Nature Girl

by Jane Kelley

  Mom says this isn’t a punishment; it’s a way of helping me. Of course, my mother is one of those anti-TV types. The only show she likes to watch is the summer Olympics and that only comes on once every four years.

  “We know you’ve been unhappy up here, sweetheart. It isn’t as much fun for you without Lucy. But you haven’t given Vermont a fair chance.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Stop wishing for what you can’t have. Live where you are. This is the country. You should embrace nature. Dive into that pond.”

  That’s easy for her to say. She doesn’t have slime growing in her hair. She wouldn’t have noticed even if she did. Her hair is short and spiky. She likes to dye the gray parts different colors anyway. But my hair is light brown and would reach way past my shoulders if it weren’t so curly. I already washed it six times, and let me tell you, that green is not going away.

  “What does that disgusting pond have to do with watching TV?” I say.

  “TV only provides a temporary diversion. It fills you with sweets so you can’t have a healthy hunger for real pleasures that will truly nurture you.”

  I hate it when my mother rambles on like a crazy person. I make the mistake of rolling my eyes. Then she gets mad and says the thing a kid can never argue with.

  “It’s for your own good.”

  She snatches the rabbit-ear antenna off the top of the TV and takes it upstairs. Clomp, clomp, clomp. The sound of her clogs on the wooden floor is like someone hammering nails into my coffin.

  I’m stunned. I can’t believe she took the antenna.

  “Whatever happened to spanking? Can’t you beat me and get it over with? Now I’ll be in agony ALL SUMMER LONG!”

  I fall to the floor and wail so loud the dog starts barking. Does Mom care? No. I could be oozing blood from an organ that burst when I fell out of the tree, but she doesn’t even bother to check. She comes back downstairs, without the antenna, and picks up the dog to comfort HIM.

  That’s when I decide I won’t suffer alone.

  I plan out separate tortures for each of them.

  Ginia gets the cut-ahead treatment. Whenever she’s on her way to the bathroom (and oh by the way there is only ONE stinking bathroom in the place—unless you want to count the actual I-kid-you-not wooden outhouse by the barn), I run and duck in ahead of her. Then she yells, “Mom!” and I say, “Sorry, but I really have to go.” Then I run the water in the sink like I’m peeing buckets and roar with silent laughter while she pounds on the door.

  Dad’s punishment is more devious. My parents are both high school art teachers. But Dad especially loves to tell you stuff. Sometimes he talks about something interesting, like how they made the original Disney cartoons. (Did you know they had to draw every little flapping wing over and over by hand, since they didn’t have any computers?) But now whenever he tells one of his stories, I just stare at him. When he finishes, I say, “And I needed to know all that because?” Then he gets a hurt look and smooths his beard. (That’s right—he grew a beard, because it’s some kind of Vermont law that ALL men up here have to have furry faces.) Finally he says, “I guess I thought it was kind of interesting.”

  But the best punishment is for Mom.

  I start spending all my time staring at the blank TV screen.

  “What’s wrong, Megan?” Mom asks.

  I don’t answer. I just sigh.

  “Can’t you find anything to do?”

  I sigh again.

  “Sitting there will only make you more depressed.”

  I shake my head. I’m already as depressed as anyone could be.

  Then Mom starts in on her list of WHY-DON’T-YOUs. Why don’t you read, why don’t you draw, why don’t you write Lucy a letter, why don’t you walk the dog, why don’t you do yoga, why don’t you explore that hiking trail behind the field?

  I still don’t say anything. Not talking to her is part of her torture. I hear the anger rising in her voice like the water filling up the back of the toilet. Then SWOOSH—out comes a great flushing rush of rage. MEGAN, YOU CAN’T SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE LIKE THIS!

  Part of me thinks, Sure I can. But another part of me thinks, What if I have to?

  This lasts for a whole week. Just between you and me, I’m getting pretty sick of it. The only good part is that whenever I stare at the blank TV, I pretend I’m watching home movies of my favorite days with Lucy.

  We’ve had so many wonderful days together. There was the day Mrs. T. took us to see a Broadway show and we got to go backstage and meet the star and ride in three different taxis. There was the day that Lucy and I made an entire city out of shoe boxes and then we played like we were giants destroying everything. There was our first sleepover, when we pretended we were camping out in Lucy’s living room and had s’mores and everything. There was the day that Alison took us to her office on the fifty-second floor and we got to meet an author who was very nice even though we never heard of the book she wrote.

  But the most perfect day was one year ago, in the summer right after fifth grade. (To be honest, there aren’t very many happy memories from sixth grade.) As a reward for surviving elementary school, Dad took Lucy and me to Coney Island in Brooklyn. First we went to the aquarium. The penguins were cute and everything, but the best part was when I got Lucy laughing by pretending to kiss this big, fat, ugly walrus through the viewing window and calling him “my Blubber Boy.” As we started to leave, the walrus followed me. That made Lucy laugh even more. Luckily the walruses are right by the bathroom, because she laughed so much she desperately had to go!

  Then we went across the boardwalk to the beach. Lucy found two lucky quarters when we were making sand creatures. After I didn’t find any no matter how deep a hole I dug, she said I should have the one with the state of Missouri on it because my name starts with M. Lucy always shares like that. We spent so much time making mythological beasts that Dad said we didn’t have time for the amusement park. I started getting upset, but Lucy had the brilliant idea of asking Dad what his favorite ride was. He told a long story about taking Mom on the Wonder Wheel. Lucy said he just HAD to ride it again to keep the memory alive. And you know what? He agreed! But first we had corn dogs for dinner—hot dogs dipped in dough and cooked in a yummy way. Then we all rode the Wonder Wheel. (Luckily Dad sat alone in a car with just his memories.) From the top, we had the most incredible view of the ocean and Brooklyn and everything like it all belonged to us. I was so happy, I said, “Oh, Lucy, the sky is glowing pink from my happiness.” But Lucy didn’t say, “Duh, the sun is setting,” like Ginia would have. Lucy sighed and said, “The world outside and the world inside match.”

  Oh, I really loved that day. I play it over and over again.

  Then one morning, eight whole days after I spoke to Lucy and fell out of the tree, Mom and Dad are sitting side by side at the table when I come down for breakfast.

  “Megan,” Dad says. “We give up.”

  “You do?” I say.

  Mom nods.

  My stubbornness has worn them down. They’ve finally realized it’s really strength. I try to be cool but my heart’s jumping. HOORAY! HOORAY! Let’s get this conversation over with so I can watch something on TV before ART time begins—I wouldn’t even care if it was Dora the Explorer.

  “This past week, we’ve waited for you to come to your senses,” Dad says.

  “To do something positive for a change,” Mom says.

  Actually I thought my torture plans were pretty positive.

  “You’re going to be twelve at the end of August. You should be able to make wise choices. But you haven’t done that. So we have to make you do what’s good for you,” Dad says.

  “It’s our duty to assert our authority as your parents,” Mom says.

  My mood drops like a rock. Why didn’t I pay more attention when we studied the American Revolution at school? If I can come up with a good quote about declaring my independence to pursue happiness, I have a chance. But unf
ortunately I spent the entire unit drawing macaroni noodles on Yankee Doodle’s hat.

  “You’re wasting your summer,” Dad says.

  Whose fault is that? (I don’t say.)

  “You could be in danger of wasting your whole life,” Mom says.

  Look who’s talking. (I don’t say.)

  “We have decided to start you on a plan of self-improvement,” Dad says.

  What else is new? (I don’t say.)

  “This morning you are going on a hike,” Mom says.

  I’m stunned. They’re giving up ART time to punish me?

  “With Ginia,” Dad says.

  “What?” Ginia runs into the kitchen. “But you said Sam and I could go.”

  “You can go,” Mom says. “And you can take Megan.”

  Ginia turns a weird kind of reddish purple and her eyes bug out. I put my hand over my face. A smirk is beginning to spread. If you have siblings, then you already know this—the next best thing to your own happiness is your sister’s misery.

  “But Sam was going to show me the beaver dam,” Ginia says.

  “I’m sure Megan would like to see it too,” Dad says.

  “You bet,” I say enthusiastically.

  Ginia’s really squirming now. I know the only thing she wants Sam to show her is a place to M*A*K*E O*U*T.

  “What about her injuries?” Ginia says.

  She is totally desperate. But it doesn’t work.

  “Go put on sturdy shoes,” Mom says.

  When she says that, I start to worry. What kind of a hike is this going to be? Maybe I should have thought about it some more before I agreed to go.

  As I climb the stairs, I’m thinking that maybe I won’t be able to find my shoes. I hear Ginia trying to get Mom and Dad to change their minds. That’s when I find out that their plan isn’t just about improving me. Something’s wrong with the air-conditioning in the car. Dad has to drive it halfway across Vermont to Rutland to get it fixed. Mom wants to go with him and visit some painter friends who are staying near there. But she doesn’t want to leave me alone in the farmhouse. I run downstairs with the answer to everybody’s problem.

  “I can go with Mom and Dad to Rutland.” Any city, even one in Vermont, is better than a hike.

  “That’s right,” Ginia says.

  “I’m sorry, Ginia. But I don’t want you and Sam going off into the Woods by yourselves,” Mom says.

  “Why not? We’re not going to DO anything,” Ginia says.

  “If you’re not going to do anything, then there’s no reason why Megan can’t go with you. She can spend the night with Sam’s family too,” Mom says.

  So we’re all doomed, except Mom and Dad. After ART time is over, they get to drive to Rutland, see a movie while they wait for the car to be fixed, and then spend the night with their friends, who probably have an Internet connection AND cable TV.

  Mom goes upstairs to get my sneakers and my school backpack. It’s still full of sixth-grade junk from last year. Notes from Lucy, unfinished homework assignments, my wallet with my emergency money, and a book that was supposed to be for independent reading. My Side of the Mountain. It’s about a boy who runs away and lives by himself on a mountain. Dad gave it to me last Christmas. It’s the kind of book grown-ups think you should read just because they liked it when they were kids in the last century. Dad wrote on the inside flap, “For Megan, who can do it too!” He always tries to be encouraging. Only I’m not sure what he means by “do it,” because I never read the dumb thing.

  Mom starts to take the book out, but then she puts it back in.

  “I’m not going to read on a hike,” I say.

  “You might want to read it when you’re spending the night with Sam’s family. Did I tell you that they have their very own cider mill?”

  This plan gets worse and worse. And then Mom puts things in my pack: two water bottles, a tube of sunscreen, a bottle of insect repellent, a sketchbook, three charcoal pencils, a pencil sharpener, a rain poncho, and a sweatshirt. Finally she puts this totally stupid baseball cap on my head. It says “I ♥ Vermont” (translation: I Am a Dork!).

  Of course I take it right off. “What’s all that junk for?”

  “These things will come in handy on your hike.”

  “Two water bottles?”

  “There won’t be drinking fountains along the trail. And you should never drink water from a stream. You’ll get sick.”

  If I have to carry all that junk, I definitely don’t want to go. “Maybe hiking is too dangerous for a girl like me.”

  Then Dad comes into the kitchen. “What do you mean? Hiking is just what you need. You’ll come back with a whole new sense of accomplishment. You’ll have a wonderful time. Just think what you’ll discover.”

  I know all I’m going to discover are new ways of being miserable.

  “So why don’t you take a hike?” I mumble. But like I said, as soon as ART time is over, they’ll drive off in the car and they won’t be back until tomorrow.

  Since I can’t drag them along, I decide to bring our dog, Arp. He’s sleeping peacefully in his usual spot under the woodstove. I yank him out by the collar and put on his leash. “C’mon. You’re going too.”

  He looks at me like he’s saying, “Why are you taking me outside? It’s not time to pee.”

  Arp is a city dog. He’s white and fluffy and about the size of a bag of tortilla chips. We’ve had him since I was in first grade. I wanted to call him Poppleton. But, as usual, nobody listened to me. Instead Dad named Arp after a dumb painter who invented Dada. Dada isn’t baby talk. Dada is a bunch of guys who sat around talking about how beautiful painting was a bunch of baloney. I don’t get why teachers like Dad think those guys are such geniuses. If I say how dumb everything is, they drag me to museums and make me stare at paintings until I learn to APPRECIATE.

  Arp should be on my side, since he hates Vermont as much as I do. But Arp is Mom’s baby. He always whines until she picks him up and carries him around. He won’t even eat unless she feeds him from her hand. It’s disgusting how much nicer she is to him than to me.

  Mom puts a bag of dog food in my backpack and hands Ginia a paper bag.

  “What am I supposed to eat?” I say.

  “Your food is in there too.” Mom points to the bag.

  “Can’t Megan carry her own lunch?” Ginia says.

  “It was easier to put everything in the same bag,” Mom says.

  “But Ginia is such a pig, she’ll eat it all,” I say.

  “I am not!” Ginia says.

  “Are too!” I make pig noises.

  “Then you carry the lunch,” Ginia says.

  She shoves the bag at me. It feels so heavy, I’m sorry I said anything. Especially since it won’t even be worth carrying. Whatever is in there is sure to be way too healthy and self-improving. But I put it in my backpack.

  Sam drives up in his dad’s old pickup truck. Ginia runs outside to meet him. They kiss like they haven’t seen each other in a zillion years.

  It’s worse than I thought. The hike is going to be a big, fat slobberfest.

  “Mom, please don’t make me go with them,” I beg her. “You see how they are.”

  “That’s why you have to stay with them. To keep your sister out of trouble,” Mom says.

  “That is so totally unfair!” I say.

  “Sometimes life isn’t fair,” Mom says.

  Like that’s going to make me feel better?

  She holds up the hat and my backpack. I put on the backpack. I ignore the hat. She sticks it in the backpack as I drag Arp outside.

  Ginia leans real close to Sam to whisper. She deliberately does it loud enough so I can hear. “I can’t believe she has to come with us. Why should we suffer just because Megan is a lazy slug?”

  “Mom!” I wail. “Did you hear what she called me?”

  Mom is standing right there, choosing her brushes from the tin can on the back porch. She turns to Ginia like she’s going to scold her, but
all she says is, “Ginia, don’t ignore your sister. Include her.”

  “I don’t want to be included in what they’re going to be doing,” I say.

  “Megan, remember that Ginia is in charge.”

  The last thing I want is Ginia bossing me. I jerk Arp’s leash and stomp down the driveway. I kick a few stones out of my way. I’d rather be kicking Ginia. And then she says in her fake-sweet voice, “Oh, Meggie, you’re going the wrong way.”

  I stop.

  “Did you think we were going to hike on the road?” Sam says.

  “Actually yes. Because walking on a smooth, flat surface would be the SENSIBLE thing to do!”

  Then they all laugh at me. Well, ha, ha, ha.

  Sam and Ginia join hands and walk in the other direction. As they stroll past the garden, Sam picks a flower and gives it to Ginia. She acts like it’s the most wonderful thing that anyone has ever done. They pass the Hundred-Year-Old Maple and go into the big field that surrounds the farmhouse and the barn. They’re about halfway to the Woods, but I’m still standing in the driveway. I’m so angry my feet are burning holes through my shoes.

  Mom sighs. “Sweetheart, you’re not getting off to a very good start. Can’t you try to be more …”

  The last thing I need is another lecture. “Just leave me alone!”

  I drag Arp across the field after Sam and Ginia. As horrible as they are, at least I can count on them to ignore me.

  3

  Into the Woods

  Let me explain something because you might not know this. If you’re a city kid or even a suburb kid, you probably think the Woods are just, like, six trees sticking up out of the ground the way you drew them in preschool. Tall, straight trunks topped by a fluffy circle of leaves. A few friends to make some cool shade or be a backrest for you if you’re sitting down to have a snack.

  But that isn’t the real Woods. First of all, there are way more than six trees. There are so many that you don’t even think of them as separate trees that can be counted. They spread on and on, up over the mountains and down the other side, on and on until forever. Still, it wouldn’t matter how many there were if they stood in line like the trees in Central Park. But they don’t. They all crowd together. Their branches are twisted and tangled up. The ground below them is crammed with smaller trees trying to fight their way up to the sun, and under those trees are bushes and brambles and weird plants. The trees that have died lie around rotting and hiding under piles of brown leaves, just waiting to trip you. There aren’t any paths or spaces to walk. The Woods don’t want you to walk in them. And don’t forget the swarms of biting insects that hang out there, waiting to suck your blood and give you nasty diseases.