The letter was signed with an illegible flourish of black ink. The words “Matthew Carruthers, Director” were printed beneath it.
Jeremy picked up the sheet of paper. It was heavy, creamy, embossed with an image he couldn’t see but could feel. Lifting the paper to the light revealed the imprint of a five-pointed star with the words “Department of Official Inquiry” written underneath it. Beneath the words was a drawing of a circle enclosed by an oval, and the motto oculus videt in abscondito.
“It’s an eye,” said Jo. Her voice was tiny. “And the Latin means ‘The hidden eye sees all.’ ”
Jeremy felt a shudder work its way up his spine. “Is this real?” His lips felt numb, his tongue felt frozen. “This agency? Are we going to get in trouble?”’
“I can’t find anything about the agency online, but the letter’s real,” Jo said. Her face was white, her forehead furrowed. She looked furious . . . and, he thought, beautiful in her anger. “Whoever broke into my house and left it for me was real.”
“What do we do now?”
Jo gave him a smile like the edge of a knife. “Are you familiar with the expression ‘sunlight is the best disinfectant’?”
Jeremy shook his head.
“It means we tell the whole world what we’ve found.” Jo’s mouth was set in a grim line. “November second isn’t until midnight, so today—tonight—we let the whole world see. We put our pictures online. We tell everyone that the hair you found isn’t from a human. We post to every group that has anything to do with Bigfoots or the paranormal. We call a press conference. We’ll get the media there. If the whole world is watching, then this . . . this agency . . . it won’t be able to hurt us. Especially because we’re kids,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
Jeremy shook his head. This was all too much, happening too fast. “Carruthers,” he said. “Do you think it’s any relation to Milford Carruthers?”
“I think that’s the least of our concerns right now,” Jo said, just as Jeremy’s phone started buzzing against his hip. He pulled it out and saw a name he hardly ever saw flashing on the screen: Mom.
“Hello?”
“Jeremy?” His mother’s voice was tight, higher than usual, and instead of her normal thoughtful tone, she sounded tense. Annoyed, he thought. Maybe even afraid. “Where are you?”
“At Jo’s house,” he said. “It’s a half day. Teachers’ in-service.” His mother never paid much attention to the specifics of Jeremy’s schedule, so she wouldn’t expect him to be at school, but he gave her the excuse, just in case she was paying attention. “Why? What’s up?”
“Can you meet me at Fitzsimmon’s Market? My credit cards aren’t working.”
“What?” he said. Jo was staring at him. “Don’t you have more than one?”
“Cards,” his mother said. “Cards, plural. None of them are working. Not my bank card, not my credit card . . .” She put her hand over the phone and said something sharp to the cashier. “Ugh. First my computer crashed—it wouldn’t even restart, no matter what I did—and then I went shopping and this happened. I’m worried someone got my social security number and they’ve stolen my identity.” She paused. “That’s a thing, right? Identity theft?”
“I’ll come with my allowance,” Jeremy said. Coincidence, he thought, even as his mind was whispering more malevolent possibilities.
Jo tapped his shoulder. What? she mouthed. My mom, Jeremy mouthed back. “I’ve got my bike. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Fine,” said his mother . . . and then, to the cashier or the manager, “I promise you, I’m not trying to steal anything!”
“I’ll be right back,” Jeremy said as his mother hung up. Jo gave him a single, businesslike nod. On the screen, he saw the press release she’d already written. He scanned it quickly, seeing phrases like “compelling evidence” and “Standish has been a long-rumored site of Bigfoot activity” and “photographs and DNA evidence enclosed.” On another screen, Jo had scanned in the pictures he’d snapped of the furry creature and was superimposing the Patterson-Gimlin stills over her body and face.
“If we hold this press conference . . . ,” Jeremy began, thinking out loud. “People will start looking right away.” Jo nodded. “So this Department of Official Inquiry will have people there, right?”
“Unless they’re stupid,” said Jo. “And I don’t think they’re stupid.”
“Won’t we lead them right to the Bigfoot?”
“Maybe we’ll lead them,” Jo said. “But we’ll be there too.” She gave herself a hard shove, pushing off from the desk and sliding her desk chair all the way across the lab and into the hall. Then she opened a coat closet, pulled out a folded-up arrangement of metal and wheels and gave it a single sharp shake. Jeremy watched, astonished, as the bars and leather resolved into a wheelchair, and Jo used her arms to hoist herself into it.
“Slipped capital femoral epiphysis,” she said, pronouncing each word separately. “Unusual but not rare for adolescent females. It’s where the head of the thigh bone isn’t connecting correctly with the rest of the thigh bone, due to weakness at the growth plate.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy managed.
“Yeah, me too,” said Jo. “It was misdiagnosed. My doctor kept saying it was just growing pains, and that I should stop complaining, and by the time my parents went for a second opinion . . .” She shrugged and started wheeling herself down the hall. “I’ve had two surgeries already, and I’ll probably need more, and even then, they’re not sure if I’ll be able to walk or not.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. This time she flashed him a thin smile.
“They’re not sure,” she said. “But I know I will. And it wasn’t an awful thing. It was how I got into Bigfoot hunting in the first place. I had lots of time to kill in the hospital.” Jo put her hand on his forearm and let it stay there for just a second. Jeremy felt the skin where she’d touched him thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings. Then she reached down and gave the wheels a tiny flick, which sent the chair gliding toward the door.
Outside, the street was empty, except for a white van. The sign on its side read, “Standish Security Systems: Your Safety, Guaranteed.”
“I bet,” Jo murmured, as she took in the van. “Go give your mom her money first. Then we’ll go for a ride. I emailed the press releases, but, just to be on the safe side, maybe we should take them to Channel Six and the Standish Times by hand, too.”
“Of course,” Jeremy said. I’m scared, he thought. But he was excited, too. This was real. It was going to happen. He, Jeremy Bigelow, had a friend, and the two of them were going to show the whole world that Bigfoots were real.
CHAPTER 19
THE MORNING AFTER HER HALLOWEENING adventure, the day after she’d revealed herself to Alice, Millie was in Old Aunt Yetta’s house, reviewing the medicinal properties of turmeric, when the top-lap underneath her friend’s bed gave a loud beep. Frowning, Old Aunt Yetta picked up her cane, made her way to the bedroom, bent down with a grunt, and retrieved the computer. Millie knew that her friend had set up special alerts and that the computer would beep anytime, day or night, that the word “Bigfoot” was mentioned in conjunction with terms like “Standish” and “upstate New York” and even “Etsy.” She watched as Old Aunt Yetta flipped the machine open, logged on, peered at the screen, and made a horrible choking noise.
“What?” Millie dashed over, trying to remember everything she’d learned about the Heimlich maneuver. Old Aunt Yetta pointed wordlessly at the screen.
“Bigfoots in Standish?” read the headline on the Standish Times’s website, in letters that seemed to scream off the page. There was the picture of Alice, naked and covered in pine needles and mud, next to the picture of Cousin Cassoundra, the one Old Aunt Yetta had already found on-the-line . . . only now it was in the local newspaper. Next to the shot was a pen-and-ink drawing of a Yare cringing in a cage, being displayed by a man in a fancy suit who was pointing at her with his cane. “Beh
old, LUCILLE, a FREAK OF NATURE,” read the poster above her head.
And then, worst of all, there was a photograph of two blurry figures—one human, the other covered in silver-gray fur—making their way into the forest. Alice and Millie, at the Center, on Halloween.
Old Aunt Yetta was gasping, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around herself. Millie poured her a cup of water and leaned close to the screen, where she read about “Jeremy Bigelow, age twelve, a seventh grader at Standish Middle School,” who said that he’d come across the first images online. Because he knew of Standish’s “extensive history as the rumored home of Bigfoots,” he’d started looking around . . . and near the “new and controversial alternative boarding school, the Experimental Center for Love and Learning,” which had “opened its doors on the shores of Lake Standish in September” and had “already drawn scrutiny from the Board of Education due to its unorthodox teaching methods,” he’d spotted two “mysterious figures” in the forest.
With a trembling finger, Millie pointed at the drawing of “Lucille” in her cage. “Is that . . . was she . . . ?”
“Yes,” Old Aunt Yetta whispered back. “A Yare from long-and-long ago.”
Millie kept reading. The article went into the history of Bigfoots in Standish, mentioning Milford Carruthers and the unfortunate Lucille. It discussed the Experimental Center for Love and Learning and said that Lori Moondaughter, one of the school’s founders, had declined to be interviewed and refused to confirm or deny whether the pictures on the flyer had been taken at the school.
“Ms. Moondaughter, née Weinreb, emailed this reporter a statement saying, ‘We at the Center, as an intentional educational community, prize difference and celebrate the unique qualities that each of our learners brings.’ ”
Millie felt her stomach lurch, and her light breakfast of cinnamon toast, soft-boiled eggs, and apple turnovers threaten to reappear as she read the words at the bottom of the story: “Readers: If you have any information or sightings of your own to report, please contact Jeremy Bigelow at the email address below. The concerned citizens of Standish will hold a rally at the Lake Standish campground tonight at six p.m. to exchange information and discuss safety measures.”
“Oh no,” Old Aunt Yetta was muttering. “Oh no.” Millie squeezed her eyes shut and started tugging at the fur on her cheeks. The campground was maybe a mile away from Alice’s school and an easy paddle to the Yare encampment . . . if you knew where to go. And the picture, while blurry, was clearly a picture of her, and everyone in the Tribe would recognize it. Millie was the only Yare of her size, the only one with fur her color.
Old Aunt Yetta grabbed her cane, folded up the top-lap, beckoned to Millie, and, without another word, went limping up the path to find Maximus. Within an hour everyone in the Tribe knew about the article and the planned rally and that it was Millie, in the company of a No-Fur, whose picture was in the paper, because Millie, disobedient as ever, had gone across the lake.
At noon the Yare assembled around the fire pit. Ricardan had a printout of the web page in one hand and the Speaking Stick in the other.
“You see,” he hissed, almost before Maximus had finished the blessing. “You see? We should have left when they started building that school across the lake. And you,” he said, pointing at Maximus, “you should have kept a tighter leash on that No-Fur-loving daughter of yours! Haven’t we said that she’d be our ruination, with her singing and her talk about how the No-Furs could be our friends?” he asked, as Tulip nodded virtuously. “Didn’t we say that she’d come to no good?”
Millie stood between her parents with her head hanging down. On her left, Septima clutched her apron and cried, her tears soaking her face-fur. On her right, Maximus stood stone-faced and silent. When Ricardan paused, Maximus took the Speaking Stick and pronounced the words that Millie had expected but dreaded. “We will be going. As quickly as we can. Pack what you can, and assemble Underground in an hour.”
The Yare gasped. “Underground” was a tunnel, an ancient escape route for the direst of emergencies. It ran underneath mountains and ridges, and let out in a valley in another county ten miles away.
Old Aunt Yetta looked at the ground. Little Florrie started to cry, and then so did Frederee.
Millie slipped free of her mother’s grasp and marched her small self to the center of the circle.
“This is my doing,” she said.
Aelia nodded, and Frederee sniffled, and Ricardan actually bared his teeth.
“I went across the lake, and I met a girl, a No-Fur named Alice,” Millie continued. “I know that I put us in danger, but I think I am knowing a way that I—that we—can make it right. If you’ll let me talk to her—”
“Talk to her!” Melissandra whispered, in as loud a whisper as she could. “So the No-Furs can be taking more pictures of you? Or maybe the No-Fur will lead them right here!”
“Alice wouldn’t do that!” Millie was shouting, and oh, it felt good to shout, to raise her voice until it echoed from the treetops and not worry about being shushed or punished. “Maybe most of the No-Furs are bad. Maybe most of them are having guns. But not Alice! Alice is a good egg! Alice is my friend!”
Shocked silence greeted this pronouncement. To call another Yare a “good egg” was the highest compliment you could pay . . . and to call a No-Fur a friend? The other Yare looked puzzled or angry. Poor Aelia looked like she was going to faint.
“Alice is my friend, and we can be fixing this,” Millie said. A plan had started to form in her mind, not perfect, not yet, but the pieces, at least, were emerging. “We can be fixing it so they’ll never find us. Not now, not for years-upon-years.”
For a long moment there was silence. Finally Maximus said, “We can pack our things, but let Millie try her planning.” Over the hisses and mutters of the other Yare, he bent low and whispered to Millie, “A Leader keeps her people safe.”
Millie nodded. Part of her felt proud, but part of her—a much bigger part—was terrified. She’d never seen her father looking scared, had never even imagined that it was possible for Maximus, so big and brave and solid, to even be afraid.
Millie snatched the computer, praying that Alice was carrying her phone, and tapped out a message. Fifteen minutes later Alice had written her reply. Millie raced to the lake’s edge to wait, and soon Alice in her kayak came paddling up onto the shore.
“Are you sure about this?” Alice whispered as she and Millie dragged the boat up to the woods.
Millie tried to smile. “In for a penny, in for a pounding,” she said. “Besides, we have to try. Come on. I will make the introductions.” She grabbed Alice’s hand, and together the two of them trotted up to the Yare encampment, with Millie giving the occasional tug to get her wide-eyed friend to stop staring—at the gardens, at the sod houses, at the fire pit and the Lookout Tree—and keep moving.
Melissandra was the first of the Yare to see Alice. She sucked in a shocked breath, lifted her hand, and pointed, wordlessly, her mouth open in a silent scream, her fingers shaking. Ricardan yelped and ran off, leaving his terrified wife behind. Tulip just stared, mouth open, eyes wide.
“That went well,” Alice said. She raised her hand at Frederee, who attempted his own wave back before he, too, freaked out and ran away . . . and then they were at Millie’s house. Septima was in the kitchen, wrapping her best dishes in bits of burlap sacking. Maximus was looking through the narrow window as if he were trying to memorize the village he would never see again.
Millie cleared her throat. “Mother, Father, this is Alice,” she announced, her voice sweet and clear and pure. “This is Alice, my friend.”
CHAPTER 20
ALICE FELT A GLOW INSIDE of her, like she’d swallowed a spoonful of sunshine. Even if this all goes wrong, she thought, at least I will have had this. At least I will have had a friend. She stepped forward, head back, shoulders squared, feeling braver than she ever had, ready to explain the plan that she and Millie had made . . . but
as soon as she opened her mouth, Maximus’s big hands grasped her shoulders.
“Wait,” he said. “I will gather the Tribe.”
A few minutes later, two dozen Yare, giant and hulking and covered in fur, were gathered in a circle. Maximus held a tall staff—the Speaking Stick, Millie had told her. Alice tried not to stare. She could feel their eyes on her, their gazes ranging from curious to distrustful to hostile. Fear twisted in her belly—they were all so big—and braided with the pity she felt for them. She knew what it was like to want to be invisible. She couldn’t imagine, though, what it would be like if you had to hide, and disguise yourself all the time, because being seen meant danger or death.
She looked at Millie, who nodded. She’s my friend, Alice thought. I have to try. “This is Alice of the No-Fur,” Maximus began. “Will you hear her now?”
“We will hear,” the Yare murmured, some more reluctantly than others.
Alice took one step forward, then another, and when Maximus handed her the staff, she wrapped her hand around it and leaned forward, letting it take her weight. The Yare watched, barely making a sound, each of their faces grave and intent.
“My name is Alice Mayfair,” Alice said. “I’m a learner—a student—at the school across the lake. I’m sorry I got you in trouble . . . but Millie and I think that we have a way to help.” She paused, gulped a breath of air, and squeezed the Speaking Stick hard, with both hands, so that no one would see her tremble.
The Yare were looking at her, examining her more carefully than even Felicia and her fancy ladies-who-lunch friends ever had. But instead of looking to see whether she was dressed appropriately, whether her shoes were scuffed or her hair was tangled, they were looking to see if she was dangerous, if she had a gun, if she was going to hurt them. Alice felt another surge of sympathy, as she thought of how lonely and afraid they all must be, just as the youngest one—Florrie, she thought—raced forward and touched her hand.
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