“Everyone is royally peeved you ran out on us and the party. I explained it was an emergency, but no one’s buying it.”
“This is not happening.” I groan in frustration.
“No worries. Leo saved the day. He’s having the party at his house. And guess what? He called me and invited me personally.”
I sit up. “He called you. Did he say anything about me?”
“Not really, but he probably called everyone,” Alisa says, but I can tell she’s hiding something.
“What are you not telling me?”
“I told you everything. What’s the issue? You seem jumpy.”
“Sorry. It’s been a long twenty-four hours. I wish I was there.”
Alisa chatters—she’s good at that—about the party and how horribly boring it has been and how I need to call her every day. This horrid depressive blanket seems to fall on me, and I feel as if I might cry. Not to sound childish, but I wish Leo had called me. He has never talked to Alisa, yet he calls her? This bothers me, and I’m upset it bothers me, and I’m getting more upset because I’m upset.
Dad gently knocks on my open door and steps in, holding a small box.
“Alisa? I’ve got to go. Dad just walked in.”
“Hugs and kisses,” she says before hanging up.
Dad sits on the edge of my bed. “You’re in your pajamas at four-thirty in the afternoon?”
“I’m tired.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I shrug.
“Aunt Sue is leaving. She’s got to head home, and it’s a two-hour drive. Gran wants to go to evening mass. Would you like to go?”
“No.” I refrain from adding that I had to go to mass every day for the entire school year, so I’m probably well caught up for the summer months.
But Dad laughs as if he understands.
“Did you know that the heart attack was only chest pains?” I blurt out. I want to make sense of why we had to hurry out of our life in London to come here.
“Gran doesn’t want to admit what happened. Aunt Sue says she’s been having some irregular pains for a few months. Good thing it was a mild heart attack, and she could call 9-1-1.”
“She looks fine.”
“Yes, she does, but she can’t be by herself. Doctor’s orders. Aunt Sue can’t be here every day. She has to work.” Dad rubs his face. I can see now that he is tired.
I lean forward and hug him. “I think I’m cranky, that’s all. I’ll be right in the morning.”
Dad’s hugs are warm and strong, and tears threaten, but I refuse to make him feel any worse. Especially if the poor guy has to endure mass.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you a present.” Dad releases me and hands me the small box he’s been holding.
I open the box, then quickly shut it and hand it back. It’s the same beetle from my dream.
“What?” Dad laughs. “Isn’t it fascinating? This little guy is rare. He has yet to be documented.” He opens the box and studies the beetle.
“Why’s that?” I ask, still creeped out in a really big way.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “The carrion beetle feeds on the decaying carcasses of animals and such. This is similar to that, but yet it’s different. I’ve found these before up in this area. Mostly when I was younger. This time around, I’m documenting it. I’m going to send Martin a picture and see if he can’t figure it out either.”
Dad glances up and must see my freaked out expression because he quickly puts the beetle back in the box. “Virginia, what’s wrong? I thought you’d want to document it.”
“Yes, I do.” I press my fingers against my eyes, then run them through my still-damp hair. “Of course I do. Just not now.”
Securing the box, Dad sets it down on the table by my bed. “Maybe later then. You sure I can’t tempt you to go with us?” He grins and raises his eyebrows like he’s trying to sell me a used car.
“I think I’m saved.”
Dad laughs, and I smile.
“Well, sit back and relax. Or go for a walk around the lake. There’s a trail that winds around the whole five miles of it.”
“Miles?”
“Yes, miles. We’re in America now. Remember?” He winks then stands up.
“You keep reminding me.”
“Since you’re here, try to have a good time.”
I nod, and he leaves. I notice he’s left the box on the bedside table.
Eventually, I hear Dad and Gran leaving. I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. “Great,” I say to the ceiling. “I’m here in America with no one around and nothing to do.”
Sleep doesn’t come, so I decide to get out and roam around a bit. After I throw on shorts and a t-shirt, I put on socks and my tennis shoes. I know better than to walk in these woods with flip-flops. The last thing I want is for those God-awful ticks Dad tells me about to crawl up my legs. Investigating them in a scrapbook is one thing, having one suck my blood is another.
The minute I’m outside, I feel better. It’s not terribly hot, and the breeze is perfect. I inhale deeply and set out toward the lake. I pass the fire pit and lounge chairs and take the small hill down to the dock. I stand there for a minute, taking in the scenery.
All right, fine, I admit it. It’s beautiful. Dad and I normally come here for the holidays, so I can’t remember the last time I was here during the summer months. There’s not another house along the lake, at least from what I can observe. Just layers of thick trees and forestry. I take a deep breath and then another. “So much better than London’s pollution,” I say out loud. But thinking of London leads me to think of Alisa, and thinking of her makes me think of Leo, and thinking of him reminds me that he called her and not me. So, my volatile emotions rule out any appreciation of Pigeon Lake for its aesthetic qualities. Perfect.
The water ripples below. I look down and see nothing but murky, dark water. Yuck. “Swimming is out of the picture.”
The water ripples again. There’s no wind and no boats. Even though I rationally know it’s nothing more than fish, I still turn around and head back to shore, marching toward the trail.
After several minutes of marching and muttering under my breath, it dawns on me that I am in insect heaven, and I didn’t think to bring Dad’s book or my scrapbook or anything to capture one to bring back. At least I brought my camera. I bring it out of my bag and snap the lens cap off. Once it’s ready, I study trunks of trees, leaf piles, and dead logs. I lose myself in nature and snap pictures to preserve what I see. I inspect a centipede resting on the limb of a thin birch. I hold the camera steady and decide for a close-up.
A cold wind blows from behind me sending shivers up my spine. I turn quickly, but all is still.
My shivers are still there; my senses on alert.
A part of me tells my brain to go back. I’ve seen one too many scary movies, and my imagination is revisiting every horrific detail from each of them. Maybe I’ve had enough of the forest. But I haven’t. I want to observe more bugs, so I tell myself to stop being a sissy and get going.
A monarch butterfly flutters around me, and I stop to watch it, then frame it, then take the shot. It lands on my finger; its wings never quite still. Suddenly, it flies away as a cold wind comes up again, pushing me from behind. Its force catches me off guard, and I stumble forward, accidentally taking another picture.
Goosebumps burst onto my skin.
“Stop it!” I tell myself. “You are such a wimp. There are no such things as ghosts.”
The nuns at Saint Francis whisper it in my ear. The only spirit you need to concern yourself with is the Holy Spirit.
But I’m not buying it at this moment. Something is with me. Maybe an animal? I hear scampering across some dried leaves. I focus my Nikon in that direction, and being ever the documenter, I snap another shot. But pretending not to be nervous isn’t working. My knees knock, and I swallow the lump in my throat.
That’s when I hear some children playing. I hope there’
s not a bunch of children ghosts around here. They’re the worst. I decide I’m no longer interested in bugs if they came with whatever-this-is-that-I’m-experiencing.
It is stubbornness that has me moving forward. It’s like a game I’m playing with myself to make sure I’m not chicken. The cold wind has let up, which isn’t entirely reassuring. “I’m going to be surrounded by a group of witches and a cauldron, and I’ll be their lunch.”
A scream rips through the trees, and I turn full-circle, completely panicking. The scream’s close…
Another scream. Then high-pitched laughter.
I push through a dense clump of bushes and stumble upon a couple of erected tents. Children run around with squirt guns. I lean against my knees to catch a breath. And gather my wits, too. Some men stand over a small fire pit with beers in their hands. Some women chat beside them. All is well.
Looks like I’m the only nutcase.
I wave at one of the women standing there and keep moving, following the trail. I will not let my crazy imagination get the better of me. No, sir. These woods are not scary.
I have to remind myself of that sentiment as I continue to hike, but all in all, I’m proud of myself. I observe a range of insects that fascinate me, have documented them with dozens of pictures, but I need Dad’s help to double-check the species on each. I’ll develop the pictures and maybe he can hike with me later.
The trail winds for another half kilometer or so until I can barely make out the water. I leave the trail and notice the tree line falls into a steep hill down to the lake. I slip on the ledge and fall with a thud.
I get up and wipe the dirt off my shorts. Still curious, I hold a slim tree trunk, leaning over the steep hill down to get a good look at where Gran’s house might be. The late afternoon sun hits the trees like a poet’s words on paper. With one hand holding on to the limb, I bring up my camera. That’s when something crawls across my hand.
I drop my camera back into the bag and release the tree at the same time. Not a good idea.
I start to plummet down, but my hand reaches out and catches the thin trunk. Now I’m hanging over this steep drop down with one hand—and not my strong one, mind you—barely hanging onto a tree.
“Breathe, Ginnie,” I say. I also tell myself not to look down. With a somewhat normal heart rate, I throw my other hand around the thin trunk and pray it doesn’t break from my weight. Glancing at the tree, I nearly let go again.
Beetles crawl around the trunk. The weird ones Dad said aren’t documented yet.
This shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t. It doesn’t. It’s a beetle. Who cares?
I force myself to close my eyes as I pull myself up until I’m lying flat on the ground. My heart pounds so loudly, it rattles my brain. My eardrums even pulsate. Without losing my nerve, I take some pictures of the beetles around the trunk of the tree. But my hands are shaking, and I already know the pictures won’t turn out.
It’s at this moment that the longing for home hits me hard. I hug myself tightly and breathe in deep breaths. I want to be in my house, in my room, hanging out with Alisa. I want Leo to call me, for him to come to my party. What I don’t want is to be in some creepy forest alone with some psycho beetles that seem to be everywhere I am.
It’s then I realize I’m crying. I wipe my eyes annoyed with myself and with my Dad and with a lot of other people.
Cold wind or not, I’m turning around and going back to Grans. It may not be home, but it’s as close as I can get right now.
6
A tree branch snaps. I whirl around. “Who’s there?”
I hear leaves rustling as something moves closer to me. I find a stick on the ground and poise it for an attack. “I’m armed,” I yell. “And I’m not afraid to fight.”
“Don’t shoot,” a voice says.
I see a head poke out of the trees. It’s a boy, probably a little younger than me. He steps out from behind a tree, holding his hands up. He has a goofy grin on his face, but he doesn’t make eye contact. “I’m innocent, your honor.”
I drop the stick. It’s hard to put my finger on what’s different about him. Nothing major. It may be the whole eye contact thing. He looks off to the side of me.
“My name’s Ian,” he says.
From his mannerisms, I can tell he’s nervous or anxious. “Are you lost?” I ask him, concern winning out. “Can I help you find your way somewhere?”
“My brother told me not to go far, but I didn’t listen. Hi, my name is Ian.” He pauses, then adds, “When I say my name, you’re supposed to say yours.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I wipe my hands on my shorts, and then extend one to him. “I’m Ginnie. It’s nice to meet you, Ian.”
Ian shakes my hand, still not making eye contact. “Where are you from? Your dialect is a mix of British and American.”
“London. My Dad’s from here, so I probably do have a mix of the two.”
Ian glances up, meets my eyes, and then looks away. His eyes are green. “I’m from here. America. Home of the brave. Did you know we defeated England in 1776?”
“Yes, that’s the rumor.”
“It’s not a rumor. It’s historically factual. It is why our country is independent of yours.”
“Right. Well, no worries though, we don’t hold a grudge.”
He doesn’t seem to understand my humor. “Why would you hold a grudge? It was over two hundred years ago.”
“You’re correct.” I watch him and try to recall what I know about different types of behavior. He takes things literally and doesn’t quite understand tone of voice.
“I saw you looking at bugs,” he says quickly. “You had a butterfly on your finger.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Okay, no ghosts in the forest. Only young teen boys. Harmless young teen boys. “Bugs are kind of cool.”
“So are trees. That one you were holding on to is a white birch. They normally don’t have thick trunks. I’m glad you didn’t fall, but I would have got you help. I saw everything. What bug were you looking at?”
“Here.” I lead him to the tree. I spot some beetles. “See these? They are gross, don’t you think? And I like insects, too. Just not this one.”
“There’s a decomposing carcass just off the trail.” Ian acts proud of himself for knowing this. “I bet these beetles are here because of that.”
“Right,” I say, feeling strangely reassured.
“Want to see?” he asks. “I think it’s a dead deer.”
I crinkle my nose. “No, thanks. Want to walk with me?” I don’t want to admit how much I want the company.
Ian acts surprises and makes brief eye contact again before looking away. “You want me to go with you? On a walk?”
“Yes.”
“Most girls don’t talk to me.”
“Why?”
“I’m too weird for them. I have Asperger’s, but you’d think I was an alien.” He grinned at his metaphor.
Asperger’s. That’s it! One of the boys in my younger years had similar mannerisms as Ian, which is what I must have been trying to remember. “Well, I don’t think you’re an alien. Come on, you can tell me more about trees.”
And he does. As we continue down the trail’s path, he quizzes me on coniferous and deciduous trees. “This is a black willow.” He stops our hike and points out a tree. “The trunk is dark with black ridges. They like to be around lakes.” Then he shows me the leaves, and I point out an Asian beetle that he thinks is a ladybug. I show him some of my pictures.
The cold wind moments have disappeared, and I have chalked it up to an overactive imagination when I hear a faint shout. “Did you hear that?”
Ian listens.
The shouting gets closer. Someone is calling for Ian.
“I’m here!” Ian shouts.
“Do you know what direction you came from?” I ask.
Ian turns in a full circle confused. The shouting doesn’t help. “I’m here!” Ian yells.
“Whoever’s call
ing you is back in the other direction. We’ll meet up with them.”
Ian and I walk back through the trail, as the voice gets closer to us.
“Isaac’s going to be mad,” Ian says. “I wasn’t supposed to go this far.”
I am about to ask “Who’s Isaac?” when the words suspend in my mouth. He’s tall with broad shoulders and a lean frame, and he’s jogging toward us, looking in every direction until he spots Ian waving at him.
“That’s Isaac. He’s my brother.”
My eyes widen, and I try to push down my wavy, frizzy mess of hair. But I’m sweaty and dirty, and yeah, well, I definitely don’t look as beautiful as this male approaching us. He has what might be sandy-colored hair, but it's cut close, with the same green eyes as Ian’s.
“Ginnie?” Ian drags me back to reality.
I pull myself away from the fantasy. “Yes?”
“That’s your name?” the tall guy asks. Boy, is his voice deep.
Stop it, Ginnie! Stop it!
“Yes, I’m Ginnie.” I extend my hand, but it’s dirty. I wipe it off nervously. “Sorry. We’ve been hiking the trail. Ian’s been showing me trees.”
“Ginnie’s showing me bugs.”
The guy raises his eyebrows.
I laugh and shrug and wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
“You weren’t supposed to go far,” Isaac says to Ian.
“I didn’t go that far.”
“At least a half-mile, Ian. Where were you headed?”
“Around the lake,” I say, trying to get Ian out of trouble. “I asked him to come with me.”
“Where are you from?”
“She’s from London,” Ian answers. “She has a mix of a dialect from both London and America. Her Dad’s American. She’s visiting.”
“There you have it,” I say. “Wow, Ian, you pay attention.”
Ian grins. So does Isaac.
Oh, dear Lord.
“Well, let’s get back. Mom and Dad are in a panic.” Isaac turns and leaves with Ian following him.
I stand there. It’s not like I’m going to follow them. That would appear stalker-ish. Maybe I should move in the other direction, but my feet stay put. Instead, I look at the pictures on my camera, acting preoccupied.
Lake of Secrets Page 4