She reminded herself that Klara Kosrov had always been one of the nice girls in her grade. She still felt unnerved, so she reached out to test Klara’s thoughts.
At once, she felt Jell-O-y in her knees.
Klara did feel bad for Emily, like the other kids. But not in a self-righteous way or a tsk-tsk way. Klara felt bad in a sad way.
Klara wanted to reach out to her, Emily could tell. Twice, Klara almost said something. The third time she tried to work up her nerve, Emily took pity on her, offering up a melancholy smile.
“Hi,” Klara said, stepping closer. She twirled a strand of her dark hair around her finger. “I, um, heard about your parents. I don’t want to say anything dumb like ‘it’ll all be fine’ or ‘it’s better for them to be happy, even if it means they’re apart.’ Because what do I know? My parents aren’t divorced.”
Klara smacked her palm to her forehead. “That came out wrong. Omigosh, that’s not what I meant to say.”
“It’s all right,” said Emily.
Klara’s hand went to her hair again, pushing it past her ear so that it spilled in a glossy waterfall over her shoulder. “I’m just sorry. It must really suck.”
“Yeah,” Emily said.
Another sixth grader, Holly Newcomb, wasn’t nearly so kind. Holly was new to Willow Hill. She wore black eyeliner and ironic plaid skirts.
“Did your parents tell you it wasn’t your fault?” Holly said, accosting Emily during PE.
“Excuse me?” said Emily.
“If they did, they lied,” Holly said.
Emily paused before speaking. She sensed Holly’s deep loneliness. She sensed Holly’s need to make someone else feel bad in a desperate attempt to make herself feel better.
“I can tell you’re upset about something,” Emily said carefully, doing her best to channel Klara’s generosity. “Do you, um, want to talk about it?”
Holly drew back. She called Emily a word that rhymed with “witch,” spun on her heel, and didn’t speak to Emily again.
I wish for no more pimples.
—VERA KOSROV, AGE THIRTEEN
CHAPTER NINE
Ava
Ava strode through the woods near City Park, craning her neck to look for what Aunt Elena had called the Bird Lady’s hideaway. She’d said something about a huge oak tree, but Ava wasn’t positive what an oak tree looked like. Oak wood, she could recognize from Papa’s shop. But the tree itself?
She knew maple leaves. So pretty, like stars or outstretched fingers. She knew sarsaparilla, because Papa had taught her that its stem was good to chew on. A sarsaparilla leaf looked like a ghost, a friendly, cartoon ghost with a large round head and two up-stretched arms.
But oak. Oak, oak, oak. She knew a song about an oak tree. She’d learned it in preschool. It had to do with . . . oh! Little acorns growing into big oaks!
Well, acorns, sure. She shifted her perspective, scanning the ground instead of the sky.
“Over here, pet,” called a voice.
Ava froze. Then, slowly, she lifted her head and turned in the direction of the voice.
“Well done, pet!” exclaimed the Bird Lady.
Ava’s heart pitter-pattered beneath her T-shirt, but she wasn’t scared, exactly. Startled? Yes. But the Bird Lady looked kind, just as Ava remembered. Her voice was old, but not croaky, not witchy. Certainly not wicked-witch witchy, as in, “I’ll get you, my pretty—and your little dog, too!”
“I was looking for you,” Ava said.
“And I for you, Ava Blok,” replied the Bird Lady. “Or rather, I was waiting for you.”
The Bird Lady stepped out of the shadows. She wore overalls and a faded plaid shirt. Her gray hair looked as soft as dandelion fluff—and was there a bird nestled within?
There was: a brown sparrow with bright, curious eyes. Warmth spread through Ava, a shimmering, golden appreciation for the wonders of the world.
The Bird Lady beckoned Ava forward, indicating a tree several feet away. “Come. It’s lovely, you’ll see.”
Ava went to the tree—the oak (the ground around it was sprinkled with acorns)—and touched its rough bark.
Its roots were thicker than Ava’s thighs, and a mass of vines clambered clockwise around its trunk, reaching twenty feet high and extending along the uppermost branches. Purple tendrils drooped from the vines, reminding Ava of the feather boas she used to sling around her neck when she was playing dress-up.
“Blue Moon wisteria,” the Bird Lady said, stroking one of the tendrils.
“But it’s purple, not blue.”
“Not in the moonlight,” the Bird Lady said.
Ava circled the oak, trailing her finger along the wisteria blossoms. Several times, Ava caught the Bird Lady sneaking peeks at her. Ava stopped midway around the massive trunk, feeling an urge to dig into the soil and unearth what lay beneath.
May I? she asked the Bird Lady with a lift of her eyebrows.
You may, the Bird Lady replied, dipping her head.
The Bird Lady’s gesture was queenly, stirring something deep within Ava. She thought of ancient times and ancient ways. She thought of ancient rituals, possibly brought to Willow Hill from Russia, where Ava’s ancestors hailed from and which Mama and her aunts called the old country. Legend had it that it was one of Ava’s ancestors, a great-great-many-times-great-grandmother from Mama’s side, who had brought magic from the old country to their small town of Willow Hill.
It could be true, Ava thought. When she was a child, she’d been entranced by the legend. As she’d grown older, she’d talked herself into dismissing it, especially after Grandma Rose had scolded Ava for living in “a fantasy world.” Grandma Rose had tutted and quoted a Bible verse at her: “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.”
The verse had hit home. Ava did not want to be a child.
Yet now, standing with the Bird Lady in the heart of the forest, a timeless feeling seeped into Ava’s pores. The past, the present, the future . . .
Ava sucked in her breath: all of life was one long moment!
The revelation dazzled her.
She blinked and
