I’m not afraid of monsters.
I never was. Not even when I was little and my mom used to say that if I ate chocolate before dinner, the monster under my bed would come get me.
Well, I always thought, why would he come get me if I ate chocolate? Why would he care what I ate? Did he want my chocolate for himself? Was he hungry? Because if he was I could totally share.
So, when I was five I decided that if I ever met a monster, I’d give him a piece of my chocolate and tell him to stop trying to be scary.
It won’t work on me, I’d say.
I don’t think that monsters are all bad or evil, actually. I think what they have is a story, and I like stories more than I like anything else in the world. I may like stories more than I like chocolates – Toblerone, specifically.
Anyway, I’m twelve now. I still stand by it and eat chocolate before dinner no matter what. In fact, I’ve got a secret stash right here. My treehouse.
It’s my favorite place in the world. It’s small and cozy, with floor cushions, one of which I’m occupying right now, and a multi-colored rug. But the most awesome part is the color of the walls. It’s sunny, painted yellow all over. My dad did it himself last summer for my birthday. It matches the color of the sun, and also my hair. My most prized possession is an old chest that sits right next to me. It carries all my secrets: my Toblerone stash, lots and lots of books and my journals.
I’ve been writing in journals for as long as I can remember. I think I’m going to be a writer one day. I don’t know what I’m going to write about, though. For now, I write about my life, about what I do every day. And one day when I’m a grown-up, I’ll go back and make a story out of it.
One day people will read what I wrote sitting inside my sunny treehouse, eating my Toblerone and playing with the loose strands of my yellow hair. They will read my stories, re-read them. Maybe they will love them, hate them or maybe they will feel nothing at all. But they will remember me, and maybe even talk about me for years.
Wouldn’t that be the best? Living forever and ever.
Usually, I can sit up here for a long time but today I can’t get comfortable. My butt has gone numb and I’m having to shift and adjust my position every five seconds.
Ugh.
I hate this. I hate that I’m a woman now. That’s what my mom called it when she came into my room to wake me up today and saw my flowered bedsheets stained with blood.
It was sticky and smelly and in my grogginess, I thought I was going to die. That someone had come during the night when I was sleeping and cut up my insides, and I was bleeding out. Tears ran down my cheeks as I thought about all the fun and wonderful things I wouldn’t get to do this summer. I was going to die without writing my story. I needed to write it. That was the one thing I’d always wanted.
“Mommy, I’m gonna die, right?” I whispered.
My mom threw me a stern look and told me to wipe my tears off. “You’re not a baby anymore, Evie. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just your period.”
Period.
Ah, okay. Things clicked into place after that. Of course, I knew that.
I know about periods. Who doesn’t? But blood can make you stupid and think about awful things. Though I wish I knew how uncomfortable it felt, wearing a pad. It’s like walking with a constant wedgie. I hate being on my period. Detest. Loathe. Despise. Abhor.
Okay, that’s it. That’s all the words I know that describe hate. I love synonyms. I even have a thick dictionary inside my chest that I read every summer just for fun.
“Can you stop moving for a sec?” Sky, my best friend, snaps. “I need to focus.”
I look up from where I’m sitting and settle my eyes on her. Her name’s Skylar but everyone calls her Sky. Like my name is Evangeline but everyone calls me Evie. She’s my closest friend in the whole wide world.
Right now, she’s busy tying the tubing around her fork-shaped tree branch. She’s making a slingshot. Her weapon of choice, she says.
Yeah, Sky is a kind of girl who needs weapons in her life. I would be afraid of her if I wasn’t her friend. Because she’s bloodthirsty and hates almost everyone, and she has a long list of people she wants to kill. Her face is dipped and I can only see her black, messy hair as the chin-length strands flick across her face.
“I can’t get comfortable,” I grumble.
She puts down her half-made slingshot and looks up; her gray eyes are big and stormy. “Is it that?”
“Yes.”
She grimaces. “So, like… do you feel anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, like when it comes out.”
“Ew. Gross. No.”
“Really? Nothing at all? I mean, it is coming out of you.”
“You’re the grossest person I’ve ever met.” I squint and try to move around a bit. I feel something, a weird sensation like a bubble is coming out of me. “Ugh. I felt it just now.”
Sky’s face is so horrified that I want to laugh. But I’m too busy feeling the same horror.
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
“I cannot wait for you to get it too, so we can be miserable together.”
She draws back as if I slapped her. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’m your best friend. Why would you wish it on me?”
“Because it happens to everyone. I mean, every girl.”
She narrows her eyes, playing with her weapon, as if planning a murder. “I hate it. I absolutely hate it. Like, we gotta pay the price for being a girl.” She looks up, as if talking to God. “Hey, I never asked to be a girl, okay?” Looking down, she shakes her head. “It’s bullshit and because of it I’m gonna get boobs. I don’t want boobs. I hate boobs. You know what? There has to be a way to stop this.”
That’s Sky for you. She’s sort of a vigilante. If anyone can change the world, it’ll be her. Me? I’m happy with the way things are. I’m okay with having boobs. In fact, I’m kind of looking forward to it. I know I’m going to have big boobs. It runs in the family. My mom and all my aunts have big ones. That’s how the women in our family are made: curvy and short, and I’m okay with that.
I don’t want to change the world. I only want to stay in this treehouse forever and ever, hanging between sky and earth, and write in my journal and eat my chocolate.
But it’s not possible.
I look up and through the gap in the slats, I notice the sky has turned orange-ish. Darn it. The sun is setting and it’s going to be dark soon.
“We have to leave. My mom’s gonna be mad.” I snap my journal shut, eat the last piece of melted Toblerone before shoving everything in my chest.
“Dude, when’s your mom not mad?” Sky grumbles, but packs up her things.
We both stand up and the yellow-painted floor creaks. Sky’s the first to climb down. She can’t get out of here fast enough; she hates this treehouse because she’s afraid of heights. But she’ll deny it through and through. She’s too badass to be afraid.
I will admit, boobs aside, I really don’t see the point of bleeding every month, and this pad business is gross. I discreetly adjust my panties and waddle down the ladder.
We both reach the ground and in her usual way, Sky begins running, her combat boots thumping on the ground. I can’t believe she isn’t absorbing things. She isn’t soaking up the dying rays of the sun or feeling the softness of the grass or touching the rough bark of the trees, or even smelling the sweet corn.
I could spend all my life being outside in the woods or on the farm. In fact, my dad says that when I was little I had dark hair and dark eyes like both my parents, and I had a habit of wandering off into the corn fields behind our house. I used to stay out for hours before anyone could find me. It used to make my mom super mad, and then one day they found me out in the fields with yellow hair and blue eyes. Dad says that I soaked up the color of the sun and the sky. It’s a cute story, even though I know it’s impossible.
Dad is fond of stories too. I get the reading bug from him.
My treehouse is located in the middle of the woods behind my house. It’s not deep or thick or anything like the real woods where animals live. It’s just a collection of really tall trees that are bunched up together and form a canopy overhead. The ground has wildflowers and the softest grass you’ve ever felt. It’s like walking on silk. It gets real pretty when it rains, all the colors sharp and cutting and clear.
I come out of the thin woods and onto the farm that my dad owns. I can see our house in the distance, just up the dirt path that cuts through the long thick cornstalks. It’s white with gray shuttered windows and a wraparound porch. There are wooden steps leading up to the front door but I’m not allowed to use it if I’ve spent too much time outside. That means I’m always using the back door that goes through the kitchen. Mom says I get way too dirty for a twelve-year-old girl. I look down at myself and notice grass stains on my pink dress, and muddied-up feet and calves.
Oh shoot.
I lost my shoes again. I swear I had them on when I was up in the treehouse. Should I go back and check? Mom’s going to be so, so mad. Like, super-duper mad where she pinches my thighs and my waist to get my attention. I hiss as the pain flares up on the right side of my waist where Mom was pretty brutal last time I lost my shoes in the woods, and showed up with muddy cut-up feet.
I’m ready to go back because I’m not going to risk getting pinched again, but I notice Sky up ahead, standing by the mailbox, her eyes on something. I can’t see what it is but it’s got me curious so I keep walking forward.
As I reach her a few seconds later, a white truck whooshes into my view. It’s more rusted than white, the paint peeling off the sides and the doors. It shudders and screeches like it’s going to break down any second as it hurtles down the dirt-path. The dirt-path that breaks off the highway and circles around our farm, leading to our neighbor’s house.
Peter Adams.
He’s the town’s loner. He hardly goes out or even talks to people. There are only a handful of times I’ve seen him around town. He has dark blond hair with gray sprinkled in, and eyes that look a little lost sometimes. He’s quiet and he’s always been nice to me.
Last year, I had this huge tower of books that I’d just checked out of the town library and as I was walking down the street to where Mom had parked the car, I stumbled and dropped all of them. Mr. Adams came to my rescue and helped me gather all the books. When I thanked him, he didn’t say anything and left. People were giving me weird looks and the news of it traveled to my mom. Of course, she retaliated — she retaliates against everything that has to do with the Adams family. She yelled at me for about an hour. The bruises that week were more brutal than anything I’d ever endured.
Oh well. It is what it is. Although I never talked to Mr. Adams after that, I still think my mom over-reacted. Her hatred of Peter Adams is a bit exaggerated. I mean, he isn’t responsible for what happened fifteen years ago. He isn’t responsible for what his brother, David, did. So what if Peter Adams belongs to the same family?
The truck lurches to a stop under a leafless tree. It’s summer and there’s greenery everywhere but I’ve never seen this tree grow any leaves. How strange is that? It’s always been thin and skeletal. Like it died a long time ago. It makes me sad. Everyone deserves a bit of color in their life.
The door on the driver’s side opens and out comes Peter Adams. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and faded pants. His hair’s become thinner over the last year and almost all the strands are grayish white. He walks to the back of the truck and opens the tailgate with a giant screech and lowers a small bag.
Does he have visitors? I’ve never seen anyone visiting him before, though. I’m beyond curious now, and looks like Sky is the same way.
A pair of long legs swing out of the cab and thud on the ground. Whoever it is, their shoes are dirty: that’s my first thought. White canvas sneakers with smudges of mud all over. Oh, I can totally relate to that. I can never keep my shoes clean, if I’m wearing them that is. I wiggle my dirty, naked toes in the mud, hating the fact that I’m in for a good bruising by my mom.
All thoughts of getting punished vanish from my head when the visitor jumps out of the truck. It’s a boy.
A tall boy with loose and wrinkled clothes, and a backpack riding on his shoulder. It looks thicker than the bag Mr. Adams is carrying. There’s a rip in the boy’s jeans, white threads hanging out like a set of teeth.
His hair’s all messy, touching his eyebrows. It flickers in the wind that suddenly seems to have picked up. It’s blond. Well, not like my blonde. My hair’s yellow like the sun, whereas his is more of a dirty sort of blond. Like if you dip the sun in creamy coffee, you will come away with a shade that matches his hair. Golden.
Mr. Adams approaches him and the boy whips his eyes to glare at him. Whoa. There’s so much anger in them. I’ve never seen anyone this angry. Not even my mom. If I were Mr. Adams, I’d be quaking in my boots. Gosh, this boy is tall. He’s taller than Mr. Adams, even. And his fists are clenched like he wants to punch Mr. Adams’s face.
The boy’s nostrils flare and his jaw becomes hard, like he’s gritting his teeth. I’m grimacing, thinking it’s going to happen any second now. The boy is going to punch Mr. Adams.
Oh my God, should I do something? Scream? Call for help? Why’s he so mad at him, anyway?
But then the boy turns around, more like spins, and slams the door of the truck shut. He does it so hard and fast that the whole cab shakes; I swear I see the flecks of paint flying off. The sound is like a thunder. A bomb blast. A big bang.
The silence that follows is that much clearer. I can hear Mr. Adams saying something to him - it doesn’t look pleasant - before he strides over to the house angrily, leaving the boy behind.
I can hear my own breaths. I can even hear the boy’s loud breaths. I feel myself shivering, as if I’m cold, which is ridiculous because it’s hot out today. I’m sweating too, but I can’t stop my shaking.
I’m still watching the boy as he stands there lonely, with his fists clenched, looking up at the orange sky, when a loud sound shatters everything. The silence, the tensed peace.
“Evie!”
That’s my mom calling me in a shrill voice.
“Come on, let’s go, Evie,” Sky mumbles and turns back.
But I can’t move. My feet are stuck in the mud; my toes are curled. Because at that exact second when my mom called out my name, the boy snapped his gaze over to me and our eyes met.
My shivering stops and I feel a burst of warmth all over. He’s still angry, judging by the big frown and his narrowed eyes. My heart starts beating really fast. I can feel it in my teeth and on my temple. When his eyes dip to my dust-ridden calves, my heart throbs in there too, and I feel self-conscious. Fisting my dress, I scratch my right calf with the big toe of my left foot.
Okay, so I’m not very presentable at the moment, but you know what? He isn’t either. His shoes are dirty. His black t-shirt has holes all over the neck and his jeans are ripped.
I frown at him, too. Is he judging me? Because if he is then I don’t like him and I like everyone.
In the dying sunlight, I can’t see the minor details of his face but I swear I see him… melt. Not like ice-cream but, sort of go loose. His frown has completely disappeared and his lips kinda move. Twitching into a crooked smile.
“Evangeline Elizabeth Hart, get back here right now,” my mom calls out again.
“Darn it,” I mutter under my breath. My mom is really, really mad. Full name is reserved for emergencies.
With one last look at the new boy, who I still think is sort of smiling at me for some reason, I turn back and start running. Sky is already at my porch, standing away from my mom. They are not big fans of each other.
As my mom is dragging me inside the house, I turn back and find him standing at the same spot. He’s only an outline from here.
An outline with golden hair and black t-shirt, and a backpack against the orange sky.