"Through mowing for the day?"
Henry was startled to see his grandfather walking toward him. Grandpa never came out to check up on him—it wasn't at al his normal pattern. The old man slowed his walk and took off his hat to fan himself.
Henry sat up in the grass. "Just taking a break."
"I see. Wel , don't forget about the lettuce. Your mother's going to have supper ready in a few hours, and she wants you to bring in some greens for the salad."
"Yes, sir. I'l do it." Henry picked up his book, expecting the conversation was over.
Grandpa stood there, giving him a funny stare. "Eerie out here, don't you think, Henry? Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the hammock?
That's your normal library."
"I felt like relaxing in the grass, Grandpa. It's only a short break," Henry said. "I'm going back to it in just a moment."
"Wel , when you complete this path, you have the entire lawn near the house. Not sure why you'd want to work out here in the back in this foggy swamp."
Henry shrugged. "I know, sir. It's just that I'm trying to finish the part of the job I skimped on the other day."
"Al right, then. I'l cal you for supper. Don't fal asleep out here. If your mother doesn't get her salad greens after while, she'l be awful y disagreeable." Grandpa Briggs walked off, shaking his head.
Henry read a few more pages until the grasshoppers, stirred up by the mowing, started interrupting. After swatting a few of the critters away, Henry got up and carried his book to a stump farther inside the cool mist. He lost himself in the story, reading about Benji and his family.
And then, a voice cut across the clearing. "Hey!"
He looked up to see Amy moving toward him in the curtain of mist. He smiled, setting his book on the stump. "Hel o. I wondered if you'd come back."
"Yeah, wel , here I am, I guess."
Henry studied Amy. Long brown hair, deep brown eyes, her eyelids painted with sparkly silver makeup. She'd be even prettier in a fancy dress at a high school dance, or in a colorful skirt and blouse, but, Henry noted, again Amy wore dungarees and a plain undershirt. This one was blue and printed with the words OLD NAVY. He didn't understand why such a pretty girl wore such plain, masculine clothes.
"You know someone in the service?" he said, pointing at her shirt.
Amy gave him a disbelieving look. "Um, my dad's in the army. But this is from the store—you know, Old Navy?"
Henry stared hard at the shirt's printing. "Never heard of it."
"Wel , they're kind of everywhere. Don't you ever go to the city to shop?"
"We don't need to leave the farm," Henry said careful y.
"Yeah, I didn't see you at school yesterday or today."
"That's right. You went to school," Henry said. The idea of school seemed very unreal to him. He'd liked high school, had been a good student, and got along wel with his teachers and friends. He missed the chal enge of learning new things and the thril of throwing out a runner on first when he pitched for the Rockvil e Roosters basebal team. His classes seemed so far away.
"Are you homeschooled or something?" she asked.
" Homeschooled—you mean tutored?"
"Yeah, I guess. Supposedly there are a few kids in the val ey who are."
Henry sat down on the stump. "I don't go to school right now. I'm helping out my family."
"Oh. That's cool, I guess." She took a seat on the grass next to the stump and then reached out toward his pant leg. "Hold stil ."
Henry froze. "What are you—"
She touched him, brushing against his shin and coming away with a large grasshopper. She leaned over and gently set the bug in the tal grass on the other side of her.
"Much obliged," Henry said, stunned. He didn't tel her that he was glad to know she wasn't a ghost or angel. At least, he didn't think they'd be able to touch if she were.
"You're welcome," Amy said, wrinkling her nose.
"What's the matter?" he said.
"It's just— much obliged? That's some real country talk you've got there, Henry." She gave him a warm smile that made a blush rise in Henry's cheeks.
"Oh. Wel , I do live in the country," he said, glancing over at the tal grass, where the grasshopper had struck up a chirping song.
"Hey—shhh." Amy took a seat on the ground near him, an expression of delight brightening her face.
Henry shook his head. It wasn't unusual to encounter insects traveling through the clearing, especial y grasshoppers and bumblebees.
Rarely, though, had he seen a bird. They seemed to sense that things were different here. Maybe it was that the winds and sun felt strange.
Certainly, the breeze moved slower across this part of the field and the sky was farther away, hidden by the mists.
When the grasshopper's song ended, Amy plucked a blade of the long grass and twirled it in her fingers. "Wasn't that pretty?"
Henry watched her pul the strands of the grass apart. "Haven't you ever heard a grasshopper chirp before?"
"Not real y. I guess I never paid much attention to that stuff before. Not too many grasshoppers on my old lawn, anyway."
"Plenty round here," said Henry.
"I bet." She looked at him with those big brown eyes—like chocolate with flecks of gold.
Henry was suddenly aware of the time that must have elapsed since he'd started talking with Amy. "Excuse me, but I have to get along now,"
he said, rising from the stump. "Mother's expecting me to bring in some vegetables from the garden for supper. I'l catch heck if I'm late."
" Catch heck? " Amy said. "Wow. I wouldn't want that to happen."
"You ain't kidding."
"Right. I gotta go, anyway," Amy said, her gaze dropping to her hands. "Homework. It was, um, cool to see you again."
"Maybe our paths wil cross again?"
"Yeah, maybe." She backed away into the mist, giving him a little wave.
"So long, Amy," he cal ed. He tucked his book into his pocket and dragged the mower out of the clearing.
As Henry hurried toward the garden, his heart felt alive with a feeling that'd been absent for a while: hope. He was ful of the hope that she'd come to the clearing again.
It was so wonderful to have someone to talk to. And even though he wasn't sure it was right, he couldn't help wanting something more than another aimless string of summer days—something different.
And the fact that she was a beautiful girl didn't hurt at al .
***
"You were acting strangely earlier," Grandpa Briggs said, settling down into his rocking chair on the porch later that evening. He looked out across the garden, toward the road that led into town. "You feeling better now?"
"I'm feeling fine," Henry said. "Nothing a slice of Mother's icebox cake couldn't cure," he joked. But he wasn't fine. He hadn't been fine since he'd caught sight of Amy.
"Alma makes a grand cake," his grandfather conceded. "She's as good a baker as her mother ever was. She can't beat your grandmother's cornbread, though. So light, so tender."
Henry nodded. One of his earliest memories was his grandmother feeding him cornbread dripping with honey. She and Grandpa had been young when they'd built this house, barely older than Henry. But Grandma had been gone many years.
Grandpa turned his head toward the sound of the radio's soft music. "Say, your mother looked better this morning," he said. "Had more color in her cheeks."
Henry sighed. He couldn't count the number of times his grandfather had said those words in an attempt to whitewash what they both felt, both knew in their hearts. Tonight, though, he abandoned his standard reply. "She's not better, sir."
Grandpa gave him a disapproving look. "Why on earth would you say such a thing?"
Henry paused, wondering the same thing himself. Stil , he felt compel ed to go on. "She's sick."
"Dr. Morris said it's normal for women to be fatigued from time to time."
"Mother's in pain," Henry said. "It's not only fatigue. I wish the docto
r could have done more for her before it was too late."
"What do you mean by that?" his grandfather demanded.
Henry couldn't bring himself to broach the subject, to even suggest what Mother might do, what she would do if the summer ended. "She's in a great deal of pain," he repeated.
Grandpa went back to rocking. "Al of us live in pain, Henry. That's the human condition. Some pain you can see from the outside, and some is buried deep on the inside. We al have our crosses to bear."
Henry studied his grandfather's weathered face. "I haven't heard you quote the Good Book in a while."
"You know my daddy was a preacher back east in the Carolinas," Grandpa said. "I had quite a dose of the Bible growing up."
"Did you ever stop believing?"
His grandfather let out a breath. "No, young man, that, I did not do. The world turns because of the Lord. The fact that we live each day is a miracle. A gift."
"A gift that people take for granted," Henry said.
"Have you been into those philosophy books again?" Grandpa said, al owing himself a laugh.
"Not today, sir," Henry said. He'd read through al of them so many times he didn't think there were many mysteries of the universe left to unravel.
"The world is a complicated place," Grandpa said. He put a hand on Henry's shoulder. "We al do our best." Grandfather surveyed Henry's eyes. "You surely do seem different tonight. You certain you're feeling wel ?"
"Yes, sir." Henry got up and walked to the edge of the porch, facing the clearing.
"Maybe you're growing up," Grandfather said. "You're older now—soon you'l be a man like Robert, fighting the good fight."
Henry gripped the railing. Yes, that was the unspoken topic at the table that evening: that in the real summer, if it were al owed to continue, the letter from the draft board requesting him to report would most likely come. That within days he would take his place with the other boys of Rockvil e who were shipping out to the armed forces. He'd be a man like Robert, a man prepared to die for his country. A man who maybe wouldn't make it home at al .
"The summer's only just begun. That's not for a while yet," his grandfather said. "Don't you worry."
"Yes, sir," said Henry. Then he excused himself. There were prayers to be said. Futures to hold off. Lives right there on the farm to protect.
CHAPTER FIVE
Over the next few days at school, my mind kept returning to the clearing with Henry. How peaceful the time seemed there with him, and how different he seemed from the rest of the people in Rockvil e. He didn't ask a lot of questions, and he didn't seem to want anything from me. It felt restful to be with him, talking in the field with the cool mist, al the while the grasshoppers singing, and a stray dragonfly buzzing through the fog like a little helicopter. It was like a dream.
Rockvil e High's Creative Living class, on the other hand, was not a dream. Ms. Grady had just finished presenting a lecture about nutrition and was now walking us through a recipe for "homemade" pizza that involved store-bought biscuit mix and a jar of spaghetti sauce. When she cal ed for us to find a partner, I looked up to see Quinn moving purposeful y toward me across the room of kitchenettes.
"Hey." Jackson popped up in front of me, holding out two aprons. "How about it?" he said. "The pizza toss is my best event."
"Uh..." I stuttered. I was focused on Quinn, who had started over to me and now made a sudden turn toward Melanie's friend Jane. The two of them laughed as they helped each other tie on the aprons.
"Oh," Jackson said, noticing my stare. "You were hoping for pretty boy over there."
"No, it's fine." Truthful y, I was glad Jackson was giving me another chance.
"Wel , then," he said, "shal we?"
"Yeah, thanks." I took one of the aprons from him and put it on.
He donned his with a goofy flourish, finishing it with a dopey bow around his middle. "How do I look?"
"Awesome." I laughed as he retied the apron the right way. "Look, Jackson, I'm sorry about the other day in the lunchroom. I'm not used to people wanting to help me do stuff and asking me questions."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but you're new. How else are people supposed to get to know you?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. Wel , thanks for trying to make me feel welcome, anyway."
"No prob."
Jackson got out the measuring cup and started dumping the baking mix into the large metal bowl at our station. Meanwhile, I got out the milk and pizza toppings. We worked quickly, fol owing Ms. Grady's lame-o recipe to a T.
"Plain cheese okay?" Jackson asked, after we'd spooned the red sauce over the pressed-down crust.
"Yeah, with extra pepperoni and sausage," I said.
Jackson paused, his hands ful of shredded mozzarel a. "Amy, I'm a vegetarian," he said.
"Yeah, right," I said, giggling.
"I'm serious," he said.
My mouth dropped open. "A vegetarian? You guys raise cattle up in the val ey."
"My family doesn't. My mom's an ecologist for the forest service. My sister and I are both vegetarians like Mom. We have a big organic garden."
"Okay, now I've heard everything."
Jackson started sprinkling the cheese on the crust. "You think it's al loggers and ranchers in Rockvil e, but there are other folks, too.
Everyone's different, but I guarantee you, we're mostly civilized if you take the chance to get to know us."
"So, you're veggie. Does the store in town even have tofu?"
He snorted out a laugh. "There's more to vegetarian cooking than tofu, but yes, they do carry it down at the store."
I shook my head at him. "Who knew?"
"You never know until you ask." Jackson wiped his hands on a towel and surveyed our sad-looking pizza, which was misshaped and heaped with way too much cheese. He opened the preheated oven and slipped the pan inside, showing me his fingers were crossed. "In fact, after school today, I'l give you a ride home and we can swing by the garden, just in case you don't believe me. My mom's got some giant pumpkins out there.
They're pretty impressive."
The thought of being in a car alone with Jackson felt a little scary to me. Trapped in a close space with a boy I didn't know if I could trust.
Trapped with no other way home if he decided to stop somewhere. My face burned. "Um ... I have to study at the library."
"Okay," Jackson said slowly. "Wel , maybe some other time, then. I drive every day."
I busied myself washing my hands. After a moment, I broke the uncomfortable silence. "So, is there anything else I should know about this val ey?"
"Hmm. Let me think on that one. How about you? Any good tales from the city? What's it like living down there?"
I felt my hands tense up. "It's different."
"That bad, huh?" he said, then added with a smal smile, "Oh, and there I go nosing into your business."
"What business is that?" Quinn walked up, wiping a smear of pizza sauce from his hands onto his apron.
Jackson got a little red in the cheeks and backed up a step.
"Hi, Quinn," I said. "How's your pizza coming?"
"It's going to be delicious," Quinn said, his eyes twinkling.
Jackson started plunking bowls and spoons into our water-fil ed sink. Obviously, he wasn't pleased.
"If we teamed up, I bet we could've made an Italian masterpiece," said Quinn, peeking skeptical y through the oven window at our handiwork.
"Hmm, that I doubt," I said. "Real pizza involves yeast and flour and rising time. My mom used to bake it with me when I was a kid."
"Quinn!" Jane snapped from over at their station, "I'm not doing your dishes!"
"Women." Quinn shrugged. "See you around, Amy."
"Why don't you like him?" I asked Jackson when we were alone.
"What's to like? You must have had guys like Quinn at your school. His type's pretty common."
"Yeah, I guess." But Jackson was right. Of course we had guys like Quinn at my old school. Every boy I'd ever liked
had started out like Quinn. Even Matt. Cute, popular, athletic. Typical. I couldn't help noticing Quinn—even though I wasn't trying to have anything to do with any boy at the moment.
"Wel , if that's what you're after—then there you go," Jackson said, giving me a dismissive shrug and then going back to the dishes. "Quinn's a real winner, and so's his girlfriend."
"I'm not after anything," I said. "I'm just making pizza here."
"'Kay." He dried out the mixing bowl and handed it to me, but he wasn't smiling anymore.
Ms. Grady announced a quiz right then, so Jackson and I took our seats. I didn't get a chance to talk to him after that because we corrected the quizzes and then pul ed the projects from the oven so they could be graded. We accepted our C and ate the funky-looking pizza, but we didn't chat.
I left the class feeling frustrated. I was just trying to make some lame pizza, not deal with some random boy-drama. Give me simplicity, I thought as I walked to the town library after school. Simplicity and a cool, quiet field.
***
The Rockvil e library was in a converted brick garage that used to belong to the volunteer fire department. It seemed like a kooky place to hang out and read, but there was a nice old guy working there who signed me up for my card and then pointed me in the direction of the fiction stacks. I had to do a book report on Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms and actual y needed to read it. What I'd told Jackson hadn't been a total lie.
"Checking out something fun?" asked Melanie, rounding the corner of the periodical section, her arms ful of glossy magazines.
I held up my book. "A classic," I said.
She gave me a funny look. "Yeah, I heard you pul ed a classic today in Creative Living."
"What?"
"You know, I thought you were halfway cool, but Jane told me how you were flirting with my boyfriend." She paused. "You better stay away from Quinn."
My mouth dropped open. "Are you joking? We're not even friends—and he came and talked to me."
"Uh-huh. Jane saw it al . She told me everything."
Though Melanie didn't deserve an explanation, now I was mad. "Look, I have no interest at al in your boyfriend."
"Right."
The Clearing Page 4