The Changeling Read online

  But Mrs. Smith didn’t seem to see that it was a joke. “Yes,” she said, “I wouldn’t be surprised. And what is this about not growing up?”

  “Well,” Ivy was grinning wickedly, “we were talking about people who never grew up, and we decided you were one.”

  Mrs. Smith laughed. “So that’s what’s the matter with me. I’ve always wondered.”

  “No really,” Ivy said. “We were talking about people who never turn into ‘Grown-Ups.’” When she said “Grown-Ups,” she stuck out her chest and chin and looked down her nose. “You know. That kind.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Smith said. “I think I know exactly what you mean.”

  When Mrs. Smith had to go home to make lunch, Martha and Ivy started home. On the way, they began working on the spell again. They worked back and forth, suggesting lines and improving on them until they were satisfied. Then they started running, chanting the lines over and over as they ran. The chant went—“Know all the Questions, but not the Answers—Look for the Different, instead of the Same—Never Walk where there’s room for Running—Don’t do anything that can’t be a Game.”

  As they went they chanted louder and louder and ran wilder and wilder, scrambling up rocks and jumping off, jumping up to swing on tree branches and rolling down grassy slopes. When they reached Bent Oaks Grove, they ran, staggering a little from exhaustion, right through the Entry Gates and across the grove to Tower Tree. Two little girls playing house in the cave stopped, frozen with amazement, as Martha and Ivy staggered and chanted across the grove and up the tree as far as Falcon’s Roost.

  In the Roost, they collapsed, laughing and gasping for breath. It took quite a while for the laughing and gasping to die down enough to let them speak. Then they peeked out of the roost and started laughing all over again when they caught sight of the little girls tiptoeing out of the grove carrying their dolls and playhouse stuff.

  “They probably think we just escaped from the insane asylum,” Martha gasped. “Poor things. They probably think we might get violent any minute.” She pulled her hair down over her face and pretended to come at Ivy with claws and fangs. Ivy pretended back for a minute, before they both collapsed again.

  They were both quiet for several minutes before Ivy said, “You see? It really works. I feel a whole lot younger already. Don’t you?”

  17

  THAT VERY NIGHT AFTER spending a whole day, a really great day, with Ivy, Martha made a shocking discovery. What she discovered was hard to see clearly, and it could be looked at from different angles, but mainly it looked a lot like treachery. She began to recognize it as treachery while she was lying in bed very late that night, trying to go to sleep. Instead she kept thinking, and worrying about Monday.

  Monday was the day Ivy would be starting school again in Rosewood Hills, and this time it would be junior high school. The junior high at Rosewood was seventh and eighth grades, and it was on the same grounds as the elementary school, but in a separate wing, and things were different there. There was real P.E. with uniforms and showers, and you had several teachers instead of one, but those weren’t the most important differences. There were other changes that mattered more.

  The other times Ivy was at Rosewood, Martha and Ivy had been together almost every moment of the school day. They had met on the corner of Castle Court and walked together to school. They had spent every recess together, and whenever possible they sat next to each other in class. That was the way things had always been.

  But now there were some other things to consider. There was, for instance, the fact that Martha had been walking to school with other people sometimes lately—sometimes even with Kelly and her gang of friends.

  Kelly went to school every morning in the middle of a procession, or maybe it was a swarm. It was like a swarm in that it swirled around Kelly, who was, of course, the queen bee. Around Kelly were five or six of her girl friends, and around them on the fringes there were boys—usually several boys. The swarm, circling and maneuvering, moved down the steep sidewalks of Rosewood Hills announced and followed by a constant roar of laugher and loud conversation. Stragglers and smaller groups often followed along behind, but you didn’t actually join Kelly’s gang unless you were asked.

  Several times, since the beginning of eighth grade, Kelly had started her morning parade by crossing over to the Abbott’s house—and asking if Martha was ready to leave for school. At the Abbotts’ house Tom usually answered the door, and Martha never was ready. So Kelly would wait sweetly and patiently, talking to Tom, while Martha feverishly combed her hair and gathered her books. Martha wasn’t ready because she had long before made it a habit to wait until the last minute before leaving for school. She had developed the habit for a very particular reason—in order to avoid being passed—and passed up—by Kelly and her gang.

  Being a part of Kelly’s morning procession was something like being a part of a stampede—wildly exciting, but at any moment you might fall and be trampled. Martha had had a taste of the trampling. It had happened when a particular boy was paying too much attention to Martha.

  Kelly had attacked with practiced skill. She twirled around Martha first, attracting everyone’s attention to what she was doing. “Hey, Marty,” she began sweetly. “What are all those bi-i-g books you’re carrying? I’ve never seen so many bi-i-i-g fat books. You must be working too hard.”

  “No, I’m not,” Martha stammered. “Most of these are just library books. This one and this one are just—”

  “Oh, don’t tell me about them, for heaven’s sake. I’m not really that interested. I’m just not the bookworm type, I guess. I’ve got other things to think about.” She dimpled cutely at Linda Nelson and Darlene Sutter. “Haven’t you got other things to think about than big old boring books?”

  Then she had skipped away leaving Martha miserably pretending she hadn’t minded, and that it was all a joke—because she didn’t have courage enough to do anything else.

  But now there was Ivy to think about; and Martha was amazed to find that the way she felt about Ivy seemed to change from moment to moment. Of course, it was wonderful to have Ivy back—the best thing that could possibly happen—but—. Thinking it over, Martha was forced to admit that the “but” was because no one, not even Martha, could imagine Ivy Carson as a part of Kelly Peters’ gang.

  Martha was awake for a long time that night, wondering how her feelings could go in two opposite directions at practically the same time, and just how different Monday was going to be. Finally, though, she realized that she was doing exactly what the spell she and Ivy had made up had said not to do. She was being afraid of differences.

  She started saying the spell over and over to herself very softly, like counting sheep. “Know all the Questions, but not the Answers—Look for the Different instead of the Same—Never Walk where there’s room for Running—Don’t do anything that can’t be a Game.” The next thing she knew it was morning.

  Martha met Ivy, just as she always had, on the corner of Castle Court, and they walked together to school. Ivy was looking the same as always, too. Wisps of curly hair escaping from her thick braid made tangled corkscrews around her face; and, of course, that year hair was supposed to swing straight and slick as straw. Ivy wore no makeup, not even eye makeup, which was being worn by almost every other girl in the eighth grade class. And Ivy’s dress was the worst of all. It was the same smocked and checkered cotton that she had worn the day before.

  Martha had barely had time to say hello when they turned a corner and came upon Kelly’s gang, which had stopped to admire a dune buggy parked in front of the Wilsons’ house. Everyone had heard that Grant Wilson was getting a dune buggy, but hardly anyone had seen it yet.

  Two years before Ivy would probably have yelled hello at Kelly’s gang, not caring who might yell back and who might not. But now she only grinned crookedly at Martha and walked faster, just as Martha was doing. Because they were on the other side of the street, Martha hoped that they might get by withou
t being noticed. But suddenly Kelly said, “Hey, isn’t that Ivy Carson?”

  Kelly’s voice was whispery in tone, but just a fraction under the very top-of-her-lungs in volume. “Hey, that is Ivy Carson,” she said. “I thought they got chased out of the state.”

  As usual Kelly showed a whole lot of technique. Her whisper had been just soft enough to pretend that she hadn’t meant for Ivy to overhear, and just loud enough to be absolutely sure she did.

  Brad Jenkins, a tall pimply boy and one of Kelly’s most adoring admirers, followed her lead. “Hey, Carson,” he yelled. “Where you been? In jail?” Kelly rewarded him with a giggle and he got carried away. “What’s that you’re wearing, Carson? A tablecloth?”

  Ivy stopped walking and stood still; and her face was hard and burning, a Carson face. Martha grabbed Ivy’s arm and tried to pull her on.

  “Come on, Ivy,” she pleaded. “Don’t pay any attention.” But Ivy jerked her arm away and walked slowly across the street. Most of Kelly’s gang stopped to watch her come.

  She went up to Brad Jenkins first, right up until she could have touched him. She looked in his face and kept looking. Brad blinked and swallowed.

  “Hi, Brad Jenkins,” was all Ivy said, but Brad jumped as if something had exploded in his face. Then Ivy turned to Kelly. “Hi Kelly,” she said. “You look different, but I guess you’re just as mean as ever.”

  Surprise seemed to keep Kelly speechless for one second too long, while Ivy turned and started back across the street. Then she almost screamed after Ivy, “Who do you think you are? You crummy jailbird.”

  Even Martha could tell that Kelly’s answer was a mistake. It was too angry, too corny, and too out-and-out honestly mean. Kelly had lost, for a moment, her usual—and much admired—cool. The points went to Ivy, and all the people who mattered most to Kelly had seen it happen. Martha knew that that meant there would be trouble, real trouble. There was no doubt about it. She hadn’t lived next to Kelly Peters all her life for nothing.

  But the trouble was slower in coming than Martha expected. Days passed, and nothing very terrible happened. Kelly made fun of Martha and Ivy, all right, but always from enough distance to make it possible to ignore it; and Ivy seemed willing to ignore it if she had a chance. And of course, Martha was willing—more than willing. Things went quickly back to the old pattern of Martha and Ivy and no one else.

  Martha and Ivy were meeting again at Bent Oaks Grove after school and on weekends. The first few times they did nothing but talk, sitting in Falcon’s Roost or stretched out on the ledge above the cave. Sometimes Josie was with them, and sometimes she wasn’t. Josie was almost six now and in first grade, and Ivy no longer had to take her everywhere she went. But she still loved to come to Bent Oaks Grove, and she still was fun to play with. For a few days Ivy and Martha had a good time giving Josie climbing lessons.

  Ivy, who had grown up in the woods around Harley’s Crossing, said she could have climbed all the way to the Doorway at Josie’s age, and it was too bad that city living had put Josie so far behind. So the lessons started, and in a few days Josie could climb almost all the way to the Lookout. Josie was good at climbing, and she was very happy about all the attention. The only thing she wanted more of was the Tree People Game.

  Josie remembered an amazing amount about the Tree People, considering how young she had been at the time, and she kept begging Martha and Ivy to play it again.

  “Now let’s do about the Tree People,” she kept saying.

  “Okay,” Ivy would say. “We’re going to. We just have to do—this—or that—or something else—first.”

  Martha felt the same way. She would have liked to play the Tree People Game, but somehow she never could quite begin.

  One afternoon when Josie wasn’t there, she decided to bring it out in the open. “Why don’t we play the Tree People Game?” she said to Ivy.

  “We will,” Ivy said quickly. “We’re going to. We just haven’t been in the right mood yet.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Martha said. “We just haven’t been in the right mood.” Ivy was frowning, so Martha smiled at her and started twisting up in the rubber tire swing she was sitting in. She went around and around until the rope was tight and then let go and spun madly. When it stopped, feeling a little giddy and careless, she asked, “How do you think we’re doing—with the spell, I mean? Do you think we’re really getting any younger?”

  Ivy didn’t answer. She was lying in the warm dry grass at the edge of the grove. Martha waited, but Ivy still didn’t answer so she crawled out of the swing and went to sit beside her. “Are you really sure you don’t ever want to grow up?” Martha asked.

  Without raising her head Ivy said, “I’m sure. I’m very sure. Aren’t you?”

  “Well,” Martha said, wishing she could see Ivy’s face before she answered. “I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like it might be fun to be just a little older.”

  “How old?” Ivy asked in a muffled voice.

  “Oh, I don’t know. But it seems as if Cath and Tom are a pretty good age. At least, they seem to be having a lot of fun.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Tom is fifteen, and Cath is almost seventeen.”

  Ivy shook her head, rocking her face on her arm. “That’s way too late,” she said finally.

  Martha sighed, and suddenly Ivy raised her head with a jerk to show her Carson face, hard and angry. “Okay,” she said. “Go ahead and cop out if you want to. Grow up. I don’t care.” She sat up, whirling around so that her back was to Martha. She sat straight and still with her head held stiffly high.

  After a while Martha said, “I do care, Ivy. I don’t want to—cop out. I just wonder—sometimes.”

  Ivy’s shoulders went down a little, and she turned around. She smiled, but it was a strange smile, more frightening than her anger. “Okay,” she said. “I know you were just wondering. It’s just that—well, maybe you can grow up if you want to. I can’t.”

  18

  SEVERAL TIMES MARTHA CAME close to asking Ivy what she meant that day when she said she couldn’t grow up. But she didn’t ask because she kept getting the feeling that the answer would be something she didn’t want to hear. So she only worried, without asking—and she might have worried longer if something important hadn’t happened to take her mind off it.

  What happened began as an announcement that there were to be drama classes at Rosewood Junior High. Rosewood had never had anything more than class plays before, but now there was to be a big musical in the spring with a real drama teacher, borrowed from the high school, in charge. Anyone in junior high could try out, but some of the musicians and technicians were going to be brought in from Roosevelt High.

  The announcement was made at a regular Friday afternoon assembly. The Rosewood principal, Mr. Gregory, introduced a pretty young woman who turned out to be the high school drama teacher, Miss Walters. Then Miss Walters explained all about how people could go about signing up for drama instead of study hall if they were interested, and how the tryouts would be conducted. She was very enthusiastic and amusing, and she talked a lot about what a professional production the musical was going to be. It seemed that nearly all the eighth grade girls were very much interested in dramatics, especially when they heard that high school boys would be helping out with the technical things.

  Martha was one of the few who wasn’t. She was only half-listening, amusing herself by watching the excited bouncing and whispering going on in Kelly’s group a few rows in front of her, when Ivy tapped her arm.

  “Let’s sign up,” Ivy mouthed. Martha was dumbfounded.

  “Us?” Martha whispered. “You and me? What for?”

  “For a part.”

  Because it was so far from being a possibility in Martha’s mind, she answered stupidly, “A part of what?”

  Ivy laughed. “A part in the play, silly.” She saw a teacher looking at them and put her finger in front of her lips. “Shhh. I’ll tell you later.”
/>   She did, but it took a lot of telling before Martha was convinced. It seemed there were many reasons. The first was that Ivy had a strong feeling that Martha would be good at acting.

  “Me?” Martha said. “Me? Why?”

  “Because you’re so good at being other people. Like Queen Oleander, for instance. Remember how great you were at being Queen Oleander?”

  “Yes, but that was different. No one was watching except you and Josie.”

  “It’s not different, not really. You can get used to the rest of it, the audience and everything. But the other part—the really being someone else—you either have or you don’t. Some people are only good at being themselves, and that’s all they’ll ever be good at. They’re just born that way.”

  “Well, I certainly wasn’t born that way,” Martha said. “But I’m not sure I was born the other way either. What’s the other reason?”

  “Well,” Ivy said, “there’s going to be dancing in the play.” And that was all she needed to say about that.

  Another reason was that Ivy suspected Miss Walters might be another secret un-grown-up, like Mrs. Smith. Not that she had any proof, but there was the bouncy way Miss Walters moved around, and the way she got so excited about everything.

  “She does seem nice,” Martha said doubtfully. With so many reasons arrayed against her, it hardly seemed worth arguing, but she agreed with very strong misgivings. Of course, Ivy was usually right about things, even things she had no way of knowing about. And the idea of acting a part on a stage was so unexpectedly intriguing that Martha could almost make herself believe she would be able to do it. That is, she could almost make herself believe it half of the time, and the rest of the time she just worried.

  So Martha and Ivy signed up for the play and started attending drama class, but in the meantime the worries continued to hover like dark clouds in the back of Martha’s mind. She tried to ignore them, but she knew they were there—dark and heavy, and filled with lightning waiting the right time to strike. And Martha couldn’t help feeling that being in the play was, somehow, inviting the lightning—like flying a kite in a thunderstorm.