Little Bigfoot, Big City

by Jennifer Weiner

  ALICE HAD THOUGHT THAT MILLIE was preoccupied about getting her audition video sent in. Once she and Jessica made it through the first elimination round, though, she longed for the days when Millie had merely been preoccupied, instead of obsessed.

  Every time she could steal across the lake, Millie was in their cabin, sitting with Jessica, the two of them huddling over some screen, clicking and liking, fanning and friending. Or they were standing in front of Jessica’s closet, trying to select her next outfit, or they were scrolling through Riya’s and Taley’s iPods, trying to figure out their next song. Alice, who’d felt invisible her entire life, had never felt more ignored or less important. It had always hurt, but it hurt so much worse when the person making you feel like nothing had once made you feel like the most special and interesting person in the world.

  Some friend, Alice thought as she heard Millie and Jessica laughing at something amusing they’d found online. Possibly some joke of the Amazing Marvin’s. Millie hadn’t noticed Alice’s absence the day she’d gone to the Standish Children’s Museum with Jeremy and Jo, and she’d never asked whether Alice had figured out what Jeremy had meant when he’d said she wasn’t human.

  It doesn’t matter, Alice told herself, pulling the scrap of paper out of her pocket, where she’d kept it ever since Dr. Johansson had given it to her. He’d written “Wayne Clinic” on top, and then the ten digits of its Manhattan telephone number. “No address,” Dr. Johansson had said. “They’re underground.”

  “Like you?” Alice asked. She was thinking of his hidden office and the Yare’s sod houses, tucked beneath the hills, but the doctor explained that, in their case, “underground” didn’t mean a basement or behind a giant heart. “They don’t exactly have a fixed location. You call, and you tell them your name and that I sent you, and they’ll tell you where to go.”

  She’d wanted to talk to Millie about Dr. Johansson and his secret office and the clinic, but Millie was too busy to do more than nod at her before she and Jessica hurried off to do some Next Stage–related task. Millie wasn’t a real friend. Millie hadn’t believed her, or even wanted to admit the possibility, when Alice had told her that she might be Yare. Probably all she’d wanted was Alice’s laptop and a way to get closer to pretty, popular Jessica Jarvis.

  But once Alice had proof, Millie wouldn’t be able to deny it. She would have to take Alice to her village, to the place where Alice really belonged. Maybe they’d be friends again, once Millie knew that Alice, deep down, was like her, not like one of the No-Furs who hunted and tormented her people. Or maybe Alice would find other friends in other Yare villages. Millie had told her that there were more of them, all over the country. Maybe Alice could travel around, from Vermont to West Virginia, meeting the different Yare, finally finding a real home.

  But to get there, she had to make the call. Her hand was shaking only a little bit as she punched in the numbers, then pressed the phone tight against her ear.

  “Hello?”

  Alice had been expecting a more formal salutation, a “This is the Wayne Clinic,” a “Good afternoon,” or a “How can I help you?” Not this whispery, somehow greedy old man’s voice. She imagined a bald head and age-spotted hands, a bony, slumped body leaning over the receiver behind an otherwise-bare desk. She pictured him sitting there, alone, day after day, just waiting for that phone to ring . . . maybe in an office in a New York City skyscraper with an all-seeing eye etched on the glass door.

  “Hello?” he said again, and now he sounded both greedy and annoyed. “Who is this?”

  You’re being silly, Alice told herself. “My name is Alice Mayfair.”

  “Alice,” the man said, except “hissed” would more accurately reflect the way he spoke. He sounded pleased. Alice felt terrified. “Al-isssss.”

  Without thinking, Alice shifted her thumb to hover above the button that would end the call. Something was wrong with this man, something was weird about the way he sounded, and even though Jeremy and Jo had been friendly, and Dr. Johansson had been nothing but reassuring and kind, this didn’t feel right.

  But Alice didn’t hang up. She no longer trusted her instincts. She’d believed that Millie was her friend, and that had been wrong. She’d thought Miss Merriweather was just an educational consultant who wanted to help her, and that had been wrong too. She’d thought Jeremy and Jo were the bad guys, but they’d ended up being more help to her than Millie had. And so she told the voice in her head that was insisting Hang up now to shut up and let her go about her business.

  “Dr. Marcus Johansson gave me this number,” she said. “I would like to come in to be tested.”

  “Of course, my dear, of course,” said the man. His endearment sounded the way a dead snakeskin that Alice had once touched felt, somehow dry and slippery at the same time; scaly and strange and entirely repellent. Also, the man hadn’t asked what Alice wanted to be tested for. Maybe this clinic only tests for one thing, thought Alice. “How soon would be convenient?”

  Alice named the date of The Next Stage auditions, thinking that she and Jessica could team up with a lie and ask Phil and Lori for permission to leave campus. She could even volunteer her apartment as a place to sleep. Her parents wouldn’t be home—during their call last week, her mother had mentioned a business trip to Japan that her father would be taking and how she herself would be at a retreat in the Berkshires.

  “No sooner?” asked the man, and now Alice was positive that she was hearing disappointment. Disappointment and greed. Hang up, said the voice in her head, which was getting even louder.

  “Who are you?” she blurted, even though she hadn’t planned on asking. “Are you one of the doctors?”

  The old man chuckled. “I’m nobody special. No one who need concern you. A lowly receptionist.” It sounded like some kind of inside joke, the kind Alice hated, where the person talking knew why it was funny and the person listening had no clue. “Are you certain you can’t come sooner?”

  “Sorry,” Alice said. “I’m in school.”

  “Of course, my dear, of course. So we’ll see you in three weeks. The day of your appointment, we’ll text you our location.”

  “Okay,” said Alice. “Do you need my number?”

  “We have it,” said the man. “Take care of yourself,” he added. Normally, that was just a polite way to end a conversation, only somehow it didn’t sound like a pleasantry. It sounded like a demand, like this man would hunt her down and hurt her if he found out that Alice hadn’t been flossing her teeth or sleeping eight hours a night.

  He wants me, Alice thought. Only that wasn’t quite it. He wanted something from her, but what? She was just a kid, and even if she was half-Yare, she didn’t have any of the Yare’s special strengths or abilities. Doctors had been measuring her, testing her abilities, taking her blood, for as long as she could remember, and nothing had ever come of it. Still, she was reminded of the Graeae from the Greek mythology that the learners had studied in the fall, the three old women who only had one eye and one tooth between them and had to pass them back and forth. He wants my eyes, was what she thought. But that was crazy. Her eyes were as ordinary as the rest of her.

  “I will,” Alice promised, and then the line was dead.

  Instead of going back to her cabin, Alice walked into the woods, moving automatically along the path that she’d run dozens of times, as fall had slipped into winter, as the dirt had been covered with leaves, and then the leaves had been covered with snow. Those runs always soothed her, the way her feet would pound out a rhythm, the way she’d pant, her breath catching like a fishhook in her side, and how she’d push through the pain, her muscles swelling with blood, hair sweaty, cheeks flushed, mind clear, thinking of nothing but the next step she’d take, the next breath she’d pull into her lungs. The truth will set you free was something that Lori and Phil told them all the time, when they were urging the learners to be honest about who had stolen Phil’s blue hair dye or who had posted a comment reading “PLEASE SEND R
EAL FOOD” on the Center’s InstaChat page underneath a picture of vegan shepherd’s pie.

  Once Alice knew the truth about herself, she would be free. She could thank her parents for taking care of her, and she could even thank her former friend Millie for inadvertently, accidentally helping her to learn who she really was. Then she’d march herself off into the woods like that guy Thoreau whose book they’d read in English class, only, unlike Thoreau, she would find her people instead of solitude. When she went into the woods she would never, ever come back.

  WELL?” ASKED MR. CARRUTHERS.

  Jeremy was still trying to catch his breath. He held up one finger, feeling Mr. Carruthers’s impatience filling up the van like a bad smell. Every week for the last three weeks, at least once, maybe twice, Jeremy would be riding his bike home from school when he would hear the throaty hum of the van behind him. His first instinct was always to pedal away as fast as he could . . . but what good would that do him? He’d tried that once, and all he’d gotten were ripped pants and a smashed bike and the familiar humiliation that had accompanied him for his entire life. It was easier, he’d learned, to lean his bike against a tree or a telephone pole, climb into the van, and give Mr. Carruthers a few tidbits of information, some little tastes of truth.

  That had worked the first few times, when he’d seemed content to hear that Jeremy was watching the Experimental Center, that he’d seen the little gray one crossing the lake, or that he’d caught a glimpse of the big one in the forest. Jeremy would even toss in a little misdirection: how he was almost certain that the big one had been heading to Mount Standish, or how he’d started leaving Snickers bars under the trees and how they’d always be gone the next day.

  “Good work,” Carruthers would say, making notes of what Jeremy had told him, or “Keep trying!” But as the days had turned into weeks, Mr. Carruthers’s patience had evaporated. He wanted Jeremy to make contact, or at least find out where the little gray one was going when she crossed the lake. So far, Jeremy had said that he’d tried, and failed, and Mr. Carruthers hadn’t complained . . . only now, it seemed, Jeremy had come to the end of the man’s patience.

  When he climbed into the van, there weren’t pleasantries, or even a “hello,” let alone an offer of hot chocolate like Jeremy had gotten on his first visit.

  “I need some information,” Carruthers said, leaning so close that Jeremy could see the strands of gray in his hair and could smell stale coffee and cinnamon gum on his breath. Mr. Carruthers made his lips move into the semblance of a smile, but the wrinkly skin around his eyes didn’t wrinkle. “You understand, it’s not me, it’s my bosses,” he said. “They’re paying to keep me in this crappy—” He caught himself. “In this little town for months. You know there are Bigfoots out there. I know there are Bigfoots out there. But if I can’t give them something, some kind of substantive proof, a photograph or a footprint, I’m going to find myself in Alaska for the rest of the winter because some kid thought he saw the abominable snowman on a ski slope.” He gave Jeremy a serious, man-to-man look. “They know where you live,” he said.

  Jeremy swallowed hard and thought that “they” meant “him,” because Mr. Carruthers, for all his kindness, was part of the Department too.

  “They know who your parents are. They’re going to start leaning on your family again, and this time, I’m not going to be able to stop them.” He tried another smile. “Unless you give me something I can work with.”

  “The little gray one is going to New York this weekend,” Jeremy blurted. It was like the words fell out of his mouth before he had time to plan them. But as soon as he’d spoken them, he realized that he’d stumbled into the perfect solution. He knew that Alice had made her appointment with the Wayne Clinic that weekend. He also knew that New York was enormous, and if the Department was off hunting for gray-furred Millie, then Alice would be able to make contact with the clinic and have her testing done and not worry that people were looking for her.

  Jeremy also knew—because Alice had told him—that Millie was going to audition for The Next Stage at Carnegie Hall, and if there was a place less likely for the agents to go in search of a creature who hated and feared the human world than a world-famous performance space, Jeremy couldn’t think of what it might be. Alice would be safe, and Millie would be safe, and Mr. Carruthers couldn’t be mad at him, because Jeremy had told him the truth.

  “New York,” Mr. Carruthers said, leaning close. “Are you sure? And do you know where she’s going?”

  Jeremy nodded, unspooling his lies the way he’d reeled out the thread attached to his kite, one windy day on the beach when a sudden gust had lofted it high into the sky. “I heard her talking with the red-haired girl. She’s going to a science-fiction convention at the Javits Center,” he said.

  Now Mr. Carruthers looked both angry and incredulous. “Really?”

  “Yup. The red-haired girl told her that nobody would stare at her at a place like that. They’d just think she was a cosplayer. It would be like Halloween.”

  Mr. Carruthers didn’t appear to be buying this, but so far he wasn’t saying that Jeremy was lying. “And it’s this weekend?” he finally asked.

  “Yup,” Jeremy said, feeling grateful that he’d overheard a couple of kids at his lunch table talking about an upcoming convention.

  “But they’re not going together.”

  Jeremy felt the tips of his ears get hot. “Nope. The red-haired girl said she’s got a big test to study for.”

  Mr. Carruthers made notes, and Jeremy took a deep breath. This was good. It was better than good. It was perfect. Carruthers would go to New York, chasing after Millie, not Alice. Jeremy would escort Alice to the clinic, if she’d let him, and if it turned out that she was a Bigfoot, he’d convince her to go public. He, not Mr. Carruthers, not the Department of Official Inquiry, would have the glory of proving that Bigfoots were real, and he’d make sure Alice was safe.

  Mr. Carruthers pulled off his sunglasses. He leaned close, so that his eyes, with the tiny ribbons of red in the whites, were looking right into Jeremy’s. “Tell me everything,” he said. “Everything you heard the two of them say.”

  Jeremy nodded and spun a tale that was, as always, a blend, bits of the truth seasoned with stuff he’d made up. He said that Millie would be wearing a trench coat and taking a bus and telling people that she was a Tribble. She’d meet friends she’d made online, friends who thought she was a human girl in disguise.

  Carruthers nodded, scribbling notes. “And you’re sure she’s not going with the other girl?” he asked.

  Jeremy’s ears got hotter. “I’m sure.” His mind churned as he tried desperately to think of something that could throw Mr. Carruthers even further off the scent. Maybe more truth, he thought, and tried for a man-to-man kind of smile. “You know. Junior-high girls. Maybe they’re having a fight or something.”

  “Huh.” Mr. Carruthers’s face was expressionless. Jeremy could smell his own sweat, could even feel a bead of it sliding down his spine. Finally, Carruthers smiled. “Well, that’s even more than I’d hoped for.” He clapped Jeremy on the back. Jeremy tried not to flinch, or to move, even though the slap hadn’t exactly been gentle. “Good work, son.” He leaned across Jeremy, grabbed the door handle, and slid the van’s door open, letting in a blast of cold air. That was Jeremy’s cue to jump out, collect his bike, and pedal home. Instead, he sat still, trying not to shiver as he met Mr. Carruther’s gaze.

  “What will you do?” he asked. “What will you do if you catch her?”

  “Nothing that concerns you.” Carruthers was already reaching for the phone he kept clipped to his belt, probably in a big hurry to call his bosses and tell them what he’d learned. “Of course we’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “You can’t hurt her,” Jeremy said. “And you can’t . . . you know . . . if there’s some big announcement, you have to say that I was a part of it. Me and Jo.” He was furious at the notion of Carruthers and his Department capturing M
illie and taking all the credit, even though it wouldn’t happen—not next weekend, or any weekend—because Millie wasn’t going anywhere near the Javits Center and was actually going to a place where they’d never think to look for her. “I’m the one who found her. I’m the one who’s been keeping track of her. I’m the one who told you where she’d be!”

  “Easy, big guy.” Mr. Carruthers, who was smiling now, put his hand on Jeremy’s forearm. “We always give credit where credit is due. But trust me, you don’t want to be part of the, um, acquisition.” His smile widened, his lips thinning until Jeremy imagined he could see every one of his teeth. “It’s the kind of thing that could get . . . messy.”

  When Jeremy finally climbed out of the van, his legs were so wobbly that he knew better than to even try pedaling. Instead, he walked his bike all the way home. He and Jo would have to figure out how to stay with Alice and keep her safe and how to get word to Millie, just so she could be extra careful. He and Jo would have to be certain that nothing messy happened to either one of them. Because, he thought, as a car sped by, sending a plume of icy puddle water to soak Jeremy from his knees to his shoes, if anything did happen, it would be 100 percent his fault.

  FOR AS LONG AS SHE could remember, Millie had woken up the same way. First, her mother would part the thick curtains that covered the single, narrow window in her room, letting in as much light as the window would allow. The house would be warm, smelling of toast and tea, as the first faint sunlight crept across the quilt on Millie’s bed. “Wake up, my Millietta,” Septima would sing in her high and cracking voice. “Wake up to greet the day.”

  Millie would stretch and wiggle her feet into her soft leather moccasins that her mother had sewn. She would go to the privy, tucked under a neighboring hill, to do the necessary, and when she came back to her bedroom her mother would have set a basin of warm water on the little table next to Millie’s bed, with a bar of sweet-smelling soap. Millie would wash her hands and face, comb her fur, and clip in one of the little flower-shaped bows that her parents ordered on-the-line.