"I am tel ing you the truth. Why won't you believe me?" Exasperation seized Henry. He spoke very slowly. Deliberately. "Every day is summer. Every day, Mother. Haven't you noticed? Aren't you awake? Can't you see what's going on here? Don't you miss the fal —or winter? We haven't seen rain or snow in ages."
"I see you've been reading those science fiction comic books again."
Henry knew it was pointless to keep going, but the frustration in him wel ed beyond control. "That girl you saw doesn't exist yet. I told you—
she is living in the future. That is why she can't come to dinner with us, because if she does, maybe al of this would col apse!"
Mother's mouth was set in a hard line, her eyes fil ing with tears. "Henry, I've never known you to tel me such rubbish. What has got into you?
Why would you say these strange things to me?"
Henry's stomach felt queasy. He steadied himself against the chair. "Yes, Mother. I know it sounds crazy." He paused, letting the wave of emotion leave him. He saw the confusion and hurt on his mother's face, her hunched posture worsened by the fight, her resolve weakened. Her pale light dimming ever so slightly. "Forgive me," he murmured.
"What the devil is going on here?" his grandfather said, coming into the room, the smel of pipe smoke fol owing him. "Why are you raising your voice, Henry?"
"I was only..." he began. "I'm sorry. Please forget what I said, Mother." Silently he added, You will, anyway.
His mother stood up from the table, stacking the teacups and dessert dishes. "I accept your apology, however graceless."
"What was this al about?" Grandpa asked.
"A friend of Henry's stopped by to visit the farm a few days ago," Mother said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "I simply thought perhaps Henry would like to invite the young lady over for supper sometime."
"Wel , that explains al the lunacy," said Grandpa. He shook his head and reached for the pile of dishes. "Girls."
Henry, frustrated, silent, went out the front door to the porch and plunked down into his mother's rocking chair. In the distance the mist was thick. And beyond it was Amy. He wondered if she'd come to see him again, after the way he'd explained everything. She probably thought he was some kind of ghost, some kind of liar.
Thinking about Amy, Henry wondered about the future, something he'd never al owed himself to do. It felt selfish. And it felt good. But merely for a moment, and then the familiar ache returned.
Henry rocked in the chair, missing his brother, and missing the person his mother used to be, back before everything had worn her down.
He felt the burden of days heavier than ever. What would have happened to his family if he hadn't intervened that night? What would happen if time moved forward and he went away to war, only to face a fate similar to his brother's? Those fearsome thoughts had tempered everything since the endless summer began. But he'd held them off, storing them in the very back of his mind in favor of keeping everything the same as it was—as safe as it was.
The breeze started up, tickling the leaves on the trees and rustling through the laundry on the line. The now-familiar news report for this day drifted out from Mother's radio as his afternoon began unfolding in perfect synchronicity. Sighing, Henry forced himself back inside the house. Back inside the only life he knew.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It's a party for the football team. Matt and I push through all the streamers and make our way to the kitchen. We're drinking from red plastic cups.
Loud, loud music shakes the house. But then, things go crazy. Cop sirens wail. Kids run and suddenly, the basement seems to be the only safe place.
Matt and I smush into a closet with a bunch of other people. The hiding place reeks of beer breath and sweat and cologne. It's packed in there and Matt faces me. While we wait in the dark for the sirens to end and the noise upstairs to stop, Matt puts his hands on my stomach. In the sliver of light coming from the crack of the door, I can see Matt glance down at where he's touching me.
I start to say something, but Matt covers my mouth with one of his hands. "Shhh," he says, hushing me because of the cops, I guess. But then his other hand moves lower and I start to get nervous. I reach down and try to push it away, try to move back, but Matt holds me where I am.
Matt's hand stays there, too. He's moving his fingers, trying to touch me through my jeans.
Someone behind us giggles like they know. I feel my cheeks get hot and scratchy. Matt keeps touching me. The cops are still upstairs, and I don't want to scream. I don't dare bite Matt's fingers over my mouth. I'm embarrassed. I start to breathe through my nose, sure I will pass out any second.
***
"Amy? Wake up, sweetie."
My eyes adjusted to the darkness of my room. The familiar smel of the trailer greeted me, the cracked-open window letting in damp air and blue-black night. I felt sticky, sweaty, and my heart was pounding.
Aunt Mae sat down next to me on the bed. She patted my clammy hand. "Nightmare. Katie woke me up whining to tel me about you."
I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my T-shirt and sat up against the pil ows. "I was dreaming."
"You were crying out in your sleep," Mae said. She switched on the lamp next to my bed.
I took a deep breath. "Bad dream about before," I said. "About Matt."
"Bound to be some of those left in you. Let's go have a cup of tea."
"No, it's cool. I don't need anything," I said, hugging a pil ow to my chest. I just wanted to go back to sleep, forget the dream, forget the parts of it that were true, the parts that made me feel used and dirty.
"My house, my rules," Mae said sternly.
Wiping my wet cheeks, I got up and fol owed her down the hal to the kitchen, knowing ful wel that tea wouldn't cure anything.
"I'l make us some chamomile," Mae said.
I sat down at the table, which was covered with books and boxes. Mae had been scrapbooking or something after I'd gone to bed.
"What's al this junk?"
Mae returned from putting on the kettle. "You got me thinking about the old place," she said. "I pul ed out al my old photo albums." She got out her reading glasses and began flipping through dusty pages of a leather-bound book.
I saw a photo of the trailer—brand-new, with Mae next to it. She looked slightly younger, but she stil wore her traditional overal s and her hair swept up into a loose bun.
"Look at me. Wasn't so long ago," Mae said, letting out a sigh. She flipped some more pages. "Oh, here's Dusty, my shepherd before Katie."
I took a look at the dog in the picture, a ringer for the one snoring on the floor near our feet.
Mae turned another page. "Okay, here's your haunted house. Very few pictures escaped the fire."
I peered at a much older photograph, black-and-white with scal oped edges. A run-down farmhouse. Henry's farmhouse. Paint peeling, sagging porch, a dark moss seeming to cover every slat of siding. It wasn't anything like what I had seen. The ghost house Henry inhabited was perfect, clean white, beautiful. But it was somehow the same house.
"That was the old Briggs place before we moved in," Mae said.
I felt goose bumps rise on my arms. "I know," I said. "I saw the house."
"You imagined it?" Mae cracked a smile. "Sweetie, I don't think places can be ghosts. Only people."
"Do you have any pictures of the family?"
Mae shook her head. "I don't have any pictures of them, sweetie." The teakettle whistled. "'Scuse me."
While Mae went off to get our tea, I flipped through more of the scrapbook, looking for more pictures of the house.
Mae came back to the table with two mugs of tea.
"I hate to tel you this—but I think your property is total y haunted by the Briggs family," I said, floating the truth.
"Wonderful," Mae said with a smile. "Years I complain about no one visiting me, and I had a whole passel of friends out back." She lifted her mug and blew on the hot tea.
"I knew you'd think I was nuts,"
I said.
She took a sip of chamomile. "No. I think you're creative. You taking up ghost hunting?"
"No, I guess not." I shut Mae's album and reached for my tea.
Mae set down her mug. "You know, you've been awful y quiet since your mom and Pete were here the other day."
"Meh, it's fine. Whatever," I said. I stirred some sugar into my tea. "I mean, it's not like they were around much, anyway."
"You say that, but I saw the look on your face that afternoon," Mae said. "I know you wish they weren't moving away, sweetie."
"Yeah, I thought I would go back home at some point."
Mae nodded. "It would be good for you to go back there, anyway. Someday, when you feel ready. If you avoid places or people, you give them power."
"Maybe."
Mae got up from the table, yawning. "I'm going to hit the hay. You going to be al right?"
"Yeah."
"Cal Katie-dog up on the bed. She's an antidote to ghosts and nightmares. She wouldn't let anyone harm a hair on your head."
"'Kay. Thanks."
Mae shuffled off down the hal , and I opened the album on the table again. I final y found another picture of the house. This time the place was in ruins, scorched by fire. And there was the apple tree where I'd stood with Henry. I touched the picture, the edges curled and barely held down by the little black glued corners. I thought of him touching me. Holding me. And me feeling so safe.
"Why can't you be real?"
I shut the book and cal ed Katie to bed. The ghosts in my life had haunted me enough for one night.
***
"Hey," Jackson said, sliding into the seat next to me in Mr. Planter's room for the homecoming meeting. "What's up with you? Tired or something?
You've been yawning al day."
I shrugged. "Haven't been sleeping much."
"That I can tel . Bags under your eyes. Cute bags, but bags nonetheless," he said, winking.
I gave him a shut-it look and opened my notebook.
"Okay, let's get this meeting started. So, first of al , can we please do something cool for once?" Lori banged her fist on the table, silencing the other kids. They al stared at her.
Mr. Planter cleared his throat. "Cool is relative. What did you have in mind?"
"I know we usual y do a theme at homecoming, but this year, since it's so close to Hal oween, it should also be a costume bal ."
"I like it," Mr. Planter said, nodding.
"That sounds fun," said Jackson.
Mr. Planter moved to the whiteboard. "Okay, any ideas for the theme?"
"Total y eighties!" Melanie, who'd come late to the meeting, piped up.
"That was last year's winter tolo theme," Lori said, rol ing her eyes.
"Groovy disco seventies?" said the girl sitting next to me.
"The seventies is pretty overdone," Jackson pointed out. "And for the record, I'm not wearing polyester anything."
Mr. Planter chuckled. "I think you're on the right track. Let's keep thinking." He went to the whiteboard and started writing down al the suggestions in bright red pen.
Famous couples
Red, white, and blue
Greek mythology
Love through the ages
Literary characters
It was al clichéd. I didn't have anything new to contribute, but these weren't good. I tried to think back to school in Seattle—we'd done a seaside theme once, and another time something about a jungle. Lame and lamer.
"Movie scenes," cal ed out Jackson.
"Uh, what? What's that supposed to mean?" Melanie said, giving him a withering look.
"You know—like we do some classic movies? Decorate the place like Hol ywood, dress up. Have the paparazzi photograph us."
"You mean dress up like at a Star Wars convention?" offered Mr. Planter.
"Uh, no." Jackson held up two hands. "I was thinking like Indiana Jones or Casablanca."
"Or Breakfast at Tiffany's" I said, looking up from my doodling.
"Or Legally Blonde," said Lori. "Yeah, that's cool."
Mr. Planter looked pleased. "Okay. So, do we have a consensus, team? The movies?"
Melanie groaned. "Oh, this is gonna suck."
Lori's smile faded.
"It's going to be fine," I said.
Melanie turned her annoyed glance to me. "I suppose you're going to do Sex and the City? " she said with a snarky laugh.
"Uh, what?"
"Never mind. Just something I heard," she said under her breath.
Mr. Planter capped his pen. "We'l meet again next week—how about next Tuesday, same time? Come prepared, and let's try to bring better attitudes," he said, giving Melanie a pointed look.
On the way out to the hal , I stopped Melanie. "What's your deal?"
"I'm not stupid," she said. "My friends told me they saw you drinking with Quinn on the back porch at Lori's party last Friday."
"Boy, your spies are everywhere," I said, shaking my head.
"I know what you're up to," she said.
"No, you don't. I'm not after Quinn. You don't have to worry about me."
"What? What do you mean by that?"
I saw something pained in her expression that almost made me feel sorry for her. How many other girls had she had to warn away from Quinn, since obviously he wasn't faithful? "Melanie, are you real y happy with him, anyway? I mean, is he even nice to you?" I asked.
Her expression hardened. "Why are you even asking that? Look, I could make your life hel , so watch out and stay away from him. I know what girls like you are al about."
I bit my lip, wanting to say much more, but Jackson and Lori had caught up to us.
"Everything okay?" Jackson said, slipping an arm around my shoulder.
I didn't flinch. "Yeah."
I didn't flinch. "Yeah."
Melanie raised her eyebrows and sashayed off down the hal .
"She's a one-woman rumor mil ," Lori said. "I mean, not that she's starting anything about you. Just, you know..."
"No, I don't."
"Wel ," Lori said, sucking in a breath, "I heard Quinn's friends said some stuff about you and Quinn, but they make crap up al the time."
"What did they say?"
"They were talking about stuff you did at the party."
"Amy left the party early," Jackson said.
"I remember that, I think," said Lori, shouldering her bag. "Just watch your back. These rumors get started and have a life of their own."
"Wel , maybe you could be a friend and help end them," Jackson said. He glared at Lori, and her cheeks flushed pink.
"No, it's fine. I don't even care," I said. "Real y. It's not worth it."
Jackson shook his head. "I know you don't think much of this place," he said. "But I can't stand people making stuff up about my friends."
"You can always count on rumors in a smal town," added Lori.
As we walked out in the parking lot toward Jackson's car, I saw Quinn getting into Melanie's hatchback. He gave me a sheepish smile as if to say, I can't help it, and then they drove off in a spray of gravel.
My stomach felt sick, but I held it together until I got to the safety of my room, where I buried myself under the covers. Why did people have to be so lame? Why did boys have to lie and start stuff? I hugged my pil ow and missed home. And missed Mom. And truthful y ... missed my ghost.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The chicken coop was warm that Saturday morning. Henry rol ed up his sleeves and reached under the fat white hen, pul ing out two bluish-tinted eggs. Things were starting to feel normal again. He'd thought about Amy less and less over the last few days as he fel back into the daily routines of the farm. He was trying to appreciate each moment they were given.
Next to him, Mother slipped another prize into her apron pocket. "That was a big one," she said, giving Henry a smile.
He nodded and moved down the line of nest boxes, placing more eggs into his basket, adding to the jumble of colors and sizes he'd col ected.
"Isn't this marvelous? We have so many this morning," Mother said. Her pockets fil ed, she handed him one last egg. "Here, darling, you take this one. I'm al ful up and I'd best go start breakfast. Grandpa wil be up and grumbling any minute." She gave him a happy glance and for just a second, Henry glimpsed the Mother he'd known before the war, before his brother had shipped out. She hadn't always been as tired or sad as she was these days.
Henry moved toward the coop door, opening it for her.
"Such a gentleman," Mother said, with a bit of a bow. There was almost a giggle in her voice.
"What's got into you, Mother?" Henry asked.
"I don't know," she said, strol ing out of the hen house. "I have a hopeful feeling today. Maybe we'l get one of Robert's letters in the post. We haven't had one in months. Since he was in England, I recal ."
Henry knew that no letters would be coming. Not anymore. They'd stopped long before the day everything had changed.
"Yes, maybe a letter today," his mother said.
As Henry turned to latch the coop's door, he tried to remember if Mother had said those words before this summer began. Yes, but she hadn't been nearly as optimistic.
"Don't get your hopes up, Mother. It's hard for the men to write often," Henry said, catching up to her.
"Yes, that's true, dear." She reached up to touch a cluster of tiny apples on the tree. "Hmm ... early for these yet," she said with a sigh.
And of course it was early for the apples, being that it was just toward the end of June. The immature apples, as much as the birthday cake the other day, were an early summer marker that came around each time. It was al part of the calendar that started over again, fresh and empty as a clean sheet of paper.
Henry fol owed his mother across the yard. He hadn't heard her humming in a while, and this morning it was a lofty Irish tune he remembered from his early years, something about springtime and green hil s.
She mounted the porch steps jauntily, and in the yard behind them the rooster crowed. "And I bid good morning to you, sir," Mother said.
"Giddy. It's as if you're giddy," Henry muttered. And then he instantly thought of Mother's pil s. Usual y they didn't have this effect, but perhaps in the wrong dosage...
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