by Abra Ebner
“You are to keep them alive. Anyone that fails to do so will fail this assignment.” She held one finger in the air.
Becky protested. “That’s not fair. What if we accidentally drop it?”
Ms. Rosin spun on her heel and smirked, finger now dead center on Becky’s forehead. “Don’t drop it.”
I looked down at my ladybug, knowing my chances of keeping it alive were slim if I brought it home, considering how far the last one had gotten.
“Get started, class.” Ms. Rosin raised her finger in the air again, firing an imaginary gun as her sign to start.
Students left their desks and crowded around the few computers that were plugged in along the wall, whispering among themselves, eyes dancing between Ms. Rosin and me. I waited, knowing that no one was going to let me join a group, and I wasn’t willing to overhear just what it was they were saying.
Just as Ms. Rosin was about to take a seat behind her giant desk, sinking into a chair that just about engulfed her, she stopped. She noticed me for the third time, brow raised. With a delighted swagger, she left the sanctuary of her desk and approached me. Coming to a military stop in front of my station, she tilted her head. Slowly one finger grazed the ladybug cage as it had with the other student. “Do you like your insect?”
I didn’t look directly at her, knowing my eyes still contained bits of umber in the heat of my lingering fire. “I didn’t really have a choice,” I murmured.
“Fate makes choices long before you do, Samantha.”
Forgetting myself, I looked up at her and smiled lightly, only to quickly recoil.
I could see Ms. Rosin smile back from the corner of my eye.
I shifted uncomfortably atop my stool. I wanted her to leave me alone.
She slowly exhaled, content with herself in some way. “Here. This can get you started for now.” From behind her back, she revealed a large textbook, a good three inches thick. She slid it in front of me, tapping the title with her nail.
The Secret World of Insects was what it read.
She walked away.
I waited until she sank behind her desk before touching the book. The spine was old, barely held together with what little glue remained. The cover had once been laminated, but the laminate was lifting in the corners, yellowed from use. Ruefully I raised a hand from my lap and opened it, listening to the spine crackle. Inside, the book was dated 1972—not nearly as old as it looked, but old enough. I begrudgingly began flipping through the pages, finding it started with Ant then the Adonis Blue Moth and so on. All the while, the ladybug remained quiet on the stick, seemingly content in the tiny world it had been forced into, just like me.
Near the end of class, I stumbled upon the pages for ladybugs but found very little of interest. The information held no clues to the more important message my mother was trying to make me see. That was all that mattered to me right now. There were a few notes scribbled on a sheet before me, but the only ones I liked included the fact that scientists referred to the ladybug as a ladybird because the ladybug was not a bug at all. The second was the fact that ladybirds loved heat, making their biggest debuts during the peak of summer. This explained why my previous ladybug seemed to like me so much. And I liked the title the scientists gave it. I liked the more graceful way it sounded, and I decided that henceforth, my ladybug was to be named Ladybird.
I turned the page again, finding one last subheading: Myths and Tales.
On the page, a passage had been highlighted. With growing interest, I ran my finger along the words as I read. First it described the common myth that the presence of a ladybug suggested good luck, then another myth that a ladybug on a lady’s hand meant she’d be married within the year. Finally, it went on to describe a children’s nursery rhyme. This was the part that had been highlighted:
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.
Your house is on fire and your children are gone.
All except one, and that’s Little Anne,
For she has crept under the warming pan.
The bell rang, causing me to jump.
I looked up, seeing students streaming out the door, anxious to get as far away from here as humanly possible. I looked back at the highlighted passage, intrigued by the words but finding no explanation as to why or how it had been created, or what it even meant.
“Remember, keep your insects alive,” Ms. Rosin warned.
I waited for the crowd to filter into the hall before finally shutting the book. Ms. Rosin kept her eye on me as I gathered my things and approached her desk. I avoided her direct gaze. “Thank you.” I set the book on her desk and slid it toward her.
I could tell she wanted to say something to me. However, by not looking at her, I kept her from divulging whatever it was. Another moment passed. For whatever reason, I felt compelled to wait.
Finally, her hand rose from the desk. “No. You keep that,” she insisted, pushing the book back toward me. “It’s a great reference.”
I pressed my lips together and slid the book back into my hands. “Um . . . thanks,” I murmured.
Ms. Rosin nodded once. “Enjoy your ladybug, Samantha.”
I glanced at her only briefly as I turned away, flashing a faint, shallow smile.
In the hall, students swarmed to their lockers to stash their insects before next period. I walked to my own, always surprised by the way students managed to avoid brushing past me, given the crowded circumstances.
At my locker, I twisted the dial until the lock released. A boy beside me did the same. The door creaked open, and I took the chance to casually glance sideways at him. Every day we did this dance before last period, and every day was the same. He had shared the locker space beside me all year, but never once had we said a word to each other. He was Mr. Buckhead’s son, as in the “Crazy Buckheads” on Chatterley Lane. He was a farm boy and was as silent as I was for as long as I could remember. For all the years I had known him, from kindergarten till now, he’d never once looked at me, or anyone else for that matter. He hid casually behind the bill of his red hat, a symbol for him in much the same way my fire was a symbol for me. He had his own rumors and demons to deal with. In some way, I suppose that placed us together.
His hands were rough and dirty, though his nails were clean and trimmed. He was tall and lean with wide shoulders. The red ball cap atop his head was frayed—not in a fake, from-the-factory sort of way, but from real work in the field. Medium length, curly brown hair peeked out from under it, grazing the nape of his neck. The sun had darkened his skin with a coat of bronze and kissed the tips of his hair with soft highlights.
As my eyes followed the arc of his shoulder down his arm, I noticed he had a note in his hand. It was an official-looking one from the office, one that often meant detention. As I looked more closely, I saw that this wasn’t the case. Scrawled in the secretary’s rough hand, it spelled out his dismissal for farming reasons.
I couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous. Getting excused from class for farming was common around here, though it was less common at the end of the year than at the beginning of the year, during harvest. A lot of farmers harvested overnight, and you could always pick out which farm boys were involved. They were always asleep in class. Right now, though, most were either spraying or seeding crops such as: wheat, beans, peas, or corn, and you had to do that during the daylight to avoid rot, which meant an excuse from studies.
He shifted his weight, and I noticed I was staring longer than I should. I quickly looked back to my locker and pretended to shuffle through the few books I had inside, trying to act natural. I ran out of things to push around and gave up. I was about to close my locker and walk away when the faint sound of fluttering caught my attention. Looking down at Ladybird in my hand, I saw that she had suddenly become quite active. She was frantically throwing herself against the sides of the plastic cage.
I stopped what I was doing to watch her. The Buckhead boy seemed to pause as well. His head was tilted in such a way that I cou
ldn’t see his eyes below the bill of his cap, but his face was turned, cheeks reddened from the spring sun. Ladybird fluttered harder, wings almost a deeper shade of rouge than before. As I watched her, it was as though her anxiety became my own, leaking up my arm like poison and stabbing my heart until it began to smolder. I felt my hand shake, realizing how stupid I probably looked. I swallowed and quickly placed the cage inside the locker and shut it. The Buckhead boy resumed his movement, slamming his own locker and walking away.
I exhaled as the warning bell rang, leaning against the wall for support as my heart rate quelled. I glanced back in time to see him round the corner at the end of the hall. His stride was not at all bothered by what had just transpired between us. Apparently, I had been the only one who felt anything. I guess I couldn’t help it.
Despite the crowded hall, I could tell no one had looked at him, just as no one looked at me. His own demons visited him. I recalled, it was kindergarten, and Mr. Buckhead had just lost his wife. Because of the curious manner in which she had disappeared, the creative minds of children concocted stories. It wasn’t that she had died. At least, they had never found her body. It was as though she had vanished overnight. She had taken none of her belongings. She couldn’t have gotten far without taking a vehicle of some sort. All the kids assumed Mr. Buckhead had killed her. Even some of the adults began to believe that. Happenings like that in a small town always sparked the idea that she had been chopped into pieces and fed to the pigs.
Because of these rumors, the Buckhead kid had been cast from the social web—so much so that even I couldn’t remember his real name. He was just the poor Buckhead kid on Chatterley Lane, son of crazy Mr. Buckhead. They were wheat farmers, and their field bordered ours, though I wouldn’t consider them immediate neighbors, not when there were a hundred acres between us. We were worlds apart in opposite directions and worlds apart here too.
The second bell rang. I was late. Panicking, I snapped out of the trance I had been in, now faced with empty halls. I rushed five doors down to my last class, History. It always put me to sleep this late in the afternoon. Luckily, today, we were watching a National Geographic movie. It was the end of the year, after all. Most teachers gave up by the last week of school—most teachers except Ms. Rosin.
I ducked into the classroom. The teacher didn’t seem to care about my tardiness, not seeing the point of assigning a detention when his Saturday was likely booked with a tee time to kick off his summer. I had my own things to look forward to as well, and right now that was some sleep and some darkness.
FOUR
The bus left me in a cloud of dust. I threw my bag over my shoulder, walking slowly down the lane, my jeans stiff from drying slowly over the course of the day. The spring sun felt good as it shone silently across the fields. Black-eyed Susans were just beginning to show their yellow bud, bringing vibrant spots of color to the green landscape. The air was sweet with fertilizer, freshly laid by my father.
Nothing waited for me at the house. Nothing ever did. I used to dream that my mother would be there, a cold glass of chocolate milk waiting on the counter. She would ask me how my day was. Simple things such as that didn’t exist in my world. I was lucky not to get yelled at, let alone find a glass of chocolate milk anywhere on our property. It was because of this that I didn’t bother to go to the house at all, approaching the barn instead. Even if my father had been inside the house, I wasn’t ready to face him after last night’s debacle with David. Besides, I had chores to do.
Entering the barn, I placed my bag on the ground and unzipped it and pulled the small, plastic cage from the darkness. Ladybird had once again settled on the tiny branch inside, looking nothing like the frantic ladybug of before.
“Don’t kill this one, Mother,” I whispered, setting the cage on the tack trunk outside Axon’s stall.
Axon stamped his foot at the sound of my voice, a muted whinny rumbling in his throat.
“Hush, Axon,” I said gently, walking to his stall where he’d slung his head over the half door. I brushed my hand down his nose as his lips played at a hair band around my wrist. “Good boy.” I knelt and grabbed a handful of grain from a nearby bucket, giving Axon a nibble before unlocking the stall and hooking a halter around his head. As I led him out, his feet clopped against the dirty, cement floor. I tied him up and went to the tack room to retrieve my saddle. Walking quickly back toward Axon, I heaved it onto his back. His feet danced and his ears pinned, but only for a moment. As I fastened his girth, he once again protested, trying to nip at me. I frowned. “Axon, stop that.” I gave him a little swat on the nose before loosely hooking the buck strap around his gut. “See, you’re fine.”
Axon sighed dramatically.
I grasped the bridle from the hook and fed the bit into Axon’s mouth. Pulling the reins over his head, I insisted he stay still as I changed into my boots, discarding my sneakers near the grain bin. Before mounting Axon, I scooped a bucket of feed from another bin. Holding the handle between my teeth, I climbed onto his back and kicked him forward. His long strides took us outside. We circled the larger chicken coop, where I would soon transfer the small chickens from the deck. Atop Axon, I could easily pour the feed over the tall fence. The chickens clucked and fought for a dominant spot, feathers flying.
I tossed the bucket to the side with a clank, startling Axon enough to cause him to rear slightly. I loved Axon but he was dramatic when it came to sudden movements. No matter how many times I’d done this, he always spooked.
I led him toward the trail that circled the property, the same trail we always took. He stubbornly refused, grown barn sour from too much grain. I didn’t have the will to push him today, so I turned around, surprised when Axon trotted happily in the other direction, past the barn and down the main road. There was no harm in going a new way. I found the change of scenery refreshing.
We rode deeper into farmland, farther from town and closer to Chatterley Lane. Passing over it, I looked down the long road lined with tall trees that were at least fifty feet above us. Leaves blew from the field across the road. Two long tread lines cut through the rich, dark earth, ending at a house that was too far away to make out any features. I heard a cat meow, and a white ball of fluff skirted across the road, causing Axon to jump.
“Whoa, it’s just a cat,” I reassured him, patting his shoulder.
I looked up at the trees as the leaves, fluttering shades of green, sang out. It was an eerie sound, one that I associated with the mystery of this place and the missing Mrs. Buckhead. The cat looked up at me from the nearby ditch, letting out another long, curdling yowl. I took it as a warning.
I pushed the still-dancing Axon on. Soon, Chatterley Lane and its trees had disappeared altogether, leaving us in a peaceful sea of green wheat and brown dirt. We rode over the meandering hills, which would have looked like sand dunes in an Arabian desert if not for the wheat. The road grew ever more worn with disuse, truck tread marks giving way to the deep grooves of tractor tires. At last, we crested a final hill where we reached the creek that ended it. The creek ran from the small mountain range up north, through Craven County, to the Snake River. It split South Craven from North, our rival town.
An oasis of tall trees cluttered a small area of the creek bed that was too steep to farm. A pocket of cool air rushed toward me, riding the breeze from the trees’ shade to caress my face. I hungered for a splash of water on my forehead. Axon must have felt the same thing, eagerly dancing forward against my direction. I allowed him to have his way as he sidled down through the trees and onto the riverbank, yanking the reins from my hands as he bowed his head for water.
I bit my lip and slid out of the saddle, stretching my legs as I gathered the reins from around Axon’s feet. He slurped loudly, pushing it down his throat before lifting his head and looking at me, nose dripping. He snorted then, spraying me.
I cringed. “Better?”
He only blinked in return. I took a deep breath and knelt down to the water, sinking m
y hand into the cool current and washing the horse spit off my arm. I loved the sound of water, finding it quieted the noise of the world around me. Axon tugged at the reins in my hands as he moved to a nearby growth of forgotten wheat. He hungrily chewed at the tops, surely finding the sprouted grain sweet.
I knotted the reins on the horn of the saddle and allowed Axon his freedom. Given the circumstances, he wasn’t going anywhere and I was enjoying the shade too much to leave just yet. I made my way along the bank to a nearby tree that grew out and over the water. I climbed it carefully, my well-worn boots offering little traction. Sitting on a sturdy branch, I leaned my head against the trunk and closed my eyes for a moment.
A rumbling that overcame the gentle tinkling of the creek forced my eyes open again. Axon’s head was raised, as he looked off into the distance. He whinnied but remained in place, too stubborn to leave his crop uneaten. I looked in the direction Axon had, watching as a red tractor rolled past the oasis of trees. I was hidden inside the cage the leaves created, so I watched openly, not bothering to move or leave. Wind blew, opening the branches just enough for me to identify the tractor’s driver. Through the window of the cab, I could just make out his face. The Buckhead boy was behind the wheel, spraying the field with a cloud of sweet fertilizer. I couldn’t help but notice he had no shirt on, but given the dust, it didn’t offer much in terms of peeking.
I pulled the bottom hem of my tank top over my nose, not wanting the fumes to reach it and make me light-headed. The smell was something we were all used to. It wasn’t healthful, but it was something towns such as ours had to endure. The machine passed and the sound returned to the tinkling of the creek. Axon had stood frozen the whole while, attention just now returning to his sprouted wheat. Another gust of wind came, the sound of the rustling leaves triggering something in my memory. I looked up as sun filtered through the branches, and that’s when I realized it.