Snowbirds

by Crissa Chappell

For a moment, we’re both quiet.

  I can’t tell her anything about Tobias. He’s just some boy Alice met. Where? I don’t know. I figured he was a Rumspringa boy. A snowbird. He could be from anywhere.

  “Are you going to talk to me, Lucy?” says Ricketts.

  “I don’t know anything, okay?”

  “Is that the truth?” she says carefully.

  Now I get it.

  Ricketts doesn’t think I’m lying to protect Alice.

  She thinks I’m lying to protect myself.

  The front door swings open and Dad storms into the kitchen. I’ve never seen him so angry.

  “You’ve had enough time,” he says to Ricketts. “More than enough. I’m asking you to leave.”

  Ricketts doesn’t move. “I’m not done talking to Lucy.”

  “Yes, you are,” he says, holding the door open.

  “We still have a few things to discuss.”

  “Not without my permission.”

  “Fine.” Ricketts gets up from the table. She drops her Styrofoam cup in our sink, as if I’m going to wash it for her. “I’ll be at the station later today, if she changes her mind. And if she doesn’t . . .”

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. Let the pain take over.

  Still, I hear every word.

  “How old are you, Lucy?”

  “Sixteen,” I mumble.

  She nods. “We’ll talk again soon.”

  Not if I can help it.

  When Ricketts finally leaves, I can breathe again. Dad goes to the kitchen window. I stand behind him, watching the police car drive away. It looks so out of place. A big city thing. Was she telling the truth? It’s too horrible to imagine, Alice’s cell phone, the sparkly pink rhinestones crusted with blood.

  I lean against Dad’s shoulder. “I’m scared.”

  “It’s okay to be scared,” he says. “But you’re safe now, Smidge. This is my house. That sheriff’s got no right coming around here, stirring up trouble. What sort of questions did she ask you?”

  He doesn’t understand why that cop’s looking for me. Or why she’s asking so many questions. He still thinks I’m good inside. But he doesn’t know how deep I’ve sunk. So low, I may never find the light again.

  “She thinks I did something bad to Alice.”

  Dad blinks. “Alice is like a sister to you. Why would that policewoman think you’d hurt your best friend?”

  “Alice’s phone . . .” I can barely shape the words.

  “What about her phone?”

  “There was blood on it.”

  “Yes,” says Dad quietly. “I know.”

  I can’t believe it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Now Dad’s keeping secrets too?

  “Didn’t want to upset you,” he says. “You’ve been carrying a big load. Didn’t know how big until you got sick in church—”

  Sick?

  “I wasn’t sick.”

  He’s still not listening. “I’m worried about you, Smidge,” he says. “There’s nothing we can do for Alice now. Nothing except pray.”

  I can’t sit here and do nothing. I need to find Tobias’s friends, the boys who were playing that game online. But how can I get away from Dad? He’s got me working all afternoon, painting that stupid gazebo.

  “It’s time we got back to work,” he says, grabbing his hat. “Keep your hands busy so your mind can’t wander.”

  In the backyard we lift the cedar planks and fit the pieces together. The roof reminds me of a boat’s helm, steering us across deep water. I can’t stay in Pinecraft anymore. Not if Alice is in trouble. I have to go wherever she’s gone, no matter how far.

  I’m the only one who knows the way.

  chapter thirteen

  princesses

  Later that afternoon, Mr. Showalter pulls up in his truck.

  “Now what?” Dad mutters.

  No doubt, Mr. Showalter noticed the police car on the front lawn. Now he’s over here looking for gossip.

  “Be back in a minute,” Dad says, shaking his head.

  Near the workshop he left a stack of paint cans on the lawn. Snowy pine. That’s the color he picked out for that stupid wedding gazebo. I glance back at Dad. He’s nodding at Mr. Showalter, pretending to listen to whatever boring thing he’s saying. I need to move fast. The workshop’s door is flung wide open. I duck inside, almost tripping over the boards on the floor.

  The walls are bristling with hooks. That’s where Dad hangs his tools. I scan the saw blades and gleaming hammers. Usually he leaves the screwdrivers there too. He keeps them on a steel pegboard, all lined in a row.

  I need something to open one of the paint cans. I yank open a drawer and shove my hand inside, feeling around for a screwdriver. All I find is measuring tape. Carpenter’s pencils with square edges, hand-sharpened with a pocketknife. A sand dollar I gave to Dad a long time ago. The shell’s crumbled to pieces, but I can’t find the doves. I picture them fluttering away, like moths through the window.

  “What are you hunting for, Smidge?”

  Dad’s standing in the doorway with Mr. Showalter. They both stare at me, waiting.

  “Sandpaper,” I tell him.

  “It’s on the table,” he says, frowning, “right where you left it.”

  “Oh,” I say, like I’m surprised. As I reach for it, I glance at the cabinet above the worktable. Dad’s got a bunch of rusty cans on the shelf. He fills the old cashew tins with bolts and nails. And there, sticking out of the farthest tin, is the plastic handle to a screwdriver.

  “You’re not done sanding?” Dad asks.

  “Almost.”

  Mr. Showalter scratches his beard. “We should let your daughter get back to her chores. Sounds like she’s got a lot to handle.”

  What does he mean, a lot to handle? Does he think I’m guilty, too? I can’t stand his high-and-mighty attitude. Or the strange way he’s looking at me. I feel like crawling under the worktable with the wood shavings.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “There’s a lot of work to do. We have to finish nailing the roof panels. Then we’re going to start painting. Want to help?”

  He takes a step backward. “Promised my wife I’d stop by the post office.”

  Yeah, that’s what I figured.

  “Well, I best be on my way,” he says, heading for the door. He turns to Dad. “Let’s talk before I go.”

  The door bangs shut. When they’re finally gone, I reach up and grab the screwdriver. Then I press my cheek against the door.

  “We can’t have the police showing up here,” Mr. Showalter’s voice drifts through the pinewood. He’s still going off about the police. The way he’s talking, you’d think Dad’s the one in trouble. Not me.

  “They won’t be back,” Dad says.

  “Do you really believe that? It’s probably all over the TV by now. And that’s the last thing we need.”

  “My daughter had a talk with the sheriff.”

  “Oh, she did?” Mr. Showalter says. “Your daughter’s friend is the reason the police are driving down my street.”

  “It’s no business of yours,” Dad says.

  “Actually, it is my business. Both of us. If word gets out that something’s not right with the Amish in Pinecraft, you can say goodbye to your fancy gazebos. Because you won’t be selling them anymore.”

  I wince. It hurts to hear Mr. Showalter talk to Dad that way. But I know it’s true. We could lose everything. And I’m to blame.

  I push open the door to the workshop. The paint cans are hidden in the tall grass near the gazebo. I crouch down on the ground. Slide the flat edge of the screwdriver under the lid. The thing’s screwed on so tight, it won’t budge.

  “Lucy?”

  Dad’s calling for me. I jam the screwdriver into the paint can. Then I start working my way around the lid. Finally, it pops off. I give that can a good, hard kick and a tidal wave of paint gushes across the lawn.

  “What’s going on here?” Dad
comes walking up the path. When he sees the paint can toppled over, he frowns.

  I stare at the ooze in the grass. “The lid came off.”

  Not exactly a lie.

  Dad sighs. “Head in the clouds.”

  Mr. Showalter’s right behind Dad. He glares at me, the no-good girl. “What a waste,” he says, like I can’t do anything right.

  “It’s my fault. Let me walk to the store on Bahia Vista. I’ll pick up another can.”

  Dad tugs his hat over his eyes. “Not much left of the day. I’d rather you stayed at home, Smidge. You haven’t even had lunch.”

  “If we don’t start painting now, it won’t dry in time.”

  I never argue with Dad, but he knows I’m right. Maybe that’s why he finally says, “Be back in an hour.”

  It’s not enough time. I have to take the bus to South Lido Key. That’s where Tobias’s friends are playing the game today.

  “You forgot something.” Dad slips me a twenty.

  “Thanks.”

  He gives my arm a squeeze. “Glad to see you smiling again.”

  I want to sink into the ground, lower than the bones of the ocean.

  When I reach the bus stop on Bahia Vista, I’m the only one waiting on the bench. Maybe the last bus came already? In Pinecraft, they stop running after sundown. There should be another on the way.

  “Did the bus show up yet?” I ask an Old Order woman who walks up and sits next to me.

  She folds her hands in her lap.

  Silent.

  Ten minutes later, the bus finally shows up. Heads turn as I step inside and search for an empty seat.

  When I was little, everyone used to smile at me.

  Now they stare.

  • • •

  South Lido Key is crowded on the weekend. Seagulls hover in midair, as if dangling on invisible strings. Me and Alice used to bait our fingers with saltines and lift them high, holding our breath, until the birds finally swooped down and took what we gave them.

  Near the water, dozens of umbrellas tilt in the sand. Kids sit at picnic tables, eating off paper plates. As I walk to the beach, they stare at me. I’m sick of all the stares and whispers. For once, I want to look like everybody else.

  I slide the pins out of my hair and take off my prayer cap. Then I shove it in the bottom of my tote bag. My hair spills down my back. I wonder if I look like Alice when she stepped off the bus.

  As I pass the seawall, I remember my walk with Faron, our kiss. The sand is littered with cigarettes and empty beer bottles. Strange how things can look so different after the sun rises.

  Across from the beach, a hiking trail leads into the pines. Dad would say it’s a bad idea, exploring the woods by myself, but I don’t have a choice. I turn away from the water and head toward the shade.

  In the video online, the boys were in a field. I don’t see anything like that here. The pines are so thick, there’s hardly any sun. Still, I’m sweating in the late afternoon heat. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ears. It feels strange, letting it sway loose and unpinned.

  The trail leads to an open clearing. There’s enough space to play a game here, but there’s nobody around. I listen, but hear nothing. Not even the ocean’s pulse. Then a shout breaks through the quiet.

  I spin around.

  “Don’t move,” somebody says.

  A boy runs out of the woods and lunges in front of me. He’s carrying a stick, like the people in the video I saw online, and wearing some kind of costume, a long, flowy cape decorated with stars.

  “You,” he says, waving the stick at me. “Intruder, you have passed the forbidden gates of my kingdom. How do you plead?”

  This boy must think I’m playing the game. My long-sleeved dress probably looks like a costume to him. Okay. I’ll play along.

  “I plead guilty.”

  He looks confused. “You’re not going to defend yourself?”

  “No.”

  He pushes up his helmet. “But you’re supposed to fight me.”

  “How?”

  “You don’t have a weapon?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not even magic?”

  “I don’t know how to fight.”

  “Well, that’s no excuse,” he says, raising his arm. “Killing blow one. Killing blow two,” he yells, whacking me with his stick.

  “Stop it.” He’s not hitting me very hard, but it still hurts.

  “You’re out,” he says.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Nothing. You’re dead.”

  “I am?”

  “Go wait in the dungeon,” he says, pointing at a circle of stones near the edge of the clearing.

  This game doesn’t make any sense. I walk over to the “dungeon,” where a girl in a wheelchair is hanging out in the shade, gluing feathers to paper masks. On the back of her chair balloons sway in the breeze like she might take off into the sky.

  “Are you dead too?” I ask.

  “For now,” she says. “But I hope it’s not permanent. What character are you playing today?”

  “I’m just here to watch.”

  “Me too,” she says. “I’m Crystal, by the way. I haven’t seen you at any games before. Are you a newbie?”

  “I guess.”

  “So you’ve never gone LARPing?”

  “What’s LARPing?”

  She squeezes a bead of glue onto a mask. “It’s live-action-role-playing. Kind of like a video game in real life.”

  I don’t play video games, but I think I understand. “You’re supposed to kill the bad guys.”

  Crystal laughs. “Oh, my god. You’re hilarious. What’s your name?”

  “Lucy Zimmer.”

  “I’ve never met a Lucy Zimmer. So we’re both doing something new.” She bends forward in her chair, like a queen bowing on her throne.

  Did Alice play this make-believe game up north? I know she wants to be a famous actress in Hollywood someday. She told me there’s a drive-in theatre down the road from the Amish craft fair in Maine. At night, she’d sneak out to watch the movies. Alice would memorize all the lines and act out the parts for me. Yeah, she was good at pretending.

  I need to find out more about this game.

  “Do you make all the costumes?” I ask Crystal.

  “Most of them,” she says. “I’m going to major in fashion design next year at Ringling. I’m so excited, I can’t shut up about it.”

  When she says, “Ringling,” I think she means the art school up in Sarasota. If I could study anything I want, I’d be excited, too.

  Crystal grabs a handful of peacock feathers from her bag. “I haven’t played since I got killed in the last battle. It really sucks to be eaten by a plant. Especially a Phantom Fungus whose intelligence is mindless.”

  “That sounds pretty bad.”

  “It was beyond tragic. But maybe I can get resurrected next time.”

  “What do you mean, ‘resurrected’?”

  “When somebody dies, they have a chance to come back to life.”

  “So they’re not dead anymore?”

  “If they’re lucky,” she says. “You’re really new at this, aren’t you?”

  “I was hoping my friends would be here.”

  “If they’re not on the battlefield, they probably flaked out. Don’t you hate when that happens? It messes up the whole game.”

  “Where’s the battlefield?” I ask.

  “You’re looking at it.”

  I glance at the open space between the pines, where the boys are whacking each other with big wooden sticks.

  “What character is your friend playing?” Crystal asks.

  I try to describe Alice’s costume, the glittery wings on her back.

  “So she’s one of the fairies. It’s a mission, keeping track of those girls. I mean, there’s a gazillion of them.”

  “How many players do you have?”

  “Let’s see. If you count every state, there’s fifty chapters,” she says,
tapping her fingers.

  “That’s a lot.”

  “No kidding,” she says. “There’s over a hundred players signed up for Blackwoods this year.”

  Where did I hear that name before? The video Tobias put online. He told Alice they were supposed to play a game at Blackwoods.

  “It’s going to be epic,” says Crystal.

  “What happens at Blackwoods?” I ask.

  “Oh, just the most amazing battle of the entire year. We drive up to Maine every fall. All the chapters get together and fight for the throne. It gets real atmospheric with the leaves changing and stuff.”

  I remember the video I saw online. The changing leaves. Tobias in the woods with Alice. The wings on her back.

  “Do you know someone named Tobias?” I ask. “He’s Alice’s boyfriend. She’s from Maine too.”

  “Tobias? You mean Toby?”

  Toby.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Toby does the video every year. He’s like, the technology expert.”

  “So he’s not from here?”

  Crystal shrugs. “I’ve only seen him at Agora, back in Maine. LARPing’s really big up there. Everybody camps at Blackwoods in Acadia National Park. It’s like our own special world. Five days of awesomeness. Nobody judging you. Total escape from reality. Because reality kind of sucks. You know what I mean?”

  I know exactly what she means.

  “When I’m LARPing, I can be myself. At school, everybody thinks I’m a freak. But at the games, we’re all freaks.” She laughs.

  I can totally imagine Alice playing this game. She always loved to pretend. Why didn’t she tell me about it? Maybe she thought her mom would find out. When we were little, Mrs. Yoder never let us play make-believe. “It’s like telling lies,” she said.

  “When are the Agora games?” I ask.

  “This weekend, actually. You should go.”

  The games are a thousand miles away. How can I drive up to Maine? I don’t even have a car. But I have a little money saved from my job. Dad usually keeps most of it. There’s no way he’d let me go.

  Crystal pushes up her mask. Now it looks like her face has sprouted wings. “Excuse me for saying, but your dress is kind of plain.”

  “Could you make a dress for me?”

  “Maybe.” She glances at the players on the field. “I mean, yeah. If I had more time. I usually just make stuff for my friends.”