The Clearing (3 page)

"Yes, it's stil my favorite," Henry fibbed. He couldn't tel her after countless slices of the same birthday cake, it was getting tiresome.

Mother set the platter on the table and took a seat. She settled her napkin on her lap and then swept a few errant strands of her hair back up into its twist. "I'l make a chocolate cake when Robert comes home," she said, managing a smile. "Won't be long now that the boys have landed on the beaches over there."

"The Führer is on his last legs, that's for sure," Grandpa added.

Henry nodded, his lips pressed together, fighting the urge to tel them what would happen to his brother, what life had planned for the army private.

Mother glanced up at the calendar, where Henry's birthday was circled in red ink, June 14. "Summer's flying by. Don't you boys think he'l be home soon?"

"Yesiree, Robert might even come home in time to help hay," Grandpa said. "Johnson's got some good-looking fields this year. You boys could earn some good money."

Mother chuckled. "The last thing Robert is going to want to do is hay. He'l want to cal on Rosie Grant and take her to the picture show."

"I think you're right." Grandpa struck a match, lit the single candle on Henry's cake, and slid the platter closer. "Now go on. Make a wish and we'l eat some of this delicious confection."

Henry blew out the candle, but he didn't make a wish. He never did. On al the birthdays he had lived, he had never made a wish.

Anyhow, a wish wasn't how al this began. It was a prayer he'd made a few days after his birthday, the night that the final telegram—and then the doctor—had come and gone. While his chums were dreaming of the adventures awaiting them overseas, Henry was kneeling at the side of his bed. As Henry had al owed himself tears in the dark, he'd prayed for a miracle.

A miracle wasn't the same thing as a wish. No birthday candle smoke could have wrought the life the Briggs family had been experiencing ever since that night.

"You go finish that mowing," Grandpa said. "I'l help your mother clean up."

The sweet taste of cake faded in Henry's mouth. "Yes, sir." He left his plate and napkin on the table and pushed his chair careful y into the table. He would mow, and the rest of the day would unfold as the others of this summer always had.

***

The grass in the clearing at the edge of their meadow was tal . Despite the sun, the clearing was fil ed with mist as usual.

Henry had tried once in the beginning to travel through the mist, to see what was on the other side. After al , the mist hadn't been there until the morning after his prayer. But as he had approached the far edge of the clearing, the mist had thickened into a white dense fog he couldn't see through. And he'd heard a strange humming noise. That's when he'd realized it was a boundary. It was the very edge of the Briggs farm property and perhaps the edge of something bigger.

Henry had never gone that far into the mist again. He'd never dared, lest something happened and he couldn't return. He couldn't bear to think of what that might do to his family. He didn't know what would happen to them if he weren't there to do what he'd always done—pray that the miracle would continue for another day—and that was infinitely scarier than the idea of getting lost.

He pushed the mower, clipping the grass with a metal ic swish-swish. He stopped at the side of the path, stooping to pick up some rocks he always seemed to find, and toss them away into the mist. It had taken only a few times of rol ing over the rocks and having to spend the rest of the afternoon sharpening mower blades for him to remember. As boring as it was, Henry was good at mowing this stretch of the land.

He paused to scratch his leg. Mother would probably have lemonade ready by the time he made it back to the house. She'd be sipping a glass out on the porch and listening to the radio music drifting out through the open window. Some days he joined her, and on others he sipped cool water in the shade.

He was behind schedule—it had to be about four in the afternoon, judging by the sun. There was stil raking to do, and then his grandfather would need him to help with the garden chores after supper that evening.

Henry wiped his sweat-beaded forehead with the back of his forearm, the heat real y getting to him. Wanting to cool off a bit, he left the mower on the side of the path and stepped into the clearing, arms outstretched so the tiny water droplets in the air could hit his skin ful force. He ran forward, as far as he dared, and the mist of the clearing chil ed him instantly. He let out a huge sigh. And then he heard a voice.

Henry froze.

"Hey!" A girl's voice came again, cutting through the mist.

Henry didn't know what to do, so he stood there pretending he was invisible.

It didn't work. A girl walked toward him in the mist—a girl in dungarees and some kind of an athlete's jacket zipped over a man's undershirt.

It was a strange ensemble to be sure, since Henry was used to seeing girls in blouses and skirts at school. Usual y girls in trousers were gardening or doing factory work.

"Hey," she said. "Um, what was that noise?"

"I beg your pardon, please?" Henry blinked at the girl. He was almost tempted to think she was some kind of angel, but no angel he'd ever heard of looked like her. Maybe she was a ghost? Or maybe she was from the Wilsons' place, the next farm over, and had found a way to breach the boundary of the clearing.

"I heard a sound. Like a machine. I was wondering what it was. Or maybe it was nothing. Did you hear it?" the girl said, stopping a few feet from him. Henry felt her stare move over his work boots, suspendered pants, and short-sleeved, button-up shirt.

"I was mowing," Henry said with a shrug.

"It wasn't a gas mower I heard," the girl said.

"I use a push mower."

"Real y?" she said. "That sucks. Maybe you can borrow Aunt Mae's lawn tractor. You know her, right? She lives just over there."

Henry didn't know who Aunt Mae was, but he wasn't sure he should tel this strange girl anything. "Thank you, kindly. My mower's fine."

"Okay," the girl said. "Wel , I guess I'l leave you alone."

"Wait," he said, not wanting her to go just yet. "Where are my manners? I'm Henry. It's nice to meet you." He almost reached out a hand to shake, but then he realized if this girl was some kind of apparition, he wouldn't be able to touch her. He was curious, but at the same time, he didn't want to find out. He stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Amy," the girl said. "Maybe I'l see you on the school bus on Monday."

"Monday?"

"Yeah. You know, it's the first day of school—Monday, September tenth?"

"September," he said, rol ing the word around in his mouth.

"Yeah. Can't you feel the chil in the air?" she said.

"Sure," Henry lied.

"What's up with this mist?" she said. "It's odd, don't you think?"

"Ah ... yes, I suppose it's a bit peculiar."

Amy regarded Henry again and then said, "I kinda like the way it feels. Like you're hiding from the rest of the world. Is that why you're out here, too?"

"Sure, I suppose." He hadn't thought of it quite that way, but hiding was precisely what the clearing was helping his family do.

"Okay, wel , see ya. I've got to go," Amy said, turning away.

"So long. Perhaps I'l see you again," Henry said, his voice tinged with hope. "Say, before you run off—wil you tel me where you came from?" he said, hazarding a real question.

"Over there." Amy backed away into the mist. "Bye."

Henry waved as she disappeared to someplace where it was September. And suddenly, even though it had been a strange meeting, he felt comforted. Possibly, he'd made his first friend in a long, long while—whoever she was.

Whenever
she was.

CHAPTER THREE

Mae cut me a slice of apple pie and then one for herself. "Ice cream, Amy?"

"Yeah, please."

She dipped us each up a scoop, and then we took our plates to the back porch. After a long day of chopping and weeding, I was ready for a wel -earned rest and a piece of homemade pie. And I kept thinking about the clearing and that boy Henry with his way old-school farmer outfit. I didn't think people stil dressed like that in the country—I mean, the kids in town I'd met wore the same kind of stuff as the kids back in the city. But maybe Henry was in some kind of religious group that didn't believe in new technology and homeschooled al their kids. He seemed different, that was for sure.

"Mae, do any families live close by?" I didn't want to come out and ask her about a guy I'd met. I didn't want to go there.

"Wel , the nearest neighbors are the Taylors down the road." Mae took a seat in one of the rockers and spread a paper napkin across her lap. "If you like, we'l ride over there one day so you can meet them. They have a daughter about your age—Lori. She plays soccer on the school's team." Mae gestured toward my plate. "How do you like it?"

I took a bite of pie. The crust was crumbly and buttery and the apples tart on my tongue. "Good," I said.

"Just good?" Mae raised her eyebrows.

"It's
excellent,
," I said, helping myself to another bite. "So, they just have Lori, huh? No brothers?" I asked.

Mae set down her fork. "Sweetie, is that real y what you should be worried about? After what your mother told me..."

"No, no. It's not like that," I said, holding up a hand. "It's
so
not that, Mae. Don't worry. I'm not looking for a boyfriend anytime soon."

Mae let out a relieved sigh and her stern look softened. "That's good. As long as you're here, I want you to be free to make your own choices, but I won't sit idly by while you get yourself hurt again."

"What did Mom say?" I asked, mashing a piece of pie crust with my fork.

"Enough. I wanted to understand the situation. It's hard to be old, let alone old and living with a teenager. I wanted to make an informed decision about having you come to live with me."

"That's fair," I said, though the possibility that Mae would have said no to my coming here had never even occurred to me before. But then again, maybe I would have done the same thing—wondered why anyone young would want to live in a country trailer with an elderly auntie.

"Let's make an agreement," Mae said after she'd finished off her slice of pie. "Let's promise to tel each other the truth even if it's hard."

"Okay. I'l try."

"No trying, only doing," Mae said.

I shrugged and we shook on it.

"So, about the boys around here..."

Mae let out an exasperated sigh. "You'l meet the boys in town at school on Monday. Then you can ask me al the questions in the world."

She picked up our empty plates and patted me on the shoulder as she passed me on the way to the kitchen.

I wiped the pie crumbs from my mouth and stared out at the woodlot. Beyond there, the mist of the clearing was probably dissipating, dissolving back into the night sky. And out there somewhere was that guy Henry. I hoped Mae was right. Maybe I'd see him at school. It would be nice to start off the year knowing one person who didn't seem to be a jerk.

I went back into the house, Katie fol owing right on my heels. Did I actual y have a reason to look forward to Monday? I couldn't even believe that myself.

***

My enthusiasm for school faded quickly. I real y wanted to be a new me, but I didn't want to have to talk about myself, and in every stinking class the teacher made me stand and give the class my life story. By noon on Monday, everyone in school knew my name and where I was from. I was official y
the new girl.

At lunch, I took one of the few vacant seats in the smal cafeteria, where every single person in my classes seemed to be eating al at one time. In my old school, there were four different lunch periods, so the kids were staggered in groups. Here, there was only one for the high schoolers. Earlier in the day, the junior high school kids used the room, so the tables were good and messy by the time we got there. But almost making up for that, the food was served up by two nice ladies, who asked me my name and then gave me extra french fries as a welcome.

The chicken sandwich was al right, though maybe a little chewy and glopped with too much mayo. I took another bite and chewed thoughtful y while I tried not to pay attention to the fact that everyone at the table was sneaking looks at me. Then I saw the boy from the grocery store strol into the lunchroom, Melanie and her friends trailing behind him in a giggling bunch.

The dark-haired boy next to me must have noticed my stare. "Quinn Hutchins," he said.

"Yeah, I met him."

Over in line, Quinn caught my eye and waved. I gave him a half smile and went back to sipping my pop.

The boy next to me paused in midbite of his sandwich and said, "I've known him since he was in preschool. He's not al that great."

"I think he's hot," said a smal girl across the way. "You know, we're neighbors," she said, gesturing at me with her fork. "You and me. Not me and Quinn—he lives out on Russel Road. You live at Mae's place."

The boy snorted. "Lori. Information overload. Give the girl a chance to get used to us. In the city, that's cal ed stalking, right?" He took another bite of sandwich.

"Wel , I'm from Seattle, if that's what you mean by city. It's not like I lived in a high rise or something," I replied with a shrug. I glanced over at Lori, who with her mousy brown hair in a sloppy ponytail and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, looked like she belonged a few grades below us. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Amy. My aunt told me about you."

"I know. She cal ed my dad and asked me to sit with you at lunch." Her cheeks went red. "Oops. I wasn't supposed to say that. Sorry."

The boy barely stifled a laugh.

"I would've sat next to you on the bus, but my mom gives me a ride in the mornings. She's Suzi, the lunch lady with the blond hair," Lori said.

"It's not so cool to have your mom be a lunch lady, but sometimes she gives me an extra cookie."

"I just met her. She's real y nice," I said. "And for the record, I didn't take the bus this morning, either."