Deadwood (4 page)

H
I
M
OM,
he typed. I
MADE
A
COUPLE
NEW
FRIENDS
TODAY
. She didn't need to know that one was a girl who detested him and the other was a tree that might be trying to kill him. Not to mention the bad one the tree had warned about, which could be the tree itself, as far as he knew. W
E'RE
WORKING
ON
A
NATURE
PROJECT
TOGETHER
. I
RAN
SIX
MILES
BUT
I
GOT
INTERRUPTED
BY
A
RAINSTORM
SO
I
DON'T
KNOW
MY
TIME
. I
MISS
YOU
. I
LOVE
YOU
.
Come home safe
, he thought, but didn't type.

Send. He waited a moment to see if a message pinged back, but nothing did.

Then a chat window popped open. For a split second he thought it was his mom, but the screen name was blank. Who was it? He waited for a moment, but no words appeared.

“Are you done yet?” his aunt called. “I have to finish my spreadsheets.”

“I'm finished.” Martin closed the window, a little sadder. Just a bug in the chat software. “What's for dinner?”

“Help yourself to what's in the freezer.”

Martin heard the sprinklers pop up outside, despite the earlier rainstorm. In September other Lower Brynwood lawns were scorched dry, but Martin's aunt had the greenest lawn in the development, so bright and manicured that it looked fake. Every day at six o'clock, the sprinklers sprayed a rainbow of chlorinated town water onto the velvety grass and any kid unlucky enough to be riding his bike past.

Aunt Michelle peered out the window at the lawn, looking satisfied for a moment. Then, as if struck by a sudden rage, she shouted, “That grass is four feet if it's an inch! I don't care if it
is
some rare native species. It's an eyesore!”

Martin craned his neck to peer out the window at the perfect, green carpet of lawn. “I think the landscapers are coming tomorrow.”

Aunt Michelle looked at him as if she had forgotten he was there. “Not my grass, Martin. The weed patch around that hideous shack. You have to know what I'm talking about.” She pointed a manicured finger.

Through the window Martin could just make out a weathervane on the highest gable of a stone cottage—the same one with the tangled laundry and overgrown roses.

“Um, aren't you in charge of Brynwood Estates? Can't you make her mow?”

Aunt Michelle scowled at him, her temple pulsing like a drum beat. Martin recognized that temper—his mom had it, and so did he. He ought to know better than to push her, but sometimes he couldn't help himself. “I
am
the president of the Brynwood Estates Community Association, thank you very much,” Aunt Michelle said. “But the cottage isn't part of it. It was the old gatehouse for the original estate, and now it's Jenna Blitzer's. She
says
it's a wildlife garden, but I know that's just another way to say ‘I don't respect my neighbors.'” She flipped the blinds closed. “But she will. I have the power in my hands.”

She flounced into her office, clicking the door shut behind her.

Martin nuked a diet frozen dinner and ate it standing up at the counter while a second entrée rotated on the microwave carousel. The pasta, way too hot and tasting like melted plastic, burned the roof of his mouth, but he didn't slow down. He remembered when his mom bought him
Dragon Era
right before she deployed. She'd played it with him a few times. He had totally dominated the game at Gord's house, but his mom outmaneuvered him every time, goading his ranger into false steps. She said you can't let your emotions rule you when the stakes are high. When you get angry, you make mistakes.

Out in the woods today, he'd let his anger get away from him, and that made him madder. He was neck-deep in a curse, when the last thing he had planned was to get involved. He was a short-termer in the miserable town. No use making friends.

The microwave dinged, and he sighed. He already knew another itty-bitty meal wouldn't fill the empty hole in his gut. Probably nothing would tonight.

When Martin woke in the morning, he felt as if he were being watched.

Aunt Michelle never put blinds on
his
window—just a flowery chintz swag at the top that did nothing for privacy and less for looks, in Martin's opinion. But his opinion didn't matter, since he slept on a narrow brass daybed surrounded by plastic bins of out-of-season women's shoes and clothes. The spare room was no longer spare, but did double duty as his bedroom. Aunt Michelle still needed one of the other bedrooms for her elliptical trainer and weight-training equipment, and she kept the fourth bedroom lavishly decorated for real guests.

Martin covered his head with the thin coverlet. He knew there was nothing outside the window but a bare-limbed cherry tree. He had never thought a tree could watch him, but now he wasn't sure. Dryads, serewoods, wild sylvans—they were supposed to be mythological creatures, but now he wasn't ruling any of them out.

He knew what had happened the day before wasn't a dream. Nobody really dreamed about talking trees. They dreamed about exams they hadn't studied for, forgetting to wear pants to class, losing their baseball glove before a big game, or maybe—on a good day—opening the door and seeing their mom, smiling with bags full of presents.

The blender was whirring when Martin went down to the kitchen—Aunt Michelle's breakfast smoothie. He grabbed a box of Bran Buds from the cabinet and poured them in a bowl. It looked like something a squirrel would eat, but he already knew this was the best option. He poured the milk, sighed at its thin blue tinge, and shook a yellow packet of artificial sugar granules on top. He chewed glumly, trying to finish as quickly as possible.

“Martin, you're never going to have a good day if you go around with a face like that.”

“It's the face I was born with—what else can I do?”

“You know what I mean,” Aunt Michelle snapped. Then she brightened, like she was pouring artificial sugar right into her voice. “If you put energy out into the world and expect it to come back to you, it will. How do you think I became vice-president of Horizon Network Communications, president of the Brynwood Estates Community Association, chairwoman of the Junior Executives of Tomorrow, and now head of the Brynwood Garden Club, too? It's about your attitude, mister. Change your attitude, change your life.”

He smiled, his mouth still full of milk.

“That's better. You don't have to mean it at first. Change the way you look, and you'll change your outlook.” Martin's eyes bulged a bit as he tried hard not to roll them. Aunt Michelle couldn't open her mouth without some corny saying spilling out. He swallowed the last mouthful and stood to put the bowl in the dishwasher.

“Speaking of change,” he said, “can I have money for lunch?”

“I packed your lunch. You don't want those greasy burgers they serve in the cafeteria.”

Yes, I do
, Martin thought. He gathered his things and headed for the door.

“Best be off,” he said. “Early bird and all that.”

“That's the attitude.”

When he'd shut the door behind him, he peeked inside the oddly light lunch bag—some kind of stinky, brownish spread on rice cakes. Might as well eat the bag. He'd have to dip into his allowance again for lunch. He'd never be able to buy his own computer at this rate.

When he looked up, Hannah was staring him right in the face. She'd been waiting on the stoop, and all of a sudden breakfast with Aunt Michelle didn't seem so bad.

7

Bad to Worse

“
I
decided you need my help,” Hannah said. She didn't plan to tell him about the tree branch that had cracked her window the night before. In the light of day, it would just sound silly. As if things in Lower Brynwood didn't break, crumble, and decay every day! Half the houses on her block were practically falling down already.

Martin jammed a brown bag into his backpack and zipped it up securely, as if she was likely to steal it. She had thought he'd be glad to see her, but apparently she guessed wrong.

“You skipped out,” Martin answered. “I don't need you.”

She winced inwardly—she took pride in making quick decisions, but she'd needed a little time for this situation. A girl didn't run into talking trees every day. But now that she was here, she wasn't going to change her mind. She was going to change
his
.

“Yeah, you do,” she said. “I figured out where you lived, didn't I? I know this town, and if anybody can figure out where the curse came from, I can.”

“What, you know all the dark mages in Lower Deadwood?” He started walking down the long drive, and she went with him.

“The whats?”

He snorted. “Mages. Wizards. Witches. Curseworkers. The Spirit Tree asked for our help. Whoever set this curse has got to be working some kind of dark magic.”

“I don't believe in magic.”

“If you don't believe, I can do this without you,” Martin said, squaring his shoulders, which had been lopsided under the weight of one backpack strap. “I work best alone, anyway.”

“That's not up to you. I was there, too.” Hannah thought of the tree's message.
Heal me
, it had said. “The tree needs me, too.” The town was counting on her. Not to mention her brother. And her own scholarship dreams, come to think of it.

“I guess I can't stop you. But you'd better get going. The bus will be here any minute.” At the end of the driveway he turned toward the corner.

Hannah put her hand on his shoulder to stop him. “You don't have to ride the bus, you know. School is a five-minute walk if you know the shortcuts. None of these dumb culde-sacs connect, so the bus ride takes forty minutes and drags you all over town.”

“I like to get an early start.” He jerked his head in the direction of the house. “Aunt Michelle is doing Pilates in the living room.”

Hannah couldn't imagine her own aunt exercising, but she knew she wouldn't want to watch her do it. “Okay, but skip the bus today. We need to talk, and I can't take my bike on the bus.”

“Precisely.”

“Fine. Waverly's dad is driving me, anyway.”

“Then what's the bike for?”

“How else would I get to Waverly's house?” she said. He quirked an eyebrow at her. Riding her bike to catch a ride with Waverly's dad had always made sense to Hannah, but doubt flashed through her mind. She really went through a lot of trouble just to walk into school with Waverly, didn't she?

“You'd better get going, then,” Martin said, popping in his earbuds.

Hannah raised her voice. “Meet me after school! At the Spirit Tree.”

He shook his head. “I'll wait at the west exit.”

“Okay. But don't be surprised if I pretend I don't know you until then.”

A yellow bus rounded the corner, nearly empty at the beginning of its route. The door slid open like an accordion, and Martin climbed the steps without a word. Hannah wasn't sure if he'd heard the last part of what she said, but she was sorry she said it.

He scowled at her with one last look over his shoulder.

Yep, he heard it.

Hannah sat back on the high leather seats of the SUV, unconsciously turning the ruby studs in her ears. She had begged her mother to let her get her ears pierced when Waverly did, right before fifth grade. When Mrs. Wiggins took them to the mall together, Hannah had pretended to be as scared as Waverly acted. She had really felt nothing but excitement—it was a girl thing, and she was part of it.