The Littlest Bigfoot Page 14

  “Tell me more about your town,” she said to Millie, hoping to change the subject. She realized, as she said it, that there was a lot she didn’t know about her new friend, including her last name or the exact location of where she lived when she wasn’t camping.

  “Oh, it’s just a regular kind of place,” said Millie, waving one furry hand toward the window. Alice wondered how she’d gotten fur to stick on her hands. Spirit gum?

  Millie, meanwhile, was unzipping her backpack. “I am so hungry,” she announced. “Are you hungry?” She handed Alice a sandwich made with bread that looked homemade and took one for herself.

  Alice took a bite, then closed her eyes. The jam tasted like essence of blackberries, sweetened with real sugar, not honey or maple syrup, which was what the Center usually used. Except for Kate’s secret stash, there was no white sugar anywhere in the kitchen, and the learners usually had fruit or granola for dessert. “This is so good.”

  “It’s blackberry jam,” said Millie, who was talking with her mouth full. She swallowed, wiped her lips, and said, “My mother and I pick berries every summer and we put up jam ourselves.”

  Alice bit into the fresh bread and the sweet jam, humming with pleasure. Millie smiled, and Alice smiled back, and Millie started her chatter, describing some episode of Friends where Chandler’s name was misspelled on the label of his TV Guide. Alice could feel herself relaxing, her shoulders descending from their usual spot up around her ears, her belly unclenching, her fingers resting loosely in her lap instead of forming fists. She never felt like Millie was making judgments about her broad shoulders and big feet and wild hair . . . or that, if she was judging, she was deciding in Alice’s favor. She’d complimented Alice’s size and strength and speed so many times, had been so open in her admiration about Alice’s body, that Alice could almost believe Millie was telling the truth and that the way Alice looked and acted were okay.

  Besides, Millie was constantly saying that Alice had saved her life. “You couldn’t have done that if you were some weak little puny wisp,” she’d say. That gave Alice a warm, happy glow, a feeling that, maybe, for the first time in her life, she had found a friend, someone who liked her because she was who she was. Not Lee, whose job it was to drive her; not Riya and Taley, who had to be polite because they lived so close together; and not her granny, who was obligated to love her because they were related, but a real friend.

  “Try these,” Millie said, passing Alice more neatly wrapped packages, which turned out to be buttermilk doughnuts and dried plum hand-pies with wedges of goat cheese.

  “Oh my God,” sighed Alice. “This is the best food I’ve had in forever.”

  Millie, who always had a hundred questions, inquired, “What are your favorite snackles?”

  “Well, now they’re hand-pies,” Alice said. “At home, all Felicia lets me have are baby carrots and grapes. At school we usually just get hummus.” She frowned, thinking first about the garlicky beige glop that had tasted okay the first five or six times they’d served it and now felt like mortar in her mouth; then about the way her mother would watch her, perching casually on one of the chairs at the breakfast bar and trying to pretend she wasn’t taking note of every single thing Alice ate.

  “But that’s terrible!” said Millie.

  Alice, laughing, asked, “Do you want to hear the menu at the Center?” When Millie nodded, she said, “For breakfast every day we get whole-grain cereal with raisins.”

  “I hate raisins,” said Millie with a shudder. “They are, like, grapes that something terrible has happened to, and instead of being grateful that they survived, they’re just shriveled up and mad.”

  “I don’t like them either,” Alice said. “But at least they’re a little sweet. Lori and Phil don’t believe in refined sugar.”

  “They don’t believe in eating it or don’t believe it exists?” asked Millie.

  “Oh, they believes it exists,” said Alice, who’d heard from Kate that Lori kept a secret stash of chocolate-covered orange peel in a locked desk drawer in her office, “but they don’t believe it’s good for us, so we’re not allowed to have any sweets.”

  “That,” said Millie solemnly, “is a tragedy.”

  “I know,” said Alice.

  “Tell herdb aboutdb lunch,” said Taley, who, along with Riya, had turned around to join the conversation.

  “For lunch,” said Alice, warming to the task, “we get tofu pups or soy-cheese sandwiches. Which would be fine, except we make our own whole-grain bread, and it’s so crumbly that you can barely slice it, and it tastes like you’re chewing the stuff they fill pillows with.” She felt bad, like she was betraying Kate with her complaints, and the truth was that she didn’t really mind the food that much, but she knew from her time with Jessica’s crew that girls thought she was funny when she was mean.

  “What about desserts?” asked Millie.

  “Ha!” said Riya.

  “Once in a while we get homemade granola. With raisins,” Alice sighed. “For dinner we have lentil soup on Mondays, split-pea soup on Tuesdays, zucchini casserole on Wednesdays, tuna-noodle casserole on Thursdays, baked fish on Fridays, loaf on Saturdays . . .”

  “Loaf?” Millie interrupted. “What’s loaf?”

  Alice shrugged. “Loaf is loaf. It’s in the shape of a loaf.”

  “Some kids think it’s meat loaf,” said Riya. “Or lentils that look like meat.”

  “Once,” said Taley, “itdb tastedb like salmon.”

  “Some kids think it’s turkey loaf,” said Alice. “And sometimes it’s just more zucchini.”

  Millie drew herself up to her full height. “That,” she said, “is unspeakable.”

  Alice nodded and waited until Taley and Riya had turned around before saying, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You just did!” said Millie, which was a joke her father often made with her.

  Alice leaned close and lowered her voice. “The night we met . . . were you just going for a swim, or were you running away from home?”

  Instead of answering, Millie smoothed the fur on her arms, then fiddled with her hood, then bent down to zip up her backpack. “I wasn’t exactly running to away. I was exploring. I like to be by myself sometimes,” she said with such forcefulness it was as if she thought Alice had contradicted her. “But I’m never allowed. My parents follow me everywhere. They are never letting me alone.”

  Alice felt her face go soft with yearning. She imagined Felicia turning away from her mirror and her charity board meetings and her Pilates reformer, turning to Alice and saying, Want to take a walk in Central Park? Want to go to the farmer’s market and get blueberries? Want to bake a pie? Her mother gave her presents, fancy things that Alice knew were expensive, but Alice didn’t care about cashmere sweaters or gold necklaces. All she wanted was Felicia’s time.

  “My mother’s bad. My papa’s even worse,” Millie continued. “He’s always checking up on me. Stopping by my school if it’s a school day. Sticking his head in at the house if I’m home. Going down to the lake to watch me swim.”

  “Helicobpter parents,” snuffled Taley, who’d been listening. Millie nodded. Alice sighed.

  “My parents don’t see me at all. That’s why I’m here. If I had parents like yours—parents who actually wanted me around—I’d . . .” Never leave them, she started to say, but couldn’t get the words through the thickness in her throat.

  “But what if they loved you, only they didn’t understand you?” Millie asked. “What if they loved you but they never let you do the things you wanted to do?”

  The bus made a sharp turn, bumping onto the dirt road that led to the Center. Millie peered through the window, up toward the cloudy sky. “What time is it?” she asked as the bus bounced over a pothole.

  “Almost midnight,” Alice said.

  Looking alarmed, Millie snatched up her backpack and jumped to her feet. “I need to go,” she said. Her eyes were open wide, and her fur looked somehow fluffier.
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  Alice felt her shoulders resume their hunch, and her belly get tight. Riya and Taley were nice enough, but they weren’t her friends. Jessica and Christy and Cara had tricked her into thinking they liked her. What if Millie was tricking her too? What if she’d get off the bus, pull off her costume, revealing herself to be just as pretty as Jessica Jarvis, and say, “Ha, you dummy, did you actually think we were friends?”

  Alice squeezed her eyes shut as the bus bounced over another pothole and started groaning up the dirt road that led to the Center. The learning guides were big on what Lori called “positive self-talk.” Every morning Alice brushed her teeth and washed her face looking into a mirror with the words “You Are Loved and Special” painted in purple on the frame. Every day at least one of the learning guides, usually Clem or Kendra or Kate, would tell her that she’d done something wonderful, whether it was writing a haiku or whipping cream into perfect peaks or finding a runaway goat. But she didn’t feel loved, and she never felt special. At least, not until she’d met Millie.

  “Ouch!” Millie shouted.

  Alice turned and saw Millie cringing away from Riya, cradling one of her hands in the other. Riya was staring at Millie, looking shocked.

  “Sorry,” Riya said.

  “What happened?” asked Alice.

  “Riya pulledb Millie’s furdb,” said Taley.

  “I wanted to see how it was attached,” Riya said.

  “It’s glue,” said Millie. “And it’s very rude to be pulling someone’s fur without permission.” She’d twisted her body away from the girls, and she was holding her hand like it really hurt. Alice saw that she’d painted her fingernails black, to make her hands look like Ewok paws. In fact, her hands really did look like Ewok paws . . .

  Millie must have noticed her staring, because as soon as the bus came to a stop, she pushed her way to the front and bolted out the door.

  “Wait!” Alice called through the bus’s open window. Millie was already running down the path. If she thinks she’s slow, Alice thought, the rest of the Yare must be ready for the Olympics.

  “I have to go,” Millie called over her shoulder, running until she was only a shadow, like a gray ghost darting in and out of the trees.

  Alice scrambled off the bus and stood staring helplessly, feeling the hand-pies turning to stones in her belly, her pillowcase dangling from her hand, as her friend disappeared. She wondered at Millie’s strange hands with their long, curved black nails and how, in spite of what Millie had said, Alice hadn’t been able to spot a zipper anywhere on her costume, no matter how carefully she’d looked.

  “Hey, Al, did you lose your girlfriend?” Jessica Jarvis sang.

  “Yeah, where’s your fuzzy widdle teddy bear?” one of the Steves jeered.

  “Leave her alone,” said Riya.

  “Oh, sticking up for the freak?” asked Jessica in an arch voice, as if this was the most amusing thing she could imagine.

  Alice decided she’d heard enough. She dropped her candy and ran into the darkness after Millie, ignoring the shouts of the learning guides and her classmates’ laughter, ignoring Riya’s and Taley’s calls, ignoring even her own thoughts and the realization that she had absolutely no idea what she’d do if she managed to catch up with Millie; no idea what she’d say except for Why did you take off like that, and I thought you were my friend.

  Alice ran faster, her legs devouring the distance. She ran until she couldn’t run anymore, until the cramp burning in her side made her feel like she’d pass out if she took another breath. She stopped, gasping, with her hands on her knees, bent over, with the taste of copper in her throat. When she caught her breath, she raised her head.

  “Millie! MILLIE!”

  High up above, an owl hooted, and the wind rattled a tree’s leafless branches. The moon was still hidden behind the clouds, and it was so dark that Alice could hardly see her own arm stretched out in front of her. She could smell dying leaves and feel the chill of the wind, announcing that summer was over and winter was coming. And what if Millie had fallen in a stream or snapped her ankle in a hole and was lying somewhere, helpless?

  The wind gusted, pushing the clouds away. Silvery moonlight spilled down, illuminating the forest floor.

  “Millie!” she called again, feeling angry and helpless. “MILLIE!”

  She paced in circles, calling her friend’s name, even though she knew that Millie was gone and that she’d never see her again. Finally, Alice pulled off her hat and put it down next to a tree.

  “Good-bye,” she whispered. “It was nice to have you as my friend.”

  She was walking away when a small, apologetic voice from above said, “I’m up here.”

  CHAPTER 17

  MILLIE HAD RUN OFF INTO the forest, hearing her mother’s voice in her head as clearly as she heard Alice’s shouts in her ears. Now you’ve done it, Septima’s voice said. Millie’s feet were blistered from their too-big boots, her throat ached, and her cheek was bleeding where a branch had smacked hard enough to cut through the fur.

  Even while she ran, she could hear Alice calling. Not calling, hunting, Septima’s voice whispered in her head, and, Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I warn you? Now look at you. Now look.

  Millie ran faster and faster, as fast as she’d ever gone . . . and the Yare were, normally, very fast. But Millie was a very small Yare, with short legs and small feet, and Alice was tall for a human girl, tall and strong and determined. Millie’s lungs were burning, and she suspected that she’d lost a fingernail somewhere . . . and what if Alice had a gun? Even though that guide person had said that none of the trick-or-treaters could carry even pretend weapons as part of their costumes because the Center didn’t allow it, Millie had been taught that all No-Furs had guns and that they shot each other all the time, accidentally or on purpose. If Alice caught her and shot her and took her to a zoo, it would be nobody’s fault but her own.

  “Millie? MILLIE!”

  She could hear Alice’s voice getting louder. She threw herself at a tree, and then, clawing at the bark, she started to climb. They will chase you and they will catch you and they will hurt you, her mother’s voice said.

  “Millie! Please!” Alice called.

  Millie crouched like a treed cat, cheek-fur matted and sticky with blood and sap, her candy—all of that delicious No-Fur candy—lost somewhere below. Frozen in fear and indecision, she clung to the topmost branch of the tree, looking down at Alice, who was standing below in the dark. She squinted, trying to spot the gun, but if Alice had one she’d hidden it well. In the moonlight, Millie could see Alice pacing, could hear muttering and noises that sounded like crying.

  Finally she watched as Alice put her hat down at the base of the tree. “Good-bye,” she heard the No-Fur girl whisper. “It was nice to have you as my friend.”

  That was when Millie made up her mind. Maybe No-Furs were dangerous. Maybe they did have guns. Maybe they did want to trap and kill the Bigfoots they found, or put them in zoos or sell them to the circus for money. But not Alice. Alice had saved her from drowning, and Alice had been kind. Alice had taken Millie trick-or-treating, and even though she was fast and strong, she always slowed down and never made Millie hurry to keep up. Alice had answered all her questions, had been honest about herself, had listened and not laughed when Millie told her about her dreams.

  Alice was her friend.

  “I’m up here,” she called, and held her breath, and hopped down from the tree and stood, waiting for Alice to turn around and see her, really see her; waiting to say who, and what, she really was. She held herself perfectly still as Alice stared at her in silence.

  “You didn’t take your costume off,” Alice finally blurted.

  “This isn’t a costume,” Millie said. “This is how I really look. I am Yare. What humans call a Bigfoot.”

  There was a long pause.

  “You’re a Bigfoot?” Alice said.

  “Yes,” said Millie, who was trembling all over. “But only a small o
ne.”

  “But Bigfoots aren’t real!” Alice exclaimed. Then, glancing down, she said, “And your feet aren’t even that big!”

  “Nyebbeh! They are quite big enough!” said Millie, who disliked it when people made fun of her feet. “And we are real. There are a great many of us. But the No-Furs never see us. We live deep in the forest and we keep ourselves to ourselves, because,” she said, and paused for a breath, “the No-Furs would shoot us if they found us.” She looked at Alice, trembling even harder. “Are you going to shoot me? Please don’t shoot me.”

  “Shoot you?” said Alice. “Why would I shoot you?”

  “Because that is what No-Furs do to my people,” said Millie.

  “What is a No-Fur?” asked Alice, who looked slightly dazed, like something heavy had landed on her head. “Is that what you call us?”

  “What else should we call you?” said Millie.

  “Humans,” said Alice. “Human beings.”

  Millie lifted her chin. “You are not beans. You are Yare with no fur,” she said. “No-Furs.”

  Alice looked at Millie, and then reached out tentatively toward her hand. “Is it okay if I touch it?”

  “Go ahead,” said Millie. Alice patted her fur gently.

  “So this is how you look all the time? It’s not a costume?”

  Millie nodded. “This is me.”

  Alice looked amused and bewildered and more than a little bit hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell me that this is what you are?”

  “Would you have believed me?” asked Millie.

  Alice opened her mouth, then shut it. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Besides, I couldn’t,” Millie said. “You don’t understand. We are not even supposed to talk to the No-Furs. You are not supposed to know we exist! There are No-Furs who hunt Yare, who would put us in zoos or in cages if they catch us. And,” she said, gulping a deep breath, “I knew that if I told you, you wouldn’t like me.” She gulped down more air, feeling dizzy, her heart pounding, toes curled in her borrowed boots, cold sweat trickling through her fur. “You’d hurt me, or you wouldn’t want to be my friend.”