The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Read online

  I walked to my death slowly, across the lawn and past Willowdale, who continued to lazily chew on Gaysie’s grass.

  “Naughty!” I hissed at her, then turned to Gaysie. “Mrs. Cutter?”

  She turned to snarl at me. “Micah said you’re an up-and-coming lawyer, but don’t even think of defending this stupid man who cares more about being out with his blue mistress than paying attention to good sense.”

  The mistress again!

  “Uh, you see . . . ,” I rushed on. “Willowdale Princess Deon Dawn is my cow, and I’m a very bad cow owner! I’m training her to act like a horse instead of a cow, but, uh, I’ve failed. She was very wicked to ruin your porch and your flowers. . . .”

  “Wait,” Gaysie said, holding out her hands to stop the universe. “You’re telling me that this thing in my yard”—indicating Willowdale—“is your cow?”

  “Yes.”

  She took two aggressive steps toward Wilbur. There was a collective flinch.

  “Unbelievable!” she spit out. “You stand there and say absolutely nothing to defend yourself!” Gaysie turned and marched into the house.

  Bitty reached up and took my hand, which was now wet and clammy.

  “I’m so sorry, Wilbur,” I said, dragging my feet over to him. Seeing Wilbur up close was an education on sun damage. I had never seen so many sunspots or such wrinkled leather on anyone’s face before. He turned to me, his eyes gentle. “I didn’t know she’d do that,” I said.

  “Yep, cows can be beasts, all right,” Wilbur said.

  “And Gaysie, too,” I said.

  He looked at me and laughed a short bark. “Huh! That woman is like a hurricane meeting a tornado. Sometimes,” he said conspiratorially, “I’m actually afraid of what she’ll do. I wish you all the luck.” He gave me a wink before shuffling to Gaysie’s, his old shoulders stooped. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” Gaysie yelled. “And you too, girls!”

  I squeezed Bitty’s hand tightly before stepping inside the monster’s lair. The boys followed. The walls were a surprisingly happy sunflower yellow but decorated with small pieces of stuff Nana would call “clutter.”

  Wilbur patted both boys on the back, poured himself and Gaysie a cup of coffee, placed the cup in front of her, and settled down into a chair.

  “Best part of the day,” he said. “Coffee break with Gaysie Cutter.” I made a face. How could that be anyone’s best part of the day?

  “Don’t you try to butter me up,” Gaysie said to Wilbur. “I’m still angry.” She was sunk down into a chair, eyes closed, fanning herself. She was doing some sort of breathing exercise—breathe in and hold . . . hold . . . hold . . . and exhale slowly, like one of those birthing shows I watched in the hospital lounges. Jimmy and Micah were already into the Popsicles as if my impending death was no big whoop. Bitty and I stood in the doorway until Gaysie finally opened her eyes.

  “Sit,” she commanded. We sat.

  “Oh, my temper. My terrible, terrible temper.” She gave herself three mighty whacks across her own cheeks. “Wilbur Truesdale, I apologize!”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said again. “It was irresponsible of me to tie her to the porch.”

  “Well, we can certainly agree on that.”

  Wilbur, now safe from wrath, closed his eyes, pulled down his hat, and seemed to fall asleep instantly, sitting upright, despite the steaming mug of caffeine in front of him.

  “Willowdale what?” Gaysie asked me.

  “Princess Deon Dawn.”

  Micah stood and stretched, walked to the middle of the kitchen, and began to lower himself into a gymnast’s split position.

  “Hurts just looking at you,” Jimmy said. “Please, just stop.”

  Gaysie looked at Micah. “Son, what are you doing?”

  “Showing you my split, so you won’t be mad at Gwyn anymore. She’s already scared of you.”

  “I am not!”

  Gaysie turned to me and raised an eyebrow. I felt my face go hot.

  “Training a cow to act like a horse?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I believe you just might be the girl to do such a thing.”

  “You have to practice every day,” Micah said, holding his hands elegantly out to the side.

  “Your cow!” Gaysie said loudly, pounding down hard on the table. She began to laugh so hard, tears rolled down her face.

  “Stop it, Mom. You’re going to make me pee,” Micah said, balancing precariously. Gaysie took one look at him trying to lower into the splits in his green swim shorts and purple cape and burst out laughing again.

  “You only have yourself to blame,” Gaysie heaved, her large chest moving up and down. “Contorting yourself into such a position. Oh dear, my bladder is not what it used to be . . . oh dear.”

  Bitty and I stared wide-eyed as Gaysie shook with laughter before easing herself off the wooden kitchen chair and waddling out of the kitchen, a big wet spot dripping from the back of her pants.

  “That,” I whispered to Bitty, “is a very strange woman.”

  Wilbur sat up from his nap, put his hat back in place, and finished his cup of coffee. He stood and shook my hand and then Bitty’s. “Never a dull moment around here. Now that she’s speaking to me again, it’s back to work.”

  As much as I was relieved not to be dead, I pondered his earlier words. What had Wilbur meant, afraid of what she’ll do . . . ?

  CHAPTER 6

  SCHOOL STARTED ON WEDNESDAY, THE last week in August. It was a day we’d never forget, because that was the last time we saw Wilbur Truesdale.

  The morning began with the color pink. Nana had plainly refused to answer any of my renewed questions about the accident and Gaysie, even using the insulting word “pestering.” She busied herself with packing something called hummus in our new, matching pink lunch boxes, and those in our new, matching pink backpacks. I slipped in three books, including my newly beloved Huckleberry Finn. Our father hugged Bitty and me good-bye and told us to have fun. Nana imparted advice: “Use a Kleenex, not your sleeve” and “Mind your p’s and q’s” (whatever those were) as if we’d never been to school before.

  My last farewell was to Willowdale Princess, who was faithfully waiting for me by the backyard fence. I petted her nose and bravely let her eat out of my hand, which was still terrifying, what with her big, slobbery tongue and gigantic teeth.

  “I wish I could bring you to school,” I said, giving her the last of my apple. “I’d tie you to the bike rack, but after what happened at Gaysie’s . . .” Such a shame. I had so wanted to make my grand entrance riding a royal cow.

  For the first time in our lives, Bitty and I ran to school instead of riding the subway, calming my nerves for the first day. We ran down Lanark Lane until we came upon Jimmy, riding his skateboard in front of Micah’s house. He was attempting a new trick and was actually wearing all his clothes and a pair of shoes.

  Also, he had a brand new hairstyle: a Mohawk.

  “Whoa, Jimmy,” I said. “What happened to your hair?”

  “Did it myself,” he said proudly, running his hand across the top.

  “Micah!” I hollered excitedly at the house. “Hurry up!”

  I heard nothing from Micah, but the door of the little house next door opened a crack, and a head of reddish-orange hair peeked out. A crabby voice yelled, “Hush up!”

  It was Ms. Myrtle, the old witch who had made it her mission to ruin our summer by yelling at us from inside her house every day we passed by before noon. Usually we just ignored her, but sometimes I couldn’t help sticking my tongue out.

  A door slammed. Bitty and I turned to see Micah running down the front stairs, nearly tripping over his sparkling shoelaces. His hair was neatly parted, weighed down by comb marks and smelling strongly of hair product. He was wearing his brown-rimmed glasses, a Boy Scout shirt, and clashing green-and-yellow-striped shorts.

  I was pretty sure he was going to get beat up on the very first day.

&n
bsp; “I really like your sparkly silver shoelaces,” Bitty said encouragingly.

  Micah beamed, puffing out his small rib cage underneath his Scout shirt.

  “I didn’t know you were a Boy Scout,” I said.

  “He got kicked out,” Jimmy said, skating past us. “For wanting to make pies instead of campfires. But he makes a real good pie.”

  “I like pie,” Bitty said.

  “Ma says that girls like a man in uniform,” Micah said, smiling his endearing, toothless smile. I vowed that no one would be beating him up today.

  We were almost past Ms. Myrtle’s house when we heard Gaysie’s voice. Turning, we saw her out on the porch in dirty work clothes.

  “Farewell, young scholars!” she bellowed just as Wilbur came hobbling around the house.

  “Yoo hoo, Wilbur . . . my exquisite, absolutely resplendent flowers are still scattered all over the lawn! I hope it’s cleaned up before you disappear with that mistress of yours!” Gaysie hollered.

  “Wilbur’s picking up all the flowers that weren’t ruined by your cow and putting them in the house,” Jimmy said. “The whole place stinks, thanks to you. Almost makes me want to move out.”

  “I said I was sorry. Where do you really live, anyway?” I asked.

  “Why do you ask so many questions?” he asked back.

  “She’s practicing to be . . . ,” Bitty began.

  “I know!” Jimmy yelled.

  “She sure doesn’t like that mistress,” I said.

  “You do know the Blue Mistress is the tractor, don’t you?” Jimmy asked.

  I stopped walking. “A tractor?” This news was altogether much less exciting than an actual mistress.

  “Wilbur spends so much time with his that Gaysie calls it his Mistress,” Micah said. “And it’s blue.”

  “You thought Wilbur had a real blue mistress!” Jimmy cackled. “Who’d ya think that was? A Smurf?”

  I furrowed my brow, picking up a fallen crab apple to throw at him.

  “Hush up!” came the crotchety Ms. Myrtle again.

  Bitty suddenly yanked on my hand, making me drop the apple. “Goose!” The white fluff came waddling, just as we passed Ms. Myrtle’s front walk. Bitty and I ran, but Micah stood still, holding out his hand as the goose came closer and closer to him.

  “Micah!” I screamed. But the goose didn’t eat him. Instead, it stopped and let Micah gently pet its head.

  “How does he do that?” Bitty asked.

  “He’s a goose whisperer,” I said reverently.

  “Get off my property, you nasty child!” Ms. Myrtle railed from inside. She sounded like she was on her last breath, but still couldn’t resist a nasty comment. Unrattled, Micah kissed the goose right on the beak and skipped toward us.

  “Ha!” I yelled, sticking my tongue out at Ms. Myrtle’s house. “I bet she let that goose out on purpose so it would eat us.”

  “I saw that, you bratty little girl!”

  I could hear the old woman yelling, Gaysie hollering, and the goose honking as we ran to our first day of school, toward that red rocket slide shooting right to the moon.

  It was already the most exhilarating first day of school I’d ever had.

  • • •

  “Put my kiss in your pocket, honey,” I told Bitty, outside her classroom. “To remember me.” I instinctively felt my own pocket, a small, fragile memory surfacing of Vienna. Bitty looked up at me mournfully, her eyes wide and already tear filled.

  “Gwynnie, I want to go with you.”

  “Be brave like Wendy.”

  She turned, greeted by a smiling first-grade teacher while I felt my heart go walking right out of my body.

  Micah slung his arm around my shoulders just as a big boy with greasy, disheveled hair walked by, knocking his elbow into the back of Micah’s head.

  “Sorry!” he laughed over his shoulder, big, dirty buckteeth sticking out of his mouth, eyes trained on me.

  Jimmy’s eyes narrowed.

  “Travis Maynard,” Micah said, rubbing his head. “Eighth grader, head Creeper. Archenemy Number One.”

  My eyes followed Travis and the other Creepers down the hall. Gaysie had become my archenemy when she tried to bury me alive, but Travis didn’t look like a harmless marshmallow either.

  “Let’s go to the library and check out a wrestling book,” I said.

  “You don’t check out a library book to fight Travis Maynard,” Jimmy said.

  “And he would know,” Micah whispered. “They’re cousins. But Travis hates Jimmy because of me.”

  “Ohhhh. Why because of you?”

  Micah shrugged a bewildered shrug. I concurred. How could anyone hate Micah?

  “Well, listen. You can find anything at the library!” I began. “Kung fu, snakebites, poisonous elixirs . . .” Jimmy ignored me and led us down the hall. There were two classrooms per grade at Crow Elementary, but the three of us entered Mrs. Law’s sixth-grade classroom together. My nerves were all jumpy again as I wondered about my new class, suddenly missing Public School 57 in NYC, where Brian Peppernick had surely found someone else to annoy.

  “Mr. Quintel,” a firm-looking woman greeted us. Jimmy sighed and handed over his skateboard.

  She turned to me. “I’m guessing you are Guinevere St. Clair. We are so excited to have you join us.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I just took my sister to first grade. She can read because I taught her, and her name is Bitty.”

  Mrs. Law nodded seriously, her perfectly straight gray hair brushing her jawline.

  “You have the perfect name for a teacher,” I said sincerely.

  She smiled and gestured her arm for me to enter the classroom. Fifteen students curiously eyed me.

  Mrs. Law had me sit next to Penny Jankowski in the back row, a pretty girl with light freckles and blue eyes. I’d met her a few times that summer, thanks to Nana’s matchmaking. Penny was nice and all, but not nearly as exciting as Micah and Jimmy.

  “Hi, Gwyn. Are you for-real friends with them or something?” Penny tilted her head at Micah and Jimmy, making a face.

  “We’re best friends. Like the three musketeers. Plus my sister, Bitty.”

  “Welcome to sixth grade!” Mrs. Law said from the front of the room.

  “Did you know Jimmy was held back in kindergarten?” Penny whispered. “He’s really, like, twelve.”

  “So what? I skipped first grade, so I’m really supposed to be in fifth,” I said.

  “Have you met Micah’s mom?” Penny whispered, making a crazy sign around her ear.

  I was no fan of Gaysie, but I couldn’t help thinking, You should meet my mom.

  “We have a new student this year,” Mrs. Law said. “Guinevere?” I scooted my chair back and stood up straight. All eyes came to rest on me. Jimmy flipped me the bird under the desk.

  “Guinevere just moved to Crow to live with her grandmother, Nancy Eyre—who made the most delicious soufflé for the playground raffle last year—and her mother and father, and her little sister who has just started first grade.” Mrs. Law winked and walked toward me. “Over the summer we made something for you and your mother, who we know is going to get better!”

  She handed me a homemade booklet with drawings, well wishes, and signatures.

  “Thanks. You can call me Gwyn,” I said to Mrs. Law.

  “All right. Gwyn it is,” Mrs. Law said. “Gwyn, can you tell us where you moved from?”

  “New York City.”

  “That sounds very exciting!”

  I nodded, thinking of Vienna’s temper tantrums, which were usually the most exciting event of the day.

  “And what are your aspirations in life?”

  “Oh, I’m going to be a lawyer,” I said. “Like the prosecuting attorney Georgia Piehl. I know all about her cases. Once she had to try a man who sold his twin baby girls so he could buy a moped. My father is Georgia Piehl’s dentist, and she has very nice teeth . . . and thank you for the book.”

  “Well. You
are very welcome,” Mrs. Law said, looking slightly scandalized and partly amused. “You tell your mom to feel better.”

  I heard the word “mom” somewhere in the room, and a few kids glanced toward me.

  “Let’s get started!” Mrs. Law said from the front of the classroom.

  Mother. Mom. Not Vienna. I held the handmade book tightly, suddenly feeling a great wave of homesickness for a person I hardly knew.

  I shook it off, turning my face to the tall windows to let the morning light lay on my face, seeking out my father’s words. . . . Serotonin is a neurotransmitter, a chemical that induces a happy feeling when the body encounters light. Let me tell you about the day you were born, on a perfect, sunny day.

  • • •

  It didn’t work. All day long I felt the stares of classmates. Maybe they were only curious about the new girl, but I had a feeling it was more than that. It was like they already knew everything about me and my family, that we had been discussed around the dinner table while eating meat loaf and corn. After school I took my grumpiness out on Micah, who was adjusting his Scout necktie as we walked home.

  “Why are you wearing that shirt?”

  “I thought you liked it.”

  “You’re not even a Boy Scout.”

  Micah deflated like a dead balloon.

  “Ah, shove off, Ms. Know-It-All,” Jimmy said, skating a slow circle around Micah.

  Bitty looked at me, wounded. I had broken an unspoken code. We weren’t mean to other people. Ever. Our father said that was one of the great benefits of having Vienna as our mother; we knew and accepted different. I threw my backpack on the ground.

  The goose hissed, honking as it ran toward us. Honk, honk.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Jimmy said, steering his skateboard so perfectly that he ollied right over the goose. “Wahoo!” he yelled, his fists in the air. “See that? I. Am. Awesome!”

  “See that?” I yelled. “YOU. ARE. NOT!”

  Bitty and I ran to Micah’s front porch, but not Micah. Again, he petted the goose, whispered, and worked his goose magic.