"You don't understand. My mother gave it to me." Lissa's eyes filled with tears. "She died when I was only five. I can hardly remember her, but when I holdTedward, it's almost like she's with me again."
I touched her arm, full of sympathy for her and for Georgie as well. "Please, Lissa. Georgie will take good care of your bear."
Lissa folded her arms across her chest and frowned at the woods. I looked at her, wishing I knew what to say or do. Making friends was harder than I remembered. Or maybe I was just out of practice.
"Where's Georgie now?" Lissa asked suddenly.
I shrugged. "He's probably fishing at the pond or holed up in a tree somewhere. Maybe he's catching frogs in the marsh. He often disappears all day."
Lissa looked at me curiously. "You seem to know a lot about the farm. Do you live near here?"
"Yes." I folded my hands in my lap and watched a red leaf spin past my feet. It made a tiny scuttling sound on the terrace. I wished Lissa would stop asking questions. It was tiring.
"In those houses across the highway?"
"Yes." The red leaf settled down in the corner with the other leaves. Two more followed it. Scuttle, scuttle across the terrace, like tiny footsteps.
"Do your parents know you come here after dark?"
I shook my head. "We sneak out."
"You're pretty good at sneaking," Lissa said. "Out of your house. Into my house." She was mad again, I could tell by her voice and the sharp look she gave me.
"I promise I won't borrow anything else," I said. "Unless I ask first."
"How about Georgie?"
"I'll make him promise, too."
"You'd better."
"I'm sorry, honest I am," I told her. "But we've always taken stuff from the caretakers. They were lazy, mean old men, not like you and your father. You're the first girl who's ever come here. Please, Lissa, don't be mad. I haven't had a friend for a long, long time."
Lissa hesitated. "I want my bear," she said in a low voice, close to tears again. "Bring him back and we can be friends."
Before I could answer, we were interrupted by a series of whoops and hollers from the woods. Georgie dashed up the hill toward us, his face and body painted with red and yellow mud from the creek. Crow and hawk feathers jutted from his hair. He wore nothing but a ragged loincloth.
"Go home," he shouted at Lissa, "and don't come near my sister again—or you'll be sorry!"
Lissa gasped and dropped MacDuff's leash. The dog raced across the lawn toward Georgie.
I ran after MacDuff, screaming at Lissa. "Call him off, call him off! That's my brother!"
"MacDuff!" Lissa cried. "MacDuff!"
The dog had already caught Georgie and knocked him down. He stood over him, snarling. While Georgie lay on the ground and hollered, I grabbed MacDuff's leash and tried to pull him away. In a second, Lissa was beside me, yelling at the dog, tugging at his collar.
At last, MacDuff allowed Lissa to haul him away from Georgie. I knelt beside my brother. "Are you all right?"
He sat up, looking more savage than ever. "You liar, I knew you'd sneak off and see her!"
Lissa stared at him, struggling to restrain MacDuff. The dog kept barking. The racket echoed from the house and the woods, setting off a flock of crows.
"Stop it, MacDuff!" Lissa shouted, adding to the din. "Be quiet! Sit!"
Georgie scrambled to his feet. "Shut up and go away!" he yelled at Lissa. "And make that stupid dog be quiet. She's bound to hear the noise he's making!"
"Who?" Lissa looked at Georgie. "Who will hear?"
I grabbed my brother and shook him. "Don't say another word!"
He pulled loose. "I can say whatever I want. Thanks to you, the rules are busted. Nothing matters now."
Lissa turned to me. "What's he talking about?"
I stood between Lissa and Georgie, unsure whose side to take. I was furious with my brother for messing things up just when I was getting to know Lissa, but there he stood, ready to cry, though Lissa wouldn't have guessed it from his fierce expression. Georgie had good reason to be angry. As he'd said, I was a liar. I'd broken promises. I'd broken rules. All because I wanted a friend.
Just as I was about to take Georgie's hand and run, Lissa said, "Here comes my father."
Horrified, I spun around and watched as Mr. Morrison strode toward us. It was one thing for Lissa to know about Georgie and me. She was just a kid like us. But Mr. Morrison was an adult. He was bound to ask even more questions than Lissa. And he'd be harder to fool.
"What's going on?" Mr. Morrison asked, obviously puzzled by Georgie's and my presence. "Who are these children?"
"Diana's my friend and that's her brother, Georgie," Lissa said. "MacDuff tried to bite Georgie. He had him down on the ground. I could hardly pull him off." Lissa started crying. "I was so scared."
Mr. Morrison grabbed the dog's collar and told him to sit and be quiet. MacDuff obeyed, but he watched my brother closely. He'd probably never seen a boy quite like Georgie.
Keeping a grip on MacDuff, Mr. Morrison asked my brother if he was all right. "Did MacDuff bite you? Or hurt you?"
Georgie's thin chest rose and fell sharply with every quick and angry breath. Ignoring Mr. Morrison, he scowled at me. "You've really done it now, Diana!"
Before I could say a word to stop him, Georgie turned and ran. His skinny legs streaked through the weeds. The feathers in his hair bobbed. He didn't look back, not even when I called his name. In a few seconds, he vanished into the woods. A crow cawed, and then all was still.
I longed to run after my brother, but I stood where I was, too shocked to move. After all these years, I'd let a caretaker catch me. I couldn't believe it. Georgie was right. I'd really done it now.
Mr. Morrison stared at the vines and leaves still swaying from Georgie's plunge into the trees. "I wish he'd let me take a look at him. Are you sure the dog didn't bite him?"
"I'm positive," Lissa answered for me. "He knocked him down, that's all."
"He's okay," I added. "MacDuff just scared him."
Mr. Morrison glanced at MacDuff, who was now lying calmly at his feet. "That's not like you, old boy."
"Maybe it was the feathers in Georgie's hair," Lissa said, "and the war paint. He jumped out of the bushes screaming and yelling. I guess he was trying to frighten us."
Mr. Morrison shook his head. "I've never seen a getup like that. He looked like a genuine savage."
Lissa nodded. "I was scared to death of him."
Her father turned to me. "Well, I'm glad to see you don't wear feathers in your hair, too." He smiled to show he was teasing, but I didn't trust him. He'd start asking questions any minute now.
Sure enough, his very next words were, "Do you and Georgie live nearby?"
I shrugged and stared at my bare feet, cleaner than they'd been in years, almost unrecognizable. I seemed to have lost my voice as well as the ability to move.
Lissa reached out and took my hand. "Doesn't Diana have the most beautiful hair you ever saw?"
"Why, yes," he said. "With that long braid, you could be a princess in a fairy tale—Rapunzel perhaps."
"Come home with us." Lissa held my hand tighter. "We'll have something cold to drink. Soda, iced tea, lemonade—whatever you want."
Like a creature with no will of my own, I allowed Lissa to lead me back to the trailer. What was done was done. I might as well enjoy having a friend as long as possible.
Chapter 8
Mr. Morrison seated us at the picnic table and went inside to fix lemonade. I told him I wasn't thirsty, but he set a frosty glass down in front of me anyway.
"Where do you live, Diana?" he asked again in a friendly way.
"Oh, not very far." I stirred the lemonade with a straw. The ice cubes bumped against each other.
"In that group of houses across the highway from the farm gates?"
I glanced at Lissa and nodded. The ice cubes were miniature icebergs, the kind that sink ships in the Arctic Ocean. Clinkety, clinkety,
clunk.
"Lissa's bike was stolen the night we moved in," Mr. Morrison went on. "A brand-new blue mountain bike, too expensive to replace, unfortunately. The police thought teenagers from your neighborhood might have taken it. Apparently theft is a problem on the farm."
"I don't know anything about that, sir." I made a special effort to remember my manners, but I didn't dare look at Lissa. What if she told her father who stole the bike?
"Georgie and I only play here in the daytime," I went on lying, praying Lissa would say nothing. "I know it's private property, but we love the woods."
Mr. Morrison shrugged. "As long as you don't go into the old house, it's fine with me."
Keeping my head down, I ran my finger over the initials Georgie had carved into the tabletop. "I'm not allowed to go in there," I said, telling the truth at last.
"That's good." Mr. Morrison paused to light his pipe. "It's not safe. The floors are in bad shape, and the cellar's full of snakes. Copperheads, someone told me."
"And it's haunted," Lissa put in. "The old lady who used to own it died in the house. I'd love to see her ghost. Wouldn't you?"
Mr. Morrison laughed, but I didn't see anything funny about Lissa's question. If Miss Lilian chose to show herself, I doubted my new friend would enjoy the experience.
"Don't look so solemn, Diana," Mr. Morrison said. "Trust me, there's no ghost in that house. Snakes and spiders and mice. Squirrels. Bats. But no ghost—I guarantee it."
Lissa leaned toward her father. "One of those policemen thought—"
Mr. Morrison shook his head in exasperation. "Oh, for goodness sake, Lissa, only ignorant people believe in ghosts."
Lissa gave him a look I remembered giving my father from time to time. "You don't know everything, Dad."
If I'd dared, I'd have agreed with her. Mr. Morrison definitely didn't know everything. But neither did Lissa.
Mr. Morrison smiled and fidgeted with his pipe, which must be one reason people smoke—it gives them something to do while they think of what to say next.
Changing the subject completely, he turned his attention to me. "Why aren't you and your brother in school today?"
The question took me by surprise. For a moment, I was speechless. "We don't go—" I started to say, and then checked myself. "We're homeschooled. We finished early today."
"Just like me," Lissa said with a smile, not realizing that she herself had given me the idea. Before I'd heard her and Mr. Morrison talking about her lessons, I'd never known of such a thing.
Well, that launched a slew of questions from Mr. Morrison that I could answer only in the vaguest way. But he didn't seem to suspect anything. He smiled and puffed on his pipe, blowing a smoke ring or two to entertain us. We ended up talking about books we loved—Oliver Twist and Treasure Island, Great Expectations and Kidnapped, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Call of the Wild, The Jungle Books, and, of course, Lassie Come-Home. I was the only one, however, who'd read Clematis, so I promised to lend it to Lissa—who'd never even heard of it.
"It must be an old book," Mr. Morrison said. "Probably out of print."
"Yes," I said. "It was written a long time ago, but it's a good story."
At last, Mr. Morrison went inside to work on his own book—a mystery, he said, which he hadn't quite solved.
Lissa and I remained at the picnic table, but MacDuff climbed the steps and pawed at the screen door. Mr. Morrison let him in. A few moments later, the computer keys began their soft clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
Lissa looked at me. "You haven't drunk your lemonade."
I pushed the glass away. "I told you I wasn't thirsty. In fact, I don't even like lemonade."
"You should have told Dad. He would've brought you a soda instead."
"I'm really not thirsty," I repeated. I knew I should say something more, but what? I'd forgotten how to put words together in a clever way, to be funny, to be interesting. Worse yet, I had so many secrets. What if I said something that gave me away?
Fortunately Lissa was very talkative. In fact, the less I talked, the more she said. She told me about all the places she'd lived before coming to the old Willis place. Clearwater, Florida, had been her favorite—she'd swum every day and walked on the beach and collected seashells and pretty stones almost as clear as glass.
"Why do you move so much?" I asked her.
Her face suddenly serious, Lissa fidgeted with a splinter of wood jutting up from the table. "After Mom died," she said slowly, "Dad quit his job and sold our house. He takes part-time jobs so he can write. We stay in a place just long enough for me to get used to it, and then he's off again."
Lissa sighed and rested her chin in her hands. "I wish we could live in a nice little house somewhere. I'd love to go to school like other kids. Make friends. Live a normal, ordinary life."
"Me, too." I spoke with more feeling than I'd meant to—or should have.
Lissa raised her head and looked at me sharply. "Why do you say that? You're not stuck on the farm like me. Even if you're homeschooled, you must have friends in your neighborhood."
Instead of answering, I ran my finger around the initials I'd carved long ago on the picnic table. "D.A.E."—Diana Alice Eldridge, right next to Georgie's initials. Being stuck on the farm—my brother and I knew a lot more about that than Lissa did.
"I'm not allowed to be seen with other kids," I told Lissa, rather pleased with the way I'd worded my answer. "I'm breaking the rules just sitting here with you."
Lissa stared at me, clearly shocked. "Your parents don't let you have friends?"
I lowered my head and went back to tracing my initials on the tabletop. Lissa must have thought I was very strange. A girl whose parents didn't allow her to have friends—how peculiar, how bizarre, how weird.
Before I had time to think of an explanation, Lissa leaned toward me, her face solemn. "Do you belong to one of those weird religions? A cult? Is that why you can't associate with other kids? Or go to public school? Or wear ordinary clothes?"
Even though I wasn't sure what she meant, I nodded. Let her think what she liked about my parents—and their weird religion. As long as it stopped her from asking questions, I didn't care.
"I bet they don't let you watch TV or go to the movies." Lissa leaned across the table, smiling sympathetically. "They probably don't allow you to wear jeans, either. Or drink sugary stuff like lemonade."
"The rules are very strict," I said. "You and I will have to be secret friends—"
Lissa grabbed my hands and squeezed them tight. "Secret friends forever," she whispered solemnly. "Your parents will never see me, never know about me. I promise."
I let my hands stay in hers till she let them go. It was like being with Jane again, holding hands and sharing things. I wished I could tell Lissa everything about me. But I didn't dare begin. How could I explain things I didn't understand?
For a while neither of us spoke. That was nice, too, the quiet between us, disturbed only by birds singing. Overhead, the autumn breeze tugged more leaves from the trees and sent them spiraling slowly down around us, yellow and red, as quick as little fish gathering in pools.
After a while, Lissa smiled at me, cheerful again. "What's your favorite color?"
"Blue, green, red—I don't know. I love them all."
"Mine's purple." She grinned. "How about your favorite food?"
"Mint chocolate chip ice cream." No hesitation this time. My mouth watered at the memory of double-dip cones on hot summer afternoons, sticky and cold and sweet.
"Mine's pizza with double cheese and meatballs." Lissa asked a few more questions. Favorite book—Lassie Come-Home for both of us. Favorite candy—Hershey's chocolate almond bars for both of us. Favorite baseball team—the Baltimore Orioles for her and the New York Yankees for me.
Lissa paused to think. "Who's your favorite actor?"
Easy, I thought. "Roy Rogers. Georgie and I have seen just about every movie he's ever made."
Lissa stared at me as if I wer
e crazy. "Roy Rogers isn't a movie star. It's a fast-food place."
"Roy Rogers is so a movie star," I said, puzzled by her ignorance. What kid didn't love Roy Rogers? How could she confuse him with a fast-food place—whatever that was.
"His wife is Dale Evans," I went on. "She's in his movies, too. He rides a horse named Trigger, a beautiful golden palomino. This funny old guy, Gabby Hayes, is his sidekick. Sometimes he sings cowboy songs. Surely you've seen his movies...."
I stopped, embarrassed by the expression on Lissa's face. "Don't you like Westerns?"
She made a face and shook her head. "They have too much shooting in them. Dad loves Clint Eastwood, though. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Hang 'Em High, A Fistful of Dollars. He watches them over and over again. But Clint Eastwood doesn't sing cowboy songs."
It was my turn to stare at Lissa. Who was Clint Eastwood? And just how many years had gone by since Georgie and I had watched Roy Rogers gallop across the desert, chasing cattle rustlers or claim jumpers? More years than I wanted to think about, certainly more than Lissa would believe. Georgie was right. I never should have gotten the two of us into this situation. What had I been thinking?
I looked toward the woods uneasily. It was late afternoon now, and the air had the chilly edge of fall. Georgie was probably hiding somewhere, too mad to go home. I hated for him to be away after dark. The shed was lonely at night.
"I'd better find my brother," I told Lissa, anxious to leave before I said any more dumb things.
"Why was he so mad at you today?" she asked.
"He doesn't want me to be friends with you," I said. "Because—"
"I know, I know," Lissa interrupted. "He's scared your parents will find out and punish you."
I ran my finger around my initials again. If only I were an ordinary girl like Lissa, uncomplicated, with no secrets.
Lissa jumped to her feet. "Let's go find Georgie together," she said. "I want to talk to him."
I looked up, surprised by her sudden interest in my brother. "Why?"