“It’s nice to see you at my bus stop,” she said, beaming.
“I missed my regular stop, so . . .”
“A happy accident!”
I gathered up the rest of my belongings, keeping my head down. “Sure, whatever.”
“Where’d you get these?” She handed me the other cleat.
I froze, like a criminal in a searchlight. Planting sneakers under a possibly magical tree wasn’t illegal, was it? “A store,” I lied, holding my secret tight.
“I’ve never seen cleats like this before. They’re so cool!”
“Thanks, I know,” I mumbled. The school bus slowed to a halt in front of us. The door folded open. Perfect timing. I jumped in, clutching my backpack. I landed in the first empty seat.
“You forgot this.” The girl plunked down beside me and waved a sheet of paper in my face. “I’m impressed. This assignment isn’t due until next week, you eager-beaver-overachiever!” Her voice was so chipper it made me cringe.
“I like numbers.” I snatched the math homework away and slipped it into my backpack. “You’re in Miss Benítez’s class too?”
“Actually, I’m in every single one of your classes.” She looked at me squarely. “Nice of you to notice.”
I stared back blankly.
“Do you even know my name?” she asked. Her hair was so long it tumbled onto my shoulder. I brushed it away. “Seriously, Isabel. Do you?” Ugh. She was so persistent.
I bit my lip. “Sure I do. You’re . . . Jennif . . . Jessic . . . ?” I watched her face for a hint. Nothing. So I played the odds. “Emm . . . Soph . . . ?” And lost.
She didn’t look mad, just disappointed. I felt like a world-class jerk.
“It’s okay,” she said. Her eyes were too nice, all squishy and full of warm, brown kindness. I had to look away. “I know you’ve been having a tough time lately.” She patted me on the arm.
I flinched. I wanted to scream, Get your hands and your freakishly long hair off me! The bus stopped again. More kids boarded, equally nameless. I thought about bolting, escaping that torturous ride. Run back to the orchard. My parents would never notice. By the time Principal Tam called home, Mom would already be at the hospital and would never get the message.
But I liked school. It occupied my mind with things other than sickness and tin cans with no lunch money. Plus, I had snazzy new cleats I couldn’t wait to use at softball practice. So I stayed on the bus.
I pressed my forehead to the window and tried to ignore the seat intruder next to me. She inched closer and closer, until I could practically smell the orange juice on her breath. I decided this girl was another sort of MIA—Most Intolerably Annoying.
We passed the millpond where Dad and I used to feed the ducks before we played catch in the evenings. Next was Mrs. Tolson’s farm, with a feisty flock of chickens that we avoided at all costs because they pecked and scratched anyone who came near. The bus whizzed by a grove of birch trees, pale and slender, wrapped in papery bark like mummies. They were striking and mysterious, but nothing compared to the chance seedling growing in my own backyard. A rock wall snaked between the birches, marking an old property line that nature had chosen to disregard. Not unlike the girl encroaching further into my personal space with each passing minute. Her hair fell across my shoulder again. I resisted the urge to give it a strong yank.
The bus rounded the last bend of Melwick Lane and turned onto Drabbington Avenue, which was completely misnamed, in my opinion. The houses on Drabbington were packed in tight, sort of cuddled together. Square lawns spread out like green tablecloths, and ribbons of sidewalk spooled into a large cul de sac that was always filled with kids drawing with chalk, jumping rope, and riding bikes. If she wasn’t so sick, Junie would’ve loved to play there. And if I hadn’t instituted my don’t-need-friends policy, I might have, too. Especially since I heard they had pickup ballgames most weekends.
I caught the reflection of the girl next to me in the glass. She was peering at the cul de sac. Her eyes had a funny look in them. A wishing look.
The bus eased up to the curb, welcoming a riot of kids aboard. They burst in like a swarm of bees, buzzing down the aisle until the bus driver yelled at everyone to “Sit and zip!” As we drove on, the other kids laughed and chattered. I could feel the humming of friendship all around. The girl next to me kept directing that wishing look my way.
We made a few more stops, nearing the town center. We passed a hardware store, a bakery, a post office. Farther ahead, a brick library, a steepled church, a cemetery, and a few more shops ringed a grassy square. Compared to the cities we’d lived in, Bridgebury was tiny. Quaint was the word my parents used, which was typically grown-up code for boring. But after everything that had happened in the orchard this morning, boring didn’t fit one bit.
We pulled up to school just in time. I was positively itching to get off that bus. The long-haired girl blocked me. “By the way,” she said cheerily, “my name is Kira. And we can be friends.” Like it was the simplest thing in the world. The nerve.
Chapter 6
I should’ve played hooky after all. I couldn’t stop thinking about the orchard. I was utterly useless in math class, which was usually my best subject. When Miss Benítez asked me the answer to twenty-seven divided by nine, I replied, “Tree. Oh! I mean, three.”
In English class, when Mr. Clarke announced our lesson plan for the day, I practically fell out of my chair.
“Everything all right, Miss Fitzwilken?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine. Just, um . . . did you say roots?”
“Latin and Greek roots, yes. They can tell us a lot about the meaning of our vocabulary words. In fact, more than half of the words in the English language have Latin or Greek roots.”
“I thought you meant something else,” I said.
“No problem,” Mr. Clarke replied. “Here, I’ll explain. Take the word bibliography.”
“Like the thing Ms. Perdilla says we have to include with our science project?” the girl named Kira asked. Somehow she was sitting next to me. Again.
“Exactly. In Greek, biblio means books. The second part comes from graphos, which refers to writing or recording information. Mash it together and it describes a list of books and articles used for your research. Make sense?”
It actually did. It reminded me of Junie’s silly word combinations.
“Let’s play a matching game,” Mr. Clarke said.
“I love games!” Kira clapped. This girl was too much. I rolled my eyes so hard they just about disappeared into my head.
Mr. Clarke wrote a bunch of words on one side of the whiteboard. On the other side, he wrote several roots with their meanings. “Dissect a word using its roots,” he said, “and you’ll find its definition. Casey, choose a word, please.”
A boy sitting a few rows in front of me pointed to the first word on the list. “Ant-o-what-ah?”
“Anthozoa. Sounds tricky, doesn’t it? But if you happen to know that the Greek word anthos means flower,” he circled the root on the board, “and the word zoa means animals . . .” He circled that, too, and drew lines connecting everything. “It starts to make a whole lot more sense.”
Casey shrugged. “Sort of.”
“Wait!” I said, before we moved on. “Are you saying anthozoa means flower animals?”
“Precisely!”
“Flower animals? Really? Do things like that actually exist?” I asked.
“Certainly. Corals and sea anemones fall into that category. I’m sure Ms. Perdilla could give you more specific information if you’re interested.”
I was interested. Bizarre plants were the only things I could think about.
By the time science class rolled around, I still hadn’t snapped out of it. And that kind of distraction can be seriously dangerous, especially if Bunsen burners are involved. I didn’t get a chance to ask Ms. Perdilla about anthozoa because I was busy nearly torching Kira’s mane. It was her own fault, really. She insisted on being my la
b partner.
“Lab buddies!” she squealed as soon as Ms. Perdilla asked us to pair up.
Then, open flame. Long hair. An accident waiting to happen. Thankfully, Ms. Perdilla intervened before anything actually caught fire. I thought the whole incident might discourage Kira, but she was more determined than ever to be my friend. Some people just can’t take a hint.
***
At noon, the lunch bell rang. Kids flooded the hallways, surging in a chatty mass toward the cafeteria. I joined the lunch line, ready to hand over my money in return for a tray of waxy beans, a scoop of some questionable purée, and an unidentifiable hunk of meat. I was so hungry that my standards were at an all-time low. Anything was better than another bowl of stale cereal.
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the stick of petrified chewing gum. I tried the other pocket, wiggling my fingers. The money was gone. Gone? That’s when I felt it: a hole. One Mom hadn’t patched. Surprise, surprise. All those scrounged coins and dollar bill must have slipped away when I fell running for the bus. My heart dropped. Down through my chest, through my empty stomach, right on through that hole in my pocket. I was shocked it didn’t leave a crater in the cafeteria floor a mile deep.
I needed a plan. I could tell the lunch lady that my dad forgot to give me lunch money. But that might lead to questions. And with one little tug, even well-meaning questions could unravel me quicker than one of Aunt Sheila’s badly knit scarves. Before I knew it, I’d be a blubbering mess, going on and on about a battle between a sweet little kid named Junie and a nasty tumor named Willie.
I stepped out of the lunch line, empty-handed. I crossed the cafeteria and veered left through a set of double doors that led to an open courtyard. On nice days, we were allowed to spend our lunch period out there. I sucked in the fresh air, wishing it was chicken soup, or a banana smoothie, or anything to satisfy my rumbling stomach. I sat at an empty picnic table and watched as some boys climbed the big stones in the middle of the courtyard, throwing grapes at each other like miniature grenades. A few girls came outside next, giggling and gossiping, carrying trays of food. Their shoulders bumped together easily as they walked. They sat a few tables away, casting an occasional glance my way.
I didn’t usually mind sitting alone, as long as I had something to focus my attention on. A tray of food or a lunch box acted like a shield, telling the world you had a purpose. You couldn’t be bothered with petty lunchtime chatter when you were focused on important tasks, like sculpting mashed potato mountain ranges or dissecting a particularly sketchy hamburger patty. Unfortunately, that afternoon I had nothing to fiddle with, no shield. I didn’t really want to be anyone’s friend, but I didn’t want my classmates to consider me a total loser either. It was a delicate balance.
As a last resort, I unwrapped the stick of petrified chewing gum and placed it on my tongue. I would blow bubbles. Big, pink bubbles would be my shield. I chewed once, twice. The gum crumbled and dissolved into sugary dust. I tried folding the wrapper into an elegant origami crane. It looked more like a road-kill pigeon. So much for a shield.
The picnic table shifted. Someone slid along the bench, directly across from me.
My stomach growled embarrassingly loud. I honed in on the crumpled bird with laser focus. I tried to summon my powers of invisibility. Leave. Me. Alone. Please.
“On a diet?”
I recognized that singsongy voice. I looked up. It was Kira. Annoying. Until I realized she could be my armor. Just for today. With her sitting there, I didn’t feel so exposed and pitiful. I abandoned my origami disaster.
“A diet?” I said. “No. Well, not an intentional one.”
“Aha, I know your secret.” Her too-nice eyes twinkled.
What was she talking about? What did she know?
“Your mutant pet centipede ate your lunch. Right? I mean, why else would someone have all those boots and cleats in their backpack, but no food?”
I laughed. For the second time in one day. A new record. I really tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. It just crept up on me. Like a centipede, all wiggly and tickly with a hundred crazy legs.
“Here.” She opened her lunch box and pushed an orange and a stack of cookies wrapped in wax paper across the table. “Sharing is caring,” she said, winking at me like we were actually friends or something. I grimaced. She caught my expression and said, “The cookies are homemade. Try them! They’re good.”
I could hardly remember the last time my mom had baked something, which was odd for two reasons. First, she used to work as a pastry chef. Second, I was usually really good at keeping track of time. I could calculate exactly how long it’d been since I’d had a dentist appointment or ridden a roller coaster. I loved counting forward too: tracking the months, weeks, days, hours, and minutes until something fun was supposed to happen, like a birthday party or a trip to the beach. I had a teacher once who thought it was an impressive skill, which inspired my parents to buy me my own watch. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as Dad’s antique gold one, but mine had a purple leather strap and a happy-looking face and I loved it.
I still wore that watch every day, even though I was trying to quit my habit. I’d lost all faith in time. If Junie hadn’t gotten sick, I’m pretty sure the past five months and better-not-to-think-about-how-many minutes would’ve flown by. Quick and happy. Blink of an eye. Instead, they dragged. Slow and heavy. Like drips of molasses. And since no one seemed to know exactly when Junie would get better, I couldn’t count forward either.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Kira asked, nudging the snacks closer.
I glanced at the cookies, as if my stomach now controlled my eyeballs. They were tied with a ribbon like a present. A note was attached. When Kira saw it, she reached across the table and snapped the paper away. She stuffed the note in her pocket.
“My mom still treats me like a baby. It’s so embarrassing,” she said. “She leaves notes on my cookies, notes in my backpack. Notes stuck to the bathroom mirror when I wake up in the morning.”
I felt a little jab in my stomach. Hunger pain. Or memory pain? I pictured the empty tin can in our kitchen. Not a penny or note inside to rattle I love you. Or at the very least, I may have forgotten your lunch money, but I haven’t forgotten about you.
“Sounds awful,” I muttered.
“It’s like I can’t escape.” Kira took a bite of the best-looking turkey sandwich I’d ever seen. “Mothers are the worst like that.”
“Like what?” I asked, bewildered. Even when Mom couldn’t bring herself to cook, or brush her hair, or clean up her spilled tea, she never made it onto my list of worstibles. Not yet at least.
“Like always smothering you with Great job! And Have a nice day, Pookie!”
“Pookie?” Another laugh snuck out in the form of a snort. Mortifying.
She nodded, brow furrowed. As if using the name Pookie was a truly serious offense. Kira and I lived right down the road from each other, but it was clear that we actually lived in opposite universes. I decided to play along, because it was almost fun to imagine.
“Or how they always want to spend time with you,” I said. I peeled the orange, which wasn’t as exciting as peeling a feathery shoefruit pod, but at least this was edible.
“Right! And talk to you about your day. Ugh.” Kira sighed dramatically.
I ate the sweet orange slices. “And ask how you’re feeling.”
“Mmhmm. And take you shopping for frilly dresses you wouldn’t be caught dead in.”
“And tuck you into bed at night.” Out of nowhere, the almost-fun feeling vanished. My mouth filled with a bitter taste. “You know?” I spit out the words and shut my mouth fast, before anything bigger and truer could slip out.
Kira nodded enthusiastically. “Believe me. I know.”
But she had no idea. How could anyone else understand what was happening?
My face felt like it was about to crack open like an egg. I slid off the picnic table bench and ran. Not the light, joyful running of
the morning. This was an escape. Lead legs, aching heart, almost-cracked egg face. I ran to the only decent hiding spot I could think of, where no one, except maybe the janitor, would bother me.
***
I sat in the last stall of the girls’ bathroom for the rest of lunch, and all the way through geography and music class too. I read and reread the graffiti on the wall, where the middle school social order was spelled out in loopy handwriting and i’s dotted with hearts. I learned that Vanessa loved Robert, Liz hated Amelia, and Casey smells. I memorized important equations that Miss Benítez must have skipped over in math class, like R + S = 4eva and AP, SC, MO = BFFS!!! and A <3 F. Fascinating stuff. Really.
When the last bell finally rang, I emerged. Brand new cleats were calling my name. Ready for a happier run. I rejoined my classmates in the hallway, like I’d been there all along, and made my way toward the gym.
The girls’ locker room was empty. I was grateful for a moment alone. I unzipped my backpack. The yellow-and-black cleats dazzled. My muscles twitched. I couldn’t wait to take them out for a spin.
I changed into my gym clothes and slid my hand into my glove. It had belonged to Dad when he was a boy, and Grandpa Isaac before him. Our nightly tosses had been postponed for a while, but wearing that glove and practicing with the team made me feel close to my father. If I played really well, maybe I could persuade him to leave his office for a few hours and watch our first game of the season.
I was about to slam my locker closed when a piece of paper on the bulletin board caught my eye. Coach Naron’s chicken scratches were strewn all over, barely legible, just like her playbook.
Girls’ Softball: practice canceled today due to rain.
See you on the field tomorrow! –Coach N
Rain? No way. It was sunny and clear at lunch. Then again, I hadn’t left the windowless bathroom stall for hours. For all I knew, the entire town could have been hit by a meteor shower or trampled by a herd of runaway rhinos from the zoo. I left the locker room, jogged past the gym and down the hall, toward the school’s side entrance. I opened the door. A sheet of angry water and a smudged sky greeted me. I ducked back inside.
The Magic of Melwick Orchard Page 4
