Swing Sideways Read online

  I folded the report and leaned against the bathroom wall. It was all like what Mom kept in my treasure box at home, but so very different. Piper’d had ponies. She bought them feed at a real feed store. She loved her father, was arrested for a misdemeanor, and people had sent them cards like they had to us when Grandmother Stockton passed away. Who had died?

  SEVENTEEN

  Shortly before noon the hum of rain on the roof stopped. I looked outside, hoping for a rainbow or some other sign that everything would be okay when I told California about the ruined papers. Not a hint of color, not even the promise of sunshine in the still-gray sky. I shoved the satchel under my bed and left without it. When I got to the river, California was already there, sitting cross-legged under the shelter with Field’s chin on her knee. He thumped his tail when I scooted in beside her—two little thumps that made me feel like part of something much bigger than anything that came before.

  “He seems better.”

  “Yeah,” she mumbled.

  “You okay?” She wiggled her hand. So-so. “Did you come back to check on him last night?”

  “Middle of the night. It was pouring rain. I’m lucky Grandfather didn’t catch me. He was in the kitchen when I got back, making his special tea.”

  “Because of his cancer?”

  “I guess.” Vague circles hung below her eyes.

  “You look really tired.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Did you get to Skype with Piper?”

  “Why all the personal questions? Can’t you just take care of his leg?”

  She acted like she already knew I’d ruined the papers. I ignored the sour feeling in my gut and took out the supplies. Her mood jangled my nerves so much, I jabbed Field with the scissors by mistake. She didn’t even notice.

  “You should go home and sleep,” I said.

  “It’s a headache, that’s all.” She fumbled around with a lump under her T-shirt. “Look who I brought.”

  Lacy poked her frightful head out, then jumped onto California’s knee. Field opened one eye, and Lacy bobbled innocently toward his jaws. I put my hand between them.

  “He could swallow her with one gulp if he wanted.”

  “He won’t. Watch.”

  She was right. Field sniffed Lacy, thumped his tail, and never flinched when the ugly chick pecked at the fur on his face.

  California was so out of sorts she didn’t even ask me about the satchel, and I certainly didn’t bring it up. We didn’t go searching for the ponies, either. Instead, we sat by the river and watched Field and Lacy make friends. After a while, we trucked slowly back through the woods. At the bottom of the hill, California stopped short in front of me.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Mr. McMurtry was watching us. “Catherine,” he bellowed.

  “I’m coming,” she yelled. “He thought I was sick and was going to stay in bed all day.”

  Mr. McMurtry met us halfway down the hill. “Catherine isn’t feeling well today, Annabel. Perhaps the two of you could see each other another time.” He looped an arm around her waist. California pulled away.

  “It’s Annie, Grandfather. Please. Why do you keep calling her Annabel?”

  “Annie, then,” he said.

  When we got to the kitchen door, California motioned toward the woods with her head. “Tonight?”

  Mr. McMurtry scowled. “You girls don’t need to do anything tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

  But I knew what she meant. She wanted me to take care of Field, to sneak out of my house, traipse down the road in the dark, make my way through the orchard, and potentially get lost in the woods to give Field his food and medicine. I thought of the ruined papers and dipped my head very slightly.

  Yes, I would go. Somehow I’d figure it out and would go.

  The most rebellious thing I’d ever done before this summer was to fake sick so I didn’t have to dance in a ballet recital. I reasoned it was a favor to Mom and Dad, so they didn’t have to sit through the humiliation of watching other girls float and twirl on their toes, while I clomped around on flat feet with the jerky motions of a marionette. Faking sick was simple—a little belly holding, a few tears, the illusion of pure misery, and pulling the covers over my head. Sneaking out was an entirely different plane of deception. This required serious planning.

  Outside my window the evening sun eased its way across a cloudless sky. There would be no rain tonight to stifle the sound of my escape. I picked at the hairs on the back of my neck and watched the cedar tree waving its branches back and forth.

  Come, Annie, they whispered. Come.

  Long branches brushed against the side of the house—scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. That noise used to scare me when I was little. Mom always carried on about cutting down the cedar, but Dad refused. It was part of the house when he was growing up, and, except that it had been planted a little too close, it did no harm.

  I scrambled across my bed and rolled the window open. The flat peak of the gable was exactly the right width for my knees. I wouldn’t have to risk making the floorboards on the stairs creak if I went out this way. Were cedar branches sturdy enough to hold me? Could I make it? Was I crazy? Did I have the courage to try?

  Before we’d left for the lake, Dr. Clementi and I had talked a lot about my fear of going into eighth grade in the fall.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “All those kids. The crowds.”

  “What about them?”

  I hated when he made me come up with my own answers. Wasn’t he supposed to tell me how to fix what was broken?

  “They’ll look at me like I’m a freak.”

  “Annabel, all eighth graders feel like freaks. It’s required.”

  “They don’t all have panic attacks, and they know I did. They saw me. What if it happens again in front of them?”

  Dr. Clementi had rested his elbows on his knees. “Now we’re getting somewhere. This I can understand.”

  A lesson loomed.

  “Who is someone you admire, someone from history?”

  I’d slumped in my seat, not in the mood for that.

  “Okay,” he’d said. “Since you love to read so much, how about a fictional character you admire?”

  That made more sense. I’d sat straight up and announced, “Scout Finch, from To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  Dr. Clementi had made a temple with his fingers. “Good choice, Annabel. Little Scout Finch. What about her?”

  “She faced all those people coming after her father because she knew he was doing the right thing.”

  “What else?”

  “She got over being afraid of Boo Radley.”

  “Why was she afraid of Boo Radley?”

  “Because he was different, and scary.”

  “Exactly. And what do you think helped her do these brave things?”

  When I didn’t answer, he’d pointed to a framed calligraphy on the wall and read out loud. “Courage is the resistance of fear, the mastery of fear, not the absence of fear.”

  “I don’t have as much courage as Scout.”

  “Well, guess what? It only takes a few seconds of courage to start something that seems impossible. Then you’re in.”

  Two or three seconds of courage. That’s all it would take. Then I’d be in.

  EIGHTEEN

  At dinner I yawned really big, really obvious. Dad covered his mouth.

  “Stop. Yawning is contagious.”

  “Sorry.” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m really tired.”

  Mom cut her asparagus into one-inch slivers and dipped each feathery end into hollandaise sauce. “Maybe it’s a good night for all of us to go to bed early.”

  I smiled inside and propped my chin on my fist for effect. Yes! Everyone into bed early so I can sneak out.

  “Elbow,” Mom said.

  “May I be excused?”

  “You haven’t eaten anything.”

  Her tone left no room for argument. I jabbed my fork in
to the asparagus, poked it through a piece of lamb, dunked it in some gravy, put the whole thing in my mouth, and chewed. Then I ate a piece of roast potato and another bite of lamb, which almost got stuck going down.

  “Is that enough? I’m going to bed.”

  Dad glanced at the clock. “It’s only seven thirty.”

  “I know. I’m going to do some of my summer reading.” I pushed back my chair. “The books they assigned are boring. I’ll probably be asleep in half an hour.”

  “What books are boring?” Dad asked.

  “Well, not boring. I’ve already read them. Jane Austen.”

  “Jane Austen—impressive for an eighth-grade list.”

  Mom sat a little taller. “Not for Annabel.”

  “Not for Annie, either,” I said. “Good night.”

  “Night, Pumpkin. Happy reading.”

  “Good night,” Mom said. “Give Mr. Darcy my best.”

  At eight o’clock the phone rang. At eight fifteen Mom poked her head in my doorway and said they were going to the Maxwells’ for dessert.

  Great. Super-duper. They were going to eat pie, which meant I’d have to wait before sneaking out. They never, ever left me alone at night without checking on me when they got back. But Field would be hungry. He needed medicine, and they were going to eat pie. The last time they went to the Maxwells’ for dessert, they stayed past midnight. I worried about what would happen to Field if I had to wait that long to give him his medicine.

  The numbers on my clock rolled over every sixty seconds. I watched for an entire hour, hoping to hear the sound of the Volvo putzing up the driveway. The waiting only made me more restless. If I left now while they were out, I wouldn’t have to climb down the tree.

  “Okay, Scout, bring on some of that courage.”

  Working quickly, I shoved three rolled-up towels, end to end, under my covers and laid a stuffed bear near the pillow, then stepped back to see if it would fool anyone. It wasn’t good enough. I arranged Sense and Sensibility on the covers to look like I’d fallen asleep reading. Still not enough. I laid my Story Notebook open on the table with a pen on top, grabbed my backpack, and headed for the door.

  Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch.

  With one foot inside my room, the other out in the hallway, I stopped and looked back at the windows over my bed, at the cedar tree right outside, its dark branches within easy reach.

  If you’re gonna be a little wild and a lot brave, you might as well go all the way.

  I closed the door, rolled the window open, pushed the screen out, and crawled onto the gable, edging along on hands and knees, keeping my attention focused on the linear trunk hidden behind softly swaying boughs of green.

  Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch.

  The branches thick enough to hold me were only an arm’s length away from the end of the gable. One grab, one leap, one step. Two seconds of courage, and I was in. A flash of fear rushed through me, and I swayed.

  Don’t look down.

  This was crazy. I balanced myself and tried to swallow. After a moment of surprising calm, a surge of adrenaline pushed through me, and I was a panther, moving from the gable to the limb to the center of that tree all in one breath. The limb bent under my weight. I braced my feet on two unevenly spaced branches. The tree rocked. The backpack slipped off one shoulder. I was going to throw up.

  Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.

  Then, of course, there they were. Mom and Dad and the blue Volvo, inching their way up the steep driveway and parking. Right. Below. The. Tree.

  Crap.

  I could hear the lurch of Dad pulling the emergency brake. One door opened. The other door opened. One door closed, then the other. They were standing right underneath me. The tree rocked, and I gripped tighter. Then Mom, with her relentless need for order, whined, “I wish you would agree to get rid of that cedar. It’s a wonder Annabel gets any afternoon sun. Look how it’s stuffed so close to the house.”

  No. Don’t look at it. Go inside.

  “It gives the house character,” Dad said.

  “It’s so unsightly.”

  The unsightly cedar seesawed side to side. I hugged it so tight my fingers numbed. I almost let go and dropped right in front of them. My brain refused to function properly.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  The front door opened and closed. A light inside turned on.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  I knew their routine. They would check the deck door, turn on the light over the stove, and in three minutes they would be upstairs—the longest three minutes of my life. The cedar fronds poked me in the face. I shifted, and prickly bark scratched my arms and cheek. Bits of it fell into my T-shirt. My feet cramped, my fingers ached, but none of that mattered because when I looked back through my window, a wedge of light from the hallway shone into my bedroom. The outline of Mom’s head was just inside the door. She was looking right where the fake-me rose from my bed like a lump.

  One beat. Two beats. Three beats. Four beats. Five beats.

  The door closed. The wedge disappeared.

  My arms shook so badly they wouldn’t hold me in that tree much longer. I found the next branch with my right foot, felt around with my left, branch by branch, limb by limb, breath by breath. I got almost to the bottom and—

  Snap!

  Crack!

  Thud!

  “Ah!”

  My left side hit the ground right next to the broken branch. Everything shifted. My head spun. Something warm dripped down the side of my face—blood, from right under my hairline. My flashlight and the packet of lamb I’d stolen to feed Field had rolled out of the backpack and lay next to me in the mulch. My left hip was on fire. It took more than mere courage to pick myself up without screaming. But I did, and I picked up the backpack, and the flashlight, and the lamb, and hobbled off in the dark. Anyone who might have seen me lurching down the road in the dark could have wondered if the Hunchback of Notre Dame had come to town.

  NINETEEN

  By the time I got out of bed the next morning, Mom and Dad were already gone. I grabbed the satchel and a bagel and headed off for California’s. She was waiting for me by the river. My hip felt like elephants had paraded across it all night. I limped the last few steps and lowered myself gingerly to the ground, hoping she’d notice and be in awe of my bravery.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She didn’t notice anything except the satchel in my lap. Her eyes widened, and she pointed a shaky finger at me. “Why do you have that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her voice was gritty. “Why. Do. You. Have. That?” Emphasis on Have.

  “I took it home, remember?”

  “No, I do not remember. You were supposed to put it back.”

  “What?” She was making me extremely nervous. “You told me to take it home.”

  “I didn’t tell you to take it home. I told you to put it away. All this time Grandfather could have checked and found out we’d—” She snatched it from me. You’d have thought I’d handed her a ticking bomb the way she held it away from her body, staring, her eyes bulging. “It’s wet!”

  “I’m so sorry. When I got home, I forgot we were going to see Twelfth Night in Glens Falls. I hid it under the deck so Mom and Dad wouldn’t see, then we went to the theater and out for dinner, and when I got home, I was so tired I fell right asleep. There was that thunderstorm. I had to go out in the rain in the middle of the night and get it, but it was already wet. I’m—”

  Blood drained from her face. “This happened because you went to the theater with your parents? Are you kidding me? Is everything ruined?” She was seething, on the verge of full-blown hysteria.

  “Not everything, some things are okay, but—”

  She pulled out a manila envelope. Of course, it had to be one with a stain on the outside where ink had bled through. The envelope shook in her hands.

  “I can’t believe this.”


  “I’m so sorry. Everything was all mixed up. I forgot Mom and Dad had those tickets, and they were suspicious—”

  Before I could finish, she jumped up and stomped her foot in the dirt like a spoiled kid, yellow hair springing in tiny ringlets above her forehead. “Shut up. Just shut up, Annie! I don’t care why you forgot. I don’t care about Twelfth-anything! You shouldn’t have forgotten! I can’t believe this!”

  I barely had time to blink before she stormed off. She never came back. I waited, but an hour later walked out of the woods alone, feeling like the biggest failure on Earth.

  In the light of the next morning, California’s reaction seemed a bit melodramatic. I’d made a mistake, and yes, some of the papers got ruined. But it was a mistake. A miscommunication. I was trying to help her, trying to do what I thought she wanted. She made me feel like I’d ruined the papers on purpose, like no matter what, I wasn’t going to get it right. A quiet day apart could do us both some good.

  Mom had gone off on one of her mysterious day trips to the city, and Dad was playing tennis. I had the whole house to myself. Maybe after a minibreak we could go back to the way things were before. Maybe she’d been right that day when she’d said we should stick to the original plan. If searching for other clues led to this, it could be a sign to leave it alone.

  Around lunchtime, Dad came home and changed my mind about a day of solitude. I was sitting up in bed, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in one hand, a pen in the other, with the Story Notebook open on my lap, when he poked his head in the doorway.

  “Hey, Pumpkin, it’s a beautiful day outside. Mom’s gone until dinner. Come sail with me. We’ll have a Dad-and-Daughter Day.”