After a pecan pie dessert, Miss V. pulled out the paintings.
Every last thing I’d seen in those woods was there on that table. I was smoothing out a painting of a rooster when I felt something. Another sheet was stuck to the painting.
Miss V. fetched me a carving knife to pry the pages loose.
What I saw sucked the wind right out of me.
Miss V.’s bright eyes stared back at me from the drawing of a girl who looked to be not two years younger than me. The girl’s hair was shiny and brown, parted to one side, and curled at her shoulders. That girl had Miss V.’s eyes, all right, but they were different, too. Those eyes looked like they’d never seen so much as a drop of sadness. That girl was smiling past the edge of the picture as if she was expecting something good right around the corner. She was standing next to a wavy-haired boy. He clutched a sketch pad to his chest and stared at the same spot outside the frame. A zinnia-speckled garden stood behind them. A tanager stretched its wings overhead.
There was a scribbled caption: FRIENDS.
Miss V. smoothed her fingers back and forth over that drawing. She stroked the lines of the girl’s hair and ran her fingers along her own hair.
Five minutes must have passed before she claimed it. “It’s me. Bob and me.”
We sat at the table for I don’t know how long. Miss V. stared at the painting, and I stared at Miss V. Both Miss V.’s. For all that had changed in Miss V., she still tipped her chin up at that same angle.
I looked into the face of the boy in that painting. His eyes were the eyes of an artist, sizing things up, deciding what to put in his picture, what to leave out. He sure picked the right things about Miss V., the things that stood up over all those years.
There was one thing that didn’t make sense about that painting, though. It was like it was in a made-up world. Miss V. and the boy were standing side by side, but their shadows tilted toward each other, crossing just where the garden began. No real sunlight would put out shadows that way.
That’s when I knew: Only one color but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies.
“Look, Miss V.” I pointed. “A shadow. The answer to your riddle.”
She laughed. For three quick seconds, Miss V.’s face relaxed into the face of the girl in the painting. “That son of a gun.”
Early the next morning, Miss V. sent me and Charlene off with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and pear-and-ginger jelly she swore would settle my nerves.
Soon as he got a look at my duffel, Percy cocked his head at me and started whining.
Miss V. petted him and handed me the green-duck postcard from the back of the picture frame. “Remember, you belong at that fancy school just as much as anyone.”
And I reckoned I did.
I leaned into my hug with Miss V.
Then me and Charlene headed out to the highway to meet Aunt Belinda for the drive to the Stokes School.
My feet found the sidewalk, and I didn’t look up until we were standing in the shadow of the tree house.
I ran my fingers over the wood me and Daddy had nailed together, the calico heart Mama had painted. I showed it to Charlene all over again and gathered Charlene’s box.
As soon as we got to the Stokes School, I’d get Charlene settled in my dorm room, and I’d sketch the tree house. I’d sketch the woods. I’d sketch Miss V. I’d sketch Mama holding the doogaloo, holding a little part of me with her all the way back to Memphis. She could have it there with her until she was ready to come back.
When me and Charlene got to the edge of the highway, the sun was slanting through the treetops, but the air still had a wet feel about it.
It was time to get going. I looked down. I’d twisted Mama’s aventurine ring so much, I’d made a little groove for it on my finger.
Then it struck me. Maybe Mama hadn’t abandoned the aventurine ring. Maybe she’d left it for me to find, to bring me luck. I tried to get used to that idea. I let it wallow around in the love and the mad inside me. It started to settle, and I knew. I didn’t have to choose between loving Mama and being mad at her for leaving. I was big enough to do both. Maybe I contained multitudes, too.
That thought bounced around in me, and something funny happened. I started to feel lighter. It felt like a little bit of weight flaked off me with each and every step. And as for the knuckle-sized knot that was still left, well…I was starting to feel like I just might be strong enough to carry it now.
Yant, yant, YANT, yant. Yant, yant, YANT, yant. Charlene’s family was going strong in the woods by the highway.
I could feel Charlene twitching, getting ready to join in.
In that instant, I knew just exactly what I had to do.
I just didn’t want to do it.
Taking my time, I picked out a spot in a clump of wood violets. Heart-shaped leaves clustered around the purple blooms and dangled tiny, clear dewdrops. I eased Charlene onto the tallest stem and stroked her across the back. “It’s okay, Charlene. You go answer them.”
Charlene waited the longest time to see if I really meant it.
She tasted the dew on the violet. She edged one foot after the other down the stem.
She let out a quiet yant.
Right away, the woods answered her back.
She leaped.
Yellow-veined wings, so fine you could see right through them, opened across her back.
They floated her clear over the honeysuckle vines. Charlene soared, just as graceful as one of Mr. Bob’s tanagers.
I knew it was way too early for it, but I could swear I smelled gardenias.
Charlene’s music came so fast and sure, it was like she’d been storing it up the whole time.
Before my feet ever hit the blacktop, I knew that music was going to call me back soon, too.
But first, I had me a little bit of soaring to do of my own.
The idea for this story began when I was almost Cricket’s age. I lived in the real ghost town of Electric Mills, Mississippi, while my family’s home was being built on land that used to be part of the horse pasture for the town. I spent a lot of time exploring the woods and encountering signs of the town that had once been there. Electric Mills was the site of one of the first electric lumber mills in the United States. Established in 1913, the town had a hospital, a theater, beautiful homes, an ice cream parlor, offices, schools, and a church. The town produced its own power and was said to be “the brightest town south of St. Louis” during its time. It even had its own currency. When all the timber had been harvested, most of the town was removed, but a few structures remained.
Growing up, I was intrigued by the thick concrete sidewalks that wove through overgrown woods, and the scattered concrete pillars that had once supported large homes. I made up stories about the people who’d lived there. In writing this book, I changed some details of the town and the natural world that Cricket encounters, and you can read about those differences at my website, JoHackl.com.
The riddle in the story is one that I have heard over the years.
The characters in this book are all invented, including Mama. Mental health issues affect many people, and stigma often keeps them from getting effective treatment, as it did for Mama. Getting effective treatment and support are key, and in the Additional Resources section you can find out where to learn more and where to take the StigmaFree pledge.
Although this novel is a work of fiction, the secret room and the artist in this book were inspired by my favorite artist, Walter Inglis Anderson. I was born near Ocean Springs, Mississippi, where Anderson did much of his work. My father told me stories of how one of his friends sometimes carried Anderson in his later years by boat to and from nearby Horn Island, where the artist camped out, drawing and painting.
Like the fictional artist in this story, Anderson was called Bob by his family. A
fter Anderson’s death, a room called the Little Room was discovered in the cottage where he lived in Ocean Springs. The walls of this room were painted to reflect a day on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, and Anderson oriented the paintings to interact with the light outside the windows. Today you can visit the Little Room at the Walter Anderson Museum of Art in Ocean Springs. When I stepped inside the Little Room, it took my breath away. This inspired the hidden-room part of Cricket’s story.
During his life, Walter Anderson’s work was sometimes misunderstood. The extensive murals he painted in the community center in Ocean Springs were controversial, and some people thought they should be painted over. His drawings for a post office mural had to be significantly changed before they were approved. His proposal to paint a courthouse mural in Jackson, Mississippi, was denied. This event inspired the fictional “Some walls aren’t for everyone” clue in the book. As far as I know, Anderson did not leave puzzles, riddles, a buried cache of paintings, or a trail of clues. He did, however, leave behind many paintings of the natural world, often on typing paper. He described the hour before sunset as “the magic hour,” when “all things are related.” This provided inspiration for the “magic hour” clue.
During a difficult period, Anderson spent some time in mental hospitals. In an escape from one hospital, he is said to have tied bedsheets together to lower himself from an upper-floor room and to have used soap to draw pictures of birds in flight along the exterior wall. And he is said to have once walked a thousand miles to get home.
I’ve long been inspired by Anderson’s brilliant artwork, his remarkable resilience, and his commitment to following his own path in his art. His work has been featured in many books, including some of my favorites, listed in the Additional Resources section. Creating art was a central part of Anderson’s life, just as it was for the fictional artist in this book, and my hope is that this story will inspire readers to pursue their own art, whatever it may be. As Cricket would say, sometimes you need to start taking chances on yourself.
The Mississippi Museum of Art: msmuseumart.org
The Walter Anderson Museum of Art: walterandersonmuseum.org
The Art of Walter Anderson, edited by Patricia Pinson (University Press of Mississippi, 2003)
Birds, by Walter Anderson and Mary Anderson Pickard (University Press of Mississippi, 1990)
Fortune’s Favorite Child: The Uneasy Life of Walter Anderson, by Christopher Maurer, which includes “An Alternative Perspective” by Walter Anderson’s son John G. Anderson (University Press of Mississippi, 2003)
The Secret World of Walter Anderson, by Hester Bass, illustrated by E. B. Lewis (Candlewick, 2009)
For information about mental illness and resources, visit apa.org and nami.org. To take the StigmaFree pledge, visit nami.org.
For information about birds, visit audubon.org and the Cornell Lab of Ornithology at birds.cornell.edu.
For additional information about Leonardo da Vinci and his life, visit leonardodavinci.net.
For additional information about Emily Dickinson, her poems, and her life, visit emilydickinsonmuseum.org/for%20kids.
For information about Walt Whitman, visit state.nj.us/dep/parksandforests/historic/whitman/teaching.html.
For a clue trail you can solve using elements you read about in this book, and for information about the real ghost town and the things Cricket encountered on her journey, visit JoHackl.com.
This book was over ten years in the making, and I have more than ten years’ worth of people to thank. My family and friends have provided unwavering support and encouragement, and their willingness to brainstorm and to lend their expertise on topics ranging from art history, clue elements, mannerisms of field crickets, mental health, and outdoor survival skills to poetry have been invaluable.
I am grateful to the amazing Tracey Adams and the brilliant Shana Corey and the entire Adams Literary and Random House Children’s Books teams for believing in this project and for their work to make it as strong as possible.
This novel began in a class taught by the enormously talented and generous Ashley Warlick, and her insight has shaped this book. I am blessed to live in a creative arts community and have benefited from workshops, conferences, and gatherings hosted by the Emrys Foundation, the Hub City Writers Project, Read Up Greenville, and the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. My wonderful and talented friend Mark Johnston simply would not let me put this project down, and his persistence, brainstorming, and encouragement all these years have resulted in this book.
My colleagues at Wyche, P.A., provide inspiration every day with their commitment to excellence.
Special thanks to Rachel Baldwin, Kara Barlow, Bill Barnet, Michelle Bigger, Kelly Byers, Terry Grayson Caprio, Rita Christopher, Carla Davidson, Dr. Benjamin Dunlap, Chris Foster, Clyde Fowler, Debbie Fowler, Mary Gentry, Ted Gentry, Vera Gomez, Cary Hall, Nancy Halverson, Vanessa Hilliard, Anna Kate Hipp, Hayne Hipp, Sue Inman, Hannah Jarrett, Jennie Johnson, Lindsay Jones, Beth Kastler, Alex Kiriakides, Suzanne Kiriakides, Ray Lattimore, Wallace Lightsey, Melinda Long, Joanne Markle, Corajane Melton, Renata Parker, Jessica Pate, Joanne Penick, Rebecca Petruck, Glenis Redmond, Peter Reiling, Lauren Roach, Luanne Runge, Ashley Stafford Sewall, Michael Sewall, June Smith-Jeffries, Monte Stone, Irena Tervo, Carol Wilson, Pam Zollman, the Liberty Fellowship staff, and my Liberty Fellow classmates.
I am grateful to critique partners Carol Baldwin, Helen Correll, Caroline Eschenberg, Landra Jennings, Jan Kovaleski, Sheri Levy, Kelly Pfeiffer, and Marcia Pugh and to Lorin Oberweger for lending their considerable talents to this project.
To make the outdoor survival scenes realistic, I trained on everything from fire starting, shelter building, and water gathering to foraging for edible and medicinal plants with Alex Garcia and Robin McGee. Any errors are my own, and I have a list on my website (JoHackl.com) of the few creative liberties I took with details of the physical world. Dr. Drew Brannon and Dr. Laura Delustro generously provided information on mental health issues, and Dr. Blake Layton Jr. generously provided information on entomology.
I am grateful to the good people of Kemper County, Mississippi, who generously shared information about the history of Electric Mills, and to the late artist Walter Anderson, whose work inspires many people, including me.
Finally, I am grateful to the bighearted community of educators and librarians who have helped me in this project and whose work makes the world better for us all.
JO WATSON HACKL was born in Biloxi, Mississippi, near Ocean Springs, where her favorite artist, Walter Anderson, lived and once painted a secret room. As a child, Jo loved hearing stories about the mysterious artist. When she was eleven, she moved to a real-life ghost town, Electric Mills, Mississippi. Anderson’s secret room and the ghost town were Jo’s inspiration for this debut novel. Today, Jo lives with her family in Greenville, South Carolina, where she takes to the woods whenever she can. You can find her online at JoHackl.com.
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