Circle of Secrets

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  I don’t know what to say to her. Seeing that HOUSE FOR SALE sign makes my stomach feel out of sorts, my heart heavy in my chest. Mirage is serious. She’s really going to sell the house and leave the swamp.

  I perch on the edge of my bed, toes digging into the rug. Isn’t that what I’d wanted? For her to move back to New Iberia and show that she really loves me? I can’t imagine her living with Grandmother Phoebe again. In some ways I can’t imagine me living with Grandmother Phoebe again.

  Mirage doesn’t fit there. She never did.

  Only took me this long to figure it out.

  After a whole year away from Mirage, now I can’t picture her being anywhere else. It’s like she’s a part of the swamp with its deep water and purple hyacinth and the stillness and birds.

  I throw myself backward on the bed and squeeze my eyes shut, worried about Gwen, worried about Mirage, worried about me. Wondering how we all fit together.

  The phone rings and I freeze.

  Through the door, I hear Mirage answer it and her voice is murmuring, murmuring, murmuring.

  I wait for her to call me to come to the phone, since Daddy often calls before dinner, but she doesn’t and I wonder why he wouldn’t ask to talk to me.

  Finally, I get up, open the bedroom door, and stand in the hallway to listen.

  Mirage says, “Thank you for calling, Mrs. Daigle. Yes, I will. Appreciate your help.”

  Mrs. Daigle, my teacher.

  Mirage says good-bye and hangs up.

  And I know that I’m in deep, deep trouble.

  Quickly, I run back to my room and shut the door again. I think about hiding in the wardrobe, but she’ll find me crouching inside that wardrobe in three seconds flat.

  But Mirage doesn’t come hunting me down.

  Because the telephone rings again. I’m saved for the moment.

  While I wait for all heck to break loose, I pull the blue bottle notes out of my pocket and lay them across the quilt.

  The blue bottle notes tell a story. I just need to figure out what the story is, despite all the missing pieces.

  I lay the papers out one by one, trying to put them in order of questions and answers. Half the notes were written by Gwen. The other half by Mirage.

  Now that I really study them, I see that the first notes were written by Gwen and the other notes are from Mirage. Mirage’s notes are sort of like answers to Gwen.

  But then there’s that first, urgent note I’ve looked at a hundred times by now. The note Gwen stole from me at the cemetery. I wish I had it in my hands right now. I close my eyes and picture the words in my mind.

  Don’t forget! Tonight’s the night!

  Come to the bridge — and hurry!

  Why? What was happening on the bridge? That’s the note that makes my palms sweat.

  Then I place the very last blue bottle message on my bedspread and freeze right to the floor. A deathly chill rushes over me.

  There are two of the very same note! Why did I never realize that before? What bottle did this second one come from? I remember finding the first one, but I have no memory of seeing this second, identical one before.

  The first one is the message written in Mirage’s handwriting:

  I can’t find you! Are you lost?

  And now there’s this second note that reads exactly the same:

  I can’t find you! Are you lost?

  Like an echo. It’s definitely written by Gwen, but her handwriting has changed a little bit from the other notes she wrote. The writing has become shaky and spidery. Just like a ghost. I shake my head, not wanting to think about that. Refusing to think about that. There has to be a logical explanation for all the peculiar-ness about her and Mirage. Of course, there ain’t no reason why a grown-up traiteur can’t be friends with a girl from the other side of the bayou. Gwen told me that her mamma is a traiteur, too. The families are friends. Nothin’ strange about that.

  So why can’t Mirage find Gwen? Or why can’t Gwen find Mirage? Why write the messages? Why doesn’t Gwen just come to the door and knock? Why did they write the same words to each other? Most of all, why write notes in a blue bottle tree like Mirage is a girl again? That’s the part that don’t make sense. And that’s the part I hate thinking about.

  Maybe the bridge is some kind a mysterious time-travel portal? But that idea’s like something out of a movie. And it still doesn’t explain away all my questions.

  And what about that very creepy death note rolled up inside the tiny blue bottle charm, the one that says, She’s dead? That note was written by Mirage and put on her charm bracelet. My charm bracelet now. I retrieve the bracelet from under my pillow and smooth my finger against the various tinkling charms. The exact same charms as Gwen’s bracelet. Spooky. Like it was planned. Two friends buying charms together.

  I snap open the locket, wishing there were pictures inside. Wishing for more clues. I rub my finger across the plain yellowing paper inside, remembering the photographs inside Gwen’s locket.

  As I sit cross-legged on my bed, staring at the blank paper, I realize that it’s not just any regular paper — it’s got a glossy finish. Just like photograph paper!

  Sticking my fingernail underneath one of the edges, I find the paper is wedged in tight and starting to crumple. Finally, it starts to come up around the inside where it’s been tamped into place for so long.

  I flip the tiny paper circle over in my palm.

  And there’s the picture of Gwen on the other side.

  I feel myself go still and quiet. Hold my breath and count to ten.

  Carefully, I lift up the edge of the opposite side of the locket.

  And there’s the tiny photo of the dark-haired girl with long curls and piercing eyes staring into the camera. Mirage.

  The very same pictures that are in Gwen’s locket. But this locket, the one in my hands, belonged to Mirage. And now it belongs to me.

  Holding the bracelet around my wrist, I snap the clasp in place.

  Just as quick, I take it off again and hide it deep in the empty pocket of my jeans so Mirage doesn’t see it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I CAN’T THINK STRAIGHT. THE COINCIDENCES ARE TOO GREAT, too bizarre.

  There is something seriously wrong with Gwen and that Deserted Island.

  Mirage is still talking on the telephone, and if it’s my daddy, I can’t figure out why they just keep talking and talking and talking.

  Scooping up the notes, I cram them into my jeans where I know they’ll be safe. After I creep out of my bedroom again, I slide down the walls until I’m crouching like a mouse in the shadows.

  I hear Mirage say my name in a low, tense voice along with a shuffling sound I can’t identify. Then I realize Mirage is pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor.

  I crane my neck around the corner and see her twisting the telephone cord between her fingers.

  “Yeah, I gotta sell, Philip,” she says in a choked voice. “Can’t stay here no longer. It’s jest too much. I can’t discuss the house no more. Right now we gotta talk about Shelby —”

  There’s a pause while she listens.

  “Yeah, Philip. Like I told you the other day, she’s actin’ real funny. Jest heard from the school. She’s been cuttin’ class. Playin’ hooky or whatever they call it nowadays. No, I don’t know where she’s goin’ all them hours.” Pause. “No. Yes. No.” Pause.

  Dern, I wish there was another extension I could listen on.

  “Didn’t think it was this bad. Got a disturbing phone call this morning. Seems like someone on Main Street saw her talking to herself. Yeah, like Shelby Jayne’s goin’ senile, like an old crazy lady. You didn’t believe me the other day when I said she’s been acting peculiar, but it’s true. I got witnesses now.”

  What is she talking about? I don’t talk to myself! I’m not crazy! And I had a good reason to cut school today. Those girls in the bathroom drove me out of there. They’re the crazy, mean ones. I’m just trying to survive.
<
br />   “Philip, we gotta do something … what? Already? You are?”

  Long, long, long pause …

  I’m about ready to wet my pants.

  “Yeah, is what I got here right?” Mirage repeats a series of ten numbers, like my daddy got a new cell phone number.

  She pauses again and this time she listens so long I can’t imagine what my daddy is saying to her, but I can hear her scribbling down a bunch of stuff with a scratchy pencil.

  I feel the heat rise in my face, feel my gut twist into a big fat knot. I hold my hands against my thighs to keep them from trembling. I’m nervous, scared, and I wonder if I’m going to get detention. Do they have a jail for kids who skip school over and over again?

  If Mirage sells the house and leaves, what will happen to me? What if she can’t take me with her? I don’t want to go back to New Iberia alone and live there by myself. Not anymore.

  Mirage’s soft way of talking starts up again. I listen to the pretty melody of the up and down way she says her words, even if she is talking about me.

  “I think Shelby’s lyin’ to me, and you know how I feel ’bout that. I think she’s disobeying me about goin’ down to that old pier —”

  I put my hands to my face and double over, feeling my stomach churn like never before. Is that all she cares about, her rules? And she’s selling the house while I’m here, and moving away. Going away again. Just when I get here.

  “Never knew we’d have such troubles with her,” Mirage adds. “Think I’m gonna call a doctor, get an appointment for her. Mebbe the school has a recommendation —”

  I can’t stand them whispering about me anymore. I jump up from the floor and charge into the kitchen, even if it means I’ll be in worse trouble for eavesdropping. I want to find out who’s been saying all this stuff about me.

  “I ain’t sick!” I yell at Mirage. “I don’t need no doctor! I don’t talk to myself. Whoever said that is lying!”

  Mirage drops the phone to the floor with a crash, then reaches down to pick it up. “What’re you talkin’ about, Shelby Jayne? You shouldn’t be listening in on a private conversation.”

  “Why didn’t you let me talk to Daddy? He don’t belong to you anymore. You left. You didn’t want us.” I’m chewing on my cheek so hard my mouth feels like raw meat.

  Mirage holds her hand over the receiver. “I didn’t let you talk to him because me and him are talkin’ first.” She moves her hand away. “Philip, I’ll let Shelby call you back in a bit, okay?”

  I watch her hang up and I’m shaking I’m so angry. “How much do you and Daddy talk like that? Talk about me?”

  “Couple times a week after you go to bed. Sometimes he calls during the day while you’re at school.” She arches an eyebrow. “Or mebbe I should say, while you pretend to go to school.”

  “You don’t know what that school is like! You have no idea. You have no heart!”

  “And you have a lot of explainin’ to do, young lady. Lyin’ on the phone, lyin’ to your teachers, running away to who knows where. You’re goin’ to be grounded for a long, long time, believe you me. Although skipping school for a few days isn’t going to permanently stunt your growth.” Mirage lets out a big sigh. “And we don’t always talk about you,” she adds, folding up a note card and stuffing it into her skirt pocket.

  My parents talk to each other that often? I had no idea and the knowledge makes me feel like I don’t even know my own parents. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to her hand slipping into the pocket of her skirt. “Is that a secret message to put into one of those blue bottles?”

  Mirage looks startled. “Blue bottles? What are you talkin’ about, shar? You’re makin’ no sense.”

  “I know all about the secret notes! I know all about Gwen!”

  Mirage steps back as though I’ve just hit her. Her face drains white. “How do you know about Gwen?”

  I hold myself rigid as I try to keep back the wall of tears behind my own eyes. “I want to talk to my daddy.”

  “Me, too,” she whispers, still staring at me like she don’t know me, either. “But how could you know anything about Gwen? She’s — I can’t make head or tail of this conversation.”

  “She’s in the locket! I turned the pictures over in my room just now. And she’s in the cemetery. And the island. And inside the blue bottles. All them notes. I saw ’em. I have them.”

  Mirage stands still as a statue. The expression on her face scares me. “Show me,” she demands, and then adds, “please.”

  I edge toward the kitchen door, tugging a couple notes out of my jeans. I want to go find Gwen. It’s been almost an hour. I have just enough daylight to get there. She was so upset when she ran from the graveyard. I’m worried she’s not safe on that island by herself. I’m worried about who she really is and why she’s stuck here in Bayou Bridge all alone. All the pieces are clicking into place, the notes, the clues, the friendship between Gwen and Mirage. I think I know who she is. I don’t like it. The thought makes me want to bawl my eyes out, but I gotta find out for sure.

  I’m afraid the stories Mirage told me about blue bottles that keep away imps and ghouls and phantoms and haunting spirits were right. The evil phantoms might not come inside the house. They might stay on the edge of the bayou, but Miss Silla Wheezy knew they were there. That peculiar cat knew about the notes. And when I opened up the very first message I’d let loose a haunting spirit. I’d released the secrets that keep circling Mirage’s swamp house and the blue bottle tree.

  I think I’m the only one that can help Gwen. Even if I have no idea what to do.

  I stare down at the notes in my cupped hands, afraid Mirage will take them away from me. I need them to find Gwen. “The notes summoned her from the graveyard,” I whisper to myself, realizing for the first time how the notes and the bottles and Gwen all work together, but Mirage hears me.

  She takes a step forward, sees the handwriting on the notes, and chokes out, “Oh, Shelby Jayne.” Then she starts crying like I’ve just said the worst thing in the world.

  “I gotta find her,” I say, urgency hitting me like a brick in the head. “I gotta go.”

  Stuffing the messages back into the pocket that doesn’t have the hidden charm bracelet, I race through the front room, past Mister Lenny perched on the lamp shade, and slam through the front door, taking the porch steps two at a time and running straight for the dock.

  “Shelby Jayne!” Mirage screams behind me.

  I don’t look back, just jump into the boat, unloose the rope, pick up a paddle, and plunge the oar into the muddy water, rowing like crazy.

  The wind whips my hair, stinging my eyes, but I dig that paddle into the water, even though the swamp is getting choppy and frothy, the water higher than I’ve ever seen it.

  Storm clouds loom in the distance, but rain never hurt nobody. I don’t care about getting wet.

  “Shelby!” Mirage screams again.

  I finally glance back and see her standing in the middle of the elephant ears, shirt whipping against her body, hair flying straight in the air, and up to her ankles in water. Like she’s going to swim out to me. But I’m too far away to swim to. I’m almost around the first bend headed to town.

  “Come back!” she yells, and I can hear fear in her voice. “It’s not safe!”

  “I’ll be back!” I yell back. “I’m okay.”

  Mirage is shaking her head and still screaming. “No, no, no!”

  And then she’s gone. I face forward and keep my mind on Gwen.

  Rowing by myself is harder than I ever dreamed. The boat keeps veering right, then left, bangs up against the cypress knees, then starts heading straight for the deep water in the middle.

  “Dang it!” I yell. I’m not sure I’ll make it back. Probably have to spend the night at Gwen’s house. I’ll telephone and tell Mirage where I am. Spending the night on the island is better than rowing back in the dark, right?

  Besides, Mirage thinks I’ve gone loony. She wants to tak
e me to a doctor, maybe put me in the mental hospital. She thinks I’m a crazy lady who talks to herself on the streets.

  I glance behind me, half fearing and half hoping I’ll see Mirage in a second boat, but there’s only empty water and a sky full of black clouds and a forest of cypresses, moss whipping the branches with a fury.

  If Gwen’s on the water somewhere, I can only imagine how scared she is because I’m more terrified by the minute. Alone on the bayou, night coming on, is spooky. I think about gators, their red eyes following me. Or snakes slithering through the water, ready to crawl up the sides of the boat.

  Instead of the left turn that heads to town and the docks along Main, I head right at the T, which loops around a different way and comes out along the south side of Bayou Bridge. Right where the cemetery is across from Gwen’s island house. I figure it’ll save me time, but I hope I made the correct turns because it starts to drizzle and it’s getting darker. Light raindrops hit my forehead and neck and shoulders.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter. Why didn’t I grab a jacket?

  Getting wet doesn’t affect my rowing, but I start slowing down because my arms are getting tired real fast.

  The swamp finally becomes Bayou Teche proper and the last curve of the waterway opens up along the road. I can see the bridge and the little island, its forest of trees dark and dense in the storm.

  Blisters form along my thumbs and I stick one in my mouth, feeling the scars and tender skin along the inside of my cheek where I’ve been chomping the past year.

  Wish I had a drink of water.

  Wish I knew what was written on that note Mirage stuck in her pocket. I know that there are numbers. A whole bunch of them that my daddy gave her. I wonder what they mean. Phone numbers to a doctor or a hospital for me?

  I pull up closer to the island and see right away that there’s no boat tied up along the cypresses. Where’d Gwen go? Is she trying to find me — or is she hiding out at the graveyard where she feels safer?

  My shoulders ache like my arms are gonna fall off. My palms are so red and sore they’re burning. I stick them in the water to cool them off, but I wish I had a pair of gloves.