Harmony (22 page)

I can hardly believe that it was only this morning that I was at Weirs Beach with her. And I don't mean that just as an expression. I literally don't understand how it's possible that this is still the same day, and it's still the Fourth of July, and that this morning I woke up in our regular old family cabin with my parents in the next room, and I had no idea that any of this crazy stuff was about to happen.

After everyone's eaten, Scott sends the Guest Campers back to their cottages for some “quiet time” and tells the rest of us to stay where we are. Of course “the rest of us” is a smaller group than ever before: just our family, and Scott, and Tom, Janelle, and Hayden.

After all the visitors are gone, Scott stands up and clangs a glass to get everyone's attention. “So,” he says. “Happy Independence Day.” It's almost funny, because he looks so serious and grim. But nobody laughs.

“I think, by now, everybody's heard the news. You're all aware that Candy's biological father came to Camp Harmony today and kidnapped her.”

That still doesn't really sound right to me. I don't understand how someone can be kidnapped by her own father, and anyway, it wasn't some violent hostage situation ransom scene, like in a movie.

“According to our witnesses,” Scott says, sending a look in the direction of our table, “it's possible that she left willingly. But it's important for us all to remember that Candy is a child, that she was with an adult she thought she could trust, and that she almost certainly did not understand the repercussions that would follow from this act. I want to be the first to say this: Candy's loyalty is not in question here.”

I've only sort of been half-listening, but this makes me sit up and look around. I don't get why he's talking about loyalty. It just seems like a weird thing to say.

“I'm afraid I can't say the same for the rest of the Gough family. Diane came to me this afternoon and told me that the police are
investigating the case, but that they've made it clear that parental abduction cases are tricky. And Diane believes that it's in the family's best interests to leave the camp, if they're serious about getting Candy back.”

“I don't understand,” says Tom. “Why?”

Scott sighs. “For a number of reasons. One is that the New Hampshire police don't have jurisdiction, because the Goughs haven't lived here long enough to establish residency. And the other is that . . .” He pauses. His face is tight. “Apparently, Candy's father is saying that Camp Harmony isn't a healthy environment for her. And that Rick and Diane brought her here without his permission.”

“How is it not a healthy environment?” asks Janelle. “That's . . . like our whole thing, to provide a healthy environment.”

“I think I know,” says Tilly, half-raising her hand as she speaks. “On the way to the beach, Candy's dad called Scott a nutcase.”

“Yes, Tilly,” says Scott. “Thank you for clarifying.” He smiles, without it really looking like a smile. “Now since the Goughs' departure has left us especially shorthanded, I'd appreciate it if you could all pitch in and help with the after-dinner cleanup.”

And because he heard us laughing about our signs earlier, Tilly and I are the ones who have to stay the longest and do the most work.

When we get back to the cabin, we both go to our bedroom. I flop down on my bed. It's still light out on the Fourth of July, and I have to spend the rest of the night in a tiny, hot room. What I'd like is just to have some quiet, so I can sit and not think, but that's not going to happen with Tilly in the room. She's pacing around and talking to me and to herself and sometimes singing. After a while, I notice that she's eating something.

“What's in your mouth?” I ask her.

She grins. “Check it out,” she says, and pulls a bunch of stuff out of the pocket of her shorts: little Halloween-sized packs of Smarties and Laffy Taffy, a purple plastic ring, a mini green Slinky. Stuff
from the arcade. Somewhere between the fried dough and the parental arrival, she must have turned in a bunch of Skee-ball tickets.

“Cool,” I say. “Can I have one of those?” I point to the roll of Smarties. I don't say the name out loud, in case anyone can hear us.

“Of course!” she says. “You can have the whole thing.”

“Thanks,” I say. Sometimes I really love my sister.

We hang out on my bed and eat the rest of the candy, and play with the Slinky, which is too small to really do anything interesting.

When I go to the bathroom a little later, I blow my nose in a piece of toilet paper and then smush up the candy wrappers inside it. When I throw it in the trash can, it looks pretty normal. I don't really think any of the adults are going to be looking through every single snotty tissue.

Tilly's asleep by the time I get back to the room, but it takes me a while to get comfortable. And then, just as I'm about to fall asleep, I hear something that sounds soft and far away, a little string of pops, one after the other. Fireworks, maybe at Weirs Beach. I listen to the familiar rhythm of it, the waiting quiet in between each burst and crack, and I wonder about the colors, whether it might be possible to tell from the sounds which ones are blue and which ones are red or white.

As I fall asleep, I'm thinking that fireworks are shaped like Koosh balls, with all those stringy lines shooting out. I'm thinking about little sparks dripping down the sky like liquid, and smoke left behind when it's all over. What a weird thing, I think, that this is how we celebrate our nation's birthday: to go sit outside in the dark and watch things explode in the sky. And how weird that our parents thought our lives would be better if we moved to a place where we can't see it happen at all.

In the land of Washington, DC, under the reign of Bo the Obama dog and Butterstick the baby panda, houses were made of bricks, and the best kind of family was the kind that contained a mother, a father, and two little girls. In one such house, in one such family, the daughters were named Tilly and Iris. And they were happy.

The world was full of mysteries. There were parks for dogs and classes for babies. The Washington Monument changed colors partway up and had red lights in the top that looked like eyes. Parents would yell out “
Exorcist
steps!” without explanation whenever they drove past a particular gas station in Georgetown. There was a TV show about a store that sold cupcakes, but no one ever went there because the lines were too long, because there was a TV show about it.

Parents were indecisive but powerful. Children were the most important people in the world. In those days, babies were rocked to sleep by mothers who murmured songs by Green Day and Oasis. The life of each child, the very fact of his or her existence, was celebrated yearly with baked goods and gifts. Sometimes a special sticker would be affixed to his or her clothing.

Goody bag technology was at an all-time high.

There were many things that didn't make sense. Children were supposed to tell the truth, unless the truth was that the man on the bus was fat or that fathers were loved a little bit more than mothers. Grown-ups contradicted themselves frequently.

There were secret meetings held by subversive societies that met underneath the dining room table. They planned missions called Operation Wide Awake and Operation Midnight Feast. There was a popular belief that sometimes mothers could see out of the backs of their heads. There was a rumor that fathers sometimes had psychic powers.

Christmas began the day after Thanksgiving with a mysterious and ominous event known as Black Friday and continued until early January, when fathers would drag dead fir trees outside to the curb, leaving behind a trail of needles that felt like shards of glass when they poked your feet through your socks.

It was a land of giants. There were presidents as tall as three grown men. There was a place you could go to have your picture taken, sitting in Albert Einstein's lap.

In all this land, in all this wonder, there was only one thing that anyone could possibly say was a problem. And that was that once you left, it was impossible to find your way back.

Four days after the Fourth of July, when it's time for the new Guest Campers to arrive, there's only one family that shows up. I hear my mom talking about it with Janelle; apparently, there were two other families scheduled to come, but they both canceled at the last minute. They each had different excuses—one family said their kid was sick and the other said that the dad's aunt had died or something—but Scott's wondering if maybe it's not really a coincidence, especially since it happened so soon after the thing with Candy.

The family that does come are called the Finchers. When they arrive on Sunday, we're all there, waiting for them on the lawn, like always. The car pulls up, and we all go over to say hi and offer to help with their luggage, but they don't get out of the car right away. The mom's looking at something on her cell phone, and when Scott goes over to open her door, she puts up a “one minute” finger to him.

He smiles politely and waits, making faces at the kids in the backseat—looks like a boy and a girl, maybe seven and nine—until she's done. Then he helps her out of the car and holds out his hand like he's waiting for her to give him something.

“Phone-free zone,” he says pleasantly. “I'll take that.”

She looks annoyed and starts to say something, but then her husband says, “Hon,” in this warning voice, and she closes her mouth. She takes a minute to close whatever app she was using and turn the power off. Then she smiles tightly and hands the phone, which has this ugly green case with rhinestone shamrocks on it, over to Scott.

“Here you go,” she says. “I guess we're not in Kansas anymore.” She looks around at the other grown-ups nearby, but none of them seems to want to be part of her joke.

Tilly, though, is totally oblivious to the fact that a joke has even been made. “That's okay,” she says to the mom. “You'll like it here better, anyway.”

 • • • 

Right away, everything seems kind of strange and lopsided. We're used to having a more even mix of Core Family and Guest Campers, and a lot of the activities are for bigger groups. So now it's like we're all just hovering around this little group of people, focusing all our attention on them. And the mom really isn't very nice. Her name is Frances, but she wants all the kids to call her Ms. Frances. I guess it isn't that weird, but it's not the way we do things here. Which Scott tells her, but she won't budge, so finally he says that he wants her to be comfortable, and since we have a more “intimate” group this week, we can let some of the rules slide. It isn't until I'm thinking about it afterward that I realize: this is the first time I've ever seen anyone have an argument with Scott and win.

 • • • 

It's not a very good week. Tilly and I are still on extra-chore duty, and the signs we have to wear around our necks don't seem particularly funny anymore. Plus, until the Goughs left, it hadn't really occurred to me that any of us
could
just leave. Now that my brain knows it's a possibility, I seem to be thinking about it all the time.

On Wednesday, we're on our way to the dining hall for lunch, when the Fincher boy, Sam, comes running up and says, “There's something wrong with Henny Penny!”

He goes running back toward the chicken yard, with me and Scott and a bunch of other people following. When we get there, I can see that Henny Penny's just lying on the ground, not moving. And I don't want to start crying, in front of all these people, but if Henny Penny's dead, I just don't know if I can handle it. Tilly already looks like she's about to cry, and so does Sam Fincher, which is weird, because he's only known her for like three days, so what does he have to be upset about?

We all gather around in a circle while Scott moves toward her and gently picks her up. I don't know what we're waiting for, because it's not like he's a veterinarian. Or a magician. But he holds the chicken in his hands, warming and stroking her feathers. He's whispering something I can't quite hear; I think he might just be saying, “You're okay.” We're all quiet; even Hayden stops whimpering when his dad picks him up. And then Scott closes his eyes, and his lips are moving, like he's praying or saying some kind of wizard spell. For a second, he pulls Henny Penny close to his chest and then, all of a sudden, he raises his arms and tosses her into the air. I gasp, and I hear a couple of other people making little noises, too, because what is he doing? Is he just throwing her on the ground? But he's not. I don't know if he knows this is what's going to happen, or if he's just hoping, but as soon as Henny Penny's body moves away from Scott's hands, her eyes open and she makes a surprised little clucking noise. For a minute, she's still falling, and I'm worried that she's going to get hurt again when she hits the dirt, but just before her feet touch down, she starts to flap her wings. And she's flying.

Scott's grinning like crazy, and it's such a relief to see him happy, and to know that Henny Penny's okay. A few people start laughing, and I hear someone ask, “How'd he do that?”

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn around, and it's my mom.
She folds me up in a hug, and then Tilly comes over and throws herself against us, and somehow, instead of falling over, we end up in a group hug. After a minute, my dad comes over and says, “Here are all my favorite girls,” in that dorky dad way.

Eventually, people start to go back to whatever they were doing before the Henny Penny scare. My family is the last bunch of people to keep standing there in the chicken yard.

“Hey, you know what this reminds me of?” says Tilly. “
Danny, the Champion of the World
, by Roald Dahl. You know that part where Danny and his father want to poach some pheasants, so they grind up sleeping pills and put them into raisins? And then the pheasants eat them and fall out of the trees because they're so sleepy.”

There's a pause, and then my mom asks, “You think Scott drugged a chicken?”

My dad starts laughing and shaking his head. “I wouldn't put it past him,” he says.

My mom hits him lightly on the arm and says, “Shh. Don't say things like that.”

“Why?” asks my dad in a stage whisper. “You think his spies are listening?”

“Maybe the chickens will tell him,” says Tilly, in her usual way-louder-than-a-whisper voice.

 • • • 

On Thursday, I'm sitting next to Scott at lunch and I ask him, “So are we still playing Werewolf tomorrow? It'll be just me and Tilly and the Fincher kids.”

Scott smiles. “I don't see why not,” he says. “No minimum player requirements for Werewolf. It's a different game every time, right?”

“Right,” I say. For some reason that makes me think about what happened the week that Lincoln was here, when I told Scott about
the penis thing and he accused me of lying. I still feel kind of weird about that. But I guess there isn't really anything to say.

I notice that Scott isn't eating; he's just picking at something on the table next to his plate. I look at it and see that it's one of these stickers that the Fincher girl likes to plaster all over everything.

“Does that remind you of Jesse?” I ask, before I have time to wonder if it's a good idea.

But Scott just looks at me blankly, like he doesn't know what I'm talking about.

“Jesse?” he asks.

“Your brother,” I say. “The one who died.”

Scott wrinkles his forehead and smiles at me. He's looking at me like I'm some kind of puzzle. “I don't know who you're thinking of, kiddo,” he says, “but it's not me.” He shakes his head. “I don't have a brother. I never did.”