Girlwood (9 page)

Her mom stared at her, then surprised her by putting the car in reverse. They skidded back up the driveway, her mom gripping the wheel.

"Mom?"

Her mom didn't say a word as they drove to Laramie Junior High and into the ten-second-drop-off lane. As usual, Mr. Blakely, the principal, was standing on the curb, motioning for parents to keep their minivans moving. Mr. Blakely was a former high-ranking military man who now carried a stopwatch around a Podunk junior high. For some reason, it made him furious when people couldn't say goodbye in ten seconds or less.

Polly put her hand on the door as they neared the dropoff point, but when her mom pulled into position, she said, "Wait."

Polly couldn't believe it when her mom turned off the engine. With a dozen cars lined up behind them and Mr. Blakely already sprinting forward, her mom took her hands
off the wheel. To most people, it would have been a silly little act of defiance, yet Polly knew it was the single bravest thing her mother had done.

Mr. Blakely rapped on the window just as Polly's mom opened her arms. Polly shot across the seat and into her mother's embrace.

"I was the witch's daughter," her mom said, burying her nose in Polly's choppy, dirty hair. "When your grandmother walked me to school, she was always in some outlandish outfit, oblivious to the things people said about her, or me."

Polly didn't speak for fear her mother would pull away.

"You're
fine
the way you are," her mom went on vehemently. "You hear me?"

Principal Blakely held up his stopwatch and Polly's mom laughed nervously.

"One Mississippi," her mother said. "Two Mississippi, three Mississippi..." Her skin was flushed by twenty
Mississippis
when she started the car.

Mr. Blakely was right there when Polly finally opened the door. "That was thirty-nine seconds. I don't know if you're aware of our policy, but the rules clearly state—"

Her mother reached over and slammed the door on his policies. She screeched out of the parking lot while Polly met Mr. Blakely's stunned gaze.

It was hard to stifle her laughter. "Mothers," Polly said.

***

By second period, word had gotten round about Polly's ragged haircut and dirty jeans. When she walked into Mrs. Finch's debate class, everyone went quiet. Then Carly Leyland burst out laughing.

"Oh my frickin' God," she said.

"Carly!" Mrs. Finch said. "That's quite enough from you."

Olivia avoided Polly's gaze during the heated debate on capital punishment, but after class she was waiting in the hall. She wore lip gloss now, the Carly Leyland variety—extra wet, frosty pink.

"I'll walk with you," Olivia said.

Polly pushed past her. "I don't need your protection."

"I'm not offering it. It's a free country. I can walk where I want."

Polly waved a hand and squinted at the bright, crowded hall. She'd thought it was just Baba's rainbow that was growing brighter, but now she wondered if her own vision was sharpening. Mimi Stigers, the commanding student council president, wore a lion's mane of sapphire blue light around her neck, while Ben Jacobsen, who had lost every election he entered, sported two purple hangdog ears beside his face. Only Olivia's aura looked watered down.

They reached Polly's locker, but Olivia didn't leave.

"What's wrong with you?" Polly asked.

"What's wrong with
you?
"

Polly shielded her hand while she worked the combination, even though Olivia knew it by heart. Olivia's lip quivered as Polly gathered her books.

"Look," Olivia said, her voice shaky. "So I changed my hair. You did too."

Polly slammed her locker shut. "It's not that."

"Well then, what is it? I'm not allowed to be friends with anyone else? I'm supposed to stay lonely and weird like you?"

"That's right! You are!"

The words were out before she could stop them, and Polly turned away from the pity in Olivia's eyes. She had to get out of there, but when she took a step, something slimy and cold hit her in the face.

She cried out, more from shock than pain, as mud trickled down her cheek. Carly Leyland stood three feet away, flicking the last of the sludge from her hands.

"Your makeup looked like it was fading," Carly said. "You wouldn't want to wander around your precious woods looking too clean, would you, Swamp Girl?"

Mimi Stigers looked away. She might have been a lion, but she didn't come to Polly's rescue. No one in the hall moved as Polly struggled not to cry.

"Hey, Liv," Carly said. "Whatcha doing with Swamp Girl?"

"C-Carly," Olivia said, "how could you—"

"Who's your hairstylist?" Carly asked, swatting at Polly's uneven hair. "Frankenstein?"

Joy Lanerson and Crystal Carr looked like Carly's evil minions, laughing hysterically at everything she said. Joy had a lavender aura that faded to gray beside Carly, while Crystal's canary-colored energy hopped around like a nervous bird. Crystal had once come to Baba's house for dogbane tea, a poisonous mixture that might have killed her mother but instead helped shrink the tumor in her brain. In gratitude, Crystal had brought Baba a rare orchid, yet now her hands were muddy too.

Joe Meyer made his way through the crowd and was about to put his arm around Carly when he spotted the dirt on Polly's face.

"Hey," he said. "What's going on?"

Carly leaned in toward Polly and wrinkled her nose. "Maybe I should have put some shit in it. That's what you smell like, Swamp Girl. Shit."

"That's enough," Olivia said.

The light around Carly became a fireworks display of pinks and baby blues. Somehow it made Polly think of a two-year-old in the midst of a tantrum, trying to get everyone to look at her.

"Y-you can't talk to her like that," Olivia went on. "You can't throw dirt at people."

Carly stepped forward. "I can do whatever I want,
Olivia
."

Polly reached out, but Olivia was already gone, running down the hall crying.

Carly rolled her eyes. "Little Miss Crybaby," she said. "God."

The rushing in Polly's ears was so loud, the bell for third period sounded like a whisper. She didn't feel like crying anymore; she was too busy deciding where to aim. She'd never punched anyone in her life, and it turned out she was really, really good at it. Her fist hit Carry's cheek with a satisfying whack, and Carly dropped to her knees. Everyone went quiet, then a couple of the boys called out, "Catfight!"

Polly wished it were a catfight rather than Carly just sitting there holding her cheek and bawling like a baby. Everybody fussed over her until Crystal and Joy finally helped her to her feet.

"I'm feeling a little dizzy," Carly said, feigning a swoon and falling against Joe's chest. Polly couldn't believe anyone took her seriously.

"Let's go tell Mr. Blakely," Joy suggested, glaring at Polly.

Carly acted as if Polly had smashed her legs too, wobbling so badly Joy and Crystal practically had to carry her. But Joe Meyer didn't move. Halfway down the hall, Carly looked over her shoulder at him. "Aren't you coming?"

It was amazing how quickly Carly got her strength back when Joe didn't budge. She threw off her friends' arms and marched over to him. "She just tried to
kill
me," she said.

Joe looked at Carly as if he'd never seen her before. As if this mud-flinging creature had materialized out of thin air. Just whom did he think he'd been kissing?

"You had it coming," Joe said.

The fireworks around Carly exploded. It
was
a little girl that Polly saw around her, petulant and pitiful, the kind who throws mud at you, then screams and cries when you fight back.

"Come on," Carly said, forgetting her dizziness and grabbing Joy and Crystal by the arms. "We're going to see Mr. Blakely."

The crowd slowly dispersed—all except Joe. Polly stole a glance at him, relieved when she couldn't find any similarities between him and his brother, Brad. One was scary, reckless, and not expected to live past twenty-one, while the other was clear-eyed and, from the little she'd seen, surprisingly kind. She wondered if Joe might understand better than anyone the things she'd gone through with Bree. But she also wondered what he was doing with Carly.

"Did your brother get my sister pregnant?" she asked.

Joe leaned back against the lockers, his brown hair falling over his eyes. "Jeez. Give a guy a little warning."

Polly tried to wipe the mud from her cheeks, but it had already caked dry. "Well, did he?" she asked. "Because that's what Carly's been saying."

"I never told her that," he said, and for some reason Polly believed him. She felt soothed by the light around him, all browns and greens, like the rings in a pine log. "But you know how Brad and Bree were. Drugs, stealing stuff, having ... you know ... sex."

Polly wanted him to stop talking, and, remarkably, he did. Freckles were coming out on his face now, the way stars do after you've been staring at the sky awhile.

"I'd get so mad at Brad I'd fight him," Joe went on, "even though he always beat the crap out of me. He just laughed me off. It was a joke to him, how far he could fall."

"I don't think it was a joke to Bree," Polly said.

They were quiet, and Polly stood staring at him for so long, he finally said, "Polly?"

She stepped back, blushing, remembering her crazy hair and the mud on her face. Before he could say another word, she turned and ran, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, wishing she'd run away a second sooner—before she saw him smile.

***

Polly's mother was in a meeting, so it was her father who showed up in the principal's office. Mr. Blakely explained the school's zero-tolerance-for-bullying policy and looked at Polly as if she were a brute. Carly only had to offer a written apology while Polly got two weeks' worth of lunchtime detention in the library, which, she didn't say out loud, was almost a reward.

Out in the parking lot, Polly noticed the sawdust in her dad's hair. People who'd known Paul Greene before said they hardly recognized him now, with his scraggly beard, flannel shirts, and hermit-like existence. No one understood how he could give up a successful law practice to sell woodcarvings. It unnerved people to think that someone could change so much.

But Polly didn't think her dad had changed at all. He'd always been a mountain man; it was just a matter of admitting his true color. Polly was miserable when he left them, but in a weird, mixed-up way, she hadn't really had him until then—until he'd begun to turn a little brown around the edges, more woodlike, solid and sure.

"You're on my side, right?" she said.

Her dad stopped by his pickup. "This isn't about sides, Polly. It's about raising your hand against someone. Violence is never the answer. You know that."

"So I should have just let her throw dirt in my face? I should let her turn Olivia into another person?"

He looked down at his hands. Even in his lawyer days, he'd gone out to the garage whenever the conversation had turned
emotional. He preferred stuff he could fix with a hammer and nail.

"If you promise this won't happen again," he said, "I'm willing to keep this from your mother. She doesn't need to worry about this, too."

Polly stepped forward. "See, you do care about her."

"Of course I care. I never said—"

"You could come back then. Take care of her. Come home, Dad. Why don't you come home?"

Her dad took her in his arms, saying, "It's not as easy as that, honey. There were issues, problems we couldn't see our way around. And with Bree..."

"Those are just excuses," Polly said. "You're only afraid she won't love you back."

"That's not true," he said. "It's not."

But when Polly pushed him away, she knew that he was lying. She wished that he could see it, his solid brown aura from head to toe, except for a tendril around his mouth that burned pink.

Legend says angelica got its name when an angel offered it as a cure for the plague, evil spells, and enchantments. The leaves are an ingredient in gin, while the plant relieves cramping and other disorders of the female reproductive tract.
Beware!
Difficult to distinguish from water hemlock, which can be fatal within fifteen minutes of ingestion.

The morning that Polly's grounding was over, her mom looked in her eyes and said, "I trust you." What that really meant, Polly knew, was
Don't go into the woods.
It meant Polly had to choose between her mom's trust and trying to help Baba.

It was unsettling how quickly she made up her mind. Even if it meant getting grounded again, Polly had to do whatever she could to save her grandmother. Baba was the key to everything, and Polly hadn't seen her out walking or gathering herbs since that night in the grove.

So Polly ignored the blustery November wind and headed straight into the woods after school. Maybe jimsonweed would cure her grandmother, even though it was also capable of causing hallucinations and respiratory arrest. Or tansy, which damaged the liver and digestive tract but treated weak kidneys. It was hard to identify anything in its leafless state, but Polly managed to find both of those plants, plus a red flower that seemed impervious to the weather, its energy shimmering like a summertime mirage.

But it was the field of angelica, frozen in full bloom, that made her heart quicken. The flowers gave off an eerie white light, like the breath of the earth or a gathering of spirits. Polly's grandmother added the angel-winged seeds to her soups and prescribed the root to ease heavy menstrual cramps, but she'd also told Polly that angelica was a gift from the angels. In certain cases, Baba had said, it will heal what no other plant can.

Polly raced to pull three of the plants from the ground, roots and all, and ran down the mountain to Baba's. She found her grandmother in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Baba's chest rose and fell steadily, but now even her breath was rainbow-colored. Polly quickly took off her backpack and laid out her plants on the bed.