Some Kind of Happiness (20 page)

(I know; I have listed them.)

And yet it remains inside me.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Too many cookies.”

“Oh, I've
totally
done that before. Grandma's cookies are so good and yet so very evil. I think the more of them you eat, the more of them you have to keep on eating. Like a curse. Maybe she got the recipe from one of the Everwood witches. That sounds like something they would do. Right? Or maybe
Grandma
is a witch.”

“She's not a witch,” I say into my pillow. “She's too clean.”

Gretchen scoots closer to me. “Hey. Really, are you okay? Do you need me to bring you something?”

More blankets? A sadness extractor, freshly sharpened?

“Do you ever have bad days?” I ask her.

“Sure. Mom says that's when you get up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“So you feel sad?”

“Yeah, I guess. But I just go outside or run around or Mom does something doofy, and I feel better.”

Ah. I see.

Then our bad days are not the same.

On my bad days, running around or going outside or being doofy changes nothing.

My sadness still sticks in me like a sword.

Gretchen pokes me. “You think you'll be okay for the fireworks tomorrow?”

The Fourth of July. My summer here is half over. “Yeah. I'm just tired.”

“Jack left a note at the Post Office. Says he wants to go to the Bone House tonight. He says he likes cleaning. He's incredibly weird.”

I know I should want to go too. After all, I am the queen. It was my idea to start cleaning up the Bone House, to make it back into a home. I found the photograph. I led myself and Gretchen into the Wasteland, that first day.

I have a responsibility to my forest, to my people.

And part of me does want to go, truly.

But the rest of me sinks lower into the mattress at the thought of having to get out from under these covers. The idea of even moving my hand to touch Gretchen is overwhelming.

It is much, much easier to stay still.

Until I have recovered from last night is all. Just until then.

As Mom would say after a particularly stressful day, I need more time to “recover my equilibrium.”

There isn't anything wrong with that, is there?

“You'll feel better by then, right?” asks Gretchen.

“Maybe,” I say. “I'll try. I'm going to nap for a while.”

“Well, we'll be outside. Dex wants to paint the walls inside the Tower, and I think we should let him so Kennedy doesn't pull her hair out. That's okay with you?”

“The painting, or Kennedy pulling her hair out?”

Gretchen snorts. “Now that's funny. Feel better, okay?”

(I think that might not be an option for me.)

“I will.” I pretend to yawn. “Thanks, Gretchen.”

Then she is gone, and I am alone, which is what I wanted—but it doesn't make me feel any better.

•  •  •

I wake up later and dig out my phone from underneath my pillows.

I find Dad in my recent contacts. My thumb hovers over the call button.

But what would I say?

Dad, I am freaking out for no reason.

Dad, I am pretending I am sick today so I don't have to talk to anyone.

Dad, I hurt, and I don't know why.

But then what? Then he would come and get me, and I would have to be at home, with him and Mom and their problems.

(Am I one of their problems?)

(I cannot be one of their problems. I will not allow it.)

I slide the phone underneath the pillows and wrap myself back in my blankets.

It will go away on its own, whatever this is. It has to.

I will
make
it go away.

•  •  •

Even sad people have to eventually leave their beds for the most basic reason: hunger.

I have missed lunch, but there are sandwiches in the refrigerator.

I eat only because I know I must eat.

But it isn't like I want to die.

I have heard of such things as “suicidal thoughts.” Sometimes I have even examined my sadness with that in mind:

Are these suicidal thoughts? Do I want to die?

No.

Do I want to hurt myself?

No. I am simply sad.

So it isn't that.

But when I eat this ham-and-cheese sandwich, I am eating it like a car consumes gasoline. I am not sure I actually taste it.

There is bread, cheese, ham, mayonnaise.

I am a machine obeying my programming.

(Chew, chew, chew, swallow.)

The house is quiet. Afternoon light pours in through the sunroom and warms my toes.

I hear someone moving around in the garage and peek out the window.

Avery, painting, earbuds in, bandana tied around her head.

I cannot ever tell what she is painting. They aren't pictures, really; they are more like the floating things you see when you close your eyes. Colors and shapes, and thick brushstrokes that cut the whole thing in two.

My hand rests on the doorknob.

Should I apologize for what happened last night?

Sorry for crying all over your shirt.

Sorry for being gross and sweaty. Sorry you lied for me.

Sorry for being such a freak, Avery.

I cannot do it; I am too frightened.

So I wander.

I could go outside; every now and then I hear one of my cousins shouting.

But . . . shouting. And sunshine, and having to talk, and answering questions:
How are you feeling? Are you okay? Did you eat something? Did you throw up?

The prospect is overwhelming.

So I wander through the quiet, cool house.

The carpet is white. The walls are dark. The furniture is polished.

The piano, in the corner of the living room, is old.

I press my fingers to random keys. I don't know the first thing about playing music, but it seems like the keys I press make a song anyway, which makes me feel a little better.

I even start to think that maybe I
will
go apologize to Avery. She would understand, right? She seemed to understand last night.

But then I hear a strange sound—like someone crying out in pain.

It is coming from the hallway leading to Grandma and Grandpa's bedroom.

I have never been to that part of the house, but concern for my grandmother—as much as she terrifies me—pushes me forward.

I don't think Grandpa is home. He has probably gone for one of his drives.

What if something is wrong with Grandma? I am the only one around.

I sneak down the hallway. It is colder and darker than the rest of the house. Family pictures line the walls, but I don't see Dad in any of them. They are all of my aunts, their husbands, their children.

I feel like a shadow in this dark hallway, like I do not entirely exist.

Maybe this moment will change things.

I will save Grandma from whatever is distressing her, and prove myself worthy of her.

She will no longer look at me like I am a spot to be cleaned.

She will take pictures of me, and add them to this wall, right beside my cousins.

I feel a tiny tug of happiness inside me.

Then I step into her bedroom, and I see—

Grandma, sitting at her vanity, her eyes red.

Grandpa, holding a syringe to her arm.

Injecting her.

Grandma, adjusting her hair—which
moves
, all in one piece, sliding across her scalp.

And I understand: That is not her real hair.

It is a wig.

Medicine.

A wig, clean and white and smooth.

I was not supposed to see this.

They turn and stare at me. I must have made a sound.

“I—”

Grandpa sits on the bed and rubs a hand over his face. “Oh, Finley.”

Grandma stares at me, her lips drawn tight.

I was not supposed to see this. Was not, was not.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper, and turn and run.

I
RUN OUTSIDE, BECAUSE IT
is the only safe place I can think of to go.

My cousins. They will know what to do.

They can explain to me what I have just seen.

I bypass the stone steps and slide down the dirt wall of the pit.

The Tower—there it is. There they are, painting.

Ruth and Bennett have green, Dex-sized handprints in the center of their faces. They grin at me from their spot in the dirt.

Kennedy has blue paint in her hair and looks exasperated—but less so when Cole puts his hand on hers.

Gretchen is trying to explain to Dex how the spaceship he has painted
cannot
be as big as the sun Gretchen has painted. It is technologically impossible. Kennedy says, “He can paint whatever he wants, you weirdo.”

And Jack . . . Jack is staring over my shoulder, a paintbrush in his hand.

Someone is following me.

I turn.

Grandpa—hurrying down the stone steps with storm
clouds on his face. Staring at Jack. Staring at Cole, holding Kennedy's hand.

Baileys.
My dad's words return to me.

The Baileys—their dad, I mean—he wasn't a good kid. He did . . . bad things. He's not safe to be around, and if he has kids now, I bet they're not much different.

I wouldn't trust them for anything. Okay?

(But you're wrong, Dad.)

(I'd trust Jack in a heartbeat.)

Okay? Finley?

“Finley?” Grandpa is speaking. “Finley!”

I flinch. Grandpa's voice sounds even sharper than it did in the car, when he threw the article out the window.

“Yes?”

“You and Kennedy take your cousins back to the house.”

Gretchen protests. “But, Grandpa, we were—”

“I don't want to hear it. Get back in the house, right now.”

Dex begins to cry. Kennedy hurries away with him and Ruth. After a second Gretchen goes with them.

I cannot leave.

I am afraid for Cole and Bennett. And for Jack.

I have never seen Grandpa look like this. He is red in the face, and his eyes are made of metal. Where is my grandpa who loves Beethoven? Where is my grandpa who looks like Dad and builds tree patios and knows how to pick out the perfect batch of strawberries?

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he spits at the Baileys. “
You know you are to never—
never
—come near this house, this property, or any of my grandchildren.”

Hearing Grandpa say
hell
is like hearing a clap of thunder.

“Sir,” Jack says, “let me explain—”

“I don't want an explanation. I want you to get home. Now.”

Bennett bursts into tears, but this changes nothing. Grandpa's face is made of stone.

“Grandpa, please, it was my fault,” I say. “I invited them over.”

Grandpa whirls around, his arm raised, and for an instant I think he is going to hit me.

Jack runs over and shoves Grandpa away from me.

Grandpa pauses, staring at me like he can't believe what is happening. His eyes are wide; he is breathing hard. He lowers his hand, looks at it like it is not his own.

I grab Jack's hand and put myself in front of him. Grandpa won't hit me, he won't hit me, he won't.

“Grandpa, please,” I say. “I'm sorry. They'll go home. Okay?”

I squeeze Jack's hand.

He squeezes mine back.

“Get out of here,” Grandpa says quietly.

None of us move.

“Get out!”

The Baileys run, Bennett crying in Cole's arms. Jack looks back once, over his shoulder.

Now it is just me and Grandpa and the empty Tower.

Grandpa stares at it for a long time, and then rips down the Everwood banner. Cole's signature is obvious in the bottom corner.

“I'm sorry—”

“Hush, Finley. You've done enough.”

“But they didn't do anything—”

“You don't know
anything
about those boys, or their family. They're not the kind of people we associate with.” Grandpa stares at the Bailey house for a long time, and I recognize the look on his face. I have seen it many times on my own.

(Grandpa, why are you afraid?)

I cannot believe he would hurt me.

But would he have hurt my friends?

(Not
my
grandpa, not him, not him.)

“Get yourself back inside,” he says, “and don't you tell anyone—
anyone—
what you saw today. I mean it, Finley. Do not test me on that.”

He does not have to be more specific.

I will never forget what I saw in his and Grandma's bedroom, and what it could mean.

Avery stands at the top of the pit. She must have heard the noise. She watches me as I hurry up the stone steps and rush into the house, but she doesn't say anything.

I am glad. There are too many terrible things I could say, if I had to open my mouth and answer her.