The Clearing

by Heather Davis

  "Whatever, I don't have time for this," I said, pushing past her. Her stack of magazines went crashing down in a messy pile al over the floor.

  "Nice work!" she said.

  I turned to help her clean up the mess.

  "Leave it alone," she said.

  "No, come on, let me help," I said, reaching for a People.

  "Don't you get it? I don't need anything from you. No one in this town does." She walked off, teetering on her high-heeled sandals.

  I clutched my book and went to check it out, blood stil rushing in my ears. I didn't like confrontations—especial y stupid ones over boys. It reminded me of the end of last spring when I'd begged Chelsea to leave Matt alone—only then, it had been for her safety, not because I'd loved him. Then again, if Chelsea and Matt hadn't hooked up, maybe he and I would have stil been together.

  It could have been much worse for me. Much, much worse.

  Because I would have stayed with Matt, kept making excuses for the mean things he said to me, the ways he hurt me, and the way I felt about myself when I was with him. I'd have stayed there because I loved him. Now, though, I felt like that wasn't love at al . I couldn't tel you what it was. I was pretty sure that everything that had passed for love between me and Matt had been a lie.

  And it stil hurt.

  I stood there in the parking lot, holding back tears and waiting for Aunt Mae's rusty pickup to rattle into the lot. Al I could think about was escaping to the clearing.

  ***

  A little while later, I helped Mae into the house with her grocery bags and dumped my backpack off on the couch.

  "You're awful y quiet again, sweetie," Mae said, hanging up her coat. She hadn't said anything about my red face during the drive in from town, but now I braced myself for what was to come.

  "Bad day?" she said, fishing.

  "Yep."

  Mae paused for a second, like she was waiting for me to tel her al about it, but I didn't say anything. "Wel , how about a nice dinner?" she said, final y. "That should cheer you up."

  "I'm going to go for a walk first. Is that okay?"

  Mae nodded. "Certainly. A walk ought to clear your mind. I'l pop some chicken in to bake. I don't need much help. Oh, but you could bring in a head of cabbage for slaw on your way back."

  "Okay." I slipped out the door, sucking in air like I hadn't breathed al day. I could smel the warm afternoon, the scent of dirt and grass rising up on the breeze.

  Katie-dog trotted behind me, probably thinking we were going to play fetch. When I got to the clearing, though, Katie stopped and lay down under a tree, her watchful eyes on me the whole time. I gave her a last look as I faded into the mist.

  "Henry?" I cal ed into the fog. I reached the stump where we'd met the day before. There was no sign of Henry, his book, or his lawn mower. I felt a little sad, and I realized that maybe I hadn't been craving the stil ness of the clearing as much as Henry's company.

  "Hel o?" I took a few more steps. The air felt thicker around me, fil ing al the spaces around my body like water in a pool. There was a low hum in my ears, electric-sounding, heavy.

  "Henry?" I said again, my voice echoing in my ears. I took a few more steps. Ahead of me, where the mist began to fade, I could see a path, worn, freshly mowed. That had to be Henry's work.

  I walked toward the path, and suddenly my vision blurred and the hum was louder again. Goose bumps prickled up and down my arms. I suddenly felt I should turn around.

  But now, I didn't want to leave without saying hi. Even though I liked being with Aunt Mae, I wanted to talk to someone—a friend. Henry couldn't be too far from here. If he had been mowing a path near the clearing, his farm should be on the other side of it.

  "Where are you?" I tried one last time, my voice weak-sounding against the electric hum. And then, dizzy, I took a few more steps forward, and the clearing broke away.

  I was on the edge of somewhere else.

  Bright hot summer sun surrounded me, and in the distance stood a classic white farmhouse that looked like it belonged in a painting.

  Laundry flapped on a clothesline. The sound of tinny big band music drifted on the breeze. An old man in a hat slept in a hammock strung between two fruit trees. A red, old-fashioned Ford truck gleamed like brand-new in the driveway.

  And then I glimpsed Henry, running toward me as I fel to the ground.

  CHAPTER SIX

  What is she doing here? Henry barely caught Amy as she tumbled forward. He helped her down to the ground, aware of how light she felt in his arms, how she smel ed like early fal —wood fires and ripe apples. Her eyes were closed and she had a scared look on her face, a look of uncertainty. Henry was scared, too.

  Amy had crossed the clearing. Henry anxiously glanced over his shoulder toward the house. His grandfather stil dozed in the hammock, and the curtains were drawn across his mother's second-floor bedroom window.

  He stopped holding his breath and focused on Amy. "Are you feeling al right?"

  Her eyelids fluttered open. "Henry," she said in a wheezy voice, "I was looking for you—and then I felt so weird. I'm wiped." She looked down at Henry's arms wrapped around her and seemed to stiffen, but she didn't pul away.

  "Sorry. You were fal ing," he said. "I didn't want you to hurt yourself." Henry let her go and sat back on his heels.

  Amy lowered herself to the grass and put her head between her knees. She was breathing heavily, stil winded from the crossing.

  A moment later, she raised her head. "Henry, why is it so hot al of a sudden? On the other side of the clearing—at my house—it was about to rain." She was doing it again—searching him up and down, studying his clothes and shoes.

  Henry's heart beat faster. "Could stil rain," he said nervously. "I always smel rain coming," he added.

  "It's so pretty over here," she murmured, turning her attention to the farmhouse in the distance behind them. "And look at that classic truck—

  it's so shiny, it looks like new. You must have spent hours restoring it."

  Henry cleared his throat. "It's like new, al right," he said. "Listen, let's take a walk."

  Amy put her hands on her knees and forced herself up. "Yeah, that would be good." She took a step in the direction of the path to the house.

  Henry placed a hand under Amy's elbow and steered her back toward the clearing.

  "Oh. I thought you would show me around your farm," she said, stopping in her tracks.

  "I promise I wil —some other time, though," he said, instantly regretting the lie. He'd never show Amy around. He couldn't take the chance that bringing her across might change something. He couldn't take the chance that something awful might happen.

  "Come along," he said, and they stepped into the misty clearing. Henry noticed Amy's movements were quick, fearful, as they entered the mist.

  "There it is again," she said, shuddering. "The electric feel. It almost hurts." They went a little farther, and then she sank down onto the stump.

  "Don't you notice it? When I came through the mist on my side, I heard just the humming, but over on yours, the air was so heavy and buzzing and then I broke through and it was clear like a summer day. Man, I'm stil dizzy. I feel like I'm going to faint."

  "Wait here for a moment, please." Henry ran back to the house, giving Amy a look over his shoulder to make sure she'd stayed put. At the sink he pumped water into an empty jug, then grabbed a few other things and headed back to the clearing. He passed his grandfather snoring away in the hammock and the line of laundry flapping in the breeze.

  Back inside the curtain of white fog he found Amy standing, watching his approach. He held out the jug to her. "Drink some water," he said.

  "It'l help your dizzy spel ."

  She took a swig and then stared down at the jug. "Your mom col ects old stuff, huh?"

  He blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You know, most people would have just brought me a bottle of water, not a jug that looks like it's a zil ion years old."
>
  "No one uses water jugs over at your place?"

  "Are you kidding?" Amy raised her eyebrows at him. "They do make plastic ones these days." She held up the jug, inspecting it. "This must be an antique, right?"

  Henry chewed his lower lip. "Wel , yes, I suppose so." He took a deep breath, the feeling final y sinking in that Amy wasn't from his time.

  When she'd finished drinking, he took the jug from her and set it on the ground.

  "Thanks again for the water, Henry. That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me al day." She seemed to study him again. "It's been a real y crappy afternoon. You're so lucky you don't have to go to that stupid school."

  "Is that why you were trying to find me? I heard you cal ing me ... before you ... came over to my side of the field." He didn't tel her he'd been loitering again near the edge of the clearing, waiting for her, hoping she'd come again to break his boredom.

  Amy nodded and reached down to take another drink from the water jug. "You know the Hutchins family? They've got a flashy son and he's got an annoying girlfriend."

  Henry had known the Hutchins family that lived over on Russel Road in his time. "Yep. I know of them."

  "Then you know what a pain in the butt that kid's girlfriend is," Amy said. "I'm so ... I don't know what."

  "Angry. I think you mean angry," Henry said.

  Amy bit her lip. "I just wanted to go away. Do you ever feel like that?"

  "Yes. Often," he replied. "Not that there's anywhere to go." He looked off toward the east—the farthest he'd been in the clearing. "Wel , maybe one place. I could show you one neat spot."

  "Is it close by? Mae's cooking me dinner." She looked up at Henry, and he saw her face fil ed with an emotion he couldn't quite read. "I mean, maybe I shouldn't wander off." With you. That was the implied message in her eyes.

  "Don't worry, it's only a stone's throw from here. We can leave at any time you decide."

  "Okay," Amy said final y. "But just for a few minutes, then I gotta get back." She pointed at the bundle in his arms. "What's that stuff?"

  "You'l see," he said. He led Amy down a short path through dense bushes and brambles. The curving trail emptied out onto a smal patch of grass overlooking the creek. On the other side of the water was a curtain of white fog—the boundary of the clearing that Henry hadn't dared cross.

  "Pretty," Amy said. "And more mist."

  Henry set down the bundle he'd been carrying and unwrapped from it a wool blanket, which he shook out and spread on the ground.

  "What are you doing?"Amy asked, her voice suddenly stiff, wooden.

  "It's damp on the ground here."

  Amy glanced back toward the path. "I, um, I don't know if—"

  "Oh, geez," Henry said, blushing. "No, no. I'm a heel. Forgive me for giving you the wrong idea. I only wanted you to be able to sit awhile and watch the creek. You see, it'l help you take your mind off your troubles."

  Amy crossed her arms and looked toward the path. "I should probably go back."

  "You can trust me, Amy." Henry paused. "Look, I'l stand right here by the wil ow while you sit on the blanket. I promise."

  Amy cautiously took a cross-legged seat on the blanket.

  "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," Henry insisted, sensing Amy's fear hadn't subsided.

  "It's okay," she said. "I get it. It's al right. You're not a jerk or anything." She stared down at the water bubbling over the rocks.

  A dragonfly whirred past them and landed on a stone in the creek. Henry leaned back against the tree trunk, feeling its lumpy detail through his shirt.

  "Yesiree. The creek is the most peaceful place I've found."

  "You can sit down," Amy said, gesturing toward the other side of the blanket.

  "No, that's fine," Henry said. "This wil ow is like an easy chair."

  Amy al owed herself a smal laugh. "You lie."

  "No, I'm serious. And I wouldn't want you to think anything untoward was going on."

  Amy shook her head. "Now you're just making fun of me," she said.

  "No, I'm not. A boy spreads a blanket on the ground in a place—even a farm boy like me knows that old ploy. Except mine wasn't a ploy."

  Amy sighed. "I didn't think you were like that, Henry. It's just ... wel , sit down, okay? And did I mention I have an attack German shepherd over at Mae's?"

  "No, you didn't mention that." Henry sank down next to Amy on the blanket. "This is better than the wil ow tree; you were right."

  Amy smiled and plucked some blades of grass, tossing them toward the creek. "Yeah."

  "You stil feeling dizzy?" Henry asked.

  Amy turned her body to face him. "No."

  "Are you stil afraid of me?"

  Amy laughed again. "Afraid of you? You're the most normal guy I've met in Rockvil e. I don't think I would have come out here with you if I'd felt otherwise."

  "So you think I'm normal, huh? Is that a good trait?"

  "Wel , normal's not the right word. Most guys I've known, like you said, they'd have brought the blanket out for one thing and one thing only."

  "Hmm, but would they have brought these?" Henry untied an embroidered linen napkin fil ed with biscuits. "Sorry I didn't swipe any jam for them."

  "Snacks?" Amy's eyes lit up. "You brought us snacks? "

  "These are left from dinner," Henry said. "Suppertime's a long ways off yet, and I was getting hungry. I figured you might be peckish, too."

  Amy took a bite of one of the biscuits. "Holy crap, these are good."

  "Holy crap? " Henry laughed at Amy's strange expression. "They're just Mom's everyday biscuits," he said, taking a healthy bite.

  "Mmm, I think I would weigh a mil ion pounds if I ate these every day," Amy said around a mouthful of biscuit. She laughed, wiping crumbs away with the sleeve of her jacket. "Sorry, I'm rude, talking with my mouth ful ."

  Henry grinned and took another bite. He watched Amy's eyes brighten as another dragonfly whizzed by to land on some reeds at the edge of the creek. Her eyes looked brownish gold now in the soft sunlight, like the color of amber. Framed against the blue of the wool blanket and the green of the grass around them, they were stunning. He must have been staring, because Amy stopped in midbite.

  "What?" she said. "You look funny."

  Henry felt his cheeks get hot. "Sorry. I don't mean to stare."

  Amy looked down at the biscuit in her hand.

  "You're a real pretty girl, Amy. I don't mean anything by that, except to tel you so you know." Henry busied himself picking crumbs off the blanket so he didn't have to see Amy's reaction.

  She touched his hand, stil ing it on the blanket and covering it with her own. "That's a sweet thing to say." Amy's eyes looked glassy, on the edge of tears.

  Henry's heart clenched inside his chest. What did I do? "I'm sorry," he said, pul ing his hand from hers.

  "For what?" Amy said. She wiped at her wet eyes.

  "Sometimes I say things I should keep to myself," he said.

  Amy chewed her lower lip. "No one real y said that to me before—that I was pretty."

  "No one?"

  "No one who didn't want anything from me," she said in a quiet voice.

  "Oh." It al made sense to Henry now. The blanket. How she's seemed scared to be back here alone with him. It wasn't just Amy being prim.

  Some creep had hurt her somehow. He let out a breath, trying to calm the anger building inside him. He wanted to ask Amy more, but it wasn't like him to pry. And truly, Amy didn't know him from Adam. He didn't have the right to ask her anything.

  They sat there in silence, the sun shifting slightly overhead. Amy stayed in her cross-legged position, but after a while, Henry lay back on the blanket and searched the clouds for animal shapes. He felt like he could rest there forever, studying the heavens.

  After Henry pointed out a few good cows and roosters overhead, Amy leaned back on her hands and looked up.

  "Definitely a dragon," she said, pointing at a swirly col ection of
clouds to the east.

  "Yes, now you've got the idea."

  "It's not like I haven't done this before," Amy said, punching him on the arm. "It's just been a long while since I took the time."

  Henry rubbed the newly sore spot. "Look over there—it's a mermaid."

  "Good one."

  "I see a volcano right over top of us," he said, after a moment.

  "I don't see it," Amy replied.

  "Lean back," Henry said.

  Amy lowered herself back on her elbows. Tilting her head back, she let out a deep breath and seemed to relax. "Okay. Now I see it."

  Henry was acutely aware of Amy's presence next to him on the blanket. His fingers itched to reach out and take her hand, but he didn't dare move.

  Together they lay there, not talking. Minutes and more minutes went by, the only sound the rush of the creek and the breeze rustling through the wil ow's branches. It was like being in a cocoon, Henry thought. Being with Amy was peaceful, more peaceful than the creek, more peaceful than staring at the clouds. Just being with her, his new friend Amy.

  At least, he thought they were friends now. He dreaded what might happen when he was forced to tel her about his situation. When Amy figured out why he wouldn't show her around his farm. When she discovered he was some kind of half person living a ghost's existence.

  Because suddenly that was what Henry's summer felt like—a pale imitation of what once had felt so real.

  Amy looked down at her left wrist and sat up. "My watch stopped. I probably should be getting back. I've been gone a long time." She jumped to her feet and shook crumbs and grass off her clothes. "What time is it?"

  "I'm not sure, but I should get home to supper." Henry got up and folded the blanket, but Amy was already moving toward the path. "Wait—I'l walk you back," he cal ed.

  "I can walk myself. I'l be fine," Amy said over her shoulder.

  Henry snatched up the blanket and what was left of the napkin of biscuits, then fol owed her down the path. She was far ahead, running now toward her edge of the clearing—al on her own. Henry felt his heart clench again, felt that Amy needed him. Walking back to the house, he realized he'd never worried like that over a girl before.

  There was something about Amy, something that made him want to keep her from harm. Something that made him miss her seconds—or lifetimes—after she'd disappeared beyond the mist.