Where I Belong Read Free

you walk softly and whisper.
    The snap of a twig frightens me, and I look over my shoulder. Nothing to see except leaves and shadows, but that doesn’t mean nothing’s there. It could be the Green Man himself, following the trespasser in his woods.
    Maybe I should turn around and go home, but I didn’t follow a path. There is no path. Am I lost already? I stand there, unsure what to do.
    A whistle blows for the Riverside crossing, and I realize all I need to do is follow the sound of trains to find my way back.
    I decide to go a little farther. Slowly, cautiously, I take a few steps, watching and listening for signs that something is following me. After a few minutes, I glimpse light through the trees. Have I come to the end of the forest already? Did Mrs. Clancy lie about its size?
    I brace myself for the sight of a road and the end of the woods, but instead of utility poles and cars and stores, I find myself in a clearing. In its center is the biggest tree of all, the king of trees, rising from the earth like a huge dancing giant. Its spreading trunk forms the giant’s legs, its branches thrust upward like arms.
    Awestruck by its size, I touch the tree’s bark, warm in the sunlight, rough against my hand. I feel its magic, its age, its power, its sap rising like blood. This tree must belong to the Green Man. Like him, it’s as ancient as the earth itself.
    I tip my head way back and stare up into the branches. I long to climb all the way to the top, but the limbs are out of my reach. I walk around the trunk and discover a hollow big enough for me to walk into. Inside I see daylight far above my head. Finding a handhold here, a foothold there, I inch my way toward the sky. Wood dust and crumbling fungus tickle my nose, spider webs stick to my face, beetles scurry out of my way, but I keep climbing.
    At last, I wiggle out of the hole and climb higher. I look over the tops of trees and see East Bedford pressed against the foothills. Clouds cast moving shadows on buildings and hillsides. If I raise my hand, I can block the whole town from sight. It’s no bigger than a village under a Christmas tree. Tiny buildings, tiny cars, tiny people, tiny minds.
    The ground is far below me, but I’m not scared. I sit on a limb and swing my feet in space. If only I could live here. I’d be happy, I know I would. And safe.
    Slowly an idea comes to me. What if I build a tree house here, a secret place only I know about?
    A wind stirs the leaves. For a moment I think I see a face among them. Pressing my lips against the bark, I whisper to the tree, “It’s me, Brendan. Please allow me to build a house in your branches. I mean no harm.”
    The wind blows again. My branch sways and the leaves around me quiver. Is it a yes or a no? I’m not sure, but I think if it were a no, the wind would blow me out of the tree.
    Slowly and carefully, I make my way down to the ground. It’s time to face Mrs. Clancy.

THREE
    M RS. CLANCY MEETS ME at the kitchen door. “Where have you been? School let out hours ago and your dinner’s sitting here getting cold.”
    Lit by the late-afternoon sun, her face is wrinkled and her hair is a dull reddish orange. She colors it with dye she buys at the grocery store. I’m not supposed to know that—nobody is, not even her girlfriends. But I’ve seen the empty boxes in the trash and I know her hair is supposed to be the color of autumn sunset.
    A real mother would smile and say something like
Sit down, honey, I’ll warm up your dinner
.
    But foster mothers aren’t real mothers. The county pays them to take care of you, so you’re just part of the job. And besides, what do I know about real mothers? Mine walked out and left me in the hospital and never came back. What did she want with a baby like me? Most likely I was weird and ugly the day I was born.
    One look and off she went. She didn’t leave her name or a forwarding address.