Deadwood (11 page)

A.J. was the perfect chaperone—old enough to make them feel safe, and young enough to enjoy scaring them silly. No matter how many times he jumped out at them, Waverly and Hannah screamed. But at the witch's house they all paused. Most children avoided the spooky stone cottage, which didn't need holiday decorations to look a hundred times more haunted than the tract homes with cobweb-draped graveyards in the front lawn. A.J. let out a loud
whooooo
, working Waverly and Hannah into a frenzy of half-pretend fear, and they clutched his hands as they followed the solar lights on the path to knock on the heavy arched door.

The blue-eyed woman who opened it didn't look like a witch. She recognized Hannah as a painted lady butterfly right away, exclaiming over the homemade costume. She gave each child a full-sized Nestle Crunch—rare generosity in the neighborhood.

Hannah had been more thrilled with Jenna's comments than the candy.

Hannah had known then that Jenna wasn't a witch. A witch would give out poisoned apples, or maybe ancient Starlight Mints that tasted like mothballs—kind of like the ones that first old lady had given them. Witches didn't hand out full-sized candy bars, at least not in Lower Brynwood.

Sitting in the cab of A.J.'s truck, Hannah wondered if he remembered that night, too. She switched off the radio.

“Hey, I was listening to that!” A.J. reached for the button. “This was a tough day—you wouldn't believe the number of downed trees. I had to clear a whole street full of Bradford pears that toppled like dominoes. Looked like a tornado hit them.”

Hannah frowned sympathetically, but she didn't take her hand away from the radio controls. “I'll put the radio back on if you swear you won't tell.”

“Tell what?”

“Any of it. Not about Jenna and the bee stings. If Mom hears what happened to Martin, she's going to call Michelle Medina to see how he is, and the gig's up.”

“What gig?”

“I don't know. Whatever a gig is.”

A.J. nodded. “I guess you covered for me often enough when I came in late after a party or a date. I don't mind covering for you about the tree—as long as that's all it is. You don't really
like
that kid, do you?”

“No way! Not like that.” Hannah's face blazed hot, and then she felt guilty for saying it. She didn't want anyone to think he was her boyfriend, but Martin was okay. “I mean, I do like him as a friend. And I feel bad for him—his mom's in Afghanistan, and he's stuck here with Madame President Medina. I just know that if she finds out Martin is doing, well,
anything
, she's sure to stop it.”

“Especially if she knew it was about a tree. From what I've seen of her, she'd clear-cut the whole woods if it kept a single leaf off her lawn,” A.J. snorted.

“And she already hates Jenna. Which reminds me—do you know what the university extension office is?”

“Sure. It's a branch of the college of agricultural sciences. They run classes for gardeners, farmers, and even lowly landscapers like me. I wanted to take some classes to get certified as an arborist, but Bossman Jake said I'd be better off learning from him. Why?”

“Jenna works for them.” Hannah remembered what A.J. had said about the fallen Bradford pears. “Last night was really clear and still, wasn't it?”

“I guess.”

“Why do you think those trees fell over?”

“I don't know. Those stupid things keel over if you look at them funny. Or maybe they got whatever blight's bothering that Spirit Tree of yours. It's getting harder and harder to keep anything alive here.” A.J. broke off as he pulled into the alley behind the Vaughan house. A shiny red SUV blocked the driveway. He let out a curse. “That's Jake's truck,” he said. “Bossman just
had
to show up after the day I had.”

By the time A.J. found a street parking spot and he and Hannah hauled themselves two blocks to the house, Jake Laughlin was already leaving.

“Jake,” said A.J., sounding more enthusiastic than Hannah knew he was. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing at all.” Jake laughed uncomfortably, raking a hand through his spiky reddish-brown hair. “I came to see your little brother. Well, not so little anymore.”

A.J.'s jaw tightened, and Hannah guessed that the emotion he was hiding now was disappointment. Even if he hated Jake, Hannah knew it hurt knowing that Nick was the one everyone wanted these days. “Of course. You're the assistant football coach,” he said.

Jake patted a leather bag and then hurled it into the passenger seat. “New playbooks for the offense. With Chase out of commission, we're going to have to work our superstar quarterback harder.”

A.J. smiled, but he looked smaller since his boss had shown up. “Nick won't let you down.”

“Of course he won't. If he can dream it, he can be it. Just like I don't plan on being assistant coach forever. Take a lesson, A.J. You won't get to lead one of my landscaping crews until you put your mind to it.”

A.J. looked as if he was about to say something he might regret, so Hannah jumped in. “Mr. Laughlin? Could I ask you something?”

He looked at her for the first time.

“You know the Spirit Tree? The old carved-up tree in the woods?”

He nodded, and she thought about gazing beseechingly at him through her lashes the way Waverly always practiced in the mirror. Ugh. His head was the size of a bulldog's but not nearly as cute. Forget it—she couldn't act like Waverly, but she had to convince him her own way. “It looks a little sick. A.J. came out to look at it, but he couldn't tell what was wrong.” She ignored A.J. glaring at her and said, “We thought you'd know since you're the expert.”

“Look, Hannah, I probably could take care of it, but I don't have a contract with the township for the work. Laughlin Landscaping and Tree Care is a business, and money doesn't grow on trees.”

“But if you're a tree surgeon, it kind of does, doesn't it?” Hannah said. Jake looked at her, not sure how to react. Hannah forced herself to giggle, then A.J. managed to cough out a laugh, and finally Jake joined in.

“Nobody gets rich working for free, little girl.”

“You can if you get publicity for doing it. A friend and I are studying the tree for a town history project. If we let the
Lower Brynwood Weekly Herald
know you're helping, I bet they'd do a story on it. They'd let everybody know that Laughlin Landscaping does more than cut lawns—you're tree-care professionals. And you're a community leader! You'd get lots of new business.”

“Your little sister has a point.” Jake turned to A.J. “You can't buy good will, but it's the most precious thing you own. You could take a lesson from her, too, A.J.”

Hannah shrugged behind Jake's back in apology. His boss sure was an idiot. This wasn't how she meant the day to end for her brother, especially after he'd helped her. But Jake agreed to look at the tree during the week. Hopefully he was better with plants than he was with human beings.

16

The Text

H
annah walked in the woods at night.

The moon reflected off the bark of the saplings, but it was too bright, too silver. She realized the trees were dead, the bare wood bleached smooth and white—the bones of a forest still standing, petrified like fossils. Dead wood.

A cloud passed over the moon, although the sky had been clear and starry a moment before.

A burst of lightning split the darkness, and Hannah felt electricity around her, lifting the hair from her head and the golden down from her arms. For a moment she thought the energy would lift her as well, but then something began pulling at her feet. She tried to walk, but she felt rooted—no, that wasn't the right word. Her feet weren't growing into the earth—they were being dragged down, scraping through grit and silt. The electricity tore at her hair, the tension tugging up and outward, the ground sucking her downward, her body stretched between.

She woke feeling drained and empty. Was that how the tree felt?

Scritch scratch
. She knew it was just the sound of branches on the roof, but the thought didn't comfort her. It was a long time before she fell asleep again.

The next morning Hannah couldn't close her bag. Her giant textbooks alone took up too much room, and the Lower Brynwood yearbook was the last straw. She considered leaving it at home, but instead took out her social studies book and balanced it in the wire basket on the front of the bike. Only when she was bungee-cording her messenger bag onto the back rack did she realize why the bike seemed extra awkward when she dragged it up the stairs. The rear tire was flat.

She swore silently. Her luck was getting worse. She pulled her cell phone from a zipped pocket. At least the clock still worked, even if she couldn't get calls. She swore aloud now. Late, late, late. She could catch the bus if she left now, but she wouldn't have time to go inside to tell Waverly she wasn't coming.

She jumped when her phone pinged. No way. She still was out of airtime.

New message. She clicked it open.

One word: H
URRY
.

The bus rounded the corner, taking the turn wide. Hurry!

Hannah swore louder. She swung her bag over one shoulder and ran, the heavy books bruising her hip with each step. If she didn't get to the stop in time, the bus driver wouldn't slow down.

Only when she had flopped in an empty seat did she begin to think clearly.

Hannah always carried the phone because it had a clock and her phone book, but she shouldn't be able to get messages until her parents recharged her crummy pay-as-you-go plan with more minutes at the beginning of the month. So who had texted her? She read the message again.

H
URRY
.

No number listed. She scanned the faces of the kids on the bus. Half-asleep or deep in conversation, none of them looked up. None of them would have warned her that the bus was coming, anyway.

Hannah dialed Waverly, hoping her phone airtime had been replenished by her parents, or some other miracle. Nothing. She banged her forehead on the window. When she saw the flat tire, she should have just gone inside and called Waverly. Dr. Wiggins would have picked her up. They were probably still waiting for her, and she had no way to reach them with her cell phone out of operation. She wouldn't even be able to explain to Waverly until after social studies. If Waverly would even listen then.

Social studies! She had left her textbook strapped on the bike, and her homework was folded inside. She had never missed an assignment—not once. She wasn't even at school yet and this was already the worst day ever.

Her phone pinged again. This time she hesitated, but she had to see what the text said.

H
URRY
. T
IME
IS
RUNNING
OUT
.

17

The Spirit Tree

T
he tree was patient. When it needed water or sun, it waited. When winter came, it slept. Humans crowded it once, and then they faltered and disappeared.

A season to a tree is like a day to a human. A year is like a week.

But the tree was crumbling, drained from the inside. A desiccated shell.

The tree would not live to see another season or another year.

The time for patience was over.

18

Pretending to Be a Choir

M
artin knew what it looked like to avoid being called on, because he'd been practicing ever since he came to this miserable town. So when Hannah slumped down in her seat, Martin could tell that whatever kind of bad morning she'd had was about to get worse. Because Mr. Michaelson knew that pretending-to-be-a-chair strategy better than Martin did. And today was the day he decided to call on Hannah.

Every other day Martin had seen Hannah wave her arm so wildly it looked like she was raising the social studies roof. Usually Mr. Michaelson ignored her unless hers was the only hand in the air. Martin knew teachers called it “giving someone else a chance,” but sometimes he thought the most popular teachers secretly despised the smart kids. Those teachers had probably laughed at that kind of kid back when they were C-plus starters on the baseball team or president of the Spirit Club or whatever. They had had all the power then, and as faculty, they still had power—a grade book and a teacher's guide with the answers printed in bright red ink. They weren't about to let those know-it-all nerds get one over on them.

Mr. Michaelson didn't seem like that type of teacher, though. He liked the nerds. He tried to look hip with his dark shirts, matching ties and rimless glasses, but Martin could tell that, ten years ago, he probably wore a fanny pack to hold his graphing calculator and twenty-sided die. If he were a kid today, he'd be building his own computer and subscribing to the multiplayer online RPG of
Dragon Era
, just like Martin. Heck, Mr. Michaelson probably did that, anyway. He might drive a crap car, but he could buy a mighty fine gaming system if he wanted to.

Anyway, he was one of Martin's people.

Today that meant he wasn't one of Hannah's. Because Hannah wasn't just a smart kid. Today she wore a red and black soccer jersey, satiny piped shorts, matching sneakers and one of those stretchy things girls put on their ponytails. Today she was clearly a star of the soccer team, bedecked in full game-day regalia for lesser mortals to admire.

“I've heard some grumbles about the amount of last night's homework. Ms. Vaughan,” Mr. Michaelson said, giving her last name two syllables. Hannah unpeeled her head from the desk, “Could you read off your answer to question number one?”

“No.” She turned as red as her jersey. “I mean, I did the homework, but I don't have it. I got a flat tire and I forgot it.”

“Surely you remember what you wrote—the instigating factors in the Whiskey Rebellion. It might help if you cracked open your textbook.”