Some Kind of Happiness

If you are afraid, sad, tired, or lonely if you feel lost or strange if you crave stories and adventure, and the magic possibility of a forest path—this book is for you

• Zareen Jaffery knew exactly how to make Finley's story shine and trusted that I could make it happen.

• Diana Fox wisely pointed to this idea out of all my others and said, “Write this one. This one feels right.”

• Krista Vossen, Hilary Zarycky, and Júlia Sardà

■ wildly talented artists with flawless taste (see: the look and feel of the book in your hands)

• The Simon & Schuster team, especially

■ Mekisha Telfer, lady knight

■ Katrina Groover, Karen Sherman, Bara McNeill—scholars three, patient and sharp-eyed

■ Justin Chanda, Anne Zafian, Katy Hershberger—mighty champions and heralds

• Tim Federle and Natalie Lloyd, whose endorsements mean the world to me. (
endorsement
: eleven-letter word for “thumbs-up, buttercup!”)

• Alison Cherry, Heidi Schulz, Corey Ann Haydu, Ally Watkins—faithful friends and early readers.

• Kama Lawrence and Dennis Pitman lent me their lawyerly wisdom.

• Matt (my love) gave me the idea.

• Mom (my forever anchor) gave me the courage.

• And mighty, unsinkable Battleship Legrand—how could I have done this without you? (I couldn't have.)

■ Drew and Kelsey and Kyle—let's never forget those tree-topped days.

■ Grandma and Grandpa—your house was our kingdom, your love our sword and shield.

■ Dad and Anna, fearless captain and first mate of our motley crew! Steer us steady and true. You always have, and you always will.

NCE THERE WAS A GREAT,
sprawling forest called the Everwood.

Magic lived there, and it lit up every tree and flower with impossible beauty.

But even so, most people stayed far away from the Everwood, for it was said to hold many secrets, and not all of them kind.

According to rumor, the Everwood was home to astonishing creatures and peculiar, solitary people. Some were born in the Everwood, and some had wandered inside, whether they meant to or not.

No one in the Everwood got along, for they had no ruler to unite them, no neighborhoods or cities. They lived like wild things and kept to themselves, but they all loved the Everwood, and its strangeness, with their whole hearts. For it was their home, and it was all they knew.

Or so the rumors said.

Most people were afraid to enter the Everwood, but some brave souls made the journey anyway: adventurers, witches, explorers.

They never returned.

Perhaps the wild creatures who lived in the forest had trapped them there. Or maybe the Everwood's secrets were so enchanting that those who made it inside did not care to leave.

Everyone who lived near the Everwood knew that it was home to two guardians. They were as ancient as the Everwood trees, and they protected the forest's secrets from outsiders.

Throughout their long lives, the guardians had learned how to read certain signs: the wind in the trees, the chatter of the Everwood creatures.

One summer, not so long ago, something happened that would change the Everwood forever. The ancient guardians determined that soon a terrible Everwood secret—one they had kept hidden for years—would come to light. And if this happened, the guardians feared, the Everwood would fall. They would no longer be able to protect their forest. Its secrets and treasures would be laid bare. The people of the Everwood would lose the home they so loved and be forced out into the cold, wide world.

So the guardians studied their signs, desperate for hope—and they found it. A small, cautious hope, as clear to them as though it were a page in a book:

The Everwood might fall—but it could still be saved, even then. The trees whispered it; the birds sang it: A fall does not have to be forever.

All they would need to save the Everwood, said the guardians' signs, was a queen.

WHY THIS SUMMER WILL BE THE MOST TERRIBLE OF MY LIFE

• I will be spending the entire summer at Hart House with my estranged grandparents. (
estranged
: nine-letter word for “kept at a distance”)

■ My cousins will be there too, off and on. That's what Mom and Dad tell me. “Oh, they pop in and out, Grandma says.”

♦ I hate when people “pop in and out.” Popping in and out is not very list-friendly behavior.

• Mom and Dad are taking me to Hart House because they are “having problems” and “need some space to work it out.”

■ This, I assume, is a euphemism for divorce. Or at least something leading up to divorce. (
euphemism
: nine-letter word for “term or phrase, seemingly innocuous”)

• I will be far away from my bedroom at home, which is the only place where I can be entirely myself.

• There is a heaviness pressing down on me that makes it difficult to breathe.

I
T'S TRUE:
I
AM FINDING
it difficult to breathe. A heavy feeling inside my chest squeezes and pulls.

I rest my head against the car window and watch the world outside race by. Pale green prairie grass and the wide blue sky. Old barns with peeling paint and lonely houses surrounded by cows instead of neighborhoods.

I imagine I am running through the tall grass alongside the car—no, I am on a horse: a white horse with a tail like a banner.

A horse from the Everwood.

Nothing is fast enough to touch us.

Mom is obsessively switching radio stations. I think she probably has ADHD, which is a term I have learned from listening to kids at school. Mom has a hard time sitting still and is never satisfied with a radio station for longer than the duration of one song. Her work as an interior designer is perfect for her; it keeps her hands busy.

Dad is talking about things that don't matter:

“I wonder if this summer will be hotter than last summer.”

“What's a seven-letter word for
sidesplitting
?”

“I'm not sure I can get behind the new tone of this station.”

They like to pretend I don't sense the stiffness between them, that I don't notice how much more they've been working lately, even more than usual.

They like to pretend I don't notice things. I think it makes them feel better, to lie to themselves and to me.

Which is kind of insulting. I may be a lot of things, but I am not stupid.

For example, I recognize how strange it is that I have never met my grandparents. I do know Mom's parents, and her brother, though they live so far away that I hardly ever see them and they might as well be strangers.

But when I ask about Dad's parents—Grandma and Grandpa Hart—Mom and Dad fumble with their words, offering explanations that don't explain anything much:

“Well, Grandma and Grandpa are always so busy. It's a matter of scheduling.”

“
We're
always so busy, your dad and I. You know that, Finley.”

“I don't know, Fin,” Dad often tells me. “Your grandparents and I . . . we've never been close.”

Through my observation of the world, I have concluded it is not normal for a girl to be kept away from her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, her cousins, as if they could hurt her.

Testing myself, I inhale slowly. The heaviness inside me has faded.

I can breathe again.

I glance at the back of Dad's head, at Mom's eyes in the rearview mirror. She must be nervous; she has never met Dad's family either. She is staring hard at the road, sitting perfectly straight, not paying attention to me.

So she and Dad didn't notice a thing. Good.

I am safe. For now.

(I will not think about Hart House, or about how my
cousins will stare at me, or about pretending it isn't weird to spend a summer with my grandparents after years of not knowing them.)

(No, it isn't weird at all.)

I cannot keep thinking about these things. That is a recipe for disaster.

I check the reflection of Mom's eyes. Still glaring at the road, Mom?

Yes. Good.

I am safe.

I flip past my pages of lists and to the portion of my notebook reserved for stories about the Everwood.

I don't know what I will write about today.

Perhaps about the Everwood's evil cousin forest, the Neverwood, and their terrible, thousand-year war. Or maybe about the various Everwood witch clans, and how people say you can tell them apart by the smell of their magic.

Rhonda, my next-door neighbor, and probably the closest thing I will ever have to a best friend, says I am a huge nerd.

She is probably right.

Given my father's love of crossword puzzles, his job as a literature professor at the university, and my preference for books over people, I've acquired an impressive vocabulary for an eleven-year-old.

But when my parents sat me down to explain where I'd be going this summer, and why, all the words seemed to fly right out of my head.

I hope I can find them again soon.

My notebook—the latest in a series of twelve—has loads of blank pages in it, waiting to be filled.

And if I'm going to keep my grandparents from discovering my secret, I will need to write.

A lot.

HE IS COMING
.