Chapter 1
It’s been eighty-eight days since my last panic attack. Eighty-eight days without someone making fun of my hair. Or my clothes. Or zooming in on my teeth like they’re a science experiment. Eighty-eight days where my only nicknames are “Ozzie” or “Sweetheart.”
That's a miracle. But today is August first. And in two weeks, school will start, and my streak of good days will be history.
From the window, a path of light filters through the blinds and I head over for my standing appointment with the horizon. Our move to the Bitterroot Mountains, surrounded by all these rocks, and trees, and animals, has been amazing. But right now, my mind is on a different frontier: middle school. And the nagging worry is like a blanket of doom that covers over all the good stuff.
“Darcie?” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you up?”
“Yes!” The foggy mountain scene fades to the background as I dig through my dresser drawers for a clean pair of hiking shorts and a t-shirt. The smell of pancakes and bacon drifts upstairs, and my stomach immediately growls like one of the mountain lions Dad is so fond of.
I head to the bathroom and glance in the mirror where a full-blown disaster greets me. Brown frizz sticks out in every direction but down, proof that gravity is optional. If we were still in Oregon, Veronica would have a field day posting this mess, and most of the student body would have commented on it before first period.
Suddenly, the bacon smell hangs heavy in my throat. What if the same thing happens here? I stretch out the corners of my mouth and stick out my tongue. The monster face is actually an improvement. If I could only magically change my looks…I stare at my reflection.
Wait. Who needs school? I can learn from home. I mean, since we moved in May, the end of last year was remote. When I got stuck on something, Mom helped me. And look at all I learned this summer just from hanging out with my parents: Plant species. Animal tracking. Bear etiquette. How many kids my age could actually survive in the woods? I practically bounce down the stairs, humming “Roar” because clearly, virtual school is the answer to all my problems.
“Morning!” I call.
Three-year-old Andrew launches himself at my legs. “Ozzie!” That’s what he calls me. He wraps himself around me like a koala. He’s always happy to see me. Actually, he’s happy to see anyone.
“Morning, Trailblazer.” Dad, dressed in ranger gear plus an apron, waves a spatula in the air. “Who wants pancakes? Prizes if you can identify the animal shape.”
“Me!” Andrew releases me and flings himself at Dad, who lifts him with one hand and flips a pancake with the other.
“Good morning, Darcie.” Mom pulls me into a hug. Aren’t you lovely this morning? And on a Monday!” She kisses the top of my head, then holds me at arm’s length, looking at me like I might start photosynthesizing any second. Her shirt says, "Plant Whisperer.”
“Cute shirt, Mom. Your students are gonna love it,” I say. “And Monday mornings are only a problem if school is involved.” I lift Andrew into his highchair and slide into my seat as Dad drops a pancake onto each plate.
Andrew stares at the blob with wide eyes. “What’s dat?” he squeals.
He’s right. No animal—living or extinct—has ever looked like this. My brother holds his hands over his mouth and bounces in his seat. A tiny snort escapes his nose, sounding exactly like a squeaky little fart, and that’s it. We’re clutching our stomachs, laughing like a couple of goofballs.
I wipe my eyes. “What animal is it supposed to be?”
Dad adds butter and syrup to our pancakes, then spins the plates around. “They’re bears. See the chocolate chip nose and eyes?”
The spiral of giggles pile up on top of each other, and this time Mom and Dad can’t hold it in either.
“Okay,” Dad says. “Now I’m taking it Paw-sonally.”
“See?” I say, trying not to sound like I’m selling something; even though I definitely am. “Isn’t this fun? All of us together?” With my mouth full of pancakes, the words come out muffled. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could do this every day?”
Mom wrinkles her nose at the gunk in my braces and hands me my water. “Rinse, please. And yes, it’s lovely, but not exactly realistic.” She lifts her brows, holding Dad’s gaze. “Your dad and I have work. You have school.” She reaches for the coffee pot. “More coffee, Marcum?”
Dad winks at me and hands her his cup. “So, speaking of grizzlies,” he gulps his coffee like it’s the last cup on Earth. “What can you tell me about them?”
Hold up, when did we talk about grizzlies?
Andrew throws his hands in the air. “Der big and do dis.” He growls and curls his fingers into claws, then tips his head back and laughs like he just told the funniest joke in the world.
Okay. Maybe this isn’t the best space to bring up virtual school. But later this afternoon, with a little ingenuity, I could potentially have myself declared a homeschooled kid by the end of today’s hike. Totally doable.
After breakfast, Andrew spills the rest of the syrup all over himself, and Mom rushes him straight to the shower. Dad and I are alone in the kitchen. Maybe the best plan is to treat my parents like wildlife—separately, and with respect for unpredictable behavior.
My feet shift back and forth. “Want me to help with the dishes?” I pick up the butter and syrup and place them in the fridge.
Dad stops whistling, The Happy Wanderer, and hands me a towel. “I’d love some help with the dishes.”
We stand side by side—him washing; me drying. Suddenly, the plate in my hand feels heavy. School anxiety is real.
“I found a secret spot not too far from here.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Thought we could check it out today.” He scrubs at a pan. “You’re gonna love it. There’s even a scary story connected to it.”
I raise my eyes to his; the dish hanging loosely in my fingers.
“You okay, kiddo? He sets down the pan and moves closer.
“Yeah. It’s just…” Pressure builds in my chest like a storm over the mountains. “This is one of our last hikes. The summer’s just about over, and school’s gonna start, and-”
“I get that,” he says, plunging his hands back into the water. “I always used to get nervous before a new school year.”
My body crumples. Is he even listening to me? I lean my head against his arm. “It’s not just another school year, Dad. I can’t do all that nonsense again. What if no one likes me?”
“Hey.” He bumps my shoulder. “I know you’re worried. Those kids back in Oregon? Their posts were more about them than about you. People mock what they don’t understand. I even get weird looks sometimes when I talk to my trees. But that's who I am.” He wraps me up and squeezes—tight.
“It’s not the same.” I squirm out of his grasp. “How do you get away with being so weird?”
“Weirdness is endearing. Maybe not to middle schoolers, but to everyone else.” A strand of hair dangles over my eyes, and he brushes it away. “Not every place grows the same people, honey. This year’s gonna be great. I promise.”
I pick up the pan and dry it off. “Maybe so.”
“If you want, we can talk more about it on the trail,” he says. “But right now…” He steals my towel and snaps it behind me. “We’ve got to get a move on. Go brush your teeth and tame that hair. We leave in twenty minutes.”
Angel-wing clouds fill the sky, a sign that my idea for homeschool is spot on. We head down the road toward the trailhead.
Andrew sits on Dad’s shoulders like a football star, waving to everyone passing by: cars, buses, semitrailers—and they all wave back. He’s singing the SpongeBob theme as loud as he can, and Dad—because he’s Dad—jumps in with the pirate voice that actually sounds pretty good.
I cover my ears, but really, I’m cracking up. Mom matches my pace, and everything is…I don’t know, kinda wonderful.
Their song ends just as we reach the edge of the forest. Ponderosa pines line the path, and sunlight streams through the branches. Sap-coated needles cover the ground, and they stick to my boots. We crunch through them, breathing in the warm scent of butterscotch. Who knew all pine trees don’t smell like pine?
Dad swings Andrew down from his shoulders and takes a breath. “Love that mountain air!” he whispers, just like he does every other day.
A chipmunk pops up from behind a tree and runs right over Andrew’s shoe. He shrieks like it just stole his lunch and takes off running. So much for a quiet moment in the forest.
We all chase after him, calling for him to stop. But of course, he’s so obsessed with the chipmunk that he doesn’t even hear us. Dad catches up with him quickly, so I take my time enjoying the view.
It’s so beautiful here. The forest actually sparkles. Butterflies hover just inside the beams of light like they’re drinking in sunshine. Moss and white flowers cover the ground. If fairies turn up and grant me a wish, I’m asking for homeschool.
Andrew’s squeals grow louder as I step into the clearing—he’s discovered something—a log cabin. It’s a life-size version of the little Lincoln Log houses he and Dad are always building. The cabin’s logs are dark with age, but it almost gleams in the shadowy forest.
I join my family at the window. It’s tidy inside. No dirt or grime on the glass, no cobwebs or dead bugs. The faint smell of wood smoke filters through the air as the inside comes to life: a bed pushed up against the wall with a handmade quilt. A table and chairs. Stone fireplace. Even a pan hanging from a hook, waiting for someone to fry some eggs or something.
“Can we go inside?” My forehead presses against the window. “It looks like someone just walked off and left it one day—like they might come back any minute.”
Dad tries the door handle. “Nope. It’s all locked up. Vandals wouldn’t leave it alone if it were open.”
A shadow flashes across the bed, just for a second, interrupting the stream of sunlight, and unease winds itself around my brain like the wild grapevine climbing the outside walls. Something is off. I spin away from the window, skin prickling, and hurry over to where my parents sit on the stoop. “Eerie,” I say, rubbing my arms. “Don’t you think?”
Dad leans over and says in his spooky dad voice, “Maybe the Shadow Man is watching.”
My pulse thuds inside my ears. “The Shadow Man?”
“They say he wanders the forest searching for-”
Mom stands, brushing pine needles from her pants. "Okay," she slides her eyes to me. “It’s just an urban legend, Marcum. And we’re not doing that today.”
Too late. I’m already doing it.
By afternoon, the temperature is eighty-two degrees, and so is my mood. School and the Shadow Man are doing a crazy tango inside my brain, and I’m not sure which one is leading. I throw my pack to the ground and slump against a giant trunk.
“Hot and cranky, huh?” Dad says. “Then I guess a sappy tree joke is out of the question.” He lowers Andrew from his carrier and hands me a bottle of water, then turns to my mother. “Wadda ya think, Esther? Is this a good spot to have some lunch?”
With a nod, Mom passes out sandwiches. “Darcie, are you actually upset about something, or do you just need a snack?”
Andrew moves beside me, jelly already smeared on his face. “Yeah, Ozzie. What’s wrong?” He takes a bite of his sandwich, adding a smear of peanut butter to his cheek. He smiles up at me—all cute and messy.
“I can’t handle going to school, that’s what’s wrong!” This is not the calm, well-planned speech I’d imagined. “It’s only two weeks away. I didn’t magically get cooler over the summer and I still have this giant toolbox inside my mouth.” Sweat runs down the side of my face. “Changing schools doesn’t change me.”
Mom studies me for a moment. “True, it doesn’t, but more than likely, you're going to bloom just fine out here.” She holds my face between her hands. “Sweetheart, you’re not stuck in muck with Veronica anymore. I really think this year could be sensational.”
“But-”
Her hand squeezes my shoulder. Why did I open my mouth? This isn’t working at all the way I planned.
Standing, Dad stretches, eyes on Mom, not on me. “Let’s try one quarter. By then, I bet you’ll have those squirrels eating right out of your hand. If they’re still wild after that, we’ll find a better way together.” He lifts Andrew into his carrier. “You've got this, Darcie.”
“Squirrels? Really, Dad?”
Mom hands me a bag of trail mix. “We’ll go shopping for school clothes on Wednesday and pick out some things that make you feel confident.” She slides her pack onto her shoulders. Dad does the same, and they head off together, heads bent in conversation.
For a minute or two, I stay where I am, crunching trail mix I can barely taste. Something big casts a shadow from behind me and my fingers curl around my backpack strap. When I glance behind me, there’s no one there. That shadow, whether it's real or not, it’s here—and it’s coming for me.
Dad says one quarter. I give it three days before everything blows up.