The Littlest Bigfoot

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Florrie!” the little Yare’s mother hissed, and yanked her daughter backward, in an agony of shame and fear.

  Florrie giggled. “She’s all bare!” she said. “All bare and nakedy.”

  “Florrie!” The Yare was tugging at her daughter’s ear with one hand and covering her own eyes—in embarrassment, Alice thought—with the other.

  “How did you find us?” Old Aunt Yetta asked in her cracked and screechy voice.

  “You know how,” growled Ricardan. “It’s that Millie. Always having the curiosity, always asking the questions about the No-Furs. Always singing.” He made the word “singing” sound like “murdering innocent kittens.”

  “It’s not Millie’s fault!” When all the Yare flinched, Alice lowered her voice. “Millie just wants to be who she is. It’s not her fault she wanted to find people to be with, people who can appreciate her.” She lifted her head and said, “I think I know how to fix this . . . but I need Millie’s help. I need her to come with me, across the lake.”

  For an endless minute, the Tribe just stared.

  “No!” Septima whispered. She was shaking so hard that Alice could see her fur tremble. She pulled Millie back against her body and held her daughter tight. “No, I won’t have it. I won’t risk her. She is my only cub, the only one I’ll ever have, and I won’t let her be hurt.” She turned to the rest of the Tribe, her hair disarranged, her eyes wild. “We can go. We can go now. If we leave . . . leave our things behind . . . if we’re being fast and quiet, they might not be able to catch us. . . .”

  “Don’t I have a choice in this?” Millie slipped out of her mother’s grasp. She snatched the Speaking Stick.

  “I am Millietta of the Yare. Would you hear me?”

  For a moment the Tribe just stared. “We will hear,” Maximus finally said, even though littlies were never allowed to speak at Tribe meetings.

  Millie gave the Speaking Stick to Alice and turned to face both her parents, hands out in appeal. “If you raised me rightly, then I’ll decide the right thing. And what I decide is to help my Tribe.”

  There was silence. Alice held her breath. Finally Maximus gave a single nod. “We will go to the tunnel for now. We will hide,” he said. “Do what you can, Alice of the No-Fur. And, Millie . . .” He crouched down until he could look his little daughter right in the eye. “I believe in you,” he said.

  Millie nodded. Then she looked at Alice, indicating her fur. “Should I be disguising myself?”

  “No,” Alice said, and almost smiled, remembering the Experimental Center for Love and Learning’s motto, the one spelled out on its website and on every piece of mail that it sent: “Where Every Child Is Special.”

  “Keep your fur. I want you just the way you are.” She stood up straight, shoulders back, hair slipping free from its braid, and let the Yare look at her, examining her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, as she explained what she had in mind.

  Two hours later, Alice knocked at the entrance to Phil and Lori’s office. Before they could invite her in, before she could lose her nerve and run away, she pushed the door open and pulled Millie inside.

  Lori’s mouth dropped open as she stared at Millie, whose furry face and arms and legs were left bare by her blue dress. Phil’s guitar fell to the ground with an unlovely jangle. Alice couldn’t help but be amused—they said they celebrated difference, but when they saw someone who was actually, genuinely not like them, they were just as scared as everyone else.

  As she told the story that she and Millie had put together on their paddle across the lake, Phil tugged at his beard and Lori closed her mouth and pulled her reading glasses out of her needlepoint purse (purchased, she’d told the learners, on a trip to Guatemala and sewn by indigenous craftswomen who were paid a living wage).

  “Explain that all again,” Lori finally said. “Start from the beginning.”

  “This is my cousin Millie,” Alice began, feeling a prickle of unease as she wondered how much time they had until the rally began. “She’s got a genetic condition.”

  “Pilius lupus,” Millie said (she and Alice had consulted an English-to-Latin dictionary on Alice’s phone on their way to the office). “Basically it means I’m . . . well . . . you can see for yourself.”

  “My goodness,” Lori murmured.

  “Millie’s parents were visiting Standish,” Alice said. “They were thinking about bringing Millie to look at the Center after I told them about it. So far she’s just been homeschooled. My aunt and uncle tried public school, and then private school, but you can guess how that went.”

  “Children can be so cruel,” Millie murmured with an exaggerated expression of sorrow. Lori made a cooing noise and Phil’s face became stern. Alice could tell that, even in the midst of everything, Millie was enjoying her chance to interact with the No-Furs. Not just to meet them, she thought, but to perform for them.

  “Not at the Experimental Center,” Phil said. “We don’t tolerate intolerance.”

  “That’s what I told Uncle Max and Aunt Septi,” Alice said. “They didn’t want to let Millie even come for a visit. But I told them how you guys were, and how you made me feel, and how great you were about the whole . . . you know, the whole thing that happened to me. I said, ‘This is a place where any kid can feel safe and happy and free to be herself.’ ” This was the longest speech Alice had made to anyone at the Center, and she felt breathless when it was done.

  Phil clasped his hands against his heart, trapping his beard against his chest. Lori’s eyes were glistening. “Alice,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to hear you say that and how much we value your faith in our community. We’ll take good care of Millie. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Alice and Millie nodded, and when Lori and Phil weren’t looking, Alice gave Millie a wink.

  “One other thing,” Alice said. “On Halloween, Millie came trick-or-treating with me, and when we were in Standish, some kids in town saw her. They were staring and pointing, and I heard them say something about how she looked like a Bigfoot and how they should bring their friends to the old campsite tonight to look at the freak.”

  Phil’s face hardened, and Lori’s lips thinned. Alice saw the look they exchanged. She knew they’d been contacted by the paper and guessed they must have heard or read about the rally that night.

  “Alice, you should have made sure we knew about Millie before you went trick-or-treating with her,” Lori said. “But we won’t worry about that right now. For now . . .” Lori bent down to sweep Millie into a hug that squished Millie’s face against Lori’s bosom. “Don’t you worry about anything. We will keep you safe.”

  “You really think this will work?” Millie asked as she followed Alice toward Bunk Ladybug.

  “We have to try,” said Alice. She didn’t know if it would last, but for now all her nervousness and self-consciousness had magically disappeared, and left behind was a sense of resolve and courage.

  When she opened the door, Riya was in the corner watching the 1988 Olympic fencing matches on her phone. Taley was in the bathroom with her replacement neti pot. Jessica was standing in front of the full-length three-way mirror she’d installed on the closet door, considering her outfit—a short skirt and cropped top—from three different angles.

  “Hi, guys,” said Alice. Riya put her phone down. Taley looked over her shoulder, with her steaming neti pot in her hand. Even Jessica stopped primping. Alice realized that in almost ten weeks of school, she couldn’t remember a single time where she’d been the one to say hello to her bunkmates first. “Do you remember Millie?”

  The three of them looked at Alice’s fur-covered friend.

  “You’re stillbd wearing your costumebd,” Taley finally said.

  “I don’t think it’s a costume,” said Riya.

  Jessica sniffed and muttered something that sounded like “freak.” Alice glared at her.

  “Riya, you’re right. Millie’s fur wasn’t really a costume. She h
as a rare medical condition, and she doesn’t like people staring at her. . . .” She paused to give Jessica a dirty look. “Or making her feel different because of things that aren’t her fault. Halloween’s the only day of the year she even goes out in public. Only now,” Alice continued, “some people from town saw her, and they’re chasing her and trying to take her picture.”

  “Why do they wantbd to do thatbd?” asked Taley, reaching for a handkerchief.

  “To put her picture online,” said Alice, still giving Jessica a hard look. “To embarrass her and try to make her feel like she doesn’t matter.”

  Jessica rolled her eyes. Millie gave Jessica a long and careful look, then bared her teeth and gave a very soft hiss. Jessica flinched.

  “She needs our help,” said Alice. “It’s not her fault she’s got”—she stopped herself before she said the word “fur”—“hair. It isn’t catching, and she isn’t dangerous. She won’t hurt anyone; she’s my friend, my only friend. . . .”

  Alice closed her mouth. Riya was still staring. From the bathroom Taley sniffled. Then she asked, “Aren’tdb we your frienddbs too?”

  Alice blinked. She knew that Jessica hated her. She had assumed that everyone else in the seventh grade, possibly everyone else at the Center, did too, and that Riya and Taley only put up with her because they had to. “I . . . I guess?”

  “We want to be your friends,” Riya said. “But you don’t seem to like us very much.”

  “You dleave in the morndings and dyou won’t tell anyone where you dgo,” said Taley. Then she sneezed three times in a row. Millie looked alarmed. “I hdabe allergies,” Taley explained. “Dust, bpollen, pet dander . . .”

  “Why don’t you just tell her what you’re not allergic to? That would probably take less time,” Jessica said, lifting her chin in the air.

  Millie turned toward Jessica. “Nyeh,” she said. “I know what you are.” Her voice was very soft, but Alice could hear the dislike inside of it, like a fist inside the pocket of a fancy fur coat. She thought that Jessica heard it too, because, again, she flinched, then gave her hair a toss.

  “I’m out of here,” she said. Riya jumped up and stood in front of her.

  “No,” Riya said, “you’re not. You owe Alice.”

  “I owe Alice what?” Jessica’s expression was scornful, her glossy lips curled in disdain, but Alice could hear the faintest tremble in her voice. “It’s not my fault she actually thought normal kids would want to be friends with . . .” There was a tiny pause. Alice saw Jessica’s gaze slide toward Millie, who had her hands folded over her chest and whose fur seemed to be bristling. “With someone like her,” she concluded.

  “Normal kids,” Millie repeated. Jessica attempted another head toss, but this one was far less emphatic, and she bumped her hip on the corner of the bunk bed and almost tripped on her way to the door. In a flash Riya was there, foil in her hand, standing between Jessica and freedom.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” she said.

  “Oh yes, I do, freak,” Jessica sneered. Riya lifted her sword. Jessica cringed, then said, “Get out of my way or I’ll tell Lori and Phil you’ve got a weapon in here.”

  “She’s allowedb to havbe itdb,” said Taley. “She’s gotb sbecial permissiondb. Which you wouldb know,” she continued, “if you didn’t ignoredb us all the timebd.”

  “Great,” Jessica muttered . . . and now Alice was positive that her nemesis looked afraid. “I’m not helping her,” Jessica said. “I don’t want any part of this.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do anything,” said Millie in a silky, somehow dangerous voice. She smiled in a way Alice had never seen her smile before, a grin that displayed all of her very white and sharp-looking teeth, then repeated a line that Alice had used. “Just be yourself,” she said.

  CHAPTER 21

  JEREMY’S TWEETS AND BLOG POSTS, the banner headline on Believeinbigfoot.com, and the press releases he and Jo had delivered instructed people to gather at the old Lake Standish campground, which had a large parking lot and was an easy walk to the Center. His plan was to present his evidence—the picture he’d found online, then the picture he’d taken of the two girls and the fur that he’d collected, the fur that wasn’t human hair. Then he would lead a contingent to the Experimental Center, while Jo, in the kayak they’d rented that afternoon, would lead the charge across the lake, in case the Bigfoot had fled the Center and was hiding out in the forest.

  By six o’clock the parking lot was full, and a noisy, raucous crowd was gathered on the shore. Jeremy figured that maybe half the people were actually serious, either about spotting a Bigfoot or about protecting themselves. The rest were treating the night like a tailgate party or a football game. These were the ones who’d come with coolers instead of flashlights and with beers instead of the water bottles the press release had recommended. One group had even brought s’mores fixings and were building a bonfire. Jeremy paced along the edge of the parking lot with Jo, who was gliding along beside him in her sleek, low-slung red metal wheelchair.

  “Do you see what I see?” she asked.

  Jeremy turned toward where she was pointing and saw a News 6 van pulling down the dirt road, with the satellite dish on its roof practically brushing against the power lines. He swallowed hard as Donnetta Dale, wearing a dark-brown suit, a brown-and-gold scarf, gold earrings, and high-heeled shoes, stepped out of the passenger’s side.

  “Mr. Bigelow?” she called, peering into the twilight.

  Jeremy gulped and dashed over, clutching a stack of press releases. “Right here,” he said. If Donnetta Dale wasn’t used to dealing with twelve-year-olds, the only evidence was a brief widening of her expertly shadowed eyes as she shook his hand.

  “Do you have a copy of the images that we can use?” Donnetta asked. Jeremy did. Meanwhile, headlights were flooding the street; the Channel 10 News at Night truck was pulling in behind Channel 6. Trailing it were three cars and a dirty white van with a Phish sticker clinging to its rusty bumper . . . a van, Jeremy thought, that could have been easily disguised to look like a plumbing van or one that installed security systems.

  He stared at the van until Donnetta Dale, who was even prettier in person than she was on TV, and also smelled good, put her hand on his shoulder.

  “So you’re a Bigfoot hunter?” she asked.

  Jeremy, too nervous to speak, merely nodded.

  “Thanks for doing such a thorough job on the background,” said Donnetta. “I remember hearing stories about Bigfoots in the woods around Standish when I was a little girl. . . .” She gave a wry smile. “You know, back in the Mesozoic era. My gran used to tell me about how her father actually knew someone who was rumored to be half-Bigfoot. He had pictures and everything.” She wrinkled her nose charmingly. “The guy could’ve just been tall and hairy, but I always wondered.”

  “Actually, there have been multiple reports, going back hundreds of years, about sightings in this region,” Jeremy said.

  Donnetta held up her hand like a crossing guard. “I’m going to stop you right there. I’d love to shoot some B-roll if that’s okay. Hey, Bryan?” she called, and a cameraman came hustling over.

  Jeremy smiled. There were people here, there were reporters here, his friend was here. People who believed him or who, at least, didn’t not believe him were here. All he needed now was—

  “Hey, man!” brayed a loud, slightly slurred teenage male voice. “Where are the Yetis?”

  “Not Yetis, Bigfoots!” Jeremy heard Jo say. The guy and his friends—all of them, Jeremy saw with his heart sinking, had beers in their hands—ignored her.

  “Bring on the Teen Wolf!” the young man yelled as his friends started to cackle, then to chant.

  “Teen Wolf! Teen Wolf! TEEN WOLF!”

  “Be quiet!” Jo was shouting. “Just listen, and we’ll tell you what we found!”

  “Shut up, kid!” said one of the guys, and then with a laugh he gave her chair a shove. Jo grabbed the wheels to stop herself but stil
l came close to flipping face-first into the dirt. Jeremy felt sick. He turned toward Donnetta Dale, the nearest grown-up, thinking that the adults would stop this, but Donnetta had gone over to her cameraman and was gesturing toward the yelling drunk people. As Jeremy watched, the cameraman turned on his lights and then, instead of telling the guys to cut it out and leave Jo alone, he started to film them.

  Jeremy saw an empty pickup truck and jumped up onto its bed, banging his shin in the process. Tears came to his eyes. He wiped them away, looking for Jo, who’d gotten shoved to the back of the crowd.

  He stood up. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, everyone! My name is Jeremy Bigelow, and if you’d all just give me your attention for a moment . . .”

  The crowd’s reaction was about the same as his classmates’ had been when he’d launched into his annual report on Bigfoots Are Real.

  “Siddown, kid!” called one of the teenage boys.

  “We came here to see the monsters!” said a sunburned woman with curly blond hair and a tight pink top. “Where’re the monsters?”

  “They’re not monsters!” Jeremy yelled. He heard his voice crack. “They’re just different!” He wondered—too late, he knew—how many of these people had guns, how many of them had come not to find a Bigfoot but to hunt one. They’re the monsters, he thought, staring down at the chanting, seething crowd. Jo’s head was bent so that all he could see was the top of her baseball cap. They’re the monsters, and Jo and I are the freaks.

  “Look!” a woman shrieked. Jeremy peered into the twilight as the camera operators swung their lights in the direction the woman had pointed, flooding the forest in a brilliant glow . . . and then he saw it, a familiar hunched figure running out of the forest, about two hundred yards away from the beach, with big hands and big feet and a thick, curly, chestnut-brown pelt.

  “There!” Jeremy yelled. “RIGHT THERE!” It wasn’t the little gray-furred thing he’d seen—it was much bigger—but it was something. Maybe a friend or a relative, and it definitely wasn’t human. Without looking to see whether anyone else was following, he leaped off the truck and started to run.