Phil bent his head, and a short, bald, sunburned-looking man, dressed in a blue shirt and khakis, bounded to the front of the group and said, “Who here has ever felt like they didn’t fit in?”
All morning Alice sat there listening to Jack David talk about societal standards and internalized self-loathing and “a mind-set of kindness” and how it was all of their duty to stand up to bullies. Lori said the Center would be sending a letter home to everyone’s parents “with regard to this unfortunate situation,” and Phil once again urged the culprits, or “anyone with any knowledge of the situation,” to come forward.
Alice didn’t move. This is what happens, she told herself. This is what happens when you’re dumb enough to think that anyone actually likes you. This is what happens when you let yourself hope.
Phil and Lori let her go back to the cabin and spend the entire afternoon there, skipping lunch and her learning sessions and Evening Nutrition. Alice lay on her bed with her eyes closed, ignoring Taley and Riya when they tried to talk to her, ignoring Jessica, who knew better than to say a word.
That night Lori tried to tell her about the brownies Kate had baked, but Alice wouldn’t open her eyes. Taley and Riya invited her to watch the finale of some reality TV talent show with them; they’d gotten special permission to use the TV set in the lodge. Alice just shook her head.
“I’mdb sorry thisb habbened,” said Taley. She tried to touch Alice’s hair.
Alice jerked away.
“Leave. Me. Alone,” she said.
“Okay,” said Taley. “But we’re here if you want to talk or anything.” She paused. “We’re really sorry.” She sounded like she meant it, but Alice thought that she and Riya were privately discussing how they’d warned Alice about Jessica, how they’d told her this would happen, how it was nobody’s fault but her own.
Alice lay on her bed, motionless, fists clenched, through lights-out. When everyone was asleep, she got up, slammed out of the cabin, and went to the kitchen, where she took the brownies and broke the dishes. I don’t want to be here, she thought, stomping off toward the water. I don’t want to be anywhere. I don’t want to be . . . at all.
She’d just gotten herself settled underneath her favorite tree when she heard something. Faint splashing, then a girl’s voice.
“Help!”
Alice peered out into the darkness. Maybe she’d imagined something. Maybe this was just another trick, a way for a day she didn’t think could get any worse to prove her wrong. She heard more splashing . . . and coughing . . . and a tiny, choking voice saying, “Help!”
Without thinking, she kicked off her shoes and ran into the water, stroking quickly until she reached the flailing figure. A girl, she thought, although between the darkness and the churn of the water, it was hard to tell.
“I’ve got you,” she said. Immediately the girl stopped kicking and thrashing, letting Alice grab her shoulders and tow her onto the shore.
CHAPTER 12
MILLIE FELT HERSELF BEING PULLED through the water, then dragged up onto the sandy beach. She heard her rescuer collapse beside her, gasping.
As soon as she could move, Millie pushed herself onto her hands and knees, and half crawled, half scuttled into the bushes, so that her savior—a girl, she thought, a No-Fur girl—wouldn’t be able to see her. Never, never, never let a No-Fur catch sight of you, she’d heard her parents and her teachers and Old Aunt Yetta tell her for years . . . but the tickle of fear was completely overwhelmed by her excitement. She was here, in the No-Fur world. With a No-Fur girl! Her fondest wish had come true.
When she managed to get herself hidden, she retched and opened her mouth, and what felt like half the lake came pouring out. Millie looked down. Her dress was a soaked ruin through which her fur could clearly be seen. Her pockets were empty, the vial of potion lost somewhere in the lake’s vastness. Her hairy feet, with their curving claws, were bare, which meant her ruby slippers were probably at the bottom of the lake. She patted her head, trying to smooth back her head-hair, and smiled a little as her fingers found the bow she’d clipped in, on the other side of the lake, what felt like a million years ago.
Peeking through the bushes, she saw the other girl get up. She was beautiful, big and solid like Millie always wished she could be, with thick, gleaming hair running down her back, strong, round arms, and tanned legs. The girl deftly twisted her hair into a coil, wringing it out before flipping it over her shoulder and looking around.
“Hello?” she called.
“I am back in here,” Millie said. She knew she should just run away, leave before the girl could get a good look at her and tell the grown-ups that she’d just fished a real, live Bigfoot out of the lake, but Millie couldn’t make herself do it. How many times had she dreamed of a night like this, where she’d meet one of the No-Fur kids and they’d talk and discover all the things they had in common and become friends? All thoughts of the Next Stage finale had fled in the presence of a real, live No-Fur girl. Millie had a million questions, and this could be the only chance she’d have in her entire life to get answers.
“Are you okay?” the No-Fur girl was asking. Now she’d taken off her top-shirt and was repeating the wringing-out process. Millie could see muscles flex in her back as her hands worked, and felt her familiar shame at being so puny. And how would she explain why she was standing in the bushes?
She did some fake coughing to buy herself some time and decided to trust the girl with at least a small piece of the truth. “I am okay,” she said. “It is only that my dress is kind of see-through, and I am a little bit . . . hairy.”
The girl winced—a sympathetic kind of wince, Millie thought.
“Is your stomach okay?” she asked. “Do you need a drink?”
“That would be lovely!” Millie said in a fancy kind of voice like the one she’d heard in a commercial for a luxurious brand of mustard. “Also maybe a small snackle? That was a very long swim.”
The No-Fur girl looked puzzled. Millie worried that maybe she’d been rude or said something wrong. “I have brownies,” the girl finally said. Sure enough, the girl looked around, then walked up the beach a ways and came back with a plate.
Brownies! Millie had seen commercials for them but had never tasted one. Before she could stop herself, her hand shot through the bushes and snatched a dark-brown square of pastry from the top of the plate. “Thank you,” she said, and took a tiny nibble. The rich, dense sweetness seemed to explode on her tongue, filling her mouth and throat with unimaginable deliciousness. Millie moaned out loud.
“I know,” said the No-Fur, sounding shy and proud. “I came up with the recipe by myself.”
Millie crammed a bite of brownie into her mouth and closed her eyes, chewing in ecstasy. If No-Furs had these, if they could eat them anytime they wanted, how did they ever get anything done? Why would they want to do anything else? If Millie was a No-Fur, she’d just eat brownies all day and all night.
Except now she was thirsty.
“Excuse me, but did you perhaps mention water?” she asked, taking care to keep her language polite and correct.
“I’ll go get some,” said the girl. She turned on her heel and started to run toward the school.
Leave, said a voice in Millie’s head, a voice that sounded like Septima’s. Leave now and this could come round right. Instead, Millie helped herself to another two brownies. The girl couldn’t see her through the bushes—at least, not that well—and even if she did, Millie would use the line that all Yare littlies had been taught to say as soon as they could speak, the line they were instructed to recite if ever the No-Furs found them: I have a glandular condition.
She shook her fur briskly, sending drops of water splashing onto the shrubbery and the sand, and gobbled the first brownie, then ate the second one in tiny little nibbles to make it last. She was considering whether she could put a few in her pockets when the girl came back. The No-Fur girl was holding a glass bottle of water and another bottle of milk and had
a stack of towels and a dark-blue sweater with a hood tucked under her arm.
“Here,” she said, passing the bottles and the towels and clothing through the bushes. “These are from the lost-and-found.”
Millie didn’t know what a lost-and-found was. She drank half the water, then struggled to pull the sweater over her head, briefly getting tangled in the hood. The sweater smelled sweet and felt soft and had a pocket in front for her hands.
“Thank you,” she said. “I am Millie. And who might you be?”
“I’m Alice,” said the No-Fur.
“Alice,” Millie repeated, tasting the name. Alice and Millie. They sounded good together.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to see the nurse? Or take a shower?” Alice asked. “We can go back to my cabin.”
“Nyebbeh!” Millie almost shouted. At Alice’s silence, she remembered her grand-sounding voice. “I mean, ‘No, thank you.’ ” Of course, she would have loved to explore the school and to take a shower—the Yare only had tubs—and see what other No-Fur goods she could acquire from the found-and-lost, but she knew she couldn’t risk exposing herself to more than one No-Fur at a time.
She lowered her voice. “No, I’ll be a-okay. It’s warm enough out. I’ll be drying soon.” She tightened the strings of the hood. “This sweating-shirt is nice and warm.”
“Sweatshirt,” said Alice, who sounded amused.
“Sweatshirt,” Millie repeated, and filed the word away. “So, Alice, do you live in this school?”
“Yep.” Millie wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think that Alice sounded entirely happy about it. “I’ve been here since September.”
“And where is your home?”
“New York City.”
Millie couldn’t keep herself from bouncing on the balls of her feet with glee. New York City was where the Friends lived, where movie stars and other famous people lived, and where The Next Stage was filmed. She had wanted to know everything about New York—about the subway and whether Alice lived in a skyscraper and if she knew any movie stars and if she had ever seen the Thanksgiving Day Parade—but before she could begin, the No-Fur asked some questions of her own.
“Were you trying to swim the whole way across the lake? Where did you come from?”
Oh, dear. Millie coughed for a while, trying to come up with a story.
“I was camping with my parents, Ross and Rachel,” she began. “On the other side of the lake. In a tent. With a lantern and the bags-of-sleep.”
“Sleeping bags?” asked Alice.
Millie paused. “As you said. But then Ross’s pet monkey, Marcel, ran into the lake! I was chasing Marcel, and he was swimming away, and then I was all the way in the middle of the water, and then I was here.” Millie paused, praying that Alice was buying this. “Did you happen to have seen a small monkey?”
“No, I haven’t seen a monkey. Your parents are going to freak out if they wake up and see that you aren’t there.”
Freak out. What did that mean? “Yes,” Millie ventured. “But they are very good sleepers.” She sighed. “I should go back, though. Just as soon as I catch onto my breath.” But she couldn’t leave until she’d asked at least a few of her questions. “How many are here? Do you miss your parents? Do you ever go home? Do you take a train or a plane? Are you having any brothers or sisters or pets? What is your favorite show on TV?”
Alice was laughing. “Slow down! One question at a time!”
“All right, yes,” Millie agreed.
“Where do you go to school?” Alice asked.
Millie had an answer for this. “I am homeschooled,” she said. “With a few other kids in my village.”
Alice seemed to accept that. “And where do you live? When you’re not camping?”
“Oh, not far,” said Millie, gesturing vaguely toward the other side of the lake.
Then, before Alice could ask her more questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer, Millie blurted, “Do you have a favorite singer? Have you ever been to a concert? Do you know how to do ice-skating? Can you ride a bike?”
“Let’s see,” Alice said, lifting her fingers with each answer. “I can ice-skate and ride a bike, but I don’t ever really ride my bike except in the summertime on Cape Cod. My favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls—I watched two whole seasons this summer with my granny—and I take my parents’ car home.”
“You can drive?” Millie gasped.
“Oh, no. They have a driver. He comes. Let’s see . . . I don’t have any brothers or sisters or pets. My father’s allergic.”
“To children or animals?” asked Millie.
Alice laughed, and Millie did too, wondering why the other girl hadn’t answered the question about whether she missed her parents, and also what kind of parents would send a littlie away.
Alice sat on a patch of grass next to the bushes and flipped her thick, beautiful hair over her shoulders. Millie sighed. “It must be nice to live with lots of other girls. I bet you are having many friends.”
“No,” Alice said briefly. With that one word her whole expression changed. She wilted, like the flowers after Florrie dumped a whole can of water on them instead of just sprinkling it gently. Her chin tucked into her chest and her eyes turned toward the ground.
“Why not?” Millie asked.
“Because I look funny,” said Alice.
“What do you mean?”
Alice frowned and paused. Millie wondered if she’d done something wrong or asked a rude question.
“Because of my hair,” Alice finally said, touching her curls. “Because of my feet,” she said, arranging herself so that she was sitting on them before Millie could get a good look. Then, with her head bowed and her chin almost touching her chest, she muttered, “Because I’m ugly, and I’m so much bigger than the rest of them.”
Millie was shocked. “You are not ugly!” Millie said. “You are beautiful!”
Alice was half smiling and shaking her head.
“You saved my life! You’re lucky to be so big and strong. In my Tribe . . .” Millie bit her lip, hoping Alice hadn’t heard, then started again. “In my village, being big is good fortune. It means you’re strong and fast.” She sighed. “I wish . . .” But never mind what she wished. She wanted to learn everything she could about Alice. “Do you get to go to movies?”
“Sometimes,” Alice said. “There’s a theater in Standish.”
“Have you ever been on a plane?”
“Yes, lots of times.”
“And when are you seeing your parents?”
“On vacations,” Alice said. “Every few months, and then in the summertime.”
“Every few months.” Millie couldn’t believe it. She hardly went even a few minutes without seeing her parents. “They must be missing you oh so much.”
“I don’t think my parents miss me much at all,” Alice said. “They send me away all the time. Schools, camps . . .”
Millie’s eyes got wide. “Since you were a littlie?”
Alice nodded. “I’m only really with them a few weeks out of the year.”
“So you do as you please.” Millie felt jealousy like a worm twisting in her tummy. “My parents don’t leave me alone, not ever. When I’m in the garden, or swimming or in the kitchen, they are there. Once”—she dropped her voice—“my mother followed me to lessons. We were doing spelling and I looked out the window and saw her feet behind the mulberry bush.”
“One time, my mother left me at the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Alice countered. “I was in kindergarten and we were on a school trip and the parents were supposed to pick us up at the museum instead of our school, only my mother forgot. She didn’t even send a nanny.”
“My mother,” said Millie, “used to chew my food for me when I was little. She said I had tiny teeth and was needing her help.”
“My mother made me order my school uniforms for kindergarten by myself,” Alice said. “She gave me a catalog and a credit card and told me to buy whatever
I needed.”
“My mother makes me dresses that match hers,” said Millie.
“I’m too big to wear my mother’s dresses,” Alice said in a voice so quiet that Millie wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it. She wondered exactly how small Alice’s mother was, and if she had some illness or disease that kept her child-size.
“So your parents are pretty strict?” Alice asked.
“You have none of the idea!” Millie said. Her fur was now dry and bristling with indignation, and she must have sounded funny, because Alice was smiling. “They are not letting me watch shows of my choosing. They shush me when I sing. They make me work in the garden and tend the goat, and when I grow up I’ll have to take over my father’s job”—she stuttered briefly over the word “job”—“and I won’t get to pick my own way.”
“What’s your father’s job?” Alice asked.
Thinking fast, Millie came up with a true-ish kind of answer. “He has a farm,” she said.
“So you’ll be a farmer?”
Close enough, thought Millie. “I’ll be the boss of a farm.”
“And . . . you don’t want to be on a farm?”
“I want to sing,” said Millie with such forcefulness that she was surprised the tree branches didn’t shake and shed their leaves. “I want to be famous and on TV, and I could, I think, I could maybe do it if they would only let me try, but they won’t. They don’t even want me to be watching The Next Stage, and it is my very favorite!”
Alice considered this. “Can’t you watch it somewhere else? At a friend’s house or something?”
“There is only one TV set in my village.”
Alice looked shocked. “Only one TV? Are you, like, Amish?” she asked.
Millie held her breath. Was “Amish” another No-Fur word for “Bigfoot”? But, no . . . Alice had asked it way too casually, as if “Amish” was something exotic, but not strange and dangerous and possibly not even real, like a Bigfoot.
“Not Amish,” Millie said. “They just don’t believe that television is improving.”
She exhaled in relief when Alice nodded, feeling like she’d vaulted over a high, invisible hurdle.
The Littlest Bigfoot Page 11