We Are Us

Chapter 1 Sackett, Co

Fall, Eighth Grade

I slip into the woods u

The ground underfoot is still springy, covered by a thin layer of maple and oak leaves that doesn’t yet crunch beneath my feet like it will in a few weeks. As I make my way deeper into the woodlands, erratic streaks of sunshine dart through the shuddering canopy overhead like bolts of lightning, breaking up the dense shadows.

It’s been two months since I moved to Sackett, Co

I’ve spent hours wandering these woods, studying the trees and plants and especially the birds, when I can get a good look at them. The wide sprawl of maples, their bark dripping with untapped sap, perfumes the air with a sweet musk. White oaks, as broad and tall and straight as soldiers, tower over their shorter, more eccentric looking cousins, the red and chestnut oaks. And beneath the broad, rounded crowns of the yellow birch tree’s drooping branches, determined roots climb over rotting stumps and logs, making the trunk appear as if it is standing on legs.

There is life in this forest. A peaceful energy that soaks deeper into my skin every afternoon, as if this is a place where good things happen.

They’re not happening anywhere else, that’s for sure.

My younger sister, Sadie, doesn’t ever come with me. I’ve asked her a few times, but she’s content to pass her afternoons lost in the pages of books. That’s her safe place, I guess. And my mother… well, she just seems lost. Once I hear the clink of a wine bottle on the edge of her chipped coffee mug, I know she won’t notice I’ve gone.

I’m admiring a particularly stubborn sweet pepperbush, pale pink petals still clinging to its stems, when the harsh crack of a snapping twig has me spi

But it’s not an animal that’s come up behind me.

It’s a boy. A boy I’ve never seen before, although he looks about my age. He’s dressed like I am, in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. But if mine are secondhand, his are third or fourth. His hair is unruly, a motley mix of blond and bronze and copper that springs from his scalp in all directions. Even so, it doesn’t quite cover the bruise on his cheek.

But it’s his eyes I find most interesting of all. They are a vivid blue, surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes that look like they’ve been painted by an artist’s hand, each one long and perfectly curved. The expression in them is wary, guarded.

Curiosity unspools inside of me, like a roll of twine I’ve lost hold of. I lick my lips, hoping they will form words. Any words.

I’m not naturally outgoing, which is unfortunate when you start a new school in eighth grade. My life would be a hell of a lot easier if I could go up to other kids and just start talking.

The court-mandated therapists I’ve been dragged to over the years have all said different versions of the same thing. Imagine the girl you want to be, and then be her.

As if life is a performance, and I can choose the role I’ll play.

So far, I haven’t managed to work up the nerve to audition. Which is probably why I’m in the woods right now, silently staring at a boy who looks every bit as uncertain and suspicious as I am.

I could turn away. Give a half-hearted wave and dart down a trail until I’m alone again, with only the trees and wildlife for company. But for some strange, fluttery, completely inexplicable reason—I don’t want to do that. The desire to reach out, to impress him, to know him, is as undeniable as the scent of fertile soil, musky sap, and crisp autumn air filling my lungs with each breath.

Finally, I force myself to speak. “There’s a raspberry bush a little further down this trail. It’s where I’m going, if you want to come with me.” Pivoting on my heel, my heart races, and my head fills with self-recrimination. What makes you think he’ll want to be your friend?

A stream murmurs nearby but it’s my own breath and the rapid whoosh of my pulse that sounds loudest inside my ears.

A fallen tree, it’s decomposing bark spongy and damp, acts as a bridge over a shallow ravine. I’m halfway across it, my arms outstretched for balance, when I feel the vibration of footfalls behind me.

The surge of relief, of excitement, nearly makes me fall into the water. The few times I’ve gathered up the nerve to ask a classmate or someone on the school bus if they wanted to play, I’d been blown off.

I quicken my steps, jumping onto solid ground, and after a few minutes, we come to a small clearing marked by an outcropping of enormous rocks and a single bush. Yesterday, it was a raspberry bush. Today, the leaves are picked clean, barren of any fruit. “There were berries,” I say, feeling stupid for not knowing someone, or some animal, would have gotten to them.

He shrugs, one hand pushing his hair out of his face. “I don’t like raspberries, anyway.”

Embarrassment gives way to confusion. “Then why did you come with me?”

Another shrug. “Nothing better to do.”

His matter-of-fact delivery shouldn’t hurt my feelings—I don’t even know him—but it does.

At my wince, he shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at a cluster of fallen acorns on the ground. “Hey, that’s not— That’s not what I meant.”

Ducking my head to hide the redness creeping up my cheeks, I scramble toward the largest rock in the clearing and duck behind it, pulling out the metal shovel I’ve hidden beneath a layer of dirt and leaves. I can feel the boy’s eyes on my shoulder blades as I dig, his scrutiny penetrating the thin fabric of my shirt. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer until metal strikes metal, then I set the shovel aside and wipe off the remaining dirt covering a box I hid here a few weeks ago. I lift the lid and pull out a deck of cards. “Sometimes I play Solitaire…”

But maybe today I won’t have to.

I dare a glance at his face as he peers at the cards. I can’t tell if he’s interested—but he doesn’t look uninterested, either. “Do you know how to play Gin Rummy?”

“No,” he answers, a frown tugging at a corner of his lips, an edge to his voice that I immediately want to soothe.

By necessity, I am sensitive to the moods of others. My mother can go from happy and engaged to violent and enraged in the blink of an eye, depending on whether she is drunk or high or both. I learned tricks to pacify, or at least distract her, at an early age. And I developed a sixth sense for whether the people she hung out with—the dealers and addicts she considered her friends—would treat Sadie and I like pets, welcomed with a smile and a pat on the head, or like pests, quick with a slap and a shove.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shuffle the cards and say, “That’s okay, I can teach you.”