“When we get there, will they be having dinner?”
He looks at his watch. “Maybe. Probably.” Even then they’ll have to run, but he’s holding off on that.
“So how it goes is, you just do whatever it is you do, and I’ll just stand there and gawk at Daisy Chimes, watch every bite, every sip.”
“What if she’s not there?” he says. “What if she gets her dinner in her cabin, one of those?”
“Fine. You deliver it and—guess what—we’re in the cabin.”
Another glance at the watch. “We’ll get there too late. She’ll already be eating. And don’t think about pickup. They leave their dinner trays outside the door. So nobody bothers them. I told you.”
“Even better,” she says. She drapes her arm around his shoulders, sisterly. “Trust me, Worm—you are going to bother her. You are going to snatch her book from the coffee table and march into her cabin and tell her to sign it for Becca.”
Worm can’t imagine himself doing all that. On the other hand, he can’t imagine Becca Finch not getting what she wants.
3:41 p.m.
They walk.
It takes Worm a while to notice how slowly they’re walking. He’d think she would be anxious, want to speed it up. But no—just lah-dee-dah.
And now she’s taking a left on Birchmore. Doesn’t say a word. He follows.
Halfway down the block she stops at a tree.
“Copper beech,” she says. “One of the coolest trees ever.”
She’s right, now that he looks. It’s huge. Tall but fat too. Dark red leaves. Massive trunk. You could hide an SUV behind it. And yet the limbs are skinny, giving it, to Worm’s eye, a kind of alien look. But it’s the bark that does it. It’s gray and smooth—not chippy like a lot of trees—and it’s bulgy and ripply in a way that reminds him of muscles.
She strolls another block and a half before hanging a right, and in time they wind up back on Pocono, still lah-dee-dah.
And now he thinks he gets it. She doesn’t want to get there during dinner. She wants to get there late enough to be sure Daisy Chimes is in her cabin. That’s where she wants to catch her, have her favorite writer all to herself.
4:34 p.m.
They walk. She talks. He listens.
She tells him stories, from her first memories on. It’s all pretty ordinary. No fireflies. No Pooter. No trauma. Life in Elwood, PA.
Worm is loving it. He wishes his house was even farther away, wishes it would pick itself up and move another ten miles down the road. He’s over feeling like he’s letting her down. You need to fix me? Well, good luck. Worm hereby pledges to be perfectly, totally Worm, to not deviate an inch from his Wormness, to make her have to work her assignment as hard and long as possible—because an icy stab to the heart tells him what he’s probably known all along: that as soon as she fixes him, she’s gone.
They walk.
5:59 p.m.
Worm doesn’t hear the car. Doesn’t know it’s there till the bumper and grille slide into his side vision. The faint shhh of a window rolling down…a voice…his father’s. “Nice hat.”
Not a car. His father’s pickup.
“Who?” Becca says.
He whispers to her, “My dad.”
They stop.
“That was a strange couple of seconds there,” says his dad, his voice friendly as always but something else too, relief maybe. The door lock button pops up. “I see this kid walking down the street. No big hurry. Like, cabin dinner delivery? What’s that? Change the linens? What’s that? From the ears down everything says it’s the kid I’m looking for, it’s my Worm. Black shirt, check. Height, check. Old-school sneaks, check. But the hat…the feather. I’ll take a wild guess that somebody has had an interesting day.”
Worm is not sure how to play this, prays his father doesn’t go federal case.
The door swings open. “Come on,” he says, still friendly. “Dinner’s on.”
There’s a problem. The back seat is filled with stuff: lamps, pictures. Where’s Becca going to fit?
“Aunt Rita’s stuff,” his father explains. “No room in her new place. Let’s go.”
Worm feels a push from behind, and next thing he knows, he’s in the passenger seat with the ghost or whatever of Becca Finch in his lap. She feels exactly like what she is—or was: 130 pounds and five feet seven inches of girl, heavy on his thighs, now twisting and sticking her finger in his ear and tickling him through his sweaty black shirt. He can’t help it, he giggles.
“While you’re busy laughing,” says his dad, looking at him through Becca, “if you’ll be so kind as to shut the door and put your seat belt on, I can proceed to drive us home to one extremely unhappy mother.”
Worm shuts the door. The seat belt won’t go around them both…duh, she doesn’t need one. The truck speeds up. The girl won’t give him a break. She continues to play with his face—ears, nose, mouth—like babies do with grown-ups. And now she goes too far. She drills her little finger up his left nostril. He smacks her hand away.
“Fly in here?” his father says.
“Yeah,” says Worm. “Big one.”
She shakes with laughter in his lap.
While Becca plays with his face, his dad fills the rest of the ride with chatter about moving day with Aunt Rita. Worm tries not to be too obvious about keeping his hand over his nose. He will not let that finger go up there again.
6:10 p.m.
Worm’s mom is at the kitchen counter getting desserts ready when they walk in the back door. She doesn’t even look up. Hell hath no fury like a mother whose texts have been ignored all day. Well, better this than getting hollered at.
In the dining room, around the big table, the dinnertime writers ignore him too. They’re just eating away, chatting to each other, as if he’s not even…
And now he gets it. Clever, Mom. She’s using the Dead Wednesday thing to cover her fury at him. She’s told the writers about it, told them to act as if he’s not there, because the black shirt means he’s dead. Which is pretty funny when you think about it. While the eating writers are pretending they can’t see him, they really can’t see her.
There are six women, one man.
Becca whispers in his ear, excited: “I don’t see her. Get the book.”
He leads her into the living room…to the coffee table…it’s there! She squeals. He grabs it—then she grabs it and bops on out the front door.
He comes to his senses, follows her outside.
“We can’t,” he says.
“We can,” she says. “We will.”
“No,” he says. “You can’t bother them in their cabins. It’s rule number one. It’s gotta be some other way.”
Becca thinks on it. “She’s eating. That’s not as uninterruptible as writing.” She pulls him along. “She’ll be cool. We’re readers.”
He wrenches free. “No!” He’s in enough trouble already.
She lets go of him, looks at him. The urgency falls from her face, her posture. She smiles. “OK, Worm,” she says. “I’ve been dragging you along most of the day. Calling the shots. ‘Say this, Worm. Do that, Worm.’ How are you supposed to man up if I don’t turn you loose?”
She spreads her arms, takes three steps back. “There. You’re free. It’s the Night of the New Worm. I’m leaving you with two words. That’s all. Are you looking at me?”
Is he. He nods.
“Be bold,” she says. “Be. Bold.”
She walks away.
6:23 p.m.
The cabins are arranged in two half-moons—four and four—facing each other across the meadow. Each writer’s name is computer-printed on a card tucked into a tag holder beside the door. Worm and Becca look at every name tag before they come to it on the last cabin, #8: daisy ch
imes.
Worm is right beside her but still terrified. He thought bold meant “fearless.”
They step onto the narrow, planked porch. They’re standing at her door. Be bold is fading fast. Stall!
“Tootsie Rolls?” he says.
She grins. “Perfect crime. Tell you later. Now knock.”
“What do I say?” he whispers.
She shoves the book into his hand. “Tell her you’re a big fan. Massive fan. You live here. Work here. You’re totally sorry to bother her at dinner, but you simply cannot allow your favorite writer of all time to come and go without getting her autograph. ‘This book changed my life.’ Say that.”
“That’s dumb. It’s about a girl.”
“She’ll like you even more. Enlightened man.” Her eyes are flashing. “Make a fist.” He makes a fist. She grabs him by the wrist, knocks his fist—way too loud—upon the cabin door.
Why should this day of surprises stop now? Worm expects a youngish person fitting the name Daisy, but when the door opens, he finds himself facing an old lady. She’s wearing a pink-and-green bathrobe, each bare foot has a toe ring, and a rope of braided white hair hangs over her shoulder, almost to her waist. She’s no taller than him.
“Well, hello,” she says. She’s looking right at him—boldly, like Becca does—and smiling in a way that seems to say, Chill, dude, I’m not gonna bite you.
“Hullo?” he says brilliantly.
There’s a stick pen in her hand. He’s interrupted her writing, not her dinner. On the desk behind her sit a soup bowl and a half-eaten roll. He wants to turn and run.
She glances down at the book in his hand, and the smile, if anything, gets bigger. “Like to come in?” She backs up.
Becca pinches him on the butt. He steps into the room.
He wishes he could ask Becca what to say. He and the writer stare at each other for about nineteen hours. “So…,” says Daisy Chimes, “I’ve heard there’s a Robbie on the premises. Would that be you?”
“Yes.” He adds, “Ma’am.”
Becca whispers, “Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For not bringing your dinner.”
“For not bringing your dinner.”
“I was busy with a ghost.”
“I was late getting home.” Hears a giggle.
Daisy Chimes dismisses his apology with a wave of her hand. “Well, some dinner angel left it at my door. The soup was wonderful. My compliments to the chef. That would be your mother?”
He nods.
“And tell your parents what a wonderful, cozy place they have here. It’s everything I’d heard. Sometimes you just need to get away from the hubbub.”
Hubbub?
He’s not sure what the right response is. He takes a shot: “Thanks.”
She taps his wrist with the stick pen. “Something tells me that’s one of my books.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Wendy Wins.” Duh.
“And let me guess,” she says. “You’d like me to sign it.”
“Oh…yeah.” He hands it to her. Remembers his manners. “Please. Thank you.”
His head remains empty, but his nerves are calming down. He’s lived at Writers’ Re-Treat all his life, and this is the most time he’s ever spent with one of them.
“No problem,” she says. Both hands fall to her sides and she starts chuckling, shaking her head. “I find myself saying that all the time. ‘No problem…no problem.’ Where did ‘You’re welcome’ go?” She’s looking at him as if he’s got the answer.
“No problem,” he says.
She slaps her chest with the book and bends over, laughing. Behind him, Becca is cracking up.
For a busy writer, Daisy Chimes seems in no hurry to kick him out. He wonders if his parents have ever actually talked to one of these people.
“O…K…,” she says at last, spilling a few final laugh drips. She sits at the desk and opens the book to the title page. She looks at him. “So…‘To Robbie’?”
For a moment he’s confused. A hard pinch on the butt quickly de-confuses him. “Uh, no—‘To Becca’? Please.”
She looks up. There’s a new delight in her eyes. “Ah…Becca. Two c’s, yes?”
Becca whispers, “Yes!”
“Yes,” he says.
She starts signing. He remembers, says it: “This book changed my life.”
The pen stops. She looks up. The delight is surprisy now. “And you a boy, no less. Call me thrilled.”
Butt pinch.
“Well, I mean…,” he bumbles, “her too. It changed Becca’s life. Totally. She loves you.”
She gives him a slow look. The half-gone bowl of soup must be cold by now. He hopes he doesn’t get grilled about Becca. With her free hand she touches his. “You give Becca a hug for me, OK?”
He nods. “OK.”
She finishes signing:
With love,
Daisy Chimes
She holds out her hand. He shakes it. “Thank you, Robbie, for stopping by. This has been a sweet moment.”
What does he say to that? Becca is tugging him. He smiles, nods, turns to go.
Becca blocks him at the door. She looks frantic. She whispers rat-a-tat in his ear.
He turns. The writer is still looking at him. He sends her a stupid smile. “Uh…” He holds up the book. “Wendy?”
She nods, smiles. “Yes?”
“Uh, what she wins?”
“Yes?”
“She wins, like…herself, right?”
Daisy Chimes gives him two thumbs-ups. “Bingo.”
Becca smacks him on the rump. “Yes!”
He sends the writer another stupid smile and a wave and escapes cabin #8.
6:40 p.m.
In the years to come Worm will many times try and fail to recall every moment of the following hours, which he will designate In the Woods. As to the order of moments, he will never be certain of any but the last.
He will achingly regret not switching the phone in his pocket to record. The only regret-deleting strategy that will work is to tell himself that the phone would not have captured Becca’s voice anyway. Sometimes he will believe it.
As he recalls those hours over and over, he will find that the moments seem to cluster into distinct groupings, to which, in time, he will assign titles. By the end of high school he will be calling them chapters.
••••• Wendy •••••
Every ten seconds she stares at the title page, where Daisy Chimes signed her name. Her face is all smile and marvel. “I can’t believe it,” she keeps saying. “I cannot believe it.”
“How’d it change your life?” he asks her.
They’re only a minute or two into the woods and already deeper than he’s ever gone.
“It gave me permission to be myself,” she says.
Worm thinking: Permission? He knows he’s not one of the great ones. He knows he’s shy and quiet and hangs on the sidelines. But it’s never occurred to him that he’s not who he is. He’s never felt he had to consult some book to ask if it’s OK for him to be himself.
“You needed permission?”
“It’s hard to explain to someone who’s as comfortable with themselves as you are,” she says. “I always kinda felt like I needed to apologize. I walk in front of somebody. ‘I’m sorry.’ I take a seat in front of somebody at a movie. ‘I’m sorry.’ I mean, sure, I did plenty of stuff I should be sorry for, and I was. But a lot of it wasn’t real. It was just in my head, a game called I’m Sorry. I was probably no worse than anyone else.”
Worm nods, thinks. “Starting with the fireflies?”
She smiles, nudges him. “Yeah. As good a starting place as any.”
“And so Wendy,” he says, “how
did she fix you?”
“She took ‘I’m sorry’ out of my life. She taught me it was OK to be imperfect. ‘Be bold.’ I say it to you? She’s the one who said it to me. Or Daisy Chimes, actually. She put the words in Wendy’s mouth—she screams them out her bedroom window—and Wendy gave them to me.”
“And now me,” he says. Thinking: I gotta read this book. “So,” he says, “by the time you met Pooter…”
“I was ready. I was changed. I was me. Surprised? Yeah. But…what? Undeserving? No. Before we walked out of lunch at Waldo’s, I knew. I didn’t care if he did go back to check on another chick. I was keeping him.” She holds out her fist. He bumps it.
••••• Daddy Longlegs •••••
She wanders now. He follows at a distance. It’s a strange world out here, a setting for stories his mother read to him when he was little. Any minute he half expects Hansel and Gretel to show up. They veer around trees. There’s a smell here in the woods that you don’t get near the house. Nature, he figures.
She squeals, dashes, kneels, scoops.
When she turns, she’s got something on the back of her hand. A spider. A pea walking on eight stilty threads. Worm backs off.
“Daddy longlegs,” she says.
“Spider,” he says.
“Harmless,” she says.
She lets it crawl up her arm…onto her shoulder…her ear!
“You’re creeping me out,” he tells her.
She reaches up, gives the bug a ride down. “Hold out your hand.”
“No,” he says.
“Hold out your hand.”
He holds out his hand. The bug crawls over her fingers and onto the back of his hand. Stay there, he prays. He feels eight tiny somethings on the skin of his hand. If atoms had feet.
“The legs never stop growing,” she says. “So every once in a while, he’ll bite off his feet so things don’t get out of control.”
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