Where I Belong (6 page)

Again a shake from Mrs. Clancy. Again a shrug from me.

“I'm sorry,” Mrs. Clancy says to Ms. Evans. “I've tried to teach him manners, to be polite, to answer when spoken to . . .”

“It's all right.” Ms. Evans gets to her feet. She's tall and muscular. She must work out at a gym or something.

“I'm late for work.” Mrs. Clancy edges toward the door.

“Thank you for bringing Brendan to school,” Ms. Evans says. “I'll take him to his classroom now.”

For once I'm almost sorry to see Mrs. Clancy leave. I'm trapped. There's no escape from Ms. Evans.

With one hand on my shoulder, the principal leads me down a hall. “Try to cooperate with Mr. Hailey,” she says. “He's a good teacher.”

Ha. I bet he won't think I'm a good student.

She stops at room fourteen and opens the door. A man with a beard looks at us. His shaggy hair is collar length, not as long as mine but not regulation length either.

“This is Brendan Doyle,” Ms. Evans says. “He's been truant the first week, but I'm sure he can make up the work he's missed.”

Mr. Hailey is younger than most teachers. He's wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt and those expensive rubber sandals they sell in L.L. Bean. He looks like a real-lifer pretending not to be. I don't trust him.

After he shows me where to sit, he and Ms. Evans step out into the hall, where I know she's telling him I have a bad attitude and he'll have to keep an eye on me but what can you expect from a foster child?
Take my word for it
, I imagine her saying.
He's headed for trouble
.

I glance around the room. Six kids look back. I don't know any of them. Don't care to know them either—except for the girl sitting in the seat across from me. Long, dark curly hair, narrow face, pointed chin, chipped black nail polish, and a scar just under one eye. A dog bite, maybe. Some people might say it ruins her looks, but to me the scar sets her apart, makes her unique.

But it's more than the scar that interests me. Something's different about her. Nothing obvious, just something that makes me want to know her. Maybe it's her eyes, the palest green I've ever seen. Or the way she looks at me without blinking. Suddenly nervous, I duck my head and fidget with my notebook.

What am I thinking? Why would that girl like me? Nobody else does.

Mr. Hailey returns and says he's sure I'll fit right in and catch up quickly. He smiles. I don't smile back. It's always good to know what the game is before you start playing.

He tells us to open our math books, and my breakfast turns to lead in my stomach. Not my worst subject first. Mr. Hailey starts with a complicated problem, and I slip a sheet of paper out of my notebook and start drawing.

“We have art after lunch,” Mr. Hailey informs me.

A boy in the back of the room snorts. “Didn't Ms. Evans tell you Brendan is an artist and he should be excused from everything else?”

“That's enough, Blake,” Mr. Hailey says. Turning to me, he says, “Put the drawing away and pay attention. You're going to middle school whether you like it or not. Nobody flunks my class.”

Ha
, I think.
Just wait and see. I'll flunk if I want to
.

Mr. Hailey returns to the math problem. When no one except the girl next to me can solve it by the standard method, he shows us a different way. If some kids still don't get it, he says, “Well, look at it this way.” By the end of the hour, even someone as stupid as I am understands how to solve problems that never made sense before. Not that I let on. I sit and stare out the window as if it's still a mystery to me.

The rest of the day goes like that. Different ways of doing things. No sarcasm. Some jokes. Some laughs. I find myself getting interested in what Mr. Hailey has to say about the environment and climate change. I just might survive summer school after all.

After school, the girl with the scar follows me down the street. I'm heading for the woods and I don't want company, so I walk faster. So does she. I hope she'll turn a corner or run up a sidewalk to her house, but block after block, she follows me.

At the end of the road, I stop and look at her. “What do you want? Why are you following me?”

“What makes you think I'm following you?” Her head tips to the side like a sassy bird's. “Maybe I'm going the same place you're going.”

“And where's that?”

She laughs and points across the train tracks. “Over there, I guess.”

I decide not to go to the woods after all, not with her. She might be interesting, but how do I know I can trust her? I scramble down the embankment. She's behind me, slipping and skidding, and finally falling.

I balance on a rail and watch her get up and slide the rest of the way down. Her shoes must be full of cinders and she's scraped an elbow. She joins me on the rail and walks ahead of me, arms spread for balance, wobbling a little but pretty steady on her feet despite her zebra-striped flip-flops. No wonder she fell on the hill.

Suddenly she turns and faces me, squinting against the sun. “How come you're in summer school?”

“I failed sixth grade,” I tell her.

“You don't look stupid.”

“I'm not. I just hate school. It's boring.” I look at her. “Did you flunk too?”

“My old school didn't teach some of the stuff I'm supposed to know for seventh grade, so they put me in summer school to catch up.”

“That stinks.”

She does a little pirouette on the track and teeters precariously. “It's not bad with Mr. Hailey for a teacher. You'll like him. Everybody does.”

“He's a big improvement over my sixth-grade teacher,” I admit. “She was sooooo boring.”

She nods as if she's known a few teachers like that. “By the way,” she says, “I know your name because Mr. Hailey introduced you, but you don't know my name.” She says this like she's Rumplestiltskin or something and I should guess her true name.

I shrug. What do I care what her name is? I wish she'd go away. I'm tired of her. She talks too much. Anyway, the Green Man might be waiting for me.

When I keep walking without asking the question, she says, “I'm Shea Browne. I was born in Guam, but I used to live in Texas and before that in Oklahoma and before that in Arkansas and before that in so many other places I can't even remember them all. My dad's in the army and we get transferred a lot.”

Shea—what kind of name is that? Is it spelled “Shay” like the Deacon's “wonderful one-hoss shay” in the poem? Or some other way? Names are so weird. You never know how to spell them.

Shea does another dance step on the rail and almost falls off. “Do you ever play in the woods?”

“I go there sometimes.” But I don't
play
there, I add silently.

“How big is it? Could you get lost in it?”

“It's a national forest, so yeah, you could get lost. It goes all the way from Tennessee up here to Virginia.”

She squints at the trees. “Magic things might live there.”

I stare at her for a second, surprised. Maybe even scared. I'm not used to other people sharing my thoughts, so I shake my head and lie to her. “No, it's just ordinary. Kind of boring, actually. You know, trees, squirrels, birds. Nothing special.”

“Then why do you go there?”

“I like to be alone.” I stress
alone
. Maybe she'll get the idea I'm not about to be her friend or show her my secret places in the woods.

She frowns. A strand of hair hides one eye and the scar. “I hate to be alone,” she says, so fiercely that I'm surprised. “Where I lived before, I had lots of friends, but people are snobby here. I thought you and me could be friends, but I guess you're just the same as everybody else.”

Some people might feel bad for hurting Shea's feelings, but not me. I just want to get away from her. I'm sure the Green Man's waiting under the tree.

“Listen,” I say, “I have to meet somebody. Why don't you go home?”

Shea's face turns red. “You are the rudest boy I've ever met. I'll never bother you again!”

She turns around and runs off the way we came, her curly hair bouncing. Even from the back she looks mad.

I almost call after her, but instead I dash into the woods and lose myself in the trees as fast as I can.

The Green Man isn't there after all. I climb up to my platform and stretch out on my stomach. For a few seconds, I let myself think about Shea and what she said. Does she really believe magic things live in the woods? I picture her small face and tangled curls, the scar on her cheek. Shea. What if she really wanted to be my friend? What would it be like?

Mrs. Clancy steps into my head and says,
Don't be stupid. Why would that girl like you? She'll dump you as soon as she makes other friends
.

Angry at myself, I open my sketchbook and start to draw a picture of the Green Man, but it's Shea's face that forms on the page. With a quick yank, I tear it out and crumple it into a ball. I have the Green Man. I don't need any other friends.

F
OR THE REST OF THE WEEK
, Shea ignores me. On the playground, she does her best to be part of the group of girls talking and giggling together, but they aren't interested in her, probably because she shoots her hand up every time Mr. Hailey asks a question. I know for a fact that most kids in summer school are there because they hate school. I also know they hate kids who like school even more than they hate school.

I probably hate school more than any of them, but unfortunately they don't like me either. In my case it's because I'm weird.

I spend all the time I can in the woods, but I don't see the Green Man. The weekend comes and goes without him. I worry that I've disappointed him somehow. That I'm not worthy after all.

But like I told Shea, the woods covers a lot of territory. The Green Man could be in North Carolina or maybe even Tennessee. Surely one of these days I'll come upon him napping under my tree. Or meet him unexpectedly by the stream. Or see him peering through the leaves, grinning at me.

One afternoon, I'm suddenly sure he's nearby. I can feel him watching me. I look over the edge of my platform, way down at the ground below. The bushes quiver in one place. No breeze blows, so it has to be him.

“Is that you?” I call softly.

No one answers. The bushes are still.

“Come out,” I call, “I've got peanut butter sandwiches and apples.”

Still no one answers. No one appears. I start to worry. What if it's Sean and his gang? What if they've found me?

“Who's there?” I shout.

The bushes rustle as if someone is trying to sneak away. I glimpse dark hair, a blue T-shirt.

“Shea Browne!” I yell. “I see you!”

Shea steps out of the bushes and into the clearing beneath the tree. She stands there looking up at me. “That's the neatest tree house I've ever seen. Did you build it all by yourself?”

“How did you find me?”

She twists a strand of hair around her finger and grins. “I followed you after school last week. I've been here every day watching you and you never even suspected until now!”

Suddenly I hate her. “You're a nosy sneaky spy,” I yell. “You had no right to follow me.”

She shrugs and keeps on twirling her hair. “You don't own these woods.”

I look at the bucket full of stones I keep on hand in case Sean and his gang come after me. I'm tempted to start throwing them at her, but she's just standing there as helpless as a baby squirrel or something.

“How do you get up there?” she asks, as if everything is settled between us and I'm going to invite her to join me.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes,” she says. “I would like to know.”

“This is my tree house and no one comes up here except me.”

She ignores me and begins circling the tree, probably looking for a ladder or handholds or some clue as to how to join me.

“Can you fly or something?” She sounds half serious.

“Maybe.”

“Liar.”

“Why don't you go home?”

“Why don't you?”

“You're the most irritating person I've ever met,” I say.

She sticks out her tongue and laughs. “Takes one to know one.”

I turn my back to her and concentrate on my unicorn carving. If I ignore her, maybe she'll get bored and leave.

“What are you doing?” she calls.

I don't answer.

“Are you making something?”

I don't answer.

“I saw you drawing in school,” she says. “You're a really a good artist.”

I bend my head over the piece of wood, but I'm so vexed that my hand slips and I cut myself and drop the unicorn. It tumbles down through the branches and lands almost at Shea's feet.

While I suck my thumb to stop the bleeding, I see her pick up the unicorn. “Oh, Brendan,” she says, “this is beautiful.”

I frown at her. If I go down to get it, she'll see how to climb up to my tree house.

“Can I have it?” she asks.

“Of course not. It's mine. I haven't even finished it.”

“After it's done, then can I have it?”

Before I can say no, the Green Man steps out of the bushes behind Shea. He's as ragged and shaggy as ever. “Of course she can have it, Brendan. You've got dozens of unicorns up there.”

Shea stares at the Green Man, wide-eyed with surprise and maybe fright. Clutching my unicorn, she takes a few steps away from him. “Who are you?”

“He's my friend,” I shout. “The Green Man, king of the forest and every creature in it.”

“That's right, my lady.” The Green Man doffs his hat and bows to Shea. “A friend to all who are true to the Green Wood.”

“She's not true to the Green Wood,” I yell. “She's a spy, an interloper, a thief. Make her give me my unicorn.”