Some Kind of Happiness

by Claire Legrand

  Grandpa does.

  We do not speak.

  This is all right with me. Since yesterday my mind has been a dark and dangerous maze, like the forest I once thought the Everwood to be.

  Mr. Bailey was lying. He had to be lying.

  And yet it makes sense.

  My aunts were heroes, but no one in my family has ever talked about it.

  The fire took place twenty-two years ago. Dad was fourteen. Eventually he left, and he never looked back.

  He had an argument with Grandma.

  Pieces fit together, but many are still missing.

  I cannot believe this is true, because if it is, that means—

  I glance at Grandpa.

  He looks exactly as he has since coming home on Sunday—tired and red-eyed and like his skin no longer fits quite right.

  The radio is on, but he is not singing.

  (Not my Grandpa. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.)

  I almost tell him I heard him talking to Mr. Bailey; the words are right there, ready to jump.

  But if I tell him, if I ask him for the truth—

  I grab Grandpa’s hand, and he holds on tight.

  I do not want to know the truth. Not now. Not yet.

  Not ever.

  • • •

  When Dr. Bristow joins me in her office, she is her familiar, cheerful self.

  “Hey there, Finley,” she says, heading for her minifridge. “Want something to drink? I’ve got juice today. That pretentious, overpriced kind you get at coffee shops. Decided to splurge this morning, and I’ve felt guilty about it all day.”

  “Sure.”

  “So.” Dr. Bristow settles in with her coffee. “You had an eventful weekend, I hear.”

  Ah. So we are getting right to it. Fine.

  I sip my juice and shrug, keeping my eyes on the floor.

  “Do you want to talk to me about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “You know, I snuck out of the house quite a few times when I was your age,” Dr. Bristow says. “Never for anything illicit. Just messing around with the neighbor kids, like you did, having fun.”

  Illicit. Seven-letter word for “against the law.”

  (Like starting fires and not telling anyone about it?)

  (It cannot be true.)

  Dr. Bristow sits back. “I’m glad you befriended the Bailey boys. They need it.”

  “You know them?”

  “Sure. My husband’s the principal at the middle school, remember? Cole and Jack. Smart kids, and sweet.”

  I follow the weaving path of my shoelaces. Under, over. Under, over.

  “Jack’s about your age, right? Maybe a little older.”

  Hearing someone else say his name is like a hand around my throat. “I think so.”

  “They were hanging out with you and your cousins, right?”

  I nod.

  “Why do you think your grandparents have a problem with that?”

  Because Mr. Bailey knows their secret. It all makes so much sense now.

  (But he’s lying, he has to be!)

  I shrug.

  “Finley. Hey, can you look at me for a sec?”

  The queen found herself transfixed by the seer’s milky white eyes.

  The seer smiled. “Hello, child. There you are. It is nice to see your face.”

  On the queen’s back the Dark Ones shrieked at the invasion of the seer’s magic. They dug harder into the queen’s back, pressing her lower to the ground.

  “Resist,” they hissed. “Resist her.”

  “Child,” said the seer kindly, “I only want to help you. You know that, don’t you? I only want to help you regain your crown.”

  Then the seer moved closer and said, “The ancient guardians need you, my queen. The Everwood needs you.”

  The phone on Dr. Bristow’s desk rings, and she goes to answer it.

  I am so tired, I feel dizzy.

  “Finley, I’m sorry,” says Dr. Bristow, “but I have to go talk to another patient for a couple of minutes. I never do this, but it’s kind of an emergency.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Is that okay? I’ll be right back.”

  I stare at her shoes and nod.

  (Do not look into her eyes, Finley, whatever you do.)

  (Her eyes will ensnare you; she will see right into your soul.)

  Once Dr. Bristow is out of the room, everything is quiet—except for the sound of birds singing in the tree outside her open window.

  Her open window.

  I stare at it, and I form a plan. My heart pounds out the steps like the bullet points of a list.

  I don’t know how long psychologist emergencies take to resolve. There is no time for me to debate this.

  I hurry toward the window and climb out. It was not particularly wise of Dr. Bristow to leave her window open. I cannot be the only kid who sits in her office desperate for escape.

  I doubt she will leave the window open after this.

  I pull the window shut behind me and crawl through the row of hedges outside, scraping up my arms and legs. Once I have cleared them, I pause to get my bearings.

  Dr. Bristow could stick her head out the window any moment now. I peek back through the hedges to check, and catch my reflection in the glass.

  The queen stared at her reflection, and all at once everything became clear.

  She saw what she truly was, what she had always been before arriving at the Everwood, and what she would always be: an orphan girl, sad and lonely. Obsessive. Troubled. Different. The daughter of a ruined family.

  Her adventures in the Everwood had been nothing but a great pretend.

  She had discovered the secret of the Everwood, and it was unthinkable.

  The Dark Ones jeered. “Finley girl, Finley girl, what do you see? I see a queen who will never be free!”

  And the queen knew they were right.

  She had tried to do the noble thing. She had tried to leave the Everwood, to rid it of her own poison.

  But she could never leave. At last she accepted that horrible truth.

  The Everwood was the only place left to her that she understood. It was a place where she could live in peace with the Dark Ones on her back. It was a place she could control.

  She would be alone, but that was for the best. She had always been alone, and when you are alone, you cannot love, and the secrets of others cannot hurt you.

  So she tore the crown from her head and ran west as fast as her legs could carry her.

  40

  I THINK I MIGHT BE lost.

  I am following the route to Dr. Bristow’s office in reverse, keeping to the trees at the side of the road.

  The queen clawed her way deeper into the forest, raising welts on her skin.

  I am trudging through a cornfield when it begins to rain. I assume the storm has been building all day, but I have not been paying attention.

  The sky opened up and unleashed a storm. The rain fell in icy sheets, and the lightning flashed. But not even the roiling storm clouds were as dark as the creatures on the queen’s back.

  “Run away and hide,” they whispered. “We’ll hide in the Everwood, where the monsters go. We’ll sleep when we want to sleep, and hide when we want to hide, and no one will tell us what to do, and no one will have any secrets.”

  It is dark out now, and the rain isn’t stopping. My clothes are plastered to my skin.

  When I find the train tracks, I follow them. I will follow them to wherever Jack once dreamed of going. I will go into the deepest parts of the Everwood that no one has yet explored—where no one lies, and everything is truth.

  “What was that?” cried the Dark Ones. “There, in the trees—is that your little pirate friend?”

  I whirl to face the woods, but I see only a misshapen tree, its branches whipping about.

  The wind is beginning to howl. Mom once told me that the sound of a tornado is like the sound of an oncoming train.

  I run down the tracks.

  At a
crossing, a simple farm road, I hear laughter, shouts, and turn to see—

  A trio of witches, riding armored steeds, flew out of the sodden woods, shrieking in glee, for witches thrive in the chaos of storms.

  As they raced by the queen, they flung out their arms and scraped her skin raw.

  The queen fell.

  I am dizzy for a moment, and lie there catching my breath.

  When I sit up, I can barely make out the three teenage boys on their bicycles, speeding away from me.

  One of them circles back. “Guys! Come back, it’s some kid!”

  No. You are not welcome here.

  (And you should be glad. People who meet me are bound to end up disappointed.)

  (My family is infected with lies. If you touch me, you might catch them.)

  I get up and keep running, the train tracks to my right. I will run faster than Jack ever could.

  The queen ran for miles, though every bone in her body ached. Her head swam with hunger. When she thought she could run no longer, she heard a voice in the wind, calling her name.

  “Finley?”

  I stop, wiping hair from my eyes.

  Jack slams into me, wrapping me in a rain-soaked hug. He says nothing; he is breathless from running. His fingers dig into my shoulders. His body is bony and strong.

  “What are you doing out here?” He steps away, yelling over the rain. “Everyone’s out looking for you.”

  It takes me a minute to understand what he’s saying. “What?”

  “It’s been hours. It’s almost seven. People are freaking out! God, Fin, where have you been?”

  I point down the tracks. “I’m leaving, like we talked about.”

  “Why? Are you nuts? We were just talking.”

  “I don’t want to be with my family anymore.”

  “But you love your family!”

  “My grandparents hate me.”

  “No way. It’s impossible to hate you.”

  “They are concerned about me.”

  “Why? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “But—”

  I whirl to face him. “You don’t know me, Jack. You have no idea about anything.”

  A crash of thunder makes us both jump. Without saying a word, we head for the Bone House, walking back along the tracks side by side, our heads down in the wind. The wet field grass clings to our legs. Once we’re inside the Bone House, Jack gets us blankets from the living room. We huddle inside them under the card table. The closed kitchen door rattles in the wind.

  Jack’s hair lies flat against his head in dark pieces. This might be the cleanest I have ever seen him.

  “Look,” he says, “I didn’t mean to make you mad out there. It’s just, I think you’re great. Anyone who says there’s something wrong with you, they’re the wrong ones.”

  More thunder; the house groans and shakes. How am I supposed to explain to him what I mean? I cannot scare him away and lose him, not again.

  “My parents are getting a divorce,” I tell him, because though it is awful, it is the easiest thing to say. “They told me on Sunday.”

  “Aw, Fin.” Jack shakes his head. “I’m sorry. That really sucks.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “You okay?”

  “No. But that’s not the worst part.”

  “There’s worse?”

  I tell him what his dad told me—about my family and the Travers fire. He looks as shocked as I felt.

  “But . . . why would they do that?” he asks. “You don’t think they did it on purpose, do you?”

  “I don’t know what I think. But I don’t want to go back. If it’s true, then what does that mean? Can I still love them? I don’t know if I can.”

  Jack is quiet for a long time. “I still love my dad, and he’s done bad stuff.”

  “How do you keep loving him, then?”

  “Because he’s my dad. He has his bad days, but most of the time he’s all right. He does his best. And we’re family, you know? It isn’t perfect, but it’s ours. If I did something bad, I think he’d still love me.”

  Every time there is a flash of lightning, I can see the mural across the kitchen from us. “You painted me, huh?”

  Jack taps the card table’s leg with his shoe. “I know it isn’t good. Cole could’ve done better.”

  “It is good, though, because you did it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Honestly.”

  Jack presses his shoe against mine. They are both covered in mud. “We should go back. I know you’re mad at them, but . . . don’t you want to know the truth? You can ask them all your questions.”

  When I imagine asking my grandparents and my aunts about the fire, I feel sick to my stomach. “I guess . . .”

  “And hey, you can always come stay at our place. It’s dirty and kind of smells, but we have cookies.”

  I laugh. “You and Gretchen are both obsessed with cookies.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Jack crawls out from under the table and sweeps his blanket majestically around his shoulders. “My queen?” he asks, in a royal-sounding voice.

  I take his hand. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Let’s go find the whole truth.

  41

  AS WE MAKE OUR WAY back through the Everwood, the storm knocks branches from trees and whips wet leaves into our faces.

  I try not to feel guilty about everyone searching for me. In fact I hope Grandma and Grandpa are worried sick. I hope they are blaming themselves, looking back on their lives trying to figure out where they went wrong.

  (I have an idea.)

  Ducking under a branch heavy with rain, I hear a scream buried in the wind.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask Jack.

  “Hear what?”

  There it is again—and it sounds familiar.

  The world slows down. I feel every drop of rain on my skin.

  I know that scream. How many times have I heard her, racing through the house?

  It comes from the direction of the First Bridge.

  Ruth.

  I run toward the sound, leaving Jack behind. Mud sucks at my feet; the ground cannot hold any more water.

  At the riverbank I look down and nearly fall.

  This is not my river. The water is rushing, roaring, cascading. I see rapids, debris carried away in the current.

  I see Dex and Ruth.

  Dex, on this side of the river, faceup in the water, his shirt snagged on a branch.

  Ruth, kneeling on the shore beside him, screaming at the top of her lungs. She pulls on his shirt, but he won’t budge.

  They must have crossed the Bridge, and then—

  “Ruth!” I slide down the muddy riverbank.

  At the bottom Ruth throws her arms around me, wet hair in her eyes.

  “He fell!” I can barely hear her over the howling wind. “Finley, get him up! Get him up!”

  “Stay here. Sit right here and don’t move.”

  I head for the water. With a crack a large branch breaks from its tree and drops into the river. A second later it is swept away.

  The branch holding Dex’s shirt shifts. The water pulls and pulls at him.

  Ruth screams.

  Jack slides down beside me. “I’ll go.”

  Jack makes his way down the slippery slope, but I cannot let him go alone. I tell Ruth to stay where she is, and I follow him. The ground flattens, and Jack almost falls, but I catch his hand and hold on tight. He stumbles, almost drags us both down into the water, but I cannot let go. I cannot buckle.

  I am a queen. Queens do not fall.

  Between the two of us we get Dex out of the water and back to solid ground. He is a pile of wet clothes and cold skin.

  Jack suddenly looks lost. “I don’t know, I don’t know. What do we do, Fin?”

  Ruth runs over, wails, shakes me.

  We do not have time for this.

  I press my hands to Dex’s chest. We did this at school la
st year. We practiced on dummies. Rhonda thought it was stupid, that the dummies smelled like feet and we should not be required to touch them.

  I liked it. As we practiced on the dummies, I imagined what it would feel like to save a person.

  I thought that if I saved a person, I would no longer feel my sadness. How could you, after such a thing?

  But doing this in real life is different.

  This is no dummy; this is our Dex.

  I press and press until my fingers are sore. Coach Williams said giving mouth-to-mouth is not as helpful as pumping the chest, but I do it anyway, because I am panicking, because I am desperate, because I would give Dex all my air, if I could.

  When he starts gasping and choking, spitting up river water, I sit back hard in the mud.

  “He’s okay?” Ruth clutches his arm. “Is he?”

  Dex groans, his eyelids fluttering shut.

  “Dex? Dex!”

  I hold Ruth still. “Something’s wrong.”

  Jack gently pushes Dex’s hair aside—a gash, on his forehead. A mark red with blood. “Oh no.”

  Ruth struggles in my arms. “We didn’t mean to!”

  “Ruth, stop it. Listen to me—”

  “We just wanted to find you!”

  I catch her hands. “What do you mean?”

  “You were missing. Everyone’s looking for you, but they were looking all wrong. We knew where you were, but—”

  My heart sinks. “So you went to find me.”

  “We thought if we found you, we could be knights.” Ruth’s face is a mess of rain and mud. “We wanted to save the queen.”

  “We shouldn’t move him,” Jack says. “I’ll stay here. You go get help.”

  But I am frozen to the ground.

  This is my fault.

  Maybe if I’d never told them about the Everwood—

  Maybe if I’d never brought them here—

  Jack grabs my hand. “I won’t let anything happen to them, okay? Go get your grandpa. Go!”

  My fault, my fault, my fault.

  “Finley!” Ruth screams.

  I take one last look at Dex and climb up the riverbank.

  I know I must cross the Bridge. There, through the trees—those flickers of lights. Amber, red, blue. Hart House. Police cars, I assume, looking for me.

  (My fault. Dex, Dex, Dex.)

  The Dark Ones stood tall on the queen’s back, stomping, kicking, grinding her into the ground.