The Lightning Tree, page 4
Jack squeezes my arms so hard it hurts, holding them to the light. “So, you really were struck by lightning.” He studies the pale pattern of zigzags that crawl up my arms and disappear under my t-shirt.
“They used to be red, but they’ve faded,” I offer, hoping he’ll lose interest.
“Come on, man, let her go.” Aaron puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, but Jack shrugs him off.
“Aren’t they supposed to heal?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never met anyone else who had them.” Except Fauna, I think to myself. But I would never tell them about her lightning flower, the one on her chest right over her heart.
Seth reaches out to trace one of the marks along my forearm and shivers melodramatically. He then mimes a sleepwalker’s face, tries to shove his beer into my hand, and says in a zombie voice, “Must. Share. Booze. Can’t. Help. Giving. Witch. Beer.” He shakes himself like he’s waking up and says in his normal voice, “Some kind of magic.”
Tyke leans in and starts to stroke my arm. The star-shaped silver ring on his middle finger presses against my scars. “This must be freaky unusual.” He pushes his sticky fingers under the sleeve of my t-shirt. “Hey, they continue.”
“Stop it!” I pull back, but he just laughs, letting his bulky ring follow the back of my arm as I shudder.
“Are you done?” Aaron wrestles Tyke’s fingers away from me, but Jack is still holding my arms.
“Someone google it,” Jack says. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”
Jack’s steely eyes stare into mine but I know he doesn’t really see me. That is, he doesn’t see the person I am to me, only the person I am to him. And to him I am a party trick, another beer bottle to balance on his chin.
10
FAUNA
The forest is full of whispers, frantic voices traveling from root to root.
“. . . They will bring us all down with them . . .”
“. . . For millennia, we have offered up ourselves, keeping the peace, but we can’t go on like this . . .”
“. . . The day is soon here, when it will be too late . . .”
“. . . We have to find a way to tell them, to make them understand . . .”
“. . . No matter what it takes.”
11
FLORA
I FEEL MY CHEST TIGHTEN.
“Let me go.” My voice is trembling, but Jack only continues to stare at me, the corner of his mouth turning upward in a crooked smirk. He is still holding my arms in a firm grip, his breath reeking of alcohol.
Aaron grabs an empty beer bottle and offers it to Jack. “Come on, do that thing again, on your chin.”
But Jack ignores him. My arms are hurting so badly my eyes well up. “Let me go,” I repeat, louder this time. I try to yank myself free, but Jack just squeezes my arms tighter, tighter, with that smirk of his.
“First we need to take a good look at what you’ve got,” he snorts.
“You’re hurting me,” I say. With one last pull, I break free. But Jack grabs my waist and with his free hand starts pulling at my t-shirt. I hear a girl’s voice from somewhere behind me. “He’s out of control! Someone should get his parents!”
“What are you doing?” I shriek, yanking on my t-shirt to keep it down. “Stop it!”
My voice is drowned out by Seth and Tyke, chanting, “Get it off, get it off!”
I try to push Jack away as glass bottles bump against my arm and crash to the floor. I can’t believe this is happening as I feel his strong arm around me, his hand fumbling and groping my chest. “Take your hands off me!” I insist.
The cheers are filling the kitchen now—“Get it off, get it off, get it off!”—and before I can stop him, Jack rips the t-shirt apart, between I am and here, and pulls it off me.
I try to shield myself in only my tan cotton bra, feeling their gaze on my scarred skin. Fauna’s favorite t-shirt is now ripped and lying on the floor. There’s nowhere I can go. “Get away from me,” I shout. I turn around and around, my heart pounding. “Get away!” I can’t see Aaron anywhere. Tears make everything blurry: Jack, the kitchen, the crowd, a girl pushing a boy.
Someone pulls at my bra strap while they continue chanting, “Get it off, get it off.” I sink down to the floor, my back against the island, but Jack doesn’t seem satisfied. That smirk is still on his face.
“What’s the matter?” he mocks. “I thought you wanted to investigate your—” He bends to pull my hair to the side, his hand brushing against my shoulder, making me wince. “—Your Lichtenberg figures.” He makes it sound dirty.
“Don’t touch me,” I scowl, trying to keep from crying. But Jack is twice my size. He could lift me up and carry me away like a rag doll.
Through the murmur and the cheering, I hear Aaron’s voice. “She’s in here.”
“Flora?” Carl calls out. He fights his way through the crowd until he sees me on the floor. He crouches down next to me. “You okay?”
I nod slightly.
He turns to Jack. “What have you done to her?” He takes a step closer to him, boring a hole into him through his eyes. “Whatever you think you’re doing, it ends now.”
Jack stares at Carl, like he’s having a hard time processing what he just said. “Come on, man, we were just having fun.” He lets out a chuckle, but no one is laughing anymore. Somewhere in the kitchen, a girl is crying in heavy sobs.
“Is this your idea of having fun? Are you insane?” Carl gestures to the raised smartphones all around us. “And if this goes viral, you can kiss college goodbye. No more football for you.”
Jack’s smirk is gone. His bloodshot eyes wander over the crowd, widening like he’s surprised to see everyone. He stops, shifts his weight as if considering his options, then motions to the crowd. “Everyone delete it now.” He nods to Seth and Tyke. “Make sure it’s all gone.”
Turning to me, Carl unbuttons his checkered shirt, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. His hands tremble, and I have never seen the look of rage in his eyes. He takes off the shirt and hands it to me. Wiping my tears, I put it on quickly, not bothering to match the buttons correctly. I just want to get out of here.
I crawl over the bottles and beer puddles to get Fauna’s shirt, but Carl picks it up first, then grabs my hand to pull me to my feet.
My knees are shaking and my skirt has wriggled up over my thighs. I pull it down. The crowd is starting to disperse, and Seth and Tyke are checking people’s cell phones.
“Let’s get out of here,” Carl says.
Behind us Jack mutters, “That’s one flower that needs to be picked.”
Carl stops. He exhales and releases my hand, then turns around and thumps his fist into Jack’s face. The force of it strikes Jack down on the spot. He’s now the one on the floor, blinking like he can’t believe what just happened as blood wells from his cracked lips.
“If you ever . . .” Carl’s voice is shaking. “Ever . . .” He leans over Jack. “Ever . . . touch her again.” He turns to the crowd, the ones who are still here, a few smartphones still raised. “That’s something you can post wherever the hell you want.”
Suddenly, I can’t stop the tears. I rush out of the kitchen and down the stairs, not caring that I shove into people. There’s an octopus in my stomach making me feel nauseous, like I need to throw up.
Out on the driveway, I stop and bend over, heaving with my head in my hands. The cool night air, scented by lavender, gently strokes my hair.
“Wait, Flora.” It’s Carl.
I don’t want to turn around, don’t want him to see me like this. Shaking my head, all I can say is, “I need to get home.”
“But Flora—”
With my back still turned to him to hide my tears, I quickly walk away, struggling to fasten the shirt correctly with my trembling hands. I can’t get it out of my head, how they looked at me. And Carl—I can’t believe he saw me like that. I tuck my hands into the sleeves of his shirt, making sure every inch of my lightning marks are covered. He saw it. All of it. The freak I am.
Carl calls my name, but I start running, desperate to leave the Dunnes’ street behind me. Carl’s shirt is so big it flaps against my back with my every stride. The houses with their bright porch lights are a blur as I pass them. Running helps ease the nausea, though. Deep breaths, in and out. As I pound the pavement faster and faster, I feel the octopus crawl away.
When I reach our house, light flickers from the kitchen window behind the branches of the oak tree and I know that Mom is back. I stop to wipe my tears. Above me, the leaves rustle in the breeze and there is that strange tingle in my skin again—like an echo of the fingers touching me, stroking me. I shiver and run across our driveway, then up the porch steps. I fling the screen and front door open. “Mom?” My voice breaks the word into two jagged pieces.
She is sitting at the kitchen table, her head resting in her arms. She looks up as I enter.
“Did you have fun?” She smiles, but her eyes are red and swollen. “At the party?”
She looks so hopeful, and I swallow hard; maybe she won’t notice I’ve been crying. She seems distracted, only half waiting for my response.
“Uh huh.” I nod.
Mom’s smile widens. “Thanks for coming home early. I wanted to . . .” She looks around the kitchen like she’s searching for the right words in the porcelain sink, the wooden cabinets, the worn tabletop of the kitchen table. Her smile fades. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I know Fauna’s seizure wasn’t your fault.”
She reminds me of a withered flower, the way she sits slumped in her chair. My heart aching, I go over to her and bend down to put my arms around her. “How is she?”
Mom reaches for me and pulls me close. “Same as before.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just got so scared, Flora.”
“Me too.” My lip trembles, I can’t help it, and Mom puts her hand on my cheek.
“You sure you’re okay, honey?” She nudges the sleeve of Carl’s shirt. “Where did you get that?”
“Um . . .” I mumble and force a smile. “I spilled something on my t-shirt.” I quickly follow it with, “I’m tired, I think I’ll go to bed.”
Mom nods and lets go of me. “Okay.”
I walk up the creaking stairs to my bedroom, where I sink down with my back against the door. In the familiar darkness of my room, I can finally breathe. I unbutton Carl’s shirt and trace the lightning marks on my arms, my chest, my neck—the slight irregularities in my skin barely perceptible. But I know they’re there. I can feel them, the tender scars branching out like an imprint of the flash of lightning. I can’t help but rub my arms, like I could scratch off the memories burning in my mind—the chants of “Get it off,” the eyes glaring at me, the laughter, the fingers stroking my skin—like I could erase the sadness from Mom’s eyes, erase Fauna’s seizure, her wheelchair, her empty gaze.
Get it off.
Like I could bring her back.
But it’s no use.
Quiet, I tell myself. I can’t let Mom hear me sobbing.
Outside my bedroom window the night breeze wails through the branches of the oak tree. Up by the road, a laugh penetrates the night, followed by muffled voices. They remind me of Jack Dunne and his stupid friends.
I reach for the covers on my bed and pull them off and over me. Curled up on the floor, I can pretend that we’ve built a fort like we used to when we were little, Fauna and I, where nothing could harm us.
More laughter seeps in from outside, and then raised voices, someone shouting. I can’t make out the words, but I don’t want to.
“It’s alright, Fauna,” I whisper, “stay here with me.”
12
FAUNA
Please, don’t.
Please, don’t.
But the axe is already biting me.
Please, please, please.
No one hears my cries, only the night, the forest, the trees all whispering the same thing.
“. . . This is the only way, the only language they will understand . . .”
“. . . The language of steel and blood . . .”
“. . . There’s nothing else to do, nothing else to say, it is too late.”
13
FLORA
THE SCREEN DOOR SHUTS WITH A BANG BEHIND ME but I hear it open again as I hurry down the steps of the porch. The concern cracks through Mom’s words. “You’ll be alright?”
I turn around. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve opened up the Book Nook, like, a million times.”
Standing in the doorway, under the faded sign reading Pine Ridge Farm, she wraps the bathrobe tighter around her. I glimpse the nightgown clinging to her thin body, the contours of her collarbone under her skin. I knew she hadn’t been eating enough. A surge of tenderness runs through me. “I’ll pick up groceries on my way home,” I offer.
“I’ll join you after I’ve visited Fauna . . .” Mom turns quiet, her gaze wandering from my shoulder to the emptiness I always carry beside me.
I nod. “Okay, later then.” But she isn’t listening. She slowly stretches out her hand, pointing to something behind me. I turn around.
The scarred oak tree—Fauna’s and my oak tree—is draped with toilet paper on its beautiful branches and twisted around its trunk.
“What the hell?” I run across the driveway, the gravel crunching under my feet. “Who did this?” And then I notice the gleaming axe and the gasoline can and the empty beer cans scattered among the roots. “No, no, no,” I mutter as I crawl around in the grass gathering the sour-smelling cans, cold against my fingers and wet with morning dew. One is half full and when I pick it up, the suds drizzle to the ground, splashing yellow stains on my white sneakers. The pungent smell of gasoline is everywhere, stinging my eyes.
Mom picks up the gas can and shakes her head. Carrying it toward the driveway, she suddenly lets out a scream. Her pained wail penetrates my bones, the same way it did on the day of the accident. I follow her frozen gaze up into the oak tree and am choked into silence.
Among the branches and strips of toilet paper is a boy.
He seems trapped by the branches crisscrossing his chest, entangled in a mess of twigs and leaves. He is staring down at us with wide-open, bloodshot eyes, as if he is surprised to see us. His pale, bluish face is full of scratches, and his arms hang limp by his sides.
I want to back away, but my feet are stuck, my whole body heavy like a block of stone. My lightning marks are tingling, stinging, burning along my arms, my neck, my chest.
Mom has stopped screaming, but I can hear her voice as if it’s coming from far away. “My God, my God.”
In the boy’s forehead, the scratches form an uneven but distinct X, as if it’s been carved into his skin deliberately. The jagged wounds, dried and blackened, have bled crooked lines across his face. Still, I recognize him. Those cracked lips, those broad shoulders in the ripped blue-and-white varsity jacket, those large hands like drooping flowers.
“Do you know him?” Mom is by my side, holding me up. I cling to her, or is she the one clinging to me?
“Jack,” I whisper. “Jack Dunne.”
What I’m seeing can’t be real. Is this some sick joke? I wonder. It’s not Halloween, it’s the middle of June. My blood pulses and rushes to my head. And then I feel nausea, dizziness.
“We need to call an ambulance . . . or the police,” Mom stutters.
I pull my phone from my pocket, but I can barely see the numbers as tears blur my vision.
“Nine, one, one, what’s your emergency?” The voice, a woman’s, sounds like it’s coming from a dark abyss. I search for the right words, but they all seem wrong.
“Jack . . . a boy from school . . .” I start, the brutal, bleeding reality of it hitting me. “Jack is stuck in our tree. He’s . . . He’s not moving . . .”
“What is your location?” The woman sounds unnaturally calm. Didn’t she hear what I just said?
“Pine . . .” I can barely remember our address. “Twenty-five Pine Ridge Road. In Derwyn.” The air seems like mud I have to force down. “We just found him. He seems trapped somehow . . . in our tree. And he’s not . . . he’s not . . .” I can’t make myself say it. Alive. Breathing.
Gasping for air—which Jack can’t do because it’s clear that Jack’s not breathing—I look up at the tree, at Jack, and I cannot bear it. I have to bring him down from there. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I can save him.
“Is there someone with you?” The woman is still calm. “Is there an adult I can speak to?”
I hand the phone to Mom and run into the arms of the oak tree. My lightning marks remember the last time I climbed it; I can feel my skin burning as if I am set on fire. Below me Mom is giving directions to the dispatcher and pacing back and forth over the gravel. She motions for me to come down, but I am already balancing on the branch above him, confused. There’s no rope holding him up, nothing but twigs and branches.
The sirens are already screaming up our street. Carefully, I bend down to get closer. Around Jack’s neck are twisted twigs, in a strange noose of sprigs and leaves, and the branches are wrapped around his torso like arms squeezing him, crushing him.
My skin is pulsating, and the lightning scars on my arms are bright red, like the day I got them. My hands are suddenly shaking so badly I can barely hold on to the tree.
Flora!
I look down. Our whole front yard is flooded with police officers, firefighters, paramedics, and neighbors.
Flora!
There it is again. But it’s no one from below. It seems to come from inside of me, from the burning, the throbbing in my skin.
Floor-ra. Floor-ra.
Tears spring to my eyes again. I remember her voice, my butterfly of a little sister, searching for me in the tall grass, the insects buzzing around me, the caterpillar measuring the edge of my sketchbook. And then I hear Mom.
“Flora, come down from there. What are you doing?”
