DEDICATION
For two teachers,
Ruth Cruz and Mark Klune,
For two editors,
Julie Lansky and Katherine Tegen,
And for one husband, Jim
CONTENTS
Dedication
1. Golden, Like Jewelry
2. Shine upon Our Sister
3. Three Friends
4. Fairies?
5. It Wasn’t a Ghost
6. The Acorns
7. We Like This Place
8. Quirky Art Girl
9. The Gypsy Wagon
10. Breaking and Entering
11. A Dismal House
12. Working Things Out
13. Vin and Wil Forever
14. A Dollhouse
15. Something Strange about These Woods
16. The Diary
17. Everyone Calls Me Whistle
18. A Strange Hedgerow
19. Trespassers
20. That Crazy Feeling
21. The Mood Catcher
22. The Shabby Remains of Nutfolk Wood
23. Psycho Guy
24. Feelings in Boxes
25. Suspecting the Raggedy Man
26. Trick or Treat
27. Filling the Gap
28. The House Rebuilt Itself
29. Years of Chances
30. Stubborn Girls
31. Transformations
32. Regular Life
33. Wintertell
34. Relief
35. Weird Rendezvous
36. Shiny and Happy
37. Honorable
Conclusion: I’m Good
About the Author
Books by Barb Bentler Ullman
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
Golden, Like Jewelry
DON’T CRY, ZELLY, I kept telling myself. Don’t you cry.
The trick was to think about other things, like this plain little graveyard overlooking Plunkit. The dead people had a good view of the valley, all right, but by the looks of the patchy grass and worn headstones, it seemed to me that Plunkit Hill Cemetery wasn’t getting pampered by nature or man.
And what was with all the plastic bouquets? Tacky, I thought. Although, Grammy used to say that pictures don’t have to be pretty to be beautiful. As an artist, I knew this was so. Like ugly dogs and peculiar landscapes, beauty can be terrible. That’s what Grammy used to say.
Grr—I was thinking about her again.
In my head a persistent moan was working itself into a sob, and like a geyser under pressure, it wanted out. Don’t cry, a little voice told me, or something bad will happen.
At that very moment, an acorn smacked the top of Grammy’s casket and rolled off into the grave. How unusual, I thought, because, for one, there were no trees above us to drop that lonely acorn, and two, this cemetery was populated by maples, not oaks. And three, the little acorn was golden, like jewelry.
Even stranger was the acorn rising out of the grave all by itself, or so it seemed because I couldn’t see the string attached to it. Shimmering like a Christmas ornament in the cloudless sky, the acorn headed right back to the thing that had dropped it in the first place: a toy bird hanging from a floating balloon! “What are you gawking at?”
I turned to find my great-grandma Cookie in her wheelchair, scowling at me like Mr. Yuk. Grr. She was cranky almost all the time, and super old; yet it was her daughter, my funny Grammy Bert, who got the cancer. It seemed as if we were burying the wrong old lady.
“Oh, hi, G.G.” I always called her G.G. instead of “Great-Grandma” because it was easier. Plus, the casual address annoyed her, which cracked me up. Before she started in with her usual gripes, I warned her, “I’m in a bad mood.”
Her false teeth clicked as she challenged, “I’ve been in a bad mood for a decade.”
“I noticed,” I said, with audible sass.
Compressing her mouth into a thin, pale line, G.G. shot for revenge. “Willa!” she snapped at my mom. “You ought to remind Hazel Jo of her manners.” Clickety-click went the loose teeth.
My poor mom had been crying steadily since that morning. After all, Grammy Bert was her mother, and the two of them had been very close.
“Oh, never mind,” G.G. grumbled. She was generally more bark than bite.
To change the subject, I cocked my head toward the bird and asked, “What do you think that is?”
“Crows!” G.G. answered, sounding amazingly like one. A bunch of the dark birds rose and scattered near the maples.
“Not the crows,” I corrected. “There—the blue bird with the balloon.”
“Don’t tease.” Mom sighed tiredly.
“I’m not teasing. I’m talking about the bird thing, right over there.”
Father Bob coughed to cue the service, and G.G. shushed me like a snake about to strike.
Did they all need glasses?
As I scrutinized the silly toy, I decided it was supposed to be a Steller’s Jay, only it was missing some parts. The beak and half of the crest were broken off. Spread out in rigid flight, the stiff wings made me think of a balsa-wood glider. But the dumb-looking bird didn’t glide anywhere. It just dangled from a gold-colored balloon that had been patched in several places. Curiously, inside a dip on the back of the bird stood a little doll the size of a chess king.
As I watched, a ray of sunshine hit the toy just so, causing a halo to radiate from the doll. The light grew and surrounded the entire contraption, and for a second it shimmered like a sparkler in that bland August sky. And then it was gone.
Rubbing my eyes, I turned back to the ceremony and, there, discovered other eyes looking up.
CHAPTER 2
Shine upon Our Sister
A BOY AIMED HIS camera, searching the spot where the toy had been glowing. He must have been about my age, maybe eleven or twelve. The only other person paying attention to the sky was a skinny girl, straining on tiptoes.
“In sure and certain hope . . .” Father Bob droned on.
The girl caught me staring and blinked quizzically.
“Shine upon our sister Roberta Northup,” the priest continued, “and be gracious unto her, and give her peace.”
“Amen,” the crowd recited.
“Amen,” I quietly agreed.
As they gravitated into smaller groups, guests were relaxed and jokey now that the ceremony was over. Grammy Bert had lots of friends: old folks and young people and children.
In my head I whispered, Good-bye, Grammy. But aloud I snapped, “Let’s get out of here,” and tugged my mom’s hand to get her moving toward the gate.
Mom and I shared the backseat of her uncle’s car, where the air was stuffy and hot. I hurriedly rolled down my window, and sat back to study my mother. Even though it is customary for funerals, she shouldn’t have worn black. The dark color called attention to her pale, skinny legs and accentuated the bags under her eyes. Grammy Bert would have said she looked like h-e-double toothpicks.
“Now, Zelly, I hope you and your mama will come over tonight,” Uncle Andrew urged, adjusting his rearview mirror and polishing a smudge off the chrome with his cuff. We’d driven to the cemetery with my mom’s uncle Andrew and aunt Viv in their ancient turquoise Bel Air, an antique car that my great-uncle fussed over as if it were his baby on wheels.
“You can eat and veg out and just do nothing at all,” Viv added. She twisted around to talk to my mom. “A respectable turnout, don’t you think, honey? I like that Father Bob. He’s got a nice way about him. But, Lord, it was hot.” She fanned herself for emphasis. “I hope it wasn’t too much for the old folks.”
“Hey, Aunt Viv,” I interrupted, “di
d you see that bird thingy hooked to the balloon?”
“Where was it?”
“It floated right by us, like maybe ten feet up.” Grown-ups could be so clueless.
“I was busy praying.” Viv sniffed righteously. “Did you see a bird thingy?” she asked her husband.
“Saw plenty of crows,” Uncle Andrew responded. “Whole dang flock of ’em roosting in those maples. Wished I’d had my rifle,” he muttered, steering out of the line of parked cars.
“Andrew Northup! To even think about blasting birds at your own sister’s funeral—honestly!” Viv glowered at him and then shifted a guilty glance back at my mom, who wasn’t listening anyway.
After the U-turn, we drove past the cemetery for a final good-bye, and there, in the shadow of the maple grove, a man stood alone. With a fist to his face and quivering shoulders, he seemed to be crying, but I couldn’t see who it was.
Seeing the grown man cry made me want to cry, too. Waves of grief wanted out, but I wouldn’t let them. Squeezing my lids shut, I drew a deep breath and, with a mighty effort, managed to halt the flood.
“Let’s go!” I demanded, sounding so snotty in my own ears that I embarrassed even myself.
CHAPTER 3
Three Friends
ON A SOFA near the door of Plunkit Books, Mom and I sat receiving condolences. Of course the reception was held there, where Grammy Bert had lived and worked all these years, doing exactly what she wanted to be doing—selling books and bossing people around.
Every summer and holidays, too, Mom and I came to Plunkit for R & R at Grammy’s, but this time we’d come to stay. My mother had taken a leave of absence from her teaching job and sublet our apartment in the city. Then we moved into the loft with every intention of calling it home for as long as it took Grammy to get back on her feet after chemo. The only problem was she threw a wrench in this plan by dying.
After an hour of handshakes and hugs, Mom’s face was wax-paper white. I cut in line at the buffet table to heap some fruit, cheese, and cobbler onto a plate and then maneuvered my way through the crowd.
“You better eat,” I cautioned, setting the plate in Mom’s lap. “You know your blood sugar.”
“Thanks, Zel. I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine,” she repeated, and made a show of eating the cherry cobbler.
Just then, a woman click-clacked over in stylish high heels. She was a petite, African-American lady in a dark blue suit tailored to her curves. Her hair was sculpted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and her earlobes twinkled with diamonds that were companions to her eye-popping ring. From her peep toes on up, she was good-looking, but I’d say more dignified than pretty.
“Willa? It’s me, Marla!” she sang, grabbing Mom’s pale hand in a warm squeeze.
Behind Marla was a tall, slender woman. Her beautiful rust-colored hair was gathered in a braid that hung to her waist, and when she moved, she tinkled with an assortment of silver bracelets, necklaces, and earrings.
“It’s Debra Henderson now,” the tall one announced, displaying her left ring finger as proof.
They were such different women: Marla, the stylish socialite; Debra, the tall, hippie lady; and my mother, a frumpy schoolteacher in black.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Marla said.
“We sure loved your mama,” Debra added.
Mom stood up and handed her plate to me. “Thanks, girls,” she replied, on the verge of tears again. Then she extended her hand, with her palm facing down.
Marla covered Mom’s hand with her dainty, manicured fingers and then waited until Debra’s hand covered hers with a long-fingered grasp. When the three hands were stacked, the women said, “Acorns.” They bobbed a funny greeting and then burst into girlish laughter.
Steering me forward, Mom announced, “This is my daughter, Hazel Jo, but we call her Zelly.”
“She looks like you,” Marla said, studying my face. “But she’s a dead ringer for—”
“A MacKenzie,” Mom finished.
In that blink of a moment, the three women exchanged a look and then all enthusiastically agreed that I was just like my mother when she was young: brown-haired, brown-eyed, and so cute and clever.
Right. Clever enough to know they were all avoiding the subject of my father.
CHAPTER 4
Fairies?
WHILE THE THREE friends talked a mile a minute, I slipped out the French doors to the deck. Leaning on the rail and mining chocolate chips from a cookie, I contemplated the fact that the Acorns knew more about my dad than I did.
My reserved mother rarely spoke of him, which, for me, hinted at something dreadful, like the guy was a bank robber or an ax murderer or something. But I was pretty sure he was just a loser, if he was still around at all.
I had no pictures of him, no cards or letters, although Mom swore he’d seen me turn three. She and Grammy claimed that he had “problems,” and it was just as well he stayed away. “Problems” referred to his battle with drugs and alcohol, and this was always said together (“drugs and alcohol”), which I guess emphasized how really messed up he was. It was significant that my only memory of the man was hazy and distant, a feeling more than anything, a feeling of tension that smelled like ashes and beer.
Sometimes I wondered which would be better: peace and quiet but no father in my life or a dad who wanted me but brought lots of stress. I wished I could have had something in between.
Low on the horizon, the sun was making a color like watermelon smeared into squash. Its rosy light turned the valley golden and the white cows pink. Hushed and hazy, the moist air smelled like cut hay, hanging so heavy in the atmosphere that I could taste the grassy tang on my tongue. Crickets began to sing a drowsy refrain, and the Suquawkal Valley was so pretty in every way that it almost hurt.
The river ran and the fields rambled because people couldn’t build in the floodplain; any attempt would have been washed away by the annual high water. I was grateful for the valley and the reliable floods. Inhaling the humid, fragrant air, I closed my eyes and saved the scene with a deliberate mental click.
“So, did you see it?”
I jumped. A girl had been sitting on the steps all this time. I realized she was the same dainty girl who’d eyed me in the cemetery.
“See what?” I asked.
“The shimmering balloon,” she said, rising to stand.
“Well, it only shimmered when the sun hit it,” I pointed out.
“No one else saw it,” she continued in her know-it-all tone.
“Of course they did. The grown-ups were only being polite.”
“No,” she asserted. “Ask anyone and find out for yourself.”
“Well, if no one saw it but you and me, then who’s crazy, us or them?” I grinned.
Unamused, she answered, “They just don’t see as well as we do.”
My eyebrows scooched up a notch. “What do you mean ‘we’?”
The girl frowned and planted two bony fists on her hips in brat fashion. She had long red hair pulled into a no-nonsense braid, just like Debra.
“Are you related to Debra Henderson?” I asked as the lightbulb went on.
“I’m her daughter, Lupine,” she replied.
Smiling to myself, I thought, Of course she would have a nature name! “I’m Zelly MacKenzie,” I offered.
“I know,” she said with annoying superiority.
In the pause that ensued, Lupine stared at me as if I were some kind of bug, until I broke the silence. “Okay. What do you think we saw?”
“You describe something,” she coyly suggested, “and then I’ll take a turn.”
Rolling my eyes at her immature game, I agreed. “All right. There was the dumb-looking blue jay hooked to a golden balloon.”
“A blue jay?” she repeated doubtfully. “All I saw was a balloon.”
“Well, the bird was hanging from it,” I explained. “It was pretty obvious.”
Hands still on her hips, she looked thoughtful.
&
nbsp; “So, what was it?” I asked again. “Like a circus toy or something?”
Lupine’s cheeks went from pink to bright red as she moved in closer. Unmindful of my personal space and with breath that smelled like cookies and milk, she whispered in my ear, “Fairies.”
CHAPTER 5
It Wasn’t a Ghost
THE FRENCH DOORS banged, and a boy stumbled out. As he raised his hand to greet Lupine with a shy wave, he clumsily knocked a cupcake off his overcrowded plate. It was the other kid who’d been looking up.
“Oh, hi, Frederick,” Lupine said, in an uninviting monotone. With the same lack of enthusiasm, she made introductions. “This is Frederick Witherspoon. And Frederick, this is Zelly MacKenzie, Ms. Bertie’s granddaughter.”
“Hello,” he said, stepping squarely on the cupcake he’d dropped. As it squished out from underneath his shoe, the chocolate reminded me of dog poop.
“Our moms used to be best friends in high school,” he said. “She was Marla Miller back then, but we’re Witherspoons now.” He bobbed his head, pleased with the information he’d shared.
Examining Frederick’s face, I could see a shadow of the elegant Marla, but her son lacked her sense of style. His thick, dark-rimmed glasses gave his eyes a bulging look, and on his teeth were hefty braces, straining to discipline a sizable overbite. His hair had been shorn close to his head like an overclipped topiary, and with his soft, protruding tummy he was what people used to call “pleasantly plump.”
“I’m sorry about your grandma,” Frederick said shyly. “She knew I liked weird fact books, and used to call me when good stuff came in. And she was always really funny,” he added, showing his wide, metallic grin.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “she was really funny.”
His appreciation for Grammy, plus his ridiculous smile, made me like him. As often happens when I decide to like someone, his appearance improved ninety-five percent as he morphed from “icky dork boy” into “rumpled pleasant kid” right before my eyes.
Frederick scooched onto a bench and began picking the cake off the bottom of his sneaker. In the meantime, Lupine had skittered to the edge of the steps, unwilling to talk fairies in front of the boy.
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