Rewilding

Chapter 1 It is ten minutes before the bell on a Friday, but I am heading for the bathroom with a queasy stomach. We’re studying the living organisms that help decompose a fallen tree. Miz Liz showed a time-lapse video with so much oozing, slithering, and wriggling that my stomach started doing the same. I push open the door to find my best friend standing on a toilet seat with her ear pressed against the wall. I almost drop the bathroom pass—a wooden horse missing one leg. “Char!” I say. “What are you doing?” “Shhhhh!” she says. On the other side of the wall is Ms. Bertoli’s office. She’s the counselor and everyone calls her Bertie. The bathroom’s smell-combo of sweat and lemon soap puts another twist in my stomach. “Come and listen with me,” she whispers. If someone catches us eavesdropping, Char will try to talk her way out of it. I try to avoid trouble in the first place. “Close the door at least.” I squeeze into the stall with her and slide the lock. Chapter 2 “Do you see him yet?” Ian calls up to Char, who’s made it all the way to the slender branches. Ian is munching on his second bran muffin and waiting for me to move up so he can climb too. “Not yet!” Char calls down. “Come up, Joy. I have a perfect view. We’ll see his truck as soon as it rounds the corner.” It’s our weekend with Dad, and he likes to pick us up at the park five blocks from school. That way he doesn’t have to wait in the car line. I’m crouched in the first Y of branches, just two feet off the ground, wondering how many crawly things are lurking in the grooves of bark. As I reach for a sturdy limb, my shirt rides up and a cool breeze hits my belly. All my shirts are getting too short, and they bunch up in the armpits. I need new clothes but haven’t found the right time to ask Mom. Everything’s been dicey since Dad left. I test the limb and half the tree sways. “I don’t think it’ll hold my weight.” “Sure it will.” Char demonstrates by bouncing on a branch no thicker than a glue-stick. “Just because it holds you, doesn’t mean it’ll hold me.” “I see a red truck!” Char shouts. I hop down and race Ian to the corner. “Ha! Beat you,” he says. I don’t say I let him win, just shade my eyes. “Is it him? Is it him?” Ian says. The more excited we are to see him, the more pleased Dad will be. He left two months ago, but he and Mom still can’t agree on the terms of the divorce. We go back and forth between home and Dad’s new apartment. But the schedule keeps changing. A red truck swerves into view, but it’s not Dad’s. Ian slumps into a whole-body pout. “He’s late again.” “Not so late. There’s probably traffic.” I keep my voice light, but inside my gears are shifting. Could we have the day wrong? Or maybe he was going to pick us up after dinner, not after school? “Hey, Ian, what else did Bertie ask? Before I got there?” He shrugs. “Don’t remember.” “Ok then. What did you tell her?” Ian faces me with hands on hips. “What am I? A dummy? I didn’t say anything.” “You must have answered somehow.” “I didn’t say anything about Dad if that’s what you’re worried about.” Dad doesn’t like us revealing the tiniest detail about his place, not even to Mom. “Why did you show her the food in your backpack?” “I had to. She asked. But she was really nice about it. She asked if there were enough things I liked to eat. I told her I wished they had peanut butter menu items, but she said they can’t because of allergies, so I’ll have to get my peanut butter at home.” “We always have peanut butter,” I say. “Is anybody coming up?” Char calls from even higher in the tree. “Me, me!” Ian scampers over and starts to climb. “Not too high,” I say. Mom calls Ian an accident waiting to happen. He takes risks with climbing and balancing and the risks usually end with screaming and tears. Sometimes blood. Whenever he gets hurt, it reminds me of that time five years ago when he went to the hospital. I will never forgive myself for that. While Ian climbs I station myself in the Y, one arm wrapped around each branch. “That’s high enough,” I call. As we wait my hands tense against the bark, and it feels as if I’m holding up the whole tree—my big hands, my strength. I can feel Char and Ian shifting above. I can feel branches swaying in the breeze. For a moment I imagine letting go. Everything—the tree, Char, and Ian—will come tumbling down. Suddenly, Ian is climbing down practically on top of me, grabbing hold of my arm instead of a branch. “Let’s go,” he says, launching himself from my lap. “He’s not coming.” Ian’s eyebrows are low. No bounce in his step. I hate it when he gets like this. It’s worse than his pout. It’s like he’s switched himself off. And I can’t find the on switch. But Char can. She scampers down the tree, runs after Ian, and falls into step beside him. I trail behind, hoping that Dad’s no-show won’t turn into trouble later on. Char mimics his posture. She does drama camp every summer and is a wiz at imitating people. Ian’s head keeps turning to sneak peeks at her. He sighs a big, horse-lip sigh. She does the same. He starts walking with large stomping steps. She does too. He stops, throws himself on the ground, and pretends to have a full on feet-kicking, toddler tantrum—complete with fake baby cry. Char shrugs, plops herself down, and does the same until Ian is laughing uncontrollably. “C’mon, weirdos,” I say, stepping over them, “let’s get home.” I turn onto Chicory Lane, which winds along the hillside until it T’s into our street. “Okay!” Ian jumps up and runs ahead. Definitely switched back on. “Thanks,” I say to Char. She lays a hand on my arm and her eyebrows dip down. “Are you very disappointed too?” We walk beneath the arching branches of oaks and maples, through patches of sunlight sifted by leaves. I don’t want to talk about it until I know why he didn’t show up. Then I’ll know how to feel. “I’m getting used to it.” She side-eyes me as we walk, then says, “What do you think Bertie really wanted with Ian?” “I told you, she asked about his feelings.” I don’t mention Bertie asking about food. Char probably heard through the wall, but I’m not bringing it up. I haven’t told her how Mom seems to be floating away on the couch. “Maybe.” Char nods thoughtfully. “But maybe there’s something more. It’s the third time this week.” “What?” I stop in the middle of the street we’re crossing. “He never told me. You never told me.” “Why do you think I was eavesdropping?” Char tugs me out of the street. “I knew you’d want to know why he’s talking to Bertie so often.” I hold myself very quiet and very still. I make myself ask, “What did you find out?” “Mostly I think you’re right. She tries to get him to talk about his feelings about your parents separating. But one time,” Char bites her lip, “one time I heard her asking about the bruises on his legs and arms.” I let out the breath I’m holding and start walking again. “Well, that’s normal kid stuff. He’s always falling and ramming into things.” “That’s what he said, but I keep thinking—” As if on cue, Ian jumps down from a fire hydrant half a block ahead and falls to his knees. He gets up, dusts off, and flashes us two thumbs up before running off to the next climbing hazard. “I keep thinking about Shawna,” Char continues. “Remember her?” “The girl who didn’t come back after winter break?” “That’s the one.” What I remember most about her is how she always kept to the edges of the playground. And that she smelled funny, like old coats in a closet. “What does she have to do with anything?” “Shawna was always in Bertie’s office too. With the door closed.” “So?” I say. “So, then this lady from CPS came to see her.” “Shawna?” “Yeah, it was all on the down-low, but I was paying attention.” “Eavesdropping, you mean.” Char shrugs. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if her stories are all-true or more like a movie based on true events, where everything is more dramatic than in real life. “What’s CPS?” I ask. “Child Protective Services. The lady talked to her about her home life.” Sparks fly in my brain as I start to see where Char’s going with this. “It turned out,” she says, “that her dad was hitting her.” “But our Dad isn’t hitting Ian.” I say with a shiver, afraid to imagine if he was. “I know that,” says Char. “But maybe Bertie doesn’t.” I watch my brother, running through sun dapples, and my heart squeezes to think of him getting hurt. I rub the sweat from my palms. What nobody realizes is that it’s me they have to worry about when it comes to hurting Ian. For a while, we walk in silence. Every house along Chicory Lane is a picture from a fairy tale—blooming gardens, swaying porch swings, sculpted trees. Here a birdbath, there a wishing well. Little bits of sunshine swirl around in the air. If you believed in magic, now would be the time, here would be the place. “What happened?” I ask. “To Shawna.” “She was removed from the home.” The words clang around inside me. Removed from the home. “Yeah, they took her to live with a foster family.” “They can do that?” “For things like abuse and neglect? Sure.” “Neglect,” I repeat, and the word sets off more sparks. “It’s when your parents aren’t taking care of you. You know, like leaving little kids alone by themselves or not feeding them. Stuff like that.” “Not feeding who?” Ian comes bounding back to us, arms wrapped around his backpack. “No one,” I say, widening my eyes and giving a little shake of my head. Bertie may have called Ian into her office to talk about the divorce. She may have suspected abuse. But I’m certain that what she suspects now is neglect. “Speaking of neglect,” Char says, pointing ahead. We have come to the ARK house. We call it that because there’s a sign in the front yard that reads: This yard is an ARK. We don’t know what that means, but there are other signs. Guardians NOT Gardeners! and Leave the Leaves. Each one is a clue for why this is the only yard on Chicory Lane that is not pruned, raked, edged, weeded, and carefully bark-dusted. Instead, it’s like a wild meadow with tall weeds and tangles of vines climbing up the porch. In a fairy tale, this would be the witch’s house. “Look!” Ian calls. “A new sign.” Sure enough, right in front: Maybe YOU are the Weed. “If I were a weed,” Ian says, “I’d be a dandelion. So I could fly!” He plucks up a dandelion white with seed and blows as hard as he can, scattering a cloud of tiny gliders. I am wondering if this is what neglect looks like. All dirty and chaotic and full of yucky bugs. Is this what we look like? I pluck at my getting-too-tight shirt. Ian blows another dandelion, and a wind gust sends the seeds back in his face. They catch in his hair, which looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks. I wonder how much neglect it takes to qualify as remove-from-home neglect. “Remember when we saw her talking to a bush?” Char asks. “While lying on her back under it?” “Who?” I ask. “The Cow lady.” “Oh, yeah.” The lady who lives in the ARK house is known throughout the neighborhood as “the Cow lady,” though I’m not sure why. “Does she have cows in her backyard?” Ian stands on tiptoe as if he might be able to see up and over. “No,” says Char, “she led a parade of cows up the steps of the state capitol.” “Cool,” says Ian. “That’s not what I’d call it,” says Char. I’m only half listening. I’m wondering if I’ll have to explain to Mom about Dad not coming. Or will he have already called her? She’s always upset after talking to him. I need to prepare myself for what I’ll find when we get home. Char nudges me in the ribs. “Remember the time we saw her chasing a cat down the street with a spray bottle?” “Yeah, that was weird,” I say. “Don’t forget the earthworms,” Ian chimes in. “What earthworms?” Char and I both ask. “She saves them. Haven’t you seen her walking in the rain. In her yellow parka?” Char shakes her head. “She never walks up the cul-de-sac.” Char lives at the end of our street in a crescent of new houses that used to be hillside. “I’ve seen her,” I say, remembering the funny way she stooped down every few steps. “She picks them up and returns them to the nearest yard,” Ian says. “Eww.” Just the thought of those pink wriggly bodies touching my skin makes me shiver all over. “What a weirdo,” Char says. We turn away from the ARK yard. But I take one last look. I wonder why someone would do that—with the worms, with the cows, with their yard. Just then a whole flock of tiny birds swoops down into the wild tangle. Thirty at least. They flit from branch to ground, chattering and pecking. It reminds me of the playground during recess. The strange thing is that there are no birds in the yards on either side—only the ARK yard. I wonder for a moment. But it’s a tiny wondering, like Ian’s dandelion seed catching the wind—whoosh! It’s gone. Just as we come to the place where Chicory Lane T’s into our street, a horn honkety-honks and Dad’s red truck swings up to the curb.