Turnabout

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Anny Beth shook her head. She stabbed some of the eggs on her plate with unnecessary force. “Psychologically speaking, maybe you’re right. But that’s just a guess. We need to be one hundred percent sure.”

  Melly crumbled her toast and threw it out into the woods. She wasn’t worried about detection now. It felt good to throw something.

  “Come on, Anny Beth,” she said. “You’ve been alive for one hundred and eighty-seven years. Haven’t you learned that nothing’s one hundred percent sure?”

  Anny Beth gave Melly a long look. Then she abruptly stood up.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She started walking down the hill but stopped after a few steps to look back over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?” she called back to Melly.

  After eighty-five years Melly should have been used to Anny Beth’s split-second decisions. But she couldn’t help sitting still for a while longer, totally stunned.

  “What are you waiting for?” Anny Beth repeated.

  “I—there . . . there’s something else you should know,” Melly stammered. “Something else that makes A. J. Hazelwood the right person to take care of us.”

  “Oh?” Anny Beth said impatiently. “What is it?”

  “She’s your great-great-great-granddaughter too.”

  “What?”

  “One of your great-great-granddaughters married one of my great-great-grandsons. A. J. Hazelwood is their only child.”

  Anny Beth started laughing. “You’re kidding! Some of our descendants actually mated? And someone related to me managed to stay out of jail?”

  “Jeez, Anny Beth, one of your descendants is president right now. You’ve got a whole branch of incredibly rich and famous—and, by all accounts—morally upstanding descendants. That’s the only reason I know about A. J.’s parents. One of her cousins was really into name-dropping, and traced the entire connection on her Web pages.”

  By now Anny Beth was laughing so hard she could barely stand up.

  “It can’t be,” she gurgled. “President?”

  “Yep.” Melly got carried away by Anny Beth’s laughter. “And you know Riley Standish—the woman they call the Mother Teresa of this century? The one who ended starvation in the third world? She’s one of yours too.”

  Anny Beth had to sit down after that one.

  “This is too rich,” she said between peals of laughter. “All these years I thought I’d unleashed a pack of liars and cheats and murderers on the world. Why do you think I did all that social service all those years? I was trying to make up for my offspring—dang! I could have been out partying!”

  Melly couldn’t help laughing at that.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There are probably some murderers among your descendants too. I know I had some.”

  That only made Anny Beth laugh harder.

  “I don’t care what happens to me now,” she said. “My life is complete. I know now that I spawned a saint and you spawned a murderer. Hey—race you down the hill.”

  Anny Beth had a head start, but Melly dashed after her.

  They were like that the rest of the way to Melly’s old house—giddy, loud, exuberant. It was as if, having finally made a decision, they felt free, regardless of how things turned out. They crashed through the brush, not caring who heard or saw them. Melly had run that way through these woods a million times with her brothers and sisters, all those years ago. All she needed was to dash up the porch steps and bang the front door and she’d feel entirely, completely at home.

  But when they got in sight of the house, both of them stopped. Suddenly deadly serious again, they froze by the forsythia bush Melly had hidden behind the day before.

  “Got any plans for breaking this to her?” Melly whispered.

  “Want to go for the shocker? ‘Hi, we’re two of your great-great-great-grandmothers. We just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to stop in for tea.’ How’s that sound?” Anny Beth whispered back.

  Melly shook her head no.

  They peered through the leaves at the house. The windows were open, and white lace curtains blew in and out. Otherwise everything was still. There were no signs of either the woman or her dog.

  “Well, we can’t wait forever,” Anny Beth proclaimed. She grabbed Melly’s hand and pulled her to the door. Melly looked for an automated door-bell—of course there wasn’t one. Meanwhile, Anny Beth had the presence of mind to knock.

  “Hello?” she called in through the screen. “Anyone home?”

  The dog came running to the door, barking. Then the woman appeared out of a back room. Melly held her breath.

  “Down!” the woman commanded, and to Melly and Anny Beth’s amazement the dog dropped obediently to his paws. His barks turned into a whimper, and then he was silent.

  The woman came to the door. “Yes?” she said.

  Melly forced herself to exhale. Then inhale. “Are you A. J. Hazelwood?” she asked.

  The woman nodded, looking puzzled. Through the screen door Melly could see how small her features were, how her light brown hair waved in the same place as Melly’s own. Suddenly Melly realized who the woman reminded her of: herself. The way she’d looked only fifteen years ago.

  “I’m Melly,” Melly announced. “Amelia.”

  The woman’s puzzled look only deepened. “Do I know you?” she asked. She looked out at Anny Beth. “Or you?”

  “Maybe,” Melly said softly. She made herself breathe in and out carefully. This had to be the right thing to do. It had to. “You were looking for me,” she added.

  Something like comprehension started to come over A. J.’s face, then she looked confused again.

  “Amelia Hazelwood,” Melly said.

  “I was looking for someone a little, uh—”

  “Older?” Anny Beth supplied the word.

  A. J. nodded. “I must have made a mistake. I’m sorry. Did you come here just because—”

  “We had a lot of reasons,” Anny Beth said. “We’ll explain if you promise this is all off the record.”

  Melly was glad Anny Beth remembered to say that. But A. J. frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, almost frostily. “I don’t believe there’s any information I need from you. So there’s no reason to grant off-the-record protection.”

  “Now I know why she failed as a journalist,” Anny Beth whispered to Melly. “No nose for news.”

  “I did not ‘fail’ as a journalist,” A. J. snapped back. “I’ll have you know I’ve won two Pulitzer Prizes for public service.”

  “Is there any competition in that category anymore?” Anny Beth taunted. “Only the tabloid news category means anything now.”

  “But—” A. J. clearly couldn’t argue that point. She switched tactics. “Anyhow, I didn’t ‘fail.’ I quit to write a book.”

  Melly and Anny Beth exchanged glances.

  “What’s it about?” Anny Beth asked.

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” A. J. said calmly. “Now, if there’s nothing you can tell me on the record, I need to get back to work. And you should leave before the police show up to arrest you for trespassing on protected lands. In the future if you need to contact me, please do so by E-mail or telephone.”

  She turned around, as if expecting them to leave. Melly felt her stomach clench into knots. This was not working right. She looked appealingly at Anny Beth. Anny Beth seemed to be thinking.

  “She’s got an honest face, don’t you think?” Anny Beth asked quietly.

  “What are you talking about?” Melly asked. “She’s got my face.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Anny Beth said. Then she hollered after A. J.’s retreating back. “Wait a minute. At least listen to what we have to say. Then you’ll understand why we want this off the record. And if you understand, then you’ll give that to us. Okay?”

  “Why should I agree to that?” A. J. replied without turning around.

  “Becau
se”—Melly took a deep breath—“because you may find this hard to believe, but we’re really two of your great-great-great-grandmothers. And we didn’t exactly stop in for a cup a tea.”

  A. J. turned around. And in the same moment a voice behind them shouted, “Freeze! Department of Protected Lands here! I have a warrant for your arrest!”

  April 27, 2085

  Melly’s heart sank. How could the police have caught up with them now, just when they’d told A. J. the truth?

  “Officer,” Anny Beth said calmly. “I’m sure you know from your weapon scanners that we aren’t armed. Could we turn around and face you?”

  “All right,” the man replied.

  Anny Beth leaned over and whispered to Melly, “Sure beats the old days when they had to frisk you.”

  While they all waited for the police officer to cross the yard and mount the porch steps, Melly expected A. J. to fade into the background, perhaps even shut the door. She’d warned them to leave before the police came—surely she was feeling a little triumphant that they’d got what they deserved.

  But A. J. shot them a compassionate glance and stepped protectively to the front.

  “What are the charges in that warrant?” A. J. asked.

  Melly watched the officer’s face as he fumbled with his handheld computer. He was young, possibly not even twenty yet. Patrolling protected lands must not be considered difficult duty.

  “I have to identify all parties present for a legal hearing,” the officer said apologetically. “Are you”—he read A. J.’s name off the computer screen—“Annabeth J’amelia Hazelwood?”

  “Can you believe it? She’s even named after us!” Anny Beth whispered to Melly. Melly shot her an annoyed look. Names hardly mattered at the moment. Then Melly realized A. J. had heard Anny Beth too. A. J. peered at Anny Beth thoughtfully for a moment, then turned her attention back to the officer.

  “You know who I am,” A. J. said. “You come and sign my permit every week.”

  “Yes, yes,” the officer said, even more apologetic. “Got to do things by the book.”

  “The charges?” A. J. reminded him.

  “Oh, yes.” The officer looked back at his computer. “Satellite footage showed that these two—infrared photo identified as Amelia Hazelwood, age fifteen, and Anny Beth Flick, age eighteen—entered these protected lands illegally two nights ago. Does either of you dispute these charges?”

  Melly opened her mouth to say something—or maybe just to beg for mercy—but A. J. spoke for them.

  “How can they?” she asked. “When are satellites ever wrong?”

  “Well, just between us and the trees, ma’am, the satellites have been on the blink the past week or so because of storms over Siberia. That’s why it took us two days to download the info about these two. Normally we’d’ve had them within an hour—”

  Melly had never thought in her long life that she’d feel grateful for storms over Siberia, but she did now. Still, the storms hadn’t bought quite enough time for her and Anny Beth, because they hadn’t had a chance to tell A. J. everything. A. J. glanced at them, her expression unreadable. Melly looked down, her mind racing. What next? Would they end up in jail? Would they be allowed to contact the agency? Would they have to?

  “I’m sorry, sir,” A. J. was saying. “I don’t mean to cut you off, but we’re in the middle of a rather delicate family situation. These girls are distant relatives of mine, and they didn’t quite understand the law. But I told them their actions were illegal, and they’re sorry. Could you tally up their fine on your Portable Court and let them go?”

  “They’ll have to buy a permit, too—,” the officer warned.

  “Fine,” A. J. said.

  Melly slid her hand into her pocket, as if reaching for her debit card, but she was only buying time. If she used her debit card, the agency would be able to find out where she was—even she knew court fines were public records. All her instincts told her to run, to go hide until she found another relative she wanted to live with—someone sane enough not to live on protected lands. But those were her twentieth-century instincts. If she ran now, the satellites would track her every move.

  Before Melly had a chance to decide what to do, A. J. had pulled out her own debit card.

  “I’ll pay,” she said. “It’s my fault they’re here.”

  Melly watched in amazement as the officer zipped A. J.’s card through his computer and gave her a receipt.

  “Have a pleasant family visit,” the officer said. “And remember, if they perform any more illegal actions—”

  “You can hold me responsible,” A. J. said.

  As soon as the officer had walked away and was out of earshot, Melly turned to A. J. and exclaimed, “Why did you do that? Did you really believe what we told you?”

  “That you’re my great-great-great-grandmother? Give me some credit!” A. J. said with a laugh. She peered out at the woods to make sure the officer was gone. Then she opened the door to let Anny Beth and Melly into her house. “I figure this is going to be so ridiculous it might be worth listening to. And I’d rather hear your story before the police do.”

  Melly frowned, wanting to believe that A. J. had been motivated by something more than curiosity.

  All three of them sat down in the front room. Melly recognized some of the furniture: an armoire her father had made, a chair her mother had rocked all her babies to sleep in, years and years and years before. Seeing the furniture was almost as heartrending as if she’d walked in and found her mother and father right there waiting for her. She had to stifle the impulse to go over and stroke the grain of the wood. If only—, she thought, and for once let herself finish the thought. If only she hadn’t promised the agency not to see her family. She would have been with this furniture all along. It was true, she would have seen all the descendants she knew die, but she would have known their children and their children’s children. . . . She would have known A. J. Now Melly could just hope A. J. was the right person.

  A. J. sat straight in her Shaker-back chair. Everything about her body language seemed to say, “I’m waiting. Don’t you have something you were going to tell me?” Distantly Melly wondered if that was a reporter’s trick, something journalists learned in school to get people talking. Probably not. In this day and age people needed no encouragement to start talking.

  “Well?” A. J. said expectantly.

  Melly and Anny Beth exchanged glances.

  “This isn’t exactly easy to explain,” Melly apologized.

  “No, I wouldn’t think so,” A. J. said. Melly couldn’t tell if she was making fun of them or not.

  Anny Beth broke in. “Look, we’ve never told anybody this story. We have to be sure we can trust you. Can’t you tell us something about yourself?” Anny Beth asked.

  A. J. narrowed her eyes. “Are you negotiating here?”

  Melly wondered how long they could sit there looking suspiciously at each other. She remembered a game she and her brothers and sisters had played as children when they had secrets: “I won’t tell until you tell.” “But I won’t tell until you tell.” “But I won’t tell until—” They could go on for hours like that. But this was a much bigger secret than “We’re having blackberry pie for supper.”

  “Let us sign something,” Melly said. “We’ll promise not to tell anyone anything about you unless you say it’s okay. But please—you explain why you were trying to track me down. Then we’ll know if it’s okay to tell you everything.”

  A. J. seemed to be sizing them up. Melly tried to sit up straight and look like less of a little kid. If she refuses, Melly thought, do I trust her enough to tell her the whole story anyway? She did pay our fine for us, but still. . . .

  It didn’t matter. A. J. relented.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “It’s not like anybody cares what I’m doing anyway.”

  Melly settled back in her chair, more relaxed.

  “I was a reporter for the Lexington Herald-News,” A. J.
said. “I was doing good work. I was—I think—making a difference in the world. In public affairs. But last year it stopped mattering to me. All those corrupt politicians, all those dishonest business schemes—what did it matter if I exposed them or not? For every injustice I helped correct, another one just popped up in its place.”

  “Midlife crisis,” Anny Beth diagnosed in a professional tone.

  A. J. laughed sardonically. “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say,” she retorted. “Some nice, neat term makes it sound insignificant, right? Just wait until it happens to you.”

  Melly longed to tell her that it had. Twice. Here, finally, was someone they were going to be entirely honest with. It was hard to wait even another ten or fifteen minutes. But she mustn’t ruin things by jumping the gun.

  “Did you want a baby?” she asked instead, thinking of the biological clock that had waylaid her.

  “I didn’t know what I wanted,” A. J. replied. “I kept working for about six more months, but I kept getting more and more depressed. It didn’t help that I broke up with my boyfriend right about then.”

  “Another journalist?” Anny Beth suggested.

  A. J. raised her eyebrows. “How did you know?”

  “Professional guess,” Anny Beth said.

  A. J.’s eyebrows went higher at Anny Beth’s use of the word professional. Her expression clearly said, “You’re a teenager. How can you be a professional at anything?” She seemed about to ask out loud, but cleared her throat instead.

  “Anyhow,” she went on, “he and I stopped getting along, and it was probably more for professional reasons than personal ones. I just wanted to do something that really mattered. So I quit. I told everyone I was going to write a book.”

  “About?” Melly prompted.

  “I told my Web provider it was going to be about my family.” A. J. looked down at her hands. “He knew I was distantly related to both the president and Riley Standish, so I think he was expecting juicy revelations. Salacious details about their childhoods.”