The Witching Wind, page 5
Loretta was leaning against the wall, watching them. She said nothing. Nothing.
Somebody needs to tell her. Somebody needed to tell Love some things, too. And I wish I could do it.
Here is the girl I want to be: I want to be the kind of girl who kicks open the stall, looks Love in the eyes and says, “I love this suit, actually.” Then I’d cannonball right back in the middle of the pool and splash anybody—and any pretzel—that happened to be too close. I want to be the kind of girl who feels free in her body, proud of it even! That’s who my parents tell me to be. That’s who my Granny has taught me to be—that’s who she is every time she’s on a stage.
But in that moment, I didn’t feel that way at all. I hated my body. I felt ashamed of it. Embarrassed. I hated how much space it took up. And worse, I felt like something around me shifted. Like everything was changing.
And it’s still changing.
Or maybe it’s not. Because here I am again—alone, in a bathroom.
I wait until a few minutes after the bell rings before leaving. Teachers probably won’t care if we’re late for class today. I make sure there are no more tears in my eyes, settle my backpack on my shoulder, and walk out as fast as possible. And I almost bump into the same girl I saw in the hall earlier. She’s small, so I’m assuming she’s a sixth grader, too. But I don’t know her. She must be from one of the other schools. She has inky-black hair and big eyes. She’s using a shiny blue walker to get around.
And she looks angry.
“I’m so sorry—” I begin.
But she quickly cuts me off. “I’m not mad.”
“Oh . . . okay. I get it if you are. I should have looked.”
“No, it’s fine. It happens.” She shrugs. “But really, I’m not mad. It’s just my face. People think I’m mad all the time. But I’m not, so no worries.”
I nod and walk off, a little slower this time. But she calls out again.
“Hey.”
I turn around and we make eye contact. I see something familiar in her expression. And I wonder if she’s as lonely as me. If she’s been hiding somewhere, too. “Yeah?”
“You have a swimsuit body. We all do. I mean, we have bodies. We put swimsuits on them. Wear what you want. Live your life.”
I have no clue what to say to this. So I just say, “Okay.”
A loud bang somewhere above us makes me jump. But not her. The Witching Wind clamors across the roof.
“Is the wind always this wild?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. This year is different.”
She considers this for a while. Then smiles. “Good.”
I watch her turn and walk away, chin held high, her little blue walker rattling like a grocery cart down the hall.
It’s 11:11 a.m. according to the clock on Ms. Stewart’s wall.
Make a wish.
That’s what Beanie would say, if she were sitting in here. Beanie believes in wishing stars and magic, all the glittery good stuff nobody can prove but everybody deep down hopes is true. Grayson Patch has never believed wishes come true, though. Not until now.
Because tomorrow morning, Beanie will come to get her. The green hills of Tennessee will be in the rearview mirror, forever. And those shiny New York City lights will be waiting for them, brighter than all the wishing candles in the world.
Ms. Stewart is talking about the books they’ll read this year. Grayson tries to focus, but thinking about Beanie and the city lights makes her think of other lights, too. Christmas ones.
If she were staying here any longer, she might put a strand of Christmas lights around her walker. Not at Christmas, though—right now. In August. Because everybody in this school is staring at her, anyway. So why not lean in? Why shouldn’t she shine?
It would be funny.
Beanie would love it.
But where is Beano? Why hasn’t she texted? If they’re leaving tomorrow for New York City, Grayson needs to know some details. Or . . . is Beanie waiting on Grayson to come up with details?
She really needs to chat with her sister.
Ms. Stewart made everyone deposit their phone in a basket on her desk when they entered. She said that phones can only be used for emergencies. And . . . this isn’t exactly an emergency.
No problem. Grayson has an idea.
She carefully stands while Ms. Stewart is talking. She meanders up front using her walker and grabs the bathroom pass off the desk. That’s a perk of being a middle schooler—you can just grab the pass and go, whenever you need to. Nobody has to ask permission to pee anymore. Such freedom! But everybody still stares at Grayson as she leaves.
No other kids in this school use a walker. It’s new. She gets it.
In the hallway, she passes the girls’ bathroom and makes a beeline for the front office. The door is heavy, so Grayson shoves it open with one arm, then jams her walker inside the door. This announces her presence with a loud clang. She shoves her way on through just as a lady pops up from her desk. “I’ll help you with that, hon! Hold on!”
“Thanks, I got it. I’m Grayson Patch. I need to make a phone call.”
The lady props her hands on her hips and huffs. “If you’re calling the radio station to win Dollywood tickets, that does not count as an emergency. Kids have been creeping in here all morning trying to call.”
“It’s not that,” Grayson says. Even though that would be awesome. “Dolly Parton is a national treasure. But this is a family situation. Do you have a landline?”
This lady is about to say something else, but it’s the man at the computer who answers. “I’ll help her out,” he says, leaning over the counter.
“Hey! I’m Michael. I’m a big fan of Dolly Parton, too. But if you’re just trying to win tickets—”
“It’s not for tickets,” Grayson assures him. Even though she really would love to go to Dollywood. She’s never been. Because that costs money. Technically, all kids (except the celebrity kind) are mostly broke. But Grayson and Beanie are completely broke. She’s not even sure how they’ll get enough money to get to New York City. “This is a real emergency, Michael.”
“Are you in danger right now?” His voice is kind and sincere.
“No, but I really need to check on a family member. She depends on me, and I depend on her.”
“I trust you,” he says. Just like that! It’s kind of rare, to find an adult who trusts a kid this easy. Grayson decides she’s a big fan of Michael. He slides an old phone across the counter. She pulls it down and balances the base on her walker. A tattered directory on the counter has exactly the information she needs.
First, she calls Silas County High School.
An elderly lady’s voice answers. “This is Silas High, Home of the Gophers; how may I direct your call?”
“I need to speak to Beanie Patch.”
“Who is this?”
“Her sister. Grayson Palmetto Patch the First. Could you just tell me if Beanie Patch is at school today? And maybe get her a message for me? She’s not getting my texts and I need to know when she’s coming to get me tomorrow.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. Grayson wonders if the Gopher lady hung up the phone. Somewhere in the background, it sounds like someone mumbling.
Then the lady is back on the line. She sounds much nicer now. “Honey, I can’t give you any information about our student over the phone. You need to ask your parents about your sister, okay?”
“I can’t do that. I’m a foster, like Beanie.”
There’s a pause before the lady speaks again, even more gently than before. “Then you need to talk to your case worker. That’s all I can tell you. Bye, bye, now.”
Grayson groans and hangs up the phone. She hates it when people call her honey. Also, she hates it when people won’t just tell her things. Why are adults so cagey and weird? And why won’t somebody just put Beanie on the phone? She pulls out the tiny card she always keeps in her pocket. She dials the number on the back. But all she gets is a voicemail:
Hi there. This is Betsy Acres, associate of Children’s Services for Scott, Morgan, and Silas Counties. I’m unable to take your call today. The Witching Wind stole my shoe and thus I have taken the day off. I am bereft. For emergencies, please call Donna Chin at 555-4398. Otherwise please leave a detailed—
Grayson pounds the star and speaks very clearly:
“Hi, Ms. Betsy. Grayson Patch here. I haven’t heard from Beanie in a few days. I’ve tried to text and call. She seemed a little sad the day I saw her and— Fine! I’ll admit it! I’m kinda worried. Plus, I really need to talk to her. Tomorrow—Saturday—is her eighteenth birthday. I just don’t miss birthdays. Sisters never miss those.”
She cradles the phone against her shoulder and lowers her voice. “If you don’t call me back, I’ll take it upon myself to come to your office and discuss. I know how to use public transportation. The buses here are surprisingly accessible. Thanks.”
Someone clears their throat: It’s Michael. Grayson just now realizes he’s wearing a sparkly diamond earing in one ear. It’s a funky touch to an otherwise very drab office. She approves of his sparkle. He’s leaning over the counter, looking concerned.
“You sure everything’s okay, Grayson?”
Grayson doesn’t even mind that he’s being nosy. She’s grateful for his kindness. But she doesn’t want to explain this situation to a stranger. “I think so,” she says.
“Okay, then.” Michael glances around. Then he slides a Post-it across the counter. There’s a scribbled phone number under the words:
DOLLYWOOD! 5TH CALLER! HURRY!
He whispers: “Good luck!”
This makes Grayson smile, just a little. Her heart settles down, just barely. Beanie is fine . . . probably. There’s going to be a good explanation for all this. So she waits until the other adults are for-sure working. Then she dials up the radio station. Why not? Maybe she’ll be the fifth caller.
No, she will be the fifth caller.
She’ll take Beanie to Dollywood for her birthday. They can stop by there on their way to NYC.
This year is different. That’s what the girl in the hallway—Roxie—had said. And different is exactly what the Patch sisters need. Finally, at long last, their luck is about to change.
Somebody famous once said all good things eventually come to an end. All bad things do, too, eventually—thank goodness—and that includes the first day of middle school.
I’m finally on the bus ride home from my first real day of sixth grade. My earphones are full of a Larkin Poe album that helps my heart relax.
Mostly, I was able to keep to myself today. My only goal was to stay out of Love Kilgore’s orbit. And it worked. Today. But I know this plan won’t work forever. Thank goodness I’ll be leaving soon. Granny’s surely talked to Mom and Dad by now. I can’t wait to hear the details.
When the bus rounds the curve near Granny’s house, I pull my headphones off and tug my backpack close so I can make a speedy exit . . . But the bus doesn’t stop.
“Mr. Kidd?” I say, sitting up so he can hear me. I sat at the front of the bus this time for a swift exit. “I’m supposed to go to Granny’s—”
“Not today. Your mama called and said to drop you at home.”
“Oh.”
My heart sinks. I guess Granny had some errands to run. Or maybe she signed up for some bingo tournament downtown and forgot until the last minute. Like I said, she forgets everything now. Maybe Dad will take me to see her later, though, so we can practice and plan.
For now, I settle in for the long ride up to Monarch Mountain.
The bus rolls all around Sunny Side, then past the fancy gates of the Harbor, all the way up my familiar, curvy back road. We stop near the top, at the sign for Shady Grace Trailer Park. That’s where I live—right on the ridge in a double-wide with Mom, Dad, and Huck. I’m not the only kid up here, but I’m the only middle schooler. The high schoolers are quiet as they trudge up the road, listening to music, keeping to themselves. The little kids run faster. Their freshly painted art pages flap like wings in their tiny hands.
At first, I’m walking the road home kinda slow, too—kicking gravel out of the way, listening to my music. But then I realize both of my parents’ vehicles are parked in front of our blue trailer. Which is weird for this time of day.
And there it is again, that feeling of unease creeping underneath my skin. The Dreads.
The Dreads—same as anxiety—have run on my granny’s side of the family for over a century. When her great-great-granddaddy fled the Irish Potato Famine, he brought three things to the new world: his wife, his secret apple pie recipe, and the Dreads. We’re a nervous bunch. It’s in our DNA.
I, Roxie Darling, have inherited this ability. It’s not a gift. It’s absolutely a curse. You’d think it wouldn’t be that bad, getting the Dreads when something bad might happen. The problem is that all over the world, all the time, bad things have the potential to happen. Or they do happen. Sometimes it’s big things. Sometimes it’s little stuff. But the Dreads can be intense, no matter how mighty the situation is. And the more I think about what could happen, the more intense the Dreads become.
I burst through the front door of our trailer just as Mom opens a box of Dread Pies from Aunt Weezie’s bakery. (Dread Pies are just what we call handheld apple pies, FYI. The recipe runs in our family the same as the Dreads, so we merged the two.)
“Mom? You’re . . . home?”
It’s not like my mom’s never around. She just works days and goes to night school right now. Pretty soon, she’ll be a hairstylist. Sometimes she practices what she’s learning on me and it’s the best. I mean, how many people have moms who can put rainbow stripes in their hair without even using directions?
I’ve barely registered Mom being here when I notice Dad leaning against the counter beside her.
“Uh, how long’s she been gone again?” Dad mumbles into his phone. He’s got his back turned as if that’ll make it harder to eavesdrop. But the three of us have lived in this tiny trailer since I was little bitty. When you live in a trailer, you’re all up in one another’s business always. That’s just the truth. Dad tries to clear the worry out of his voice when he asks, “And you already tried to call her?”
I let my backpack drop off my shoulder. It clangs against the floor like it’s full of bowling balls.
The Dreads rip through my body like an ocean wave.
“Roxie?” Mom asks. “You okay?”
My voice comes out in a whisper. “I don’t know. Is everything okay?”
“Oh sure. Granny’s neighbors just saw her leave kinda sudden last night. They wanted to check on her. But I’m sure she’s fine. You know how she is. Don’t let yourself spin up over this, okay?”
My mom is right about a couple of things here—first, I do know how Granny is. How she comes and goes like the wind. How she’s artsy, weird, and wild. I know all that. And second, I really do worry about absolutely everything. I have the Dreads, ya know? I’m learning how to stop doing that so much. But something about what I’m feeling now . . . It’s different than usual.
My mind races back to last night, headed home from Granny’s house, when I felt the whisper of the Witching Wind.
I wait in the darkness for you.
“Roxie?” Mama’s hand is gentle on my back now, making slow circles. “Why are you shivering?” She guides me toward the couch. “There’s nothing to worry about. Hear your dad? Everything’s fine.”
I shake my head slowly. “It doesn’t feel fine, though. You know that Witching Wind that came through yesterday? It snatched her gnome.”
Mama scrunches her forehead. “Do what now?”
“The new garden gnome Granny got for the porch? She hadn’t bolted it down yet. She said she’d go after it if the wind snatched it.”
“She was teasing, baby.”
I’m not so sure, though. Also, I should mention here that not everybody in town—including my parents—believe the Witching Wind is a big deal. Some of the old folks here in the trailer park actually sit out on their porch and watch it blow!
“The wind can’t snatch an old lady as wild as your granny,” Mom says. “She’s fine.”
Her voice reminds me of the dove who lives out my window, the one that coos at all the baby birds in its nest. That’s something I love about her: She makes everybody around her feel safe.
“Maybe Granny’s got a last-minute gig somewhere. Or ran off to a concert,” Mom says. “Like Bonnaroo.”
Bonnaroo is Granny’s favorite music festival. Mom and Dad say I can go someday but not yet—on account of me being twelve and all the adult activity that happens there. For the record: I have no clue what adult activity they’re talking about, and I really don’t want her or Dad to explain.
“Bonnaroo was in May,” I remind Mom. “She’d tell me if it was a concert. We’re bandmates now, remember? We’re going to—”
I almost tell her about the tour. But I really want Granny to be the one to tell my parents about our plan. It’ll sound more legit that way. But clearly, she hasn’t done that yet. So instead, I say, “We’re supposed to practice this weekend. For a gig in a few weeks. So I don’t think she’d skip out without telling me.”
Mama’s forehead wrinkles again. “I thought Loretta’s birthday is this weekend. Doesn’t she usually have a party?”
“Maybe. But I have to practice.”
The truth is that, yes, most definitely, there will be a party. But for the first time in years, I have not been invited to celebrate the birth of Loretta Lynn Jeffers.
(Excuse me: Etta Lynn Jeffers.)
Dad tucks his phone back into his pocket and sits down in the living room with us. “I’m sure she’s fine. Don’t worry, Rox. She’s probably gambling at the state line with her friends.”
But I’m already hammering out a text.
Hey, Gran! You home yet? Want to practice later?
I wait but . . . nothing. Not even little bubble-dots like she’s about to answer.
