The Clearing (6 page)

"What business is that?" Quinn walked up, wiping a smear of pizza sauce from his hands onto his apron.

Jackson got a little red in the cheeks and backed up a step.

"Hi, Quinn," I said. "How's your pizza coming?"

"It's going to be delicious," Quinn said, his eyes twinkling.

Jackson started plunking bowls and spoons into our water-fil ed sink. Obviously, he wasn't pleased.

"If we teamed up, I bet we could've made an Italian masterpiece," said Quinn, peeking skeptical y through the oven window at our handiwork.

"Hmm, that I doubt," I said. "Real pizza involves yeast and flour and rising time. My mom used to bake it with me when I was a kid."

"Quinn!" Jane snapped from over at their station, "I'm not doing your dishes!"

"Women." Quinn shrugged. "See you around, Amy."

"Why don't you like him?" I asked Jackson when we were alone.

"What's
to
like? You must have had guys like Quinn at your school. His type's pretty common."

"Yeah, I guess." But Jackson was right. Of course we had guys like Quinn at my old school. Every boy I'd ever liked had started out like Quinn. Even Matt. Cute, popular, athletic. Typical. I couldn't help noticing Quinn—even though I wasn't trying to have anything to do with any boy at the moment.

"Wel , if that's what you're after—then there you go," Jackson said, giving me a dismissive shrug and then going back to the dishes. "Quinn's a real winner, and so's his girlfriend."

"I'm not after anything," I said. "I'm just making pizza here."

"'Kay." He dried out the mixing bowl and handed it to me, but he wasn't smiling anymore.

Ms. Grady announced a quiz right then, so Jackson and I took our seats. I didn't get a chance to talk to him after that because we corrected the quizzes and then pul ed the projects from the oven so they could be graded. We accepted our C and ate the funky-looking pizza, but we didn't chat.

I left the class feeling frustrated. I was just trying to make some lame pizza, not deal with some random boy-drama.
Give me simplicity,
I thought as I walked to the town library after school.
Simplicity and a cool, quiet field.

***

The Rockvil e library was in a converted brick garage that used to belong to the volunteer fire department. It seemed like a kooky place to hang out and read, but there was a nice old guy working there who signed me up for my card and then pointed me in the direction of the fiction stacks. I had to do a book report on Hemingway's
A Farewell to Arms
and actual y needed to read it. What I'd told Jackson hadn't been a total lie.

"Checking out something fun?" asked Melanie, rounding the corner of the periodical section, her arms ful of glossy magazines.

I held up my book. "A classic," I said.

She gave me a funny look. "Yeah, I heard you pul ed a
classic
today in Creative Living."

"What?"

"You know, I thought you were halfway cool, but Jane told me how you were flirting with my boyfriend." She paused. "You better stay away from Quinn."

My mouth dropped open. "Are you joking? We're not even friends—and he came and talked to me."

"Uh-huh. Jane saw it al . She told me everything."

Though Melanie didn't deserve an explanation, now I was mad. "Look, I have no interest at al in your boyfriend."

"Right."

"Whatever, I don't have time for this," I said, pushing past her. Her stack of magazines went crashing down in a messy pile al over the floor.

"Nice work!" she said.

I turned to help her clean up the mess.

"Leave it alone," she said.

"No, come on, let me help," I said, reaching for a
People.

"Don't you get it? I don't need anything from you. No one in this town does." She walked off, teetering on her high-heeled sandals.

I clutched my book and went to check it out, blood stil rushing in my ears. I didn't like confrontations—especial y stupid ones over boys. It reminded me of the end of last spring when I'd begged Chelsea to leave Matt alone—only then, it had been for her safety, not because I'd loved him. Then again, if Chelsea and Matt hadn't hooked up, maybe he and I would have stil been together.

It could have been much worse for me. Much, much worse.

Because I would have stayed with Matt, kept making excuses for the mean things he said to me, the ways he hurt me, and the way I felt about myself when I was with him. I'd have stayed there because I loved him. Now, though, I felt like that wasn't love at al . I couldn't tel you what it was. I was pretty sure that everything that had passed for love between me and Matt had been a lie.

And it stil hurt.

I stood there in the parking lot, holding back tears and waiting for Aunt Mae's rusty pickup to rattle into the lot. Al I could think about was escaping to the clearing.

***

A little while later, I helped Mae into the house with her grocery bags and dumped my backpack off on the couch.

"You're awful y quiet again, sweetie," Mae said, hanging up her coat. She hadn't said anything about my red face during the drive in from town, but now I braced myself for what was to come.

"Bad day?" she said, fishing.

"Yep."

Mae paused for a second, like she was waiting for me to tel her al about it, but I didn't say anything. "Wel , how about a nice dinner?" she said, final y. "That should cheer you up."

"I'm going to go for a walk first. Is that okay?"

Mae nodded. "Certainly. A walk ought to clear your mind. I'l pop some chicken in to bake. I don't need much help. Oh, but you could bring in a head of cabbage for slaw on your way back."

"Okay." I slipped out the door, sucking in air like I hadn't breathed al day. I could smel the warm afternoon, the scent of dirt and grass rising up on the breeze.

Katie-dog trotted behind me, probably thinking we were going to play fetch. When I got to the clearing, though, Katie stopped and lay down under a tree, her watchful eyes on me the whole time. I gave her a last look as I faded into the mist.

"Henry?" I cal ed into the fog. I reached the stump where we'd met the day before. There was no sign of Henry, his book, or his lawn mower. I felt a little sad, and I realized that maybe I hadn't been craving the stil ness of the clearing as much as Henry's company.

"Hel o?" I took a few more steps. The air felt thicker around me, fil ing al the spaces around my body like water in a pool. There was a low hum in my ears, electric-sounding, heavy.

"Henry?" I said again, my voice echoing in my ears. I took a few more steps. Ahead of me, where the mist began to fade, I could see a path, worn, freshly mowed. That had to be Henry's work.

I walked toward the path, and suddenly my vision blurred and the hum was louder again. Goose bumps prickled up and down my arms. I suddenly felt I should turn around.

But now, I didn't want to leave without saying hi. Even though I liked being with Aunt Mae, I wanted to talk to someone—a friend. Henry couldn't be too far from here. If he had been mowing a path near the clearing, his farm should be on the other side of it.

"Where are you?" I tried one last time, my voice weak-sounding against the electric hum. And then, dizzy, I took a few more steps forward, and the clearing broke away.

I was on the edge of somewhere else.

Bright hot summer sun surrounded me, and in the distance stood a classic white farmhouse that looked like it belonged in a painting.

Laundry flapped on a clothesline. The sound of tinny big band music drifted on the breeze. An old man in a hat slept in a hammock strung between two fruit trees. A red, old-fashioned Ford truck gleamed like brand-new in the driveway.

And then I glimpsed Henry, running toward me as I fel to the ground.

CHAPTER SIX

What is she doing here
? Henry barely caught Amy as she tumbled forward. He helped her down to the ground, aware of how light she felt in his arms, how she smel ed like early fal —wood fires and ripe apples. Her eyes were closed and she had a scared look on her face, a look of uncertainty. Henry was scared, too.

Amy had crossed the clearing. Henry anxiously glanced over his shoulder toward the house. His grandfather stil dozed in the hammock, and the curtains were drawn across his mother's second-floor bedroom window.

He stopped holding his breath and focused on Amy. "Are you feeling al right?"

Her eyelids fluttered open. "Henry," she said in a wheezy voice, "I was looking for you—and then I felt so weird. I'm wiped." She looked down at Henry's arms wrapped around her and seemed to stiffen, but she didn't pul away.

"Sorry. You were fal ing," he said. "I didn't want you to hurt yourself." Henry let her go and sat back on his heels.

Amy lowered herself to the grass and put her head between her knees. She was breathing heavily, stil winded from the crossing.

A moment later, she raised her head. "Henry, why is it so hot al of a sudden? On the other side of the clearing—at my house—it was about to rain." She was doing it again—searching him up and down, studying his clothes and shoes.

Henry's heart beat faster. "Could stil rain," he said nervously. "I always smel rain coming," he added.

"It's so pretty over here," she murmured, turning her attention to the farmhouse in the distance behind them. "And look at that classic truck—

it's so shiny, it looks like new. You must have spent hours restoring it."

Henry cleared his throat. "It's like new, al right," he said. "Listen, let's take a walk."

Amy put her hands on her knees and forced herself up. "Yeah, that would be good." She took a step in the direction of the path to the house.

Henry placed a hand under Amy's elbow and steered her back toward the clearing.

"Oh. I thought you would show me around your farm," she said, stopping in her tracks.

"I promise I wil —some other time, though," he said, instantly regretting the lie. He'd never show Amy around. He couldn't take the chance that bringing her across might change something. He couldn't take the chance that something awful might happen.

"Come along," he said, and they stepped into the misty clearing. Henry noticed Amy's movements were quick, fearful, as they entered the mist.

"There it is again," she said, shuddering. "The electric feel. It almost hurts." They went a little farther, and then she sank down onto the stump.

"Don't you notice it? When I came through the mist on my side, I heard just the humming, but over on yours, the air was so heavy and buzzing and then I broke through and it was clear like a summer day. Man, I'm stil dizzy. I feel like I'm going to faint."

"Wait here for a moment, please." Henry ran back to the house, giving Amy a look over his shoulder to make sure she'd stayed put. At the sink he pumped water into an empty jug, then grabbed a few other things and headed back to the clearing. He passed his grandfather snoring away in the hammock and the line of laundry flapping in the breeze.

Back inside the curtain of white fog he found Amy standing, watching his approach. He held out the jug to her. "Drink some water," he said.

"It'l help your dizzy spel ."

She took a swig and then stared down at the jug. "Your mom col ects old stuff, huh?"

He blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know, most people would have just brought me a bottle of water, not a jug that looks like it's a zil ion years old."

"No one uses water jugs over at your place?"

"Are you kidding?" Amy raised her eyebrows at him. "They do make plastic ones these days." She held up the jug, inspecting it. "This must be an antique, right?"

Henry chewed his lower lip. "Wel , yes, I suppose so." He took a deep breath, the feeling final y sinking in that Amy wasn't from his time.

When she'd finished drinking, he took the jug from her and set it on the ground.

"Thanks again for the water, Henry. That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me al day." She seemed to study him again. "It's been a real y crappy afternoon. You're so lucky you don't have to go to that stupid school."

"Is that why you were trying to find me? I heard you cal ing me ... before you ... came over to my side of the field." He didn't tel her he'd been loitering again near the edge of the clearing, waiting for her, hoping she'd come again to break his boredom.

Amy nodded and reached down to take another drink from the water jug. "You know the Hutchins family? They've got a flashy son and he's got an annoying girlfriend."

Henry had known the Hutchins family that lived over on Russel Road in his time. "Yep. I know of them."

"Then you know what a pain in the butt that kid's girlfriend is," Amy said. "I'm so ... I don't know what."

"Angry. I think you mean angry," Henry said.

Amy bit her lip. "I just wanted to go away. Do you ever feel like that?"

"Yes. Often," he replied. "Not that there's anywhere to go." He looked off toward the east—the farthest he'd been in the clearing. "Wel , maybe one place. I could show you one neat spot."

"Is it close by? Mae's cooking me dinner." She looked up at Henry, and he saw her face fil ed with an emotion he couldn't quite read. "I mean, maybe I shouldn't wander off."
With you.
That was the implied message in her eyes.

"Don't worry, it's only a stone's throw from here. We can leave at any time you decide."

"Okay," Amy said final y. "But just for a few minutes, then I gotta get back." She pointed at the bundle in his arms. "What's that stuff?"

"You'l see," he said. He led Amy down a short path through dense bushes and brambles. The curving trail emptied out onto a smal patch of grass overlooking the creek. On the other side of the water was a curtain of white fog—the boundary of the clearing that Henry hadn't dared cross.

"Pretty," Amy said. "And more mist."

Henry set down the bundle he'd been carrying and unwrapped from it a wool blanket, which he shook out and spread on the ground.

"What are you doing?"Amy asked, her voice suddenly stiff, wooden.

"It's damp on the ground here."