Girlwood

  Girlwood

  Claire Dean

  * * *

  Illustrated by Aya Kato

  * * *

  Houghton Mifflin Company

  Boston 2008

  * * *

  Text copyright © 2008 by Claire Dean

  Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Aya Kato

  Definitions of herbal plants derived from Gregory L. Tilford, Edible and Medicinal Plants

  of the West (Missoula, Montana: Mountain Press, 1997)

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce

  selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South,

  New York, New York 10003.

  www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

  The text of this book is set in Centaur MT.

  The illustrations are pen and ink.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  Dean, Claire.

  Girlwood / By Claire Dean.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When Polly Greene's older sister Bree runs away from home, Polly and her

  eccentric grandmother believe she is hiding in the neighboring Idaho woods, and when

  they discover a mysterious, hidden grove of larches, Polly and her friends build a shelter

  for Bree and try to save the grove from developers.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-618-88390-5

  [1. Conservation of natural resources—Fiction. 2. Runaways—Fiction. 3.

  Grandmothers—Fiction. 4. Nature—Fiction. 5. Idaho—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D3438Gi 2008

  [Fic]—dc22

  2007034265

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  MP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  For my beautiful

  daughter,

  without whom

  this book would

  not exist

  1 DANDELION

  (Taraxacum officinale)

  Named after the sharp teeth of a lion, the dandelion is the most aggressively hated weed in North America. A salad vegetable in Europe, the plant has young greens that are delicious raw, and it is a great source of vitamins and minerals. For a thousand years, the dandelion has been known as a medicinal cure-all, used to treat everything from liver ailments to warts to anemia.

  The first and last kiss Polly received from her sister was as contrary as Bree herself. Lightweight but intense, a kiss that was supposed to impart some deep meaning but offer zero affection, a kiss that was retracted nearly before it began. It was past midnight, and Polly was not only too tired to open her eyes, she was so sick of her stoned, skeletal, sixteen-year-old sister that she didn't even acknowledge Bree was there.

  It was just like Bree to ruin Polly's favorite hour, the only time she had left to swim with mermaids or imagine herself flying without Bree asking her if she was having some kind of fit. Polly kept her eyes shut tight and pictured a magical woodland creature instead of her sister, the flutter of a fairy's kiss instead of Bree's.

  She stuck to this vision, even when the fairy didn't smell like cedar or honeysuckle but like an unwashed teenager and marijuana smoke. The kiss was even more far-fetched than fairies, if you asked Polly. It had been months since Bree had entered Polly's room except to steal cash. In fact, Polly couldn't remember the last time her sister had said anything to her aside from "Shut up" or "Freak" or, when Polly had caught her snorting up a line of white powder, "If you tell Mom, I'll kill you."

  ***

  Not too long ago, things had been different. Bree had been the pretty, pampered, delicate one, the blond-haired, blueeyed doll, and Polly her younger, tougher, dirtier accomplice. The four-year age difference hadn't seemed so important then, since they both liked to draw and dance and, mostly, play in the woods behind their house. Beneath the solemn pines and flashy cottonwoods, Bree crowned herself princess of the green kingdom and made Polly her woodland fairy— the one who must constantly be on guard to save her sister from dragons, trolls, and other assorted dangers. Polly never minded. She was strong, and Bree was beautiful. They each had their place.

  But then Bree turned sixteen, and declared such games pathetic. The new Evil Bree stopped talking to Polly entirely and hid like a mole in her dark bedroom, coming out only when their mom confronted her with the pills she'd found in her coat pocket or when Aaron Sykes showed up.

  Bree braved daylight for her boyfriend, maybe because Aaron Sykes brought a cloud with him everywhere he went. He wore all black and had a halo of darkness around his head that stretched even farther, a bleakness that gave Polly the creeps. He mumbled and smelled funny, and Polly's parents said they didn't trust him, which instantly made Bree love him more.

  As soon as she started dating him, Bree began to dress like Aaron, hold her cigarette between her thumb and forefinger the way he did, sample his favorite drugs. It took no time at all to complete her transformation from girl to Aaron's shadow, as if love wasn't measured in goodness and devotion but in how much you'd give up for a person, how far you'd sink.

  ***

  At least the bottom came quickly. Three months after they started going out, Aaron dumped Bree for another girlshadow, and Bree came home in tears. Trembling, inconsolable, Bree became the princess in need of saving again, except that now Polly couldn't help her anymore, and she didn't want to. They might have been sisters, but Bree had made it clear they were going it alone.

  Polly's mother said, "Thank God," but in truth after the breakup things only got worse. Bree may have lost the boyfriend but she kept his bad habits. She still wore black, ditched school, took even riskier drugs, like she was really proving her love now, disintegrating over someone who didn't even want her. Evil Bree was still pretty as a doll, but the horrorfilm kind—an inanimate object that comes to life for the sole purpose of destroying everything.

  Now the mattress hardly budged as Bree sat on the bed. After Aaron, she had started losing weight. Down, down, down, like Alice through the rabbit hole, until she was a hundred pounds, starting to grow fur like an animal fighting to keep warm, and suddenly popular. Her phone rang day and night; even thugs like Brad Meyer called to ask her out. Now that Bree was bent on destroying herself, she was apparently a girl worth getting to know.

  ***

  "Polly?"

  Polly peeked out through half-closed lids when the fairy began to cry. Bree clasped a handful of dandelion stems, their puffy white seeds long gone now that fall had come on. Maybe she'd listened to their grandmother after all and knew that instead of banishing dandelions from the lawn, you could eat the delicious young leaves or cure almost anything with the milky juice in the root.

  Polly said nothing. There were no words left except cruel ones, and Polly had said all of those.

  "Polly?" the fairy said once more. "You know when you love someone, you think they'll never hurt you? It's not true, Polly. When Aaron left me, I wished I'd died."

  Polly squeezed her eyes shut again. She wished she could shut her ears, too. She didn't want to hear this. Didn't Bree get that? It was like Bree kept dragging her onto a roller coaster she wasn't tall enough to ride.

  Think of fairies, Polly thought. Imagine the one on the bed flying away.

  And that was exactly what happened. Polly felt a brush of wind, a stiff, damaged wing against her cheek, and then ... nothing.

  "I'm leaving," the fairy said from across the room. "Don't tell Mom until you have to, all right? I'll be somewhere in the woods. Our woods. I've got to try to be all right."

  It was a dream for sure. The northern Idaho woods were a vast forest, and Bree was miles from all right.

  Polly opened her eyes in time to see the fairy skimming across the hardwood floor, stirring up the gauzy curtains with h
er wings. She walked to the door, dandelions in hand, a red glow swirling around her middle. Aaron Sykes wasn't the first person with a halo Polly had spotted. All her life she'd seen the light and colors around living things. When people laughed, spikes of yellow, orange, and blue shot up from their heads. Dogs looped their shadows around the people they loved. Even roses had an aura—every winter, they were covered with spectral blossoms right where the flowers would bloom in spring.

  She had thought everyone saw these things until the day, a year ago, when she confided in Bree. Her sister had looked at the empty space above Polly's head and called her visions psycho stuff. "They'll lock you up for saying things like that," she said.

  Now the red glow around the fairy looked like blood, like damage that couldn't be undone. Bree's jeans were so loose they had to be tied around her fragile hips with a double-looped belt. She paused at the door.

  "I love you, Polly," she said, and because it was such a farfetched dream to begin with, Polly didn't scoff or point out all the things that Bree had ruined.

  "Love you too, Bree," she said. "Bye."

  2 JUNIPER

  (Juniperus)

  Growing abundantly in the wild, many Juniper species have also been domesticated. Juniper berries can be ground for use in sauces, crushed like peppercorns, and are the primary ingredient in gin. Medicinally, the berries aid digestion and relieve stomach ailments, while the smoke has been used for purification and to improve clairvoyance.

  In the morning when her alarm rang to wake her for school, Polly was groggy. She knew she'd dreamed again, but all she could remember were mermaids and fairies, images Bree would say were further evidence of a disturbed mind. Since her father had moved out three months ago, Polly had had trouble sleeping. Her dad once told her that he'd tuck her in until she was eighteen, and there was no way she could stop him. But maybe divorce was the loophole, the way out of promises he'd never planned to keep.

  Obviously, he hadn't planned to finish his story, either—the one he'd told to her every night for seven years, ever since she was five and swore that there were fairies in the woods behind their house.

  "The woods were still in danger," he'd said the last time he tucked her in. He was such a big man—his head skimming low ceilings, his body thick and solid as a tree trunk—her entire mattress slanted when he sat and she rolled right into him.

  "Whole groves of trees were dying of some mysterious disease," he continued. "And so was Gwendolyn, the woodland fairy. If she couldn't find her way to the heart of the wild woods, to Fairyland, she would die."

  Polly gripped the blanket. "She had to go to the Dark Lands, didn't she?" she whispered.

  Her father nodded grimly. "Yes. The only place she hadn't searched. The place she had assumed could never hold Fairyland because it was so dark, so awful."

  The next day, her dad had packed his things and moved to a rustic cabin in the woods, and the story Polly had thought was never-ending ended there. She could think of a dozen solutions to Gwendolyn's problems, but she wanted her dad to tell her which one was the truth.

  Now Polly trudged into the hall where Bree's door, with its NO TRESPASSING sign and handwritten That means you, Polly, was closed. She finally remembered last night's dream, but it seemed even more ludicrous in the light of day. Her mother would call it her "wild imagination," which was basically mom-speak for freak. Not that Polly wasn't used to people thinking her weird. Even in elementary school, the kids had spotted the dirt she tracked in from the woods and the way she looked above their heads when they laughed. By twelve, she was loser material.

  Downstairs, Polly's mother stared out the kitchen window even though a hedge of cobweb-covered junipers blocked half the view. Polly's grandmother used juniper berries to ease stomachaches, while Polly's mom grew the plant because it required no care.

  Her mom didn't hear her cross the room to the refrigerator. Faith Greene wore a tattered pink bathrobe that used to reach her ankles but now skimmed the floor. She'd gotten shorter since Polly's dad moved out—or she'd been standing taller before the divorce, Polly wasn't sure which. All Polly knew was that as Bree fell apart, her mom stitched everything else tighter together. She took on more responsibilities at work, headed up the neighborhood watch, repainted the kitchen cabinets white. She had ignored Polly's dad's unhappiness, even after he quit his successful law practice. When he took up woodcarving, she dusted around him and pressed her lips into a tight, restrained line. She was silent as the eye of a hurricane while she ransacked Bree's room, vacuumed up wood shavings, and told her friends not to worry, that her daughter was fine and her husband was just taking a little break.

  It was almost a relief when the yelling started.

  Polly's mom's hair—the frizzy brown catastrophe Polly had inherited—looked like a bird's nest, like something from outside. Polly had gotten a mixture of her parents' eyes, sort of hazel, sort of brown. Wishy-washy. With her straight blond hair and vibrant blue eyes, Bree didn't look like any of them. This used to make Bree cry, but lately it was the only thing that pleased her.

  Polly opened the freezer, and her mother jumped at the noise. "For Pete's sake, Polly," she said, whirling around and holding a hand to her chest. "You could clear your throat or something."

  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!"

  3 MALLOW

  (Malva neglecta)

  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 a
ll 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.