I smile at her and she smiles back. Propping my elbows on the picnic table, I stare across the field at the kids playing baseball. Now that I’ve told Shea everything, my chest feels looser. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath ever since I met her, sure she’d stop being my friend if she knew about Mrs. Clancy. But it’s okay. She’s sitting here beside me just like always.
She scoops up her hair again and holds it on top of her head. “Why is it so hot?” she says.
“Maybe because it’s summer?”
She laughs and I see the little gap between her front teeth. The scar on her cheek. Her funny cats’ eyes.
Over in the sandbox, Cody and Tessa are quarreling.
“There are so fairies!” Tessa shouts.
“Have you ever seen one?” Cody’s voice is scornful. If he’s not careful, he’ll grow up to be a real-lifer.
“Course I have.”
“Liar.”
Tessa’s voice rises. “They live in the lilac bush in the backyard.”
“Oh, sure.” Cody gets up and walks back to the chinning bar.
“Stupid dummy! I seen them! I seen them with my own eyes,” Tessa yells.
She wakes up Shane, who starts to cry until Shea plugs his mouth with a pacifier.
Shane spits it out and keeps crying. Shea picks it up, wipes the dirt off on her shirt, and sticks it back in his mouth. He spits it out again.
Tessa comes over and leans against Shea. “I’m hungry,” she says.
Shea looks at the big watch she wears. “It’s almost noon. I better take them home.”
We walk back to her house. Cody asks me why my hair is so long. I say I like it that way. “My dad says only potheads wear their hair long. Do you smoke pot?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Shea answers for me. “You are so rude, Cody.”
“I just want to know stuff,” Cody says. “Hey,” he yells at a boy on a bike. “Give me a ride, Danny!”
The boy stops, and Cody hops on the handlebars. They zoom away downhill.
“He’s going to get himself killed someday,” Shea says.
When we pass the house with the dogs, they run out from under the porch and start barking and leaping again.
“Do they do that every time you pass their fence?” I ask.
Shea nods. “They’re bored. No one takes them for walks or pays any attention to them. They spend every day in that yard with nothing to do but bark. Some life, huh?”
Shea’s mother is sitting on the front porch reading a magazine. Her hair’s long and dark like Shea’s and she’s wearing shorts and a red T-shirt. She’s really pretty, more like a teenager than the mother of four kids.
“Back already?” she asks.
Tessa opens the gate and runs to her mother. “I’m hungry. I want a peanut butter sandwich with strawberry jam. Can I? Please please please?”
“Ask Shea. She’ll fix it for you.”
“I want you to fix it!”
At that moment, the pickup truck pulls into the driveway. The stepdad doesn’t look any happier than he did when he left the house. This time he notices me.
“Looks like you picked up another stray,” he says to Shea. “Better take her back where you found her. We have enough mouths to feed already.” He laughs like he’s kidding, but I decide it’s time to leave.
“He’s not a girl,” Cody tells his father. “He’s a boy with long hair. But not a pothead.”
But the man has already lost interest in me. The screen door bangs shut behind him. The baby starts to cry and the dogs start to bark.
“Can you get away Sunday?” I whisper to Shea.
She shakes her head. “See you Monday,” she says. “Don’t forget your math homework.”
I wave goodbye and head down the street toward the train tracks. It’s so hot, the tracks waver in the distance. I smell creosote oozing out of the railroad ties. I inhale it, filling my nose with its pungent odor. It’s a summer smell and I love it.
TWELVE
WHILE I WALK, I think about Shea’s life and how different it is from what I imagined. Sad, it’s sad—her life, my life too. How come some kids are lucky and others aren’t?
There’s this kid in my school. He was born with something wrong with his spine, and he’ll never be able to walk. And he’s not the only one. Our school has a wing set aside for kids like him. At least he’s smart and funny and he loves to read. Others are less lucky. They can’t talk, they can’t even sit up. It’s not fair, is it? There’s something wrong with this so-called real world.
I want to talk to the Green Man about it. He’s been around for so many years. Maybe he can explain it.
But when I finally reach my tree, I don’t see him. I wait awhile just in case he appears, but I’m tired and I’m thirsty and I’m hungry and I’m hot. So I go home.
Mrs. Clancy is watching a game show on TV. “Where have you been all day?” she asks.
“Just out,” I say, and head for the kitchen.
“If you’d been home at noon, I’d have fixed your lunch,” she calls over the din of a commercial, “but it’s after two.”
I open the refrigerator and get out bread and cheese and mustard. “Don’t make a mess out there,” she calls.
“I won’t.” I fix my sandwich, grab a bottle of water, and sit down to eat. Today’s paper is lying on the table, so I scan the front page: THREE SOLDIERS KILLED BY SUICIDE BOMBER IN AFGHANISTAN. CAR CRASH LEAVES FIVE DEAD. ARSON SUSPECTED IN APARTMENT FIRE. LOCAL POLITICIAN ARRESTED FOR DUI.
The same stuff happens day after day, week after week, year after year after year. All that changes are the names and the dates. Depressed, I turn to the crossword puzzle, but Mrs. Clancy has already done most of it. I fill in the words she didn’t know and make some corrections.
I think about going back to the woods, but I doubt the Green Man will be there. Besides, Mrs. Clancy has decided we need to go to Costco. She’s got a long list of stuff to buy, including new underwear for me. Why can’t I stay home and read, I ask, but she just clamps her lips together and ushers me to the car. No telling what you’ll do if I leave you home alone, she’s thinking.
Actually, it’s good I go, because she’s in a nice mood and buys me three T-shirts and a pair of jeans along with the boring underwear. She even treats me to a soda.
On Sunday morning, I wake up to the sound of thunder and hard wind-driven rain blowing in my open window. Half asleep, I slam the window shut and use an old T-shirt to mop up the water on the floor. Mrs. Clancy is always telling me not to leave the windows open at night, but I, of course, am a careless, irresponsible, thoughtless boy whose reason for existence is to make Mrs. Clancy miserable.
When the floor is dry, I wad up the T-shirt and shove it under my bed along with all the other junk I’ve kicked under there on room-cleaning days. Maybe she won’t notice it’s missing. After all, I have three new ones to wear now.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Clancy is sitting at the table reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. “It’s about time you honored me with your presence,” she says—her way of greeting me. Yesterday’s good mood is gone.
I grab a bowl and dump cereal into it.
“Are you going to eat all that?” she asks. “You know how I hate it when you waste food.”
She’s in rare form today. Instead of answering, I pour on milk and fill a glass with orange juice. “How was the bingo game last night?”
“Can’t you see I’m reading the paper?”
Badly, I think. It went badly. “Can I have the comics?”
She slides them across the table. “I wouldn’t waste my time reading comics. You’ll rot your brain.”
Silently I read my favorites, finish my cereal, and wish I had something to do besides spend the day in the house with my loving foster mother. “Can I borrow an umbrella?” I ask.
“May I borrow an umbrella,” she corrects me.
“May I borrow an umbrella, please?” I tack on please because she’ll say something
about the magic word if I don’t.
“What do you want it for?”
To hold over my head while I take a shower, I think, to keep from getting a sunburn, but out loud I say, “I need to go to the library. My history report’s due tomorrow.”
Without remembering that the library’s closed on Sundays, she says, “Take the one hanging on the hook by the back door. And don’t lose it. It’s my best one.”
Outside I take a deep breath of pure joy and head for the convenience store at the Sunoco station. Rain drums on the umbrella and splashes in puddles on the sidewalk. I have enough money to buy a soda and a twelve-inch Italian sub to eat for lunch. If the Green Man shows up, I can split the sub with him.
While I’m waiting to pay, Sean and his thugs come into the store. They have their sweatshirt hoods over their heads to keep the rain off. They look as big and scary and mean as ever, and they’re laughing in a nasty way about something that probably isn’t even funny.
Hoping they won’t notice me, I turn my back and hand the cashier my money. I notice she’s keeping an eye on them. She probably knows who they are.
I grab my change. I want to get out of there before they see me. Or rob the store and maybe shoot the poor girl at the cash register.
Half running, half walking, I head down the train tracks toward the woods. The rain has stopped but it’s still cloudy, like it might start again any second.
In a few minutes, I hear voices behind me. It’s them. I walk faster.
“The stupid girl never saw a thing,” one says.
“She sure was looking, though.” They laugh.
“Gimme some of the potato chips.”
It sounds like they’re catching up with me. Just as I’m thinking I should disappear into the woods, Sean says, “Hey, isn’t that the long-haired freaky kid?”
Gene laughs and says, “I thought it was a girl.”
“He’s the one who told the cops about us,” T.J. says. “I ran right past the little punk.”
I start scrambling up the embankment toward the woods, but the cinders are wet and slippery from the rain and I fall. Before I can get up, I’m surrounded. Sean yanks me to my feet. He and T.J. drag me into the woods. Gene grabs the bag from the convenience store and Mrs. Clancy’s umbrella.
“Look at this,” he says, “the freak brought us lunch. Isn’t that nice of him? Or her?”
“And an umbrella in case it starts raining again.” T.J. opens the umbrella and dances around, spinning it madly.
By the time he’s finished, Mrs. Clancy’s umbrella is inside out, the struts are broken, the fabric is torn. “Man,” he says, “they just don’t make umbrellas like they used to.” With that, he hurls it up in the air several times until he succeeds in tangling it in a tree’s branches.
The boys keep me surrounded while they eat my sandwich and drink my soda. The woods are very still. Water drips from the trees, and the air is heavy with humidity. A crow caws from a branch over my head and flies like a black arrow into the dense foliage. He’s gone to fetch the Green Man. He’ll rescue me from this band of varlets, these intruders.
The boys throw their trash on the ground. Gene pulls out a bottle of whiskey and they pass it around. They talk in low voices and laugh. A dragon tattoo on Sean’s neck moves every time Sean turns his head. T.J. goes off into the woods and comes back zipping his fly. They light cigarettes and mutter to each other.
Just when I think they’ve forgotten about me, T.J. looks my way. “What should we do with him?” he asks Sean.
All three of them stare at me through the smoke. The bottle is almost empty, and I don’t like the look in their eyes. I back away but it’s too late. Sean grabs me. “Let’s do him a favor and give him a haircut.”
They put their cigarettes out. Gene swallows the last of the whiskey. T.J. yanks me to my feet and pins my arms behind my back. Sean pulls a knife out of his motorcycle boot. It has a long, wicked blade.
I try to get away, but Sean hacks off a long clump of my hair. If I fight, I might get my scalp sliced or my ears cut off, so, with my head down, I stand still and let him chop off all my hair, right down to the scalp. My head stings from the nicks he makes in my skin, and my hair litters the ground at my feet. C is for curl, C is for cut, C is for cruel.
“There.” Sean steps back and studies his work “Isn’t that better?”
“Now he looks like a bald girl,” Gene says. “Even uglier than before.”
“A punk skinhead,” T.J. says. “Maybe I should give him a few tattoos. An iron cross, maybe.” He sticks his arm in my face. The iron cross is crude, he probably did it himself. There’s a skull and crossbones on his upper arm. That’s even worse.
I flinch, terrified they might cover me with neo-Nazi tattoos.
Sean shakes his head. “We got stuff to do, T.J. We don’t have time to give the punk a tattoo.” He shoves his face close to mine and brandishes the knife under my nose. “You told the cops about us, didn’t you?”
“No, no, I didn’t.” My voice shakes. I sound like a girl, a child, a baby. “I never said anything. They talked to lots of people. I saw the cops writing stuff down.”
“You freak. You gave them our names.” Sean yanks out a hunk of hair he’d missed. The pain sears my scalp.
T.J. crowds in, closer even than Sean. “I ran past you and you looked right at me. You knew who I was. And you told the cops.”
“No,” I whisper. “No.”
“They don’t have anything on us yet, but they’re sniffing around,” Sean tells me. “Somebody told.”
“It was you, you freaky long-haired moron.” Gene shoves me so hard I fall down.
T.J. drags me to my feet. “Even if you haven’t told nobody yet, you might tell now.”
“Let’s teach the lying punk a lesson.”
They jump me, all three of them. They hit me, pound me with their fists. My nose spouts blood. They knock me down and kick me. Three against one.
There’s nothing I can do. I lie on the wet ground, curled into a ball, my hands over my head, and hope they won’t kill me.
While they pound me into the ground, I cry out silently for the Green Man. Where are you? Why haven’t you come? These are your woods, your kingdom, you’re supposed to protect me, to keep me safe from my enemies.
The woods are silent. He doesn’t come. He doesn’t care what happens to me.
At last the beating stops.
“Keep your ugly lying mouth shut,” Sean says. He’s still holding the knife. The point touches my throat. I feel its sharpness. “It’ll be worse next time.”
I shake my head. No, I won’t tell, I won’t. I get to my feet slowly and back away. I trip over a log and fall flat on my back in the wet leaves. “Don’t let me see you again,” Sean says.
I hear them walk away, laughing. They’re done with me for now. I don’t get up. I lie where I’ve fallen and stare up into the trees.
“Where are you?” I call to the Green Man. There’s no answer. Just the sound of my own voice echoing back from the trees.
I don’t know how long I lie there in the wet leaves waiting for him to come, making up excuses for him, certain he will come, he must come. But he doesn’t come.
As the day turns to evening, I try to get up. It hurts to move. Maybe I’ll just lie here, die here. Maybe someone will find my bones someday. Mrs. Clancy will be sorry then, she’ll wish she’d treated me better. That boy, she’ll say, he wasn’t so bad after all. If only I’d been nicer to him.
And the Green Man. He’ll blame himself for ignoring my pleas. Ah, the poor lad, he’ll think, gone from this world before his time, and it’s all my fault. Why didn’t I go to him? Why didn’t I protect him?
And Sean and T.J. and Gene—they will go to prison for the rest of their lives.
The ground under me grows colder and damper. Maybe I don’t want to die here after all. I struggle to stand and stumble away through the woods. I fall and trip and stagger. I’ve never been so weak. I’ve ne
ver hurt so bad.
By the time I get to my tree, I’ve given up hope of seeing the Green Man. I fall to the ground, exhausted. I ache all over. My ribs, my belly, my scalp. My heart, my soul. The Green Man has abandoned me. I’m all alone. Like always. Why did I think the Green Man would be different?
I don’t have the strength to climb up to my platform, so I curl up on the damp ground and shut my eyes. I try to sleep, but Sean’s face keeps flashing on and off like a strobe light. He hits me again and again, he kicks me, I feel the pain of my hair being hacked off. I hear Sean and his friends cursing me, jeering. It’s like it’s happening over and over and over.
I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know it’s almost dark. I get to my feet like an old man, stiff and aching with pain. The Green Man hasn’t come. I’m still alone.
I look at the blood on my shirt. I feel the itchy stubble on my head. How am I going to explain this to Mrs. Clancy? I’ve lost her best umbrella. My shirt is ruined. She’ll be furious. You stupid boy, I told you not to lose that umbrella. Look at your shirt, what happened to your hair? You look like a freak, you are a freak. I can’t keep you here any longer, I’m calling Social Services first thing in the morning.
With Mrs. Clancy’s voice ringing in my head, I climb slowly and painfully up the tree. I won’t go to her house. I’ll stay here in the woods, where I belong.
I drink from a bottle of water stashed in a milk crate and find a box of stale crackers. I eat them all, but they don’t fill my belly.
The moon sails in and out of clouds. The wind blows and rocks my platform like a cradle and I hope the bough doesn’t break. The rain begins again. Cold and miserable, I crawl under the tarp, cover myself with my smelly old blanket, and lie down to sleep. The boards under me are uneven. They press against the sore parts of me. My belly rumbles, my cuts and bruises throb, my head feels too small for my body. I’m the Ancient Mariner, cursed and alone.
Deep in the woods, an owl screeches, not a gentle too-whit-too-woo but a scream, a shriek, loud and harsh and scary, like someone being murdered. I pull the blanket over my head, but the owl keeps screaming. A coyote yips and howls in the distance, and a dog barks back. Branches crack and limbs creak. Wind rustles the leaves. Rain drips through the tarp.