Some Kind of Happiness

by Claire Legrand

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  Everyone is quiet. “We wanted to see you,” Mom says, and her smile is so thin and flips my stomach.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Grandpa sets down his fork and wipes his mouth. “Avery, why don’t we let them have the room to themselves?”

  After Grandpa and Avery leave, I am left stuck between my parents.

  (Avery, please come back.)

  “So!” Dad tries to sound cheerful. “You know Donovan in 4C?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Finch got him his first car last week.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. Donovan Finch is now officially a driver.”

  “That’s disturbing.”

  “I agree,” says Mom. “They should raise the driver’s license age to eighteen.”

  “Or twenty-five,” Dad suggests. “Or never.”

  Mom laughs, kind of. Silence fills the kitchen like a cloud.

  Dad blows out a breath. “So, Finley, we’ve got something we need to tell you, and it’s not going to be an easy thing for us to say, or for you to hear.”

  “You might not want to talk to us about it at first,” Mom says, “not for a while, and that’s okay.”

  “Mom?”

  She reaches across the table for my hand. “Yeah, sweetie?”

  I am right between okay and freaking out. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  (I know exactly what, but I cannot admit it yet, not even to myself, not in these last few seconds before everything changes.)

  Then they tell me.

  The colors and sounds of the kitchen fade away into static—except for certain words. They buzz around my brain like flies:

  We’ll always love each other . . . just not in the same way we used to.

  Your dad and I . . . we just want to be happy. And we aren’t anymore.

  Sometimes you can love someone, very much, and then things change.

  This is not because of you. Okay, Fin?

  (No, no, no, no.)

  “. . . so we think it’d be a good idea if you came home with us,” Dad is saying, “instead of waiting a couple more weeks. Then we can start figuring out some things together, and we can talk through what comes next. There’ll be a lot of big changes, but—”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  They stare at me. “Sweetie,” Mom says, “I know this is hard, but—”

  “If you make me leave, I’ll hate you forever.”

  Dad tries to hug me, but I jerk away and go to the other side of the room. “I’m having fun, okay? I’m going to stay until the middle of August like we said I would. I shouldn’t have to leave because of your problems.”

  Mom starts to cry, but I really couldn’t care less. I am alone in my static-filled world where sounds cannot hurt me and words cannot hurt me and my parents cannot hurt me.

  “Fin, we need to start tackling this as a family,” Dad says, “and it’ll be easier if you’re home with us.”

  “Home? What home? What family? We’re not a family anymore. That’s what you just said, isn’t it?” I point down the hall toward the rest of the house. I don’t even know what I am saying. My voice pinches and cracks, and I hate it. “This is my family. This is my home. You brought me here, you made me come here, and I’m going to stay. Isn’t that what you wanted? I’m staying. You can leave. You can leave.”

  Then I walk away, past Grandpa standing at the door to his office, and up the stairs, and I shut myself into my room, and I lie very still on my bed, and I breathe, and breathe, and breathe.

  • • •

  Avery comes into my room before bed. “Hey. Your parents left, huh?”

  If I open my mouth to answer her, I will begin crying and never stop.

  “You want to watch a movie in my room?”

  The only safe thing to do is remain perfectly still, right here in my bed, with my notebook.

  Avery sits down beside me. “Fin, talk to me.”

  I find myself wishing I were Jack, even for ten seconds, even though he hates me now, so I could say exactly what I am feeling with no problem.

  I find a clean page in my notebook and write it instead:

  D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

  (Seven-letter word for “a family, split in half.”)

  Avery does not say anything. She is getting pretty good at reading me.

  Instead she lies down beside me and pulls the blankets up to our chins, which is just how I like it. With your blanket pulled up that high, it is easy to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

  37

  THEY SAY BAD THINGS HAPPEN in threes, and that seems to be true:

  1. Jack got mad at me.

  2. D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

  3. The twins got poison ivy.

  Aunt Bridget brought them over after breakfast, and their legs are red and itchy.

  Grandma kneels in front of Dex. “Dexter. Look at me. How did this happen, sweetheart?”

  “I have no idea when they were exposed,” says Aunt Bridget. “They haven’t been anywhere near poison ivy this weekend. It makes no sense.”

  Dex does not look at Grandma. He looks right at me.

  “It was a witch’s curse,” he says, smiling proudly. “We helped the queen fight.”

  “These are battle scars,” Ruth explains, as if Grandma and Aunt Bridget are three years old. “It’s not a big deal, Mom. It was just a party. Haven’t you ever snuck out of the house before?”

  The room turns cold.

  Ruth looks nervous all of a sudden. She looks at me, at Avery. “I was just kidding,” she says quietly. “It’s not a big deal. Really.”

  Grandma stands up. “I see.”

  (Am I the only one who sees her wince, like moving hurts?)

  Aunt Bridget frowns. “A witch’s curse? What is that supposed to mean? Is this part of your game? Dex, tell me what happened. Right now. What party?”

  With everyone staring at him, Dex bursts into tears and tells the whole story, wailing and snotting his face. I stand there, unable to move. This is not what was supposed to happen. It was just a party; it was our party. Nothing happened. We were safe.

  When Dex is done, Grandma heads for the stairs. I am so afraid that it feels like the rest of the world has stopped moving and is frozen on ice!

  “Mom?” asks Aunt Bridget. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m putting a stop to this.”

  I hear the door to my room open, and I understand.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  “Grandma?” I run up the stairs after her. “What are you doing?”

  Avery follows me up the stairs. She is saying something to me, to Grandma. About the party, about everything. She is sorry. She takes full responsibility.

  But I don’t care. My legs aren’t moving quickly enough.

  Grandma is in my bedroom. Lifting up my pillow. Shaking my notebook out of the pillowcase.

  I do not think. I run at her, grab my notebook, and pull. “Put it back! Stop it! That’s mine, it’s mine!”

  Strong arms come around me.

  “Finley, it’s okay,” Grandpa says. “We’re not going to throw it away. It’s only for a little while, sweetheart.”

  “Where are you taking it? Please, give it back!” I kick the air, kick Grandpa. I see Avery, in the corner. “Avery! Get it, Avery! Make her stop!”

  Avery sounds like she might start crying. “Fin, it’ll be okay. I’m so sorry, Grandma, this is my fault. The party was my idea, okay? I swear. Finley didn’t do anything.”

  Grandma tucks my quilt and pillows back into place. “Avery, I never imagined you would do something so irresponsible. Sneaking your eight-year-old cousins out of the house in the middle of the night?”

  “I know, it was stupid—”

  Aunt Bridget stands at the door, the twins behind her. “What on earth is going on?”

  “Bridget,” says Grandpa, “take Dex and Ruth downstairs. You’ll upset them.
”

  With Grandpa distracted, I wiggle loose and grab my notebook, but Grandma has a good grip on it.

  “Please, Grandma, give it back!”

  “Finley, I’m trying to help you,” Grandma says soothingly. “You’ve been spending too much time in this made-up world of yours. It isn’t healthy, don’t you see? It’s confusing your cousins and you, too. We’ll all have dinner tonight, and you’ll stay downstairs with us. We’ll play some card games. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

  I am crying so hard, I lose hold of my notebook. I can’t find it.

  Where is it?

  Where is it?

  Grandma gathers me into a tight hug.

  “Let go!” I try to get loose, but she is strong. She sits on the bed with me in her lap.

  “Shh, Finley, shh,” she whispers, but I will not listen, not to her, not to any of them.

  I shut my eyes and twist and push. “Give it back. Please. Please.”

  “Sit here with me for a while.” Then she says, so soft, “You’re going to be fine. We’ve got you. We’ve all got you.”

  “My parents,” I whisper. “They’re getting a . . .”

  (D-I-V-O-R-C-E.)

  Grandma hugs me even closer, and I am angry at her, but I never want her to let me go. She is warm, and she is sick, and she is mine.

  “I know, darling,” she says to me. “It’s all right. You can cry. I’m here now. Breathe, sweet girl.”

  I shake my head. Breathing is too hard. I grab on to Grandma’s shirt.

  Grandma starts to rock me. She smells like cookies and perfume and clean sheets.

  “Finley girl, Finley girl, what does she see?” Grandma begins to sing. “I see a birdie, flying so free.”

  No one sings to me except Mom, during storms. I press my face into Grandma’s sleeve. I am so tired.

  (D-I-V-O-R-C-E.)

  “Finley girl, Finley girl, what does she see? I see a butterfly, sweet as can be.”

  My head hurts. If I could lie down, I would feel better. Grandma’s arms rock and rock. Her voice floats like feathers.

  “Finley girl, Finley girl, what does she see?” Grandma kisses my head. “I see a house, and a tall green tree.”

  “Please,” I whisper, “give it back. It’s mine.”

  (A family, split in half.)

  Grandma’s arms tighten around me. “I’m so sorry, Finley girl . . .”

  The Dark Ones whispered, “What do you see, little queen?”

  “I see nothing,” answered the queen, and laid her head in the dirt.

  • • •

  When I wake up, afternoon sunlight fills the room with gold.

  Grandma is sleeping beside me.

  Her wig sits crookedly on her head. Her eyelids are thin, and her hands curl around the pillow.

  She took my notebook.

  She took my Everwood.

  But she looks like a child, sleeping like this. She snores like Dad.

  I put my hand on her arm. Warm, small, delicate. Her makeup has rubbed off, and I see the wrinkles of her skin.

  Finley girl, Finley girl, what do you see?

  I see a Hart, and she looks like me.

  38

  WITH GRANDMA ASLEEP, AVERY IN her room, and Grandpa nowhere to be found, I sneak outside and hurry through the pit, across the Bridge, and into the Everwood.

  “No matter where you try to run,” taunted the Dark Ones, pounding on her shoulders, “you’ll be left behind by everyone!”

  “A pretty family, split in half,” began one of them.

  “It’s almost enough to make you . . . laugh!”

  The Dark Ones’ cackles beat against the queen’s head like fists.

  When I see the Bone House rising up out of the field like a lonely monster, my lungs feel too full for my body.

  I climb the porch and step inside. “Hello? Jack? Anyone home?”

  I wait, afraid to move. Maybe Jack is cleaning somewhere. Maybe he is out back visiting the Travers family. Maybe he will crash into me with a hug.

  But the Bone House is silent today. I am alone.

  I find the Travers family shrine under the stairs and sit in front of it, staring at the ruined photograph.

  “What do I do?” I ask them.

  “There you are,” said the ghost of the wizard, floating through the cold castle walls. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “Never,” said the queen, her voice faint, for the Dark Ones had stolen so much of it away. “I have been on a hunt for . . .” The queen paused. It was difficult to think with these weights on her back. “I cannot remember.”

  “We don’t like ghosts,” complained one of the Dark Ones. “Make it go away.”

  “You don’t want to talk to him,” hissed another. “He’s got nasty ghost warts and vile ghost breath.”

  “Thank you for finding my family, girl queen,” said the wizard’s ghost. “The castle is not so empty now, and we are not so alone.”

  “Have you happened to see,” whispered the queen, “a pirate boy here?”

  “Why, as a matter of fact I have. But not for some time. Listen now. Listen.”

  The wizard’s ghost pointed out toward the Everwood. “The trees are whispering something.”

  “Trees can’t talk,” spat the Dark Ones. “Ghosts only tell lies.”

  “Go find him.” The ghostly hand on the queen’s shoulder dripped through her like cold rain. “No one in the Everwood should be alone. That’s what the trees say.”

  I wander the house, seeing what the Baileys have done in my absence. Some leaves have blown in to scatter the floor, but if you ignore the missing half of the house, and the black marks we cannot scrub away, it almost looks like a family’s home again. There are plastic cups and paper plates. Someone has stacked old blankets in the corner of the living room.

  On a wall in the kitchen I find a mural. The colors are bright and new. There are four boys and four girls. Dark heads and golden heads.

  One of the girls isn’t painted as well as the others, but I love it the best. It is me. I look wild and have freckles and am holding a notebook.

  I am wearing a crown.

  • • •

  When I get to the Baileys’ house, I am so nervous, I almost turn around—but I have to tell Jack that I am sorry, that my parents are splitting me into pieces, that I miss him.

  I have to explain how I know that Cole painted the mural in the Bone House—except for the picture of me. Jack painted me; it’s obvious and messy, and mine, and his.

  But when I get to the front door, I hear voices around the house.

  One of them is Grandpa’s.

  I tiptoe past the creaking wooden porch and peek around the corner to see the dirt driveway, Grandpa, and Mr. Bailey. They’re arguing.

  Grandpa hands Mr. Bailey an envelope. “Please take it, Geoffrey.”

  “I’m tired of your money,” Mr. Bailey says. “Go home to your castle and leave us alone. I won’t say anything to anyone, you know that.”

  “And what’ll you do for your boys?” asks Grandpa sternly. “School’s coming up. They’ll need clothes, and supplies—”

  “Oh, don’t play stupid. The other day my youngest found three backpacks with ribbons tied on, sitting on the porch. Stuffed full of school supplies. Wonder where they got those, huh?”

  A Pack for Every Back, I think. Grandma gave the Bailey boys backpacks? But she hates the Baileys.

  (They’re a blight on the town.)

  “Somebody’s got to do it,” says Grandpa.

  “I can take care of my own kids,” insists Mr. Bailey.

  “Some days you can. Other days . . .”

  “You know, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad if your family hadn’t—”

  “Don’t even start with that,” Grandpa says, his voice low and dangerous. “You had problems long before the fire, and you know it.”

  My blood runs slow and heavy at the word fire. What fire? Not the fire?

  Everything is
quiet. Mr. Bailey looks angry, like he’s about to yell at Grandpa, then he stops, and looks away into the woods.

  Grandpa seems like he might be about to say something too, but instead he pats Mr. Bailey gently on the shoulder, presses the envelope into Mr. Bailey’s hands, and leaves.

  I wait, listening to the fading sound of his tires crunching on the dirt road. I am thinking hard, trying to sort through what I have heard, when Mr. Bailey comes around the porch and finds me.

  We stare at each other.

  “I can’t escape you Harts today.” He grabs a half-empty bottle from the porch rail and takes a big sip. “What do you want, Finley?”

  I do not know what to say. I wonder if he even remembers how he yelled at me the other night.

  “What’s the matter? Need some money?” Mr. Bailey takes a stack of bills out of the envelope and shakes them out across the floor. “Your grandpa gives me tons.”

  I stand, shaking a one-hundred-dollar bill off my foot. Mr. Bailey’s breath smells today; I should probably go, but the sight of all that money spilled across the wood keeps me in place. It looks wrong there, rude and ugly.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Well, once upon a time,” he says, taking another sip and then tossing his empty bottle into the trees. “Isn’t that how those stories you write start? Once upon a time there was a family of snobs who lived in a castle and didn’t want anyone to know about the bad things they did. So they paid the lazy bum across the river to make sure he never told anyone their deepest, darkest, most terrible secret.”

  Mr. Bailey watches me. “Do you get it?”

  “The family of snobs is my family,” I whisper. “And the lazy bum is . . .”

  “Yep, that’s me. King of the bums.” Mr. Bailey’s smile is made of razor blades and mean jokes. “And the secret is this, Miss Finley Hart: There was a fire back in these woods, a long time ago. And your family started it.”

  I back away from him. The world pounds in rhythm with my heart. “You’re lying.”

  He shakes his head. “Girl, I wish I was.”

  “Dad?” Jack’s voice calls out from inside. “Who are you talking to?”

  Before Jack can see me, I jump off the money-covered porch and run.

  39

  AT TWO THIRTY THE NEXT afternoon, Avery does not drive me to Dr. Bristow’s office.