Where I Belong (3 page)

The whole time I'm working, I feel like somebody is watching me. I stop pounding nails every few minutes and listen. I don't hear anything. I don't see anything. But still the feeling persists. What if Sean Barnes followed me that day after all? What if he and T.J. and Gene are hiding somewhere, waiting to jump me? I expect them to step out from the bushes at any moment, jeering, cussing, making threats.

My hands shake and it's hard to concentrate on nailing down the boards. I tell myself it's my imagination. It's rabbits and squirrels I hear. Nothing more.

Then another thought creeps into my mind. Maybe my hammering has gotten the Green Man's attention. He's watching me from the dense shade and thickets below. Am I a threat to his forest? Will I harm his tree?

I clutch the hammer and stare down into the green world. Leaves stir in little gusts of wind and shadows shift their shapes, hiding whatever lurks in the tangled branches and vines. The Green Man—violent and unpredictable, like nature itself.

I whisper to him, “Green Man, are you there?”

No one answers. The shadows continue to shift and change and dance across the leaves. Something stirs in a thicket and then it's gone and so is the feeling I'm being watched.

I pick up a nail and place it carefully.
Bang bang bang
goes the hammer. It echoes through the trees.
Bang bang bang
. I hate making so much noise, but there is no quiet way to pound a nail into a piece of wood.

By dinnertime, I'm so tired I can hardly walk, my arms ache from using the pulley, and my hands are blistered from the rope. Luckily Mrs. Clancy doesn't notice the blisters, probably because her head is bent over the crossword. She looks up only to eat and to ask me for help. A five-letter word ending with
e
that means “furious.” A four-letter word beginning and ending with
o
that means “grab bag.” I mutter the answers and stagger off to bed. I can't keep my eyes open any longer, and my hands hurt so bad, I think I might cry.

On Sunday I take some of Mrs. Clancy's Motrin and cover my hands with thick white socks. Wincing with almost every movement, I saw and hoist and nail, saw and hoist and nail. Slowly the boards cover the platform, but it's hard work, especially considering how my arms and hands feel.

Only occasionally do I sense that I'm not alone. It can't be Sean. He would have done something by now. Torn down my tree house or yanked me out of the tree by my hair. So it's either my imagination or the Green Man. Or one of those drunks and crooks and perverts Mrs. Clancy talks about.

During the next two weeks, I finish the platform and stretch the tarp over a rough frame. Later I'll build a wooden roof and cover it with the tarpaper I found in the garage, probably left over from one of Mr. Clancy's projects. But for now, the tarp will do. Although it probably won't keep out the rain, I like the patterns of light and shadows on its surface, always moving and changing as the wind blows the leaves.

To make the tree house comfortable, I find a rug and an old broken-down lawn chair left by the curb for the trash men. I store books, drawing pads, and art supplies in a plastic tub with a tight lid. I don't think Mrs. Clancy will miss it. The milk crates from Mr. Clancy's workshop hold bottles of water, cans of soup and vegetables, and a flashlight, a can opener, candles, and matches in a glass jar. Food, water, and a ratty army blanket tucked away in another old plastic tub—I can live in my tree house a long time if I have to.

When everything is done except the roof, I prick my finger and press my blood into the tree's bark. Its sap blends with my blood and makes us one. I lean against the trunk and close my eyes. Peace and silence surround me. At last I've found the place where I belong.

 

A couple of days later, I stay in my tree house way past suppertime. It's bingo night, and Mrs. Clancy won't be home until after ten. I've been carving swords to protect myself from Sean and Gene and T.J. Or anyone else who threatens me. I find branches of the right size and shape, scrape away the bark, and carve a hilt and pointed blade. At first they looked like clumsy sticks, but I'm getting better. Eventually I hope to cut Celtic designs and runes into the wood.

When it's too dark to see what I'm doing, I stow my tools and climb down. Even though I know my way in the daylight, nothing looks the same at night. The trees seem taller and closer together. Boulders hide in shadows. Dampness rises from the mossy ground. Branches snap and break, leaves stir and rustle. I want to run, but I'll make too much noise, so I force myself to walk slowly.

Sure something or someone is following me, I look behind me. My chest tightens. What if it's Sean?

Finally I see a glimmer of light through the trees. Just ahead are the train tracks and the ordinary world of roads and houses and cars and stores and school. I turn my back on the woods, slide downhill, and run across the train tracks. About a mile down the line, I see the headlight of a train coming toward me. When I'm halfway up the hill on the other side, the engine roars by, hauling a long line of boxcars, hoppers, and gondolas, rattling and bouncing, sparks flying from their wheels.

When the train's gone, I look across the tracks at the woods, dark against the sky. Something moves on the edge. For a second, I think I see a man staring at me.

It might be the Green Man. I'm tempted to call out to him, but I'm afraid. What if it's not him? What if it's someone who doesn't want to be seen, one of those men Mrs. Clancy always warns me about?

So I say nothing and head up the hill for home.

At the house, the kitchen light is on. Mrs. Clancy has left a note on the kitchen counter telling me there's a chicken pot pie in the freezer. “Put it in the microwave on high for five minutes,” she wrote, “and don't make a mess. I just cleaned the kitchen.”

I fix myself a peanut butter sandwich without making a mess. All around me the kitchen glitters and gleams. Fluorescent light shines on white cabinets and bounces off white countertops. The stainless-steel appliances are sharp-edged and as cold as ice. Not a fingerprint, not a smudge, not a crumb. No dirty dishes except my own. It's like eating in an operating room.

I clean up and go to bed. I should do my homework, but why start now? The school year's almost over, and who cares if I flunk sixth grade. If I flunk enough times, I'll be so much bigger and older than the other kids that no one will dare to pick on me.

Not that I like elementary school. It's just that middle school will be so much worse.

So I slide under the covers and open
The Hobbit
. I've read the whole series three or four times, but it's still my favorite book. I wonder what I'd do if Gandalf showed up at my front door with a band of dwarves. I'd be like Bilbo, I guess—not really sure if I dared go on an adventure.

Tonight my mind wanders. My window is open and I hear the wind blowing. Rain is coming, traveling on the back of the wind. I can smell it. Tree toads are making a racket in the woods.

I get out of bed and go to the window. I should close it. Mrs. Clancy will be mad if rain blows in (
Look at this mess, water everywhere
). Instead I stand there and let the wind blow in my face.
Come, wind; come, rain
. I open my arms to the night and the wind and the first few drops of rain. Dark clouds scud across the sky. Branches toss.

I wish I were in my tree house, high up, close to the clouds, swaying with the wind. I imagine I hear the ancient oak's limbs creak and groan and scrape against each other. The woods below me are dark, no colors, just black and white. Everything moves and rustles and sighs. The Green Man stalks the shadows. I see him, he sees me. He holds out his hand, and I go with him into the Green Wood.

Headlights sweep across the yard, illuminating Mrs. Clancy's carefully tended shrubs, barbered and shaved until they look artificial, something you'd buy in Walmart. Blinded by the sharp glare, I close the window and jump into bed, glad my light is off.

Her key turns in the back door. She switches on the kitchen light and opens the refrigerator. Time for wine (
One glass is all I have, it's good for the digestion
). She turns off the light (
Don't waste electricity
) and heads for the living room to drink her wine and watch the evening news. So many opinions she has, so many rules, so little love for anything except her house and her yard.

I hide my reading lamp under the covers (
You won't be satisfied until you burn the house down
) and return to Middle-earth. This time my mind stays with the story. I'm still reading when she turns off the TV and goes to her room (
A good night's sleep, that's what you need. Look at the dark circles under your eyes
).

S
CHOOL IS THE SAME
, day after day after long, boring day. Mrs. Funkhauser picks on me about everything. No homework, failing tests, daydreaming, drawing, reading library books in my lap. The trouble I get into is endless.

Mrs. Funkhauser calls Mrs. Clancy and makes arrangements to see us after school (
Why can't you do what you're supposed to do? Are you stupid or just plain lazy? I am so fed up with your behavior
).

While Mrs. Funkhauser recites my failures, I daydream about the woods. It's June—two more weeks of school and I'll be free to spend every day in my tree house. In the meantime I have to survive this day, and the wrath of Mrs. Clancy.

“What do you mean he has to repeat sixth grade?” Mrs. Clancy asks in a voice loud enough to get my attention (
He's even dumber than I thought
).

I don't want to give myself away, so I grin at the floor. No middle school next year—my wish come true. No, not completely true. What I wish is to be through with school and all that goes with it forever, safe in my tree house, deep in the woods, all by myself.

“I recommend summer school,” Mrs. Funkhauser says. “If he passes the tests before school starts in the fall, he can go on to seventh grade with the rest of his class.”

No. My smirk vanishes, wiped clean by the threat of summer school. I won't go. They can't make me. Summer is mine. Mine.

“That's a good idea,” Mrs. Clancy says, suddenly all chummy with Mrs. Funkhauser.

“What do you think, Brendan?” Mrs. Funkhauser's small brown eyes try to get inside my head, but I block them.

I shrug. “I'm not going to summer school.”

“Surely you don't want to repeat sixth grade?”

“Maybe I like sixth grade,” I say.

“I don't know what to do with him,” Mrs. Clancy tells Mrs. Funkhauser. “I'm at my wit's end.”

Wit's end, wit's end
. I roll the words around in my head silently, liking the sound of them. I live at wit's end. It's a place you go when there's nowhere else to go. Mrs. Clancy knows nothing about it. Her wits were lost a long time ago.

“It's very frustrating,” Mrs. Funkhauser says. “He's not stupid, you know. I've seen his test scores. He simply doesn't try. He reads, draws, and daydreams.”

Now they're talking about me like I'm not sitting in the same room with them. Well, in a way I'm not. I'm down in the woods, far away from them, beyond the sound of their voices as tinny as insects talking on a telephone.

“He should be tested for ADD,” Mrs. Funkhauser says.

“ADD?” Mrs. Clancy echoes.

It sounds like a fatal disease. Something exotic transmitted by evil creatures who live deep in the sewer. If I have it, I'll be dead in six months.

“Attention-deficit disorder,” Mrs. Funkhauser says.

Mrs. Clancy sighs. “When I was young, you were sent to the principal if you didn't pay attention. You'd be paddled or kept after school.”

“I can set up an appointment with the school psychologist,” Mrs. Funkhauser says.

“Is there a charge for that?”

“No, of course not.”

“I'll think about it. (
It's too much trouble, lazy brat, he's not worth it, attention-deficit disorder my foot
.) She gets to her feet, frowning. “Thank you for your time. I'll enroll him in summer school. No matter what he says, I'm sure he doesn't want to repeat sixth grade.”

That shows how little she knows me and what I think, but it doesn't matter. I already have a plan for the summer and it doesn't include school.

Mrs. Funkhauser stands up too. “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Clancy. I hope you'll reconsider the testing. I hate to see a smart boy waste his intelligence.”

“He wouldn't be the first person to waste his intelligence,” Mrs. Clancy says. “Kids today have no respect for anything. They don't care about school or making anything of themselves. They're looking for the easy way out. Just look at all the young girls having babies and living on welfare.”

Mrs. Funkhauser looks puzzled. What do girls living on welfare have to do with attention-deficit disorder? Maybe that's how they got pregnant? They weren't paying attention?

Mrs. Clancy walks out of the classroom as if she has something important to do. Go home, have a cup of coffee, and watch TV, that's what she has to do.

 

On the last day of school, Mrs. Funkhauser hands out our report cards. The other kids give each other high-fives. They're going to middle school. Hooray.

Careful to shield it from the prying eyes of the girl behind me, I take a quick look at my report. I've flunked everything except art. As predicted, I'm not going to middle school next fall—unless I do well in summer school. Which I won't, because I don't plan to go.

When the dismissal buzzer sounds, I get up to run, but Mrs. Funkhauser stops me. “Not so fast, Brendan. I want to speak to you.”

“Brenda flunked,” a kid shouts as he dashes out the door. “He's too dumb to leave baby school!”

Mrs. Funkhauser frowns. “Come here, Brendan.”