by Anne Dayton
A Little Help from My Friends
A Little Help from My Friends
By Anne Dayton and May Vanderbilt
This eBook is licensed for personal use only. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 Anne Dayton and May Vanderbilt
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition: September 2009
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
DEDICATION
Anne: For Nick, who can recite random historical facts off the top of his head, and for Peter, who knows everything about marching band.
May: To all of the Beths, for sticking with me through thick and thin.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thanks to the real Mrs. Narveson, for teaching American History like no one else could.
We also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Claudia Cross, our heaven-sent agent.
1
It’s seriously messed up to live next door to your boyfriend. This summer Christine pointed this out at least a dozen times, and now as Marcus’s panicked voice comes through my cell phone, it’s her voice that rings in my mind.
“Zoe, there’s a strange trailer in your backyard!” Marcus says. He’s breathless, as if he just ran inside to call me—and it wouldn’t be the first time. When you live next door to the Farcuses, you come to expect these calls.
I am dating Marcus Farcus: lover of board games, player of shiny brass instruments, collector of insects, and monitor of neighborhood goings-on.
“I was taking a swim, and I saw a trailer go by on the dirt road.” Marcus is very dutiful about getting in his laps in his backyard pool, though you’d never tell by looking at him that he exercises or spends any time in the sun. His entire family has huge heads and pale, thin bodies, kind of like a family of vanilla lollipops. “Maybe you should check with your parents to make sure everything is okay?”
“I’ll look into it and then come say hi. Does that work?”
“Excellent.” He lets out a breath. “I’ll see you soon.”
I smile and end the call. A lot of the kids at school don’t understand Marcus, but I’m pretty shy myself, so I know that when he calls about a strange trailer, he’s partly just looking for an excuse to pick up the phone.
“Dreamy?” I call out to my mom, but she’s not in the kitchen. My parents are ex-hippies who insist I call them by their first names. “Ed?” A silence echoes back. They must be working in the garden or something. I shrug, tug the sliding glass door open, and step out onto the deck. I scan the area around the patio, but I don’t see anything, so I start down the path that leads through the woods.
When I was little, I always felt a sense of excitement when I walked down this path. Winding under the tall trees, through the woods, it seemed like I was stepping onto another planet. Once you get a little ways into the forest, the house disappears from sight, and it feels like your own private world. I used to search for fairies as I walked along this path, certain I would see them if I looked hard enough.
Of course, things are different now. There was a time when we owned thirty acres out here, but bit by bit, my parents have sold off sections of land. Last year they sold the lot next to us to the Farcuses, then watched in horror as they bulldozed the ancient redwoods to build their new house. It’s worked out all right for me having Marcus next door, but I miss having a whole forest to explore.
As I wind my way down the dirt road, I see the spot where the pond usually is. It’s dried up now, no more than a puddle, thanks to a couple of scorching months. It doesn’t rain a lot here even in good years, but this summer our town has gone from a mellow golden color to parched, depressing brown. Not great if you’re in the landscaping business, like Ed.
“Dreamy?” My voice echoes, bouncing off the trees, but I don’t hear any response. The hair on my arms raises, and I walk faster. The only other place they could be is the horse stable. What if something happened? I know better than anyone how dangerous those horses are. What if what Marcus saw wasn’t a trailer but an ambulance?
“Ed?” I try to remain calm but can’t stop myself from breaking into a jog, dodging tree branches and jumping over roots. There, in the distance, I can just make out the top of the stable, and I run toward it, but as I get closer, I hear a low wailing sound. I sprint down the path. “Dreamy! Ed!”
The stable comes fully into view, and my breath catches in my throat. There’s the trailer Marcus saw, glinting in the sunlight in front of the open stable door. Strange noises sound from inside, so I run to the back door and freeze.
“Dreamy, please,” Ed says, pleading. His face is red, and his eyes are glassy with tears. I step out of their line of sight and peek around the door frame. What’s going on? It’s dark inside the small stable, but the light streaming through the roof’s irregular and warped planks casts a thatched pattern on the scattered hay.
“I’m sorry,” Dreamy says, leading Mama Cass, her golden palomino, out of the stall into the main aisle of the stable. “I really am. But it’s either her or us, Ed. Please try to understand.” She pats Mama Cass’s mane. Dreamy’s voice is low and calm, but I can see from here that she’s upset. She walks toward the open stable door, and I step back. “She’s my horse. I’m not selling Dox yet.” Dox is Ed’s horse, and he unabashedly loves him more than the others—almost more than anything.
“We’ll sell some more land.” Ed runs his hand across his eyes and wipes the moisture on his dirty jeans. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Yes.” Dreamy stops, turns to face Ed. “We do.” There’s an edge to her voice. “We have to sell the land anyway. It’s not enough. Will you stop acting like a child and face the facts?” Mama Cass yanks her head away, and Dreamy rubs her soft muzzle to comfort her. “Horses are expensive. We’re broke. We have to sell them, or we’ll lose the house.”
Ed makes a noise, but it sounds more like a wail than words.
They walk toward the front door, and I duck around behind the side of the building, trying to get air into my lungs. Since when are we that close to the poorhouse?
I sneak to the edge of the stable and peer down the long wall to watch as Dreamy leads her faithful horse into the bright sunlight. Mama Cass blinks and follows dutifully as she pulls her toward the trailer. A young woman jumps out of the cab of the truck and takes the lead line, and Dreamy lets go of the rope and rubs her hand over Mama Cass’s smooth coat.
Part of me wants to run out and stop her. She can’t sell our horses. Sure, I haven’t ridden Alfalfa since the accident, but they’re part of our family. Those horses mean the world to Ed.
“Wait!” Ed runs out of the stable, his eyes red, and I want to run to his side.
But I don’t move. I can’t make my feet go. Maybe it’s because I know it’s useless. Once Dreamy makes up her mind, it’s not worth trying to change it. Maybe because I can see that even though she’s trying to be rational, this is killing her too. She loves that horse more than anything, and we must be in dire straits if she’s willing to part with her. And part of me stays here, out of the way, because somewhere deep down, I know the horse isn’t really what’s at stake.
“Now you be good.” Dreamy bites her lip and runs her ha
nd along Mama Cass’s back as the handler leads her away.
“What about Nick?” Ed says, clenching his fists at his side. “We’re a family of four. We need four horses. Dreamy, please?”
Dreamy crosses her arms over her chest as Mama Cass steps onto the metal ramp that leads into the trailer.
“News flash, Ed. Your son lives halfway across the country, and your daughter hasn’t been near a horse in two years.” My cheeks flush. “She says she’ll never ride again. You’re not going to change her mind.”
With each step up the ramp, a metallic clang rings out.
“It’s time to accept it.”
Ed watches, opening and closing his fists, as the handler secures the horse and closes the back door of the trailer. She climbs into the cab, and the engine roars to life. A moment later, the truck is driving up the rutted dirt road.
“We’re not going to be riding as a family anymore.”
I bite my lip so I won’t dare say anything. I heard exactly what Dreamy said, didn’t miss a single syllable, but somehow once it left her mouth it hung in the air as something different entirely. It sounded like what she really said was: we’re not a family anymore.
Ed kicks the stable door with his worn work boot and storms off toward the last bit of thick woods we own, muttering under his breath.
I stay frozen for a while, training my eyes on Ed’s back as it disappears out of sight. I turn and notice the sun falling on Dreamy, illuminating her tense shoulders. This long, hot summer has taken a toll on all of us, drying up the land, my dad’s business, our money . . . and us. Our family is falling apart.
I watch, rooted in place, as Dreamy starts to walk back up the road. Even from here I can see the tears on her cheeks as she heads toward the house, and I know I have to do whatever I can to make us whole again.
2
The first day of junior year is hardly off to a rousing start. I was late to the kickoff assembly because Ed’s car wouldn’t start this morning. I hardly got any sleep because Dreamy and Ed were fighting in hushed, angry whispers late into the night, which is stupid because, hello, I can hear them. Never mind that my locker is in a dusty corner of the crumbling J-wing, near exactly none of my classes. And this morning I met the new English teacher, Mrs. Dietrich, who wore her hair in a tight bun, announced that she wouldn’t put up with any “roughhousing,” and promptly assigned us a paper on Homer’s The Odyssey, which, by the way, is not even written in English.
I make it to third period with several minutes to spare. Tragically, this is the best thing to happen to me today.
“Red.”
I turn to the left and start. “Christine!” The desks in this classroom are arranged in a giant U shape, and Christine is sitting at a desk at the bottom of the U, farthest from the teacher’s podium. She waves me over, and I plop down in a blue plastic chair on her right. “I didn’t know you were in this class.” This year is already looking better.
“They forgot to put me in art, so I had to go to the office and get my classes rearranged this morning.” Christine shrugs. “American history, here we come.” Seats begin to fill up, and I recognize most of the faces around me. I’ve been in school with the same people since kindergarten.
She leans in and whispers to me. “Can you believe who sat next to me?”
To her left, I spot Kayleen, the blonde princess who stole Andrew Cutchins away from Christine last year. In her back-to-school outfit, Kayleen could be mistaken for a Hollywood starlet.
“I’m not moving.” Christine crosses her arms on her chest. “She can move. I was here first.” Kayleen yawns dramatically.
The teacher, Mrs. Narveson—according to the printout of my class schedule, is standing at the front podium, reading a book as if she doesn’t notice her classroom filling up. She’s short and a little plump with kinky blonde hair.
“Did Riley bug you about that Full Moon Party yet?” Christine asks, her voice returning to a normal volume. “I saw her in the parking lot before school, and she told me to convince you to go.”
A few students shuffle and take the last of the open seats, but I can’t help but notice that no one is willing to sit by me. Typical.
“Yeah.” I inspect my nails for a second. “We’ll see.” The Full Moon Party is a beach bonfire held during the first full moon of football season. It’s a tradition for the students of Marina Vista. Correction: it’s a tradition for the popular students of Marina Vista. Riley is one of the anointed at this school. She could hang with the in crowd if she wanted, and sometimes she does, but for some reason she spends most of her time with us.
“It’s not for a few weeks anyway. Tyler said it might be cool.” Christine doodles a quick picture of the moon on her paper. “I might check it out, but I—”
The bell rings, cutting her off.
“WE ARE ALL PRODUCTS OF OUR HISTORIES,” Mrs. Narveson booms, raising her pointer finger in the air. We stop talking and snap our eyes to the front. “You can’t understand a person without understanding their past.”
What is wrong with this teacher? Isn’t she going to introduce herself? What about roll? Doesn’t she, like, have to take roll? People sit up straight and turn to the podium—if just to watch the spectacle going on.
“Who you are today and who you will become are in large part due to your history. Likewise, you can’t understand our fine nation without understanding how we got here.”
A noise interrupts Mrs. Narveson’s bizarre performance. The door opens, and the whole class turns their heads quickly, on high alert. What now? There, standing in the doorway, is a tall guy I’ve never seen before.
“Another hapless victim of history.” Mrs. Narveson shakes her head sadly and motions for him to come in.
He steps inside the room with a bored look in his eyes and intentionally lets the heavy door bang closed behind him.
“You must be Dean.” She grabs a thin, black notebook from her podium and makes a little mark in it. “From New York, right? I was warned about you.”
My eyes widen, but this new guy, this Dean, doesn’t even flinch. He looks around the room with a sly grin on his face.
“Welcome to the story of humankind. Take a seat.” Mrs. Narveson points at the desk next to me, the last link in the U. He threads his way through the desks, head held high, and I notice he carries a black messenger bag, not a giant backpack like the rest of the guys around here. I sit up a little straighter, suddenly conscious that I was slouching. He tosses a look my way that I can’t read, then drops into the empty seat next to me. I hear whispering around me. He crosses his arms over his chest, stretches his legs out in front of him, and immediately goes back to looking painfully bored.
Mrs. Narveson gives her head a little shake and then presses on. “The first thing you have to understand is that where you end up is primarily determined by where you begin.” Mrs. Narveson nods as if this statement is an obvious fact, though my head is spinning a little. “As of this moment, you begin your journey with the person next to you. That’s your partner for the first semester. You’ll collaborate on several projects over the course of the semester, and they’ll comprise 50 percent of your final grade. Together you will make history.” She laughs, a little maniacally, then begins pointing to people to assign groups.
“You and you,” she says, using her index and middle finger to indicate two kids in the front . “You and you.” I flash Christine a thumbs-up, and she gives me the rock-n-roll sign. “You and you.” History is my favorite subject, and Christine and I already know we make a great team. “You,” she points at Christine, and I nod to show her I understand, “and you.” But she’s not pointing at me, she’s pointing at Kayleen, on the other side of Christine. She’s being paired with her ex-crush’s new blonde girlfriend?
I gape at her. Christine raises her hand to protest, but Mrs. Narveson ignores her. One and two go together, three and four, five and . . . oh no. Christine is six. I’m seven and that makes—“you and you”—me and Dean a tea
m.
Dean smirks at me. I glare down at my desk, boring my eyes into the table. What kind of cracked system is this? This guy’s attitude is already wearing on me, and we’re only five minutes into the first class.
“Wait.” Mrs. Narveson steps back and puts her hand to her chin. “Did I do that right?” She starts pointing at groups again, silently recalculating, and I watch her, hoping. Maybe she counted wrong, and I can be with Christine after all. But when she goes through the class again, nothing changes. She nods, mumbles about losing her mind, and finishes counting off pairs, then walks back to the front of the room.
“That’s it. Your lot in life has been cast.” Everybody groans, and a sinking feeling creeps over me. This deadbeat is going to make me do all the work. “If you don’t like it, maybe next time you’ll have the good fortune to be born into another time, or into a better family, or on a different continent. For better or for worse, most of your life—who your parents are, when you live, where you live, what kind of cultural restrictions affect you—is determined by things you have no control over. It’s been this way throughout the history of the world, and our nation in particular. Welcome to history, people.”
She walks to the blackboard and begins to write in big, broad, uneven letters: HISTORY IS ABOUT PEOPLE. FAIL TO UNDERSTAND THEM AT YOUR OWN PERIL.
This brings a few chuckles from around the room, but Mrs. Narveson turns and smiles at us knowingly, then continues writing. She’s a little wacky. I mean, peril? I glance at Dean, who is drumming his fingers on his desk. A sense of dread fills my stomach. My history project partner is some kind of burnout.
“Pencils out. It’s time to hit the books. Summer is officially over.” Mrs. Narveson begins to scratch out the words, “Build-a-Nation Project—20% of Your Grade.”
