SOMEWHERE OVER THE FREAKING RAINBOW
CHAPTER ONE
“You’re such an idiot.” Jamison shook his head.
Ray grinned as he watched his paper airplane glide out the glassless window and into the darkness. “You love me.”
Jamison didn’t know whether it was his imagination or the glow of white paper that his eyes followed, arching off to the right, then lodging in a corn stalk twenty feet below the old tree house. He itched to turn on the flashlight, to see if it had landed where he thought, but that would screw up their little stake-out.
The tree was enormous, nearly five feet in diameter, and the ancient clubhouse was so insanely high people forgot it was there. Built thirty or forty years ago, before people knew better than to pound railroad stakes into living trees, a dozen three-foot boards were nailed to the side of the trunk, creating a ladder. Not realizing it had been mortally wounded, the tree hung on to those boards like a dutiful soldier. Unfortunately, and fortunately, the gaps between the rungs stretched with each year and little kids could no longer use them.
Not that they would want to; even Jamison hated being up so high.
Another page was loudly ripped from a dusty tabloid.
“Dude!” Jamison groped for the magazine in the dark and pulled it away from the childhood friend whom he’d barely recognized two days before when Jamison had returned to his grandpa’s farm. “I didn’t freeze my butt off ‘til three o’clock in the morning just so you could give us away.”
“Oh yeah. Okay.”
Behind them, Burke began to snore.
“Hey. Hey, wake up. It’s almost time.” Ray thumped on the guy until he stopped snoring and dragged himself over to join the party.
“This better be good, man.” Burke rubbed his eyes and set his chin on the two-by-four window frame. There was no moon, but in the eerie blue light from the stars, the skater beanie hanging off the back of his head made his profile look like an alien’s.
Space was tight, with all three of them looking out the rectangle opening, but at least Jamison was warmer. Colorado in the fall was like Siberia to a kid who’d spent the last five years in Texas.
A door spring creaked from the left, then creaked again, as if the neighbor’s old porch screen had slowly opened and then shut even slower.
“Holy crap,” Ray whispered. His legs started bouncing.
“Relax.” Jamison tried not to get too excited. So someone was up at three a.m. just like Ray had promised. They still had no clue what was planned, only that it was a secret, and maybe a cult thing.
“It’s not that. I have to piss.” Ray’s legs still shook.
“You’ll have to hold it,” Jamison ordered.
“No way, bro. My Dew just hit.” Ray stood up. “I’m going down.”
“Me too.” Burke stood up. “I gotta go too.”
A chill ran up and down Jamison’s spine like a pinball between bumpers. If he got busted spying on their neighbors, his mom would kill him. Heck, he’d die of embarrassment all by himself, especially if the hot one heard about it; either way, he’d be dead. When he started school tomorrow, he wanted to be able to look her in the eye again, not hide from her.
“Just find a bottle,” he pleaded.
“No way. It would overflow.” Ray shuffled toward the exit in the corner of the floor. “I’d arc it out the window, but I might hit someone.”
Burke choked on a laugh.
“Okay. But if you’re going down, be quiet. And hurry.”
A few seconds later Jamison was alone. He pulled his hoodie over his head but held it out from his ears, listening for Ray to make too much noise.
A breeze disturbed the field below.
At first, he worried it was his friends, peeing over the fence. Why else would the tree leaves not be moving too? But the rustling came from the ground and grew louder, as if tons of people were walking through the dense drying field.
Jamison turned back to the window.
Tons of people. Holy crap.
Suddenly he’d have given anything to be tucked in bed, completely oblivious to what his grandpa’s freakish neighbors did in the middle of the night. Maybe if he, too, would have needed to pee, he could’ve snuck back into the house instead of sitting in the front row of what he hoped wouldn’t be some sort of ritual sacrifice.
They made movies out of this stuff—a boy witnesses a murder. Boy reports the murder. There is no body. Soon…there is no boy.
Not daring to sit front and center in case the moon suddenly showed up, he stood and moved back, satisfied to watch only what came into view. He tugged harder on his hood, to hide his blond hair, folded his arms, and tucked his cold hands into his armpits, grateful for the thick soft cotton of his new sweatshirt.
Small glowing lights moved among the plants, headed for the center of the field. As Jamison shifted from foot to foot the specters spread into a circle about fifty yards out from the tree. At first, he thought someone was going to burn the field, but the lights were as steady as the people carrying them.
But they weren’t actually carrying them.
Robes
—
the
light
came
from
under
their
robes
as
if
each
person
wore
a
single,
battery-operated
Christmas
light
on
one
shoe.
He
would
have
laughed
at
the
costumes
if
he
hadn
’
t
just
noticed
that
the
neighbors
were
standing
in
a
ring,
in
the
middle
of…of…
a
crop
circle!
He, Ray, and Burke had climbed up pretty early—around eight o’clock. They’d looked over that field for an hour or so before it got dark. They would have noticed a freaking crop circle!
Come
on.
Come
on.
If
those
two
didn
’
t
hustle,
they
’
d
miss
it.
They
’
d
never
believe
him
if
the
circle
somehow
disappeared
by
morning.
He
’
d
never
believe
it.
They
’
d
also
never
believe
the
lights
—
coming
from…wherever.
They’d believe the robes, though; this group wasn’t just eco-friendly, they were eco-nuts. Calling themselves Somerleds, they lived like the Amish or Mennonites—keeping to themselves, living simply—only instead of wearing black all the time, they wore white. Ray told him they wore only raw wool and raw cotton, and as far as his friend knew, they only ate raw food as well. No meat. Strictly vegetarians.
At
least
if
they
were
sacrificing
something,
or
some
one
,
they
wouldn
’
t
be
eating
it
afterward.
For
some
reason,
that
put
Jamison
a
little
more
at
ease.
He
still
stayed
back
from
the
window,
though.
Who
knew
what
might
light
up
next
and
clearly
show
the
Somerleds
the
face
of
their
new
neighbor/spy?
The circle of lights and bodies settled. Nothing else moved through the field; all were contained in that deep bowl of dried husks, the sides towering over the tallest of heads, the tassels waving in the breeze like flags above a circus tent.
Very clever; no one in that flat county would notice the meeting place unless they were flying overhead…or perched in one of Granddad’s windbreak trees. They would never get away with this closer to the mountains.
But just what were they trying to get away with?
Movement.
A taller one—had to be a man—moved around the circle, stopping at each person for a minute. When he stopped near a small figure, the two hugged. For just a second that hot girl’s face was lit up over the man’s shoulder, her hair spilling down the guy’s arm, and Jamison was hit by an invisible Mac truck.
She
was
there.
She
was
part
of
it
.
He
’
d
fallen
for
a
circus
freak.
Jamison moved to the side of the window, wanting a better look, but more afraid of getting caught than before.
“Just show them a little respect for the good neighbors they’ve been to me,” his granddad had asked in his letter.
Jamison had never been so near Somerled people before. For the last two days he’d tried not to stare and had done a pretty good job, he’d thought. He was a good actor, just like most kids in big city high schools; you had to walk a thin line between ignoring the dangerous people and showing them enough respect, and do both without drawing their attention. He’d managed to live a pretty invisible life in Texas and treating the Somerleds like dangerous gang members had been a good plan…
Until a girl his age had pulled up in a green BMW and caught him with his mouth hanging open. Her clothes marked her a Somerled, but her car was anything but simple. What was up with that?
He wouldn’t call her pretty, but she had a look that said one of these days she’d be beautiful. Her nose was kind of cute and boxy on the end. Her eyes were so dark you couldn’t tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. There was something warm and melty about those eyes, like chocolate in the bottom of a black cup. Her face was what his mom would call heart-shaped.
She styled her light brown hair the same as every other American female did—long and straight. It swung like a heavy drape when she walked.
And she wasn’t overly hot, or at least he’d never be able to tell with all her white layers of clothes. Her pants looked like white jeans. She wore an off-white t-shirt that showed in the V of her same-colored sweater. Her rough-looking coat was kind of the same color of pencil lead. Her boots looked like moccasins and matched the fringe of her scarf, both of them the shade of raw leather—like the inside of an orange peel. A She-eco-nut. Just like the rest. Just like you’d find all over the world.
But
she
wore
plain
pretty
well.
Whether
or
not
it
was
the
confidence
in
her
walk,
or
her
steady
gaze
when
she
’
d
finally
noticed
him,
he
couldn’t
say.
One
thing
was
for
sure,
though.
She
’
d
gotten
his
attention
and
he
was
never
going
to
get
it
back.
Especially when she teased him with crop circles and secret meetings in the middle of the night.
The tall one finally moved away from her and walked toward the center of the circle. His movements were slow, deliberate. Bent corn stalks tugged at his robes as he passed over them, but he kept going until he reached the center.