Out on a Limb (23 page)

“She doesn’t want to talk about him,” I said. To this, Bridget said not a single thing. I changed the subject and chatted the way I wished Bridget would, but she was quiet the rest of the afternoon. Paige invited me to stay for Chinese food and I did. I watched Bridget’s straight-ahead profile as she knit at her chow mein with her chopsticks.

Bridget’s fortune cookie said “A friend will surprise you.” Mine said “An enemy watches.”

I left soon after dinner, but I didn’t go straight home. Somehow having a head full of private knowledge made me want to be alone. The library was the only place I could think to go. I saw Kendra there checking out a stack of teen Cosmos, but we ignored each other. I sat reading in the cookbook aisle. At library closing the air was dark with rain and I hurried along the sidewalk to the start of the path. Entering the woods, I found myself in gloom. I fished out my headlamp and switched it on. Dropping my umbrella into the hollow tree, I pulled out my hideous cape and shook out possible bugs. As I bent to unchain my bike from the pine tree, I saw in the weak beam of my headlamp that my rear tire was flat. I left my bike there and began to walk. I’d have to hurry to make it home on foot before dark.

I hadn’t gone twenty yards down the path when I felt it. It was exactly what Tilley had described: prickly dots on the back of my neck. I turned and looked behind me. There was nothing but the thickening gloom. I was being stupid, I told myself. I kept on walking.

Raindrops pattered on my hood, and my cape crackled with each step. And then I heard it: the snap of a branch behind me. I stopped and turned right around, but I couldn’t see anything but darkening woods. They looked fairy-tale creepy. The snap had been a branch falling, I told myself. Branches
do
fall all by themselves—that was how I got my Christmas boughs. I pushed my hood from my head and rustled off again, faster than before. I had my ears on full alert by this time, but I heard only the overpowering crackle of my hideous cape. And then: snap. Again. Closer behind me than last time.

“Hello,” I called out. My voice wobbled into the woods. There was no answer but raindrops. Maybe it was a coyote, I thought. I flapped my hideous cape, hoping to scare the coyote with its plastic crackle and its pure orange weirdness. I rustled off again. I felt like running, but I didn’t, because that would make the coyote think I was prey. I forced myself to walk at normal speed, but I kept looking over my shoulder.

Then I heard other sounds. Another snap. A soft thud, like a stumble. A jangle, like keys.

“Who’s there?” I meant to sound challenging, but I sounded like someone who couldn’t put up a good fight. Could the jangle be dog tags? I wanted to run, but running from dogs is not good either. I had to find out what was behind me. A few steps later I twirled around. I had only an impression of pale movement by the enormous stump: it was so fleeting that I couldn’t tell whether it happened in my peripheral vision or just in my imagination.

“Who’s there?” I called. There was silence and there were woods. I reached into my pocket for the folding knife that had skewered Great-great-aunt Lydia’s posie of medicinal herbs. Without looking down I opened the blade. I listened and I watched. The longer I listened and the longer I watched, the more imaginary it seemed, that flesh-pale glimpse. Softly I moved to the left, distantly circling the stump. I would make sure there was nothing there and then I would continue home, reassured. Each leftward step brought a new view of dark stump, each one hardly different from the last. Then I stepped again and saw it, resting on an old logger’s cut. It was there, and then it withdrew and was gone. It was brief, but there was no mistaking it. It was a hand. It was human.

NOTEBOOK: #28

NAME: Rosamund McGrady

SUBJECT: Caught

Run, my mind shrieked
, and I did. I flung off my cape and ran until the woods blurred .I ran up the ramp over the stone wall, across the plank bridge and through the meadow. I never slowed down to look behind me, and it was impossible to say whether the thump-thump-thumping I heard was pursuing footsteps or my own pumping heart. I reached the oak tree and climbed the ladder like I was on fast-forward.

“Rosie, what is it?” Mom said as I burst through the treehouse door. “What’s wrong?”“

Somebody’s. After me,” I gasped. “Somebody. Chased me. In the woods.”

Dad grabbed the big flashlight and clambered down to the meadow. We all ran through the woods to where my hideous cape lay in the wet dirt like evidence at a crime scene. Dad moved through the trees swinging the flashlight. Shadows swooped away from the light, but nothing else moved. Whoever was stalking me had gone.

That night I lay in my middle bunk listening to Tilley creak above me. I thought about my stalker. It was possible that he was a classic weirdo: the kind who came out as soon as it was dark, just as Paige had warned. I did not believe that, however. I believed that my stalker was Mr. Bickert. Mr. Bickert had a motive: he wanted to prevent me from getting to know Great-great-aunt Lydia. But plain old stalking wouldn’t be enough for him. To be certain of keeping me away from Great-great-aunt Lydia, Mr. Bickert really needed me dead. In the pure, long-lasting darkness of the night, I started believing that I’d narrowly avoided my own murder. I opened the little pocket knife that Mr. Bickert had stuck in the oak tree, and I placed it at my bunkside. I listened hard to the silence, convinced that every nighttime sound was Mr. Bickert coming to finish me off. Stiff with fear, I’d get my headlamp ready. I imagined Mr. Bickert caught in its beam, with his cardigan and his tie and his murder weapon. This mental image was so vivid that when I pressed the “on” button I was almost startled to see that he was not there. That’s how I spent the entire night. It wasn’t until the sky paled with dawn that I considered it safe to fall asleep.

I slept in the next morning. When I woke up the sun was high in the branches, and I lay in a shaft of light the colour of liquid honey. The treehouse smelled like bacon and coffee, but when I pulled back my bunk curtain, I found myself alone. On the folding table was a note:

Off 2 community centre 4 hair washing — U should go 2.

Mom et al

I made a BLT that spurted mayonnaise and tomato guts onto my pyjamas. Afterwards I brushed my teeth by the locker mirror above the porcelain wash bowl. Mom was definitely right about hair washing, I thought. Dreads were starting to form.

To make up for all the toffee I’d given Tilley, I’d gotten super-conscientious about my own teeth, and I brushed for the three full minutes recommended by the Dental Association. My mouth foamed with toothpaste, and I stepped onto the treehouse porch to spit. There was movement and a flash, and then, standing right in front of me was Kendra. My mouth fell open in surprise. Toothpaste foam cascaded down my chin. Kendra raised a camera.

“What are you doing?” I splattered. “Who invited you? Get out of here! You can’t just barge into somebody’s....” I stopped.

“Into somebody’s
what
?” Kendra asked. “Into somebody’s
home
?”

I had no comeback. Standing there in my pyjamas, holding my toothbrush, I was pretty obviously at home. Kendra took a picture of my blank face.

“Stop doing that!” A glob of foam shot out in exclamation.

“Why? You don’t look
that
much worse than usual.” Kendra took another shot of my gross pyjamas and my street-person hair and my foaming mouth.

“Get! Out!” I advanced, brandishing my toothbrush.

“The true Rosie McGrady,” Kendra said. “Captured at last in her own environment.”

I had a sudden thought. “You followed me through the woods last night.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to make you wet your pants and all,” Kendra said. “I just had to see your fabulous mansion you’ve done all the bragging about. What a surprise to find nothing but some pathetic little treehouse.”

“It’s not pathetic.”

“No? Let’s see.” Shoving past me, Kendra aimed her camera through the archway of the open treehouse door. I yanked her arm.

“I said
get out of here
!”

Kendra jerked her arm free. “Okay, don’t spaz, I’m going. I’ve got what I need. Everybody at school is going to be
fascinated
.”

“With my playhouse?” I said. But Kendra knew better.

“Oh please. Give it up, Rosie. Stop lying. We both know this is not your playhouse. It’s your residential tree house—isn’t that what you called it in your stupid contract with Eveline? This sad little place is where you live. You know it, and I know it, and pretty soon everybody at Windward is going to know it too. See you later.”

Kendra started down the ladder, glancing up through the trap door to make sure I wasn’t going to push her off. Pushing her off the ladder
was
an attractive idea, but I wasn’t criminal enough to do it. I spat toothpaste over the banister and watched it wobble past her. She glared upward, and inexpertly descended the last rungs. I watched her head for the plank bridge.

Weak-kneed, I sat on the porch. I stared through the oak leaves that were just starting to uncurl. I’d done a ton of worrying over the past eight months, but what I felt at that moment was different. The feeling is hard to describe. I remember being electrocuted back in our old apartment when I stuck a knife inside the toaster. This feeling was sort of like that, but it kept on going. I guess the feeling was panic. I’d been caught. Kendra had photographs. Kendra had the contract with Eveline. Kendra had everything she needed, just like she said. Suddenly I was on my feet. I knew what I had to do. It was time to confess. I knew it was important to get to Bridget first. To be worth anything, a confession has to be made before the secret gets out. Through the archway of the treehouse I saw my cell phone lying on our kitchen shelf. Not appropriate, I thought. Confessions have to be made in person. I had to get to Bridget’s right away, before Kendra emailed the pictures. I scrambled down the ladder and yanked my bike from the shed. I rode like a fiend. The voltage of my electrocution increased the closer I got to Bridget’s.

I stopped outside her house, flooded with doubt. I was in my tomato-guts pyjamas, and my hair was still unbrushed. Maybe I should have spent a few minutes fixing myself up? Looking repulsive was probably a big disadvantage during confession. But by then it was too late. I rang Bridget’s bell. “Oh Rosie, hi,” Paige said as she answered the door. Politely, she did not focus on my pyjamas. “Hang on, I’ll get Bridget. BRIDGET!” Paige disappeared into the house, calling for her daughter.

When Paige came back Bridget was not with her. “Sorry, Rosie,” Paige frowned. “It looks like Bridget’s out.” I thought Paige should know whether Bridget was out, but maybe that was just because I’d only ever lived in an apartment and a treehouse. Maybe in great big houses it was normal to not have a clue where anybody was.

“Can you ask her to call me?” I was sorry before I’d even finished asking. Now I’d just have to wait.

“Yes,” Paige said. “I will.”

“Okay. Thanks. Well, bye then.”

Bridget did not call in the morning. I checked the battery of my cell and it was fine. I checked the ringer and it was on. It became afternoon, and I was still waiting for my phone to ring. I waited and waited, and the more I waited the more it did not ring. Sunday was the same. By dinnertime I couldn’t stand it and I called her. There was no answer, which seemed weird for a Sunday night. I remembered that her family had call display.

By Monday morning I was a mess. I got to Windward early to look for Bridget. I didn’t spot her, though, until everyone was filing inside after the nine o’clock bell. She was pretty far off and she didn’t seem to see me. I jostled toward her. Bumping past other people, I arrived beside her. Her eyes stayed straight ahead and her jaw was set. I made myself look down at Bridget’s wrist, and I found out what I needed to know. Where her friendship bracelet should have been, Bridget’s wrist was bare. I walked backwards in front of her. “Bridget,” I said. I was definitely in her field of vision, but she didn’t focus. “Bridget,” I said again, but she just stepped past me and through the classroom door. It was a very weird moment. It was as if there was some other person living in Bridget’s body. It was like the real Bridget was gone, but it was also like I didn’t exist either. It was as if where I stood there was nothing but the ghost of Bridget’s friend.

I was paralyzed by these thoughts, so it was awhile before I noticed Kendra’s pictures stuck on the bulletin board outside our classroom. Some were of the treehouse, but most were of me. Me in shrunken pyjamas, drooling toothpaste. Me, with greasy hair. Me, waving a toothbrush like a mental-case. Stupid, stupid, stupid me. I started taking them down.

“Go ahead, take them,” Kendra said. “I’ll print more.

Or I’ll just direct people to the website.” I stuffed the pictures in my backpack.

When I walked into the classroom, everyone looked at me. Everyone except for Bridget, who stared straight ahead. Not once that morning did she look my way. At recess Bridget disappeared, and other people surrounded me.

“Is that true, that you live in a treehouse?” Sienna asked. I nodded.

“Bizarre!” said Nova.

“Aren’t you just, like, totally
cramped
?” asked Twyla. “

Yeah, it’s a bit cramped,” I said. “And you have no
electricity
?” Zach asked. “Nope.”

“I would hate that,” Nova cried. “I would, like, completely die without Facebook.”

“No plumbing either, Kendra says.” This was from Matt.

“That is so gross!” said Twyla.

“I guess that explains her hair,” said Sienna. “And what, you just crap in the woods,” asked Zach. “Please,” said Sienna. “I don’t want to picture this.” “We have an outhouse,” I said.

“Ew, I
despise
outhouses,” said Sienna.

“The
smell
,” saidTwyla.

“The flies buzzing ’round your butt,” said Heath.

“I’d kill myself,” said Nova.