by Natasha Lowe
There were plenty of branches to grab on to, and she shimmied right up, pulling herself onto the branch where the bird’s nest sat. Oh, this would be such a perfect spot for a tree house, Lucy thought, sitting down for a minute to look around. A little wooden house tucked away up here that she could keep her magical treasures in, and for a few brief moments she fantasized that perhaps Mrs. Minor was planning on building one with that big heap of lumber.
But Lucy knew in her heart Mrs. Minor was not the tree house building sort. She was probably planning to put up a shed for her potions and broomsticks, and boring old lawn mower. Mrs. Minor liked to keep her lawn in perfect condition, and the one time Lucy had snuck across it to retrieve a tennis ball, tiptoeing over the green, spongy grass, Mrs. Minor had yelled at her fiercely to get off, and (Lucy was quite certain) thrown an invisible spell in her face.
Looking out from her perch, Lucy took in Mrs. Minor’s dark brown house with its small, narrow windows, the blinds pulled most of the way down, and her own little white house that had pale blue shutters and big wooden tubs of petunias in the yard. Beyond that she could see more rooftops, a church spire, and the distant ridge of mountains surrounding Hawthorne. Some of the trees were already starting to turn, and tinges of red and orange dotted the canopy of greens.
Their little town nestled on the Mohawk Trail in the heart of the Pioneer Valley, and (as Lucy’s dad informed her) it had been home to the Native Americans long before the first white settlers moved in. Mr. Castor taught history at the local high school, and he was passionate about Hawthorne’s past. So passionate, he even had a collection of arrowheads that he had dug up near the river.
Hawthorne had been attacked many times by different Native American tribes during its early years. Lucy wasn’t so keen on the history lessons he liked to give her, but she adored her father’s arrowheads. Sometimes she would hold one in her hands and concentrate really hard, hoping she might get transported back to the seventeen hundreds. It hadn’t happened yet, but Lucy never stopped believing it could be possible. That is, until now.
Sighing heavily, she heard a door thud, and Chloe, who lived on the other side of the Castors, wandered into her yard. Holding up the binoculars Lucy peered through them, noticing that Chloe had dyed her hair a deep eggplant purple. It had been forest green when Lucy left for her grandmother’s. Chloe appeared to be dressed in a tunic thing made out of tinfoil with long silver boots underneath. Lucy knew their weird neighbor had graduated from high school last year, but she had no idea what Chloe was doing now.
The Chloe family, as Lucy called them, had moved in four years ago, and in the beginning Chloe had just been shy—shy and kind of sad-looking, hiding behind her long black hair. Lucy wasn’t scared of her then, although the girls rarely spoke. It was only when Chloe started piercing her ears all the way round, chopping off her hair, and wearing black lipstick and too much eye makeup that Lucy began to avoid her.
It was difficult to look away though, and Lucy kept the binoculars focused on Chloe as she began picking leaves off a tree, examining each one carefully before dropping it into a plastic bag. Her mouth moved rapidly, as if she were talking to herself, and her nose ring glistened in the sunlight. Lucy realized that since she’d been away, Chloe had also pierced her eyebrow. Not wanting to be caught spying, she put the binoculars down.
Last year Chloe had come home in a police car, and Lucy still didn’t know what she’d done. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know either. But at least they didn’t yell over there anymore. It had been nice and quiet since Chloe’s dad left, and her mom’s new boyfriend seemed friendly. He always smiled and said hi to Lucy.
Having no desire for Chloe to discover her in Mrs. Minor’s tree, Lucy sat quite still, trying not to rustle. “Please go inside,” she whispered, wishing she could make herself invisible. Instead, Chloe walked toward the little dogwood tree that grew near the Castors’ fence and began plucking leaves off the spindly branches. Lucy shut her eyes, hoping that the ostrich approach might work, since she didn’t know any invisibility spells. If she couldn’t see Chloe, then maybe Chloe wouldn’t notice her.
Holding her breath, Lucy remained motionless, listening to the thud of her heart. She sensed, even before daring to look, that Chloe had spotted her. The air suddenly felt all electric and tingly, and, opening her eyes, Lucy gave a soft cry, because Chloe was staring right up at her, the plastic bag clutched in her arms.
“Get down!” Chloe shouted. Lucy started to panic. Maybe Chloe wanted the nest for herself, and reaching along the branch she snatched up the robin’s nest. Risking another quick look, Lucy let out a whimper, because Chloe was pointing at Mrs. Minor’s house. Was she planning on telling her what Lucy had done? Frantic now, Lucy began to clamber down. She was almost at the ground when a loud knocking cut through the warm afternoon, followed by the scrape of a window being yanked up.
“Get off my property right now,” Mrs. Minor yelled, wagging a bony finger at Lucy. That was the witchiest finger Lucy had ever seen, and with a terrified yelp she slipped and lost her footing, falling the rest of the way. Luckily, it wasn’t far to the ground, and she landed on the soft grass with just a few minor scrapes to her arm. Scrambling straight up, Lucy started to run, the bird’s nest clutched in her hands and the binoculars banging against her chest.
“Private property!” Mrs. Minor shouted again. She slammed down the window as Lucy jumped the little fence, staggering back to the Castors’ lawn. She was breathing heavily, and a sick, dizzy sensation forced her to bend over, feeling as if she might be about to faint. Lucy hung like that for a few breaths, staring at her sneakers.
“What on earth were you doing?” Chloe said. It took Lucy a few seconds to realize she was the one being addressed. Straightening up slowly she stared at her purple-haired neighbor. “That woman’s a nutcase,” Chloe continued. “She hates people going near her yard.” Lucy blinked and took a few steps backward. She glanced at her house, getting ready to bolt. “So what were you doing up there?” Chloe asked again.
“Getting this,” Lucy said, holding out the nest. “It’s for my collection.”
“Seriously?” Chloe’s purple mouth dropped open in surprise. “You collect bird’s nests?”
“This is my nineteenth,” Lucy informed her. “And they’re all different.”
“Unbelievable!” Chloe started to chuckle. “That’s insane!”
“No, it’s not. And you shouldn’t make fun of people’s collections.” Turning away, Lucy ran across her yard. She pushed open the back door, wondering why they couldn’t have nice, normal neighbors like most people.
WHAT IS THIS?” LUCY SAID, peering into her bowl of tomato soup. “It tastes different from usual.”
“I used milk instead of cream,” Mrs. Castor confessed, leaning against the sink. She was wearing a pair of Lucy’s dad’s sweatpants, and her eyes looked all droopy and tired. “I didn’t get to the store yet, Lucy. Dad’s gone for me now. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” she added.
With a worried expression Lucy stared up at her mother. “I cannot cope with different today, Mom. It has not been a good morning.”
“And why is that?” Mrs. Castor said, sitting down at the table opposite Lucy.
“I don’t like Chloe. She scares me.”
“A lot of teenagers look scary, but that doesn’t mean they are. I bet she’s very nice underneath all that makeup and green hair.”
“It’s purple, and I don’t think she is,” Lucy muttered. “And Ella has changed,” she whispered, her mouth quivering at the edges. “I’m not sure we’re still best friends.” She gave her mother a tragic look. “She’s become a sparkle girl, and she’s going over to May’s this afternoon.”
“Ahhh,” Mrs. Castor said, her “ahhh” full of understanding. “Well, that is hard. I agree.”
A tear dropped into Lucy’s soup. “Ella doesn’t believe in magic anymore.”
“Oh, Lucy,” Mrs. Castor murmured, her voice full of sympath
y. “It doesn’t mean you have to stop.”
“But it’s hard to believe in magic by yourself,” Lucy said. She sniffed and stirred her soup around. “I think that I’d like to be homeschooled this year. You can teach me, Mom. It would be perfect.” Lucy’s mother wrote for a magazine called Amazing Animals. Every month they highlighted a different animal, and it was Mrs. Castor’s job to research the animal and write fun facts about it, and since she did all her work on her laptop computer, she could easily teach Lucy at the same time. “I really don’t want to go into fourth grade,” Lucy added, needing to make her point.
“Things are never as bad as you imagine they’re going to be, Lucy. You know that. And I’d be a terrible teacher, I’m afraid.”
“Then Dad can do it. He’s a teacher already, so I’m sure we could make it work.”
“But he teaches at the high school.” Mrs. Castor leaned over to give Lucy a hug. “And he’s gone all day.”
“Mom, are you all right?” Lucy asked, noticing that her mother’s face looked slightly gray and she seemed to be tilting her head away from Lucy’s bowl of soup, as if she didn’t like the smell.
“If you don’t mind, Lucy, I think I shall take a nap. I’m feeling a touch, well, a touch under the weather.”
“Aren’t you going to make a cake for tea like you always do on Saturdays?” The Castors were big fans of afternoon tea, a tradition Mr. Castor had adopted after a trip to England during his college years.
Mrs. Castor groaned and shook her head. This was not good news at all. After the awful morning she had had, Lucy didn’t need any more changes. When Lucy’s mother got sick, which was not very often, everything fell apart. They had to have sandwiches for supper, and Lucy’s favorite T-shirt didn’t get washed, and the house felt all cold and empty.
“Dad will be back soon,” Lucy’s mother said with a yawn. And she shuffled over to the sofa, clutching Mildred, the blue vomit bucket that came out whenever the Castors were sick. Lucy had christened it Mildred during a violent bout of the stomach flu some years ago, and the name had stuck to the bucket like the faint scent of vomit that never seemed to go away either.
Usually when she had time to herself, Lucy liked to organize her nest collection or make a magic potion or search for secret doorways in the house. She had always believed that behind the stairs or in the attic or the back of a cupboard was a secret passageway leading to a magical world. Perhaps a world where her gnome might have come from? Now though, Lucy didn’t feel like searching for gnomes or making a magic potion. Nothing felt the same anymore.
Not wanting to go outside and leave her mother alone in the house, Lucy drifted upstairs to her bedroom. The sparkles in her drawer didn’t look quite as sparkly as Lucy remembered, and when she opened her cupboard, it was just an ordinary cupboard, rather messy and full of clothes. She closed her eyes, conjuring up the gnome she was sure she had seen, his curly gold slippers and long white beard and the bright cherry-colored jacket he had worn. But when she opened them, all Lucy saw was her own red sweater hanging at the front of the closet. “I know he was in here,” she whispered, needing to convince herself of this. “I know he was.” But she didn’t want to search without Ella.
Loud screaming cut through the summer afternoon, and Lucy knew, before she even looked out of her window, that it was the O’Brien boys. They lived opposite the Castors, and, glancing across the street, Lucy saw that a large, bright orange plastic car appeared to be the reason for the screaming. Micky, the four-year-old, was attempting to pull two-year-old Billy out of the driver’s seat, with Billy still pedaling across the front lawn. Both boys were yelling at full volume, while five-year-old Sammy crouched in a flower bed, dressed in his Batman costume, digging away with what looked like a large kitchen spoon.
Lucy watched Mrs. O’Brien hurry around the side of the house, a wiggling Toady clutched in her arms. Toady was the baby, and even though the family called him that with great affection, Lucy couldn’t help feeling rather sorry for the littlest O’Brien, who did indeed look remarkably toadlike with his squashed plump face and kicking legs. He was the only O’Brien child with dark hair. The other three all had Mrs. O’Brien’s mess of custard-colored curls, and Lucy found it rather difficult sometimes to tell them apart.
Marching after the car, Mrs. O’Brien swiftly separated the boys, herding them both (and the car) around toward the backyard. Kicking his legs about, Toady joined in the screaming, and Lucy shuddered. She couldn’t imagine being part of a big, noisy family like that. Even though it had not been a good day so far, at least she didn’t have to live in the O’Brien house. And that was something to be extremely grateful for.
Wishing her dad would hurry up and come home, Lucy drifted back down to the hallway, sitting on the bottom stair to wait. This was one of her favorite places in the house. She found it nice and comforting, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the clocks. Lucy’s dad was a big clock collector, as well as a collector of arrowheads. He rescued the clocks from junk shops and flea markets and the local Put and Take, a shed near the railway station where people put things they didn’t want that other people could have for free. And on the weekends and in the evenings he liked to take the clocks apart, spreading all the bits over the kitchen table (which drove Lucy’s mom a little bit crazy), and fix them up again so that they worked.
There was a loud clang from the kitchen as the station clock struck one. Lucy’s father had rescued it from the Hawthorne railway station when they replaced the heavy wooden clock with a new, electric model that didn’t require winding. One rainy Sunday Lucy had counted all the clocks in the Castors’ house. There were thirty-seven of them sitting on shelves and mantelpieces and hanging on the walls. Thirty-eight if you counted Lucy’s old alarm clock.
The clocks didn’t all strike the hour, of course, but Lucy, with her eyes closed, could recognize the different chimes of the ones that did. The French porcelain parlor clock had a delicate bell-like tinkle while the banjo clock hanging at the top of the stairs sounded like someone banging a gong. The last clock to strike was always the tall, stately grandfather clock that stood in the Castors’ narrow hallway, never seeing any need to rush as it boomed out the hour in a deep, majestic voice.
“Where are you, Dad?” Lucy fretted, winding a strand of hair round and round her finger. How long did it take to go to the store? Her mother had said he’d be back very soon, but that was ages ago, and now Lucy was worried that her father might have been run over by a truck. She was also worried that her mother might be about to die and then maybe she’d have to go and live in the Chloe house next door, or with scary Mrs. Minor, or all those loud O’Briens while her grandmother worked out how she could take care of Lucy full-time. Moving in with Ella’s family clearly wasn’t an option anymore. She’d be an orphan at nine years old, a small mouselike orphan with ears that stuck out.
When Mr. Castor finally came striding through the door, Lucy hurled herself on him like a stick bug, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“Hey, Lucy Lopkins! It hasn’t been that long,” Mr. Castor said, managing to put the groceries down with Lucy still attached.
“Something’s happened to Ella,” Lucy began, launching right in. “She’s not Ella anymore, so I don’t have a best friend to start fourth grade with. And Mrs. Minor is evil and should be sent to jail for being a bad neighbor. And I thought you’d been run over by a truck. Oh, and I think Mom might be dying!”
“Gosh! Did I miss all that? Well, I’m okay, so why don’t we go check on your mother?”
Mrs. Castor was sprawled across the sofa, snoring softly. “If she doesn’t make it, I think we should bury her next to Ginger,” Lucy whispered. “That way she’ll have company.” Ginger was Lucy’s guinea pig who had died last year. He was buried in a shoe box under the apple tree.
“Your mother is going to be fine, Lucy. I promise,” Mr. Castor said. In her heart Lucy knew this, but she couldn’t help the worrying thoughts from taking over her head or t
he worrying words blurting out of her mouth.
It was a huge relief when Lucy’s mom finally woke up from her extremely long middle of the day nap. She certainly wasn’t up for cake making, but Lucy and her dad shared a packet of vanilla cookies instead, and they were now all snuggled on the sofa, or “the Nest,” as Lucy called it. Whenever they sat here, she always felt like a baby bird, nestled in between her parents, the deep, soft sofa fitting the three of them perfectly.
Things were finally starting to feel normal again (so long as Lucy didn’t think about Ella), with Mr. Castor falling asleep like he usually did in the middle of reading Lucy The Hobbit, and Lucy leaning down to draw smiley faces on her dad’s ankles. It made her giggle the way his words would get more and more slurred until he started to say the most ridiculous things. Lucy guessed he was almost at the falling asleep properly stage because his head had nodded forward. She could hear her mother’s stomach gurgling. It was all extremely peaceful, just the three of them sitting there, and Lucy realized that together they added up to a prime number.
Her grandmother was a math professor, and she had been teaching Lucy about prime numbers this summer. Lucy’s gran got more excited over math than anyone else Lucy knew. But her gran was right, Lucy mused as she snuggled between her parents. Prime numbers were pretty special. They couldn’t be divided by anything other than one and themselves, and she decided right then, that three was her favorite prime number of all. Lots of wonderful things came in threes. Wishes from a magic lamp, three little pigs, three billy goats gruff. Just like her mom, her dad, and herself. They made a perfect threesome. Even with Ella finding new friends to hang out with and giving up magic, and Mrs. Minor yelling, nothing could divide the Castors.
Lucy would have been happy to stay nesting on the sofa all evening, but Mr. Castor woke up and said they should think about supper, and Mrs. Castor thought she might be able to manage a little chicken soup. So Lucy’s dad heated up some from a can, while Lucy laid the table, putting down three spoons and three bowls in a perfect circle (like the three bears eating their porridge).