Picturing Alyssa Read online

  She clicked the remote. Maybe her genealogy project was a good idea. How could she talk to the class about making peace?

  Alyssa lay down on the living-room floor. A long strand of spider web dangled between the ceiling and the framed painting of a winter farmyard scene. There were fence posts in the foreground, with puffy snow on top. Tall, dried grass poked through the snow. Animal tracks circled around and then went into a clump of trees. Further back, there was a barn and a silo, and a wagon with big, old-fashioned wheels. The painting had been there for as long as Alyssa could remember.

  She went to the bookcase for the heavy blue family book with all the Quaker relatives. She got shoeboxes of photos from the cupboard, then found the magnifying glass.

  The old family photos were so boring, black-and-white people standing in lines. The names were on the backs in faded ink, in hard-to-read old-fashioned writing. There was somebody’s Grandfather Standing and Great-Aunt Florence, in a wheelchair, dated 1921. Another photo dated 1920 showed children, parents, and old people. These pictures didn’t tell any kind of story. And Mrs. Fraser wanted a story.

  There was a thud. Alyssa looked up and saw that Marigold had knocked one of the shoeboxes onto the floor. Photographs were scattered everywhere. In the midst of them, he seemed to be stalking something. Maybe there’d been a bug in the box? Alyssa brushed away golden cat hairs and started scooping up the pictures.

  Marigold stepped into her lap, purring, thrusting his whiskery face against her cheek.

  “You’re silly,” she said, stroking him. There was something so incredibly ordinary, so calming, about him, and his unblinking green-gold eyes. As she reached for one last photo, Marigold batted it. Now there was a tiny jagged hole in one of the corners. “Bad cat!” she said.

  Marigold gave her a dirty look and walked away, tail held high.

  Alyssa took a closer look at the photograph. This one showed a family outside a house — a dad, a mom, a big brother and sister. Four little kids sat on a bench. One of the boys looked mischievous. And … it was weird, but the oldest girl seemed to be looking right at her.

  Who was she? On the back it said Dallas County, Iowa, 1931. The parents were George and Martha Clayton. The girl, beside her mother, was Deborah. The oldest brother was Wilfred. The kids on the bench were Herbert, Frances, Eva, and Charles.

  Alyssa reached for the magnifying glass. Deborah Clayton came sharply into focus. The shape of her face was completely familiar. Alyssa’s heart beat faster. The girl seemed to be smiling — though her mouth was straight. Was the magnifying glass playing tricks on her eyes?

  A peculiar tingling started in the back of Alyssa’s head, and quickly spread. Everything blurred. She tried to stand, but couldn’t. “Mom!” she tried to yell. Darkness swooshed around her. With a hard bump she fell backwards.

  Tree branches rustled in the breeze. Birds were singing. Nearby, she could hear … chickens? Further away, crows cawed. And there were cows. Long grass tickled her neck and face.

  Alyssa opened her eyes and sat up.

  Chapter Three

  The air smelled different, a farm kind of smell. Brown chickens, black chickens, and a few black-and-white speckled ones walked around on the grass nearby. On her left there was a weather-beaten shed. A loud squawking came from inside it. A chicken came out, ruffling its brown feathers as it waddled down a little ramp.

  Alyssa’s heart beat hard and fast. Where was she? She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that her eyeballs hurt. The chicken sounds didn’t go away. Neither did the big fly that kept landing on her arm. In the distance, a cow mooed.

  She stood up. The chickens closest to her squawked in alarm. In almost a single motion, they flowed toward the shed — all of them except one with long black tail feathers that curved in a tight rainbow shape. That chicken flapped its wings, clucking loudly. Its comb was large and red, and wobbled. Alyssa backed up. The big bird glared at her with beady yellow eyes; its clucking had an ominous sound. With a sudden whoosh it flew at her.

  Alyssa yelled and covered her face. Wings flapped. Claws scratched her arms. A sharp beak pecked at her. It was like being caught in a feathery tornado. She tried pushing the chicken away, but it was strong, and fierce.

  It seemed to go on forever. Until, suddenly, she had help. “Shoo!” someone said. “Stop it!”

  Miraculously, it stopped. The chicken strutted off, clucking angrily. Stunned, Alyssa looked at the red scratches and peck marks on her arms.

  “He’s a mean old rooster.” Her rescuer was holding a broom. He was about eight years old and wore jeans overalls. He was barefoot.

  “Thanks,” she stammered.

  Curious brown eyes studied her. “What’s thee doing out here with the chickens?” the boy asked.

  “I don’t know.” Her brain frantically tried to piece it together. The dizzy spell, the blackout. Waking up outside in a place she’d never been. She rubbed her smarting arms.

  A crow cawed. Alyssa jumped at the harsh sound overhead. Not too far away a house stood near a clump of trees; a rope swing hung from one of them. There was a barn and a silo. A windmill. A garden. Green fields rose and fell in rolling hills.

  The boy’s forehead puckered. Freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. “I didn’t see thee on the road,” he said. “How’d thee get here? Did thee come through the pasture?”

  Something clicked into place. She’d thought the boy had been saying “the” too much — but he was calling her thee. That was how Quakers had talked, a long time ago.

  “Where is this?” she asked desperately. “I just … I was on the couch, looking at a picture. Then I got dizzy, and — yikes! — suddenly I’m here.”

  The boy gave her a skeptical look and swished the broom through the long grass. “It’s our farm.”

  A chill stirred the hairs on Alyssa’s arms. “But where? I have to figure out how to get home.” Judging from the weird way she’d arrived, going home wouldn’t be easy. It seemed like the picture had brought her here — but it was still on the couch, probably.

  “I can tell thee’s not from here.” The boy looked uncomfortable. “Chatham’s the nearest town. Chatham, Iowa,” he added, at Alyssa’s blank look.

  Iowa? “I live in North Dakota,” she said faintly.

  “How’d thee come so far?” the boy asked. “Did thee take the train?”

  “I told you …” Alyssa swallowed hard at a sudden dryness in her throat. “I was sitting on the couch, looking at a picture, and …” What if she couldn’t go back home? How long would it be before Ethan — or Mom — noticed that she wasn’t there?

  “They’re back,” the boy said. He took off, running, toward the house.

  It had to be a dream. Maybe she’d fallen asleep. Except …

  A dog barked. Alyssa looked in that direction and saw an old-fashioned car parked in the driveway. Near it, a man and a tall boy were getting out of a carriage that was hitched up to two horses — big brown ones with dark, swishing tails. A black-and-white dog danced around the people.

  Then the dog noticed her. Barking, it bounded across the expanse of grass. Alyssa shrank away from it. “Flossie!” someone shouted.

  In the next instant Flossie greeted her, with tail wagging hard. Alyssa let out a relieved breath and petted the dog as it jumped against her, sniffing her hands, her jeans, then her shoes.

  “Flossie! Get down.” An older girl hurried over.

  The boy ran beside her. “See?” he said. “I told thee so! That old rooster was attacking her.”

  “I’m sorry.” The girl apologized profusely. She seemed to be trying not to stare. Alyssa studied her carefully. Her dress came to below her knees and was printed with small yellow-and-brown flowers. It had elbow-length sleeves and buttons down the front. The girl was barefoot.

  “She’s from North Dakota,” the boy announced.

  Another voice intruded. “Herbert, did thee bring in the water and the eggs?” The man walked toward them. Obviously the ch
ildren’s father, he wore jeans and a blue shirt with long sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  The boy looked embarrassed. “I forgot.”

  The father, too, seemed puzzled by her appearance. His tanned face looked kind; brown eyes regarded her from behind wire-rimmed glasses. “My name’s Alyssa Dixon,” she said to him. “I don’t know how I got here.”

  “She says she’s from North Dakota.” Herbert rumpled Flossie’s ears.

  “Do thy chores, Herbert. Thee mustn’t keep thy mother waiting any longer.”

  Herbert picked up the broom and walked away, followed by the dog. The older boy joined them.

  Self-conscious, Alyssa looked at the girl.

  Grey eyes regarded her from a face that seemed oddly familiar. Straight brown hair was held back from her face by clips, and fluttered in the breeze. “Alyssa,” the girl said softly. “What an interesting name.”

  Alyssa stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets. “What year is this?” she asked desperately. Without warning, the back of her head tingled. Her eyes blurred. She felt so dizzy she was afraid she might throw up.

  Darkness came.

  This time cushions broke her fall. She was on the couch. At home.

  “Alyssa! You know better than to jump on the furniture!”

  She blinked. “I …”

  Mom’s grey eyes held the flat, empty look that had been there since that day at the hospital when everything changed. The same old flannel nightgown dangled beneath her housecoat, and she was wearing the same pair of Dad’s black socks she’d had on yesterday. Cat hairs clung to the toes and insteps. Mom was holding the picture.

  What had happened? Red scratches and peck marks smarted on both of her arms. “I was just looking at that picture, and suddenly …” It wasn’t going to make sense.

  Mom sighed. “This picture was on the couch — wedged partway between the cushions. These are family mementoes, Alyssa. If you’re not going to treat them right …” She gestured at the shoe box on the floor, filled with jumbled photographs.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered. If Mom wasn’t even going to ask what had happened — how she just appeared, out of nowhere — there was nothing much she could say.

  “Put that stuff away.” Her mother’s irritated voice pricked at something deep inside her. “Then go clean your room.” Mom rubbed her forehead, flipping back her greasy hair. She put the picture of the Clayton family on top of the other photos. Her heavy footsteps disappeared in the direction of the baby’s room — as usual. The sounds of Ethan’s music came from downstairs, along with the sproings and explosions from his computer game.

  Alyssa’s mouth wobbled. Was this a dream, instead? A horrible nightmare that just wouldn’t stop? Woodenly, she put the heavy family book back in its place on the shelf, then lugged the boxes of photos over to the cupboard where they belonged. Saving the picture with a cat-claw hole in one corner, she went down the hall to her room.

  On her bed, Marigold greeted her with a soft mrraau. Alyssa plopped down, and pulled him into her lap. Vibrating with a loud purr, he rubbed his head against her. Alyssa’s knotted insides loosened. She stroked Marigold’s rounded head and cool, pointed ears.

  Abruptly, the cat stopped purring. He sniffed her forearms. Then his raspy tongue licked one of the scratches. “At least you noticed,” she said. In the mirror she saw tangled brown hair and a face that looked confused. She didn’t look anything like the picture of herself tucked in the corner. In that picture, taken last fall, she was holding Marigold. She was smiling as if nothing bad ever happened. Now, her lavender t-shirt looked like it belonged in the laundry. It was a good thing Brooklynne couldn’t see her.

  Mom said to clean her room. Well … lined notebook pages were strewn across her science and social studies texts, which happened to be on the floor. Dirty clothes lay on the floor too. Glasses with milk dried in the bottoms sat on her chest of drawers and on the little table by her bed. Mom must’ve looked.

  Again she could hear the snappish sound of her mother’s voice and see that look in her eyes that pushed everybody away. As if nobody but the baby was important. What about the missed meals and the clothes that didn’t get washed? Why should she clean her room when Mom wasn’t doing her jobs?

  In class, Mrs. Fraser talked about writing down experiences and feelings, and how it could help you understand yourself and other people better. She should write about how grouchy Mom was.

  Alyssa picked up some paper. Choosing a pen with green ink, she lay flat on her stomach. What did you call a weird experience like what had just happened? She listed a few things:

  Picture, looking at girl

  Falling

  Rooster, chickens

  Farm

  Boy, Herbert

  Girl

  Dad had just come home; she could hear his footsteps tromping through the house and his voice calling “Hello?” Ethan yelled back from the basement. Alyssa tapped the end of the pen against her teeth. The clicking sound made her feel more … here, somehow. Dad wouldn’t expect her to answer.

  The footsteps headed for the kitchen. Then the refrigerator door banged shut. “Jennifer?” Dad said. “Did you go shopping today?”

  If Mom replied, Alyssa didn’t hear.

  There was the sound of a pan coming out of the stove drawer. Water ran in the kitchen sink. “Alyssa?” Dad called.

  She opened her bedroom door. “What?”

  “Come into the kitchen,” Dad said. “I shouldn’t have to shout.”

  Alyssa scuffed her way along the hall. The framed baby pictures of her and Ethan were crooked. With her finger, she traced lines in the dust.

  Dad’s face had a grumpy, tired look. The counter was full of dirty dishes and an empty milk jug. “There you are,” Dad said. “I’d like you to go to Bristow’s and bring back some milk, cheese, and ground beef. Oh — and some eggs and bread, too. And apples.”

  The little corner store was five blocks away. Mom didn’t shop there because everything cost more. Alyssa looked at Dad and decided not to mention that. “How will I get there?” she asked.

  Dad let out a loud, angry huff. “Walk. Take your bike. Fly. Just do it, please — unless you want to fix supper yourself?” He started dumping dishes in the sink. Silverware and plates and plastic glasses clattered against each other.

  “Why can’t Ethan go?” After she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t.

  Dad turned the water on hard. “Ethan went last time.” His blue eyes stared right at her, making her feel ashamed. It had been easier when Grandma Hadley was here. She’d come all the way from Ohio the same day Mom got home from the hospital. Things had felt almost right with Grandma around.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Dad gave her a little smile as he took twenty dollars from his wallet. Then he squirted detergent into the sink with the dirty dishes. “One of these days Mom will feel more like herself,” he said.

  When? Alyssa didn’t ask. She put the twenty dollars in her jacket pocket, and reached for her backpack. The door banged behind her.

  Her bike tires scrunched against the pavement as she rode along the quiet street. Leaves were starting to come out on the bare branches. A few hedges had pink and white blossoms, and their sweet flowery scent wafted out as she pedaled by. But … goose bumps shivered her arms in spite of her warm jacket sleeves. That other place — Iowa? There, it had been summer. How could that be? Maybe she’d imagined it after all.…

  The handlebars jolted. Her bike flew sideways. Alyssa caught a glimpse of the pothole she’d just hit, a big one. Then she was on the ground with one leg stuck through the frame of her bike. Her elbow jangled with shooting electric pains.

  Somebody laughed.

  Not Brooklynne! Blinking back tears, she lurched to her feet and pushed off as fast as she could. Bristow’s Market was only a few doors away.

  “Better watch where you’re going, loser,” Brooklynne yelled.

  Alyssa clenched her teeth. She pedaled hard, then pa
rked her bike by the store entrance. Maybe Brooklynne would be gone when she came out.

  Chapter Four

  Bristow’s Market felt small and crowded. The lights weren’t as bright as in the supermarket or at the food co-op where they bought eggs, honey, dry beans, and flour. At Bristow’s the linoleum floor was worn and cracked.

  Alyssa walked up and down the aisles. Her elbow still hurt. Vegetable smells drifted around her. The lettuce looked droopy. One of the bags of flour had leaked onto the shelf. Some of the cat food cans had dust on the tops.

  “Can I help you find something?” the clerk asked after a while.

  “Um —” Alyssa counted on her fingers, trying to remember Dad’s list. “Some cheese. And eggs. And milk,” she added when she remembered the empty jug on the counter. It seemed like Dad had said more than that, but these would be tricky enough to carry on her bike.

  The woman gave her a strange look.

  The shelves around her were stocked with dry cereal. Anybody would know that the milk wouldn’t be there! The eggs and cheese, either. Alyssa hurried to the refrigerated section. Did the woman think she was going to steal something? But who’d steal cornflakes? The good stuff was all at the front.

  And so was Brooklynne, with her perfect straight blond hair and her pink top that hugged her perfect shape. She was looking at the chocolate bars.

  Alyssa ducked around the next aisle, full of canned beans and spaghetti. When she edged her way to the cash register, Brooklynne was paying for a Hershey Bar and a Snickers.

  The milk was heavy; Alyssa wished she’d used a cart. With one jug dangling from each hand, and the two egg cartons and the cheese scrunched against her sides, she had a sudden, ominous feeling. The cheese plopped down, chunky and orange on the floor. As Alyssa knelt to get it, one white egg and then another fell onto the linoleum with a splat. Her face burned.