Girlwood (2 page)

Polly put a waffle in the toaster and turned the knob to 10. It drove her mother crazy when she ate her waffles black, but it wasn't like she could complain—at least one of her daughters was eating.

"Did you sleep well?" her mom asked.

Polly said nothing. She knew to keep her mouth shut, especially not to say anything like
Bree came into my room last night. She was a fairy, but now she's gone.
She couldn't make the words sound more grown up, and she didn't want to. An adult would not have mistaken Bree for a fairy. An adult would have called her a runaway first thing.

Smoke swirled up from the toaster. "Is your sister up yet?" her mom asked. She walked to the doorway, not waiting for an answer. "Brianna!" she yelled up the stairs. "Time for school! You were supposed to set your alarm!"

Goose bumps broke out along Polly's skin. It was so silent in the house, she heard the noises that usually go unnoticed—leaves swirling outside in the early autumn breeze, the frantic flutter of wings against the screen door, her own heart pounding.

"I don't believe this," her mom said. "One little thing. That's all I'm asking. Just get up on time. Is that so hard?"

"Mom?"

"She thinks the sun should come up later just to suit her. I'm trying to keep her alive, and I'm the villain. I'm telling you, Polly. That's it. I'm done."

Polly gripped the table as her mom marched upstairs, feeling weightless, almost like the fairy herself.

Let the dream be true. Let Bree be gone.

The instant Polly formed the thought, she wanted to take it back. She wasn't like that. Bree was the one who was like that. What kind of horrible trick would it be if she ended up like her sister, even when she wanted more than anything to be like somebody else?

Polly felt lightheaded as she listened to her mother's footsteps, followed by a shock of silence, then the panicked cries of "Bree? Bree!"

Two thousand years ago, Romans were advised to take a daily sip of mallow juice to prevent illness. The entire plant is edible, and the fruits taste somewhat like cheese, earning the plant the nickname "cheese weed." The roots are thick and sticky, good for skin irritations and respiratory ailments.

Polly's mom went from irritated to hysterical in an instant. It was Jekyll and Hyde stuff, like there'd been a monster lurking in Faith Greene this whole time. Her face tightened and twitched; she paced and cried and made phone calls and ran outside every time someone with blond hair walked by.

Everything happened at warp speed. Within an hour of finding Bree's bedroom empty, Polly's mom called the police department in Laramie, Idaho, pummeled Bree's friends for information, and contacted Laramie High in case Bree showed up in class wondering what all the fuss was about. While a neighbor drove out to Polly's dad's cabin, where her father had yet to install a phone, Polly and her mother searched Bree's room. Her mom seemed almost comforted when they came across the usual pot bags and cigarettes, but cried when they discovered the three things that weren't there: Bree's winter coat, though it was only late September; sneakers; and a ratty stuffed bear, a toy Bree hadn't touched in years.

The hour when Polly usually left for school came and went. She was perched on the edge of the living room sofa, still in her blue pajama bottoms and T-shirt, when her dad arrived. The laces on his boots were untied, his beard and hair wild, though he always looked that way now. He usually greeted Polly with a bear hug, but today he looked right past her toward her mother.

"What happened?" he asked. "Did you and Bree argue again?"

Polly's mom clutched the cordless phone to her chest, an odd, unsettling gesture, like she was cradling a baby. "Don't you dare blame this on me."

"I'm not blaming anyone. I need to know where my daughter is."

"I don't know! I've called everyone I can think of and no one's seen her. She ran away, or someone crawled in her window and took her."

Her dad paled. "My God. How can you say that?"

Polly couldn't stand to be in the same room with them anymore; it was like being poisoned. Her mom started to cry—guttural, bone-racking sobs that made Polly's hair stand on end.

***

Officer Max Wendt showed up during what would have been Polly's second period, her debate class. He wore civilian clothes and would have been completely ordinary-looking were it not for the gun at his hip. He shook her dad's hand but steered clear of her mother, whose head had begun to bobble as if her whole body was coming loose. Polly imagined she'd soon see bolts flying, rusted nails and screws dropping to the floor.

They all knew Max Wendt: he was the one who was called out to Polly's grandmother's house whenever someone complained about the height of the weeds she called a garden or about the rough and desperate clientele who kept showing up at her door for her natural remedies. To Polly's grandmother,
natural
meant the extracts, oils, and teas she harvested from
plants, like the mallow ointment she'd used last week to soothe Abby Gail's chicken pox. To many people in town, though,
natural
meant "bogus" or "illegal." To Pastor Bentley, Baba's remedies were the work of the devil, which made Baba laugh. When Polly's grandmother heard she was the centerpiece of the minister's sermon, she called herself a celebrity and cheered.

"We usually wait twenty-four hours before we do anything," Officer Wendt said, as they walked into the kitchen.

"Usually?" Polly's mom cried, grabbing his arm. "What do you mean, usually? You have to do something!"

The officer was a big man, probably six two, but he shrank from Faith Greene's frenzied face.

"We'll go to the school, talk to her friends," he offered.

Polly rolled her eyes. Bree's friends—the Fab Five, as they called themselves, though there was nothing fabulous about them unless you counted how good they all were at going up in flames—weren't big talkers. Like Bree, they used to be good girls; then the first fabulous one had shot up, and the rest had raced to keep up, as if they'd rather self-destruct than be left out. Bree acted like they cared more about her than her own family did, but where were the Fab Five now?

"I don't think you need to worry," the officer went on, gently extricating his arm. "Teenagers are always getting mad at their parents and making a dash for it. But then they've got
to figure out the particulars, like how they'll eat, where they'll sleep. Your daughter will be walking through that door any minute. Mark my words."

They all looked at the front door, which didn't budge. Polly's mom started making weird sounds, noises well beyond crying.

"What about ... abduction?" she asked. Polly's dad stood uncertainly in the doorway to the kitchen, as if he hadn't bought this house himself fifteen years ago.

"Faith," he said. "Stop it."

Polly's mom pressed a hand to her belly and moaned like she had a terrible stomachache. The policeman fixed his gaze on Polly, as if she were the only safe thing in the room.

"Was there any sign of struggle?" he asked. "Torn sheets? The window left open? Blood?"

Polly was about to respond when her mom said, "She hardly took anything. Just a jacket, a pair of shoes, a stuffed animal. Is that all runaways usually take?"

The officer looked away. "Let's not jump to any conclusions."

"She wouldn't just leave," Polly's dad said. "There must be an explanation."

They all shook their heads as if Bree were an angel, as if they'd forgotten who they were dealing with.

"She was trying to vanish into thin air," her mom said. She
was absolutely still for a moment, not even breathing. "Now she has."

Polly's teeth hurt, the way they did when she had a big test and had been grinding them in her sleep. She stepped forward.

"Bree's in the woods," she said.

For a moment, no one said anything. Her mom stared at her as if she couldn't understand a word she was saying. It was Max Wendt who finally broke the silence. "How do you know that?" he asked.

Polly fidgeted beneath his steady gaze. "I saw her last night. She said she was going to the woods and would try to be all right."

Her mother started moaning again while the policeman smiled at Polly the way adults often did, like she was darling and ridiculous.

"Ah," he said.

Her father tugged one of her curls. "Of course she'll be all right," he said. "But you're my wood sprite. You're the one who'd go into the woods, not Bree."

Polly couldn't argue. When Bree had turned sixteen and moved indoors, Polly continued to climb trees and make fairy villages out of twigs and mud. She still searched for the forest plants her grandmother said were edible—salty monkey flower leaves, miner's lettuce, the roots of the purple-flowered
salsify that, remarkably, tasted like oysters from the sea. Polly was the only one who cried when it was announced that beginning this year much of the woods around town would be turned into a thousand-home subdivision called Mountain Winds.

"I know it doesn't sound right," Polly said to the officer. "But that's what Bree said. She's in the woods. All you have to do is look."

Max Wendt was still smiling condescendingly, but at least he said, "I'll send a couple men out there. If she did head into the woods, she couldn't have gotten far."

Polly didn't know if that was an insult or if he was just dumb. Even a girl like Bree could be miles away by now. She could be lost for good.

After the officer excused himself to search Bree's room, Polly's dad said, "It was probably just a dream, honey."

Polly widened her stance. "I saw her."

"I know what you think you saw," her dad replied. "Sometimes dreams can seem real. But—"

"I can find her," Polly said.

"I know every inch of the woods."

She nearly made it to the door before something yanked her back by the hair. Her mom stood above her, her features so distorted she looked like someone Polly would avoid on the street. She twisted Polly's head to the side until Polly
blinked back tears. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of her own mother.

"You can't go anywhere," her mom said. "Just ... stay still. Don't move."

She released her grip slowly, as if Polly might bolt. But Polly's scalp throbbed so much she couldn't take a single step. Her mother had hurt her; she was hardly able to think.

Max Wendt came downstairs satisfied. "No signs of forced entry or foul play, but we'll get a detective out here just the same and send some men into the woods. I'll head down to the high school."

"I'll go with you," Polly's dad said.

Before they reached the front door, the knob turned.

"Bree?" Polly's mom said, flying across the room. The door opened wider, and Faith Greene's face fell at the sight of leather boots, a floor-length brown skirt, green camisole, and gray hair so long and wild it looked like a living thing.

Polly was the only one who smiled when she saw her grandmother. The policeman retreated a step, Polly's dad slipped out the door, and her mom collapsed on the sofa, her head in her hands.

The house filled with the scent of cedar, and Polly took a deep breath. Baba looked at each of them, then put her hands on her hips.

"What'd I miss?" she said.

Found in shaded streambeds and moist areas across North America, the plant has young shoots and bright red, egg-shaped berries that taste like cucumbers and are an excellent trail snack. Also known as "scoot berries"for their laxative effect, the juice of the berries soothes minor burns and rashes.

By the afternoon, it was official: Brianna Greene had disappeared. Laramie, Idaho, was one of the fastest growing cities in the Northwest, a city of newcomers, a city of strangers, and Polly swore they were all in her house. People brought casseroles and fruit baskets and asked what they could do. They might have stayed for dinner if they hadn't noticed her grandmother standing at the kitchen stove, stirring a large pot of something unusually green and pungent. When Baba fixed them with her stare, even the newest residents mumbled a quick goodbye and ran off as if they'd been hexed.

Baba smiled at Polly, her brown medicine bag slung around her neck. every few minutes, she reached in the bag and pulled out a vial of crushed leaves or essential oils and added it to the pot. slowly, the scent of the woods invaded the house, and Polly sat at the kitchen table and felt the knot in her shoulders finally beginning to relax. She was fairly certain that Baba added skullcap and valerian to the mixture, both strong herbal sedatives, but then around Baba, Polly always felt soothed.

"I saw her," Polly said.

Baba adjusted the heat on the stove and sat down. Her face was like one of those alluvial fans Polly had learned about in geography, a masterpiece of wrinkles and ridges. She was tall and slender, with arms still strong from chopping her own firewood and hair that fell to her waist. Polly's mother thought that Baba should have gone to the salon years ago, but then Polly's mom thought that everything about her own mother, from Baba's monthly bonfires to the way she helped women give birth beneath her purple ash tree, was inappropriate.

Polly, however, thought her grandmother was perfect. when Polly was young and had had trouble learning to
speak, she called everything
baba,
from her grandma to her bottle to the trees. By the time the words came, she couldn't call her grandmother anything else. Baba
was
everything—laughter and calmness and the wisdom and abundance of the woods. Baba was the proof that you could be extraordinarily happy even if you were never liked.

"She came into my room last night," Polly went on. "She said she was going into the woods."

"Mm-hmmm."

"She had wings, like a fairy. Red around her middle. I've never seen that before."

Her grandma nodded, as if seeing auras were as normal as seeing stars. "Red's a battle color," Baba said. "Power and survival and often pain. You know what I've always said: when there's a problem, girls, run for the trees."