Some Kind of Happiness (28 page)

They were three.

“The Dark Ones,” the queen whispered.

The Dark Ones howled, the same sound that had haunted the queen's dreams for weeks.

“She knows us! The queen knows us! What an honor!” The Dark Ones bowed low, stretching toward the queen's feet.

The queen reached into her pocket, thinking of her knife—but withdrew only a single black feather.

The Dark Ones cackled. “She fights with feathers!” one cried.

“She fights with fur!” This Dark One held out its hand. Clenched inside was the terrified fox.

“She fights with slithery, slippery scales!” The third Dark One wrapped the struggling snake around its neck and pulled tight.

“Leave them alone!” cried the queen.

But the Dark Ones only laughed and laughed.

The crow dove out of the trees with a piercing cry and pecked at the Dark Ones where their eyes should have been.

The tallest grabbed the bird by the neck, opened a hole in its own dark chest, and stuffed the bird inside.

“Stop it! Stop it!” The queen searched for weapons and
found none. She threw herself upon the Dark Ones, tugged them to the ground, stomped on them, tore at them with her teeth—but still they howled and screeched.

“You can't hurt us,” they jeered. “We are you, and you are us.”

“I am nothing like you. I am a queen.”

“And you carry darkness inside you.” The Dark Ones stroked the queen's cheeks with six clawed hands. “And we know nothing of light.”

“If you release my friends,” said the queen, “I'll allow you to have me instead.”

“Oh, she'll
allow
it, she'll
allow
us,” laughed the Dark Ones. “The mighty, mighty queen!”

“Well? Have we a bargain?”

The Dark Ones fell silent. “You would give yourself to us?”

“How can I not? You are me, and I am you. We are the same. We are one.”

The Dark Ones licked their lips. Their fangs dripped black. “We will do this thing, little queen.”

So the queen held her head high and closed her eyes.

The Dark Ones latched on to her, digging their shadowed claws into her shoulders, wrapping their arms around her throat.

When the queen opened her eyes, she saw the world through a cloudy black veil.

She staggered to the river, and in the water's reflection she found only her own image.

But she knew the Dark Ones were there, heavy on her back.

She felt their claws.

She smelled their rotten breath.

“Run,” she told the snake, the fox, the crow. “There is nothing left for you here. Run!”

The snake fled first, then the fox, and last, with a soft, sad cry, the crow.

The queen was alone.

On her back the Dark Ones crooned, “You will never be alone again.”

I
T IS THE NINTH
T
HURSDAY
I have spent at Hart House.

Everyone is downstairs. I hear a movie playing. Aunt Bridget brought out the board games after dinner, and there is a full-blown tournament underway.

I did not eat dinner with everyone else, claiming I felt sick.

The Dark Ones stroked the queen's head, their fingernails digging into the queen's scalp, pressing hard against her skull.

Her body throbbed with pain.

I decide it is safe to take out my notebook from underneath my pillow.

(I do feel sick, but not in the way my family thinks.)

Later I try to sleep, but I cannot. Recently I have been finding it difficult to stop my racing thoughts.

“No sleep for the little queen,” crooned the Dark Ones, pressing against her pounding head. “Not now, not ever.”

Someone is pushing a piece of paper beneath my door. I see shadows in the hallway and hear footsteps down the stairs.
The front door opens and shuts; Grandma calls out good-bye. She will watch the procession of cars down the driveway, waving until she cannot see them anymore.

I retrieve the note and read it:

Gma & Gpa going to city this wknd,
the note says, in Gretchen's handwriting.

Gretchen. Kennedy. Dex. Ruth.

As I picture each of their faces, it becomes harder to breathe.

I could have gone downstairs tonight to see them; I could have.

“Could have, could have,” sang the Dark Ones mockingly. They ground their heels into the queen's shoulders until her knees buckled and she fell. “What good is ‘could have'? Too late for ‘could have.' ”

I read the note again:
Gma & Gpa going to city this wknd.

And then:
FYI.

•  •  •

I stand in the hallway outside Avery's bedroom door for five minutes before I decide I really should just knock.

This week on the way to and from Dr. Bristow's office, she introduced me to the Clash and the Violent Femmes. So I suppose we are mostly friends now.

But what I am about to ask her is a big deal. Possibly too big.

I bounce on my toes, thinking.

Avery opens the door. “Okay, you win. I was going to let you stand out here all night, but it turns out I'm not that patient.”

“You knew I was out here?”

Avery gives me this look like,
Please
,
you amateur.
“So, what is it?”

I follow her inside. “Well . . . it's complicated.”

She sits on the floor and resumes painting her toenails a bright orange. “Spit it out, Fin.”

“I wasn't really sick tonight. Or I was, kind of, but not like everyone thinks.”

“Okay . . .”

How to put it? “I was feeling stressed.”

Avery looks up, her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed. “About your parents?”

My throat clenches up. I cannot look at her. “I guess. It's fine, though.” I am lucky to be safe and alive. I have no bills to pay. I have my Everwood.

(So stop complaining, Finley!)

(A divorce won't kill you.)

Avery nudges my foot with hers. “Hey. I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about that.” She holds out her bottle of orange polish. It's called Orange You Glad?

Sure, why not? This will give me something to do with my hands. I pull off my socks and go to town.

“So, anything else on your mind?” Avery asks. “You don't have to tell me, but maybe it'll help?”

Lots of other things are on my mind. Particularly the Dark Ones on my back.

Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I think I can see them, even though I am fully aware that they are figments of my imagination.

I try not to let myself think about them, but my brain is disobedient.

Avery is watching me, frowning.

“Lots of things,” I answer, trying to sound breezy. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“. . . Right.”

“Anyway, I think I would feel better if everyone came over Saturday night and we had a giant party while Grandma and Grandpa are in the city.”

“Okay. . . . For some reason I thought you were going to tell me something a lot worse. You looked all dramatic and Finleyish when you came in.”

“What does
Finleyish
mean?”

“Way too serious for an eleven-year-old. Like you have a million thoughts to overthink.”

I laugh a little because I am not sure what else to do. I love that Avery feels like she knows me well enough to turn my name into an adjective. I cradle the word
Finleyish
in my heart like it is a bird with a broken wing.

“The thing is, I'd like it to be a secret,” I say.

“You'd like what to be a secret?”

“The party. I want you to drive me to everyone's houses and help me sneak them out while the adults are asleep, and then I want us to come back here and have a secret party. I want us all to be able to go in the Everwood without anyone finding out.”

I finish my right foot. My toenails look like tiny, bright traffic cones.

“Are you serious?” Avery says.

“Completely. I promise I'm not high on nail polish or anything.”

Avery's eyebrows shoot up. “What do you know about being high?”

“Nothing other than what I hear on television.”

Avery shakes her head, smiling. “You're crazy, you know that?”

“Sometimes I think I might be.”

Avery goes quiet and faces me. “Look. I shouldn't have said that. I've got to be more careful about what I say around you.”

“No, you don't. Then it'll be like with Grandma, and no one will say anything real around me, and everyone will be pretending.”

“Finley—”

I bend down and blow on my toenails until I regain control of myself. “So will you do it?”

“Seeing a psychologist doesn't mean you're crazy,” Avery says. “Lots of people see psychologists. I probably will someday. If you grow up in this family, it's kind of inevitable. And
what does
crazy
even mean, anyway? It means ‘different from normal,' I guess, but what does
that
mean? I don't think it means anything, because there are too many possible definitions of
normal
, which means
crazy
doesn't mean anything either.”

I do not say a word because my eyes still feel hot and wobbly. I am not sure I can convincingly blow on my toenails for much longer.

Avery sighs. “All right. I'll do it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Why?”

“Because you're my cousin, and I know this will make you happy. And Kennedy misses you tons. She texts me constantly for updates.”

I sit back and stare at my toenails. “They miss me.” Saying it out loud sends a soft wave of warmth through my entire body. “They miss
me
.”

“Of course they do. If you ask me, I think this whole situation is a load of . . . well, of you-know-what. Grandma and Grandpa should let you guys run wild in the forest as much as you like. Who freaking cares? You're eleven.”

“They don't like the Baileys.”

“They're snobs, and they need to get over it.” She tosses a clear bottle at me. “Here, I forgot. Top coat.”

“I think it's more than that,” I say. “Something happened when they were all teenagers. The aunts, I mean, and my dad. Mr. Bailey, too. Something nobody wants to talk about.
I think it's why Dad wrote that letter. He and Grandma got into a big fight.”

“Maybe he was being eighteen and dramatic. It happens.”

“Maybe. Did you know there was a fire back in the woods when they were teenagers?”

“The Travers fire? Sure.”

“Did you know your mom and all the aunts, they tried to save the family, but they couldn't?”

Avery frowns. “Really?”

“Yeah. And no one talks about it. That's strange, right?”

Avery shakes her head. “Aren't you a little young for conspiracy theories?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

We are quiet for a couple of minutes as we paint over our toenails with the top coat.

Then Avery clears her throat. “So, you know Grandma and Grandpa aren't going to the city for fun, right?”

“Then why are they?”

“That's where Grandma's doctor is. She's starting up her chemo treatments again.”

I stop applying the top coat. “Oh.”

“It's not a big deal,” Avery says, not looking at me.

“Yes, it is.”

Avery sniffles and looks up at the ceiling. “God. I hate this.”

I scoot closer; her leg is warm against mine.

Avery puts her arm around me. “Okay. Okay. We're doing it. We're having a party.”

“We don't have to—”

“No. We do. We're not going to
not
do it just because Grandma's sick. She doesn't want anyone to treat her any differently? She wants to keep it a secret? Fine. We're going to have a great time without her. Everything is normal, and what's more normal than a party, right?”

Avery glares over at me, her eyes still wet, and I nod.

“Okay,” I say, “we're going to have a great time.”

UEEN SHE IS
.”