A Game of Fox & Squirrels

by Jenn Reese

  Sam had so many questions, none of which felt appropriate to ask. What was it like to grow up without a mother? What was it like to know that she was living somewhere else and didn’t want to be with Lucas or his father? What was it like to be so far away from one of your parents?

  Maybe she already knew the answer to that last one.

  Lucas picked up an acorn from the forest floor and tossed it deeper into the woods. “You and your sister and your aunts should come camping with us sometime,” he said.

  “That’s not—”

  “You’d need your own tent, but we have an extra canoe and a bunch of life vests if we go to the lake.”

  Talking to Lucas was like trying to drink water from the yard hose—there was too much all at once.

  “We can’t go camping,” Sam interrupted. “We’re not going to be here that long. We’re just staying a few days, and then we’re going back to Los Angeles. School starts on the twenty-eighth.”

  Whatever she said—it was all just the truth—seemed to surprise Lucas. “That’s not what my dad told me. He said you’re staying here for good.”

  “That’s not true.” Sam’s cheeks grew hot. “Why would he say that?”

  “Didn’t your dad hurt your sister?” Lucas asked, furrowing his brow. “They won’t let you go back. Probably not ever.”

  Sam stood in front of Lucas, frozen, her brain refusing to tell her what to say or do. No one had ever said those words aloud before. Not Mrs. Washington, not the doctors, not her mother. Not even Caitlin. It was wrong to say them. Wrong. She didn’t have to listen. She wouldn’t.

  She wanted to tell him to go away. She wanted to scream. But her mouth would not open, the words would not come. Sam closed her eyes and breathed. Her heart beat, too, and although it was fast, it wasn’t rabbiting. Anger was not the same thing as panic. Panic was a feeling trapped inside the chest, a bird beating its wings inside its cage. Anger was when feelings made it past the bars. When they made it out.

  The compass sat in her palm, heavy and warm, and suddenly Sam wanted to throw it. To throw it at him.

  The thud against the wall of Caitlin’s room. Glass shattering. A muffled cry.

  Sam pulled back her arm and, at the last second, threw the compass at Lucas’s feet. He yelped and jumped back as if she had hit him. As if she’d thrown a bomb instead of a small metal object.

  When Sam saw Lucas’s shocked expression, her anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with the deepest, hungriest shame that gobbled her up from the inside.

  It was not good to be angry. Anger was a disease, spreading from one person to the next. Sam could come home from school angry, like when Braydon Mannon stole her book—she’d been reading The Westing Game and Turtle was so close to solving the big mystery—and he wouldn’t give it back for the whole ride and on top of that lost her place. She’d bring the anger into the house and lash out at Caitlin or her mother, and her mother would get infected next, her lips thinning into a line. If she was still angry when Sam’s father got home, then that was it. He was always halfway there already. Her mother’s anger would push him over and then dinner would be lectures or yelling or … worse.

  The forest was dangerous after all. Far too dangerous.

  Sam turned and ran. She headed back to the house, because she didn’t know where else to go. She had no refuge. No sanctuary. She couldn’t crawl under the covers of her own bed and read by the light of a flashlight, like she had done so very many times before.

  Lucas should not have said those horrible things.

  He should not.

  But she shouldn’t have thrown something at him, either. Not even at his feet.

  Aunt Vicky’s house appeared through the trees, and even though it wasn’t home, Sam was relieved to see it. All she needed was some time to herself. First to catch her breath, and then to figure out how to catch a mouse. Lucas had distracted her from her quest, and she wouldn’t let it happen again.

  The quest was the only thing that mattered.

  As soon as she opened the door to the kitchen, she realized her mistake.

  Armen and Aunt Vicky were right there, right in front of her, still working at the table surrounded by that morass of cords and computer equipment.

  “Vickster’s niece, whose name I have since learned is Samantha, you have returned!” Armen said.

  Sam stood in the doorway, uncertain how to answer such a strange greeting.

  “Hi, Sam,” Aunt Vicky added in her quiet voice.

  “Ooh, there’s the culprit,” Armen said, pointing at the computer screen. “That equation is not doing what it’s supposed to do.”

  Aunt Vicky slid the computer mouse across the mouse pad and double-clicked. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, filling the kitchen with soft percussion.

  “My son has not run off to join the wolves, I hope,” Armen said, not taking his eyes off the screen. “He does that sometimes for fun, but I don’t like it even then.”

  “No,” Sam answered. And then, afraid he might continue the conversation, she added, “He’s, um, fine.”

  “Excellent,” Armen said. “What every parent likes to hear.”

  Aunt Vicky clicked the mouse again, and both she and Armen watched the screen as if it were the most exciting movie in the world. A second later, they cheered.

  “Yes!” Aunt Vicky said.

  “This calls for cake!” Armen answered.

  Aunt Vicky laughed. “It’s not even eleven yet.”

  “Pre-lunch cake is the best cake,” Armen answered. “Right, Samantha?”

  Sam did not want cake. She’d lost her appetite in the woods, and every time she thought about catching a real, live mouse and giving it to Ashander, her stomach twisted a little more.

  But she couldn’t say any of that, so she looked longingly down the hallway toward her room and said, “Sure.”

  “I’ll get the plates,” Aunt Vicky said. She pushed the computer keyboard from the edge of the table and shoved the mouse back into the little thicket of cords.

  A thicket of cords.

  Sam barely noticed as Armen and Aunt Vicky bustled around her.

  A thicket was like a bramble.

  She couldn’t stop staring at the computer mouse.

  A mouse.

  With a computer-cord tail.

  That sort of squeaked and scurried when it was used, didn’t it?

  Sam’s whole body buzzed with energy. It did this whenever she figured out the answer to a crossword puzzle with her dad, or when she and BriAnn designed a really cool new superhero.

  The riddle told her to fetch a mouse, but it didn’t say what kind of mouse. She could bring Ashander the computer mouse and pass the test without having to hurt anything or anybody.

  Aunt Vicky held out a piece of cake on a plate. “Sam? Do you want milk?”

  Sam took the plate and nodded. Her buzz faded.

  She could give Ashander the computer mouse. But first, she had to steal it from Aunt Vicky.

  FROM THE RULES FOR FOX & SQUIRRELS

  INSTRUCTIONS

  If, on your turn, you pull a Fox from the Harvest deck, forget about collecting nuts. None of the cards you’ve already played will count toward your score, and you cannot play new cards at all. You must focus instead on earning the Fox’s favor. NOTHING ELSE MATTERS UNTIL YOU DO.

  Do not attempt to deceive the Fox.

  The Fox will know.

  The Fox ALWAYS knows.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SAM HAD NO opportunity to steal the mouse while they ate their “morning celebration cake.” Aunt Vicky and Armen were always there, always hovering around the table or actively using the mouse. She didn’t want to wait. Her prey was right there! But she had to be smart and patient, like a hunter. Like a fox.

  “Sam, you don’t have to stay in here with us. I know we’re boring,” Aunt Vicky said. “Do you want to go back outside?”

  “No,” Sam said quickly. She didn’t want to face Lucas agai
n. “Maybe Caitlin wants some cake. I’ll take some to her.”

  She jumped up to cut another slice before anyone could object.

  “Good idea,” Aunt Vicky said. “I should have thought of that.”

  “Well, technically only the people in the vicinity of a victory deserve victory cake,” Armen said, chasing the last of his cake crumbs with his fork. “But we can let it slide just this once.”

  Aunt Vicky poured a glass of milk and handed it to Sam. “For Caitlin. Thank you.”

  Sam took the milk in her non-cake-holding hand and scurried down the hallway, like a mouse escaping its doom.

  A low hum emanated from Caitlin’s room. Sam balanced the cake plate atop the glass and knocked. No answer. There never was, from Caitlin. Her earbuds blocked everything out.

  Sam opened the door. Caitlin was on the treadmill, earbuds in her ears, eyes closed to the world, the rhythm of her feet hitting the belt like a steady heartbeat. Even with her arm in a cast, Caitlin had so much confidence. So much calm. Like she knew who she was all the time, instead of mostly just pretending.

  Caitlin opened her eyes and saw Sam holding the cake. She raised an eyebrow and nodded to the nightstand.

  There wasn’t much space to walk. The treadmill took up almost half the room, and the bed ate up the other half. Even so, Caitlin had managed to strew clothes everywhere, as if the whole place was a combination of hamper and closet.

  Sam deposited the milk and cake as directed and started to leave.

  “Hey,” Caitlin said. The treadmill whirred to a stop.

  Sam turned at the doorway, startled. “Hey.”

  “So what’s the boy like?” Caitlin asked. “Decent friend material? Maybe more-than-friend material? I want deets!” She stepped off the treadmill and downed the entire glass of milk.

  “Lucas? He’s okay,” Sam said, but she could feel heat swarming to her cheeks. “I don’t need any more friends.”

  Caitlin put the empty glass down and began shoveling cake into her mouth. “Sure you do. Unless you have a whole bunch of secret Oregon friends I’ve never met before.”

  Sam almost told Caitlin about Ashander and the squirrels but remembered her promise. “Maybe I do.”

  Caitlin snorted. “Books don’t count.”

  “They count to me,” Sam said. She watched Caitlin eat another forkful of cake. “Don’t you miss your friends? What about your teammates?”

  “Sure,” Caitlin said, and paused. “You know, I was going to pitch next season. Coach told me last year.”

  “Pitch!” Sam squealed. How could Caitlin have kept this a secret?

  “That’s right,” Caitlin said, finishing off the last of her cake. “Maria Cortez transferred to a private school, and I’ve got the next best arm.” She stared down at her arm, as if she’d forgotten it was in the cast. “Or, I had the next best arm, I guess.”

  “You will again,” Sam assured her. What else had Caitlin been keeping from Sam?

  Caitlin sighed. “Whatever. Maybe I don’t even want to play softball anymore. It’s something to think about anyway. All the choices we have now. You should start thinking, too.” She flopped onto the bed, tucked her earbuds back into her ears, and pressed a button on her music player. Her eyes closed instantly and her head bobbed with music Sam couldn’t hear.

  Conversations with Caitlin often ended like this—abruptly, and before Sam realized they were over.

  Back home, Sam would sometimes pull out a book and read on the floor of Caitlin’s room. Sometimes Caitlin would kick her out when she noticed, and sometimes she wouldn’t. It was nice to be in the same room, each of them doing their own thing but sort of doing it together.

  There was absolutely nowhere to sit on the floor of Caitlin’s current room. Not unless Sam wanted to fold up the treadmill or move Caitlin’s clothes, and she knew better than to attempt either of those things. Instead, she snuck quietly into the hallway and into her own room.

  Light shone through the window. The plastic bins of her castle fort were not entirely opaque, and the sun was doing its best to reveal the shadowy secrets inside each one. Sam itched to open them. She felt like a thief inside a vast chamber of gold and treasure who’d been told to touch nothing.

  With a heroic effort, she sat inside the fort instead, pulled out her notebook, and wrote a letter to BriAnn. Or at least tried to.

  What was she supposed to say?

  When BriAnn came over after school or on weekends, she laughed when Sam’s dad made a joke and chatted with Sam’s mom about classes. BriAnn thought Sam’s parents were fun, and around BriAnn, they were. But BriAnn had no idea what it was like all those other times, when no one else was watching.

  Lucas’s voice echoed in her head like some unbroken spell. Didn’t your dad hurt your sister? They won’t let you go back. Probably not ever.

  Why wouldn’t he shut up?

  Sam tried to focus on her letter to BriAnn. Why wouldn’t Sam be in LA when BriAnn got back from her cousin’s wedding? Maybe her first idea—the one she’d had in the car on the way to Aunt Vicky’s—was the best: that she’d been whisked away on a surprise trip to Hawaii with her whole family. It had been her mother’s idea. Sam’s mom was always leafing through travel magazines and ripping out articles like “The Ten Best Barbecues to Eat Poolside.”

  Sam had never actually been to Hawaii, but she’d seen plenty of ocean documentaries with her dad. It wasn’t hard to build a fictional trip from those. The ocean is so blue! I went snorkeling and saw a sea turtle! Oysters taste okay but look disgusting—like a pile of guts! At least that was how Marcia Goodman had described eating an oyster in homeroom last spring. Sam hadn’t appreciated the vivid description at the time, but she was grateful for it now!

  It wasn’t hard to fill up most of the page. She drew palm trees and coconuts in the margins. They looked more like misshapen flowers, so she labeled them in tiny print to be safe.

  She signed her name in cursive, studied the page, and added one more line. P.S. I’ll be back before school starts.

  The words sat there on the page, simple and powerful, like a magic spell of her own.

  Take that, Lucas.

  She took a stamp from her pencil case—she always kept a few there—but even after digging through her entire backpack, she couldn’t find an envelope. Not a single one! Caitlin or Aunt Vicky might have one, but she didn’t want to ask. What if they wanted to see the letter she’d written? What if they saw the palm trees?

  No. Better to find one, if she could. There was a desk in this room, after all. Maybe it had been Aunt Vicky’s office. Carefully, she slid open the drawers of the desk, one by one.

  Pens and pencils. Rulers. Scissors, some with decorative edges like ones people used for scrapbooking and art class. Faded receipts so old the writing was wearing off. The bottom drawer, the biggest, was stuffed with user manuals. Big dull guides for using the coffee maker and the toaster oven and the rice cooker. No envelopes anywhere.

  Of course, she could always check the bins.

  They might be teeming with envelopes.

  Sam pulled a plastic bin from the top of her castle fort and placed it on the floor in front of her. The bin’s sides were milky-white plastic, but the lid almost sparkled, gemstone blue. She ran her hands over the smooth sides. She didn’t have to open all the bins. Just a few. Just until she found an envelope. It wasn’t such a terrible crime, not really. And no one would ever have to know.

  But before she tugged at the lid—before she did anything, really—she stopped to make sure it was safe.

  Voices carried easily in this house. Aunt Vicky and Armen were still working at the kitchen table. Sam froze as she heard Lucas shuffling in and out of the house, the front door slapping closed each time, but she knew he wouldn’t come into her room.

  No one ever yelled at him for making so much noise. For not knowing if he wanted to be in or out and staying there. For asking for snacks. He interrupted his father twice for no better reason than to
show him something he’d found—a tiny green chicken egg the first time, then a flower that smelled like grapefruit. Nonsense things … though she wouldn’t have minded smelling the flower, just to see if he was right.

  Sam could not imagine interrupting her own father like that. Not unless she could tell he was in a good mood, and probably not even then. Good moods could turn in a flash. Lightning could strike out of nowhere—even if there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. You could never be sure what you were going to get. Some days it was exhausting. Some days, she was sloppy or tired and she made a mistake. Those were awful days. You brought this on yourself.

  Sam found the sharp edge of the plastic lid with her fingers and tugged. The lid didn’t budge. She pulled harder, but it was stubborn, gripping the bin with all its might. Finally, she yanked.

  The lid flew off and clattered against the closed bedroom door. Sam winced, waiting for the footsteps that would surely come. The raised voices that would undoubtedly follow.

  Rabbit heart. Rabbit heart. Rabbit rabbit rabbit.

  In the kitchen, Armen laughed. Keyboards clacked.

  No one came.

  Eventually, Sam unclenched her body and peered inside, hoping for envelopes—or something better—and found, instead, a plain blue teddy bear. She poked its soft, adorable gut. It did not talk, or spew gems, or do anything even remotely interesting. Were all the bins full of stuffed animals?

  She opened another and found cats: a tiny tiger with a big grin, a leopard with beanbag paws, a fluffy white Persian with a rhinestone collar and, inexplicably, a tiny eyepatch. The next one held a lone giraffe wearing a tiny scarf on its head and a plastic gold hoop attached to its ear. The fourth contained a shark and a starfish, both with goofy smiles and huge, anime eyes. The shark, like the Persian cat, wore an eyepatch. Had there been an epidemic of eye-gouging back when Aunt Vicky was a kid?

  Sam wrenched the lid off another bin and found a small nest of stuffed squirrels, brown and gray, with big fluffy tails not unlike those that belonged to Maple, Birch, and Cedar. When she picked one of them up, a ring fell off its tail.