Some Kind of Happiness (26 page)

Avery fiddles with her car keys. “I'm sorry I went off like that. I shouldn't have—”

“It's okay,” I say quickly. “I liked it. I thought . . .”

“What?”

“I thought you didn't like me that much.”

“I've been kind of a jerk to you, haven't I?”

“No, just . . .”

“Distant?”

“Yeah.”

Avery nods, looks in the mirror, yanks her hair into a ponytail. “I'm jealous of you, Finley.”

I stare at her.
“Why?”

“Because you got away. You didn't have to grow up here, with everyone breathing down your neck, everyone expecting . . .”

I hold my breath until I can't anymore. “Expecting what?”

“Expecting you to fit in, and be the perfect Hart. ‘Oh, your grandparents.' ‘Oh, your adorable little cousins.' ‘Oh, the
Hart
family, aren't you lucky to be one of them?' ” Avery moves the armrest up and down. “It's exhausting.”

I feel a desperate urge for my notebook. I want to write down this conversation and read it over and over until I know everything Avery has said by heart.

“Avery?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know why I never visited before this summer? Do you know why everyone's mad at my dad?”

“No. I really don't. Sorry.”

I want to ask her about the fire. I decide I will someday. But not today. Avery thinks I am cool, like she can trust me with her secrets.

That is not a feeling I am willing to lose.

“No one will tell me. Grandma says Dad is an upsetting topic.” I pause. “She says she misses him. Grandpa does too.”

Avery lets out a long breath. “Well, good luck with that. If a Hart doesn't want you to know something, chances are you'll never find out.”

“Hi, you two!” calls Aunt Dee, standing by the garage and waving a spoon. “Hurry up! Grandma's icing cookies!”

“Of course,” Avery says grimly. She gets out of the car, slams the door shut, and goes to hug her mother.

If you looked at her smiling face, you would never guess she was about to cry a few minutes ago.

FTER SEVERAL DAYS IN HER
lonely prison tower, the queen awoke to familiar, eerie howls. Fear slithered through her bones.

She looked out her tiny window. The fog had worsened. The world was dark.

Through the fog the queen heard the howls continuing their fearsome song, but worse than that were the sounds of death.

Muffled though they were, they were unmistakable: trees crashing to the ground, animals crying out in pain.

The air smelled like the underside of things—things that should not see the sunlight and yet had somehow been unearthed.

“Because of me,” said the queen, her heart full of shame.

She ripped a piece of cloth from her hem and tied it around her face, shielding her nose and mouth. She donned her ruined cloak and climbed out her window, down the slick castle wall.

It was a risk. If the ancient guardians realized she had escaped, their wrath would be terrible, the queen knew.

But the Everwood needed her. No one else loved it as she did.

The distant howls bled on—ravenous, impatient.

“You will not destroy my forest,” the queen told the darkness. She jumped from the wall onto the sodden ground, and her palms turned black with wet ash. “I will find you, whatever you are, and I will make this world right again.”

Then the queen struck out into the dying trees, parting the fog like curtains of shadow.

O
N
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON EVERYONE COMES
over to Hart House, and Grandma tells us kids we have to clean the attic before dinner.

At this pronouncement Gretchen groans and throws herself onto the floor. Ruth whispers something to Dex, and then they do the same.

“Why?”
Gretchen whines.

Grandma snaps on her pink rubber gloves. “Because it's filthy, that's why, and we've been putting it off for too long. Stand up. Acting childish is not attractive.”

“I
am
a child,” Gretchen mutters under her breath.

Avery smirks at Gretchen. “I don't think anyone but you cares about the state of the attic, Grandma.”

“And isn't that a shame? Come on, Harts. Snap to it.”

The staircase to the attic is narrow and tall, and the steps creak beneath our feet. Kennedy has a twin in each hand. “Isn't this fun, you guys?” she says. “It's like going on an adventure.”

Beside me Gretchen crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at Kennedy.The attic is gigantic, the size of Hart House. The ceiling is low, with thick wooden rafters. Three
small, round windows on each wall let in sunlight that paints the room in bright streaks and dust clouds.

There is a mannequin wearing a ratty hat, a huge mirror half-covered with a sheet. A collection of old bicycles. A smell of dust. One corner of the attic is decorated with faded paper shapes nailed to the wall and colored with crayons. Boxes crowd the floor: plastic boxes, cardboard boxes, old wooden chests and crates.

“Avery, you and Dex take that wall.” Grandma points to the piles nearest us. “Kennedy and Ruth, start cleaning the windows. Gretchen, you and your grandfather will start over there, and Finley?” Grandma touches my shoulder. “You'll stick with me.”

My grandmother's hand is warm and feels as light as a sigh against my skin. When Grandpa passes her, she plants a kiss on his cheek.

(Four people in a house of twelve know what is inside her, and I am one of them.)

(I wish I were not.)

Gretchen drags herself over to Grandpa. “Shouldn't our parents have to clean too?”

“By all means, keep whining,” says Grandpa calmly, “and I'll make you clean this entire attic by yourself.”

“You wouldn't!”

Grandpa raises one bushy gray eyebrow. “Try me, granddaughter of mine.”

Gretchen shuts up.

We sweep away dirt and cobwebs, dust windowsills, and sort through boxes. Grandma arranges three piles: toss, keep, donate. There are boxes labeled
KITCHEN
,
CHRISTMAS
,
TOOLS
.

BRIDGET
.
DEE
.
STICK (THE GREATEST)
.

LEWIS
.

I see my father's box before Grandma does and tug it around the corner behind the covered Christmas tree so she cannot see it. I grab Grandpa's knife when he is not looking and slice open the box.

Inside is a bag of marbles, an old model car. Books, ribbons for school writing contests, award certificates. A story titled “The Not-So-Great Gatsby” written on yellowed, lined paper.

Photos of Dad as a boy, making faces for the camera, flexing nonexistent muscles.

Dad with my aunts. My age. Avery's age. Arms linked.

I run my fingers across their faces, imagining I can feel cheekbones, noses, ears. Aunt Bridget is the tallest; her smile squishes her eyes. Dad's ears are too big for his face. Stick has crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Dee is making a kissy face.

Grandma has called my aunts upstairs. I hear them exclaiming over their own boxes.

I tuck the photo of them and Dad into my pocket. It does not deserve to be stuck in a box.

Then I find a note, wedged between a high school yearbook and a spelling bee trophy.

Dad's handwriting has not changed much; I immediately recognize the messy letters:

Mom:

I'm leaving.

By the time you find this, I'll be gone.

I already told Dad. Don't get mad at him. I made him swear not to tell you.

This is your fault. Don't think for one second that it isn't.

“Finley, where did you go? Come help me with this bag of clothes. We can donate most of them, I think.”

I jump at the sound of Grandma's voice. The letter falls from my hands.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” Grandma feels my forehead. “You look flushed.”

I jerk away from her, grab the letter, and hurry across the attic toward the door. “I . . . have to go to the bathroom.”

“Wait. Stop right there.”

Grandma's voice cuts the room in half. Everyone stops cleaning to stare at us. She must have seen Dad's box. “What do you have in your hand?”

“Nothing.” I try to stuff the letter into my pocket, but Grandma is too quick. She grabs the letter, and I pull away. It rips in half.

“Give that to me.” She holds out her hand for my piece, her mouth thin. “That is not for you.”

Gretchen jumps down from her step stool. “What is that?”

I back away from Grandma and start to read. “ ‘Mom: I'm leaving. By the time you find this, I'll be gone.' ”

“Finley, don't.” Grandma's voice is steady, like she is trying not to frighten a wild animal. “Give that to me, now.”

“ ‘I already told Dad. Don't get mad at him. I made him swear not to tell you.' ”

Aunt Dee gasps. Aunt Bridget says, “Dad,” in a strained voice.

“Come on, Finley-boo.” Stick smiles at me, like we are all playing a game. “Let's not make a big deal out of this.”

Grandpa stares at the letter, his shoulders slumped.

“I thought I told you to throw that away,” Grandma tells him quietly.

“I couldn't, Candace,” Grandpa says. “I thought it was important to remember.”

“Remember what? That our son left us? That he wants nothing to do with us?” Grandma catches me by surprise, grabs my wrist, tears my piece of the letter from my hand.

I am too shocked to move. “Give it back. It's mine.”

“It isn't,” she says calmly, tearing both pieces of the letter into halves, quarters, eighths. “It's nothing.”

Stick hugs me from behind, kisses my cheek. “Finley, how about you and me go downstairs and find some music, huh? We'll turn it up real loud, fill the whole house.”

I yell at Grandma, “You don't love him. None of you love him.
I
love him. It's mine. You're a thief!”

Dex starts to cry. Avery holds him close, shushes him. I cannot look at her. I do not like hearing Dex cry. Everyone is watching me. What are they thinking?

“We don't have time for this,” Grandma says. “Let's get back to work. All right? Chop-chop.” There is nothing in her voice—no anger, no sadness. A blank canvas as white as her hair.

(Fake, fake, fake.)

I break free of Stick's arms and run downstairs.

•  •  •

Gretchen sneaks into my room and sits beside me on the bed, swinging her legs. “You really freaked out my mom earlier.”

“I don't care what she thinks.” I am facing away from her, staring out the window, not seeing anything but the memory of that letter in my hands.

This is your fault. Don't think for one second that it isn't.

“You freaked
me
out, yelling at Grandma like that.”

I ignore her. “What did you think of the letter?”

“God, Finley, I don't know. Can't we forget about it?”

I sit up and face her. “Don't be a coward, Lady Gretchen.”

“Quit it with the Everwood crap, okay, Finley? This isn't about some game. It's about our family.”

“It isn't a game. It's real.”

“It
is
a game. It was our game, and it's over now. Okay?” Gretchen looks away and wipes her eyes. “You're so weird. Why are you being like this?”

I don't know what to say to her. This is not my Gretchen; this is an impostor. I do not cry in front of impostors.

“I found this.” I hand her the photo of her mom, my dad, our aunts—all four of them blond and tan with summer.

Gretchen examines it for a long time. I hear Stick calling for her downstairs. They're not staying for the night, even though I know they normally would.