The Witching Wind, page 6
“She hasn’t texted me all day,” I say. “That’s weird for her. Usually she sends me, like, fifteen funny dog memes before noon.”
At last, I take a deep, long breath, steeling myself for one of my least favorite experiences in the world: making a phone call.
But the line only buzzes. Nobody ever says hi. I know Granny’s never set up a voicemail, so I don’t even bother leaving one. I sigh. “Thwarted.”
I place my phone on the apple crate we use for a coffee table. (Mom’s cool and crafty like that, and not just with apple crates. She’s made all kinds of cool art pieces from the leftover gloves at Dad’s factory. They’re framed all over the trailer.) “Parents,” I say, looking back and forth between them. “We might have a problem.”
Mom leans forward. “What’s wrong? You seemed a little down yesterday after the pool. Is everything—”
“Not that.” I wave it off. The Incident is the last thing I want to talk about. “We might have a Ruthie Darling problem. The wind stole Granny’s gnome. And I think she might have gone after it and got lost. She was acting a little weird yesterday.”
Mom and Dad exchange a glance. It’s quick—one of those speedy, shooting star kind of looks adults have that can mean a thousand different things. But I saw it. Is there something they’re not telling me? Why do adults keep so many secrets?
“Rox.” Mama’s hand is on my shoulder again. “Take a breath. Granny’s always been . . . flighty. She up and leaves all the time for trips or shows or wherever the wind carries her.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I find the wind, and her desire to chase it, very concerning.”
“Maybe she just forgot to charge her phone,” Dad says, leaning toward me. “And she’s been talking about touring again. She might have found a band who needed an opener and got an early start.”
Sadness feels like an ocean turned loose inside me—loud and roaring. A terrible realization finally occurs: Granny might have left without me. She might have changed her mind about taking me on tour. I mean, I don’t fit anywhere in the Camelot sixth-grade ecosystem. What if Gran came to her senses and realized I don’t fit in her world, either? I’m not that good at guitar yet. Plus, I don’t look like the kind of girl who should be on a stage. Maybe Granny was just being nice when she asked me yesterday. Maybe deep down, even the people I love feel the way Love Kilgore does about me: I take up too much space.
I drop my uneaten Dread Pie back in the box. All I taste is tears, anyway. And I don’t want those tears falling in front of my parents. “C’mon, Huckleberry,” I say, standing up from the couch. “Let’s go for a walk.”
I clip Huck’s leash to his collar just like I do most afternoons. Usually I love this time, when it’s just me and my fuzzy BFF. But today my shoes feel heavy and mud stuck.
My heart feels mud stuck, too.
“Roxie,” Mom says as I open the door. “It’s awfully hot to be wearing a sweatshirt.”
I tug at the edge of it. “I get cold sometimes.”
And sometimes I do—like in the fall and winter.
Not today, though. Not on an August day that feels like the inside of a hot oven. Beads of sweat are already bubbling around my hairline. “Love y’all,” I say, slipping out on the porch and closing the door behind me.
Then I pause to listen. My parents are notorious for talking about me right after I leave the room. Luckily, trailer doors are thin—great for eavesdropping purposes. Really, I’m just wondering if Granny has said anything about the tour yet. Maybe she did, and they said no!
“Did something happen at the pool?” I hear Dad ask. “She’s seemed a little different since she got home, hasn’t she? A little quiet?”
“Maybe,” Mom says. “I hope not. I want her to love middle school. Love it like we loved it. But kids can be mean nowadays. About everything.”
I don’t tell Mom, but I figure kids are about the same as grown-ups and always have been. Sometimes mean. Sometimes really great. Mostly a little bit of both. The problem isn’t the kids—not all of them. The problem was the pool.
Actually it wasn’t even that—the problem is me, I guess. And the fact that I somehow caught the attention of middle school royalty in the worst possible way. Love Kilgore is a soccer star, spelling bee champion, sixth-grade pretty, and from what I can tell, flat-out mean.
I walk quietly down the two steps to the gravel and grass, Huck bouncing along beside me. But we don’t walk far today.
Shady Grace sits on a bluff overlooking Silas County. People in town joke about it sometimes, how this is the best view in town, but you gotta be trailer trash to have it. I suppose one of those is true: The view from here is beautiful.
But I don’t think the place anybody lives makes them trash.
I sit on the grass pretzel-style, right near the edge of the bluff. Huckleberry climbs into my lap and cuddles. Some nights I see the lights on Granny’s porch from here. Her cottage is nestled in the crook of the water’s edge.
This afternoon, I see all of downtown: the First and Second United Methodist Churches, the Dollar General, and my aunt Weezie’s record-bakery shop. Nearby is the area of town I refer to lovingly as the Triangle of Dread: Camelot Middle School, the Lake Silas Community Pool, and Wild Bill’s Fish Fry. (Skip the hush puppies if you go to Wild Bill’s. Just trust me.) Rising high above my town are the gauzy-gray Smoky Mountains.
When I was younger, I’d sit out here on the bluffs with my parents and my granny almost every night. We’d look at the lights downtown. And Mom would say that we were the kings and queens of the kingdom of fallen stars.
Of course, Granny, our high queen, has always been the most magical of us all. She’d bring her guitar, and we’d all dance barefoot in the yard. Sometimes the neighbors joined in—with their instruments, their voices, or just their presence. Those were sweet days. There’s magic on this mountain, I’m convinced of that. If this is what it means to be a hillbilly, I’m fine with it.
And if this is trailer trash, it’s a fine way to be. That’s all I’m saying.
I pick up a stick off the ground and pretend I’m casting spells with it, like I did when I was a kid. I wave my wand with a flourish and point toward the peak of Mount LeConte in the far-off distance.
“Where is Granny and why’d she leave without me? Revealeo!”
I hope the Witching Wind might whisper a clue. But it never answers.
“Make me sixth-grade pretty and popular so school doesn’t stink! Transformio!”
But, again, the wind is only still.
Not that I really expected it to do anything. The wind only talks when it wants. Plus, sticks aren’t magic—at least not that one—so for now I’m just me, just there, waiting for Granny to come back. Wondering if the person I love most forgot about me, too.
“Maybe I’m just forgettable.”
ROXIE.
It’s my granny’s voice!
I hear it so distinctly, so loud, right in my ear—like she’s snuck up beside me. I even gasp. I open my eyes and look around, thinking she’s back, she’s home! I half expect to see her with the car gassed up and her Starlight String slung in the back seat yelling, “Let’s get on the road, girl!”
But nobody’s there.
There’s only one shadow on the ground near mine: a lone butterfly, fluttering in a playful way through a gentle, easy breeze.
I launch off the ground. Dark clouds are tumbling through the sky, mingling with the blue, slowly covering the sun. The air is filled with the birthday-candle smell again. A blown-out wish. Leftover magic. A light breeze tickles the back of my neck.
The Witching Wind is on its way.
But then a strange thought occurs to me: Is it on its way . . . or is it always here? Just watching, waiting, to stir something up.
I hear a voice on the wind again. But this time, it’s different.
ROXIE . . . help me!
“Granny,” I whisper as I spin around, looking. But she’s not there.
A fine web of Dread weaves around my heart as two things become clear: That was definitely my granny’s voice in the wind. But I am still standing here alone.
On Saturday morning, Grayson Patch wakes up at 6:00 a.m.
She never unpacked most of her clothes. They’re still folded neatly in her duffel bag. Last night, she made sure she tucked her book into her backpack, too, so she didn’t forget it. While she was packing, Freya toddled into her room and gave her a rock.
“Such a little weirdo,” Grayson says, as she picks up the rock and turns it over in her hand. There’s nothing special about it. No fossil impressed into it. No cool marking. But for some reason—which she absolutely cannot understand—Grayson tucks the stupid rock into her backpack.
Surely, Beanie told Ms. Betsy they were leaving. She wonders if Ms. Betsy has told the Cottons yet. Or do they find out today?
Either way, she’s going to write them a note and thank them. Two days isn’t very long, but this is the sweetest room she’s had. Gia Cotton—who is a librarian—even made sure she had a small bookshelf full of all kinds of stories. Grayson doesn’t take any of those with her; they aren’t hers to take, after all. But she writes down all the titles so she can find them once she’s in New York City.
She had her own desk in here, too, with a cool lamp and a sketchbook and new pencils. The pointy, sharp kind that smell like the first day of elementary school.
Somebody even put a teddy bear on the bed for her. Which Grayson is too old for, thank you very much.
(Yes, fine, she slept with it last night. She was just being polite.)
She pats the bear’s head and zips her bag. Then, she checks her phone . . . Still nothing.
Grayson decides to go wait for Beanie on the Cottons’ front porch. She even makes a cup of coffee. (Yes, she’s only twelve, but Grayson appreciates a good espresso. And John Cotton knows his beans, okay?)
The morning here on Sunny Side is peaceful, drenched in foggy dream light. Bluebirds are chirping in the trees. Dewdrops sparkle on the grass. It’s a perfect morning for a once-upon-a-time.
And then, Grayson hears a car with a beat-up muffler kerplunking around the curve. She stands up, tucks her hair behind her ears, and waits.
But it’s not Beanie.
Another car passes by. Then another. Grayson checks her phone. Nothing.
Finally she texts:
6:45 a.m. Beano! I’m ready!
And the front door opens. Gia Cotton walks onto the porch holding her own coffee mug. “Oh!” she says. “You’re an early riser!”
Grayson shrugs. “I like to get mornings over with as fast as possible.”
“Ah.” Gia sits down in the rocking chair close to Grayson.
“Freya and I are having a breakfast picnic in the backyard. We’d love for you to join us.”
“I can’t,” Grayson says. “I need to be here just in case.”
“In case your sister comes?”
Grayson nods.
“I’d love to meet her. Holler at me when she shows up, okay? We’re right out back.”
“Okay.”
Another hour passes. But there’s still no Beanie.
Grayson goes back inside, only once, to put her mug in the dishwasher. The Cottons look so happy in the backyard. Maybe, possibly, the Cottons really are nice.
But also? They’re already a family: a perfect, little three-person unit. Grayson only watched them for a second. She didn’t want to intrude. And anyway, without Grayson, don’t they seem a little more at ease?
It’s fine! Grayson has a family, too. Her family is Beanie. Today’s the day they fly.
And yet . . . one hour later, Beanie hasn’t shown up.
Grayson sighs. She decides it’s time to go talk some sense into her sister and get this show on the road.
She scribbles a note on the counter:
DEAR JOHN, GIA, AND TODDLER OVERLORD:
RUNNING DOWNTOWN TO SEE BEANIE. WON’T TALK TO ANYBODY WEIRD BESIDES HER. WE MIGHT GO TO NEW YORK CITY. WE’LL COME BY HERE FIRST, THOUGH. I CAN’T CARRY MY BAG THAT FAR. PLEASE DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. I HAVE A BUS PASS.
Then she wonders if it’s not polite enough. Ms. Betsy always tells her she should be nicer. So she scribbles:
ALSO, I REALLY LIKED IT HERE.
BEST WISHES,
GRAYSON PATCH
She shrugs. That’s the best she can do. Grayson uses her walker to carefully navigate the sidewalk all the way to the edge of the neighborhood. Then she walks farther, to the corner where the city bus stops. The driver looks surprised when he opens the door. He’s mostly looking at her walker, not at her. She’s used to this, though. Everybody sees her walker first.
“Hi,” Grayson says. “Is this bus accessible?”
Beanie taught her to ask this proudly. Grayson’s disabled. It’s not a bad word. Beanie said she should be proud of her body. That she should advocate for it. Beanie taught Grayson that there’s no room—no space—where Grayson Patch does not belong. Nobody should apologize for taking up space in the world, according to Beanie. And if she says it, Grayson believes it.
So Grayson takes up space. Proudly.
The bus driver lowers a sturdy lift, and Grayson rides it to the bus aisle. She sits close to the front so she can make sure he stops when he’s supposed to. Also, so she can see out the big front windows and take in the view: the neighborhoods of Sunny Side, the lake, the Harbor, the ridge with the funky little trailers.
That’s actually where Grayson would rather live with Beanie. That was her idea—a trailer—once she and Beans were on their own. All Grayson needs is her sister, a trailer with string lights, a few good books, and a cuddly dog. How is that not perfect? But Beanie always said to dream bigger. She said they were destined for NYC. So that’s where they’ll go . . . Maybe today!
Beanie is eighteen today.
So this is their once-upon-a-time.
Grayson takes a deep breath and wonders if that feeling—the way your chest feels when it’s full of fresh air—is what a bird feels like before it flies.
“I’m real today,” she says softly. And even though Grayson Patch doesn’t smile much (her face just doesn’t prefer it, thanks for asking), she can’t help it now.
At the stop for Greenbrier Drive—where Beanie lives in a house with a few other older foster kids, Grayson stands to exit. “I’ll need the lift again, please,” she says, pulling off her headphones. (Her headphones haven’t worked in three months. She just wears them while using public transportation so that nobody makes small talk.)
“Be safe . . .” says the driver. “See you soon?”
“Probably not,” Grayson says. “I’m meeting my sister.”
He nods like he’s concerned. She wonders if this is because she’s a kid or because she’s using a walker or a little bit of both. And she’s not mad either way. Grayson figures the world would be way nicer if people looked out for other people—no matter what they wore, how they got around, what kind of family they came from. Whatever. If we could all act like one big family full of weirdos, maybe we’d all be better off.
Grayson’s legs are trembly tired now. But she clunks up the sidewalk to the two-story house on the corner of Greenbrier and Market. She meanders all the way up the ramp and knocks on the door.
A guy with a nose ring, lip ring, and several starry ear piercings flings it open. Grayson digs all the sparkle. It reminds her of a Christmas tree, in a good way. She doesn’t say this, though.
“Hi. I’m Grayson Patch. I’m looking for Beanie Patch.”
“You and everybody else,” he says with a laugh. His lip ring clicks against his teeth when he talks. That’s what she focuses on first—the sound. The clicking. Like typewriter keys on a toy she played with when she was a kid.
But then she realizes what he actually said.
“Excuse me?” The weight of his words settle over her heart. And Grayson feels . . . something. Something strange. It starts like a pinprick in the center of her stomach but grows from there—billows, blooms, spreads to her heart. It’s like being carsick and nervous at the same time.
This is worry. This is what worry feels like. This is terrible!
“Wh-what does that mean?” Grayson asks. “Me and everybody else?”
But then there’s an actual adult in the door, nudging him out of the way. “Honey, you need to chat with your case worker, okay? And how’d you even get here? You look too little to be on a bus.”
“Kids ride buses all the time!” She’s so tired of pointing this out to people. It’s true! It’s also true that Grayson is little. Sometimes that’s a side effect for people with brittle bones—you get to be fun-size for life. Whatever, fine. But people automatically assume Grayson is six, not twelve, and talk to her that way. It’s so frustrating!
“I’m practically a teenager,” Grayson informs her. “And Beanie is my sister. I came to give her a birthday present and find out when she’s coming to get me.”
The lady’s eyes change. They soften and shine. And this makes Grayson even angrier. She needs the lady’s help, not her pity.
“Oh, honey,” the lady says. “I remember you. But . . . the case worker called me yesterday. She said not to talk about Beanie. She’ll know what to tell you, okay?”
Grayson feels stuck in place. She feels like this lady’s words have turned her to stone, like all those woodland creatures the witch in Narnia turned to statues.
“M-my case worker won’t talk to me,” Grayson says, finally finding her voice again. “She’s hopping around on one shoe, not answering her phone. Who else is looking for Beanie? And why are they looking for her at all? Did she disappear?”
The lady chews on her lip. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” Grayson says firmly. “I have a bus pass.” She swivels and plods back down the sidewalk. Back toward the bus stop. Next, she’ll ride to Ms. Betsy’s office! But . . . Ms. Betsy won’t be there on a Saturday.
At the bus stop bench, Grayson pulls two things out of her backpack:
