book deadline and came out smiling and sane on the other side.
I’m so grateful to the Scholastic team, including: the incredibly amazing art director Elizabeth B. Parisi; as well as my fantastic publicist, Amanda Vega; production editor extraordinaire Starr Baer; the fabulous associate editor Jody Corbett; and talented copyeditor Monique Vescia.
Huge thank-yous to my super helpful readers: my very wise and intuitive son Jared, wonderful friends Nancy Hatch, Marilyn Prewitt, and Cindy-Rae Jones who keeps me on my Southern toes and off the fainting couch.
I’m very grateful to the many special traiteurs I was privileged to meet and who spent hours talking to me. Deborah LeBlanc, Alan Simon at Vermilionville (Cajun & Creole Heritage Park), Becca Begnaud, Annie and E.J. Suier, Roberta Daigle, and Eula Berthelot, who keep faith, hope, and charity alive in the small towns of Louisiana.
Much appreciation to Glen Pitre and Michelle Benoit of Côte Blanche Productions whose amazing documentary, Good for What Ails You inspired me many times over and who welcomed me to their home with warm hospitality.
A heart full of love and affection goes to very special friends, Elward and Olive Stephens on Four-Mile Bayou, and to John Heald who introduced us.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberley Griffiths Little is the author of The Healing Spell, as well as a dozen short stories that have appeared in numerous publications and the critically acclaimed novels Breakaway, Enchanted Runner, and The Last Snake Runner. She is the winner of the Southwest Book Award.
She grew up reading a book a day and scribbling stories, while dreaming of one day seeing her name in the library card catalog. In her opinion, the perfect Louisiana meal is sausage gumbo and rice, topped off with warm beignets, although crawfish étouffée runs a close second.
Kimberley lives in a solar adobe house near the banks of the Rio Grande in New Mexico with her husband and their three sons. Come
visit her at www.kimberleygriffithslittle.com.
ALSO BY KIMBERLEY GRIFFITHS LITTLE
The Healing Spell
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Kimberley Griffiths Little
Cover art © 2011 by Erin Maguire
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
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 written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Little, Kimberley Griffiths.
Circle of secrets / Kimberley Griffiths Little. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A year after her mother has deserted the family, eleven-year-old Shelby goes to stay with her, deep in the Louisiana bayou, where they both confront old hurts and regrets.
ISBN 978-0-545-16561-7
[1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Guilt—Fiction. 3. Ghosts—Fiction. 4. Bayous—Fiction. 5. Louisiana—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.L72256Ci 2011
[Fic] — dc22
2011000889
First edition, October 2011
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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