The Clearing (4 page)

"Smart." The boy wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I'm Jackson, by the way."

"Lori's PR coach, right?" I asked around a bite of fry.

He cracked a smile. "I like to think of myself as more of a handler."

Lori crunched a carrot dipped in ranch dressing. "So, you got a ride to school? That's good. Wait til you ride the bus home today—it takes forever down the back roads."

"Oh, great." I was suddenly glad Mae had insisted on driving me that morning. As the truck idled in the crowded parking lot, she'd hugged me and then tucked a few wrinkled bil s in my hand for lunch. As Mae pul ed away, I had barely resisted the urge to run after her truck. Instead, I'd sucked it up and walked toward the school steps. This was what I had wanted. So why did I feel so scared?

"So, have you met anyone else?" Lori asked.

"Um, just a kid named Henry, who lives near us."

Jackson shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"Wel , maybe I'm not the only new one this year," I murmured. "You guys are both seniors. You probably know al the kids in school, right?"

"Yep, I'm a lifer. Can't you tel ?" asked Jackson.

"I don't know. I just got here."

Jackson grinned at my sarcasm. "Everyone in this lunchroom—no, wait, we had a couple newbies last year—so everyone but
three
people in this lunchroom has known each other since they were potty-trained."

"Most people are pretty cool," said Lori. "You're going to fit right in."

"Yeah," I mumbled. I wasn't sure I wanted to fit in.

"It must be way different than Seattle," Jackson said. "Your old school must have been pretty big, huh?"

"Yeah." I dragged a few fries through the extra mayo from the sandwich and scanned the room for Henry, wondering if he was having the same experience that I was.

Lori squished another blob of dressing onto her lunch tray and dunked a celery stick. "So, how come you're not in my classes so far? Don't you have Garner for English?"

"No, I have Mil s. After lunch."

"Advanced Placement English—nice," said Jackson. "Me, too. I'l walk you there." He gave me a broad, confident smile.

I felt my shoulders tense up. I was suddenly aware that Jackson was kind of cute, kind of big, and definitely a guy. He was stil grinning in a trust-me-I'm-in-charge kind of way.

"Um. That's okay. I can probably find it."

"It's no trouble," said Jackson, bal ing up his napkin and throwing it on his tray. "I'l accompany you."

"I said no." My voice came out weird. Harsh.

Jackson gave me an odd look. "Oh—kay. I'l just see you there."

"Geez. Sorry, I didn't mean anything. I'm just, you know, independent."

He shrugged and got up with his lunch tray. "Suit yourself."

Lori, who'd watched the interchange silently, took a last sip of milk and eyed me with a funny look. "Wel —see you around, I guess," she said, walking off with her tray.

I released the breath I'd been holding. I needed to chil if I wanted to make any friends in this place. Jackson was just being nice—and he wasn't Matt. I chewed a bite of oatmeal cookie and pictured the cool, calm mist of the clearing. I tried to remember what Mae had told me last night before I went to bed, my stomach a bal of nerves.
This too shall pass.
Right.

When the bel for class rang, I realized I was the only student left in the cafeteria. As I dumped the contents of my tray, the lunch ladies gave me a sympathetic look and a wave of their plastic-gloved hands.

***

"How was your first day?" Mae took my backpack from me and slung it over one shoulder.

I watched the bus rol off down the road toward Lori's stop. She hadn't sat by me on the ride home, and I didn't blame her. When she'd turned up in my gym class that afternoon, I'd tried to be friendly, but maybe the damage was already done. I'd come off mean or crazy or something in the lunchroom. I hoped that first impression would wear off.

"It was okay," I said, turning back to Mae. I'd promised her I'd always tel the truth, but I didn't want to rehash the horrible day. "It's going to be fine, I guess."

"It takes a while to make friends," Mae said. "You have to be patient with yourself."

Katie trotted up the driveway toward us, hope in her eyes and a stick in her mouth. I gave her a pat, but I didn't go for the stick.

Mae squinted at me. "Don't be too hard on yourself, sweetie. You survived day one. That's a start."

"Yeah,
survived
is a good word." I stopped, noticing Mae was slowing her walk. "Here, you don't have to carry that backpack, Mae."

"I'm old, but I'm tough," she said, but she handed the bag to me. "Judging by the weight of those books, you have a lot of homework."

"Some," I said.

She sucked in a deep breath and leaned against the handrail of the stairs. "Wel , I hope it's not too much. We have beans to can."

"Cans of beans?"

Mae chuckled. "Amy, every family in the val ey cans. In fact, we're running behind. We have a bushel of late green beans from our neighbor Lawrence's garden to do tonight. I want to make some sauce out of our Jonagolds, and of course we'd best make some jam out of those blackberries before they're al gone to the birds."

"Mmm ... your jam," I said.

"It's
our
jam this year. Won't it be nice to give your mom a jar for Christmas?"

Mom. I hadn't talked to her since the first night I came to Mae's. I just nodded at my aunt.

Kindness crinkled at the corners of her eyes. "I didn't mean to make you sad. You must real y miss her."

"Yeah," I said, truthful y.

"Hard to tel . You've been awful y quiet," Mae said. "Did you know when you were young, you were a regular chatterbox? I could barely get a word in edgewise."

We climbed the stairs together and I fol owed Mae into the kitchen. Big bowls of freshly picked green beans fil ed the table. After we washed our hands, Mae handed me a paring knife. On the back porch, she showed me how to pul the string of each bean, clip off both of the ends, and then cut the beans into three equal pieces.

We worked silently, the only sounds the tink-tink of the wind chimes in the garden, the growly sound of Katie gnawing on a stick, and the ding of the beans dropping into the giant bowl between us.

Final y Mae said, "So, did you have your questions answered about the boys in town today?"

I rol ed my eyes. "Not even on my radar, Mae."

"Never much on mine, either," she said. "Always preferred my own company."

"Wel , there was one boy," I admitted. "From the other day—a Henry. You ever heard of him?"

Mae raised her eyebrows at me. "Henry? Now that's a throwback. A real old-fashioned name."

"Yeah, wel , I met one. About my age. He lives near here," I said, deliberately being vague. I didn't want to get Henry in trouble for trespassing, if that's what he was doing. "He wasn't at school, though."

Mae threw some cut beans into the big blue bowl between us. "So this boy caught your eye?"

I shrugged. "He seemed nice. And kinda different. A real farm boy, I guess. And not pushy."

"The young men today can be pushy," Mae said.

I snipped off some green bean ends. "Yeah. That boy Matt, the one Mom probably told you about ... he was way too pushy."

"Then good riddance."

"Yeah." I don't know why, but my voice sounded weak. It
was
good riddance to be free of Matt, but why did it seem like I didn't believe it?

Maybe I was stil mixed up about the whole thing.

Watching me, Mae set down her paring knife and stretched out her cramped fingers. "You never settle for a boy like Matt again. You hear me? You're a special girl."

"Yeah."

"I mean it. You are special. When you were little and I came to see you during the Holidays, you'd show me al your papers from school. They were covered with stars. So many stars. And you'd be so proud. 'Look at this A on my math test!' you'd shout. You were also quite an artist. I could barely get in the door without you bombarding me with drawings you'd made."

"I did that?" I said, barely remembering any of it.

"And then it al stopped," Mae said. "You turned about eleven and it stopped."

"Dad and Mom..."

"Yes, that was about the time they split up," she said. "That was real y hard for you, sweetie."

"It wasn't that bad," I said.

Mae shook her head. "It was pretty bad."

"I don't remember that."

"Of course not, you were a child." Mae paused. "Your poor mother, she did the best she could."

I cut a few more beans and tossed them into the bowl. "I guess. She worked a lot when they got divorced."

"She was terrified," Mae said slowly. "Worried about how she was going to be both parents for you. But the thing she didn't do—didn't have the knowledge or the time to do—was to remind you that you are special."

"I'm just a normal girl."

"No, no. You're special. And I'm sorry I didn't help your mother remind you of that. I should have had you spend summers with me in the val ey. I guess I had the feeling that it would've been too boring for you with just old me to keep you company, but now I see it might have done us both some good." Mae reached out and patted me on the back. There were tears in her eyes. "If I could go back in time, Amy, I'd give that gift to you—and I'd remind you that you're special every time I could. Not just when I showed up with a jar of jam with a bow on top."

I felt my throat clog up. "Mae. Seriously. It's al right."

"No," Mae said. "It's never al right to forget something that important."

I concentrated on the beans, stringing, clipping, and then cutting them into chunks. I didn't like seeing Mae upset. And I didn't real y get what she was saying. She was talking as if everyone were supposed to be going around thinking about how special they were al the time. But I thought everyone was supposed to be al the same. It didn't seem very cool to be thinking you're better than anyone else.

We worked on the beans until around sunset, and Mae served us some chili she'd been cooking in her Crock-pot al day. Then we turned on the TV, and I did my homework on the floor next to Katie, who snored, paws twitching in her sleep. I felt safe—almost.

This was my new family, my new life. It was going to be okay, and I was pretty sure my plan to forget about everything back home would work. The only problem I had now was figuring out how to get through school. And how to make a friend.

CHAPTER FOUR

From the moment Henry opened his eyes, she'd been on his mind.
Amy.
Her name was Amy, he reminded himself. She hadn't come back to the clearing so far, but he hoped she would today.

As sunlight hit the kitchen windows, he cleaned his plate in short order, wiping up the last of the sausage gravy with a piece of biscuit. He actual y never got tired of his mother's breakfasts. He would happily eat her biscuits for a lifetime.

"You in a hurry?" Grandpa Briggs asked, pouring cream into his second cup of coffee. "You seem to have ants in your pants this morning."

"No, sir." Henry took another biscuit from the towel-lined basket. Maybe just one more with some of the strawberry preserves.

Mother sat down across from Grandpa, drying her hands on her apron. "You're a good eater today," she said, watching Henry doctor up the biscuit with the jam. Her own plate was empty. Her appetite was weak, as it always was.

"I have a ful morning ahead," Henry said. "Big list of chores."

His grandfather snorted. "Most of the summer you've been lazing in the hammock! To what do we owe this burst of enthusiasm?"

Henry took a bite of the biscuit, savoring the sweet fruit topping. He hadn't had any jam in a week of breakfasts, just for a change. "Need to finish that mowing," he said.

"Thought you finished that already," said Grandpa.

"Always more that needs mowing," Henry replied.

"So no more communing with Mr. Twain under a shady tree?" Mother said, managing a smile.

"Wel , I might read some Faulkner today," he said.

"You had enough
Huckleberry Finn
already?" Grandpa asked.

"Yes, sir," Henry said. In truth he'd gone through the entire Briggs library several times over. He finished the last bite of the biscuit and wiped his mouth with the embroidered napkin. "May I be excused, please?"

His mother raised her eyebrows. "Of course, dear."

Grandpa tipped his cup. "We need to cut some of that lettuce today."

"I'l do it after I mow, sir," Henry said. "In fact, I'l go get started on that grass now before it gets too warm outside." He took his plate and set it in the sink.

"Don't know what's got into that boy," Grandpa murmured as Henry walked out of the kitchen, heading straight for the back field.

***

How long could he pretend to mow the path to the clearing? So far, the careful mowing had not paid off. He'd taken his time, rol ing over and over the same section of perfect green, and stil no Amy.

It was a few hours after dinner now, and his bel y was ful of the leftover ham and cake. He was ready for a rest. Henry pul ed his copy of
The
Sound and the Fury
out of his back pocket and lay down beside the mower. He was strategical y positioned along the edge of the mist, about twenty yards from where he'd seen Amy the other day.

"Through mowing for the day?"

Henry was startled to see his grandfather walking toward him. Grandpa never came out to check up on him—it wasn't at al his normal pattern. The old man slowed his walk and took off his hat to fan himself.

Henry sat up in the grass. "Just taking a break."

"I see. Wel , don't forget about the lettuce. Your mother's going to have supper ready in a few hours, and she wants you to bring in some greens for the salad."

"Yes, sir. I'l do it." Henry picked up his book, expecting the conversation was over.

Grandpa stood there, giving him a funny stare. "Eerie out here, don't you think, Henry? Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the hammock?

That's your normal library."