Some Kind of Happiness (9 page)

I
T STARTS DEEP IN MY
stomach and crashing out to my fingers and toes. I know this feeling well by now. It means I am close to losing myself.

When my body becomes hot and cold at the same time, and itchy all over.

When my stomach goes queasy, and I find it hard to breathe, and all I know is that I am afraid for no particular reason.

When I wake up wanting to call out for Mom and Dad, but I don't.

My breath starts to come faster, thinner.

I do not understand. I should be happy right now, shouldn't I? With a champion, a knight, and two squires at my side?

A normal person would be happy right now, I think. Why is this happening to me?

(I never know the answer to that question.)

Is it because my Favorite Words list is all taped up in a box?

That flash of white at one of Hart House's upstairs windows—is it Grandma, spying on us? What will she do to us? What will she do to
me
?

I cross my arms over my chest and stare at the ground.

Maybe if I think hard enough, this feeling will go away. I cannot lose myself, not right now, not in front of everyone.

From what I can tell, no one else I have encountered has ever lost himself or herself. If they have, they certainly have not talked about it.

My cousins do not seem like the kind of people who lose themselves.

Go away.

Go away.

GO AWAY.

As we climb up the pit, all I can concentrate on is my sweaty hands, my prickly skin, the rhythm of my breathing. Kennedy might be watching. If she thinks something is wrong with me, she'll wake up Grandma, and everything will be ruined.

So I will walk, and keep my fear locked up inside me.

(Breathe in and out, Finley. In and out.)

(Just hold on.)

(Don't let them see.)

•  •  •

By the time we get back inside and upstairs, I am feeling a little better—but only a little.

I sit against the wall, Dex and Ruth on either side of me. It is my responsibility to make sure they stay quiet while Gretchen hides our stash in Avery's room, underneath her bed.

It seems like the safest place. Who would want to sneak into Avery's room to steal back their dues, and risk awakening what is sure to be a mighty teenage wrath?

Kennedy, standing watch at the end of the hallway, whispers, “Hurry up, you guys!” She bounces on her toes.

Gretchen crouches at Avery's bedroom door, our stash under one arm. “Shut up, Kennedy! Do you want me to do this or not?”

As soon as Gretchen slips inside Avery's bedroom, Dex and Ruth start giggling.

The edges of my body still feel sharp, unsteady. The fear is not far from me; even breathing the wrong way could send it flying back.

Then I have an idea.

“Do you hear that?” I whisper. It is difficult to speak.

“Hear what?” asks Ruth. “I don't hear anything.”

“The Everwood. It's speaking to us.”

Ruth frowns. “Really?”

Dex scoots closer to me. “What's it saying?”

“It's saying . . .” I close my eyes.

(In and out. Just breathe.)

(Think of the Everwood. Think of the oak trees, the ash trees, the gold-and-green light.)

“It's saying it was impressed by the bravery of the two young squires who dared enter the forest so late at night. It senses you have courageous hearts, that you will one day be glorious knights.” I open my eyes and look at each of them. “But if this quest fails tonight, you can never be knighted. The Everwood has strict rules, you see.”

Ruth immediately clamps her hand over Dex's mouth. I
pry it loose and pull them close. “Hush, squires. The Everwood is listening.”

They sit as still as statues beside me. From down the hallway Kennedy gives me a thumbs-up.

Then a light switches on in Avery's bedroom. “Gretchen? What are you
doing
?”

Gretchen bolts out of Avery's room, and we tear down the hallway, sliding across the hardwood floor in our socks, trying not to laugh. Kennedy grabs the twins and pulls them inside their room.

From behind us I hear movement. Avery stands at her door. Her hair is a mess, like mine in the mornings. It makes her less scary somehow.

“Freaks,”
she whispers, and shuts the door behind her.

The next morning at breakfast, Avery ignores us all, like usual. If she knows Gretchen put the stash under her bed, she doesn't say anything.

We pass giggles around the table like a secret code.

Aunt Dee puts down her toast, smiling at us. “Okay, what's the story? What happened? What did we miss?”

But no one says anything. We are bound to secrecy now, the five of us.

Gretchen starts laughing through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Aunt Bridget has to clap her on the back. A chunk of yellow goes flying and hits Uncle Nelson's forehead, and the twins start shrieking.

Grandpa glances up from his newspaper, his mouth twitching.
“If you let me in on the secret, I'll take you to the swimming pool this afternoon.”

Dex's eyes light up. “Really?”

Ruth grabs his arm. “We'll think about it,” she says primly, then glances at me and winks.

She is better at it than Grandpa.

Grandpa returns to his reading, but his eyes twinkle at me over the top of the newspaper.

The kitchen is bright and smells like coffee, and at this moment I cannot remember what it is to feel afraid.

HE ORPHAN GIRL AWOKE IN
the middle of the night to the feeling that she was being watched.

She looked about the camp she shared with her sleeping companions.

A circle of trees surrounded them, their trunks twisted together in mighty knots. Ash fell from their withered leaves like snow.

“Hello?” the orphan girl whispered into the darkness.

“Hello,” said a small, clear voice.

The orphan girl reached for her pack and saw that it had been opened. Nothing was missing—except for the soft leather boot.

The orphan girl followed the voice. “Who are you? Show yourself.”

Two amber eyes appeared in the gloom. “You know who I am.”

As the voice spoke, cold waves of power glided across the orphan girl's skin.

“The boot,” she whispered.

The voice laughed, and a red fox padded into the moonlight.

“I didn't think you'd recognize me,” said the fox.

“I met your friend,” said the orphan girl, “the snake.”

The fox's yellow eyes narrowed. “The snake and I are not friends. Not everyone in these woods is friendly, child. Do not make the mistake of assuming so.”

“I thought—”

“Yes, you thought and you thought. What good did thinking ever do anyone?”

The orphan girl considered this a silly question. “Well, a whole lot of good to a great many people, in fact.”

The fox grinned. “You speak your mind. I like that.”

“My friends and I are looking for the secret of the Everwood,” the orphan girl explained. The fox's grin unnerved her. “Why the trees are dying, what those howls are at night.”

“You know the answers to these questions,” the fox said, curling its tail about its paws.

“I don't.”

“You do, and don't lie to me. The snake told you, I know. Snakes talk too much.”

“The Everwood makes whatever is inside us come to life,” admitted the orphan girl. “That's what the snake said.”

“And?” prompted the fox.

“And my darkness will bring out the Everwood's darkness.”

“The forest is not as strong as it once was,” said the fox.

The orphan girl wanted to look away, but did not. “Yes.”

“And what is inside
you
, child?” The fox's expression turned serious. “What have you brought into these woods? Fear, perhaps?”

The orphan girl stiffened. “I am not afraid of forests.”

“No. You are afraid of yourself.”

A chorus of howls cut through the night, closer than they had ever been.

“Like is drawn to like,” the fox murmured. “Darkness finds darkness.”

“You speak in riddles,” accused the orphan girl.

“I speak in truths.” The fox slunk about the orphan girl's ankles. “Have you heard of the Dark Ones?”

The orphan girl shivered. “They only come out at night.”

“But they don't truly love the night. What feeds them is a different kind of darkness.”

The orphan girl did not want to say it, but the black woods trembled around her, and she ached for them. Were the trees in pain? Was it because of her?

“The darkness I carry inside me,” whispered the orphan girl.

“We all carry secrets,” said the fox. “The more we ignore them, the heavier they become.” The fox fixed his hard, golden gaze upon the orphan girl. “Are you ready to name it yet, this thing you carry?”

The orphan girl squeezed her eyes shut. “No. I am not.”

“Then they will keep coming for you,” said the fox, “and for all of us.”

When the orphan girl looked up, the fox had gone, and the trees moaned in the wind, as if they knew she had failed them.

O
N
S
UNDAY MORNING
I
GO
with Grandma and Aunt Bridget to Barclay Park. There is a 10K race there today.

The group Grandma organizes—A Pack for Every Back—will set up a table in the parking lot so people can learn about the program and give donations.

In the car, on the way to the park, Aunt Bridget is on the phone with Uncle Reed. He is in London on a business trip. I watch Aunt Bridget's face while she talks to him about Dex and Ruth, and how they are having such fun playing with me.

“Ruth said something about being a squire, whatever that means,” Aunt Bridget says. She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Come on, Reed. You know, like a junior knight? I don't know if they fight dragons. Probably. Wouldn't you?” She catches my eye and smiles, like we are sharing a joke.

Music plays softly on the car stereo. It sounds kind of like the Ray Charles music playing downstairs at Hart House the other night, except it's faster and makes me want to dance.

Grandma's fingers tap on the steering wheel in time with the music. I can only see her eyes in the rearview mirror. Even though they are a different color, something about them reminds me of Dad.

At the park Grandma and I set out bright green information flyers and a basket of flat, round pins and green pencils with the Pack for Every Back logo on them. Aunt Bridget takes a clipboard and launches into the crowd.

“Good morning,” Aunt Bridget says to a group of three runners stretching under a tree. “My name's Bridget Hart. Hi, how are you?” She shakes their hands; her eye contact is spectacular. Her hair shines in a tight ponytail. “I'm with A Pack for Every Back. We're an organization that helps families in need get school supplies for their children . . .”

Grandma and I sit alone at the table. An oak tree sways overhead. It reminds me of the Everwood trees, only this one is out here all by itself. A scout.

“Hello, Candace!” A man in running shorts waves as he passes us. Grandma waves back, straightens the pile of flyers on the table.

It is always strange to me to realize that parents and grandparents have actual names. I find myself wanting to correct the man: Her name is
Grandma
, sir.

A woman with a T-shirt that says
RUN JANE RUN
comes up and grabs a flyer. “Candace, you look wonderful!” she gushes. “And is this Lewis's daughter?”