Gretchen gripped her arms more tightly against her chest. “Fine. You wanna think that about me? Go right ahead. I won’t say all the horrible things I know about your family.”
“Like what?”
“For one thing, you’re sellouts. You do whatever the Shades ask, no matter how bad. Lackeys. That’s what my dad calls you.”
Lee’s heart began to pound.
“But,” said Gretchen, “I’m willing to overlook that, because this is bigger than Vickeries or Whipples.”
“What is?”
Gretchen heaved in a big breath and said, “Death killed Essie Hasting.”
Lee stared. “What do you mean? Death kills everyone.”
“No,” said Gretchen. “Not took her life. Death killed Essie. Before her appointed time. And I’m trying to figure out why.”
Lee didn’t know what to think. Only Felix and his mother spoke about Shades. To hear Gretchen say Death’s name, as though Death were a real person, was strange enough. But what Gretchen’s words meant—that was even stranger.
“If Death did anything,” Lee said slowly, “I wouldn’t know. I live with Memory, not him.”
Gretchen’s eyes flashed with doubt. “I thought you lived with both of them?”
“Well.” Lee’s ears were hot. “I do, I guess. Technically. But it’s . . .”
“It’s what?”
He felt sure his eardrums were now on fire and would soon catch his whole body alight. He wasn’t supposed to talk to Whipples, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to talk to them about the Agreement, or Felix, or any of this. If Gretchen Whipple was attempting to trick him into revealing secrets, she was doing a very good job.
Lee was beginning to feel guilty, even though he was certain he had nothing to be guilty about. He couldn’t stick around longer, for fear of what else Gretchen Whipple might do. So he ran. He set off at full speed for Poplar Wood and looked back just once to see if Gretchen was following.
She hadn’t moved an inch. She stood in the middle of the rec field, shoulders drooped, as though she had lost a fight.
Death had killed Essie Hasting?
Death had killed Essie Hasting?
If that was true, then what did Felix know?
Forty-seven seconds. Lee was sure he could beat that record now.
Just as Felix had predicted, true November finally arrived. Warmth was gone for good. Bitter cold stiffened the air, and the Vickery twins could no longer meet comfortably on the front porch. Instead, they moved to the back of the house—a narrow porch, fully enclosed in glass and furnished with a cast-iron stove.
Their mother called this place the conservatory. The west end of the porch was filled with crawling vines, orchids, and a wild breed of flower that came from the Amazon. The east end was filled with nothing but dust and dirt.
Today, Lee sat in a wicker chair, studying for a history exam. Felix lay on his back, studying the stem of a white orchid. They had passed half an hour like this, in calm quiet. Some days the brothers did not talk, merely kept each other company.
Felix had just stretched his legs and was readying to return to work, when there was a terrible crash! He ducked, and something smashed into the potted orchid behind him.
“We’re under attack!” shouted Lee, shielding his face with A Survey of World History.
When Felix righted himself, he was staring straight through broken glass at a girl. Her hair was black as soot, and her lips were a startling shade of red. She was clearly the source of the flying ball, and she was smiling. It was the same girl who had yelled at him on Halloween. Gretchen Whipple.
“Oops,” she said, smiling big. “It looks like I’ve damaged your property with my softball. Aren’t you going to invite me in so I can make amends?”
Felix removed the book draped over Lee’s face.
“What’s she doing here?” he whispered.
But Lee looked as startled as Felix felt.
“I’m coming in!” said Gretchen.
She sprinted up the conservatory steps and burst in. Shards of glass crunched beneath her sneakers, and the closer she drew to Felix, the farther he drew away.
“You again!” she said. “You remember me, don’t you?”
Felix remembered. He remembered Gretchen’s shout of disgust when she’d ripped back his eyepatch. He remembered very well.
“Why don’t you run away?” Felix said, his heel backing into the wall. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you break a window?”
“I’m the mayor’s daughter, Zeke. I’ve got honor.” She stepped nearer, closing the distance. “But I know your name isn’t really Zeke. It’s Felix. Your friend Lee here told me, didn’t you, Lee?”
Lee sputtered. His eyes were wide with horror.
“Actually,” said Gretchen, reflecting, “you told me he’d gone back home. And now he’s here, at your house. So either he’s back again, or you lied. Who are you really, Felix? Some kind of relative?”
Gretchen looked him over, then looked over Lee. “You don’t look a thing alike,” she decided aloud. “By the way, Lee, why do you Vickeries even live out here? Aren’t you afraid of getting poison ivy, like, all the time? Or getting attacked by bears? I hear bears live out here.”
“There aren’t any bears,” said Felix. “And you don’t have to worry about poison ivy unless you’re a complete idiot and don’t know how to spot it.”
“I guess that’s something you’ll have to teach me, Felix. I’m sure we’ll be spending a lot of time together from now on.”
“What’s she talking about?” Felix asked Lee.
“How should I know!” cried Lee, again covering his face with the book.
“Felix,” said a booming voice. “What’s going on out here?”
Felix turned around. His father was in the doorway.
“This girl broke the window!” he said. “And now she won’t leave.”
“Ha!” Gretchen shoved past Felix. “Finally, an adult. You’re Vince Vickery, right?”
She thrust her hand out. Vince shook it quite calmly, given the circumstances, and said, “Correct.”
“Well ‘this girl’ happens to be Gretchen Whipple. I’m Mayor Whipple’s daughter.”
Vince’s expression remained unchanged. “I see.”
“I came in to make amends for my destructive behavior,” Gretchen said.
“Very well. I’d estimate that a new pane would cost about—”
“Oh, no! No, I can’t pay you for it. I don’t have that kind of money, and I can’t tell my father or Gram. I’d rather die. You know, seeing how you all are Vickeries.”
“Well,” said Vince. “That puts us in something of a pickle, doesn’t it?” To Felix’s annoyance, his father looked rather amused by Gretchen. Hadn’t he heard her? She was a Whipple. Whipples were the enemy. Vince had told Felix so himself.
“Oh no, it doesn’t,” said Gretchen. “See, I might not have the money, but I’ve got plenty of free time. I’m the smartest kid in my class, so I finish all my homework at lightning speed. That means I could make up the cost of repairs in manual labor. You all would like that, right? A Whipple doing chores for you? I’m sure I could be a big help to Lee and his friend here.”
Vince stiffened. “Lee?” he said quietly.
“Well, yeah.” Gretchen flapped her arm in Lee’s general direction.
A cold sadness crept over Felix. Lee had lowered his history book and was staring hard at the place where Vince stood. Lee and his father couldn’t see each other, of course; that was part of the Agreement. But somehow, somehow, Lee always seemed to sense when his father was near. He now stood still as a wax figurine. Vince stood motionless, too.
“Uh,” said Gretchen. “Everything okay?”
Vince shook his head. “Yes, excuse me. Everything is fine.”
“Uh-huh. So, what’ll it be? Hard labor in the attic? Yard work? Window washing? I’ll make it up however you see fit. I’d just prefer you didn’t tell my father abou
t this little incident. I would be grounded for ever if he found out I’d been hanging around here.”
Vince narrowed his eyes at Gretchen. “And would you care to explain why you’ve been hanging around here?”
Finally, thought Felix. He’s taking this seriously.
“Oh.” Gretchen’s fingers fidgeted. “I’m not a spy or anything, if that’s what you think! I won’t report all your secrets back home, promise.”
Vince knelt so he was on her level. “I’m not sure what you’re up to, Miss Whipple, but trust me, whatever it is, it’s unwise. You may be rebelling against your father—that’s to be expected at your age—but you should not do so here. It’s dangerous.”
The way Gretchen’s face lit up, Felix suspected his father had said the exact wrong thing. But quickly, she shifted her features into something like outrage. “What?! I’ve got to make up for the damage somehow!”
Vince rose to his feet. “There’s nothing for you to do. Now be off to town, Miss Whipple, before the wood grows dark.”
“This . . . floor! It’s filthy! I could clean that for you!”
Vince’s face tightened around the lips. It was an expression that Felix only ever saw him wear in one other situation, whenever Death stood at the foot of a patient’s bed—a sign that the patient was fated to die.
“Leave this property, Miss Whipple,” he said, firm. “I will cover the cost of the glass, and I don’t want to hear from you again. You or any of your family.”
“I am sorry about the window. The plants aren’t going to die, are they?” Gretchen pointed to the orchids, and to the Amazonian flower.
“I’m sure my wife will see that they don’t.”
In that moment, Vince looked so infinitely sad that Felix had to look away. When he looked back, his father was gone, the screen door latched behind him. He turned on Gretchen. “You planned this, didn’t you? You threw that ball on purpose.”
Gretchen sniffed, staring at the closed door. “I wanted to practice my pitching.”
Felix’s father had warned him that the Whipples were not to be trusted. They did anything, fooled anyone, to get what they wanted.
Lee had shaken from his frozen state and was now glaring hard at Gretchen. “Is this about Essie Hasting?” he asked. “I told you I don’t know anything.”
“YOU DO,” cried Gretchen, pointing at both of them. “And I’m going to get the truth out of you Vickeries, whether you like it or not!”
With that, Gretchen Whipple flung open the conservatory door and stomped away.
“What . . . just happened?” whispered Lee.
“Not a clue.” Felix turned to his brother. “Why didn’t you tell me she’d talked to you?”
“I . . . hadn’t gotten the chance.”
“She’s a Whipple.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think she’d come out here and throw stuff at us. I don’t even know what she wants.”
Felix peered through the frame of broken glass, watching Gretchen disappear into the wood. “Me neither. But I’m pretty sure she means business.”
Gretchen’s plan was working, though maybe not exactly as she’d intended. For one thing, she hadn’t expected that Felix boy to be at the house. For another, she’d thought the Vickeries would be much angrier about the broken window and insist on at least a week’s worth of hard labor to make up for the damage. And she certainly hadn’t expected that meeting Vince Vickery—an actual apprentice—would be so scary. She wondered if any of them had seen her hands shaking.
The last thing Gretchen had not counted on was getting lost in Poplar Wood. It had taken her a full hour to find Poplar House, and she’d wondered the whole way why, what with so many patients who visited the Vickeries, there wasn’t a path that led to the front door. Did every patient have to forge their way through this wood? Was it a test of fortitude they had to pass in order to receive treatment?
Of course, Gretchen had been very careful about it and tied strips of Gram’s knitting yarn around the trees as she went so she could trace her steps back. The trouble was, Gretchen hadn’t seen a single one of her yarn-marked trees in the last ten minutes, and now dusk was coming on. If she wasn’t home for dinner, Gram would throw a fit.
“See?” she said out loud to the listening wood. “This is why Gram should let me get a cell phone. I might die in this wood, and all because I couldn’t call for help.”
It was a poor argument, and Gretchen knew it. Gram had told Gretchen that she couldn’t have a phone until her fifteenth birthday, but she had also strictly forbidden Gretchen from ever going into Poplar Wood. Gram wouldn’t be convinced to give Gretchen a phone just so that Gretchen could more conveniently disobey her rules.
But Gram wasn’t here, and the trees were not arguing with Gretchen’s logic, so she kept on talking: “Half of eighth grade already has one! Maybe if Gram weren’t from, like, the sixteenth century, she wouldn’t—”
“Who are you talking to, crazy?”
Gretchen shrieked. A tall, snickering boy emerged from behind an oak.
“Asa,” Gretchen gasped. Asa just snickered some more, but Gretchen was a little glad he’d appeared. “What are you doing out here?”
“Could ask you the same question. Gram is going to be so pissed at you.”
“You can’t say anything to her. Please. She’ll ground me for weeks.”
Asa just hocked up a wad of spit and aimed it into the underbrush. “Should’ve thought of that before you came in here. Just what were you doing, Gretch?”
“None of your business. And I didn’t mean to get lost. I left a trail, I just couldn’t find it again.”
“What, you mean this?” Asa unzipped one of his leather jacket’s many pockets and pulled out a handful of yarn pieces.
Gretchen gaped. “You followed me?”
“My little sister was sneaking out her bedroom window without telling Gram where she was going.” Asa smiled, all wrong. “I was worried about her.”
“You were not! Why would you do that to me?”
“You weren’t really lost. I just thought it’d be funny to see how bad your sense of direction is, and let me tell you, it’s bad. You don’t hold up well under pressure.”
Gretchen shoved at Asa’s gut. Asa didn’t budge.
“You weren’t even in trouble,” he said. “Come on, I’ll drive you back home.”
Gretchen folded her arms and stayed where she was. “I’ll walk.”
“But you’ll be late for dinner.”
“You’re such a jerk, Asa. I’m going to tell—”
“Who?” Asa smiled an even worse smile than before. “Gram? You going to tell her you were hanging around Poplar House?”
“I hate you,” Gretchen said.
“Whatever.” Asa pointed through the trees. “We’re only a minute from the main road. You were fine all along.”
Just as Asa said, the main road was less than a minute’s walk away, and so was his motorbike. When they reached it, he mounted and nodded at Gretchen to do the same.
“I’m not riding without a helmet,” she said. “And you shouldn’t, either.”
Asa gave Gretchen a look that made her feel like a stick-in-the-mud. But he dismounted, threw open the bike seat, and tossed a helmet right at Gretchen’s face. Luckily, softball had made her a good catch.
They didn’t speak to each other on the ride home. Even if Gretchen had wanted to talk to her brother, she wouldn’t have been heard over the roar of the engine as Asa drove straight through four-way stops, weaving from lane to lane.
When they reached Carver Street, Asa kept driving straight, passing it by. What was he thinking? Carver Street was by far the fastest route home. It was a quick flash by Hickory Park, a turn onto Main Street, and another turn onto Avenue B that led straight up to their doorstep—a five-minute ride at most. It was strange that Asa had missed the turn, but stranger still that he missed Clay Street, and Calhoun after it.
“What are you doing?!” Gretchen shout
ed, but Asa did not answer.
At this rate, thought Gretchen, they would miss Hickory Park altogether. And that, in fact, was precisely what they did. Asa turned up Gregory Street, a stretch of brick apartments that was a full block past the park. Gretchen didn’t try to speak again until they arrived at the gated driveway of the mayor’s house.
“Why’d you take such a long way home?”
“What’re you talking about?” said Asa, wheeling his bike to the garage.
“You went all the way around Hickory Park.”
“So what? The park’s an eyesore. All that yellow tape.”
Gretchen frowned at her brother. He smiled an ugly smile.
Dinner passed in silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and the occasional request for a dish. Asa said nothing, as usual. Mayor Whipple, too busy with a stack of business-related documents, said nothing, as usual. Gram said nothing, aside from the occasional reprimand that Gretchen remove her elbows from the table, Gretchen not slurp so loud, Gretchen take smaller bites—as usual.
Everything was as it always was, but Gretchen felt different. She had visited the house in Poplar Wood. She’d asked the Vickeries for help. She wondered if anyone could see that on her face, see a change in the way she ate—poking at her food but putting little in her mouth.
Mayor Whipple stood abruptly, gathering his stack of papers.
“Archie, really,” said Gram. “You can’t wait for dessert? Cobbler tonight.”
“Sorry, Mom. Business.”
Business.
That was the excuse Mayor Whipple used, whether he was leaving the supper table or missing one of Gretchen’s softball games. In front of the family, business was papers and phone calls and finely dressed houseguests. But Gretchen knew there was more to it than that. There was plenty of business her father did in his home office, with the doors shut and locked. Business, she assumed, that had to do with the Shades.
Most nights after dinner, Gretchen would lock herself in her bedroom, where she’d do her homework or read a book. Tonight, she had other plans. She walked down the long, wood-paneled hallway, toward her father’s office. The double doors were shut tight, as Gretchen expected. That meant her father was not to be disturbed, and Gretchen did not mean to disturb him. She only meant to eavesdrop.
The House in Poplar Wood Page 6