The Littlest Bigfoot Read Free Page B

exercise,” and then, as always, shrugging as she lifted her suitcase, then her duffel bag, saying, in a gruff Russian accent, “Alice is strong like a bull!”
    Alice hated it when other kids teased her about her size, her strength, her weird wide face and untamable hair, but Lee could say anything he wanted, because Lee was safe, and nice, and would never hurt her. Every Christmas, Lee gave her a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, wrapped in red and green foil. On her birthday he always sent a card, and at Swifton he’d mail care packages with Kit Kat bars and postcards of the Statue of Liberty or Central Park.
    Alice climbed into the backseat—in spite of her pleading and pointing out that she was more than big enough, Lee never let her sit up front—and buckled her seat belt as Lee pulled away from the curb, heading downtown.
    â€œAllie-cat,” he began. Alice smiled, the way she always did at the nickname that only Lee used. “I understand that this place sounds a bit . . .”
    â€œRidiculous?” asked Alice. “Bizarre? Possibly illegal?”
    â€œPrecious,” Lee said, easing to a stop at a red light. “But you need to keep an open mind.”
    In the backseat, Alice leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass. Her eyes slipped shut, which was good, because then she didn’t have to see herself—the parts that were too thick, too soft, too big, too round. As the car sped along the highway she slipped into her favorite daydream: of how somewhere, there were two people, a man as big and strong as the tallest basketball player and a lady whose body was as soft and warm and welcoming as her granny’s when she’d let Alice sit on her lap. They were her real parents, who had been separated from her somehow, and in Alice’s daydream they would run to her, crying, and they would scoop her up into their arms and hold her tight and tell her that now that they had found her, they would love her forever and never let her go.

CHAPTER 2

    O N A WARM SEPTEMBER NIGHT , a girl named Millie Maximus, wearing her favorite blue dress, climbed to the sturdiest branch of the Lookout Tree and hid herself in the shadows. It was late; the rest of the littlies were tucked up in bed, but Millie was too excited to fall asleep even if she’d wanted to.
    Millie held her breath as the Elders crept out of their underground houses and came to stand around the flames. They linked their hands and bent their heads, and Millie’s father began the chant. Maximus’s voice was low and quiet and rumbly, like water tumbling over stones.
    â€œI am Maximus of the Yare. Would you listen?” her father began.
    â€œWe will listen,” came the response.
    â€œWe are the Yare. We are the hidden ones.”
    We are the Yare, repeated the men, their voices deep and soft. We are the hidden ones.
    â€œWe live in the shadows. We protect the silence. We guard the secret spaces of the world.” Millie’s mother, Septima, spoke those words, in a voice as high and piping as birdsong.
    We live in the shadows. We protect the silence. We guard the secret spaces of the world, echoed the other women in their own twittery voices.
    â€œWe are the forgotten. We are the unseen. We are the guides,” said Maximus. Then, as one, the Tribe chanted, “We are the Yare, and we survive.” With their heads bowed, holding each other’s hands, the Tribe stood for a moment in reverent silence, before they closed with a final, solemn “Nyebbeh,” a word that could mean anything from “hello” to “love” or “peace” or “not right now,” when said to a friend or a loved one. Millie held perfectly still, gazing down at the two dozen Elders she’d known her entire life.
    Maximus stretched out his arm, poking the tip of a long branch into the fire. Once it had caught, the meeting would begin, and whoever held the stick could