The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove (17 page)

“You moved things around,” he said.

-110-
The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“You were here before?” I asked. “When Bebe was here?”

“Yeah and when it was empty,” he said. “I helped fix it up. I painted the

bedroom.”

“You did a great job. It looks as if no one ever lived here before.”

He walked to the fireplace and touched the mantle. “Mom wanted it to

look like new for you.”

He didn’t say anything else and I realized that I was supposed to be in

charge of our time together. “I made sandwiches. We can eat and study.”

He shrugged and said, “I ate a lot of cookies on the way here. I’ll take

something to drink.”

I nodded, disappointed, and went to the kitchen. I put the sandwiches in the

fridge and took two cans of soda out to the living room. Then it seemed too late

to go back and pour the drinks into glasses, the way he was used to drinking at

home.

We sat on the sofa and I said, “Okay, we’ll go over the basics, so I can

figure out where you’re at.”

“My head hurts already.” He reached for the bag of cookies and took one

out. “Oatmeal with dried cranberries. Even mom’s desserts are good for you.”

He handed it to me and took another for himself.

I flipped open his text book to the first chapter and said, “Did you bring

your calculator?”

“I guess I should have, huh?”

“It’s okay. You can use mine.”

As we leaned over the coffee table to read the book, our shoulders

occasionally touched. Although I was excruciatingly aware of each contact, I

tried to act like it was no big deal.

“Jane, Jane,” Lucky said. “How can you like this stuff? My mind goes into

overload.” He leaned back and threw his arm over the back of the sofa, behind

me.

I was careful to stay as I was, on the edge of the sofa. “You’re doing fine.

You understand it. You should spend some time reviewing exponential numbers

-111-
The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

and you could start memorizing chemical symbols.”

“No wonder my mom likes you, because you’re all business. How’s school

going? Have you made any friends?”

I hesitated and said, “Your mother seems to have picked a few out for me,

but I like them --Hattie Tyler, Mary Violet Heyer and Constance Applewhaite.”

“That’s what I meant about the way she treats us,” he said. “But Hattie

doesn’t do a damn thing she doesn’t want to. Constance is friendly to everyone,

and Mary Violet – she’s a wild card. She either loves you or hates you, and you

know right away.”

“They’re coming for a sleepover tonight,” I said.

“Sounds like fun. Should I crash?”

I didn’t know if he was kidding, so I kept my eyes down on the text book.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If Mary Violet’s coming, it’s going to be too girly

for me. Girly movies and girly gossip. Mary Violet will want to dress me up and

make me play house. Don’t tell the others how stupid I am about chem.”

“I would never say that!”

He laughed. “I was joking, Jane. You can say whatever you want. They’re

cool girls, especially Hattie. She goes out with Jack sometimes.”

“She told me. I was a little…surprised.”

“Because he’s so grungy and she’s so perfect? Yeah, but she’s not

interested in pretty boys. She goes for the talented, sensitive musician. All the

girls fall for Jack.”

I kept myself from saying, you’ve got to be kidding. “Not me.”

“You haven’t seen Jack play, yet. I can’t even carry a tune. Hey, I’m taking

up all your time.” He picked up his textbook and stood. “How about next Sunday

around four-thirty? Mom says you should come to the house and stay for dinner.”

I nodded and said, “We can go over any assignments you have then,” as I

went with him to the door.

“I hate chem, but I was okay in biology.” Lucky suddenly reached for my

hand. Turning it over, he ran his finger on the inside of my wrist, tracing the blue

veins.

-112-
The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

I stood frozen.

“Jane, did you know that human body contains about five liters of blood?”

he said. “You’re small, so you have less blood. It travels 12,000 miles through

your circulatory system every day.” His finger pressed on my wrist. “I can feel

your pulse. It’s strong.”

I gazed up into his blue eyes, able to see each dark eyelash and the

gradations of light and dark blue.

He wasn’t smiling anymore and I thought he might lean over and… Then

he dropped my hand. “See you next week.”

Lucky walked out the door and sauntered toward the path, whistling

tunelessly.

There was an undercurrent of something else beneath his smiling exterior.

Why had he touched my arm in that confusing way that was much more than

friendly, yet not exactly sexual.

HATTIE AND HER FRIENDS
arrived in the early evening with food, sleeping

bags, movies, music, and makeup.

“This place is sooo cute,” Mary Violet said, throwing a sleeping bag on the

sofa. She set a platter of brownies on the coffee table. “It’s like something in a

fairy tale.”

Constance said, “I’m sure you’d be happier if it was made out of

gingerbread and candy.”

“As fabu as that would be, getting cooked in a pot by a witch isn’t my idea

of fun. Honestly, the old fairy tales were horrible.”

“Were halflings awful?” I asked.

“No, they were usually very charming. I meant the stories that Jakob

Ludwig and Wilhelm Karl Grimm wrote from local folktales.”

“Don’t ask how she knows these things,” Constance said. “She never

remembers my birthday.”

“I know because, unlike
some
people, I care about literature, and your

birthday is in March or May, one of those
M
months,” Mary Violet said snootily.

-113-
The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

Turning back to me, she said, “Someday I’m going to write stories that will really

curl your toes with terrifying monsters and werewolves.”

“I thought you were writing mysteries and historicals,” Hattie said.

“Besides, no one needs to hear scary stories about supernatural monsters.”

Her blond friend considered for a moment and then said, “I think we do

because fear makes you feel alive. Besides, the supernatural is really about the

id.”

“I don’t know what the id is, but
id
guess it’s something ridiculous,”

Constance said.

“
Id
is not,” Mary Violet said and grinned. “The id is your unconscious

desires and fears. It’s your instinct for pleasure and survival. That’s what my

mother says and she did her minor in psych.”

When Constance shook her head, her glasses slid down her elegant narrow

nose. “It sounds like something Mrs. Monroe would talk about in
Night Terrors
.

I think there must have been some huge psych fad when they were in college.”

“And once again, MV’s dragged us completely off-topic,” Hattie said.

“There’s no comparison between a witch house in a fairy tale and this sweet little

house. I bet Jane loves it here.”

“I love having my own space, but what I like best is the sound of the trees.

It’s like they’re keeping me company.”

“Oh, you’re getting all poetic,” Mary Violet said. “That’s how my mother

got started, with poetry and then she spiraled downward fast. Promise me you

won’t take up painting!”

Constance said, “Half the girls here are such idiots they’d be too spooked to

live in the grove.”

“I’ve heard some of the silly stories,” I said. “But I’m not superstitious.”

“Did you hear from that friend in town?” Hattie asked. “What was her

name? Alana?”

“Orneta,” I said and felt an instinct to protect Orneta. “Jack Monroe was

the one who told me people said that the birches walked at night.”

Hattie smiled uneasily. “You can’t take anything he says seriously.”

-114-
The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“I don’t,” I said.

Later, after we’d eaten our spaghetti dinner and I’d let Mary Violet trim an

inch off the bottom of my hair (which turned out to be three inches because she

kept trying to make it even), we were talking about our classes and teachers.

“Mr. Mason seems so lonely,” Mary Violet said. “I wish he’d have a torrid

affair with Ms. Chu and then they’d get married and I would be a bridesmaid.”

Constance looked at me and said, “Ms. Chu lives with her boyfriend, which

is supposed to be a big secret because of Birch Grove morals, blah, blah. Did MV

already tell you about Mr. Mason’s wife?”

When I nodded, she said to her friend, “It’s not like he’d be ready for

another relationship so soon.”

I listened to them debate about other possible girlfriends for Mr. Mason and

then Mary Violet asked, “Jane, have you had any boyfriends?”

“No. I was always in the friend zone. Some of my roommates would make

grabs, mostly because we were all stuck together, but that’s all. I was never really

interested in them.” I thought about telling them about Lucky’s strangely intimate

gesture today, but I was afraid of making too much over something that meant

nothing to him.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘grabs’?” Mary Violet asked.

“Mary Violet!” Hattie said. “Let a person have some privacy.”

“Just because you won’t talk about your lover, doesn’t mean Jane doesn’t

want to talk about her thrilling sexual experiences,” Mary Violet said. “I would

tell you about mine, in explicit detail, if I had anything worth telling.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to tell,” Hattie said.

“That’s not the point. I confided in you how Teagan Bartholomew stuck

his tongue down my throat and then dropped trou with no warning whatsoever.

After my mother’s paintings, I’d assumed everyone had a vulva and I was so

shocked that I screamed.”

“You’re totally making that up,” Constance said, as we laughed.

“I’ve been deeply traumatized ever since,” Mary Violet continued. “And

nobody tells me anything. I’ll have no idea what to do if I ever meet someone

-115-
The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

who gives me the shivers in a good way. I’m going to die a virgin.”

A phone rang and Hattie reached into her bag and pulled hers out. She

looked at the screen and answered “Hello,” and then tersely, “How did you know

I’d be here?” She then went out to the porch to talk, closing the door behind her.

“You’re the one who won’t let boys touch your va-jay-jay because you

think it’s too precious,” Constance said to Mary Violet. “I always talked about

Gerard when I went out with him. I told you every sordid detail.” She sighed. “I

can’t believe I was so stupid about him.”

“Okay, you did tell us,” Mary Violet said. “It’s not your fault that he turned

out to be so slimy. It’s so hard to tell from the way they look and act. They

should be forced to wear labels.”

Constance shrugged and told me, “Gerald already had a girlfriend in

college. I was the summer fling.”

A few minutes later, Hattie returned as Mary Violet was telling me, “Jane,

you can share if you to. You don’t have to.”

“It was just going through the motions stuff, totally perfunctory. There was

never anyone special,” I said, thinking about how apathetic I’d been at the

physical contact. “Besides, I’m always the friend type.”

“Don’t get me started on friends,” Mary Violet said. “These days, all a guy

wants is a hook-up, no commitment, nothing, and that’s why I’m holding out for

romance.”

“Or a really hot guy,” Constance said.

“If he’s really hot, then it’s automatically romantic,” Mary Violet said.

Hattie said, “Are we going to watch a movie or not?”

We crashed about 2 a.m. Mary Violet slept on the sofa, and Constance had

gone to the bedroom to escape her friend’s gentle snoring.

I awoke under my comforter on the floor. It was about three and the

television was soundlessly playing the movie we’d left on. Hattie’s sleeping bag

beside me was empty. I listened for her steps in the kitchen or bathroom and then

checked the cottage. She was gone, so I put on my shoes and a sweatshirt.

The front door was unlocked, and Hattie wasn’t out on the porch. I got my

-116-
The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

flashlight and walked outside. “Hattie, Hattie,” I called in a loud whisper. I took

a few steps out and peered around.

The birch branches stirred in the breeze, and I began walking along the trail

toward the Monroes’ house. Every few seconds, I’d call out for my friend again.

“Over here!” Hattie’s voice came from the direction of the amphitheatre.

The darkness wasn’t as dense in the clearing. My eyes adjusted to the pale

moonlight illuminating the marble benches. Sitting there, wrapped in a blanket,

was Hattie, as still and pale as a statue. The lace hem of her long white cotton

nightgown brushed against her bare, narrow feet.

She turned at the sound of my step and smiled. “What are you doing out

here?”

“Looking for you. Are you okay?” I sat beside her, the cool of the marble

chilling me through my thin cotton pants.

“I woke up and felt like taking a walk. Isn’t this place magical? In the