SET IN STONE
By Beth Balmanno
© 2012 Beth Balmanno
All rights reserved
Cover photograph Pink Sherbet Photography
Cover design JT Lindroos
For Hayley
thank you for believing in me
Chapter 1
Grass didn’t normally beckon to me. It did today. I reached for a handful, wrapped my fingers around the thin blades and gave a hard tug. The tender shoots held firmly to the earth, gripping the soil with their roots as I struggled to wrench them free. I added the latest victims to the growing pile next to me.
My mom covered my hand with her own, the pink tips of her polished nails digging into my skin.
“Val. Leave the grass alone.”
“What time is it?” I fidgeted on the floral quilt I lay sprawled on.
The question I really wanted to ask was How much longer do we have to stay here? Not that going home would have been any better.
She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist. “Five minutes since the last time you asked,” she said. “Five-fifteen.”
She returned to her magazine, a thick, glossy rag with a thin, bikini-clad model smiling on the cover. I frowned back at her too perfect face.
“There’s nothing to do.” My hand returned to the grass, seeking out its next victim.
Mom sighed. Like me, she despised these trips. “Why don’t you and Geoff do something?” she suggested. “Play some basketball, go for a hike. He’ll be done with their tent in a minute.”
“Oooh, hold me back,” I muttered.
I was miserable. Nothing was going to lift me out of my funk. I wouldn’t let it.
She frowned. “Claire and Danny are our friends.”
“Well, Geoff isn’t a friend of mine.”
She plucked bits of grass off her pink jogging pants. “I know. You remind me all the time. Could you try, though?”
I glanced over at Geoff. He clenched a piece of paper between his teeth as he wrestled two poles into place. They had arrived this afternoon and I envied him his shortened trip. I watched him while he worked. We could pass as brother and sister. A battered Nationals cap hid brown hair the exact shade of mine, the brim hiding hazel eyes that mirrored my own. One feature we did not share, however, were Geoff’s large ears, ears that protruded now from the edge of his hat. For this, I was grateful.
He turned then and attempted a feeble wave, dropping one of the tent poles he’d precariously placed into position. The spit-dampened paper wafted to the ground as he called a hello. I managed a lackluster wave and an even less enthusiastic smile.
I stood up, brushing non-existent dirt from the back of my shorts. It was hot for so early in the season. “I’m going for a walk.”
Mom repositioned herself on the thick quilt, leaning back on her elbows and propping her magazine on her knees. “Why don’t you ask Geo--”
I stopped her. “I want to be alone.”
Her look of disapproval did nothing to change my mind.
“You’ve got your phone, right?” Dad’s voice startled me.
I’d almost forgotten he was there. He’d parked himself next to the empty fire pit, a pad of paper balanced on his lap while he pecked furiously on his Blackberry. A pen rested behind his ear, sharing real estate with his wire-rimmed glasses. He was the master of multi-tasking, working on case files when he was supposed to be vacationing. Like his American Express card, he never left home without them.
“And your whistle?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes—what other dad on the planet gave his teenage daughter a whistle? He’d tossed it to me the minute we’d arrived at the campground. Casting a quick glance at Geoff, hoping he wouldn’t see, I patted the pocket with my cell phone inside and fingered the silver whistle looped around my neck.
“And Val…stay on the trail.”
**
The trail I hiked was littered with damp, decomposing leaves, the decaying carpet muffling the sound of my footsteps. Spring was quieter here; muted bird song, the branches of the thick canopy of trees pressed together in silence. The trail meandered through the woods and then veered to the left in a sudden, steep incline, as I’d known it would. This was my trail, the trail I always hiked, the trail that led me to my vista of peace and solitude. My heart quickened at the thought and a surge of adrenaline invigorated me, surprising me by bolstering my flagging spirits.
Fifteen minutes later, I was at the top of the hill, at the point where the trail opened into a large, open meadow. The grass here was lush, newly green and it smelled of earth and sun and springtime. I fought to catch my breath, wishing I’d remembered to bring a bottle of water. I gazed out at the view of the valley before me, a sweeping panorama of flowering and newly budded trees, yellow-green and rosy pink in the afternoon sun, the new birth of leaves peppering the once barren landscape with a verdant splash of color. A hawk soared overhead in a slow, smooth circle and I watched, captivated, as he swooped low in search of some invisible prey.
I let myself relax for a moment. From this vantage point, the beauty of where I was captured me. I thought about what it would be like to stay here forever, at this spot high in the Blue Ridge mountains, away from the reminders of my fugitive best friend, away from the pull of my dad’s job and the lure of keeping up appearances for my mom, and away from the wretched school I was forced to attend. I could stay, I thought, and be happy. Or at least give it a shot. There was nothing I wanted to return home to.
I pulled out my phone, not wanting to check out of my fantasy and back into reality, and sighed. It was already six o’clock. Time to head back. Dad would be rooting through one of the coolers, hunting for the hamburger patties. I thought about the hike back to the campsite and back to my parents and the Donnellys. I didn’t mind camping, especially if it was just Dad and me, and I didn’t mind doing stuff with Dad’s partner in the firm. But all of them together? I grimaced. It was almost too much to bear, especially if Geoff was involved.
I thought about his eager, open face and his too-friendly smile. He was definitely nice. In all of the times we’d been thrown together over the past three years—at dinners, holiday parties and, of course, the annual weekend camping trip—he’d been unfailingly friendly and polite. Almost too much. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was just too nice. Not like the kids at school.
The sun was sinking quickly, its filtered rays casting spidery shadows on the path in front of me as I turned and headed back down the trail. I navigated the steep slope more carefully this time, stepping sideways on the slick leaves, holding my arms out for balance. A bird called overhead, its sharp, screeching cry startling me and I slipped, my feet sliding out from underneath me.
I careened off the trail and slid into the brush. Sharp twigs scraped my exposed legs as I slid further, the trees a blur of green. My knee crashed into a large boulder and I leaned to the left, hoping to avoid smashing my skull against another rock. Finally, stillness. I cradled my knee, blinking back tears as I rubbed at the streaks of mud now decorating my skin. My leg throbbed and I flexed it gingerly, wondering if it was broken. The top layer of skin was gone and tiny beads of blood oozed from my wound like ruby-red balloons. It stung like hell. I looked at my tattered shorts. They looked even worse than my knee.
I surveyed the scene around me, trying to get my bearings. The woods engulfed me. The embankment I’d slid down was a good thirty feet away. The path my backside had carved through the landscape was clearly visible. I picked myself up and brushed at the dirt and mud caked to my calves. I leaned against the rock and tested my leg, shifting my weight from side to side, making certain I could walk the remaining trail back to our tent. My entire body ached.
I looked around at the cluster of
old oak trees surrounding the boulders that had stopped my unexpected journey off the trail. Like the trees, the grouping of rocks—massive slate-gray boulders—rested in an almost perfect circle. Some of these stood close, their sides touching, as if they’d been placed together for just that purpose. My dad’s words—Stay on the trail—echoed in my mind. Something gnawed at me, a tiny shiver of fear or anticipation that prickled underneath my skin. I dismissed it.
I watched the sunlight as it shone sideways through the trees, indicating its quick descent on the horizon. It created a brilliant, almost blinding curtain of light and, like the woods, it wrapped around me, warming me, comforting me. I felt a compelling urge to stay there, to relax and release, to just be. My eyes focused on a lone oak tree in the center of the stone circle. Its trunk was massive, its branches heavy with lacy leaves. Nothing else grew there. No brambles. No wildflowers. Nothing. I stared at the tree, somehow sensing a purpose to its singular placement. As I studied it, something at its base glinted in the shadows of light. It gleamed, catching the sun’s rays and reflecting its light back to me.
Maybe it was a piece of glass thrown carelessly into the wood, I thought. Or maybe a mylar balloon, some foil-cartoon character’s final resting place after being released, by accident or design, by the chubby, grubby hand that had clung to it. I looked again but saw nothing. Maybe I’d imagined it. I shook my head; I was imagining a lot of things. A tree with a purpose? I smiled, feeling ridiculous. I turned to go, glancing back one last time. A brilliant light glowed this time, illuminating the base of the tree like a spotlight.
I stopped, transfixed. The sliver of fear was back, prickling my neck, sending shivers down my arms. But I didn’t leave; I didn’t turn and hobble out of the woods. I went to see what beckoned to me.
I moved closer, my senses alert, supercharged. A deafening silence surrounding me, soon broken by the sudden crunching of leaves as my feet guided me toward that mammoth tree. Near the tree, just beneath a small pile of leaves, was the source, the mysterious glowing something. Tentatively, I pushed at a leaf. Then another, and another until a small dark hole, no larger than the size of my fist, came into view. I leaned closer. It smelled old, of damp, dark earth, of musty pasts and ancient secrets. The light was gone. I hesitated for only a moment before plunging my balled-up fist into that hole. My knuckles touched something cool and I opened my hand to grasp it. I pulled it into the light. A small stone, the size of a quarter, lay nestled in my palm. It was opaque, iridescent, thin and round like a wheel. It was silky smooth, like no rock I’d ever held, and it both warmed and chilled my hand as I gently rolled it between my thumb and forefinger. I cupped it with both hands. Tucked in the cocoon I’d created, the stone began to glow, as if lit from within. My eyes widened as the light intensified and then suddenly, without warning, dimmed.
I clenched my fist tightly around it as I debated what to do. I could leave the stone where I’d found it. Place it back in that hole in the earth and walk away. It probably belonged to someone, I thought. Someone would be looking for what I’d found, this polished stone that glowed eerily, that seemed to have an internal out-of-control thermostat that fluctuated wildly between hot and cold. Like the place I’d just stumbled upon—this secret, magical place that had been painstakingly constructed—it was special. And it didn’t belong to me.
But even as I thought this, my hand tightened possessively around the stone. As surely as I knew the rock belonged to someone, I knew that returning it to its hiding place was not an option. I wanted it. I glanced around me before slipping the stone into my pocket. I limped toward the trail, picking my way through the vines and underbrush as I headed back to camp.
Chapter 2
The burgers sizzled on the grill. Dad hovered over them, a spatula in one hand, a bottle of A-1 sauce in the other. This was his one chance to grill and he took his job seriously. Mr. Donnelly stood next to him, chatting on his cell. Probably a client.
I mumbled a hello and made a beeline for the tent, hoping Dad wouldn’t look up.
“You’re late.” He looked at me then and frowned. “What on earth happened to you?” He thrust the spatula into Mr. D’s hands and moved toward me.
“Nothing,” I said. “The trail was wet and I slipped. No biggie. I’m fine.”
I held up my hand to stop him, like a crossing guard halting a group of children. I didn’t want him to come closer, to examine my scrapes and bruises, to berate me for my carelessness and clumsiness.
“You need to clean up those cuts. Now. You don’t want them to get infected.”
“I will, I will. I’ll get the first-aid kit from the car. And I need a shower.”
“A shower’s going to have to wait. Burgers are nearly done.”
I glared at him but didn’t respond.
Mom and Mrs. Donnelly set bowls of chips and a large green salad on the sun-bleached picnic table. I tried to slip by them, too, but they saw me.
Mom’s eyes widened. “What on earth happened to you? You’re a mess!”
“Val, honey, are you OK?” Mrs. D asked, her eyes filled with worry.
Geoff slouched in a camp chair by the fire pit, his nose buried in a book.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled. “I slipped. I fell. I have a few scrapes.”
“Do you want some help getting cleaned up?” Mrs. D reached out and pulled a leaf from my ponytail. Mom’s hands instinctively flew to her own hair, patting and smoothing those auburn strands into place.
“I’m OK,” I told her.
I opened the SUV’s black door and rummaged around in the glove box, unearthing the first-aid kit. After a quick, longing glance toward the brick bathrooms, I disappeared into the tent. I tried to ignore the rock nestled in my pocket, pressing cooly against my thigh. I dabbed at my cuts with antiseptic wipes, wincing as it stung my raw skin. I squeezed ointment out of a thin white tube and smoothed the sticky gel across my scrapes. It mixed with the dirt and caked-on mud, creating a concoction that resembled gritty chocolate pudding. I grimaced. I really needed a shower. Instead, I changed into a pair of tattered blue sweat pants. I transferred my stone into its pocket, grabbing my Georgetown sweatshirt and throwing it on before heading back out.
Everyone was eating. Mom and Dad crowded around the picnic table with Mr. and Mrs. D, plates piled high and beer bottles open.
“How are those cuts, Valerie?” Mrs. D asked. Her look of concern was genuine.
“Fine,” I said. “It looked worse than it was.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m fine,” I assured her, glancing sideways at my own mom. She was engrossed in conversation with my dad and hadn’t noticed our exchange.
Geoff sat by the fire pit, balancing a paper plate on his lap as he plucked potato chips and popped them into his mouth. I fixed my burger, slathering my bun with ketchup and loading it with pickles, and grabbed a Coke from the cooler before reluctantly making my way to the empty chairs next to Geoff.
“Looks like that was a pretty nasty fall,” he said, nodding at the hidden scratches on my legs. He had noticed.
“I’m fine.” I said it more to convince myself than him. Despite my assurances to his mom, my legs still ached from the scratches and welts I’d received.
We sat without speaking. The crunch of potato chips was deafening.
“So....” Geoff tried again. “How’s school going?”
I took a bite of my burger. “Fine.”
“You like your classes?” he prompted.
I took a long drink of my Coke. “They’re fine. Chemistry sucks. History is good. How about you?” I bit my tongue. “Sorry, I forgot.”
He smiled and this time I noticed his braces were gone, revealing an even set of white teeth. “Nothing to be sorry about. I may not go to school all day long but I still study and have favorite subjects, you know?”
“Do you like it?” I asked. “Being home-schooled?” The word got stuck in my throat and I took a long drink of Coke.
Geoff
shrugged. “It’s fine. I like it.”
I took another bite. I had a million questions that I wanted to ask him but this was one of the many barriers that stood between us. His life was so foreign to me. Why anyone would homeschool was beyond my scope of understanding. School was not my favorite place to be—had never been—but having one of my parents teach me? Dad was so busy I doubted he could squeeze teaching into his already jam-packed schedule. School with him would be impossible. And Mom? School would consist of Miss Manners School for Girls, or How To Marry Well, with field trips to the salon and all of her favorite shopping haunts. I shuddered.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked. He polished off his burger and threw his paper plate into the fire. It blackened and twisted as the flames consumed it.
“No. So do you take classes and stuff?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I finished high-school stuff last year. I’m taking a couple of evening classes at NOVA this semester. I’ll probably take some more next year, too. Then college. Dad wants me to go to Georgetown but Mom’s pushing for Brown.”
He was the same age as me and had already graduated. I felt even more intimidated. Apparently, he’d been too smart for regular school.
“School was hard,” he said as if he’d heard the musings in my mind. He toyed with the pull tab on his Coke. “None of the kids really wanted to be there and I don’t think most of the teachers did, either. It was a total waste of time. For me, anyway.” He looked at me. “Some people can do just fine in that kind of environment but I hated it. I left school at the end of seventh grade. It was the best decision I ever made. So far.”
He changed the subject. “So, how was your hike? See anything interesting?”
I thought about the rock tucked away in my fleece-lined pocket. I was vividly aware of it, how it warmed and cooled my leg in turn. I should have been unnerved by its presence, by how it seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. But I wasn’t. I resisted the urge to reach into my pocket and find it, to guard and protect it from him. From everyone.
Set In Stone Page 1