Circle of Secrets

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  I can’t stop a grin from spreading over my face. “Yeah, I do. Even if I do gotta cross that bayou again.”

  She waves a hand at my concerns. “Long as you don’t use that broken pier you’ll be okay. And don’t cross when it’s raining. That’s all I gotta say.” She reaches back and takes my hand in hers. Her palm is cool and soft and I wonder if six months in Bayou Bridge won’t be so bad after all. Meeting this new girl who’s so easy to talk to and knows what it’s like to be lonely means I don’t have to spend much time with Mirage, either.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Shelby. What’s yours? Besides Graveyard Angel Girl?”

  She laughs at the nickname. “Gwen,” she answers simply. “Just Gwen.”

  She squeezes my hand as we zoom back up the slope, then dart past the silent gravestones and tombs and plaques and pillars. Once we leave the cemetery gates, we climb through a hole in a hedge of prickly bushes and head for the bayou banks. Hidden among a cluster of cypress knees and elephant ears, there’s a pirogue tied to a tree trunk.

  I glance down the water toward the bridge, wondering if Tara and Alyson and Jett are still around. They must have left while I was in the cemetery because there’s no sign of them now. Not even on the road. I’m so relieved I could spit with happiness.

  Gwen steadies the boat while I slide onto the seat without making it tip too bad. Think I’m gettin’ better at climbing in and out of boats now. She unties the knot and picks up the paddles, handing one to me. “Jest head straight for that little cove on the left. My daddy named it Gwen’s Cove just for me. That’s where we’ll dock.”

  “You sure it’s okay without a grown-up?”

  “Sure I’m sure,” Gwen says. “My daddy made me this boat and I been boating my whole life. Takin’ a boat is safer than walking that pier, let me tell you!”

  I laugh because her statement is so obvious when the bridge is half gone.

  It only takes about fifteen minutes to cross the bayou and as we pass the halfway point, I can see the broken end of the long pier, water lapping at the pilings. Remembering what it looks like makes me feel like I got spiders crawling up my shirt.

  Thrushes and whip-poor-wills flit through the trees as we tie up, using a cypress knee for our dock, then we jump onto the damp, squishy bank.

  A strange feeling of joy spills over the afternoon as Gwen leads me through a maze of secret, weaving paths, like she owns her very own forest. Guess she actually does!

  The ground grows firmer when we get to the clearing. The house sitting in the center of the meadow is almost like Mirage’s house, high up on stilts, rickety porch and all, with a tire swing hanging from one of the oak trees.

  It’s all as real as the dirt under my feet, as real as the hot sunshine buzzing with mosquitoes and gnats.

  A sprinkler waters the lawn, and a hose left running in the flower bed threatens to drown the marigolds. Gwen shuts off the spigot. “I’m starved, how about you?”

  “Starved times two,” I tell her.

  The house is small and cluttered. Old and musty. Handmade doilies lie on the curved sofa and the armrests of the easy chairs, reminding me of Grandmother Phoebe.

  “Up here is my room,” Gwen says, leading me up the stairs and down a dim hallway. When she opens the door, light pours through the dormer window. Her room faces the bayou and I can see the busted pier dangling like a broken arm across the murky water. I don’t like looking at it, and just then Gwen darts across the floor and pulls the curtains across the window as if she’s feeling the same thing.

  A yellow quilt sits crookedly on the unmade bed and there’s an assortment of rocks and shells and Spanish moss on her dresser. A fishing pole leans inside a corner, and clothes and shoes spill out of the closet.

  The next instant, I freeze right in the middle of the room, staring under the window.

  “What is it?” Gwen asks, watching my face.

  “Your bookcase,” I say softly. “I can’t believe it.”

  In the center of Gwen’s bookcase sits the porcelain doll from the antique store. The very same one. I recognize the rose-colored lace gown and the pink ribbons on the bonnet perched on top of her long golden curls.

  I crouch down in front of the case and just stare and stare at the doll. The blue eyes gaze back at me serenely. There’s even the same tiny chip on her chin.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Gwen says. “Her name’s Anna Marie and I got her when I was eight. She used to be my mamma’s doll. I dropped her the very day I got her. That’s why she has that chip on her chin. It was terrible, but jest an accident. I wish she was perfect and not damaged because of me.”

  “She is perfect,” I tell Gwen. “No matter what.”

  “Well, almost, I guess,” Gwen says.

  “Anna Marie,” I whisper. The doll looks perfect here in Gwen’s bedroom, not dusty and fading like she was at Bayou Bridge Antique Store. Questions crowd my mind, mixing up inside my brain.

  “She’s the kind of doll you keep for your whole life,” Gwen says.

  “I would keep her forever, too,” I agree, my mind going crazy trying to figure out how the doll got from the store to here in just a couple of weeks. Was Gwen lying when she said that she’d had the doll for years already?

  “I plan to keep her my whole life until I die,” Gwen says, flipping her buttercup-yellow hair over one shoulder.

  I hold my breath as I reach out to touch the lace swirls on the edge of the rose dress.

  All of a sudden, Gwen grabs my arm and shakes my wrist so that the charm bracelet jiggles loose from my sleeve.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, so alarmed I practically fall over.

  Gwen stares at my arm. “You’re wearing a charm bracelet!”

  I clutch my hand to my chest, afraid she’s going to take it like Tara did. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothin’! But it looks jest like my charm bracelet.”

  “You have a charm bracelet, too?” It’s astonishing how much alike we are.

  “My bracelet is one of my most prized possessions. Besides Anna Marie, of course.”

  I hold up the bracelet so Gwen can see the individual charms. “Mir — my mamma used to have this bracelet. This one is our birthstone, a ruby for July, and here’s an owl. She actually has a pet owl, if you can believe it. And there’s this little carved box — and a locket without pictures. But who would have a locket without pictures?”

  Gwen sits up. “And there’s a key. It looks jest like my key —” She goes to her dresser and pulls out a jewelry box, then gives me a meaningful look.

  “Do you really think it will fit?” I ask, unclasping the bracelet and holding out the key separate from the rest of the charms.

  Gwen inserts the key into the jewelry box lock and instantly the lid pops open.

  The room tilts and whirls like a ride at a carnival. “How can my key open your jewelry box?”

  From the depths of the jewelry box, Gwen pulls out her own charm bracelet. Without a word, she lays it across her yellow bedspread.

  “See, Shelby?” she says. “My bracelet has a carved box and a French fleur-de-lis and an owl and a key and a locket —”

  “And,” I add, my throat dry as dust, “we both have a blue bottle charm ”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MY VOICE PRACTICALLY GASPS OUT THE NEXT WORDS, “Do you have a birthstone charm, too?”

  Gwen picks out a charm and holds it apart so I can see the sparkly gold-colored stone. “Topaz for November. I’ll be twelve in a couple of months.”

  “What’s inside your little carved box?” Gwen cracks it open with a fingernail and shows me a few dark bits of green leaf flakes. “Herbs. My mamma is a traiteur. She gave me the bracelet and a couple charms to start and I get to add to it every now and then.”

  Goose bumps rise like braille on my arms. “Your mamma is a traiteur? My mamma is a traiteur! Look,” I whisper, holding out my arm so she can see the goose bumps on my skin.


  Gwen holds out her own arms to show me the goose bumps she has, too. “We’re twins!”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure, but I got the strangest feeling. Something really weird is going on.”

  “That is for sure,” Gwen says, and her voice is low and spooked.

  The next instant, I grab at her hand again. “We both have a baby gator charm! Your gator has black eyes, mine has red eyes. Almost just alike.”

  Gwen counts the charms dangling from both bracelets. “We have exactly eight charms each.”

  I study the two bracelets side by side. “I wonder what that means.” It’d be impossible to believe if I didn’t see it with my own eyes. Then I think of something else. “Gwen, do you have any pictures inside your locket?”

  “’Course, I do. Me and my best friend in the whole world.” She snaps open the locket and shows me the tiny cut-out photos of herself and a dark-haired girl.

  Gwen and her friend are complete opposites, one golden blond and the other girl with long dark hair and a solemn expression. Her chin is sort of down like she’s shy, but her big black eyes are looking upward, like she suddenly got curious and stared right into the camera.

  “My locket is exactly the same,” I say, digging into the edge of the gold oval and snapping it open. “But I only have plain pieces of yellowish paper where the photos should be.”

  “Probably these charms were bought at the very same charm store right here in Bayou Bridge.” Gwen lies back against the bed and gazes at the ceiling. “Strangest day I ever had in my whole life.”

  “What time is it?” I ask, still studying the nearly identical twin charm bracelets. I feel like I’m inside a snow globe and someone shook the world so hard I’m floating upside down.

  “’Bout three o’clock.”

  “Can you take me home? I mean, back across the bayou? I need to get to the town docks.”

  “’Course I can.”

  I can tell we’re both thinking lots of strange thoughts as we head toward the bedroom door. I take one last look at Anna Marie, the porcelain doll sitting with her serene smile in the glass cabinet case, then we climb down the stairs, down the porch, and get into the pirogue to paddle back across.

  The sun is pounding hot now and by the time we hit the opposite shore I’m sweating bullets. In New Iberia, summer never really ends until sometime in October. Guess not in Bayou Bridge, either.

  I climb out of the boat and jump onto the mushy bank, standing in the elephant ears while Gwen turns the boat around. “See you tomorrow,” I tell her reluctantly.

  “’Bye, Shelby,” she says, and her eyes are sad and dark again. “Wish you didn’t have to leave.”

  “Me neither.” I watch her paddle away until she reaches the swamp island safely. Then we wave to each other far across the water, she a tiny blonde dot, one arm in the air, before disappearing into the cypress trees.

  I bite my lips, worried about Gwen out there all by herself. Maybe I should have invited her to stay with me and Mirage until her parents return.

  But I’m embarrassed by Mirage and the pet birds and my ugly room.

  I get the most peculiar feeling Gwen’s parents have been gone a long time, maybe weeks already. And I get an even more peculiar feeling that they’re not coming back.

  I guess kids like Gwen would get put into a foster home. That would be worse for her than living by herself. At least she could stay in her own house. Wish I coulda done that while Daddy was gone.

  Gwen’s days are probably numbered. She can’t live out there forever by herself. One day someone is going to go out there with a big boat and take her away. She’s probably got a relative, an aunt or uncle, who will take her to live with them.

  What will happen to that little house? Her clothes and books and bed — and the porcelain doll? How did that doll end up at Bayou Bridge Antique Store? Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me or my memory is all wrong.

  I rub the back of my hand against my nose as I pass the end of the pier anchored into the bank just off the road.

  Sinister images fill up my brain.

  No wonder Gwen prefers her boat to walking across the bridge.

  Suddenly, this road is too quiet, too lonely, too deserted.

  My heart starts to chatter inside my chest as I search around the bushes and trees for my backpack. For a moment, I’m certain that Tara stole it, but then I finally find it peeking under a large elephant ear.

  I take off for Main Street fast as I can, looking for Sweet Ellen’s Bakery on the corner, even as the late afternoon sun starts to slant across the sky.

  All the kids from school have long disappeared and there are only a few houses set back off the road, quiet and sedate like old ladies. As I glance over, some of the houses are dark under the oak trees, and the black empty windows stare at me like haunted eyes.

  I start running toward town so fast, I’m sucking in air like I’m drowning by the time I reach the docks. An ache in my side makes me bend over in pain. Then I see Mirage.

  She’s sitting on a tree stump, waiting for me, studying some papers and frowning. She’s taken off those ugly boots and her bare toes rub against the dirt while she reads.

  “Hey,” I say, and she looks up, startled.

  “Well, hey, back, Shelby Jayne,” she says. “Where you been? Heard school had a fire drill.”

  “Yeah.” I figure it’s better not to elaborate on the details.

  Mirage folds up the papers, tucks them into an envelope, and then stuffs it into her backpack. “And?” she asks. “Found your note, but it was skimpy on the details. So where you been all this time?”

  “Just up that road. Playing some games with kids in my class. Then I explored the cemetery for a while.”

  “You did?” Her eyes go big and she jumps up from her tree stump to pace the ground.

  I cross my fingers behind my back and play dumb. “Did the school call you? They was supposed to.”

  “Promise you won’t go down that road no more,” Mirage tells me, ignoring my question. “Nobody I know lives down there. That part of town is too lonely and dangerous — and cemeteries ain’t for playin’. It’s disrespectful to the dead.”

  She’s bossing me and I can feel the hairs rise on my neck. I want to revolt against her stupid rules. Besides, if I obey her, I’ll never see Gwen again. “I’m fine. You can see that I’m perfectly and totally fine!”

  She swings her arms around, throwing her pack into the boat, acting all agitated and growling under her breath like I just did the worst thing in the whole world. “Promise me, Shelby Jayne. Never go down there again. Never.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “No, I ain’t gonna promise you.”

  The rope for the boat drops at her feet and she looks up, stunned. “You ain’t goin’ to promise even though I jest asked you to?”

  “You’re tellin’ me to do somethin’ with no good reason.”

  “Oh, lorda mighty, I got my reasons. And dern good ones. That bayou down there is dangerous. Water’s deep, could pull you under, and there’s gators — and — all kind a things. You don’t know all my reasons. Heck, you don’t want to know my reasons —”

  All of a sudden, she spins around so I can’t see her face and there’s red splotches along her neck like she’s about to cry. To pretend she’s busy, Mirage picks up the boat line and checks the knots.

  My throat is dry and scratchy and I wish I had a drink of water. “A bunch of kids from school were down there playing games but nobody got hurt.”

  She stares at me, and this time there’s a different kind of look in her eyes. More than worry. More than anxiety. It’s close to terror. “What kind a games?” she asks slowly.

  I shrug. “They call it Truth or Dare. And they’re just dyin’ to push somebody in the water. But it’s all supposed to be just for fun.”

  Her face gets a pained expression and she wipes
at her eyes real quick. “Yeah, I’ve heard ’bout that. That game’s been around a lotta years in this town. If I was their mamma and knew they were down there playing on that broken pier, I’d —” She stops, and her lips are trembling. “Well, they’d be in big trouble, that is for sure.”

  I’ve noticed that when she gets excited or upset, her accent gets thicker, too.

  I’m sort of noticing that I’ve been doing the same thing. Grandmother Phoebe’s training the past year is fast becoming extinct, all the words and phrases from when I was younger jumping right off my tongue again.

  “What would you do?” I ask, a funny feeling rising in my stomach. When I think about those kids playing tricks on me, trying to get me to fall into the bayou — or jump in — I get mad all over again. I coulda drowned and that makes me go cold all over.

  Then I’m afraid. I don’t want to go back to school tomorrow. I want to go back to my real home, and I want my daddy so bad I could spit and cry at the same time. A rush of sadness comes over me so strong, it’s all I can do not to start bawling right there on the docks. It’s the most unfair thing in the whole world that I have to be here.

  “Well, back in the old days, kids’d get a good lickin’,” Mirage tells me, her eyes locking on to mine. “Might have to stay home and do chores for a month. Get their boat taken away. No supper. Stuff like that.” She pauses and glances at me. “So what should I do to you?”

  She’s going to punish me for all those stupid kids scaring me? I take a shaky breath so I don’t start crying with the injustice of it. “You aren’t Grandmother Phoebe and this isn’t my house so you don’t get to give me all these rules.”

  Mirage blinks like she can’t believe I actually said what I just did. “No, I ain’t your grandmother Phoebe. I’m your mamma. And mammas can give any orders they want to. And expect their children to obey.”

  She picks up her boots, sticks her feet into them, then plops herself into the boat. She’s such an expert, the craft hardly moves.

  There’s a long, stretched-out silence while we don’t look at each other.