Deadwood (22 page)

“We're not working together. I'm trying to save the tree, and you're trying to sell it,” he said, raising his voice.

She cocked her head. “I'm preserving it, just like you are. We're saving the carvings instead of letting them rot in the woods.”

“But you're killing it.” Martin heard his voice crack, and Libby looked at him with pity, like he was talking about an imaginary friend.

“It's just a tree. It's not like it's a living thing,” she said.

“A tree
is
a living thing.”

“You know what I mean. It's not an animal. It's just wood. Wood is meant to be used—made into furniture, paper, or whatever. You should be happy they're not using the Spirit Tree as fuel for the homecoming bonfire.”

“Do I look happy?” He gritted his teeth.

“No. But you know, a smile wouldn't hurt you. And before long you'll find yourself feeling better if you're looking better.”

Martin inhaled, flaring his nostrils. He felt as if he was about to blow smoke out his nose and ears, and he was still fuming as Ms. Stemmler cleared her phlegmy throat to call the meeting to order. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “Today we're talking about a subject everyone loves—
Luxuria
. That is, luxury.”

Jenna's home and garden were going to be bulldozed—cut down and trashed, just like the Spirit Tree. Martin couldn't stand to think of it, but he couldn't get it out of his head.

“If you want to be successful, you have to surround yourself with the trappings of success—an elegant home, a luxury car, designer clothes,” Ms. Stemmler said. She winked, pursing her lips as if they were closed with a drawstring. “Or, if you're a kid, a super-deluxe gaming system and expensive jeans. If you look like a leader, you'll attract others—whether executives or other students—to you. And when you attract others, you attract more success. You have power to make things happen. That's the answer.”

Martin covered his head with his hands. His expensive new suit and tie felt like a straitjacket. He hadn't been able to make anything happen. All this time, he'd thought he was a third-level rogue ranger, and it turned out he was an NPC—a non-player character, a dead-eyed prop in the background of the real game.

29

Walkout

H
annah didn't call Waverly back. The more time passed, the harder it was to break the silence. They hadn't spoken since school on Friday, and now it was a quarter to ten on Sunday night. Fifty-four hours had passed, but who was counting? It was almost too late—even Waverly wasn't allowed to take calls past ten on a school night.

Hannah toyed with her phone, then powered it on for the first time since Nick had come home from the hospital. It rang immediately, and she answered without looking at the number.

“Waverly?” she asked.

“No, it's me,” Martin said, his voice breaking a little.

Hannah was disappointed, relieved, and excited to hear him all at once. “I'm glad you called. What's up?”

“Nothing good.”

Hannah could hear a gulp on the other end.

“It's about Jenna Blitzer,” Martin said.

“Don't tell me she's a suspect again.”

“That's not it. My aunt told me the town is going to seize her land. They're going to pave it over for a stadium parking lot.”

Hannah felt numb. “What? They can't do that.”

“They can, Hannah. It's called eminent domain. The town can take her land if they say it's for the public good, and Jenna's property backs up to the football field. The stadium committee already gave the go-ahead—they just need the town lawyers, also known as Libby's parents—to condemn the property, and then it's theirs to buy. An offer she can't refuse.”

That beautiful place, the only green and wild place outside Brynwood Park, was going to be destroyed, just like the tree. Fury burned through Hannah's body from the middle of her chest into her brain. “They can't do that.”

“Yes, they can,” Martin said. “The Lower Brynwood Planning Commission just needs a few signatures, then Jenna's garden will be asphalt.”

“The Lower Brynwood Planning Commission?” said Hannah, the heat in her head cooling enough to think clearly. “Are you forgetting we have pull there? My dad will help us. He's got the Spirit Tree removal plan stalled, no matter what Jake claimed yesterday at the football game. Dad can slow down the condemnation. Maybe we can save the tree
and
Jenna's house, too.”

“Save it for how long? A couple weeks? We're failing, Hannah. The curse is winning.”

“We'll see about that. It's not over yet.”

She hung up the phone and powered it down. Waverly could wait—she was the last person Hannah felt like talking to. Instead, she went downstairs to convince her dad to lose another pile of paperwork.

The next day, Hannah felt as if she had a big red target on her back, and it didn't help that she was wearing her scarlet game-day soccer uniform.

In the cafeteria, she felt eyes on her and made the mistake of glancing at Waverly. Hannah steeled herself against the beseeching look her best friend sent her. Waverly looked worse than sorry. She looked miserable.
Serves her right
, thought Hannah, slamming her lunch bag on the table next to Martin.

“I still can't believe Waverly is on their side,” she said.

Martin sighed. “I don't know if that's what she meant to do. I saw Libby at Junior JET last night, and she seemed to think we were all working on the same project together. Did Waverly know what we were really trying to do? What did you tell her?”

“Not much,” Hannah said. Not enough, she realized. Maybe Waverly wouldn't have believed in a tree that could text, but Hannah hadn't even told her that they were trying to save the tree itself. For all Waverly knew, they were just trying to save the messages on it—the history project. She'd been teasing Hannah about a surprise because she actually thought Hannah would be thrilled about it. “Oh, Martin, is there anything else I can mess up?”

“Hey, you're supposed to be the confident one. And we have a lot of names to research tonight—all those carvings from the tree.” Martin turned his dark brown eyes to her, and she felt a little better. He was on her side.

“Did your aunt know anything about Six Sigma?” she asked.

He nodded and summarized what Michelle had said—that it was some dumb business thing that hadn't been enough to save the Happy Elf Bakery. As if anything could have beaten a curse. “I almost thought Aunt Michelle had something to do with it,” Martin said, “but she thought the whole idea was stupid. Should we go to my house or yours after school?”

“Neither,” she said, gesturing to her clothes. “I have a game today. But you could come over for dinner…”

“Okay,” Martin said, answering before she got the words out.

“My dad will pick you up—we get pizza on the way home. What do you like on yours?”

“Everything. Anything. Nothing. Whatever.”

Way to narrow things down
, Hannah thought. No wonder they had so much trouble identifying suspects. They'd eliminated Jenna, but the rest of the town? The so-called bad one could be anybody.

Hannah saw her dad's big red sweatshirt as soon as she trotted onto the field. She signaled with her whole arm, and he waved back from the green folding chair amid the other parents on the sidelines. Usually Hannah's father didn't make it to her soccer games until the second half. Hannah didn't mind. He had to work until five and her games started early. Nick's and A.J.'s had always been easier to fit in, since football games took place at night or on weekends. They were true spectator sports, while nobody but relatives attended middle school girls' soccer games.

She felt an extra charge from her father's presence—she couldn't miss today, at least on the field. She scored two goals and assisted another. She flashed her dad a big grin each time, and he pumped his fist and high-fived another dad.

After the game, Hannah ran up to him and he folded her in a hug before she rolled away, leaving his arm around her shoulders.

“Dad, can we pick up Martin before we get the pizza?” she asked.

“Martin? Don't you want to go out with your teammates?” he said, frowning.

She shook her head. “It's Monday, and we have work to do on the Spirit Tree project.”

“Right. The tree.” Last night her dad had seemed enthusiastic and outraged when she updated him and asked for his help with Jenna's land, but this time he said it with slight distaste. They didn't speak again until she climbed into the passenger seat of their old mint-green minivan.

“We can pick up your friend,” he said, clicking his seatbelt, “but we'll hold off on buying pizza.”

“Okay,” she said, puzzled. “Did you see the paperwork for the new parking lot they're trying to put on Jenna's land?”

“I saw it.” He started the car, but didn't shift into gear. He put both hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead as other cars backed up and pulled out of the lot. “Honey, I got hold of the file, and that's the problem. My boss saw it on my desk and wondered why I had it without his permission. Then he asked what happened with Jake Laughlin's bid for the Spirit Tree removal, and I got a really bad feeling. Hannah, somebody important must have complained about the delay. My boss figured out it's my fault.”

Hannah's father turned to her and spoke slowly. “He suspended me without pay. My job at the Lower Brynwood Planning Commission is hanging by a thread, pending review. I'm about to be fired.”

Hannah had caused it. He didn't say it, but he didn't need to. She was trying to beat this curse, and it was fighting back. “I'm sorry, Dad,” she said. “Forget the pizza. Forget everything. But I've got to talk to Martin. Could you drop me off at his house?”

When Martin opened the fiberglass door, his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Then he noticed the green van pulling away behind her. “What about dinner?”

“Pizza's off. It's bad, Martin. The curse is hurting people—even killing them. And now it's after our parents.”

“How did you know?” he said, his voice creaky. He had been crying, and Hannah felt cold.

“Know what?”

“My mom. She's hurt—took a half-dozen pieces of shrapnel in an Afghan convoy explosion.”

“Oh my God, Martin,” she said, putting out her hand to touch him. He backed away and wouldn't look at her.

“She says she's going to be all right. She's says they're just scratches,” he said. “And she's not coming home—the Army's going to patch her up, slap some Band-Aids on her arms and legs, and send her back out there so some other Taliban creep can take another shot at her.”

“It's not your fault, Martin.”

“Not my fault? Of course not. She's out there every day, seven thousand miles away in Afghanistan. She's trying to help people, but there are people who want to kill her. That's what's real. I can't keep her safe. I can't do anything to help her at all. I thought if we lifted the curse I could protect her. How stupid. I'm just some little kid who believes in spells and curses. Like Santa Claus is going to grant my wish and save my mommy for me. But the truth is, I can't save even one rotten old tree.”

“We can do it, Martin. You know we have to.” The pain on his face was so intense that Hannah could feel it radiating from him like heat from a fire, but he still wouldn't look at her. She wished she could comfort him, but she didn't know how.

“No, now I know I'm delusional. I'm done with the Spirit Tree, Hannah. The curse can take this whole city down, as long as it leaves me and my mom alone,” he said, stumbling on the threshold as he backed inside. He shut the door on her.

She stood for a moment, wondering if she should knock again. Instead, she started the long walk home—slow this time. She didn't much care when she got there.

30

Blow Up

G
oing slow helped Hannah see more clearly. She noticed the dented trashcans behind cracked vinyl fences, the peeling paint on the green cast-iron street signs, the plastic flowers stuck in window boxes because real flowers wouldn't grow. She couldn't fix that stuff. She'd made a mistake asking her dad to compromise his job, and she couldn't fix that. But she wasn't giving up on the Spirit Tree.

She walked along the edge of Brynwood Park. The shortest way home was straight through it, but she didn't want the shortest way today. She didn't want to face the tree alone. That sounded stupid even in her head, but night fell earlier than just a few weeks ago, and the woods were darker than the street. Her mom had always warned her not to cut through them after nightfall—supposedly that's where the delinquents smoked, drank, or did mysterious bad things. She had scoffed at the idea of bad things happening in such a pokey little forest, but what could be worse than cursing a town?