I watch him reach inside his coat pocket and pull out a piece of white paper folded in squares. My heart pounds as I think of Delaney and the R circle on the window glass.
He already knows. He’s trying to find a way to “let me down easy,” as they say on TV
I take the paper from him, my hands shaking, and unfold it on my lap, smoothing out the creases. But it isn’t Mama’s letter. It’s worse.
I see a picture of a little girl with a Po doll in her arms, below the words MISSING AND ENDANGERED. The words disappear as I stare at the little girl, who still looks like me. Five years old, barely. Top middle teeth missing. Wearing a stripey maroon pullover, hair still pumpkin-seed blond. Easy smile. So easy, I ache at the sight of it.
My voice comes from far, far away.
“Where did you get this?”
I’m breathing fast. I can’t stop; soon, I’m panting like Shorty after chasing tennis balls, and the trees seem to run in circles around me.
“Here, take this. Put it over your mouth and breathe in and out as deeply as you can.”
I take the lunch bag and follow his instructions. In. Out. In. Out. Until the trees slow to a stop and the ground sinks back into place. Ryan reaches out to steady me, but before I can stop myself, I push him away.
“Where did you get this?” I wave the flyer at him, my voice on the verge of hysteria.
“My mom. I was talking about you, and she remembered some old newspaper clippings. She saves newspaper clippings in a scrapbook. The flyer was in there, too.”
“How many people have seen this?”
I flinch as his eyes register surprise, then hurt.
“No one! I wouldn’t do that. Why would I do that? I just thought—”
“What? That it’d be fun to humiliate me?”
“It’s not like that.” Ryan pleads with me. “CC, I didn’t mean—”
“My mother is not a kidnapper! This is Bullshit.”
I don’t know why I’m lying to him. I don’t know why I’m protecting her.
“Forget it. Let’s just—”
Ryan watches helplessly as I scramble to my feet. I’m glad to see him off balance—just like me. I shove the flyer into my knapsack before slinging it over my shoulder. I snatch up my violin case, smacking his knee with it. Reaching out, he places his hand over mine as I clutch the handle tight.
“I’m sorry, CC. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—”
“I don’t want anyone to know about Mama!”
How many other people have seen this flyer? How many people remember? Is that why they stare at us? Because they know? Do they know about the woods, too?
I wrench my hand from his and make my way back to the building, marching through the footprints we’d made on our way out, my heart as cold as my toes, but my anger colder.
This was a mistake, coming here. I’ll never be the same as these girls, no matter how many pairs of bedazzled jeans I own.
Back in the library, I hide in a different carrel, unseen by Ryan as he sags through the library, his face stormy, his eyes devoid of their usual light.
You did that. You hurt one of the only people who bothered to be kind to you.
My chest aches. I don’t know the right words for it, but it aches so hard, I can’t breathe. My innards feel tangled as a net of bluegills. I reckon I’m just so sick of the tangles.
Even though Mrs. Haskell used the word, too, I still don’t want to believe Mama stole me. Mama took me away to protect me—she wasn’t the bad guy; my father was! But then, why do none of the stories add up? Why isn’t he the man Mama made him out to be?
Without realizing I’m doing it, I reach across my left shoulder and rub the burns on my back. Like Mama’s worry beads, I think, and stop.
Can you even hear me out here, Saint Joseph? Is it too loud for you to hear me?
I think of our lives in the Hundred Acre Wood, the days painted yellow (phoebies), rusty crimson (Christopher robins; to Jenessa, all robins are “Christopher robins”), blue (with blue jays, or possibly tears), and the woods themself, a living thing, unfurling in shades of beauty, pain, misery, awe, joy, all swirled together, never running out of new and different combinations.
Mama did what she had to do. She saved us.
Then why the burns? Why the switch?
I ignore the bell when it rings, and I do know the term for what I’m doing—cutting. Cutting class. I blend into the other students in the library, pretending I have independent study hall like everyone else.
Over in the reference section, I find a book on national parks. I leaf through the pages until I find Obed Wild and Scenic River National Park. I study the pictures. The familiar tide of homesickness washes over me.