Out of the Woods

Fourteen Years Ago

“Sarah Green!” The slightly goofy-looking guidance counselor calls from down the hall.

“What does he want?” Win asks me, glaring toward him. I don’t blame her natural distrust of men, given her mom’s never-ending conveyer belt of loser boyfriends, but I roll my eyes at her immediate skepticism just the same.

“I’ll let you know…” I nod politely toward Mr. Nadeau as I approach his office door. “Hi, sir.”

“I’m glad I caught you. I was just chatting with Ms. Vaccaro about you.” Oh, god. Is this because I called out the blatant sexual tension between Frankenstein and his creature? I didn’t mean to make people laugh…The first time. “She was very impressed by your recent short-story assignment. We wanted your permission to submit it to a province-wide competition. The winner will receive two thousand dollars and a one-on-one mentoring session with author Cecelia Floodgate.”

“Cecelia Floodgate?” I gawk. “Like the Cecelia Floodgate? The author of The Champion series?”

“Yes.” Mr. Nadeau chuckles at my obvious excitement. “Did you know she was from Ontario?”

Yes. I also know her mother’s maiden name, the precise location of her father’s hardware store two towns over, and the names and ages of all three of her cats…But that’s probably not information worth sharing. “I did, actually.”

“Well, if you’re interested then—”

“I am!” I interrupt, then nervously bite at my lip. “But maybe, could—could I have a week to edit it some more? I didn’t think…Well…”

“You didn’t think Cecelia Floodgate would be reading a random assignment not even worth two percent of your grade that you probably wrote on the bus ride in?”

I smile up at him. “Exactly.”

“You can have until the end of next week, then we’ll get you signed up.”

“Okay.” I nod far too eagerly. “Thank you, sir!”

“See you next week,” he says, turning back toward his office. I spin on my heels, finding Win, who’s been joined by Caleb, both looking at me expectantly.

“I’m going to be rich!” I shriek, running and jumping into Caleb’s arms.

Nearly four hours later I’m bursting through our apartment’s front door, in search of my mother. “I’m home!” I call out, dropping my backpack by the shoe rack. I lock the door behind me, mindlessly flip through the mail on the counter, and then wander toward the back hallway lined with the doors to each of the three bedrooms, realizing I’ve yet to hear a response from Mom, who I’m almost certain is home. “Mom? You here?”

“In here,” she responds softly, the sound of her voice coming from behind her half-shut bedroom door.

My top lip catches between my teeth when I realize that she’s in bed in the middle of the afternoon again. Mom has been really tired lately. Aunt June and I finally convinced her to go to the doctor at the beginning of the summer, when she started having sensations of tingling and numbness alongside her exhaustion, but it’s been months and they’ve still not figured out what’s wrong. Aunt June has picked up extra shifts at the nursing home so my mom could cut back her hours but that doesn’t seem to be helping much anymore. She hasn’t started asking any of us to pray about it yet, so, there’s probably no reason to worry.

“Hey, baby,” she coos warmly, her eyes fighting to open. “Sorry, I must have dozed off. Is it already past three?” I nod. “Ah, I’m sorry…”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” I say, lifting the edge of her duvet and crawling in next to her. “How was your day?”

“Fine, yeah. Did a whole lot of nothing.” She swallows, loud enough for me to hear. “You?”

“Something cool happened during lunch period today.” I place my head on her shoulder, and she starts playing with my hair. I know that most teenage girls probably don’t lie in their mother’s bed and fight the urge to suck their thumb when cocooned in their hold, but it can be our little secret. “Ms. Vaccaro wants to submit my assignment to a writing competition.”

“That’s amazing, baby,” Mom says excitedly. “My grandma always said we’d have a writer in the family. It’s certainly too late for me, so I’m glad it’s you.” Mom doesn’t talk about her dreams of being a journalist, though Aunt June has mentioned it once or twice. I think, like most things my mom chooses to leave out of her history, it’s because my unplanned entrance into the world put an end to it. Just like her relationship with her parents, her dreams of college, and her good-girl reputation. I plan to make it up to her. I just don’t know how yet. “Is this your short story I read last week?”

I nod, resting my face against her chest. “Cecelia Floodgate reads the winner’s piece.”

“The Cecelia that you love so much? The fantasy writer?” I nod again, smiling to myself.

“You’ll win,” she states boldly, but I scoff. Mom reaches down, curls her finger under my chin and lifts it so I can look at her. “You, my darling, are brilliant.”

I’ll try to be. For her. “Thanks, Mom….”