Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Prue froze. “What?”

“You were talking to yourself. Just back there.” He pointed in the direction of the bluff as he squinted and put his glasses back on. “I was sort of following you, I guess. I meant to get your attention earlier, but you looked so . . . distracted.”

“I wasn’t,” was all Prue could think to say.

“You were talking to yourself and walking and then stopping and shaking your head and doing all sorts of weird things,” he said. “And why were you standing on the bluff for so long? Just staring into space?”

Prue got serious. She walked her bike over to Curtis and pointed a finger in his face. “Listen to me, Curtis,” she said, commanding her most intimidating tone. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. I don’t need you bothering me right now, okay?”

To her relief, Curtis appeared to be easily intimidated. He threw up his hands and said, “Okay! Okay! I was just curious is all.”

“Well, don’t be,” she said. “Just forget everything you saw, all right?” She started to push her bike away toward home. As she straddled the bike seat and put her feet in the toe clips, she turned to Curtis and said, “I’m not crazy.” And she rode off.

CHAPTER 3

To Cross a Bridge

It was nearing seven o’clock as Prue approached her house, and she could see the light on in the living room and the silhouette of her mother’s head, bowed over her knitting. Her father was nowhere in sight as she crept around the side of the house, moving slowly so as not to disturb the pea gravel of the walk. The soggy blanket in the wagon made a convincing slumbering one-year-old but definitely wouldn’t withstand close inspection, so Prue held her breath in hope that she wouldn’t encounter an inquisitive parent. Her hopes were dashed as she rounded the back corner of the house and saw her dad fumbling with the garbage and recycling bins. The following day was garbage day; it had always been her father’s task to wrestle the bins curbside. Seeing Prue, he wiped hands together and said, “Hey, kiddo!” The porch light spread a hazy glow across the darkened lawn.

“Hi, Dad,” said Prue. Her heart was racing as she slowly walked the bike over to the side of the house and rested it against the wall.

Her dad smiled. “You guys were out late. We were starting to wonder about you. You missed dinner, by the way.”

“We stopped at Proper Eats on the way in,” said Prue, “shared a stir-fry.” She stepped awkwardly sideways so as to stand between her dad and the wagon. She was painfully aware of her every movement as she tried to feign nonchalance. “How was your day, Dad?”

“Oh, fine,” he said. “Fairly hectic.” He paused. “Get it? Craft fair? Fairly hectic?” Prue let out a loud, high-pitched laugh. She immediately second-guessed the reaction; usually she groaned at her father’s terrible puns. Her father seemed to notice the inconsistency as well. He cocked an eyebrow and asked, “How’s Mac?”

“He’s great!” Prue sputtered, maybe too quickly. “He’s sleeping!”

“Really? That’s early for him.”

“Um, we had a really . . . active day. He ran around a lot. Seemed pretty tuckered out, and so after we had food I just wrapped him up in his blanket and he fell asleep.” She smiled and gestured at the wagon behind her. “Just like that.”

“Hmm,” said her father. “Well, get him inside and into his jammies. He might be down for the count.” He sighed, looked back at the recycling bins, and began dragging them along the side of the house toward the street.

Prue let out a breath of relief. Turning around, she carefully scooped the wet blanket out of the wagon and walked into the house, boun

cing and shushing the bundle as she went.

The back door let into the kitchen, and Prue walked as softly as she could across the cork flooring. She had almost made it to the stairs when her mother called from the living room, “Prue? Is that you?”

Prue stopped and pressed the wet blanket against her chest. “Yes, Mother?”

“You guys missed dinner. How’s Mac?”

“Good. He’s sleeping. We ate on the way home.”

“Sleeping?” she asked, and Prue could imagine her bespectacled face turning to look at the clock on the mantel. “Oh. I guess get him—”

“In jammies,” Prue finished for her. “I’m on it.”

She tore upstairs, skipping every other step, and rushed into her room, dumping the soaked blanket in her dirty clothes hamper. She then walked out into the hall and headed into Mac’s room. She grabbed one of his stuffed animals—an owl—and placed it in his crib, carefully shrouding the toy with blankets. Satisfied that the lump, at a glance, would suggest a sleeping baby, she nodded to herself and turned off the light, then headed back into her room. She closed the door and threw herself onto her bed, burying her head in her pillows. Her heart was still beating wildly and it took several moments to get her breath under control. The rain made a quiet rattle against the glass of her window. Prue lifted her head from the bed and looked around her room. Downstairs, she could hear her father shutting the outside door behind him and walking into the living room. The shushed murmur of her parents’ voices followed, and Prue rolled out of her bed and set about preparing for tomorrow’s adventure.

Pulling her messenger bag from beneath her desk, she upended it and dumped everything out onto the floor: her science book, a spiral notebook, and a clutch of ballpoint pens. She grabbed the flashlight she kept under her bed and took the Swiss Army knife her dad had bought her for her twelfth birthday from her desk drawer and stuck them in the bottom of the bag. She stood for a moment in the middle of her room and chewed on a fingernail. What did one pack for a trip into an impassable wilderness to retrieve one’s brother? She would get food from the pantry in the morning. For now, all she needed to do was wait. She thumped back down on her bed, pulled The Sibley Guide to Birds from inside her peacoat, and flipped through the pages, trying to clear her mind of the frantic thoughts that were racing through her head.

After an hour or so, she heard her parents walk up the stairs, and her heart started pounding again. There was a knock at her door.

“Mm-hmm?” she said, again feigning nonchalance. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to keep this act up, all this nonchalance-feigning. It was exhausting work.