by Amy Durham
I liked Mr. Pierce, the guy who owned the hardware store. Apparently he was too old to realize I was the most uncool person in Sky Cove.
I crunched across the snowy mush in the hardware store parking lot. Typical Maine, the day before New Year’s Eve was drab gray and bitter cold, but I didn’t care.
I needed paint. And wood. And other artsy stuff.
I loved Christmas break. Not because I got all crazy with holiday spirit, but because it meant a break from the black hole known as Sky Cove Senior High School. It also meant loads of time spent in the little spare bedroom that my dad had let me turn into an art studio two years ago.
Head down, I did my best to shield myself against the biting wind, pushing toward the front door of Pierce Home Improvement. Winter in Maine always sucked, but the wind made today worse than usual. I was almost there, just about to step inside and out of the icebox, when the door opened and someone in a really nice pair of leather boots pounded out.
And straight into me.
My center of gravity already off from walking half bent over with my head lowered out of the wind, I lost my balance and tumbled back.
Right onto my butt.
And even through several layers of clothes and a heavy coat, the ground was wet and cold against my backside.
Great.
But it got worse.
Staring down at me was the dumb jock football star, at whose feet all of Sky Cove Senior High worshipped.
Todd Miller.
“Uh, Sorry,” he said, but did nothing to help me up.
Like I needed his help.
I pushed up, gaining my feet without slipping again on the ice. The stupid moron just stood there looking at me.
“Watch where you’re going,” I snapped, and walked inside, leaving him standing there in the cold.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the store, a large bag of paint, wood, and other supplies dangling from one arm. A glance toward the near-empty parking lot told me that Todd Miller and his big, stupid truck were long gone.
Thank God for small favors.
At home, I went straight to work in my studio. I’d developed an idea for a shadow-box display of small wooden carvings depicting Maine wildlife. Getting accepted to college wasn’t the problem for me, but paying for it would be. I had high hopes that I could pick up some scholarship money in the Coastal Maine Artists Guild student art competition.
Inspiration came quickly and pretty soon my hands took over, each subtractive action of my carving knife and V-tool bringing the figure further to life. The grain of the scrap maple hardwood Mr. Pierce had given me gave extra dimension to the little animal taking shape in my hands.
I wasn’t sure how long I worked, but when I finished, I sat the small red fox on the table and leaned back to look.
And smiled.
It was so life like, so playful. As if I’d somehow captured its personality.
If I could create more like this, maybe a bear and a moose, the display would be spectacular.
My gaze narrowed, and my peripheral vision seemed to fall away, leaving only a small tunnel of sight that was trained on the small fox figurine. I wanted to blink, to shake my head and make my eyesight return to normal, but I could not take my eyes off the fox.
Then I wasn’t looking at the figure anymore. In front of my eyes I saw what could only be the floor of a forest. Snow covered the ground, dotted with fallen leaves and twigs. Tree branches moved and creaked with the wind.
The forest was dark, as if I were seeing it exactly the way it would look at this precise moment, and all around me I heard the organic silence of the woods.
My heartbeat picked up and my breathing became rapid as fear surged through me. Fear of what I had no clue - the scene in front of me was benign enough – but I felt it nonetheless.
Lost. I felt lost. Completely enveloped in the unknown. Suffocated by the lack of reality.
What in the world was happening?
The sight of the forest was not unfamiliar, but somehow it felt totally foreign to me and I wanted desperately to escape.
The front door opened, and I heard my dad call my name. I blinked away the fog.
And I was looking at my tiny red fox again.
Crazy.