Some Kind of Happiness by Claire Legrand Page A

that is.”
    I am happy to hear a collective gasp of horror.
    â€œThat’s what I thought.” Grandpa turns to me. “Now, remember the ground rules: Not one inch outside the pit, like Grandma said.”
    â€œYes, sir,” we all say.
    â€œAnd you won’t let the twins climb around here by themselves?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    Grandpa looks at each of us like he is searching for evidence of a lie. Gretchen stares back so intensely that I almost crack up. Dex picks his nose and inspects the findings.
    Satisfied, Grandpa nods. “Well, then. Go nuts. But not too nuts. And take your shoes off before you come in for dinner.”
    Gretchen asks, “What if we didn’t ? What then?”
    â€œApocalypse, probably.”
    Once Grandpa has packed up his tools and gone back into the house, I climb inside what we have named the Tower and hang the shoe Gretchen and I found from the ceiling by its laces. It dangles over the center of the floor like a bizarre chandelier.
    Doing this gives me a moment to think.
    Everyone else is going home after dinner, but Gretchen has talked Stick into letting her stay at Hart House for the rest of the week.
    On the one hand, out of everyone, Gretchen is the person I know best.
    On the other hand, I have spent the past two days building a tree patio with five other people, one of whom is Grandpa, who wears button-down shirts even while building tree patios in the dirt—and I feel a bit like I am crawling inside my own skin.
    I keep thinking about what Grandma said at the park: about missing Dad, that he was the one who chose to stay away.
    What does Grandpa think about Dad? Does he miss Dad too? Dad said they talk on the phone—but about what? And how often? And what do they say when they hang up? Do they say I love you ? What would those words sound like, coming out of Grandpa’s mouth?
    I want to ask him about these things, but whenever I imagine doing so, I freeze up.
    I have always been better at writing things than saying them.
    â€œI’m going for a walk,” I say, casually, hoping no one will follow. Just a walk, to clear my head. That is all I need.
    â€œOh, me too!” Gretchen loops her arm through mine.
    I try to pull away. “Gretchen, really, it’s no big deal—”
    Then Gretchen tenses up beside me. I see him too.
    It’s that Bailey boy, the medium-sized one. He is crouched behind a stump a few yards away.
    And he is holding our stash of valuables. Gretchen’s dolphin. Kennedy’s medal.
    My list of words.
    I am seized by righteous anger.
    It was Gretchen’s idea to bring the stash out here, to christen our headquarters, even though I protested.
    How did the Bailey boy slip past all of us without anyone seeing him?
    Gretchen’s hands are in fists. “Give that back. Now. ”
    The boy grins, winks, and takes off in the other direction.
    Into the Everwood. With our stuff .
    Gretchen growls an extremely forbidden word under her breath.
    I have to agree. “We can’t let him get away with this.”
    Gretchen snorts. “Oh, don’t worry. He won’t.” She yells, “Back in a sec!” over her shoulder.
    Kennedy whirls. “Wait, what —?”
    But we ignore her. We don’t stop to think about Grandma or Grandpa seeing us. We run.
    We scoot across the First Bridge, jump over ridges and weave through trees, skid down slopes of mud and leaves like surfers.
    The Bailey boy’s laughter floats back to us. Trying to catch him is like trying to catch a shadow.
    â€œWe’re losing him!” Gretchen shouts. “Come on, Fin!”
    I have never run like this in my life. We’re practically flying, dodging tree roots and fallen logs like they’re nothing. My breathing starts to burn, and my side aches.
    Then Gretchen skids to a halt. “Oh man .”
    I catch my breath and blink hard against the sun. We have reached the Wasteland—the field