“Where?”
“I’m not sure. We’re going to my grandma’s.” I hesitated, then went on. “But I think my dad really wants to try to get to the Extraordinary World.” I don’t know why, but talking to Oliver made me feel like it was okay to be honest.
The silence stretched on and on. Most people don’t like long silences, but Oliver seemed completely content to let the empty seconds stretch between us. “When are you leaving?” he finally asked politely.
“Wednesday afternoon, I guess.” I was still hoping, counting on, a miracle that would let us stay.
“I’m sorry you have to go,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, and looked at the ground.
“You can’t tell anyone you saw me,” Oliver went on. “They’ll try to bring me back to my foster parents.”
I promised, but I wasn’t sure it was the right thing.
Before I left, Oliver looked at my cast, pulled out a marker from his backpack, and wrote on it, on the underside where I couldn’t see.
* * *
My mom says that one of the reasons she loves paintings and poetry and things like that (which I mostly find extremely boring) is that they focus not only on what is but what could be. She says that it’s very important to accept what is but also to never stop dreaming about what could be. Sometimes we play this imagination game where we come up with ideas of what life would be like if there were no sun but only a moon, or if we spoke in music instead of words. . . .
Anyway, walking home I tried to imagine the world without sasquatches and Dark Clouds—how Oliver’s parents would still be alive, and how Sam would be safe and we’d get to stay in Cliffden. It cheered me up for a few minutes.
I debated whether to tell my parents about Oliver, and I couldn’t decide. So far I’m only writing it down here. Now I’m on the couch, and Mom has lit a fire in the fireplace and closed all the curtains that look out on the backyard. Everything is cozy and warm, and seeing Oliver feels like something I only imagined. Except that, just before I started writing this entry, I remembered to look in the mirror to see what he’d written on my cast. It said I was never here.
October 7th
It’s hard to write because my hands are shaking. We’re all packed. The Winnebago is stuffed to the gills. The Cloud is hovering above the back deck this morning, just a couple of feet from the door, as if waiting to be let in. We’re leaving and I’m writing as fast as I can.
Yesterday Arin Roland surprised me by showing up at my door with her mom to give me a big hug and also a present. It’s a tiny silver suitcase with the words Home Again engraved on one side. It’s sort of a dumb little knickknack, but I’ve decided to make it into a lucky object that’ll bring us back here someday.
I want to record the curve of our driveway and the missing tiles of our gingerbread roof. I want to keep in my mind forever the paint smudges along the trim of my bedroom window and the tree stump I tripped over once while we were playing ghost in the graveyard, the church stone just peeking out over the top of the hill and the blinking eye of my house. I’ve picked up several rocks from the yard to take with me. I smelled each and every flower left in my mom’s garden. I touched the grass in several spots and buried all my pennies, and then I took my favorite glass prism from my room and buried that, too. I’ve also resolved to bury this diary. It seems like I should leave it here as a reminder of me. Sam is curled on my mom’s lap on the front stairs, crying into her chest, and Millie is already in the Winnebago waiting, but I just want these seconds to last forever. Good-bye to the—
* * *
I’m writing from my seat in the camper. Something big has happened.
A few minutes ago Mom got in the driver’s seat and called us all to get in. There wasn’t time to bury this diary in the yard after all. We were pulling out of the driveway when suddenly Dad looked in the rearview mirror and said, “What the heck is that?” Millie and Sam and I smushed our faces against the back window to see what he was talking about.
There was a tall wiggly blob running after us down the road, nearly falling over, carrying a big sack of stuff up near its head so that it looked not like a person but a giant hopping worm, like a sleeping bag come to life. My mom stopped the Winnebago and the side door whooshed open, and climbing up the stairs was . . . Oliver.
He dropped his stuff down at his feet, the scar down his cheek extra bright on his flushed face, looked around at us as he tried to catch his breath, and asked, “Can I come with you to the Extraordinary World?”
Millie helped him in with both hands and explained his story to my parents, as much as we know of it. There was a kerfuffle and arguing and pros and cons and Millie kept hugging him like she was this sweet mama bird, which was annoying because she’s nothing like that in real life, and it only made Oliver look shy and uncomfortable. He pulled out of her arms as quickly as he could, rubbed his scar, and patted his pocket to calm his faerie, who’d begun to squeak and rumble.
I guess my dad is superstitious after all, because he said, “Maybe you’ll be our good luck charm,” and welcomed Oliver on board. Oliver turned to me, his green eyes flashing, and he gave the hint of a smile, relieved. “Is it okay with you, Gracie?” he asked.
It took me by surprise, because no one in this family ever asks me if anything is okay with me. I made a big show of nodding, knowing Millie had heard him. “Of course, Oliver,” I said . . . rather nobly.
Oliver smiled in relief, then he pulled Tweep out of his pocket and cupped her in both palms, whispering to her. “I’ll be back in just a second,” he said to my mom. He stepped out of the Trinidad onto the grass and opened his hands, letting the faerie fly away. Then he climbed back in and sank onto one of the couches by the table, pulling his stuff close to him so that it’d be out of the way.
When he looked up, we were all staring at him, curious. “She gets car sick,” he said. “She always wanted to go back to Connecticut anyway—she has friends there.” I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like he was about to cry.
There’s really no room for Oliver, but I’m glad I don’t have to worry about him now that he’s with us. And I’m relieved I kept this diary with me, because there’s too much happening not to be written down. I’m just trying to keep up.
Now we’re out of downtown Cliffden on Route 1, and driving past the strip malls that sprawl at the very edge of town. We just rolled past the T.J.Maxx, still charred and half burned down. (Mom just said they haven’t been able to rebuild because they didn’t have dragonfire insurance, as if talking about insurance could distract us from what we’re leaving behind so fast.)
Now I can see, not our dear hill anymore, but dear Bear Mountain in front of our hill, and the Dairy Queen, and the bike store.
Now only a vaguely familiar stretch of road. I just looked out the back window and there’s no sign of the Cloud following us.
* * *
Now we’ve pulled onto Route 80 and left Cliffden behind forever.
* * *
Now we are gone.
October 15th
I’ve decided to go back and put an epigraph on the blank page at the front of this diary, though I haven’t decided on what yet. Who knows, maybe I’ll be a famous writer someday and this’ll be my first work of literary genius.