“I don’t know, Bubba.”
“You said if I’m cool, you’re cool. Remember?” Charlie held out his pinky for an emotional uppercut.
Francine narrowed her eyes at him, but hooked the tiny digit. “Five minutes, starting now.”
Chapter 5
The only interesting part of newspapers is the comic strips.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
Charlie exploded out the back door and rushed toward the willow tree, grabbing one of its whip-like branches to ride high into the night sky. Aunt Francine had only given him five minutes, but he wasn’t worried. He’d always been able to squeeze ten minutes out of five.
Launching himself from the willow branch, he landed on an acorn and didn’t mind the pain. A soft foot meant it was still June, a time of popsicles and stargazing and the certainty that school would never come again. July would bring camping in the backyard and running through sprinklers and collapsing on the grass to watch the big color bloom of fireworks. By the time August rolled around, a bare foot could withstand an honest-to-God nail. Arms and legs would be bronzed and faces wise with another summer savored. The adults might rule nine months of the year, but these months were for those who did a lot with a little, and never dreamed of more than a day well-spent.
He ran beneath the stretches of roadside oak trees, their leafy canopies punched with puzzle pieces of moonlight. He passed pet graves marked by cruciform twigs that wouldn’t last the winter in the backyards of houses he knew by the quality of their Halloween candy. Ancient elms, stirred by the nighttime breeze, dropped seed pods that spun like tiny helicopters in their lazy fall. Even the ground had something to say, speaking to Charlie’s still-tender feet with smooth carpets of clover, the chalky smoosh of dandelions, and the wet slide of a wild strawberry.
The night’s heat wrapped back around his skin as he slowed to a walk, breathing in the sweet smell of a freshly cut lawn. An owl glided above the surface of Tadpole Pond, out for the hunt. Short summer nights always gave the animals a frenzied urgency, pulling them down from their trees and out of their holes earlier than usual. Charlie remembered he didn’t have an abundance of time himself and veered back toward his block. Five minutes could only be stretched so far.
He was almost to the willow tree when he heard a phone ring in the mint-colored house. A new family was supposed to move in soon, but right now there was just some guy living there. Mister Mystery, the grown-ups called him.
Charlie knew the stack of firewood in the backyard was surrounded with spiky weeds and crawling with spiders, but it was right by an open window, making it the perfect spot to spy from. Some other kids had filled the cubbyholes of the log pile with Lite Brite pegs, crusty old Play-Doh, and even a little fire truck. Charlie pocketed a few of the Lite Brite pegs to play with later, then looked through the window.
The kitchen inside looked like someone had tried to turn it into a library. Both the table and countertops were covered with papers, folders, books, and black-and-white pictures. Charlie was creeping closer for a better look when Mister Mystery suddenly rushed in and picked up the phone.
Startled, Charlie fell backwards into the wall of firewood, but he was just quick enough to stick his arms out and keep the logs from falling.
“Hello? Ida, hi. How are you?” Mister Mystery tapped a cigarette stub into an ashtray and slid into a chair at the table, his back to the window.
Charlie’s heart raced from the excitement of eavesdropping and the strain of holding up the logs. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine.
“Yeah, I went to a party last night. Lischka was there, but I didn’t talk to him. I figured it’s best to just keep watching for now. I tried not to talk to too many other people, but I guess everyone’s a little curious about me, so I had to make some stuff up. They think I’m a writer…”
Now a bead of sweat ran up Charlie’s back. Sweat didn’t do that. But spiders did.
He screamed and shook his shirt, spilling a daddy long legs into the grass. The logs and toys he’d been holding fell and crunched noisily on the lawn.
The phone conversation inside the house stopped.
Charlie froze, and listened. He heard only the phantom whistle of a distant freight train, moaning over the low buzz of cricketsong. Slowly, he raised his chin.
Mister Mystery was peering out the window, phone cradled to one ear. Charlie and the firewood stack were just outside the kitchen’s spill of light. He was safe, as long as nothing—
A teetering log fell onto the toy fire truck, triggering its light and siren.
Mister Mystery dropped the phone and dashed toward the back door.
Running with the speed of someone being chased, Charlie reached his house in record time. He quietly closed the back door, raced up the split-level stairs, and plunged into his parents’ big bed, breathing heavily.
He heard Aunt Francine get out of her bed. A moment later, her head peeked into his doorway.
“Jump into that bed any faster and you’re gonna leave a crater. Did you have fun outside?”
He nodded.
“You want to sleep in your parents’ room?”
He nodded again.
“Okay. G’night, Bubba.”
“’Night, Aunt Francine.”
She went back to the guest room, leaving Charlie to think about what he’d heard at Mister Mystery’s house. “They think I’m a writer.” It seemed like a weird thing to say.
He carefully slipped out of bed and looked out the window.
Down by the willow tree, Mister Mystery was picking up the colorful Lite Brite pegs that had fallen out of Charlie’s pockets. He looked confused, and extremely worried.
Chapter 6
I do many things that I regret afterwards.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
Francine rolled over on the butterfly sheets and groaned in the late morning light. Uninvited dreams of Ben had filled her sleep. Pushing someone out of your head was possible with tremendous discipline, but the heart healed on its own time and dreams were its favorite expression.
Her gaze found the skull and crossbones VHS tape lying by her suitcase. She shouldn’t watch it. When had it ever helped?
Rolling onto her stomach, she saw a certain stack of papers below the bed. The MMPI had never helped much either, but Francine pinched the corner of a page and pulled it out into the light for a quick, mental Q & A.
I am very seldom bothered by constipation.
How was that relevant to a personality group?
It does not bother me that I am not better looking.
First, that bothered everyone on the planet. Second, weird phrasing. And third, rude.
I sweat very easily, even on cool days.
This was getting way too personal.
What had been Ben’s point in giving her the ridiculous quiz, anyway? Did he think it would give her insight into who she was, and that would somehow make everything that had happened less painful? Would she be able to find someone new in a hurry, just like he had?
She tucked the page back under the bed and rolled onto her side to face the shelves of clocks, which made her think, unsurprisingly, of time. What if coming to Hawthorn Woods didn’t change anything? What if she’d just given her problems a new zip code? What if the only progression in her life was one of dwindling time, draining her of looks, energy, and hope that a positive future was still possible? No direction, no vibrancy…