It was early Saturday morning and Figgrotten was already up in her rock room. She wore two sweaters, her brown coat, mittens with liners, and ski socks inside her insulated snow boots. She was warm but this January morning was particularly raw, with a tinfoil-colored sky and air that seemed to ache for snow.
While lying in bed the night before, she’d mapped out her day on the rocks, and now she followed her plan. First she set out the food she’d made for herself: the thermos of hot chocolate, two granola bars, an apple, a honey sandwich, and a bag of potato chips. If she wasn’t careful, she’d eat everything before lunch (food tasted a thousand times better when eaten outside), but setting it all out helped her pace herself.
Then she sat on her rock chair and looked down at the house. She could see her mom at the kitchen sink doing last night’s dishes. She could see the basement light on in the tiny window under the steps, which meant that was where her dad was. And she could see that Christinia was still asleep, as her room was dark. Christinia used to get up at a normal hour, but now she slept late into the morning, so by the time she finally got up Figgrotten usually had been up for several hours.
Figgrotten took some big breaths of cold air and blew them out. Then she shut her eyes and listened. She could listen deeply if she concentrated enough, listen through layers of sound that would take her far off. Cars out on the main road, wind high up in the white pines, birds deep in the woods. And always, if she waited, she could hear a crow cawing.
That morning she had decided to spend more time watching the crows. She’d brought up a bag of bread crusts that her mom had thrown in the garbage, and when the four crows that always seemed to come around showed up again, she tossed the bread out on the rocks below, then sat and watched. The crows sat for a very long time up in the tree branches, yelling at each other. Then one of them flew down to a lower branch and the other three just about went insane screaming at him. Figgrotten sat with her elbows planted on her knees and her chin in her hands; she was riveted. She watched as the one crow sat for a long, long time, looking all around, clearly making sure the coast was clear. Then, just as she was convinced he would fly down to snatch the bread, the other three crows came down from the trees in total silence and landed next to the bread. The lookout crow was still up on the lower branch, silent and looking around frantically, while his pals sauntered casually below, pecking at the bread. Figgrotten was dying to know how he would get food, and a second later she found out as one of the three crows flew up and landed next to him on the branch and, as if he’d been given permission, the lookout crow flew down and had a little breakfast.
Figgrotten, who had been sitting perfectly still during all this, now opened her notebook and wrote: “Pretty sure crows are not lonely birds. They work as a team and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crow without a pal.”
“Frances!” Her mother was now standing out on the back porch, calling up to her. “Aren’t you freezing up there?”
The crows flew scared into the trees and were looking down at Figgrotten’s mom.
“I’m good, Mom. I’m doing a crow study.”
“A what?”
“I’m watching those crows.” She pointed upward.
Mrs. Pauley stepped forward and craned her neck, looking into the trees, then shrugged and went back inside the house.
Figgrotten leaned back into her notebook and wrote: “Some people hate being alone. Some people like it. I like it a lot. Either that or I’m just sort of used to it.”
She paused and looked up into the sky, which felt still and gray and cold. She really didn’t feel lonely when she was outside. She felt happy and herself. It was when she was around people that the feeling of being alone was a problem. The feeling of not being quite part of a group was not the best. The solution was simple, though: Be up on the rocks more. Out in the wild.
* * *
—
By eleven it did start to snow, which was terrific. Figgrotten got to see the first flakes, which came down one a minute or so. Then it was two a minute. Then a hundred. Then a thousand. Then beyond that and the air was all snow and she sat getting covered, eating her sandwich, noticing how the birds seemed to rush about trying to get ready for the storm. Noticing how muffled the world became and how, if she listened hard enough, she could hear the snow hitting the ground. It sounded softer than mouse feet on a rug.
At noon Christinia came out onto the back porch and yelled, “You better come inside, you know.”
“How come?”
“ ’Cause there’s a storm. Obviously! And when there’s a storm you’re not supposed to be out in it.”
“I’m good, though,” Figgrotten called down. “It’s nice out.” She almost asked if Christinia would come up with her so she could see for herself. But she knew better.
Christinia didn’t answer, just turned and went back inside, letting the door slam behind her.
She hadn’t always been so miserable.
“Your sister is getting older and that can be hard,” her mom said to Figgrotten at one point.
“Why?”
“Because so much changes when you grow up, and sometimes the changes are out of your control and that’s kind of scary.”
“You mean at school?”
Her mother tended not to interfere between her and Christinia, but now she was trying to help Figgrotten understand. “Yes. But your body changes too—your breasts start to grow and you get a monthly period—and your feelings change too, and it’s all a lot. You’ll see. It’s not easy.”
This further confirmed Figgrotten’s feeling that she did not want to get older. She enjoyed being the age she was and didn’t look forward to changing the way her mother said she would.
But Figgrotten knew these changes were not the only reason that Christinia now hated her. Even though things had been bad between them by the end of summer, Figgrotten was pretty sure the final straw had happened in September when she had gotten called up onto the stage at the school assembly and had been given an award for her summer essay on Margaret Mead. Figgrotten had been called up in front of the entire school, which went from kindergarten all the way through eighth grade, so the place had been packed and there’d been lots of giggling when she’d walked across the stage. She figured this was because she’d been wearing her big rubber rain boots and her hat even though it wasn’t cold out yet and which she’d put on at the last minute when her name was read aloud. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d put her hat on, though later she thought she might have done it out of nervousness. Wearing her hat had a way of sheltering her from the outside world. Anyway, she had put the hat on and walked up and there’d been giggling. The giggling hadn’t made her feel bad. It had made her feel she was entertaining everyone a bit. And she had even gone along with it by walking in a slightly funny loping way that made her boots extra loud. But when she’d been standing up getting her award, she had looked into the audience and caught sight of Christinia all slumped down in her seat with her hands over her face. Then, that same afternoon, when she had gotten off the school bus, Christinia had run into the house and up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door. Figgrotten had stood at the bottom of the steps listening to her sobbing.
“What in the world is going on?” her mom had asked, quickly going up the stairs to check on Christinia.
“I don’t know,” Figgrotten had said, and immediately headed out back to the rocks. But Figgrotten did know. She knew it had just about killed Christinia with embarrassment to see her tromp up there with her hat and rain boots on and get an award for a paper about some weird anthropologist no one had ever even heard of.
And it was after that that Christinia really set about hating her. And the more she hated her, the more set in her ways Figgrotten had become. In other words, there were times she put her hat on just to infuriate Christinia further. Like when she brushed her teeth at nig
ht and knew she’d pass Christinia in the hall. Somehow, it was the only way she could get back at Christinia for hating her that much. She was pretty sure this was what a “vicious cycle” was. Another thing Mr. Stanley had taught everyone about. Bad things led to more bad things and round and round everything went.
* * *
—
The snow was now coming down so hard Figgrotten could barely see the house. She’d moved from the rocks to a more sheltered spot under one of the big pine trees and was sitting with her back against it. It gave her almost full protection from the storm and she was able to crack open her encyclopedia without it getting wet. She was pawing through the letter G. Sir Galahad; Galveston, Texas; and then she turned the page and saw a picture of Mahatma Gandhi for the first time. A little elfish man wrapped in what looked to be a sheet. Figgrotten leaned forward and read the caption: “Gandhi used peace as his weapon to fight for the rights of the people.” She frowned and scrunched her face up. What did that mean? How could you use peace as a weapon? She read on. It said that what he did was simply stand his ground very quietly without yelling and screaming. After she read this, she heard herself say “Oh,” and then what felt like a little window in her mind was flung open and a whole new idea came hurtling in.
She called this kind of idea a wrencher, because it had the effect of confusing her set way of thinking.
In her life she’d had these wrenchers only a handful of times. Like when she’d first read about Lucy being one of the oldest people. Or about the universe going on forever, for infinity.
But then she’d also had a wrencher in an unpleasant way, like that time her mom had told her about girls getting their periods. This had been totally startling but it didn’t have the same uplifting feeling that the other ideas had had. Though it did shift things inside her. It made her view her sister differently, like she was now someone Figgrotten didn’t really know, and it also made her realize that this part of her own life, the life of being a kid, wasn’t going to last forever, and this idea brought not an excited feeling but more one of dread tinged with a tugging sadness.
That night at dinner she told her family about Mahatma Gandhi.
“He was sort of cute. I’m thinking I could dress up as him for next Halloween.”
Her dad nodded. “Sounds like an easy costume.”
Then there was a pause in the conversation before Figgrotten said, “He believed in peace. Like, that is how he actually fought. I didn’t know you could fight that way.”
“Yes, he did.” Her dad nodded again. “It was very effective too.”
Her sister looked like she was going to be sick.
Figgrotten took in a breath, then burst out, “I think I believe in peace too.” She tried to contain her emotions while she said this, but her voice came out a little too forceful and high and they all glanced at her nervously before her mother said, “That’s so nice, Frances.” Then changed the subject and said, “I think this rice needs some salt.”
* * *
—
Later, while her family was watching TV, Figgrotten sat on the floor of her room with her window open. She could tell it was still snowing. Not only could she still hear the softness of it coming down, but little drifts piled up on her windowsill and blew onto the floor. She was deeply bundled with her coat and hat and gloves on, and her breath was coming out in little white puffs. She was organizing her finds. She had quite a collection. Birds’ nests (one of which she had found on the ground during a field trip to the Cream River Farm and which was made almost entirely of horse hair), crazy leaves that were the size of dinner plates, hickory nuts that had absolutely perfect holes gnawed in them, rocks with mica shining inside them. She had laid these out in a trail that went all the way around the edge of the room, stopping only for the doorway.
* * *
—
Figgrotten remembered the conversation that she had with her mom a couple of months before, when her mom gave up coming into her room. Figgrotten was now pretty sure she was starting to understand what her mom had been talking about. Everything in her room was super-duper dusty and there were big hairy dust bunnies under her bed. But the idea of picking up all her things, which she had organized in a way that was important to her, was sort of out of the question at the moment. She was on her hands and knees now, looking over each one. The clay marble that she’d found in the stream across the road from her house that she had convinced herself could have only been made by a Native American. The absolutely perfect half of a blue robin’s egg.
Around nine o’clock Figgrotten’s mom called up that it was bedtime, so Figgrotten went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. She had another day planned up on the rocks in the snow, and she did want to get an early start. She stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth and staring into the mirror. Her hat covered a lot of her face, so she studied her eyes and nose mostly. It was just her face. She was so used to it she usually didn’t give it a second thought. The only thing about it at the moment that she wanted to change was she sort of wished she could have a pair of round glasses like Gandhi had.
Heading back to her bedroom, she stopped at the top of the stairs and heard the TV still going down in the living room. They were watching some movie that sounded kind of scary. Figgrotten tiptoed back down the hall and stopped in front of Christinia’s door. It was open and she looked into her sister’s room, which was spotless and neat. Her eyes scanned the posters of horses and some singer who Christinia was in love with, her schoolbooks perfectly piled on her desk, her guitar leaning against the wall. But Figgrotten froze when she saw her sister’s journal lying wide open on her bed. She felt her heart suddenly speed up. She leaned back to hear the TV still going, then she crept very quietly into Christinia’s room and looked down at the page with her sister’s tiny and perfect handwriting. She stood there just for a second. Then she turned and tiptoed silently back out into the hall. The TV was still on.
When she got back into her room, she let out a big breath and sat down on the side of her bed. She hadn’t exactly read the journal. She’d simply looked at the page and had picked out a few words. Becky. Mean. Hate. Those were three of them. This confirmed something that she had sensed. But it was the other two words that had made her breath catch and now were swirling around in her head. One was like and the other was Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben. There was a lot about a Ben in there. And for the second time that day, an all-new thought came hurtling into her mind and rearranged all her old thoughts. It was another thought-wrencher.
Christinia liked a boy.
The only Ben she knew of was Ben Ekhart, one of the boys who made burping noises and threw things at the backs of the other kids’ heads. Could it possibly be this Ben her sister had written about?
On Monday morning, Figgrotten stood on the side of the road and made drawings in the snow with her feet. Only when the bus pulled up did Christinia charge out of the house and run across the yard. She pushed Figgrotten aside and climbed on in front of her, marching to the back and plopping down hard in her seat. Then she went into her slumped position, staring out the window.
The snow had been cleared off the roads and was piled up high on the sides. The world looked stunned and brilliant under the clean layer. Little bones of snow lay on top of each branch, and when they drove past the Tierneys’ dairy farm, the big cornfields were pristine oceans of whiteness. Figgrotten couldn’t imagine living in a place where there weren’t seasons like there were in Preston. Seasons, she thought happily, changed the world so dramatically. Life would get so dull without tangly hot green summers, then cold snowy winters.
She glanced up and looked at Alvin in his rearview mirror. She had a perfect view of his face under his black Greek fisherman’s hat, and she stared at it lovingly for a minute before he glanced up and caught her eye.
“What’s going through that mind of yours, young lady?” Alvin sai
d.
Figgrotten slid forward on her seat and raised her voice. “Alvin, do you like to be alone or do you like to be around people?”
“Both. Everyone needs both. Solitude and friendship.”
Figgrotten sat back in her seat and looked out the window. She kind of wished he’d just said “Alone.”
Then she leaned forward again and said, “Alvin, have you ever heard of Mahatma Gandhi?”
“Yes, oh, certainly.”
“I think you look like him a little.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Figgrotten pushed herself back into the seat and clamped down on her lips. She knew she could potentially drive Alvin insane with all her thoughts and questions, so she always held herself back a little with him. But after another minute she slid forward again and said, “I really like him. He wasn’t a fighter.”
Alvin nodded and smiled. “Oh, Miss Pauley, there you are wrong, he was indeed a fighter. But he fought very gently and without violence of any kind. And that always is more powerful than using weapons.”
Figgrotten nodded. Alvin knew everything there was to know.
He slowed the bus, as there was James Barren, standing behind a huge snowbank. Figgrotten craned her neck to see him through the windshield. His mom wasn’t with him this time. Figgrotten was sure glad she’d never had to start at a new school. People wouldn’t know what to make of her, and when kids were faced with something different, she knew, sometimes they lashed out in response.
Alvin opened the door and James struggled through the knee-deep snow in his sneakers.
“Good morning,” Alvin said as he climbed on. James said a very quiet hello, then looked down the aisle. He stood still for a second, then threw his knapsack into the seat behind Figgrotten’s and sat down. She didn’t turn to look at him as the bus roared forward, but if she looked out the window at things and sort of turned her head to follow them, she could see James out of the corner of her eye. He was slouched down in his seat reading a book, his head down and his hair hanging around his face. She wanted to know what he was reading, but there was no way she was talking to him or turning around to look.
The Heart and Mind of Frances Pauley Page 3
