From Ant to Eagle(19)

I pulled out a Goosebumps book from my bag and opened it, but instead of reading I watched Aleta.

For a while she just stared at the lake, barely moving. She was like a statue made of stone and placed beneath the tree. Then the wind picked up and her dress ruffled and she quickly flattened it with her hands. That seemed to bring her back to the present and she looked around. When she looked at me I quickly turned my eyes back to my book, pretending to read. After a while she unzipped her backpack and reached inside, bringing out a book I’d never seen before. It wasn’t a Goosebumps book, I could tell that much, but aside from that I didn’t know what it was. There were no words on the cover and it looked to be made of black leather with some sort of design etched into it. I couldn’t make out the design from across the pond.

Next, Aleta pulled out a pencil from her bag and sat tapping it against her bottom lip, looking out over the water like she was going to draw a picture of the landscape. But when she finally put her pencil to the paper, I could tell by way the pencil moved that she wasn’t drawing—she was writing. And she was writing fast. She wrote for ten minutes straight without looking up. And as she did, her facial expressions changed. She started with the same blank stare she’d had all morning, but as she wrote, a thin smile seemed to cross her lips. At first I thought I was imagining it but then the smile grew and it became very clear it was a smile. Which was odd because the way the sun was reflecting off her face, I could see two shimmering streams beneath her eyes. She was crying—crying and smiling.

Watching her was agonizing. It was like watching someone telling a secret right in front of me—just to be annoying.

I’d had enough. I stood up and walked around the pond to where she was sitting.

Aleta saw me coming and shut the book quickly so that I didn’t get to see what she was writing. The front cover design turned out to be flowers.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

She sat rubbing the front of the book with her hand, not saying anything.

I was getting madder. “Why are you ignoring me? What did I do to you?”

Aleta seemed startled by the force in my voice and looked up at me.

“I’m not,” she said, “I mean, I’m sorry. It’s nothing—I’m not writing anything.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not nothing. I saw that there was something written inside.”

She sat thinking again for a while. “Okay, you’re right, it’s not nothing,” she said.

“Then why can’t you tell me what it is?”

“Because…it’s…it’s…it’s none of your business,” she said, holding the book to her chest like I might try to pry it away from her.

That did it. All the built up anger I’d had from six days of sitting alone at the pond came rushing out. “What is up with you?” I yelled. “You ditch me for a week and don’t tell me why. Then we come here and you sit by yourself writing something like it’s the most interesting thing in the world and won’t tell me what it is. I don’t understand you. I thought we were getting along great and now, I dunno, it’s like you’re some completely different person. Where were you all week?”

Aleta looked down at the book. “I wasn’t feeling well,” she whispered.

“That’s not true!” I said, stamping my foot. “You weren’t sick—you were sad. I could hear you crying when I called. And I saw you crying just now. Why won’t you tell me what it is you’re sad about? What’s the big secret? Is it something to do with your parents? Is it about your mom?”

Aleta said nothing.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me. You can’t just keep ignoring me.”

Aleta looked up at me again but this time her eyes were red and tears were rolling down her cheeks like the day of our bike ride. She started shaking her head from side to side. “Not you too, Cal,” she said. “Not you too.”

“Not me too, what?” I asked.

“All day long, all I hear over and over, ‘Aleta, tell me what you’re thinking; tell me how you’re feeling, tell me why you’re sad.’ You’re right, Cal, I am sad, but I don’t want to talk about it. There are some things that are easier not to talk about.”

She turned her face away from me and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

I suddenly felt sorry for yelling. I realized I was only mad because I had missed her and this was just making things worse. I sat down beside her and put my chin on my knees. Beneath my hand, I felt a small pebble in the dirt and I picked it up and threw it into the pond, watching the ripples move outwards while I thought of what to say. I decided to keep it simple.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m not trying to ignore you. I just wish there was somewhere I could go that I didn’t have to talk to anyone about everything. Somewhere truly away from it all.”

I thought for a moment, looking around. “Well,” I said, gesturing around us to the vast expanse, “this could be that place. I mean this is our Secret Spot after all. You should feel safe here. I promise from now on I won’t ask you any more questions about whatever it is you don’t want to talk about. This place will only be for Goosebumps, mudsliding, swimming and writing. No more questions.”